Saturday, July 25, 2009

Who is this girl?

Who is that girl, with eyes so like mine?
Who is she with her painted nails and eyes?
She looks back at me with a foreign confidence
as if she dares to demand attention
as if she is worth a second glance.
Who is she, this girl with my skin and hair and lips?
How did she get to be in those heels, in that dress?
I don't understand the smile or tilt of her hips.
As if she knows how it feels to feel beautiful
or what it means to be happy all by herself.

I understood the one with the downcast gaze,
the quiet speech and still hands.
I knew so well those awkward stumbles
and that heavy insecurity on those rounded shoulders.
The shackles and that look of defeat,
they were my intimate friends.
Where have they gone?

And at my feet now
a new path stretches forth.
This one is so unlike those paved ways,
roads smooth, unbroken, wide.
No, this one twists and climbs up
near and distant hills
with hidden valleys
roots, shrubs, spiderwebs, and streams.

And who is this girl, with hands so like mine?
Who is she with her strong legs and sure footing?
She looks back at me with anticipation
as if she knows where we are going
as if nothing can stand in her way.
Who is she, this girl with my tongue and toes and fingertips?
How did she get that laughter in her eyes, with those friends?
I don't understand the things she does or how she feels.
As if she is only a temporary phenomenon,
or some small step in a larger plan.

Who is this girl, standing in my place in the mirror?
Who is she with her tanned face and tattooed leg?
She looks back at me with eyes full of questions
but I know she knows how it feels to feel beautiful
and what it means to be happy all by herself.

Friday, July 24, 2009


I have to leave for work in ten minutes. I need to find a second job because I want to move out so so so bad. This house is completely so much worse than the last one and its driving me crazy. Actually, the people are. I want an apartment. So I was thinking of getting a job at kohls warehouse during the weekend shift. I hope that wouldn't suck too bad. It couldn't suck more than being here, right? Then I could pay down my credit cards for a month or so and then move out. Right? Right. I hope this all works out well.

I think I'll need a roommate. Or roommates. I'll worry about that part later. Right now I'm trying to vent the crazy energy that is the anger I feel for my family right now. And also the stress about money. I wish I had been more responsible. I wish I was more responsible. I just want to go away somewhere. I just want it all to be better. But its not better. There are always, always new problems that make the old problems seem okay.

On the plus side, I finally started tracking my calories again and the very next day (today) I'm down a pound. So, responsibility has its rewards. But I'm thinking this time I need to be held accountable. I'll need help with this. Gotta go!

Sunday, July 12, 2009


Oh. My. God. I've been up for exactly 20 minutes and I've already reached my limit. I might hurt someone. I might hurt myself. I might just leave and not come back. Something terrible will happen. I'm sure of it!

This is what its like to come home:

We are in the process of moving. I was trying to clean all my laundry today before the washer and dryer get moved. I forgot about a load of laundry in the dryer when I went out with my friends. When I came home, the clothes are no where to be found.

Mom is slumped over the sink trying to do dishes with her eyes closed, I guess. Dad is telling mom to go to bed while suggesting I look for my clothes in all the places I've already looked for my clothes. He also gives me reasons why he couldn't possibly know where the clothes are. Mom mumbles incoherently as she fills the same glass with water over and over again.

I rifle through every basket of clothes laying around. I check the dryer again. I open closet doors and check my room and search the floors and open boxes. No clothes.

My brother and his girlfriend are already at the new house. Maybe they know. Maybe they took my clothes? He calls them. Apparently someone took my clothes out of the dryer and put them on the floor. There is nothing on the floor now. There are no clothes in my room. The laundry baskets are full of other peoples clothes. The only place I cannot investigate is the washing machine.

The washing machine is running and it has a locked door that will not unlock before the cycle finishes. Its on the final spin. I ask my father what clothes are in the washing machine. He claims the clothes are the ones everyone wore while moving today. I want to look at them so I stand in the laundry room and stare at the machine, waiting for it to finish. Dad sways, watching me watch the washer. I suppose he grew tired of waiting so he hits the cancel button on the washing machine. Now, the door is STILL locked and the only option is to restart the washing cycle. I tell him this.

His first plan of action is to repeatedly hit the cancel button. That seems to do nothing at all but the alcohol has long diminished his reasoning abilities so he hits the button some more. And more. Finally I point out that this particular course of action seems to have no effect. I'll just have to start the cycle again. I'll just have to wait another half hour to find out if my clothes are in the washing machine (probably mixed with THEIR clothes, probably with dish soap instead of laundry detergent, probably not separated by color, probably with someones ink pen or cigarettes floating in the water) or if they just disappeared completely. My colors. All my colors. My pretty, pretty clothes.

I am so unhappy right now. This shouldn't be this difficult.

My anger must be apparent in my sigh or my crossed arms or the violence in which I punch the start button because dad yanks the power cord from the socket and throws it to the ground. He tells me how tired he is and how early he had to get up and exactly how much he has done for me today. I don't respond. The washing machine would have been done by now if he hadn't hit that stupid button. This is clearly not my fault. Now, with no power, he pulls on the washing machine door. Its locked still. He plugs it back in. Locked. He hits the cancel button over and over and over again. I tell him I'll just restart the washer. He goes away.

I prepare to run the shortest cycle possible. I have to change about three settings. I hit the start button. Just in case, I try the cancel button again. The door opens.

Inside the washing machine I see clothes of absolutely every color. And there, my colors. They don't smell like laundry detergent. And the machine is so full of clothes that they wont come out easily. And somehow everything is a little grayer. And this yellow one is now covered in blue spots. And oh, there are the washcloths they used to clean the walls. Nice. And my clothes. My once pretty, pretty clothes.

It shouldn't be this difficult. And thats not even all of it.

Sunday, July 05, 2009

We should eat valconoes for breakfast together.

I like to write. That doesn't mean I need to be articulate all the time.
I'm joyful. That doesn't mean I have to be happy all the time.

So anyway, I'm kind of unhappy right now. And who am I going to tell about it? I'm a liar. Thats what I am. Isn't that what it is when I pretend to be okay and happy when really I'm feeling other things inside? Isn't it lying when I don't tell my own friends how I'm feeling when I'm in the same room with them? When I put on that smile and they don't see the truth behind it? Yep. I'm a liar. But I hate confrontation. Its so much easier to just pretend and then stop hanging around. Thats what I tell myself. But recent experience has taught me that if I just tell him, everything is magically better. He has a freakin invisible magic wand that fixes my feelings. But instead I sat quietly and tried my best to keep it all off my face.

I don't know what would have been the best option. Who ever does?