drunken haiku

i thought i was brave

until i opened my mouth

and no words came out

***

i thought i was fun

until i picked up a glass

and became a fool

***

i thought i was smart

until i started to think

too much about this

Inside and Out

Have you ever felt like you were trapped in your own mind?

I know, I know, it sounds like the premise for some cheesy horror flick, but I promise you that's not what I'm getting at.

I don't know if it's the fact that I'm constantly thinking as if I'm writing or if maybe I'm just really weird (ha), but I feel like I'm always stuck in my own thoughts. And as a result I have a tendency to constantly over-think things, to the point where I feel like the way I perceive my own actions and the actions of others it drastically different than the way other people perceive those things.

Every once in a while I get this image of myself sitting, looking through a window out into the world, and anyone passing by who happens to look in doesn't quite see enough to really understand who I am. And I wonder--perhaps more often than I should-- how other people see me. I wish one of these days someone would just come out and tell me.

On another note, I've decided to stop trying so hard.

Defining Moments

I can’t remember what had made him so angry.

Maybe it was the fact that I had come home late again. Maybe because I hadn’t called to let him know where I was. Maybe I had said something that I shouldn’t have. I don’t know.

I remember walking inside and seeing him in the hallway. He might have been drunk. He might have been on drugs again. He might have been doing both. Before I knew it he was screaming. I screamed back. I always did.

I remember running up the stairs.

I remember slamming my door, but not before catching a glimpse of his face as he stormed after me. Fury. Loss of control.

I pulled my dresser over and shoved it against the door. He screamed. I screamed back.

I could hear my sister crying in the room down the hall. No words, just frightened noises.

“Open the fucking door!”

There was a sharp crack as the door jamb began to splinter. I grabbed everything I could; my mattress, my bookshelf, a basket full of clothes. I piled them against the white, wooden barrier between myself and a man that wanted nothing more than to hurt me. I screamed. He screamed back.

And then the noise stopped. All I could hear were the tired sobs of my sister.

That frightened me more than anything.

After a few moments, I heard him stomp back down the stairs. The front door slammed.

There was an immense pounding in my head as I struggled to think coherently. Where is he going? I imagined gun shots blasting through my bedroom door. I imagined my sister’s screams.  I imagined the news, the morning after they found me. I imagined my mother, who wouldn’t find out for days. Weeks maybe.

I grabbed a plastic shopping bag that had been sitting on my floor, and I puked. It was nothing but bile. My stomach was empty.

I thought about leaving, but I knew he could be coming back any time. He could be waiting outside.

We didn’t have a phone; we had failed to pay the bill months ago. There was no way I could call for help. I did the only thing I could do. I waited, and I listened.

Hours passed. My thoughts were blurred and fragmented. I felt nauseous, and it seemed like my head would explode.

I felt myself beginning to drift off to sleep, but I jerked awake just as the sun began to rise.

I stood up, my back in pain from sleeping against the pile of wood, cloth, paper and plastic at my door. 

I listened.

I’m not sure how long I spent listening. I hadn’t heard him come back the night before; but then, I been asleep for at least an hour. As quietly as I could, I began to shift my possessions so that I could get out of my bedroom. It took what seemed like hours. Every creak of wood or crinkle of plastic made me cringe.

Finally, I was able to open the door and tiptoe down the stairs. I made sure to walk along the very edges of the steps, so that they wouldn’t squeak. My heart was pounding.

I made it out the front door. I took a quick, panic-filled gaze around to make sure he wasn’t somewhere near me.

And then I ran.

School was only about a mile and a half away. I ran until I couldn’t breath, then I walked, my body doubled over with lack of breath. The air was harsh, damp. The sky was a dull gray. I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him running after me. But he never came.

I made it to school just before the busses arrived. There were already a few people there-- the people who lived close by and walked to school.

As I walked toward the entrance, I caught my reflection in the glass door. My eyes were swollen, and my hair was damp with sweat and rain.

I trudged down the halls, not looking at anyone as I made my way past them. Someone called out to me, but I kept walking forward until I reached the classroom I was looking for.

Inside, Ms. McCray was preparing for her morning class. She looked up at me as I walked in.

“Something happened,” I heard myself say, “I can’t stay there anymore.”

And just like that, it was over.

Forget about your house of cards, and I'll do mine

All I ever want is for people to say how they really feel and to go after what they really want.

And if that means taking social risks and setting yourself up for embarrassment, then damn it, that's all the more reason to do it.

Because I'm tired of feeling like the only one who puts myself out there and waits for a response...

and all I get is silence.

Fatherless.

I'm feeling oddly personal today, so I'm going to talk about my father.

His name is Andrew. He's about 6'4", he was in the Marines, and when he was a teenager he looked a lot like Ashton Kutcher (I think it was the eyebrows). He was adopted, and never knew his real parents. He was always smart, artistic, and a bit lazy. According to his adopted sister (my aunt Crista), he always got straight A's in school, without ever seeming to try.

And that's all I really know about him.

You see, my father left when I was three years old. The reasons as to why he left are numerous and complicated, and I won't really get into that here. The point is, I haven't seen him since.

Naturally, this left my mom to play both parental roles (which, of course, explains my general disregard for gender roles). Being that she herself was still somewhat of a child, this made for a very erratic and atypical childhood. But I digress.

My mother had quite the string of boyfriends after that. There was Breck, a Star Wars loving, pot smoking, Dungeons and Dragons playing hippie. There was a filipino guy she met when she worked on a fishing boat in Alaska. And then my sister's dad, who was in the Navy (but eventually got kicked out).

I suppose he was really the closest thing to a father figure I had growing up-- namely because he was the one who was around the longest. When they separated, he continued to live with us... partially because they didn't want to separate my sister and me, and partially (I suspect) because he couldn't really take care of himself, and my mom really couldn't take care of herself either.

She dated more guys after that, and today she's still kickin' around on the single scene, but I didn't have a whole lot to do with her various boyfriends after a while. She's never been particularly good at picking decent men.

But despite all these male figures in my life, I've always considered myself to be without a father.

I sometimes envy my friends who have both parents, even if their parents are divorced. Most of the time, though, I don't wish my father had stuck around, because his absence has shaped a large part of who I am today. People sometimes ask me if it was hard not having him around, but frankly, you can't really miss what you never had, can you?

They also ask me if I would ever want to meet him. And honestly, the answer is no. The thing is, I really only have half memories of my father: one from when I was about three, and I woke up to see him standing above me and smiling, and one where I remember sitting in his apartment eating animal crackers. He's technically not even in that memory, but I know he was probably in the next room or something. 

So the memories I have of him are kind of fond... but from what I know about the guy, meeting him would ruin this entire image I have of him in my mind. It's silly, right? But that's how I've always felt.

And sometimes when I'm with my mom, she'll tell me how much like my father I am. How much I look like him, how much I think like him, how much I act like him. Do I really want to meet him, look into the eyes of a monster, and wonder if I'm a monster myself?

I imagine he's out there somewhere, and I sometimes wonder if he thinks about me. Maybe he's tried to find me. Maybe he doesn't care.

So if you are out there, Andrew, and if you ever come to read this, then hello. I'm Stephanie. I'm smart, and beautiful, and artistic, just like you. And when I have children, they'll never even know your name.

I feel scattered.

I've been going, and going, andgoing, andgoingandgoingandgoing since the beginning of January, and for the first time in weeks I've stopped to reflect. Everything in my life right now is new, and although I'm used to change (and chaos, and busyness, and sleep deprivation), I'm not used to not having something in my life that is constant.
I'm surrounded by familiar faces, but not a single one of them knows a thing about me.
I'm in a new apartment that doesn't quite feel like home yet-- and I'm alone.
I have new goals, new ideas, new plans, no plans....
I've been stuck in my writer's mind for days.

I need to rebuild.

I need to re-evaluate my life and my future.

I need to connect on a deeper level with these new people in my life.

It's like picking up grains of sand.

It's all the same; you can't tell one grain from another.

You don't know if what you're picking up is something you've already held or if it's something new

or if it's all new.

It all feels new.

And I feel.... scattered.

Drake Diaries: Backstage

We sit huddled in the darkness; three sides of a triangle, faintly illuminated by an icy blue light. Like children around a campfire we tells stories. Like pseudo philosophers we share little snippets of wisdom, commenting on the state of our own little world of theatre.

Time moves slowly in the dark, but our conversation brings life to the shadows.

We speak like we're telling secrets-- and sometimes we are. Sometimes, we don’t speak at all: a comfortable silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. 

We smile, we snicker, we laugh, covering our mouths so as not to be heard.

It’s a camaraderie built on a mutual situation, but we make easy companions. And at the end of the night, I leave wrapped in a sense of contentedness, knowing that through the turbulence that is my life, there are small sanctuaries like this for me to lose myself in. It's hard to imagine that just beyond the wall there is a world so much brighter and stranger than ours.