Coming Back

I didn’t mean to take such a long hiatus from posting.  The last couple of months were busy and, honestly, very emotional for me.  Taking a few months off from posting is not the greatest way to kick start my blog, but oh well.

Here’s the jist of what was going on with me:

  • Left a job I commuted to
  • Became a nanny for my nephew
  • Got my first visit from my mom and little sister in the first time since they moved
  • Lost money and gained some depression

Cool, right? (don’t answer that)

So now, I’m back!

All those things above are things I will (eventually) touch basis on, but that’s not where I want to start when it comes to posting again.  I thought about it, and I’m leaning towards writing about some topics that are going to be difficult for me to share, but that’s also why I want to share them.  Sometimes the hardest stories to share are the stories that should be shared.

Some of the topics I’m hoping to write about may include:

  • My stalker (who I have never written about in any capacity, except for in private journals)
  • My father (who is extremely difficult for me to write about, because I have never shared anything about my relationship with him on any blog I have ever had.  I don’t talk about him unless you know me personally)
  • School struggles, including when I used to hurt myself and fighting depression
  • Other multiple insecurities and difficult life decisions, like my boyfriend of two years going active in the military.

This is some serious and heavy stuff to get into, but I’m also looking forward to writing about some more light-hearted topics as well.  Such as…

  • My grandparent’s love story
  • Stories of things that shouldn’t have happened, but did (some super embarrassing stuff, I can assure you)
  • Concerts I’ve been to (I love music)
  • What inspired certain poems
  • And more! Hopefully

So tomorrow I’ll pick one of these random topics to write about and get to posting again.  I’ve really missed my blog.  I’ve been writing outside of it, but I’ve missed being here and I’m looking forward to being more active.

My blood is ink.  When I don’t circulate it with writing, it clots.  Imagine how clotted my blood must be after not actively writing for such a stupid amount of time.  I physically feel different when I’m not doing it, and I know it’s because I’m carrying all this stuff with me that I can’t seem to let go of in any other way.

©S.T. Jun. 4, 17

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Connecting to Marilyn Manson

When I went into junior high school, I cut almost all of my hair off. It had been the first time I have ever cut my hair. I had this long, curly, dark brown hair that I had my cousin cut completely off for me. And then I added purple streaks to it.

I looked like a little boy…

The school I went to had uniforms when I attended it. You could wear black, khaki, or tan pants, and a white, black, or red shirt. So, naturally, I wore all black. I didn’t really look like the other students and immediately felt like I didn’t really belong there.

I remember students asking me if I was a boy or a girl. I also remembered being asked if I was goth more times than I can count, and I wasn’t even sure what that was at the time. That though wasn’t nearly as bad as being told that wearing make-up wouldn’t help anything. You don’t always have to be bluntly told you look like a dike to know what a fellow peer thinks of your appearance. In a math class I had, a boy even asked me my bra size as a joke. I just laughed, embarrassed.

I was also being told that I’d end up flipping burgers for a living repeatedly, by someone I felt should be more on my side. I struggled with grades because I never really wanted to be in school. It wasn’t enjoyable for me. And I guess some people can’t relate to that no matter how common it is. I knew this particular person never believed in me, and I just never figured out how to cope with that. Not at that age anyway.

Teachers didn’t believe in me either. I got caught drawing in class once by one of my English teachers. She bluntly asked me if I honestly thought my art was worth pursuing, and oh yeah, where did I get all that paper. I also had a math teacher lean over my desk in class and whisper in my ear that I shouldn’t be proud of the C I got her class. C’s weren’t that good. This didn’t change in high school either.

To top it off, I lost someone I loved. My grandma felt like the only real person I could talk to. I remember being able to walk next door, go right into my grandparent’s house and being able to talk to her. I would talk about everything, pour my heart out and she would just listen. It was so relieving to have had her there. There is so much about that woman that I am grateful for and will never forget, but she is entirely different topic of her own.

My grandma got sick when I was in this already nightmare of a school. She got diagnosed with cancer, and later during surgery, was cut by the doctor. I thought at the time that it was Cirrhosis of the Liver. She passed away during the Christmas season while I was in eighth grade, and I was not the same after that.

I was changing during that too. I was starting to write dark, depressing, suicidal poems (my mom always encouraged me to write, but that is also a different topic). I would cut myself with safety pins during the lunch periods, or under the desks in class. I was asking for answers for why these things were happening to me, and I was being told that I would never get an explanation; I would not be granted the wish of understanding because I wasn’t really Christian or Catholic. I was a lair and a sinner, and I was going to Hell. I began to really question my thoughts and beliefs, and eventually came to the conclusion that I didn’t believe in God. I figured he had his chance to prove himself to me and failed.

While I was attending junior high school, I let my hair grow out. I continued that going into regular high school. I grew it out until it started hitting the top of my pants, and I dyed it black, red, and purple numerous times in various ways. I also took on the goth and punk style people decided to label me as. I was gifted a trench coat, and wore that on a regular basis. I allowed myself to do what I felt like, but that didn’t change the constant feelings of not belonging or feeling understood. I felt out-casted by peers, rejected by family, and misunderstood by friends.

I had to go through all of that first before I could explain why Marilyn Manson and his music is so important to me.

My freshman year in high school was a difficult year. I had just lost my grandma the Christmas season before, and I was dealing with a lot of rejection and neglect with half of my family, not to mention what was now the normal interactions I had with peers and teachers. It was at this time that I discovered Marilyn Manson. I had heard his remake of Sweet Dreams and was determined to find more of his music. Thankfully someone I knew then happened to have, what I now know is, his Mechanical Animals album. I memorized his name then and bought my first Marilyn Manson CD, The Golden Age Of Grotesque. I was in relief and obsession. I felt like his music had a sound and the words for all the things I was feeling and going through. Later, another friend I had gifted me his book, The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell, and that book is still one of the most important books in my life.

The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell gave me the ability to truly connect and relate to the person that Marilyn Manson was. It was the first time I realized I wasn’t alone. That book, along with the music, gave me a shoulder to lean on. Marilyn Manson made me feel OK with myself for the first time. It was finally OK for me to be me. He was misunderstood, rejected, even violated at similar, if not exact, same times as myself, and it gave me a relief I have never felt.

To this day, I still listen to him and read his book. It all helps me remember what I love and encourages me to do what I want to do with my life. I know what my struggles have been and the reasons for them, and I believed that I have the ability to look back at those and see them because of things I’ve read in that book. It has all contributed to the things I have believed and thought, as well things I believe and think now.

Marilyn Manson, as well as many other things I will write about in the future, has helped me gain a deeper understanding, acceptance, and love for myself. I read a quote of his that said, “I never said be me. I said be you, but better.” Misunderstood or not, being my best me is what I strive to be and he encourages me to do so.

©S.T. Dec. 13, 13 (Edits made Feb. 19, 17)

My Mom

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My Mom and I during her 58th birthday

I was not an easy child to deal with. I was born angry, that’s what I remember being told many times before. My switch was easy to flip, and my tantrums or bursts of fury were very frequent and appeared out of no where. I picked paint off the walls whenever I was put in time out, I threw and flung furniture across rooms, and I kicked holes in walls and doors. Yet my mom handled every bit of my hell with pure love, acceptance, and understanding.

For example, I remember coming home from elementary school, and unleashing my anger on my family. Mom had tried spanking me before and it either didn’t help or made things worse. She just didn’t understand where my behavior was coming from. One day after coming home from school, she knelt down and gave me a hug. She asked me what was wrong? And I burst. I cried and told her about some kids who were taking my lunch money or food from me. I don’t think my mom spanked me ever again after all this, and instead we did what we now call hug therapy. I think this led Mom to her understanding of what an emotional child I was and how difficult sorting those feelings out was for me.

Mom never saw my siblings (Joe and Jessica), and I as a group of children. She always looked at each of us as who we are as individuals and connected with us each on that level. The rules she gave us were unique to who were. When we talked to her, she listened to what each of us had to say. The bonds she created with all three of us is unique and strong because of how she treated us, talked to us, and interacted with us on each individual level.

As I turned into a teenager, I didn’t get much easier to handle. Yet Mom never faltered in her ability to support and love me. When I wouldn’t listen, talk, calm down or anything she gave me other outlets to get those ugly things out of me. She gave me my writing, she gave me my art; and when I started writing on my bedroom walls, she read what I wrote and embraced the new way I chose to express myself. Anyway I chose to express myself she accepted. No matter how I appeared, Mom always saw me for exactly who I was. She has always loved me for who I am, and whenever I lost sight of myself, she did all that she could to remind me of what kind of person I am.

If it weren’t for the journals she had given me and recognized what writing did for me, I’m not sure I’d still be here. There were even times when she wrote me letters to communicate with me. I still have them, and cherish them immensely.

Mom isn’t just my parent, she’s my best friend. As I got older and older, and has our bond and trust grew stronger and stronger, I opened up more. I can tell her anything, talk to her about everything, and I have no fear of judgment or rejection. I never have. She did exactly what a parent should do for their child, which is make them feel like they’re significant and that they belong. Because of all the ways she accepted me, supported me, and loved me, I do feel those things.

I can’t speak for my siblings, but I would be astonished if they didn’t feel or think of our mom in the same or similar ways as I do. In Joe, Mom recognized his musical ear and helped him gain music as an outlet by getting him a guitar. She never hesitated to let him play his music and when he started creating a band in and a little after high school, she allowed them all to practice at our house. Mom also recognizes internal struggles Jessica has, and does everything she can to support her through them. She may not always know what to do, but she always listens and gives the best advice she can give accordingly. Our mom is our boulder, grounding us whenever we feel like we’re just floating around in space.

I would, and definitely could say more about who my mom is – what kind of person she is – but I think for now I’ve got it covered. My appreciation and love for her goes far beyond anything I could ever write, and I hope I never fail in letting her know it.

©S.T. Jan. 16, 15

A Formal Introduction

My name is Sara. My initials spell SAT, and I’ll leave you to guess what the middle and last ones stand for.

I was born June 22, 1989 to JoAnn and Calvin.  I’ll be turning 28 in June. I’m the middle child of three; my brother is turning 31 and my sister will be 24 this year.
I’m the only child my mom labored with. Like my brother before me and my sister after, I was delivered through c-section seventeen hours later. I’ve been told I looked hairy and purple, and I was mad as heck. Soon after, the physical issues did subside, but it would take much longer to heal from the deeply embedded anger that I carried with me into this life. To this day, there are still many deeply rooted things I continue to balance and understand, but all of that is for a future post.

 
I grew up in a house my father built with my great uncle (his side). They built it on a piece of property my grandparents (mom’s side) split with my parents. Our house was a three bed, two bath home. Coming in through front door, there was a small entry way with a small kitchen nook to the left. That nook was later converted into a fourth bedroom. Beyond the entry way was the living room, and a hall way to the right which led to the main bathroom and bedrooms. When you looked down it, you could see the bathroom. The first door the left of the hall way was my parent’s/mom’s room. It had its own full bathroom with a slider door that separated the sink from the toilet and shower. In the back of the room, there was a sliding glass door that led to the back deck. In the back of the living room, double doors led to the same deck. To the left of the living room (when coming into the home) was the kitchen and dinning room. A bar counter separated the kitchen from the living room. I remember sitting at it and watching my mom cook. Going back down the hall way, there was a right turn, and at the end of that were the bed rooms my siblings and I had. For most of my childhood, I shared a pink bedroom with my little sister, and our brother had a blue room right next to ours. The windows looked out into the front yard at the almond trees that were there. We lived in this house until I was about 20 years old. My house and all the memories I have of it, are also a topic of their very own.

 
I’ve been writing little poems for as long as I can remember. My grandpa on my mom’s side had saved a poem about a blond haired and blue eyed girl I wrote when I was five or six, and one of my aunts on the same side of the family has a poem about peace I wrote when I was probably eight or nine. I don’t have full recollection of doing these, but I do remember writing a lot and making up stories and characters. I think that’s why anime turned out to be so appealing to me when I discovered it around eleven or twelve.

I also remember keeping journals. One of the earliest journals I have is one I decided to write upside-down and backwards in. If I recall correctly, I wrote that I did this because I wanted it to be complicated to read in case someone found it. As I grew older, my mom recognized how I was writing and what I was trying to say with it; and when we were having our biggest communication problems, she used writing to close the gaps. I still have letters and cards she wrote to me expressing to me her love and concerns for me.

I had always had a hard time verbalizing my emotions and issues.  When I was in elementary school, I would have tremendous tempers that spanking or punishing never made a difference in. My mom started hugging me and asking me what was wrong instead. That was when I finally admitted that other children were taking lunch money and food from me.

My mom is also a post of her very own, but I will say here that I am internally grateful for her. If she didn’t recognize this need to express the way I did (and still do), I don’t honestly think I’d still be alive. By supporting my writing, art, and personal style, she gave me a place to belong. And that was something I thought I’d never have, and it’s something I still fear I will either loose or only have the illusion of obtaining.

As a child, I role played before I even knew that was what it was called. My mom used to have a red, silk night-gown that I used to play in. I felt like a princess in it, so I ran around my yard as one who escaped from poisonous snakes and hot lava. We had a swing-set that had a slide and teeter-totter on it, and I remember pretending to use it as a escape route or obstacle course.

When I got a little older I started role-playing, writing stories and creating characters by myself or with friends. I created characters when I was little too, but I don’t remember writing like that until I was older. Poetry, on the other hand, was something I always remember doing.

Now that I’m older, I can see where writing has always been, and always will be, a part of my life. I’ve lived through it since birth, it seems, for I can’t think of a time where I wasn’t doing it in some way. I wrote my feeling and events in journals (still do); I write poems (this is really the first time I’ve decided to go through with pursuing it this strongly); I wrote short stories and role-plays in middle and older childhood; and I even used it to communicate and talk to people, writing letters to multiple friends in high school and even to my mom when I couldn’t verbally talk.

I’m grateful for this. I’m thankful that this turned out to be part of the mix that made me the cake I am. Because when I read this and I think about it, I wouldn’t be who I am without it.

©S.T. Jan. 28, 17