Alrighty. One Hour Left.

So I was in a timed exam, and I got done a little early, with no option but to wait out the clock. So I decided I’d set free the little creative bug in me and just have some fun. This is the result of that little window of time, and I must say, it’s rather delightful.

Some background: I had a song stuck in my head at the time, and I was watching the clock. That much is probably evident, but if you’re looking for which song-it’s Goodnight Moon by Go Radio. I chose specifically to not use gender. I also just went a little whimsy with the spoken words-I made up the language as I went. It’s not copied from anything that I am consciously aware.

*******************************************************************************

Image result for moon free clip art

“So goodnight moon, and goodnight you.”

There they sat, waiting for the final tick of the clock. The batteries had been wearing out slowly and the time had come. Each second took slightly longer than the one before and it was time to say goodbye.

But that was the problem with letting go, wasn’t it? Even something as juvenile and unemotional as a watch battery could find, that in its last moments, care was expressed on its behalf. And what then, could be said for the rest of…stop.

The tarnished plating on the watched seemed to fade. The watch face, once illustriously lilac (or so they had been told), now sat dusty and apparently unimportant, its hands frozen at 3:17. What a time to die.

It was all that remained of their family-this little piece of costume jewelry. Much like those it had belonged to, its importance was solely in the eye of the beholder. The engraving in the band suggested a fascination with darkness, and knowing of the original owner, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. However, they were just words to a song, long since forgotten. A relic, not unlike the time piece. What times must have been like then, with music and the importance of knowing your position in the light spectrum. They’d approached each experience as fleeting, but holding on to the sentimental value for far longer than reasonable. Thus the watch.

A brief stretch and up they rose, catching the smell of the pending storm. It was inevitable, as all things were. Drifting to the bank of the river, they looked once more at the cheap metal, hand carved engravings and faded colors. It was an accurate representation of the world they knew-lifeless, soulless and oppressed. But that was coming to an end.

They had no training in music, an art long since banned and forgotten, but a small rectangular object, lodged safely in a pocket was the key to the change oncoming. Remembering-just barely-how to operate it, they keyed up the appropriate symbols of a dying language and hesitated slightly. A dull rhythm behind them.

“Osha na heimawei?” Are you sure this is a good idea? An old friend emerged from the path. No threat, just curiosity-although both responses were illegal.

“Amsu.” Yes, they thought. “Ji esto na heikawa. Esko pa ti antewa.” The world killed itself long ago. I must revive it. “Ni ma toankeishelo.” My destiny must revive the life long lost. The friend extended a hand, which they grasped.

“Shei nakem.” Together then. They pressed the three-tipped button and dialed up a side meter.

“Shestako meinahopaneita. Weitcha hakeifato.” This is how apathy ends. This is how the humanity is exhumed.

“And when our hearts are heavy burdens, we shouldn’t have to bear alone.” They tossed the watch into the river and increased the volume until it reached a deafening level. Light began to emit from the depths of the water, where the metal left ripples.

It was as though the sun rose over the world for the first time in ages. Colors burst forth from each thing the light touched, and it was then that they finally understood the beauty of having open eyes. Instead of the grey and black scale, there existed sights that there were no longer words for.

Their family passed down stories of time before the darkness-when freedom and individuality weren’t oppressed for uniformity. A time when this light reached everywhere and everyone, when sounds were crisp and emotional. Although the language’s nuances were slightly lost on them, the meaning of the song that still filled the air swelled within, like some higher purpose.

Within a couple breaths, enforcement surrounded them and it was then that they understood: neither they nor their friend would see the finale to this new chapter.

“Katek. Meitanopatchema. Katenchezna.” Stand down. Await containment for final processing of crimes committed. Surrender or pass beyond. 

A fleeting look at their actions. It was enough to overwhelm them. Their friend squeezed their hand one last time.

“Techakana hielo.” I will follow you to the end. 

“You cannot take freedom from those who would see it shared to all. Our lives may be brief, but our meaning will never be lost. Welcome to morning. May the darkness be fleeting and oppression end.”

“3:21. What a time to die.” Their friend spoke.

“Fa. Meistopashei.” No. What a time to live.

And humanity was exhumed, bringing with it an understanding and a hunger for all things diverse and beautiful.

“Like a passage from goodnight moon.”

*****************************************************************************

Advertisements

unconditionally and irrevocably in love…

with COFFEE.

tl;dr: I rant about my week in coffee and then tell you all the cool things I’m about to do.

This post will have no bearing on your day, on your wellbeing or really even on anything at all. Today, I’m giving myself the right to just write. And I want to tell you the story about this past week, as it pertains to my very favorite beverage.

So I stopped drinking soda (pop-whatever) at the beginning of the semester. I told my brother that we were going to compete for who could be the most healthy/fit by Christmas. So off the list it went. Since then, my only substantial form of caffeine has been coffee. And even before now, I’ve been a devoted coffee drinker. Since like 8th grade. It’s a huge part of my life, and I totally inherited it from my parents (who consume 2-3 POTS of coffee per DAY between them). And anyway, I drink tea, water and coffee. I still make my own in a little percolator and it’s great-saves me money, tastes fine, I customize it, everything’s wonderful.

So I went to the store a couple weeks ago and bought everything I thought I’d need for the month. I meticulously plan and so far, I’ve been spot on-except for one kinda important thing: creamer. I hadn’t realized I’d be so stressed theses last few weeks with law school and current school and all the things, so I’ve been pounding down the coffee like it’s an emergency-because for me, it was.

So long story short, I ran out of creamer. On Sunday. My busy schedule prevents me from just popping into the store in the mornings, and I’m exhausted at night (but could reasonably do so). I chose not to go Sunday. I chose, instead, to do a LOT of homework and get ahead. Monday, I lucked out and it was office coffee day. Excellent. Tuesday, I made a mocha-ish coffee out of black coffee and hot chocolate mix (no milk) and it was bitter and I didn’t like it, so I only drank half. Wednesday, I used part of my last giftcard to get Starbucks (becuase HOORAY). Thursday, I drank orange juice. FREAKING ORANGE JUICE. And I was exhausted the whole day. I got fairly nothing accomplished. It was awful. Friday, I asked my husband to grab me a coffee from the library before he went about his day. Yesterday, I tried my hardest to drink my coffee straight up, but I wasn’t built for that, so I just chugged water all day.

Today. Today I realized that I had a really problematic love-hate relationship with my coffee/creamer balance and went to the store specifically for just creamer. Now, thankfully, I live only a block or so from the store so it wasn’t that bad, but I battled Sunday-post-church traffic specifically for a bottle of creamer.

Anyway, I really wanted the Hershey’s Chocolate Caramel one, and it only comes in a small bottle, so I’ll be out again before the week is up. Which is a shame, but this is my very last week of undergrad, so I think it’ll be alright.

That’s right. I have exactly 7 days before I’m 100% done. I have 2 more finals (I did the rest last week) and then I’m done-one on Wednesday and one on Sunday (I know-a Sunday final????? But it means that when April is done, so am I).

And I know I did the alphabet review of my time in undergrad, but I think on my last day (just 7 days from today) I’m going to share with you all the letter I wrote to myself for when this day happened. I haven’t quite decided yet, but I think that if I make it public, then I’ll be able to come back to it-regardless of where I am.

Anyway, happy Sunday! Let the countdown begin.

Oh! Also!

I’ve got some epic-cool things happening VERY soon.

  1. I’m going to be hosting a raffle for Nico & Tucker: Full of fun prizes and swag
  2. I’m going to start writing for Channillo-finally get those stories pub’d
  3. I’m going to open an etsy store-where I can sell essential oil stuff and things
  4. If you’re interested in reading an ARC in exchange for writing a review (it can be short!) PLEASE let me know-I have a couple, in a few different genres. You’d really be helping me out. I market books for authors (so these are THEIR ARCs, not mine) and that’s how I pay for college and coffee.

It’s a Love Story

In my update of life, I promised to try to do three things: a depression post, a lifestyle and a love story. I did the lifestyle one, and as you can probably guess, I’m not here for depression. So let us begin.

 

I wanted to do this elaborate short story for ya’ll, with visuals and stuff, and while I still may in the future, my love story is a pictorial one. I took all of these myself and I will show you, through these pictures, the greatest love that I can.

1317475249325

This frog was found while I was getting the pumpkin patch ready for planting.

IMG_1022

This is our puppy, before he went to the groomer. His name is PupPup.

IMG_1235

My husband bought me flowers just for funsies.

IMG_1240

This is the road I named “Shady Lane” when I was a kid, because of all the trees. Most of them have since been cleared out by the Amish.

IMG_1241

The berry bushes at my parent’s house. We’d gather in between 15 and 20 gallons of berries each year.

IMG_1242

Milkweed, which will come into play in a moment.

IMG_1243

This was the batch of wildflowers that served as my wedding bouquet.I dried them out and they are now in a labeled ziplock.

IMG_1244

This was taken at the park near my parent’s house. I absolutely loved the way the snow slung to the branches.IMG_1245

Also from that park, on one of the nature trails.

IMG_1246

The picture directly above this sentence and directly below are of the same field, just different years. It’s right across the street from my parent’s.

IMG_1247

I told you that milkweed would come into play. This was the best picture I’ve ever taken of a caterpillar. You can see the little drops of dew!

IMG_1248

And here the caterpillar is all grown up and transformed. I knew it was the same one because it remembered me and only came around when I went looking for it.

IMG_1249

This next picture is probably my hands-down favorite. I got to drive my dad’s car that day and the way the mirror lent itself to the view is just perfect. Same “Shady Lane” as before, just different direction, different season.

IMG_1250

These little purple flowers are all over the roadside and I love them!

IMG_1251

There are plenty more to share, but for now, the story is at an end.

Bi-Squared

label 1

Look at all those labels. And all for just one person. Each one a reminder of my place, of the fact that I belong in a category. Each one fitting me neatly, each one coming with a list of things that are expected of me. Some require more than others, some come with some extra baggage that doesn’t quite meet my personal hopes. (I’m looking at you, little “millennial” label!)

banner 1.png

Uh-oh. It’s like trying to put a star in the circle hole. It’s “okay” if you’re one or the other, but be a part of too many minorities and suddenly it can feel like everyone has an issue with your existence.

I’ve “been” bipolar for the better part of a decade. The same, I suppose, could be said for being bisexual. I like to think I’m more of a sapiosexual, someone attracted to intelligence, but I love anyone who loves me-irrespective of gender. I got married comparatively young (I was 21) and up popped the naysayers. “If you were really bisexual, you wouldn’t have married hetero. You’d have married a woman.” and “You probably just said you were bisexual for attention. You’re either straight or gay. No in-between.”

That’s pretty close to the same thing people said to me when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I got the usual “cry for attention” argument, the “making it up” comments and the “you need to just get over it” statements. It begins to feel pretty oppressive if you add both of those together, like no one wants to look at you like a complex person but a complex problem.

Looking back at my dating history, I realized that a lot of the reasons I sabotaged my relationships had more to do with the way my disorder made me than it did who I was, or who I was with. I would start a relationship with someone in a manic state and the world would come crashing down as I slipped into depression. Each relationship came with the hope that whoever I was with-regardless of gender-would be able to help me when I couldn’t help myself. I married my husband because he was the one person who looked at me and saw more than a list of symptoms and problems. He saw me as a person worthy of love and respect. It didn’t matter what category I placed myself in (or how many), but that I chose to love him for him, and not for reasons my disorder placed at the top of the list.

No matter how I (or anyone, for that matter) choose to live my life, I will always be met with criticisms. Choosing to go “off meds”, back to counseling, not have kids, and more have all come with a slew of questions that came with good intentions, but were ultimately incredibly condescending and a little rude. As someone used to it by now, I just shrug it off with a respectful attempt to educate, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have anything heartfelt to say about it!

I watch the way the world seems to come at people who are different with fear and contempt. Being bipolar is hard for a plethora of reasons, but I’ve never felt scared of the way other people would view me. Being bisexual isn’t hard (unless you make it that way), but it’s definitely easy to feel judged or inferior with things like religious freedom laws and anti-LGBT protests. Being bi-squared (what I call myself for being both bi-polar and bi-sexual), puts me in an awkwardly precarious place because a lot of people just assume that I’m messed up in the head, so my orientation is just the product of my brain being defective.

The thing is, I’m a human being-the same as you. And I wasn’t meant to fit neatly into a category, or even several of them. I’m pretty sure the only way to live life to the fullest is to just be myself-the messy, zany, passionate me that means I may fit into some categories neatly, some not so much and some not at all. Most of all though, I get to pick those categories for myself, same as you. When we learn to respect those choices, and even value someone for having the ability to choose, that’s what makes the metaphorical world go round.

Once Upon A Time

It was a slightly overcast day, but with enough sun to count as sunny. I woke up, smiled a bit, and headed to school and my then job as a tutor for the school. It was the end of April, and I was looking forward to the end of the semester. Ben, working in the same department, saw me as I walked in. I asked him what was on his mind, and we began to talk about the same topic that we’d been casually mentioning for ages: marriage. I thought we could just do a courthouse run when we went to get our marriage certificate, but the courthouse hadn’t offered them, and so we were still looking for a solution. I pulled the number up for the courthouse of the municipal we were in for classes (which was the next district over, and therefore a possibility). The judge DID perform marriages-by appointment only!

When would we like to be married?

I wanted May Day-a religious holiday about fertility and thusly good luck.

They only did Friday’s.

May second? Booked.

May ninth?

That was fine. We were scheduled for 9AM. Perfect.


The date was two weeks away, with plenty of time to break the news to our families that we were being completely serious (they’d known we would for about a year, but until we had something concrete it was always just up in the air.) We’d tried a December wedding, but it hadn’t panned out.

Fast forward to the Friday before our wedding-Friday, May 2 at 4:56PM. The Judge had been overbooked! And he wouldn’t even able to do our wedding!! No appointments available before our marriage certificate expired. Thank you.

It was the end of the business week before we were finished with our conversation. I could call no official until Monday, and that might be too late. So I began to try every minister, high priest, high priestess, pastor and anyone I had an email address for in the closest three counties. Most, as I had assumed, needed more notice. One had asked if we could drive forty miles to their Sabbat that same night, where they would love to do so, with less than an hour to get there-we passed, but I would have loved to!

Ben had been calling people with the same fervor, and emailing his professors (who are well known to be better connected than college students!) and lo and behold-one of his professors was ordained! Was he free on Friday the 9th? Yes! Would he be willing to do so? Yes! Perfect!

It wasa sunny Friday, the flowers were all blooming in the trees and it seemed like the perfect day for happiness. My parents and siblings, Ben’s dad, Ben’s best friend (and his parents) and a couple lost stragglers came to the classroom. My dad stopped off and bought pizza for everybody before we got there. In walked the professor, complete with a stole and robes, a brief case, and a guitar case. I’d never had Dr. Emens, but he seemed a nice enough fellow, and he was certainly doing us a kindness.

We had a traditional wedding, complete with prayers, vows that were based in a religion I had left, and the exchanging of rings. Then, at the very end, Dr. Evens sat down and asked if he could play a song for us. He chose “Good Riddance (Time of Our Lives)” by Green Day. We paid him, signed the things we needed to and then headed to our honeymoon-weekend (where we watched three seasons of Game of Thrones and the owner of the place we stayed picked wild flowers-which I dried (because they were my wedding bouquet).

It may not have been traditional, it may not have been the big and fancy wedding that everyone always thinks about, but it was unique, it was prophetic and it was the start of a wonderful marriage. And it was all completed at 4:30PM Friday, May 9, 2014.

Now, two years later, it is rainy (which I love!) and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my huge cup of coffee, thinking about that day. I remember that I sat there thinking that I wasn’t nervous at all, that I knew I was making the decision that I’d made in my head a long time before.

There are some things you didn’t get with that version of the story.

I was 21 (and had been so for 5 months exactly). Ben was 20 (and had been so for a week under 5 months). I was asked within five minutes of getting married if I was going to have kids/when I was going to have kids/if I was already pregnant. 

Ben told my dad (and I later adopted the same reasoning for the people who asked why we got married so young:

I didn’t want to start our lives separately and have to make room for the other person. I want to start from absolutely nothing more than love and build a life together. I want to start out together poor and watch as our riches grow.

I’d always told people that when you know you love someone, you shouldn’t feel like age should stop you from spending your life together.

I chose to hyphenate my name because at the time I thought I wanted to go into academics and that way, if I published any papers, you’d know without a doubt it was me. I may not be directly going into academia, but I don’t regret splitting my name. Because it gives me an identity all my own. I use either name as I please, both for formal occasions and I am content.

So happy anniversary, my love. It’s been an interesting, epic, bizarrely perfect two years and I look forward to collecting more with you.

Walk Away

There are days which comes at me a little more harshly than others. I feel like although this could probably be glanced over, maybe it’s still important to get it out in the open. Who knows, maybe someone else will have a similar story.

In three days, I will have been married to my husband for two years. In those two years, we have grown as a couple in ways that I didn’t think we could. We now can anticipate each other: he moves, I move. We know each other’s schedules-not just for day to day life, but days that are hard, moods, all of it. It’s really nice sometimes, sometimes it’s really annoying. (Sometimes I just want to be mad by myself, you know?) But anyway, it isn’t that that bothers me. I love being able to say I am married. And watching people look with their disapproving little heads at us. So many people thought we’d made a mistake getting married young, but we’re stronger now than we were, and we’ve now seen each other at our worst. He and I believe that you should work on a marriage every day, and that having each other is a gift to treasure, not a safety net for convenience.

Around this time, a lot of my Facebook friends have also gotten married. I smile at each and every one of them, hoping they have a good life, a life full of love and happiness. I was invited to several of their weddings, but somehow never managed to make it any.I have a very real issue with new places, new people and large quantities of them. That makes me exceptionally frustrated when I receive an invitation and in a mania state say “yes, I will be attending” and then find the day of the affair that I’m mid depression, full of social anxiety and unable to get dressed in “street clothes” let alone make my way to a glorious event. I’m not making excuses, I’m just highlighting an issue I wish wasn’t an issue.

But there’s something else, which creeps into my heart and creates an emotional disease. When I got married, Ben was in a suit, I was in a cream colored dress from Victoria’s Secret.

crochet (It was this one, as a matter of fact. No, this isn’t me.)

Ben and I were married in a classroom at our college, by one of Ben’s Political Science professors. It was an intimate ceremony, my parents, his dad, his best friend and his best friend’s parents, my siblings and maybe a straggler or two from the university.

I’ll tell the full story on our actual anniversary, because that’s a really epic story, but here’s the part that makes me sad. The professor brought his guitar and played us a song-our first song as a married couple. It was Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)”. I actually liked that song before, and knew the lyrics ahead of time.

“So take the photographs and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it’s worth, it was worth all the while”

We came back from our weekend away and waited for pictures. We hadn’t hired a photographer, we just asked everyone there to take some. My mother took a video recording (so she and my father are exempt from this).

Every picture was blurred.

I know it sounds trivial. I know. And I’ve gone back and forth for these last two years about how silly I sound. But I have no pictures from my wedding. They all are shaky, blurred images of my backside, of the professor, of the group of people who were there. I have the blurry images, and trust me, they were blurrier as I cried about it.

So I look at Facebook, and all of my friends who got married and the weddings I couldn’t attend. I look at their pictures, the photos they will have forever. And I can’t help but get a little gloomy. I hope they all have the best lives they possibly could. But I also wish that I too had photos to share.

As I listen to that song each anniversary, I can’t help but be reminded of the lines I quoted here. I am left with the memories in my head. And my brain isn’t the most reliable of things, let’s be honest.

jealous

I told Ben that I was upset because when I am old and don’t remember who I am anymore, I will have nothing to show for our wedding day. That’s certainly half of it. But it’s more than that. I also feel incredibly jealous that although I know and he knows that we got married, I have nothing to share with my friends. I can’t show them how happy we looked, our very first moments as a married couple, nothing. And they can all show me.

So I made it my mission to take as many pictures as I could from then on out. I’m working to save up more money for my anniversary tattoo, and I’m going to make sure that although I have no pictures of my first moments as Mrs., I will have enough proof to show that it wasn’t short lived.

(And for those of you interested in the video, there isn’t any audio, and it’s only the back of our heads.)

 

It Got To Me.

I’ve got a blog scheduled for tomorrow (first time I’ve scheduled one!) that goes into detail about what I will speak on tonight. Tonight I am blogging as a mental purge. As usual, you can ignore it, or you can read it for what it is-me stumbling around, searching for answers. Today, though, I’m going to try something a little different. I present to you:

A Seed

I passed by the garden of the no longer living, their flowers an ashen pillared stone. I hear their whispers call to me, the wind bringing the weepings of those passed on. Regret thickens the air around me, my breath turning to crystals in my chest. A hand reaches out for me, the keeper of the gate claims I have no right to pass through. “Please,” I whisper, “I have already died while I lived. The feelings claimed me, the bondage of my emotions pulled me through the depths and I ceased to be years ago.” He eyed me wearily and nodded, his expression relaxing.

“It is so for many.” He sighed, the sweet tobacco smoke caressing my cheek. My path opened and I could see a single plot of earth undisturbed. My feet glided, the pain in my heart weighing down my steps, until I could barely move them. I reached my reservation, the tension in my body forcing my gaze skyward. I lifted my hands higher, the heavens leaning into my touch. I felt the sorrows of the years form rivulets on my cheeks, washing away the body I had outgrown so many years ago.

“Why?” My heart roared. “Why was I alone for so long? Lost in the ocean, I perished amongst the apathetic and the unconcerned. My blood was spilled for far too long, the agony never being relieved.” The sky above my split, lifting my chin as high as it would go.

“You had to enter oblivion to be made new.”The rumblings of sadness reached my ears just before the cleansing rain. With the last of my awareness, I watched the scars on my wrist become barky ridges. I closed my eyes at last, the sweet peace overcoming me as I’d begged it to for years.

What I had hoped for in death was given to me in life. The world which sought to bury me alive didn’t know that it was that very thing required to bring about the greatest transformation.

tree woman.jpg

(Image Credit: Willow, at Wallpaper Up)

The story came before I found the photo.