.Not Too Young To Care.

We're old enough to know better. 

And I've written these words a thousand times before in different incarnations, always erased if not from the printing, then from my mind. My dear, I have always adored you.

You, though; not that show you put on for the little wild things. I was wild once and maybe it suited you. But I was never so wild that I forgot where my heart lived...it damn sure wasn't some cowboy bar at last call, despite what you've heard.

Maybe I've got it all wrong but either way I just don't have a good feeling anymore. It's like never having enough quarters for the pay phone; you always run out of time.

We never did belong to each other.

If you don't know where you stand then it's time to start walking. I don't know how far I'll get but I'll give it a try. I think that sorrel horse of yours is fast enough to catch me. And if you can get a loop settled on, you better pull your slack and never fucking let it loose.

.Postcards From Paris.

I want a postcard from Paris

and fingers perpetually stained with ink.

I want to wear my hair wild every day

with horse's hair braided in

and lipstick on bare skin.

I want peaty black tea every morning

and pink toenails hidden

in hand-knitted socks

and to make oatmeal and milk messes

with a blue-eyed little boy.

I want to believe in second chances.

I want to believe in romance.

I want your calloused hands and quiet soul

because I'm loud enough for the whole

world.

I want to ride bareback on a big sorrel horse.

I want an old claw-foot bathtub.

I want a Navajo rug.

I want a postcard from Paris.

.Baptized in the Bathwater.

Can this water get any hotter?

No, really. 

I think the only way I'd be satisfied is if it were hot enough to boil the flesh off my bones. Still, every inch of my skin is already pink and stinging. I imagine myself like an old wool sweater: worn and tired, stretched and stained, fragile and frayed. I submerge myself, let the water do its work. Soak into my fibers, clean them, shrink them. Rinse away the days past. Wring me out, reshape me. When I'm dry, I'm good as new. There isn't much that can't be swept down the drain at the end of the day. My darling, that is a blessing. 

The fight has not gone out of me, no...but it saves its strength for that which is truly worth fighting for. I sleep soundly under heavy blankets stitched with truth and love and real dedication. My dreams are sweeter than ever before. If you stand for nothing, you'll fall for anything...dear, I am done falling. 

But when I'm too tired to stand, I'll rest my aching bones and brain in the steamy water, and say a tiny prayer for each lavender-scented bubble that tickles my heated skin. I'm baptized anew each night in the bathwater, and I rise up with a clean heart, in better shape than when I started.

.Love, Part Two...A Thank You.

So it's about 4 in the morning and I'm doing that paranoid-mom thing where I don't sleep because I have to get up every five minutes to make sure my baby is still breathing, and so I'm also doing a lot of being on the internet to occupy the time when I've not got my ear pressed to my son's chest. Just a few hours ago I posted something on the blog and the feedback it's gotten has been pretty overwhelming, so I had to write this to express my feelings about all of the positivity I've received in return for just saying what's on my mind.

I'm not very good at making things up which, as a writer, is kind of a shitty trait to have. I can't count the number of projects I've started only to have them fizzle out early on, and this blog is no different. It started out as a place for me to air out my soul and get things off of my chest...I had piles and piles of what I suppose you can call essays or poetry or whatever it is that I write and they were just collecting dust on my hard drive. As it went on I tried to do the things my blogging friends were doing; motivational posts, reviews of stuff, lists, etc., but the response for those things just wasn't good. Personally, I think it's because it was obvious I was trying too hard to be a "blogger." I'm not a blogger, I'm a girl who writes from my heart and puts it on a blog for the world to see.

The "poem" I posted was a true story. Everything I write is true. It's kind of a mirror for me to examine myself in, to put these things out there in the open forces me to be honest with myself. As someone who has been dealing with deep depression and anxiety for years and years, it's pretty easy for me to just bury myself under the covers and hide. It's pretty easy to blame the mental disease for everything instead of facing it and facing the issues I've had and fixing them. I'm fucking broken; it isn't easy to admit to myself or anyone else. I could chalk all of my misadventures up to youth and just having fun, but that would be a flat-out lie and that's against everything I stand for. All of the mistakes I've made and all of the bad judgement calls were because of my brokenness, because I was looking for ways to fill the voids inside or to distract me from the tangled mess of a person I am.
Or was, I should say.

I'm sure as hell not "cured," but I'm better. I'm finding my way through my own bullshit to see that I'm a person with a purpose in life, things that I'm good at, and something worthwhile to say. I'm not ashamed of who I am or who I've been. I've had dark times I thought I'd never get out of. I've had times where I've used alcohol as a band-aid. I've looked at relationships as a meter of my worth as a woman, and I've chosen men who were physically and/or emotionally unavailable because I myself didn't know how to have a normal, healthy relationship...or I just didn't want to be bothered with one. The fact of the matter is that the sole reason I am a mother is a combination of all of those things. I had a baby completely by accident, and it came about for all the wrong reasons. I am at this precise point in my life because up until this point I have lived my life entirely "wrong." But the question becomes this: Is it really "wrong" if it has led you down exactly the right road?

I know deep in my heart that I am on the right road. It is a bumpy road, with many twists and turns and no signs posted along the way to steer me in the right direction. I'm driving this one by feel alone, but I think God is guiding my hand on the wheel. I think if I keep following my heart I'll end up where I need to go. I think if I keep listening to my gut, I'll be okay. Each day I travel one more mile and take in the scenery, and I mend just a little bit. I will probably always be broken, I think some people are just that way, but it isn't a curse anymore. It's the map I'm using to find myself. When you're wounded and the wound turns into a scar, the scar tissue is tougher than the skin around it. I am tougher for my scars, and I'll wear them proudly as a testament.

Maybe some of the stuff I've written or will write will hit close to home for somebody. Maybe some with find it pathetic or dramatic, maybe it might be too much for some to bear. But that I've written something that so many told me they were touched by only proves to me that I've been doing at least one thing right...choosing to live my life with complete transparency and baring my soul at the cost of my pride, being vulnerable when my very nature is to shut myself off and protect all my tenderest parts.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am HAPPY. It isn't easy, but it's worth every blessed second. I will struggle, I will fall, I will get back up and I will keep going.
And I will write about it, because even when I feel like I have nothing, I still have the words.

Thank you to every single person who reads this, or has ever read it. It means more to me than you will ever know. I truly love you all.

.Love, I Think.

I used to love the chase.
I used to love late night text messages and last-minute plans, a swipe of C.O. Bigelow peppermint lip gloss and pulling on my boots at midnight for an adventure.
I used to love empty beer cans in the back of my pickup and Marlboro Reds from his shirt pocket.
A Metallica song came on the radio. "I should marry you..." he said when I turned it up and sang along.
"If you were smart, you would."
He was probably joking.
I was probably not.
I used to love the dark side of mornings, shooting stars over the desert punctuating thoughts I'd have been better off not having, and the highway home after nights that lasted too long.
"I'm going to be on the wagon...I'll call you when I get to town next time."
"I won't hold my breath."
And I didn't.

I never really knew what love was.
In my mind Love was bucking horses and pick up horses and big loops and years of conversations in a language of what-ifs and probably-nevers, Seven and Sevens, you-should-come-see-mes and maybe-I-wills.
In my mind love was a possibility.
I never wanted to know what was in his mind.
I still really don't know what love is.

"I heard you're gonna calve out."
"That's a hell of a way to put it."
"I'm gonna lose service...I'll call you when I come off the wagon."
"I won't hold my breath."
And I didn't.

I can't stand the chase.
The phone doesn't ring anymore and I barely notice it...a year's worth of wagons and works have gone by since I wore that lipgloss. I don't even remember where I left it.
Sometimes I find myself craving a Marlboro red and the scent of smoke and booze on a breath that touched my face.
A Metallica song comes on the radio. "He should've married me..." I say, then I turn it up and sing along.
If he was smart, he would've.
The baby's with his grandma and I'm going ten miles an hour over the speed limit to get home.
Home is finally where my heart is.
At least that's a love I do understand.

.Nothing Good Gets Away.

I have discovered an amazing website called Letters Of Note and it is literally a blog of transcripts of personal letters and vintage correspondence. As a lover and letters and notes, especially from the time when that was the way in which people communicated with each other, I devoured pages and pages of letters, and stumbled upon this one, written by John Steinbeck to his son. I've read it many times before and it has always been one of my favorites. It's so simple, poignant, beautiful, and such very sound advice...enjoy ♥


New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First—if you are in love—that’s a good thing—that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second—There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,
Fa