thirty

My birthday is next Wednesday. I'm turning the dreaded thirty. I don't know why this age is bothering me so much, but it's terrifying. Everyone I speak to tells me they had a hard time with it, too, although once it was over it wasn't as much of a big deal as they thought it would be. Why, then, is my rational mind having such a hard time coming to terms with this age?

I sit here, in a house I bought all on my own, with a well adjusted life, and wonder what the hell I'm so upset about. I should be happy, proud, and satisfied, but somehow I'm still afraid of missing something.

I see my friends running around in their hectic, expensive lives where taking a shower is a luxury and wonder if that's the kind of life I still want: married, 2.5 kids, white picket fence and a golden retriever chasing a cat around the yard. When I was young, up until I met Sean, I always said I didn't want kids, didn't want to get married. I didn't think my personality fit into that lifestyle. Suddenly being with him, everything changed. I had dreams of us living together, him talking to the child in my womb, taking care of me. Looking back now, I see how much of myself I changed to maintain that relationship. It really is amazing what a woman will do to keep up appearances - even one as independent and strong willed as I.

The funniest thing of all is that I didn't even know I was changing. I was slowly boiling in a pot on steadily increasing heat; the temperature never went up enough at once to warn me away, and one day I woke up dead.

I know I don't want to go through that hell again. What could have been the best years of my life instead turned out to be a horrific, painful waste of time. Youth truly is wasted on the young; if only we could all be Benjamin Button.

My doctor told me last week that I have "come so far in the last two and a half years" since I sat on his table crying dry tears and ready for death. I am clear headed now, and I am as happy as I can be in my constant drug-numbed state; so much so that he tells me I don't need the drugs anymore. I am "cured." I never wanted to take them to begin with, but I needed help then. I wonder what life will be like as "me" again. Will I be the "me" that loves quiet, solitary moments and never wanted kids or commitments, or will I be the "me" that doesn't want to be alone? It's an interesting trip I'm on, I'll tell you.

Maybe I just told myself I wanted the expensive, hectic version of the "american dream" because that's what he wanted. Say something often enough, eventually you will start to believe it. The rational me knows that I have an incredible life that many others say they envy - I come and go as I please, I don't answer to anyone other than my dog, I make more than the average american - enough to afford a house, a car and other luxuries comfortably. I love my job, have a loving (if dysfunctional) family and I have many friends that love me. Rationally, I know that I have enough, but it's a constant battle. I don't know why I have to keep reminding myself of all the good things in life.

Rationality doesn't always win, despite what others say.

Wolves

Lovingly reblogged from 364quotes.blogspot.com

An elderly Cherokee Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life…

He said to them, “A fight is going on inside me, it is a terrible fight and it is between
two wolves. One wolf is evil—he is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance,
self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride,
competition, superiority, and ego.

The other is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness,
benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.
This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.”

They thought about it for a minute, and then one child asked his grandfather, “Which
wolf will win, Grandfather?”

The Elder simply replied, “The one you feed.”

To My "Kalle Fucking Blomkvist"

Went for a walk in a storm today
to see how much temptation
fate could shake

an old white pine was my protector
my only honest shelter
from the things that might have been

on my return, I lit two candles in your honor
I've always hated even odds
but I'll write by them until my jealousy can kill their cause.

your silence
it killed me once
but hearing you just now
has left me twisted up and turned to frost.

I wanted you to care, you didn't.
now I'm over you, you do.
What a terribly horrid puzzle that's about to come unglued.

Michael

There is nothing like a sunset on a hot New England day, he thought to himself as he hit speeds topping 120 mph in the 67 Shelby. That car was the only woman Michael St. Jean would ever need - she was reliable, purred like a kitten, and when she got testy he knew just what to do to set her right. She was beautiful - painted a faded navy with a white racing stripe, matte aluminum rims and performance tires that shone with polish. If there was one thing he got right in this world, it was taking care of her. Countless failed relationships later, at least he had that.

At eight p.m. he could see a storm brewing behind the colorful clouds in the western sky. Thunder and lightning made him uneasy - he was a man of lists, predictable outcomes, goals and achievements. He calculated every step, every possible result before making a move. Even now, he knew the risks he was taking by attempting to break the sound barrier. Not knowing when or where mother nature's fury might strike was maddening, and unnerving on a level he didn't quite understand. Frustrated, he pulled the e-brake, spun her around and pushed the accelerator to the floor back in the direction of home.

Michael made a living out of studying the most unpredictable thing on earth - human behavior. His career in forensic psychology was a challenge he didn't always relish; being confronted daily with death, tragedy, abuse and neglect will leave an impression on even the hardest man. Three years ago, after he decided he had seen enough of One Police Plaza. New York was a dark, haunted place for him now, one that would never hold the same glory and shiny promise as it did when he graduated from NYU. He packed his duffel bag, gassed up and left for the quieter country of old New England.

He drove aimlessly on back country highways, and when his gas tank ran dry, decided to call that place home. After buying an old burned out Victorian on the cheap in a suburb called West Haven, he opened his practice in victim counseling. Helping to change the lives of living people felt better on his soul than trying to interpret the voices of the dead. His empathy often got the best of him at crime scenes; his talent was being able to see the scene from the victim's point of view, and as often as that unique perspective helped solve a grisly case, it led to dreams filled with the ghostly echoes of voices he could never quite understand.

Some nights, those voices still haunted him.

Pulling into his driveway shortly after nine, he heard the first swollen raindrops splashing on the roof. He tucked his aviators behind the visor, took a deep breath and prepared to run for it. 

beginnings

Present Day

Lightning struck a few hundred yards from where she stood, yet she didn't flinch. Nothing in this world was left to surprise her.

Evening snuck up on the world tonight; the darkness of the storm swallowed the skies before the sunset had his say. Soft grey ghosts of fog floated like soldiers across a battlefield at dawn, and small bullets of rain soon followed. As she opened up her umbrella it began to pour, and her delight at nature's chaos was barely hidden.

So appropriate, she thought. Tonight would be the night that she would show the world.

The Beginning

"REEEGAN!" her mother shouted across the three yards that separated her from her prison.
Resigned to leaving him for the night, she dawdled as long as possible until another shrill scream reverberated off the neighbor's houses. "Time to go," she sighed.

She was as in love with him as a fifteen year old girl could be. Conor was beautiful in his own way - long brown hair, hazel Irish eyes that changed color with his moods, and lips plumper than cherries in June. So kissable, those lips... forbidden thoughts for a young catholic girl. She said a few Hail Marys as the familiar guilt took over, and the gravel crunched under her feet on her short walk home.

I'm going to need a whole lot more than prayers to get me through this, she thought. She tugged down the hem of her shorts and smoothed her hair in preparation for what was to come. Absentmindedly she rested a hand on her belly and hopped the fence. Show time.

Giving In

fingers bleeding
head pounding
ringing in my ears that I can't stop
a fresh cut on my thigh is screaming
"why do you do this to yourself.."
this masochistic mess I've made
of burned out hopes, twisted dreams
stares back at me, smirking,
cackling its fucked up pleasure
at my imminent demise.
I rub my eyes with fury
throw my fists into the wall and scream
as dusty tears of disappointment fall,
reflections of my broken soul.
I crumple into wrinkled folds
and pull at something 'til it bleeds
just for proof of life.
Sometimes I wonder
who could love a thing like this.

midnight music

take a walk with me
walk into the darkness
walk along the lonely streets that have crowded up my mind
see shadows dance while the fireflies sing
sweet melodies along a whispering wind
and watch me spin in circles with them.
come on, throw your arms out and spin with me
laugh like you did, before
let yourself be free with me
here in this starlight mottled darkness.
can you hear the songs fly through the trees?
can you see the rhythm like I do?
everything in this life is music.
come, walk with me
I'll show you.