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Restless nights that smell like lavender.
Chilly January days with covered mirrors, desperate fingertips flying over the abused and broken buttons of a Lysoled keyboard,
praying for answers.
Aggressivly learning to relax.
Surrendering to the here and now.
To the lonely reality that I cannot change the present any more than I can change this freezing Ohio weather but I can change my perception of it.
And put on fuzzy socks. And stretch my body into soothing yoga positions and breathe until I give up my constant struggle to be in control.
I am abandoning my quest for perfection.I
If I’ve learned anything being shut inside this blue condo, hastily applying medicines to my healing and cherry red cheek it’s that I am far more than that girl staring back at me in the mirror.
Or the one holding a sweaty bandage to her face in a doctors office. Or pointlessly pulling her hair in front of her face in a dim chinese restraunt.
I am beautiful not because of a flawless face, or blue eyes or the size of my jeans. But because of the woman BEHIND those eyes, that face, that 155 pounds.
So long I have based my worth on the physical. I never truely realized how tied in my self love was to this girl I tried to hard to project.
And a week of being beautifully injured has shown me that the ones who REALLY love me- the gentle mother whose words, love, and healing acceptance can soothe me in an instant, the beautiful blonde boyfriend who ressures me I’m still gorgeous, and gave me the confidence to abandon those negative thoughts and step into the Sunday Sunshine, the countless friends and family who have reached out and filled the lonely silence that we can all so easily lose ourselves in. THESE are the blessings that I have found, and even if I’m scarred forever, my heart has already begun to heal.
And that is more than enough.
Filed under: living my life, love | Tags: birthday, e, family, friend, love, memories, sister
** I found this in my journal while flipping through today. I wrote this on my little sisters birthday April 12, 2013. I figured it was only fair that she see it too I love you sissy. **
Screaming in pain on the playground mulch, trying so desperatly to be in Mallory’s Magnificent Circus you wound up in a hot pink cast. My guilt right there for friends and family to graffiti.
I let you down.
I let you fall.
As we grew, we creted a whimsical world of magic that we inhabited together.
One day butter churning pioneers, wearing pink and green bonnets. Making mud pies with dirt under our fingernails and a self determined fire in our little hearts.
Another day we were gentle eyed school teachers. Speaking calmly to our American Girl Dolls as we wrote on our tiny chalk board and tried to mold plastic minds until they could master arithmatic and speak in lymerics.
The next day, we were astronauts. Using our tiny, summer kissed legs to pump higher and higher, until our swings hit ultimate altitude and our rocket ships lost all control. Twisting and turning our bodies so that we collided with meteors and cart wheeled with shooting stars.
And at night, we would tip toe into eachothers beds. Intertwining our cold feet under the covers and telling eachother the naked truths only sisters can.
And when your breathing slowed and you left me for your dreams, I would roll over and put my arm around you. Clinging to your tiny body as if I could shield you from the world.
I wanted to keep you safe from all the things that terrified me when I was alone. Hide you from the monsters. Shelter you from self doubt. Prevent a broken heart. Make sufre you never questioned how beautiful or perfect you were. I swore if I held you tight enough, maybe you’d never have a nightmare again.
And now, we’re all grown up.
And I am amazed to see how many times it has been you,
Reassuring me of my beauty
and my worth.
My little sister.
My best friend.
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Last week, I drifted.
I allowed myself to play pretend. To try and fast forward the healing process because embracing the pain means that I have to spend nights by myself hating the smell of Ivory soap and eating vegan corn dogs. Sitting in silence and letting it sink in. Deep into my pores, straight through to my heart- that poor thing has been so neglected by her owner lately I forgot she was barely beating.
But when I am quiet enough, I can hear it. Slowly finding its pace again, creating a new rythem for me to live to. A new soundtrack to coreograph my days and somehow soothe me off to sleep.
Because last week, I didn’t sleep. I ran and I hid and I pretended to be another girl. A stronger girl. One who could throw on cowgirl boots and go to sweaty summer concerts with tight tank topped teens and masquerade as if those songs didnt still take me back to all our canoe trips, our bonfires, our promises that are now our past.
Last week I was selfish, and in being selfish I hurt myself. Where is the balance between selfish and selfless? The fragile line between self destruction and independant strength? These are the things I wonder while I dip my fingers in ketchup at four AM with all the lights on because I have forgotten how to sleep in the dark.
But this week, this week I’m not eating corn dogs.
I’m sleeping with the lights off.
I’m envisioning the woman that I will be after I make friends with the pain and invite healing to begin. Because running only hurts the ones around me, and I am far too strong to run for long. I’m ready to stand still. To be quiet. To get to know myself again. To let this process take its toll so that this time next year I am fierce.
I am self sufficent.
I am ready for the blessings God has in store for me, and I can love and be loved with a heart thats not selfish, or selfless. But a healed one.
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Change- an inevitable constant in life that never fails to shake us to the core. To rattle our well oiled lifestyles, to make photos that once brought memories of sunny summers and reggae music now lie in abandoned frames aquiring dust in your moms backseat.
I watched a beautiful woman with two first names and warm eyes that see right into my pain look at me in the dim light of my childhood house and tell me that I am in the winter of my life.
That this season comes for us all, and it is cold.
And it is lonely.
And it brings challenges that bring us to our knees and cause us to bawl our eyes out while someone whistles Peter Frampton in a chilly grocery store. Because there used to be someone standing by your side sampling expensive cheeses and teaching you how to order sliced ham.
And now you are standing alone.
And foods that once made your mouth moist with gluttony have lost all flavor.
In winter, she told me, the snow is on the ground.
Even though in Ohio it is a sunny eighty degrees, in my world there are scarves needed.
Gloves to warm my hands because that comfortable certainty I lived with for so long is gone, and my fingers are frigid and frantic and restless and attempting to find solace in long showers and the keys of a keyboard and the pages of a journal.
In winter, she told me, everything is changing.
And while the land seems barren, and the colors seem gone, this is just an illusion.
Because beneath the surface there is life brewing.
There are dancing daisies and laughing lilacs and seductive roses.
There are trees whose leaves will tip toe on the wind and whisper affirmations until the snow melts and I can dance barefoot again.
But before this, I have to embrace my winter.
I have to invite the pain, acknoledge the heartache, forgive my mistakes, love myself the way that I would love the beautiful angels that have been sent into my world to pick me up when I feel too weak to throw on tennis shoes and face the day. Because the sun is shining and the birds are chirping but me- I am still stuck in my winter solstice.
Trying to learn how to ice skate over a diamond lake of emotions that seems permanently frozen.
Trying to transform so that when the sun finally shines again- I am my best self.
My spring self.
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I dwell in the world of an overthinker.
A land where a moment of silence can so quickly become a small piece of peace shattered by the constant chit chatter of my mind.
Where solitude becomes something I fear because I can’t sit still- if my feet arent moving I’m not getting anywhere and if I am frozen I am trapped.
But am I really?
No. A better word would be grounded. home.
But when there isnt a whirlwind of sound and laughter and lights and music sorrounded me I let the fear sink in.
I let my mind take hold.
I let insecurities leak into the optimism that begins my morning. What started as a mouthwatering lunch at an italian restraunt with a purse full of chocolate mints and a sweet brown eyed waiter and beautiful grandparents in a booth accross from my sister and I asking about our worlds and showing me tin photos of forgotten ancestors in frilly pants has warped into a night on the couch with too much chicken soup and cramps in my stomach and a yearning for someone to walk through the door and take the loneliness away.
Sometimes my own mind is the worst company, I guess that’s why I write.
To quiet my mind, to find that optimistic morning Mallory again.
I guess actually, being alone with myself
it can be an unexpected blessing
A nagging, pushy, overbearing goddess begging her to create.
Reminding her that admist her days of complacent chores and lovely mediocrity there is, beneath the surface of the world we are so eager to accept and willing to live within, a sort of magic.
A flutter of enchantment.
A promise of whimsical adventures and fairies hiding in teacups and make believe that we abandoned when we grew up and learned about 401Ks and checkbooks and how to unclog a sink.
There are moments of wonder, stolen fairy tale poems lurking within us.
But also within every writer- or no, every artist. Every dreamer. Everyone who was born to create, to compose, to weave a web of glitter around their entire everything-ness,
there is another voice.
One that we listen to so much more often.
One that urges us to go about our day to day.
One that tells us there will be time to create tomorrow, the day after that, but the dishes, the bills, the trash, the dog, the dinner, the fucking lifetime movies those need to be watched. now.
There is time for magic tomorrow.
There is time for creation tomorrow.
And we listen….
most of the time.
Because the truth is, sometimes, our sing song voice of childhood wins out.
Sometimes we need to write
right this second.
and when this voice screams so loudly we obey, it is surprising the results. Surprising how quickly our creativity explodes out of us in a stream of unfiltered beauty that cannot be anything less than God given.
I am trying to commit to let my creative energy flow each day,
but ah, us artists. We are filled with the best intentions <3
We have laughed and sang and passed around countless tissue boxes beneath the warm glow of a stained glass window.
We have given and received and struggled to make the concious decision to gracefully embrace both.
I have seen grown women paint their faces with whiskers and sing the Stray Cat Strut at midnight. Glitter still beneath their fingernails from the Altoid tins they transformed into soulful shrines just hours before, when their hair wasn’t hot pink and their faces were bare.
I have fallen in love with each and every one of them.
Hell, I have fallen in love with myself.
All versions of this barbie haired, salad hating, loud mouthed 22 year old that is me.
The poetry writing pre teen with a hopeful heart and bitter, bracefaced smile.
The porcelain skinned homecoming queen grinning barefoot and awkward with a crown on her head and a blue mermaid dress.
The firefilled freshman with rage bubbling beneath her smile and a newfound love for Joni Mitchell.
The shrieking brown haired baby who traumatized grocery shoppers and airplane riders alike.
The bohemian wannabe in Idaho who was hungry for God and family dinners and Allen Ginsberg and revolution. A walking contradiction with long blonde curls and an angel by her side and a never faltering faith that somehow everything would be alright.
The skinny college girl sufficating in insecurities- her flame being extinguished by the same freckled hands that had once made her feel so beautiful. Trapped in a dorm room with a bamboo rug that smelled like salmon and inscents and the promise of better days to come.
The girl that I am today-
one who will make you laugh, and speak her mind, and often let the laundry pile up to the ceiling.
One that will love,
And finally admit that I am far from having it all figured out.
One who creeps out of bed at midnight because her prayers turn into poetry and I’m terrified to let these glittery thoughts turn into hazey dreams that I can barely grasp in the cold October morning.
And lastylyu, the woman that I will become.
That I am growing into every day.
I can only pray that she has a quiet wisdom that comes with the ability to listen when someone’s heart is hurting.
That she feels no shame in laughing-
loud. and often. and joyfully.
With her hands in the air and a labyrinth beneath her feet.
I pray she has mastered the art of story. That she will still be able to dress up like a cat and sing cabaret songs. That her bliss will be contagious and her creativity will be her lifeline.
I pray that she will fearlessly climb into an old sweet mint maple tree and soar from its fragrant branches, yet stay grounded in who she is . Firmly rooted to this earth.
Her intuition will be tuned, heightened, she will transcend into a woman with eyes so blue and a heart so pure and a song so sweet that the world itself with smile and wrap its arms around her.
I pray she is a weaver of words.
I pray she is a combination of all of the beautiful souls I was lucky enought to spend this fall weekend getting to know.