She's a Runner

 

( Anyone get that Billy Squier reference in the title? If so, can we be friends?) 

  Today I'm linking up with More than Cheese and Beer. Our word prompt is "run". 

  Oh boy. Actually running is not a concept I'm familiar with. I nearly had to google it to get the exact definition. 

  I do have a general idea of "running". And I don't like it. I don't "run". If you ever do see me running, just go on and start running yourself. Because some bad shit is about to happen. 

  I prefer to move at a much slower pace. Maybe even a crawl, if you will. Even my toddler can outrun me. 

  Nearly every time I take her outside to play, I hear the dreaded words, "Mommy, let's race!" 

  Gah. No. How about we don't race and just sit here and stare at cars passing instead. We can ponder on the meaning of life. How's that sound instead, little girl? 

  But I don't say that. Instead I get up and prepare myself to be humiliated. If you can try for a minute to imagine this..

  She leans over and prepares herself in the correct way to run. (Stripper ran track for many years and has passed his infinite knowledge on to her) 

  She starts to count down. 

 On your mark...get set...GO!! 

  Me, well I'm still standing there dreading it. She takes off in a blast while I grip my boobs the best I can and limp along. Did I mention I don't run? I think I did. 

  She beats me in an instant. She is already on her way back by the time I have taken two steps. And guess what? Those two steps made me tired, dammit. 

  I hate running. That is all. 

I Am The Poet

 I'm someone who is all too familiar with depression. Unfortunately, I have suffered from it since I was merely a teenager. Most people brushed it off as typical "teenage hormones" until I first attempted to take my life at age 14. Might I say, I was even more depressed when I woke up from my overdose in the hospital and realized that I was, in fact,  still living. 

 Medication never worked for me. Therapy did help some. What I found that helped me the most was writing. Specifically, writing poetry. 

  Poetry was my drug. It kept me up at night. It invaded my mind during the day. It nagged me until I listened. And I always listened. 

 Most people can tell when depression is creeping upon them. I can too. A sure sign for me is when I'm unable to write a poem. 

  You have to understand. Poetry is literally who I am. Like most addicts, it took over my life. I had no control anymore. Feelings and emotions poured out onto paper. And I felt free. I felt a huge weight lifted off me. When I write, I feel myself healing. 

When I'm unable to write, when it seems I have to force a poem out of me, it scares me. It scares me because the only time that happens is when I'm depressed. 

 It's like depression takes my voice away. It takes my freedom away. It takes my poetry right from me. 

I am the face of depression. I am the voice of depression. 

I am the poet. 

My First Love

First Love 

I fell in love with her instantly,

The moment her eyes met mine.

I knew she loved me just as much,

The instant our hands entwined.

She placed a kiss upon my cheek, 

And laid my head upon her chest. 

The sound of her heart beating, 

Made it so easy for me to rest. 

I curled as close as I could, 

And drifted off to sleep fast. 

My first true love slept, too. 

This is a love that will always last. 

Nothing could compare to it, 

Nothing could cause it to fade. 

My mom is my first true love, 

And she is until this very day. 

Guilty Pleasures

  Today I am linking up with More than Cheese and Beer for Sunday Confessions. Our prompt is "guilty pleasures". 

  Now, I have literally pondered on this topic for several days, trying to figure out what my guilty pleasure is. 

  I don't even have many pleasures to begin with. Here they are in no particular order: 

  Sex, books, Coca Cola, and Star Trek. (I don't feel guilty about loving any of those) 

  That's it. That's all I've got.

I began to wonder if maybe something wasn't seriously wrong with me. Doesn't everyone have a guilty pleasure? I have no clue. You weren't expecting me to answer that, were you? 

 Instead of writing about my guilty pleasure, I am writing about my lack of one. 

  That's right, folks. I don't feel the least bit guilty about any of my pleasures. Although, Stripper assures me I should, in fact, feel guilty about loving Star Trek. 

  

Sunday Confessions: Denial

  Today I'm linking up with More than Cheese and Beer for Sunday Confessions. Our word prompt is "denial". 

  

  I will go on and admit, I am in denial. In denial that I'm getting old. Here's a perfect example. AirBear asked me to hop with her. 

AirBear: Let's hop like a bunny! 

Me: Ok! I like being bunnies! 

  She hops on ahead of me and in my excitement, I forgot I'm nearly 40.

  On the first hop, my head pounded. I fought on and ignored it like a trooper. On the second hop, my boobs nearly knocked me out. I could've been killed right then! So, I decided to just ignore the pounding brain and hold my boobs. Hopping we went! 

  On the third hop, I broke my liver. Yes, I said liver. Can a liver be broken, you ask? Nope. But I'm pretty sure mine broke. 

  I suffered through the agony of my broken, and surely, bleeding liver. I hopped on! AirBear was in front of me, laughing with joy! 

  "This is fun, mommy!", she said through her laughter. 

 "Oh yes..fun", I agreed through my tears. 

 

  After eight hops, I was ready for someone to call 911. My legs were creaking, my back ached, my liver was dying. 

  I'm not ready to get old. My heart still tells me I'm 18. But my body bitch slaps my heart and tells it to shut the hell up before it gets me killed. 

  Who knows what I would do next! I would probably be trying to do a cartwheel. Imagine the horror. I'd break my entire body then. 

   In three years, I will be turning 40 years old. I'm totally expecting to just fall apart right then and there. 

 Do they make WD-40 for old folks bones? Cause I need some. 

Why You No Like Me, Sleep?

  This is my issue with sleep. He's a crazy stalker-like dude. Yes, I've deemed sleep to be a man, because he's an asshole. Just go with it, would ya? 

  Sleep creeps in my mind at least ten times a day. I mean, this dude just will not effin leave! He doesn't take the damn hint that I have a toddler who's wide awake and seems to have more energy than three kids combined. I'm now convinced that said toddler sucked my energy from me as well. 

  So then I finally cave in and start pondering about sleep. Cause that's what stalkers do. They just beat you down until you go along with them. At first you get pissed they are there, then you start kinda liking having them around.  

  Anyhow, the instant my own version of the energizer bunny collapses at night, sleep runs from me like the cops just caught him jacking off while looking in my window. In other words, he's no where to BE FOUND. 

  Suddenly, this annoying asshole who had been bothering me all damn day is no where to be found!! It's like he vanished into thin air! 

   I then find myself laying in bed for well over two hours, waiting on him to return. Did the jerk get lost on his way back?! Was he kidnapped by aliens? Maybe he was getting probed right that second!! Why the hell is he taking so long?! It's just like a damn man to take his own sweet time! This dude better hope he's dead. 

  Then out of no where, BAM! He shows back up. But by then I'm so pissed that he didn't even bother to call or text me ,I ignore him. That'll teach him! 

  He whispers his usual promises of sweet slumber in my ear, so I give in. Hey, he promised me eight hours of this sweet stuff! I'm only human. I cave in. Every. Single. Time. 

  Yet,  only after an hour of his promises of fulfilling my needs, the bastard runs off. I'm starting to think he's seeing someone else. Oh yeah, sure he returns. But only long enough to tease me. It's like he's falling out of love with me, like he can hardly tolerate being in my presence any longer. 

  He only gives me a tiny taste of what I need. Here's my question to you, sleep.. 

 Why you no like me? 

  

Day and Night: My Battle With Depression

  With the death of a comedic icon, everyone is bringing up depression. It is sad to see someone lose their battle, but sadly I can relate. 

  Depression is not new to me. I've struggled with it since I was in my teens. It only worsened as I grew older. 

  I watched as everyone around me laughed and enjoyed life, while I forced myself to just get out of bed. 

  When I was 14, I attempted to take my life for the first time. This was for a number of reasons. One was depression and another was to escape the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father. 

   At the age of 29, I tried again. This time, I came so much closer. I was almost there. But my sister in law found me and called for help. 

  Once paramedics arrived, I pleaded with them to just let me die. I honestly didn't want to go on. I wanted my pain to end. I refused to go with them. I could feel the overdose of sleeping pills I had taken pulling my under. 

  They had the sheriff come and threaten me with jail if I didn't go along with them to the ER. My response.."Take me to jail. I'm already in my own prison anyhow". 

  The pleas from my family dumped guilt on me that I couldn't cope with, so I went. Needless to say, I was admitted to the psych ward by my family after having my stomach pumped. 

  I was there an entire week. I told them what they wanted to hear so I could get out of there. I didn't belong there with those nut jobs. That's how I thought at the time. I wasn't crazy. I just wanted to die. Why wouldn't they just let me die?! 

  When I left the hospital a week later, I reluctantly found a therapist. An amazing therapist. She saw beyond my wall. She "got" me. I began writing again after she encouraged me to write down my feelings. Poetry poured out of me in huge waves. This is the first one I wrote after that: 

"Day and Night

In the light of day..

Insecurity is my only companion.

Heartache is the only emotion I know.

Fears and worries are constant thoughts,

Pain consumes my very soul.

In the light of day..

My every flaw is put up on display.

Shame surrounds me like a thick quilt.

Embarrassment trails my every move,

Never allowing me to forget my guilt.

In the light of day..

Every sin of mine is plain to see.

Rays of light point out every single one.

Disgust filled eyes follow me always.

Finding me no matter where I try to run.

In the darkness of night..

Courage is a dear friend of mine.

Happiness surrounds me like a halo.

Here, pain and fear can't find me.

Bravery is the only emotion I know.

In the darkness of night..

Flaws no longer cause me shame.

Proudly I show them for all to see.

Here, they don't make me different.

They simply make me unique.

In the darkness of night..

Sins don't make up the person I am.

They are but scars from battles lost and won.

Here, in the night, I'm safe and I'm free.

Here, I will never again have to run."

  When I showed that to her, she hugged me. She understood it like no one else could. 

  I still struggle with depression, though I have a better understanding of it now. I cope with it better now. 

  

  

  

  I share my story in the hopes it will help someone else share theirs. If it seems you have no one to listen, remember I always will.