Tag Archives: Pour Your Heart Out

What My 16 Year Old Self Told Me

13 Jun

Last night halfway into a margarita and an episode of Girls I stumbled across my diary from 2001. My sixteen year old self rambled to me and all I could think was eleven years passed and I’m standing in the same place just 350 miles away.

A smirk entered my mouth as I recalled the love letter sent to a crush. How ballsy of me, I thought.

It’s interesting the things I remembered and those I didn’t. Those worthy of writing eleven years ago faded in my present day memory as insignificant. But I remember how small I felt at that Florida trip with my best friends. The tumultuousness of female relationships. The passed notes and barely contained eyerolls. Marta’s a fiend for instant gratification. I was. I am. I probably always will be.

How funny to read of losing my virginity. How much disdain I had for my friends that valued sex like it was a precious gift. I could never, would never feel that way.

I can’t seem to stop eating despite so desperately wanting to be thin. Oh, my sixteen year old self, I still cannot. I have written those words all too recently, but held the food still in my stomach the acid not rotting my throat like it once had.

Sixteen, fat, and bulimic.

I keep wanting Matt to be my hero, to save me. But he doesn’t understand. I love him so much and yet I keep thinking who could love me more? There was this gap of months where I didn’t write too caught up in love, my first love. The boy I moved 350 miles for.  The one who could never complete me.

I feel like I have matured so much and yet I have no idea who I am.

Yesterday, in what closely could resemble an argument The H told me that I am always going in circles. I reassured him that this meant that he’ll always know where I am.

Sometimes I wonder if I just disappeared if anyone would notice at all.

There was this incompleteness to me. I kept trying to find people and things to fill it. What I have accepted now, eleven years later, is that this is just a part of who I am. That I may always reach for more, but that doesn’t belittle what I already have.

What my 16 year old self taught me is that all I have ever wanted chased and sought after was love.  Always giving more than others could give, always pursuing a ghost.

Just written for a wordful Wednesday where I poured my heart out.

I Try.

7 Jun

To be musically inclined is a wish I have held close to my heart all my life. I began writing in the form of lyrics: short poppy songs and heartfelt ballads. I belted songs on the radio and sang as loud as I could in the school chorus. I wrote a song, “It never ceases to amaze me” that I still recall.

I remember when I was told that I could not sing. That I was utterly tone deaf and what I heard in my head was not what you heard with your ears. I remember crying, devastated. I would never be a singer. I could not be in the chorus like all of my friends. I began mouthing the words at every Happy Birthday, at every national anthem. In my car I still sing. Loudly, every word, to every Adele song. To every pop song and rock song. I sing with my heart that swells in joy. But never will I be able to sing with you at a karaoke bar, to harmonize with you at our favorite song. Yet I continue to surround myself with those that have great musical talent. I am drawn to them, to their music. To the way their fingertips glide effortlessly across guitar strings or piano keys. The way their voice lilts and trembles at the words. In fact I have loved more musicians than not. So impressed by what they can do that I cannot.

Lately Bear has taken a great liking to music. At all points in the day he’s listening to his two Disney’s Greatest Hits CDs – the purple one and the green one. In fact Mulan’s “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” has been one of his all time favorite songs for the last year. Recently I bought him the red one and the first time we played it, that moment when the first song started to play I stopped. I stood. I let every word flow over me.

I am not a child now.
I can take care of myself.
I mustn’t let them down now-
Mustn’t let them see me cry.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.

I, like Chandler Bing, make jokes at uncomfortable situations. I feign optimism when inside I ache.

I’m too tired to listen.
I’m too old to believe:
All these childish stories.
There is no such thing as faith,
And trust,
And pixie dust.
I try,
But it’s so hard to believe.
I try,
But I can’t see what you see.

I ask you to Call Me Beautiful, but I don’t believe you. I don’t see myself the way you see me. A reflection in your eyes of what I want to be, but instead it feels like a mirage.

I try.
I try.
I try.
My whole world is changing,
I don’t know where to turn.
I can’t leave you waiting,
But I can’t stay and watch the city burn;
Watch it burn.

I have a princess complex. I am always waiting to be rescued. Always. I’m starting to accept that there is no knight on a white horse coming. That these walls I’ve built, this turret I sleep in is one that I must find my way out of. Alone.  There is so much left undone. So much love left unloved. So much life left unlived. I cannot wait to be rescued. I cannot pretend to be something I’m not. I cannot be who you think I am until I believe it too.

Linked with Pour Your Heart Out

Yes, this post contains amazon affiliate links. But honestly I highly recommend these three cds. They have a great mix of current and past and obscure Disney songs and are not unbearable to listen to on repeat! 

The Gown.

31 May

There was this gown that hung in plastic sheeting upon a wire hanger in my closet.

I was to iron it and return it back to school where my eldest son would wear it. His teachers would then place a cap and tassel upon his head and then he would walk across a stage and receive a diploma. That day was today.

Bear graduated prekindergarten today and yes the pomp and circumstance is excessive, but it marks a milestone. Once he enters school in the fall he will one day don the cap and gown again. He will learn in the elementary years the basics and then enter middle school and learn the social skills necessary to navigate the toughest waters yet. To learn how to tread water when everything seems in chaos. How to dive deep within yourself and find the confidence you need to continue and thrive. And then that cap and gown will placed upon him again to mark the beginning of the next phase of his life.

And when he graduates high school he will have a map of his future planned. Marked in pencil, eraser poised to change and re-route and start over. But when he wears that cap and gown for that third time with eighteen years behind him he will be starting his life as a man. And he will be leaving me. And I will have to watch from afar, hand poised to answer the phone should a call be made. Watching from whatever social media evolution there has become. He will make missteps and he will stumble. But one day I will arrive at whatever university he attends to watch him walk the stage once again.

And when he walks, a twenty-something year old with a degree I can’t imagine quite yet, I will sit there camera poised waiting. Remember this moment. The first time he walked. Smiling at us from his chair and waving at us in case we didn’t see him. I will remember the shy confidence as he walked up feeling perhaps slightly embarrassed as his teacher handed him his diploma. Or perhaps that was pride coming from his smile.

I will remember as he hugged his two best friends. Who I remember as infants when they first met. They have grown together the last five years. It saddens me that none of them will attend the same elementary school in the fall. Likely he will hug friends who will attend different colleges. Who perhaps he will see when they all come home for the summer or at a reunion or perhaps he will hug them as friends he made and left. And when he graduates college it will happen again. The friendships made will be lost as jobs bring relocation and marriages and children bring changed priorities and distance. And I hope that he will find friendships with the elasticity and resilience to weather every distance.

I am excited and nervous to one day sit in a stuffy auditorium probably impatient and warm and wait for his name to be called. Sit next to his sister who will be just graduating high school at that point in her life and I hope there will be another child with me. Another high schooler with dreams penciled in and wishes and hopes. We will all sit and wait and when his name will be called we will rise and applaud and probably hoot and holler and embarrass him. There will be tears in my eyes and perhaps in hers. For her big brother will be up there. The one she idolizes now, who I imagine she will always look up to whether or not she admits it.

And I can’t wait for these moments. These unimaginable moments that are so many years ahead of me.


Linked with Pour Your Heart Out.

Call Her Beautiful.

8 May

Last night I snuck into her bedroom. Tip toed, hoping she wouldn’t wake from the noise, from the light.

I leaned over her crib and gazed at her sleeping body. Carefully placed my hand delicately on her back. Watched her breathe. My daughter.  I whispered promises.

Sneaking back to my bedroom with salty mascara stained tears at my cheeks I stared at the empty wine glass, the clicking cursor in the email. My relationship with my mother is _____.

It’s a sucker punch. Air knocked out. A gasp.

Yesterday, my mother wrote me to tell me how unhelpful I am and how I don’t have any real friends because I can’t open up my heart.

She cut, for the sake of the bleed.

There are words that spilled over the page like cabernet shattered; staining, creeping across the crevices as tears poured out of me and onto four pages. Promptly deleted. I don’t want this to be our story. I am done with our story.

It is now about her. Her tendrils of fine blonde hair that curl at her neck.

It is about her brilliant blue eyes that if tear stained won’t ever be at my negligence.

Her childhood will not be filled with memories of meals denied for the sake of her appearance. She will be beautiful regardless of her appetite.

She won’t be called stupid, or a moron, or a retard or any other synonym for the same sentiment. She won’t be criticized and ridiculed. I won’t defend or excuse or accept blame for someone else’s vileness.

She is gorgeous, this daughter of mine. Affectionate. Stubborn. Adventurous. Silly girl.

She has so many to watch her, to look over her, to love her. Her brother. Her sensitive, kind, loving brother who hugged me last night as I cried and told me he would never be mean to his children.

Yes, I think she will be okay.

These whispered promises of mine that I keep in my heart. Sewn up and sealed with tears. With love. With sadness. With wishes from the damaged and dreams from the hopeful. You will call her beautiful, and she will believe it.

She won’t survive, she’ll thrive.

All of these photos are from instagram. You should follow me: motus8

A continuation from my post: Call Me Beautiful.

Just written for a wordful wednesday where I poured my heart out and spoke for her.

Posted with my series: Let’s Talk About the Serious Stuff

Looking Back and Letting Go

19 Oct

Yesterday, I found myself thinking about my friends from college. I had been talking to three of them and I just miss them, in a way that I wasn’t initially aware of. I thought about the friendships I once had. How we were bound together by time and proximity. Our time was endless except for studying, which was easily given up and I was one of the few that worked.

We lived all together. Within feet of one another. It wasn’t miles, it wasn’t a car trip, it wasn’t a plane trip. It was next door. I’m saddened that I don’t have that anymore. That I won’t have that anymore by the nature of age. My time has become a precious commodity and I don’t have endless amounts of it. We are all so many miles apart on completely different coasts; we are plane flights away from each other. And I miss it because I know I won’t get it back.

For me my friends have always been my family. They are my family. When I was a child, my family were just people I was bound to by blood, but who were never there for me. My friends were my core. My friends were always there for me. When I conjure up the word family it is so leaden with despair and disappointment. But friendship is filled with love, kindness, compassion, humor, excitement and adventure. And I want that.

Even though the family I have now is my own, one that I have created it is such a paradigm shift for me to turn my focus to family and not to friends. It’s hard for me to shift to this thing that hurt me so much and I find myself still relying on my friends who have moved on and have created their own family, their own networks. I feel like I’m left in the shadow of that. Looking back at these memories, yellowing with age, I know I have to put them away and let them go.

Written as a part of Shell’s Pour Your Heart Out



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