Friday, July 24, 2015

Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones, But You Can't Make Me Your Victim

My father was talking with me the other night about how to deal with an upcoming meeting, likely to turn to confrontation, with my mother. We were talking about how she is likely to goad me into picking a fight, and to find a way to engage with me physically. He explained she has always played the victim in her life, how apparently her parents never loved her the same as her other siblings, how she never got what she wanted, how she was an outcast at school, and how both men she married were abusive alcoholics and that's why things didn't worked out, when most people who know her ex-husbands know they are far from either abusive or alcoholic. And I couldn't help but think, how do these apparent things make her a victim? What true horrors has she faced that she could even partly justify being a victim?

Everyone is comprised of both their parents, for better or for worse. My dad told me, "Don't be a victim, Red," and I started to think about all the things I could claim I was a victim of. But I'm not a victim. I am not crippled by the horrors of my past. My mom left me on the front step in freezing rain on New Year's Eve, my mom called the police on me because I was trying to leave her to get home from an abusive visitation session, my mom tried to get me kicked out of school on enough occasions that she was banned from calling the school--but I am not a victim of her. She has not broken me. I will not let her break me. And even besides my mother, I will not be a victim to anyone else. "Don't be a victim, Red," he said. And I thought, No, I'll be a victor.

*     *     *

I am not the victim of bad parenting,
     I am a survivor of bad parenting.
I did not have my spirit broken.
     I am a victor.

I am not the victim of spread rumors,
     I am a survivor of caddy nonsense.
I did not lose who I am inside.
     I am a victor.

I am not the victim of betrayal,
     I am a survivor of the back-stab.
I did not lose the ability to trust others.
     I am a victor.

I am not the victim of child abuse,
     I am a survivor of child abuse.
I did not let her hurt my soul.
     I am a victor.

I am not the victim of sexual assault,
     I am a survivor of sexual assault.
I did not let him take my pride.
     I am a victor.

They cannot make me the victim.
     I will be a survivor.
I am not a victim,
     I am a victor.

~E J Royson

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Even With Both Hands Moving

Tick.
Keep your mind busy.
Tick.
Keep your hands moving.
Tick.
Take some pills and fall asleep.
Tick.
It's 3am and the pills have worn off.
Tick.
The ceiling is a white canvas for your imagination.
Tick.
You put on headphones and listen to music to block it all out.

Tick.
But the lyrics.
Tick.
The next song too.
Tick.
How about television?
Tick.
Reruns, boredom takes over.
Tick.
Your mind needs something to do.
Tick.
More pills, more music, more television, more sleep.

Tick.
The phone lights up.
Tick.
Do you look at it?
Tick.
You're desperate.
Tick.
Just a spam email.
Tick.
You lay back down.
Tick.
      Tock.
             Tick.
                   Tock.
                          Tick.
                                Tock.


You tell yourself only a few more days.
Just a few, you'll get through it.
Not knowing is killing you.
Knowing could be all that much worse.
How could it get worse?
It always gets worse.
More pills.
More music.
More television.
More sleep.

It's morning.
Rinse, Repeat.

~E J Royson

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Today, I Conquered One of My Biggest Fears

Today, I conquered one of my biggest fears: spending a large amount of time in public, alone.

Now, I don't mean something like spending an hour in the grocery store, or doing ordinary tasks like that. I mean spending leisurely time, in a crowded, public place visibly alone, relaxing, and enjoying the company of one's self.

I think our society often undervalues the importance of being in our own company. I think society is so built on receiving approval from others, that we don't accept the approval of ourselves. Approving of myself is half the reason I struggle with depression in the first place. Growing up, it seemed I was never good enough, always the disappointment of the family. And even still, in comparison to my siblings, I only scraped by with my grades, struggle with my weight, spend my free time playing video games instead of building homes for habitat for humanity, or hiking through the mountains, will struggle to find a job after graduation, and never receive that gleam of approval in my parents' eyes. Anyone see what's wrong with what I just said?

I compared myself to the others in my life, and based my own happiness on the approval of my parents. While, of course, it is nice to have your parents approve of your choices, it shouldn't be the foundation on what you build your happiness upon. I know, that because of who I am and how I was raised, I will always have a chip on my shoulder and an "I'll show them" attitude, but part of what I am trying to base my recovery on is ensuring that what I do, I do because it makes me happy.

That's what my two day trip to Wildwood was about. I have spent so much of my life afraid of what others might think of me if I do something, or act in a certain way. It seems in our culture, anyone who spends their leisure time alone must either have an abrasive personality, or hate people. Sure, I'm introverted, but I've spent the better part of my working years in some form of customer service. I have my moments, but I'm not an asshole at heart. And valuing alone time doesn't mean I hate being around others, it means that I like to hear what my mind has to say every once in a while. So, to be one step closer to self approval, I went to the beach by myself. I sat in a chair by myself. I read my book by myself. I ignored the looks from the large group of friends next to me, when I revealed my curvy self in a bathing suit and laid on my towel in the sun, by myself. And you know what I decided while spending some quality time with myself?

That if I have to spend the better part of my life alone, I'll be okay. I like reading, I like laying on my back, using sand as a pillow, I like how warm sand feels between my toes, I like how when you are laying down, the white foam of the waves could be a tiny army of white horses racing to the sand, only to be shot down as they near the shore. There was a time when sitting on the beach was an inspiration to me, when all of my great ideas for novels would come to me. And today, for the first time in a long time, that came back to me.

I have spent such a long time keeping myself busy, surrounding myself with people I didn't particular like, just so that I wouldn't have to be alone with my thoughts, so that I wouldn't have to think about how sad the rest of my life will be, since I will inevitably be spending it alone. I invested so much of my time into other people, that I forgot what it was like to be invested in myself. I forgot what it was like to be inspired by my own imagination so much so that I can build an entire universe out of a few moments of my own experiences. I have spent so much time, afraid of my own mind, that I neglected the best parts of it.

I might not be as successful as my sister, nor as intelligent as my brother, but I doubt either of them can take a few seconds of their life and transform that brief experience into a fictional universe. I can't let what they excel at take away from my own achievements. And I can't hate myself just because I don't measure up the same way someone wants me to. Sure, my mom can go to her grave swearing I would have made more money as a physical therapist, but my life will be more fulfilled doing what makes me happy, writing, and maybe someday my writing will even help others in a different, but just as important way as physical therapy could have helped them.

So, my advice? Go somewhere by yourself. It can be a coffee shop. Take yourself on a date. Sure, it's a scary thought. Everyone is either going to give you weird looks or pity you. Let them. You are there to spend some time with your own mind. You might be surprised what it has to say to you.

~E J Royson

Saturday, April 25, 2015

"I Don't Know"

I realized I haven't written for myself in a while, and I started to wonder why. The more I thought about it, the more I was able to conclude how it is because I don't have words for what I'm feeling. One could speculate that I am, in fact, feeling wordless.

Words are what give us meaning. A word is nothing but something that signifies something else. Can something have meaning if it doesn't have a word, or something to signify its existence? I find myself groping for words to try to understand how I'm feeling. I've been with words brimming on my tongue with no way to let them off. Perhaps I am feeling meaningless.

It's not depression--I know what that feels like. I spend years clawing my way from the bottom. From having to count the reasons every morning so that I would be reminded the worth of getting out of bed. And for a few months a while ago, I was very happy. Every morning I'd find myself feeling untouchable, that no matter how many people would try to tear me down, they'd never be able to even make a dent.

But now I'm in this odd state in the middle, where nothing seems to be happening. But at the same time, everything is happening. It's as if I'm so numb that my life is passing me by without a word from my mouth to try and stop it. I don't like that, because wasting time is wasting a non-renewable resource. 

Maybe my life is lacking meaning right now. Maybe it's the relationships I find myself in, as meaningless as they are fleeting. Maybe it's because I find no joy in my studies anymore. Maybe it's because my family is glass, long since shattered on the floor. Maybe it's because as quickly as I make friends, I lose them.

Nothing ever stays. It was not so long ago that I was so happy, and not so long ago that I was so sad. I'm floating somewhere in the middle, between knowing and not. Between insecurity and safety. Between love and hatred.

If nothing ever stays, I know I can take comfort in knowing that this, too, shall pass. It's just a matter of getting though, and hoping no one takes notice for long enough so that I may escape the ever pressing questions, most frequently, "Are you okay?"

Because there has never been a more dissatisfying answer as, "I don't know."

Monday, February 16, 2015

Future Cat Lady

With me,
it's either too many emotions,
or not enough.

"She's cold."
"She's funny."
"She's too hard to handle."
"Her heart is in the right place."
"She's such a bitch."

"You can't please everyone,"
they try to tell me.
But I can't seem to please anyone.

The jokes run out.
My patience runs out.
Words just spill out,
and no one ever understands.

I'll cling to who ever stays
because everyone always leaves.
And whether I hold too tight,
or keep them at arm's length,
they leave anyway.

I'm not sure what I could have done,
to make any of them stay.
Sure, it wasn't all my fault;
they weren't good for me,
But the good ones won't even step my way.

It's not like I don't try;
I try so hard to be perfect.
But no one seems to notice,
and if they do, they don't care.

But I've consented to my fate,
to an empty house, and empty bed,
Wrought iron fences, cobwebs, and hate.
And fifty cats living on my estate.

~ E J Royson

Sunday, February 15, 2015

"Write about this!"

I think it is hilarious when people angrily tell me, "Go write about this, [enter insult here, most commonly "bitch"]!" A part of me is like, "I freaking will!", and another part of me is like, "You're not even worth the time." Either way, their attempt to throw my career in my face is almost always meant sarcastically. What is so funny about this is I don't think people realize just how much writers take from their own experiences. My friend and I, who both write fantasy, sit and make up stories about people while we sit in public. When I sit down and write, whether it is a conscious decision or not, people in my life work their way onto the pages.

Sometimes people ask me to write them into my writing with sincerity. When that happens, I tell them straight what I intend to do with their character. When people bitterly tell me to write in a story about how awful they have been, I do. But I don't tell them. Usually their tendencies come out in the antagonists of my stories. Not all antagonists are "villains," and sometimes the positives I see in the people who have mistreated me are reflected. But when I'm writing an antagonist, usually I play up their faults. I mean, what better way to depict a jobless-drunk who disrespects women than to use someone I actually know?

It really is just a fact of life, that if you are friends with a writer, you will end up in their stories. If you piss off a writer, you will end up the antagonist in their story, and the character will most likely suffer a horrible death. So tread carefully. And telling us, "Write about this!" usually just gives us a good chuckle. And then we do.

~E J Royson