Chasing Time (Prologue)

            Kala waited silently next to her mother, young enough to be terrified, but too old to take her mother’s hand. Instead, the thirteen year old girl sat in the wooden chair, bouncing her legs nervously, awaiting the unjust fate her father had always warned about. But he was gone now for the war spared no one. All that remained of her once great country was this city where all had come for refuge but none were willing to give it.

            There were two doors. Most of the refugees went through the door on the left when their name was called. It had to be where they were given some sort of restitution for their support for their country and were assigned a place to live, then were ushered out the back of the building so as to keep the line moving. At least, that’s what Kala and her mother believed. They had been waiting in this line for three days and were finally inside where the wait had continued for hours.

            Outside, Kala met a girl, perhaps a few years older, with the most beautiful amber curls and bright green eyes. Kala tried to befriend her, to have a friend in this foreign city, but the girl wanted little to do with Kala, even after Kala’s mother invited the lonely girl to be her impromptu child so as not to suffer alone in the city. But the girl proclaimed her family name and wealth prohibited her from speaking to dirty refugees, which Kala found odd for they stood waiting in the same line. But the girl stood without family and refused to show emotion.

            Once the girl with the amber curls was called, Kala knew she and her mother were next. The girl was asked to step through the door on the right—only the second Kala had seen. The other had been a young man, a war veteran.

            When Kala and her mother were called, they rose from the uncomfortable chairs and walked over to the door on the left. Stepping through, their few belongings were searched and put on a conveyor belt with a promise that they would be returned. They stepped through another door into a room where others were waiting, most sitting on the floor. A door on the opposite side of the room was closed and it seemed as if they others were avoiding sitting near it. Only in that place was there a little floor space left so Kala and her mother could sit through this waiting process for a few more minutes until a shout was heard.

            “Last one!” the voice yelled and two large men barged into the room carrying a struggling boy who couldn’t have been too much older than Kala, perhaps age seventeen.

            “Let me down!” the boy yelled and was consequently thrown to the floor. He scrambled over to the other door next to where Kala was sitting and began to pull on the handle. “I have to get out. I have to get out,” he kept mumbling. The others in the room were becoming unsettled and begged him to calm down or they would all get thrown out. The boy sat down next to Kala and pulled off his shoe.

            Watching intently, Kala saw the boy pull a thin metal instrument from the sole of his shoe. “What’s that,” Kala whispered.

            “Lockpick. They’re going to flood the room with a neurotoxin and I will not be here when they do.”

            Kala’s mother reached over her daughter and grabbed the boy. “What’s your name boy? Are you serious?”

            “Sam. My father engineered the toxin before they murdered him. Yes I’m serious.” The boy stood back up and began to play with the lock.

            Kala wondered if this boy was just crazy or if he was telling the truth. Either way, she had never felt quite so helpless.

“How much time do we have?” Kala’s mother asked.

            “I was the last one. Maybe seconds. It will come up from that grate in the middle of the floor. Someone in the room gave a cough and Kala grabbed her mom’s arm. Her mother kissed her head and held Kala tightly. Suddenly, just as Sam got the lock to click open, gas began to shoot upward from the floor. Sam grabbed Kala’s hand and pulled her through the door.

            “Mom!” Kala yelled, yanking from Sam’s grip. She helped her mother up and they both began to cough. There were large men, like the ones who dragged Sam into the room, waiting outside. However with the door to the room wide open, they too began to cough. They managed to grab Sam and throw him against the wall.

            “Go!” he choked.

            Kala and her mother raced out the back of the building and took off towards the blockade around the city. The gates were so thickly flooded with refugees that no one took notice to the two escaping the city.

            “That boy saved our lives,” Kala’s mother said breathlessly after they were safe in what remained of the woods.

            “At least we know his name,” Kala suggested.

            The two sat, catching their breath for a moment. “Looks like it’s just you and me, baby girl,” Kala’s mother said and kissed the top of her daughter’s head.

#ROFLMAO at You and Your Twitter

I find it funny, those who won't move on,
Who post ridiculous things on Twitter
about who they hate and who they date
and how people should just be quitters.

They talk shit about everyone in their life
because they're bored with their own
even those who've left, tired of the bullshit,
Are still told they don't belong.

They hate yet still cling to their ex's
Because they need someone to despise.
Even ex-friends face social media's wrath
As if hurtful words could bring their demise.

So here's what I have to say to you,
All you pretentious bored little bitches:
Hop off of those you've kicked from your life,
Grow up and put on your big girl britches.

There's no room in this world for whiners,
We have enough politicians for that.
But if you can't bear to tear away from it
At least you give us someone to laugh at.

~E J Royson

Property of C. B. Conrad (cont'd part 4)

"Do you know the difference between education and experience? Education is when you read the fine print; experience is what you get when you don't." ~Pete Seeger 

That evening, I sat numbly in the living room in a large armchair with the old journal in my lap. It was closed—I didn’t want to race through it on my first night. This was all I had left of my grandmother. Cherishing what little remains seemed the only thing to do. I traced my fingers along the embroidered floral cover, nothing really crossing my mind except the texture of the leather journal.

Suddenly, the back door slammed and I startled upright and out of my thoughtless state. Alec came into the living room and threw himself down onto the couch. I eyed him from across the large room for a moment before he said, “Does it feel cold in here to you?”

I shrugged and watched as Alec stood up again and walk out. It was not cold in the room. Perhaps when the wind blew through the windows there was a slight chill, but I felt comfortable. Alec came back in a few minutes with a long sleeved shirt on. He had another drink in his hand when he sat back down.

“So how’s the book?” he asked.

“I haven’t really read any of it yet.”

He let it drop and began staring off into the distance.

“Did you know there is supposed to be a meteor shower tonight?” I asked.

“I did not.”

“Is the area around here good for watching stars?”

“I suppose. I think your grandma has a telescope in the attic if you wanted to stay up tonight.”

“It could be fun. And if you wanted to stay up with me, I would kind of like to get to know the guy I will be spending most of summer with.”

“I’ll stay up with ya,” he laughed. “Can’t guarantee soberness or quality conversation but I’ll stay up with you.”

“Do you really drink a lot?”

“Some days I do. I did really like Charlie. She was a great woman. She was teaching me to play piano. Old people always love to pass on their skills to younger generations.”

“My other grandma was supposed to teach me to knit but she never got around to it before she passed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I think this summer I might teach myself.”

“Cool,” Alec said. “I will not be joining you on that.”

“I can teach you piano,” I told him. “I know how to play.”

Alec raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, I suppose if you want. But not tonight.”

“Well, yeah,” I said, probably a bit more sarcastically than I should have. “Do you want help getting anything from the attic?” I asked quickly.

Alec noted that I could join him, but he probably wouldn’t need help carrying anything. I decided to follow him up to the attic, one I had not known existed.

In my grandmother’s bedroom, the walls were paneled with wood. A section of the wall I hadn’t noticed before had been left bare. As if on a spring, Alec pressed against this part of the wall and the paneling here proved a door that opened to a set of stairs.

“Crafty,” I noted aloud.

“Charlie asked me once to get me something from up here. Took me a half hour to find the door,” Alec joked.

“Well it certainly is hidden well.”

The stairs creaked and there was no light switch until you reached the top, and even then it was only a light bulb with a pull string attached. The telescope rested under a sheet covered in dust and as soon as Alec pulled the sheet, the dust leapt into the air and danced about, trying to find a new place to settle which hopefully did not include my lungs. Alec and I did end up coughing a bit as the untouched dust covering all surfaces of the attic was kicked up. Alec picked up the pieces of the telescope and ventured back downstairs.

I walked over to the window that over looked the backyard. The small circular window, cloaked in grime, was difficult to see through however I could just make out the distinct areas of the yard. When I turned back around, a black and bronze trunk caught my eye. It was locked, of course, but appeared to not have been touched in years. I pondered its contents, imagining numerous possibilities but I made a mental note to ask Alec about it later. Perhaps he would know where the key was or what lay inside.

I pulled the string attached to the light bulb and carefully made my way back down the old stairs, sure to close the paneled door behind me. It occurred to me that it may be possible that my grandma had left other secrets hidden behind paneling such as this. Although, I thought it disrespectful to go tearing through the rooms searching walls, paintings and rugs, trying to investigate this house of secrets. But then again, perhaps Alec knew. After all, I had very little inclination as to how long he was employed here and how much Grandma had told him. It must have been a great deal for she seemed keen on Alec for her own reasons. She always had her own reasons for doing things, even when no one agreed with her.

In the backyard, Alec had set up the telescope and was throwing sticks and firewood into a large chiminea.

            “It might be hard to see much with a fire,” I suggested.

            “Meteor showers can’t be seen much before midnight anyway,” Alec said, lighting a match. He touched the match to some newspaper and threw it into the pile of wood. “I figured a fire might be nice.”

            Wishing I had bit my tongue, I said “It is nice, thanks.”

            Alec said nothing to this but went back to his small house. He opened the door, gave a whistle and his dog pranced out the front door. After doing its business, the dog—careful to avoid the fire—curled up near my feet as I sat on a bench in the garden. I scratched her ears and then looked to Alec who was lighting a cigarette. I supposed that I shouldn’t judge, given I’d just met the guy, but smoking had always seemed to me a nasty habit. My grandfather had smoked, along with other things, but in the end it was the smoke that killed him.

            Granddad had picked up the habit while at war. Stress and combat took its toll so to cope, Granddad turned to smoking and alcohol. I knew my grandma was never thrilled but we all have our burdens to bear and Granddad was never one for sharing. So I bit my tongue and said nothing about how smoking had killed my grandfather and that Alec should take better care of his health. I’m sure, like so many others, he had his reasons.

            As if reading my mind, Alec looked over at me and said “Smoking kills, don’t ever start.”

            I chuckled. “Never. They’re too much money anyway.”

            “Truth.”

            I leaned forward on the bench, closer to the fire, loving how fire pits smelled and reminded me of the summers when my dad would set up a fire pit in our backyard and let me invite friends over. Alec stretched out in the grass and started staring at the sky. There was little to see yet, so I moved over to the telescope. Naturally, I pointed it to the moon first and then began to scan the stars aimlessly, looking for nothing in particular other than something I could use to strike up conversation. Then again, Alec had yet to strike me as a conversationalist.

            Alec knew little about the sky, even though he had either visited or lived in many areas where he could see it clearly every night. I found out he traveled a lot. He lived in Colorado and Florida, visited Arizona and Vermont and had family in Chicago. He liked Canada but couldn’t stay there. When he moved to North Carolina, he met my grandmother and this is where he had been for a year. Even with all this moving around, he had a nursing degree and had managed a fiancé. I did not learn her name or how they ended it. He was too drunk. Instead, I learned how they were to be married and have kids, until he lost everything, and moved to this little town. Then he fell asleep in the grass.

            I let the fire die but pushed the embers around until late into the night. When the meteor shower began, I was far too cold and lonely to enjoy it. They stars shot across the sky in brief beautiful bursts and arched as if they would wrap around the Earth and come back again. When it became half past one, I moved over to Alec and sat in the grass next to him. Rubbing his arm gently, I tried to wake him up.

            He didn’t move.

            I grabbed his wrist and tried to get a pulse. His skin was soft and my fingers sunk into it more than they should have. I couldn’t feel a heartbeat. I grabbed his scotch glass and dumped the contents into the grass. I put it under his nose. The slightest bit of condensation formed on the glass. I reached for my cell and called 9-1-1.

            There were soon sirens and lights in the driveway and EMTs rushed with a stretcher into the backyard. Alec was soon hoisted into the van and I followed them to the hospital. They stopped me at the double doors and I waited in the reception room. An hour passed. Then another. Soon it was five in the morning and my eyes were blinking open and closed in the waiting room chair. Finally, someone in in scrubs came out to me. They told me that it would still be some time before I would be allowed to see Alec. They didn’t tell me anything, other than it would be in my interest to go home and get some rest. When I returned home, the sun was just about coming up and my father’s car was resting in the driveway. There was one light on in the living room and I could see his silhouette reading a newspaper. He was going to kill me.

            The door creaked open as I stepped into the house and I could hear the paper rustling as my father folded it back up and put it down. I trudged slowly to where he was seated with his hands folded and stern countenance facing the frame of the entryway. He removed his reading glass when I entered the room and placed them on the table next to him.

            “Where have you been, Liz?” he said calmly

            “Dad, I’m sorry but-”

            “Answer the question!” he snapped, shattering the silence of the house.

            “I was at the hospital.”

            “For what?”

            “Grandma’s live-in help passed out last night I couldn’t wake him up,” I tried to explain.

            “Yes, I see the scotch has been drained since last I was here. Your grandmother didn’t drink it.”

            “I didn’t either, Dad.”                                               

            “Clearly someone else did.”

            “I’m not lying.”

            “No?” he said. “How can I trust the daughter who takes off in the early morning to drive hours out of her way, to a state she doesn’t know, to a house where a man lives, whom she doesn’t know? Elizabeth, I’m disappointed in you. Not only have you broken my trust but you broke my heart not going to your grandmother’s service.”

            “I couldn’t be there.”

            “No, you couldn’t because you were already hours away.”

            “Dad you have to understand that-”

            “No, Elizabeth, I don’t have to understand. What does have to happen right this moment is you packing up and getting back in your car and coming home.”

            “Dad I’m not leaving.”

            “Oh yes you are.”

            “No. Look, I have this summer to grow up before I go to college. I want to grow up without you hovering over my shoulder telling me how.”

            “You want to be a big girl who makes her own decisions?” My father said sarcastically. “Maybe you should have thought about that before running away. Now pack your things, let’s go.”

            “I’m staying. Grandma left me a letter saying there is something about this house that she wants me to discover and I have to honor her by doing it. She left the note with her care-taker because she must have known I would come down here alone to grieve. Dad, I’m not coming home yet. I have to do what Grandma has asked me to do as her final wish. You owe it to her as well as me.”

            My father, angry, stood and walked out the door into the backyard to fume and think it all over. It would be, of course, bad parenting to allow me to stay, yet he knew I was responsible enough. If he needed further proof, I took Alec to the hospital instead of just dragging him to bed last night. But I would not tell my father that Alec was a twenty-two year old nicotine-addicted alcoholic living in the guest house for the summer. It would not be one of my stronger arguments for my case.

I crawled my way sleepily into the kitchen and made toast while my dad kicked around the backyard. After nearly fifteen minutes, he returned inside. Sitting across from me at the table, he said, “I will let you stay on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You will show to me just how much staying here means to you by trading this for school. You come home at the end of the summer and do a year at Community College under the major of Criminal Justice. There will be no going away and no writing program until the following year if you find you truly hate Criminal Justice by next May.”

He was trying to call my bluff. And then, I was trying to call his. In trying to convince me that what I have stumbled upon here was so insignificant, he was willing to forcefully make me quit my dreams of being a writer. He knew how much writing meant to me and was trying to test me to see if I really had my priorities straight. But then, I r wait a year and take all the necessary classes like math or history at Community and switch before even reaching the courses for my major. I wondered if he knew this.

“I know you think you know what’s best for me,” I began, “But the fact of the matter is, I have gotten to an age where what you think my future should be doesn’t matter. I’m not about to go waste my life doing drugs and partying. What grandma left here for me means more than I know yet and I want to figure it out. I will come home at the end of the summer and curtail my plans for the future if that is what you want.”

My father was turning red in the face. “No,” he said. “You’re coming home right now.”

“Why?” I yelled. “Why do you think you always have control over what I do? You gave me a choice and I chose what you didn’t want to hear. What don’t you want me to find in this house?”

 And for some reason, that struck a chord with my dad. He slammed his hand on the table top and said, “Fine, stay here. But if you unearth the devil don’t come to me asking for redemption.”

My father stormed back outside to the backyard and I went to the bedroom to sleep. I tossed and turned for hours trying to fall asleep, but I was angry and confused. Was there something he didn’t want me to find in this house? Did he know what was contained within the pages of the journal? He had to. There was no way he would be so aversive to me staying here without knowing something I didn’t.

Before finally passing out, I remembered still not hearing his car pull from the driveway. I wondered whether he was going to stay with me in this house or try to hide whatever evidence he could find of what happened by the fountain in the yard. So just before slipping into subconscious, I grabbed the journal and placed it beneath my pillow so that my father would not be able to take it from me. 

(to be continued)

Kids These Days

"I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being." ~Jackie Robinson 

The thing that bothers me most about my generation and those below me is the level of respect, or lack-there-of for others. I honestly do not believe respect is something that is taught to kids anymore. 

Not that there a right or wrong way to parent, but I was raised "right" or "proper". I was taught to respect everyone I meet, no matter how much I like or dislike them. Too often have I encountered people my age that have no idea how to respect their peers-- and I'm not talking just about the hoodlums on the street corner. No, well educated, college schooled young adults from decent backgrounds and merited accomplishments disrespect those whom they are closest too.

This is a huge problem for society because how can you learn to respect yourself when no one respects you? How can you say that every individual deserves self respect when those around them show no respect or validations of feelings and opinions? Sure, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, everyone has a right to feel how they want, right or wrong. This is not the issue. The issue lies in others not respecting the opinions and emotions of their peers because they don't agree with them. Not agreeing has never merited disrespect. Look at Congress for example (yes, I know, she's getting political). Congress does not agree on issues but instead of saying "You're wrong, dumbass!", they provide logical arguments to persuade the other party to see things their way. This way, they are not invalidating the issue, but rather using logic to prove there may be another solution.

Now I'm not saying Congress has it perfect. Trust me, they aren't my favorite people either. But the message is still the same. Fighting is perfectly healthy (of course I do not mean physical fighting), as long as you still respect the one you are fighting with. Respecting others' feelings and opinions is crucial to compromise. 

When I was in second grade, my "best friend" Danielle flipped on a dime and started hating and bullying me. Everyday, I came home crying and my parents said to "Kill her with kindness". When you've been hurt, this is a lot harder than it seems. And in second grade, you don't have enough of a worldly concept to be able to fully grasp this. However, one day it was rainy and we were the only two at the bus stop. I had an umbrella and she did not. At age seven, I stood for five minutes debating whether or not I should share my umbrella with a girl I was afraid would call me names and kick me. In the end, the bus came and I never had to finish my decision, but I was learning that no matter how much hatred I harbored for this girl, I still had respect that she was a person with emotions and opinions. I'll never know if she would have bullied me or thanked me for offering my umbrella and to this day I wish I would have offered it.

Maybe it's my own experience with being disrespected that makes this such an issue with me. I hate being talked over, as if what I am saying is too trivial for the other person to listen. And I hate when people say, "You don't feel that way" or "You're just pretending to feel that way for attention". Nothing boils my blood more than that sort of disrespect.

I had an incident with my mother four years ago on this matter. I told her I was feeling like she didn't respect me or appreciate everything I did since my dad and sister moved out. And she told me that I was making it up and that I was an ungrateful bitch. That was what began my depression. And I know I'm not the only one out there who has been disrespected to the point of depression.

Now I'm in a situation with people whom I thought were my friends and whom have stopped respecting my feelings and opinions. I don't want to "Kill them with kindness". I want them to hurt. I want to be the biggest bitch they have ever seen because when you mess with a lion, you get the claws. Is this the right thing to do? No, of course not, and I know the right thing to do is to just be kind. But they don't deserve it. 

But how do you measure how much someone deserves to be respected? You don't. It is not anyone's job to say who deserves respect and who doesn't. Whether you have been hurt or simply don't like someone, that is no excuse to show disrespect. So hold the door, listen to what others say, come to a compromise, say excuse me, apologize, and share your umbrella. Showing respect exemplifies the highest level of character. No one ever thinks a respectful person has poor character.

And just because I feel like this ties in, I'm going to end on another quote:

“Watch your thoughts for they become words. Watch your words for they become actions. Watch your actions for they become habit. Watch your habits for they become character. Watch your character for it becomes your destiny.” ~Lao Tzu


~E J Royson

In Case Anyone Asks:

                              A confession has to be part of your new life. ~Ludwig Wittgenstein 

No, I'm not alright. I am no form of "okay". And there is not much left to do to make it right.

I have spent the last five years suffering from depression. I think it is safe to say, I am very good at hiding it. I have cut myself and have come very close to having an eating disorder. I have never been medicated and I will say whatever I have to so that I can get out of therapy.

I have spent the last three years lying about who I am and I think somewhere along that road I forgot who I actually am. And now I have no where left to turn.

When my parents divorced, I was also undergoing a lot of social changes through high school. When my mom decided to starve and abuse me, then kick me out onto the snowy front step to wait and freeze while my father came to pick me up, I couldn't handle it. I "broke my wings" so to speak. Court appointed therapists and being forced to go see them have tainted what I think of our justice system as well as the psychologists who say they want to help. They did nothing to help my psyche and only helped my mother have more opportunities to abuse me. When DYFS finally got involved, only then did my pain with my mother begin to cease.

Living with my dad and step mom wasn't bad, they just didn't know how to help me. Then, because I was tired of hearing "I'm so sorry about what you're going through," I began to pretend I was fine. I lied. I lied and said I was happy. I lied and said it stopped hurting so much. I lied so that no one would begin to wonder whether something should be done about that sad, sad girl in the corner.

Then I changed schools. Stepping into one of the most notoriously caddy high schools in South Jersey at the beginning of Junior year, I was forced into an environment where everyone had grown up together, outsiders were frowned upon and it was okay to stab others in the back. Did I want to do this? No, but my mother had made that choice for me when she left me on the front porch.

The people at this school seemed fake to me. I saw their smiles and listened to their stories about how much fun they had partying and realized, the only way to fit in within the walls of this hell hole was to be fake. So I began to pretend.

It was the acting chance of a lifetime. For two years, I pretended to be someone I wasn't. I went from a quiet, shy, brilliant minded, witty and kind girl to a sarcastic, crass, unfeeling bitch. And somehow, I was able to make friends. It never occurred to me what this would do to me in the long term. I never thought I would lose myself so easily. But I did.

The friends I made in high school, I lost. True to their fake environment, they were fake friends. Once I went to college, I lost contact with most of them. Friends from my younger years and very few from high school I still consider friends but the majority are lost. When I did go to college, my theatrical act followed me. And once again, I made friends.

Somewhere deep inside, my morals were securely intact and I did not go making friends with the wrong sort, or maybe I did, but that's yet to be officially proven. I did not enjoy the company of party-goers, I did not enjoy the company of druggies, I did not enjoy the company of those who did not go to college to learn. The friends I did make were, for lack of a better word, nerds. They were quiet, they were fun and they knew what it was like to be an outcast. We made a good group. But as my act persisted and I began to realize that these people did not know who I was at all. I began to realize, the friends I made in class- where my act did not persist- would be appalled by the person I was when I was out of class.

So here is my confession to my "friends":
-I am not a whore. I make a lot of sex jokes because I want people to laugh and like me. It has come to a point where my mind has become perversion enough that it will take a while until I can return to the witty humor that I once had. But I am going to try.
-I am actually pretty smart. I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, but I'm quick. I can pick things up faster than most people and I have only pretended to be dumber because my high school social life demanded I knock a few IQ points off. Because I have pretended, I have found people believe my idiocy to be true. I have a great memory and am great with logic. (I mean hell, I'm in college with a 3.8. There has to be something between my ears.) When people belittle my knowledge, it frustrates me because I know the actuality of what they are trying to explain to me. I am tired of being talked down to, so I am returning to who I was.
-I am not as loud as I have pretended. I have spent so many years with my voice being silenced that any opportunity to speak out, I take. When people talk over me, when people cut me off, when people tell me I'm wrong, it frustrates me. So sometimes I talk just to have my voice heard. I have spent far too long trying to say something brilliant and having people disrespect what I am trying to say. So I will write people notes because it feels like the only way I can say what I have to so that I may have my voice heard. Too often are my voice and opinion ignored. I am going to stop talking just to talk and only contribute when I have something important to add to the conversation.
-I do not dislike anyone for how they identify, their race, their religion, their gender, the color of their hair or anything. If I dislike someone, it is because I dislike their character. Far too often have people called me a racist, homophobic, etc. because I dislike someone. If you are not a good person, you are not a good person. I couldn't care less how you identify yourself, if you have bad character, I will not like you. I try to give everyone a fair chance but I suppose everyone deserves one more. But only one more.
-I was raised that every action one makes is an example of the respect you show others. I am not a neat-freak because I am OCD, I was taught that being untidy was disrespectful. I am not loud, not because I don't like loud things, but because I was taught being obnoxiously loud is disrespectful. I offer what I have, not because I think what I have is better, but because I am trying to respect and make others' lives better and more convenient. I will go out of my way for a person because for me, this shows you respect them. I will make it more clear that I am trying to respect others so that it does not come off as being a "stuck-up, rich-girl bitch."

Because none of my current friends realize this about me, I fear I have no one left who knows who I am. Suffice it to say, I am having an identity crisis. I have spent so long pretending to be something I am not, because my teenage years forced me to make friends in an unwelcoming environment, that I have lost everything about me that has made me "me." And now everyone hates me. And I have no idea how to return to who I once was.

My final confession is that I will no longer try to be who you all thought I was. I will no longer be trying to be that girl who was a sarcastic, crass, unfeeling bitch but instead will try to return to that quiet, shy, brilliant minded, witty and kind girl that I used to be. Good people liked that girl. I never had to pretend for anyone of good character. So while my "friends" are off thinking I'm some sex-craving, loud, self-centered monster, I will be working once and for all to defeat my depression. I am going to turn my life around, find friends who appreciate me for me and pull me head out of the sand. My bitchy self is being dragged out to the dumpster tonight. I am returning to myself, I am returning to Juliana.

This is "Jules", signing off.

Here, the Dark I Know Well

Take me from here,                                         The stories the walls hear

This place I know too well.                                of broken hearts and confusion

The spaces and faces                                        could fill novels and shelves

 and this love where I fell.                                 feeding optimist's delusions. 

 

The sun sets late here                                       There's one way out of here

and the sun burns my eyes                                 a small tunnel leading to light

they say it's perfect                                           this is where the lost try to escape

but they don't hear the cries.                             hurting others in the fight.

I fade into darkness here                                   It's a vicious cycle in here,

where those saddened refuge,                           in this darkness where we lie

where those with lost love                                 fighting to feel love once more

die waiting for their rescue.                              until eventually we die.

                                              Take me from here

                                       and we will walk hand in hand 

                                       to the place they all talk about

                                         that perfect, promised land.

The Reality of Such Situations

"I've always thought that people need to feel good about themselves and I see my role as offering support to them, to provide some light along the way." ~Leo Buscaglia 

It is a curious thing, love. So easily does it lift one up and yet so harshly can it tear one down. It is what humans crave throughout their lives. Unknowing of the nature of our existence, we constantly look for someone whom we may call our love, our partner, our spouse and our best friend. 

One of the largest hot-spots for romance is a college campus. Incoming Freshmen students look at each other with big eyes and open hearts, now accessing a new part of the world in which they hope to find love. Mistakes are made and lessons are learned but hidden behind the curtain of such stereotypes are a few who look on each other and find what may be the most raw emotions of them all.

In my experience, I have found a good friend, a good lover and he is who I turn to when I need a hand. I love him greatly and spent an entire year with him but he has not returned to college to be with me. There is a distance between us and I can feel our relationship dying. Phone calls and web chatting can not replace what we had and in no way does it provide any sort of an equal substitute. So despite any sense of morality, I have turned my attention to a friend, who could not care less about me. Instead he loves another who would never return his affections. Such is the life of a teenager, yes?

He has told me so much and I have given him good advice. I have held when him when he has cried and tried my best to make it known that I am there for him, and that I am there more often than the girl he likes. Sometimes I think he sees me but then he is in my apartment fretting about the girl who would turn him down. It seems so much of my wisdom and energy is spent on trying to help those who look for love in the wrong places.

It is difficult for me to express any of this in words to my friends because, of course, I still have a boyfriend and I do in fact love him very much. Life has just begun to pull us in separate directions making our relationship strained. While love does have to be true, it also has to be accessible and while I am guilty for this, I believe I have found a more accessible arrangement. But such "arrangement" will never see me the way I wish he would. Instead, I will hold him when he cries, tell him what he needs to make him stronger and hope that maybe someday, it will click with him that I have been nothing but attentive to him.

Today, the girl he would love came to our apartment for she is friends with my roommates. My friend who likes her had been watching TV with us for a bit and I saw him freeze when she walked in. But she almost completely ignored him and talked about a guy she flirted with downtown. So, hurt and insecure, my friend came to me to talk. We talked and he laid on my bed, evidently more upset than his words could ever express. I rubbed his back and stroked his ego, telling him all the things that made him great. He pulled himself together, hugged me and went back into the living room to try once more to connect with the girl.

It's a tad painful in this situation, even though I am aware that I shouldn't be putting myself in this position anyway. To love someone and lift them up at any cost only to have them pine after another has to be one of the most painfully numbing things I have ever experienced. I'm at a loss for what to do so I suppose I will just whisper my secret to the internet and pretend that it is protected for if I uttered a word of this aloud, I fear the repercussions of rejection and judgement that would follow.

~E J Royson