I miss the times when life was easy and we all had fun. When the dandelions danced in the breeze and money was not a problem. When love was spread and hope was not lost. When my family told me that everything was going to be okay. When I snuggled in to my mother's arms for the comfort I needed most. When we were not struck by fate and when there was peace. When all was well and not a peice was missing in my life.

When people did not die. When I spent time laughing with my friends with no trouble. When no one would judge me for how I looked or how I dressed. When I had silly moments to share. When fear and anger did not have a grasp on my heart, clutching it till it poured out. When the tears did not fall on to the bathroom floor. When I had people supporting me. When I lived next to my best friend. When I ran happily in the meadow, laughing and playing while the wind flowed through me. When I realized fear was no more.

I miss the moment when I first saw my sister, snuggled in my arms, looking like the cutest little thing in the world. I miss the relative who died, who laughed with every single day. I miss the times when I thought money was never a problem. I miss when people did not fight. When the future was not secured. When I stare at the stars and feel wind slashing at my face. When I ran accross stage and sang to my heart's content. When I did not have to wonder why people died or why did I have to go through this. When we all played onnthe playground, racing eachother to the end. When I graduated elementary. When life was easy. My childhood.

She rises in the wee hours of the morning before the sun rises. Stalking the night looking for something to quench her insatiable thirst. Her mouth opens wide, displaying her abnormally long and sharp fangs. A long tongue leeches out to lick the remnants of her previous meal off her overly dry lips. Sniff. She stomps over to a decaying tree and digs up a sack full of left over skins that must have been left by some other creature. Revelling in her find, she devours the contents in a few large bites. On the ground, she lays, disgruntled and still thirsty. A loud ear splitting screech erupts from her throat. The ground starts to rumble. Boom. Boom. A towering behemoth breaks through the wood. It looks down at the creature with annoyance and pity. What makes a monster you ask? A child who awakes before day break, hungry, thirsty and still tired.

So I haven’t posted any new stories lately which I feel bad about but being a part of this site has really been helpful.

When I was 16 my high school English teacher (a really great person, one of my favorites) took me to the Clark County Event Center for a writing convention.

He did this with his own money on his own time on the weekend. He did this because he loved my essays, creative stories and even my nonfiction works or opinionated historical research papers... He believed that I could do this for a living and for a long time I still couldn’t see what he saw or believe in myself.

I tried many times to since then but recently I had a baby and I don’t know how many of you know this but full time daycare for infants so mothers can go back to work is on average $1000 a month and much higher for more reputable establishments. And you know I’m not going to send my son anywhere I might think a daycare teacher might hang him ( seriously there are horror stories like that all the time). So I decided to stay at home and we found a way to make it work financially.

With all this time on my hands now ( I was working 60 hour weeks before I got pregnant so I almost didn’t know what free time was like anymore) and seemingly no purpose besides making my son not die, I decided it was time again. This time I have to really buckle down and remember that I am this person who used to love writing, that used to create people and whole worlds out of thin air.

It’s my solution really. It’s my way to work without killing myself for some employer who would replace me before even reading my obituary. It’s my way to combat this relentless postpartum depression. It’s my way to finally be who I am supposed to be without sacrificing being able to provide for my family even if it’s not fiscally immediate.

I’ve written myself a schedule, because I’ve realized I do better with one rather than left to my own devises, and so far I’m on track and doing well. Happy even.

My goal is to finish and release a 500 page collection of short stories (either self published or through a publisher) while simultaneously working on and completing one or two full length novels to be released after, staggered.

These full lengths will mostly be completions of teasers included in the original collection to get people excited for upcoming publications.

Im so excited to finally be doing this and more so to be making progress. So if you don’t see me on the site for a while just know I’m still writing.

this illness

has defined me

for so long,

i'm not sure

i remember

how to live.

I dig deep.

I imagine my hand, reaching into my mouth,

down my throat, and into my chest.

I pull out all the bad.

Handfulls at a time.

They keep going, digging out bad upon bad upon bad.

Until.

I am left with good.

I am left with love.

Love for myself.

My heart over-flows.

Tender appreciation permeates through my pores

and out into the world.

I want to share it.

Sometimes I have so much love for myself.

All I want is to share it with the earth.

Let it pour into the galaxies above.

Let is bleed out, for anybody who needs it to take.

I have enough to give.

I have enough to share.

Let me help,

and we can love ourselves together.

Heal our traumas as one.

Love will cascade into our wounds,

flooding us with fond emotions,

drowning our sorrows,

one moment at a time.

Until even the bad isn't so bad afterall.

I'm not nice like her.

I'm not sweet like her.

I can't behave like her.

I am my own. I am separate.

I am irreplacable just for being me.

I'm not perfect.

I make mistakes.

Alot of mistakes.

I learn.

I try.

I try so hard.

But to what avail?

I hate the way I look.

I hate the way I feel to touch.

I hate the way stupidity rolls of my tounge.

I hate the way my eyes give me away.

I hate that I cry.

I hate being misunderstood.

I hate having to explain myself over and over.

I hate that just because I have my head in the clouds,

people think I'm not grounded.

I hate that I'm not first choice; I'm the participation-prize.

I hate that being a girl is bad.

I hate not being able to show how vulnerable I am.

I hate that I'm not strong.

I hate that I hate myself.

I hate that I hate myself this much.

Much of my life has been shaped by shame. Be it because of the abuse I went through, because my mother insisted that everything about me was shameful, or because I just didn't (and often still don't) like what I see in the mirror. My family and bullies have conditioned me to look at myself as if I'm something to mock or to be embarrassed about. I was recently hospitalized because of mental illness, having two mood disorders and two anxiety disorders. Seeing myself celebrating pride in who I've become is often rather difficult.

I refuse to continue to let shame rule my life, though. I have a long way to go before I'm the person I want to be, but when I look at how far I've come, I know that I have a place among the Unashamed - be it at Pride or elsewhere.

It took me until I was twenty years old to realize that I'm sapphic. It took two more years to realize that I'm a lesbian. The reason I couldn't commit to men wasn't because I was "damaged goods" (as certain members of my family referred to me as when they thought I couldn't hear them), but because I'm simply not wired to be romantically or sexually involved with a man. I'm not damaged. There's no shame in loving other women as people believe I should love a man. I wish I realized this before I was an adult, but I can't change the past.

In this stream of consciousness, I hope to reach other people like me. People who've had their head down out of fear - be it fear of the unknown in identifying as something you don't completely understand yet, fear of how people will treat you, fear of how your identity fits into other parts of yourself (culture, religion, etc.), I know it's a lot. It's downright terrifying.

But I've found that being able to express more of myself after pushing through those fears has been very rewarding. As I've said, I'm not where I want to be. But I'm a few steps farther than I was three years ago, when I thought I was straight. Embracing yourself is difficult and often requires sacrifice, but it can also bring rewards. And Pride is what you make it. To me, it's about standing among the Unashamed. Standing tall, and telling the world that despite what it throws at me, I am worth fighting for. I have the right to carve a place and make a difference, even if it's only a personal difference.

You have the power to carve out your place and to fight for yourself. You have the power to live your life in a way that's fulfilling to you. You have the power to be Unashamed.