she would jog all year round

even in san antonio summer when

every year a news crew would

show you could fry an egg on

the pavement. she looked like

a skeleton to my young eyes.

like... you could see the structure

of her bones. mom would point her

out, never knowing her name. i

asked why she was like that and

mom said that no matter what she

did there was something in her

brain which told her she was

never right, and that she can't be

helped. and i imagined her in

a studio apartment, eating

celery, crying into the mirror.

surely there was somebody she

loved who could tell her enough.

that summer we moved to austin

and nobody talked about the

woman who jogged like she

was trying to purge something

lodged next to the heart. and

people in san antonio will

remember her now that i have

said it. they will say 'oh yeah,

what ever happened to her?'

Sometimes it gets tiring, when your only real relief isn't always so relieving.

Stress, anxiety, and depression are wolfhounds always nipping my heels. Usually it heals me to some degree to just go back to bed but lately nightmares plague me, and I'm starting to feel unsafe in my own head. Maybe it's their eyes tracking my every movement every moment, or the way that panic curls up on my chest. Their jealousy about their lack of opportunity to bother me in bed drives them to haunt my dreams with their howls piercing my skull. The barrier between life and death is always thin, but thinner still when you're being nosed down the path.

I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?

I am ruin.

She always overdid it. She was always too much. Ten pounds of sugar in five pound sack as her mother would have said. So she ate her heart. Ate her feelings. Ate it until it all started to fall apart. Her pants were too small, her shirts too tight. Her shoes still fit though, that doesn't sound right. Her momma hmmed and hawed, boys at her bigger bountiful breasts pawed. But then came bigger badder things. Disease, blood sugar, hypertension, it all came crumbling down. Eating wasn't working. It wouldn't fix her problems. So she ate, and ate, and ate some more. Then she closed and locked the stall door. Then she put her fingers down her throat, and she pushed down until it hurt. Up and out came all the feelings she had eaten. Shame and guilt though had them beaten. There she stayed until her heart no longer hurt, and stomach no longer bowed. Throat on fire, she flushed and fled, she would mull over it all much later in bed. For now she would switch her heart and her head. Ignore those feelings and think instead.

Some days, my depression is as little as a beachball thrown into the ocean, other days, my depression is the ocean.

Pulling me into the deep unknown, drowning me in my thoughts of self-harm and darkness.

Sometimes I almost make it back to shore, where the safety of the sand is felt between my toes and the sun on my back quickly dries up the fears of my own mind.

But that's only sometimes.

Nine times out of ten I'm dragged back out again where the ground is stolen out from under me and the clouds kidnap the sun.

I feel God when my crying daughter is pushed out of my woman’s womb

I feel God when the nurse places my crying daughter on the unforgiving cold steel scale

I feel God while my daughter lies in the incubator room, and daddy is blocked off

I feel God when my daughter falls and bruises her arm and she screams out for me and a

knifelike pain courses throughout my body

I feel God when my girl climbs down the porch stairs and runs towards me while I walk to her, the sunset’s orange and yellow rays illuminate the beauty of my child and our inevitable embrace

I feel God

I see my girl

I feel God

There is a small fluttering flame, it starts in her core and she starts to crave more. Licking her lips in anticipation, she wants to taste. What a tease, taunting her across the table like they aren’t in public. She felt she had waited her due, she wants to be through, but she had to be thorough. Salty silken pleasure on her tongue. Sticky on her lips, remainders on her fingertips. She laps it like a kitten with cream. Excusing herself she wipes her face, finds her composure and puts back on her grace. He asks her how it was. She offers a small smile, and compliments the chef once more on the salted carmel cheesecake.

She was terrified when it happened.

It happened all at once. There she was, sitting in front of her best friend as she repeatedly did on Sunday mornings. They would meet for coffee and mimosas and to vent about the unfair demands at work or husbands who didn’t seem to grasp the basic human concept of cleaning up after themselves. The cafe down the street, two blocks away from her small studio apartment, sold the finest pancakes on the east side of the river. The candied scent of blueberries paired with the savory flavor of goat cheese was only cleansed by the sharp, tangy citrus of lemon zest sprinkled on top. It made her mouth water in anticipation as it carried through her open window, riding on the back of the morning breeze. And just like every other Sunday, she would scramble out of bed, throwing on an already prepared outfit, and sprint through the two blocks separating her from enjoyable company and satisfying delicacies.

But this morning was different.

As she sat enraptured by her friend’s animated storytelling, a low humming pulsated in her ear. The sound felt buried, she could practically feel it in her throat, but began to amplify, growing and growing until her world was enveloped by a cacophony of high-pitched whines and ear-shattering vibrations. She stood suddenly and stumbled. Her equilibrium felt off. Her head was swimming and stomach churching. She felt as though she was underwater, engulfed by a suffocating pressure and trying desperately to claw her way out. Everything became muffled. Everything became stifled.

And within a few hours, everything became silent.

The doctors said it was an infection, something she had contracted when she was just a baby; undiagnosed, untreated, and unchanging. Even through the silence she could heed the heavy words echoing through the room.

"There's nothing we can do."

She thought it was something that was only said in movies, tv shows, fantasies concocted to give birth to despairing, overemotional situations. It was something so far-fetched, so theatrical, so unbelievably cliche that she couldn't believe it.

And she also couldn't conceive it.

And she also couldn't hear.

Friends and family considered everything within their power to help. Her fathers invested hundreds of dollars on every advanced hearing aid science could develop but to no avail. Her friends prodded her towards sign language classes, but the rapid gestures and miniscule movements were overwhelming. She couldn't hear the sharp strike of hands as the teacher taught them the phrase for losing your temper. She couldn't hear the soft scratching of graphite as the person next to her took notes. She couldn't hear the rhythmic clacking of drumming nails; the cushioned thumping of a tapping foot;  the abrupt roughness of a wheezing cough; the sticky smacking of chewing gum; the repetitive humming of a breathy murmur.

It was all too much, the sound of nothing at all.

She spent most her days lying in bed with the curtains drawn, enfolded in comforters, and ignoring the absence of rustling as she tossed and turned for hours. Messages went unanswered. Visitors were ignored. Her apartment was littered with unopened boxes of whiteboards, notepads, and multicolored pens, scattered with personal notes of sorrow and sympathy. She was wasting away in a winter of disquieted depression and still, staggering silence.

She was terrified when it happened.

It hadn't happened for a while. Her time began bleeding together. Minutes turned into days, days turned into months, and once again it was a Sunday Morning. Her window was shut, her curtains still drawn, and yet the scent nevertheless infiltrated the modest studio apartment. The affectionate, fragrant smell of blueberries caressed her like a lifelong friend. The flavorful savor of cheese greeted her with open arms. The zesty tang of citrus washed over her with a striking clarity. It was frightening but it was compelling, invigorating, and she felt as if she was being pulled by an invisible string as she detangled herself from her refuge. It wasn't long before she was up, dressed, and languidly ambling her way through the two blocks that separated her from the finest pancakes on the east side of the river.

Her best friend was there waiting for her when she arrived. They had been every Sunday morning since the incident. When she was spotted, she couldn't help but grin at the exuberant flails and the eager smile that greeted her. There were already two cups of coffee and mimosas waiting on the table. She lifted her own hand weakly and sat in the usual chair that almost seemed foreign to her. Her friend offered nothing as she adjusted to her surroundings. No talk of customers or unruly, troublesome children. No mention of the days she spent wallowing in her darkness and self-pity. No notation of the hours waiting at this very table every week, wondering if it would be the day she walked around the corner. Just one hand that grabbed onto hers softly, and with the other, signaled the waitress over and pointed to what they wanted on the menu. They sat for a while in silence, one forced, one chosen.

And that's when she felt it.

The onslaught of emotions. The bombardment of awareness. There was no sound of cars on the street right next to them but she felt the fleeting whip of the air as they sped by. The was no conversations of the cafe's brunch rush but she witnessed the animated hands that expressed their passions, the bouncing of their shoulders as they contained their laughter. When their waitress finally returned, placing a large stack of Lemon Blueberry Goat Cheese pancakes in front of them, she couldn't hear knocking of porcelain hitting glass, the "Is there anything else you need?" she knew they were required to ask, or the click click click of shoes as the waitress briskly sauntered away. But she drank in the sweet, savory, zesty aromas that carried into her window in the morning breeze. She observed the muted blues, vibrant yellows, and milky whites that molded harmoniously with the rich golden browns. She felt the fluffy textures give way to the fork as she carved into it, the stickiness of the syrup as it dripped onto her hand. And when she ultimately took a bite, the explosion of flavors overcame her and she couldn't help but cry. The hand that never left hers squeezed tighter as tears rolled down her face. She was still frightened. She was still devastated. But there was an acceptance in her that she hadn't been capable of finding until then. 

From now on she was experiencing a different life, and she was going to make the best of it.

Secretly, I had wished to die. I did not believe in divorce, except for in cases of infidelity so the months leading up to the day my husband told me he had been unfaithful, I had already resigned to being unhappily married for the rest of my life. He was brutal, you see. Never laying a hand on me but always demeaning me, telling me I was worthless and that he didn’t want to have one of those fat Mexican wives who never got their body back after the baby. Over a period of 5 years, he had managed to strip away all the layers of who I was and constantly manipulated every situation to work in his favor. He was lazy, a narcissist and a liar, a chameleon of sorts with the ability to sway most people in his path. The only reason I had not ended my life was because I could not bear the thought of my baby girl growing up with her father alone. After coming home from work on December 13th, 2012, I knew something was wrong. My husband sat me down with my best friend in the room and he told me of their affair. I don’t remember feeling rage at the time but I do remember very quickly and quietly packing up all of my things along with my baby’s. I think I must’ve been biting my tongue and avoiding eye contact with everyone. My husband followed me around the house trying to get me to say something but he knew it was too late to change my mind and he didn’t want to anyway. He already had what he wanted. The sad part was, my friend’s husband was also there and his unbelief echoed mine as they too had a baby of their own. As soon as I had gathered as many of our things as I could, I took my baby and drove away without direction and ended up in the parking lot of my nearby church where I let myself finally feel something and cried aloud, “How could he do this to me, to us?! We have a 6 month old baby!” My head pounded as a migraine came over me and my broken spirit sought comfort. I called my best friend Michael from work and just cried as I told him everything. He offered to help but I told him I’d manage and we hung up. As I scrolled through my contacts in my phone, I realized I couldn’t call my parents or my sister, at least not yet, because I didn’t want any I-told-you-so’s or even comments on how stupid my husband was for doing this. My cousin Diana and her husband ended up driving 2 hours one-way to come pick us up and after a weekend with them, I called my parents and told them to please come pick me up so my baby and I could move in with them. Months of anger and bitterness followed along with desperate prayers for healing and wholeness. There were even nights of reckless drinking and feeling sorry for myself. I needed to get back to me again so that I could be a good mother to my daughter. Even though she was a baby, she knew I was hurting and she would comfort me like only a baby can while I nursed her. Then one day, my perspective changed and I started to see that this was God’s way of leading me out of that miserable marriage. I was still young, being only 24, and I could start my life over! I started taking walks in the park with my baby and I started feeling good about myself again. Even after the divorce was finalized, and my ex-husband married my former best friend, I felt so free and grateful that I had a fresh start. It wasn’t always easy, of course. Being a single parent is all-consuming, especially when you don’t get any help from the other parent but her father had never contributed before so why would he now? He was completely out of our lives now, having moved 20 hours away. About a year after the divorce, a co-worker of mine asked if he could give my number to his best friend because he knew we would hit it off. I reluctantly said yes because he was so persistent and I could always just change my number if his friend ended up being a creep. I had given up on love even though I knew I was strong enough to love again but I had not thought about becoming romantically involved since I had a little girl who needed me first and foremost. A few weeks later on the 4th of July, I got a text from his friend. We texted and talked on the phone for the next 3 weeks and I fell in love with his mind. He was very intelligent and we had many of the same likes, dislikes and beliefs. We had our first date on July 21st, 2014 and it was the beginning of the rest of my life. Today, we are married and are raising my daughter together. He has shown me that a true relationship is one where you learn and evolve together; where you love each other even on days when you feel distant. Love is not some emotion but rather a mutual decision to stick by each other even when the romance is fleeting. We are a real team and together we are so strong and fiercely loyal to each other because of all we have accomplished together. I am now a firm believer that in order to feel the highest highs, you must first feel the lowest lows. My dark days are a distant memory now, only there to remind me of how grateful I am to be where I am now in the presence of those who have truly loved and supported me. God had truly rescued me and restored my hope; He restored me and strengthened me through my struggle. My newfound strength is a gift I can share with others who are going through similar struggles and dark times. It is because of my experience that I can now help others find their own restoration and hope for a brighter future; the true silver lining in the dark cloud of my past.

#divorce #infidelity #restoration #newlove #blessed #lowestlows #highesthighs #strength #testimony #silverlining

It’s the look that’s in your eyes when you ask about my day. The way that their sparkle does not seem to go away. It’s the way that you smile and laugh that always drives away the rain. It’s how when I look into your eyes I can see the trees bend and sway. When I put my hand in yours I swear that I could stay there every single day. It’s the way you get excited like a child ready to play. Those little nerdy things about you always brighten up my day. I love the way you talk and when you’re happy I swear you glow. But these little things about you are just a ripple in a cove.