Once I Was Six Years Old

FeaturedOnce I Was Six Years Old

I think that I was six years old when I realized that happiness just didn’t occur for everyone, when I was sat on the bedroom floor alongside my older brother, listening to the sounds of my father yelling at my mother. The walls quaking with the rumble of his deep voice insisting that it’s her fault, that it always is and always will be her fault. The sound of her begging for some type of mercy, for a compassion that merely did not exist, no room for anything else in his alcohol filled veins, veins that could not afford to run over, could not afford to tip over the sharp edges of his heart. Though there were also silent moments, the house would go so quiet that even the walls would stop their shaking, waiting for the next sound to knock them down like a chain of dominoes that maybe took a little too long to assemble, but create the perfect anticlimax.

I think these silent moments were the worst ones, where we listened with caution, having that light, but also very much heavy feeling in our gut. They were even more horrible than when we had to endure the lengths of her shouts of agony or his shouts of anger. We knew what was happening in that moment, well kind of. We knew that they weren’t good moments, not like the lovely sound of our mother’s voice in the dead of night, lulling us to sleep. We knew that much, and I suppose for kids it was almost too much knowledge, too real for a six year old mind to even try to begin to comprehend. The silence was worse because we didn’t know what was happening or what would happen next. It was like having to sit through a horror movie that consisted of loud suspenseful music and risky decisions, only to have all sounds stop and you’re left with the sound of your erratically beating heart. The only thing in the movie to break the silence is a very frightening, but much anticipated jump scare of some paranormal entity and even then it wasn’t  something you were exactly pleased for knowing to being with.

We would always wait for the silence to be broken, and we didn’t always know what to expect. So, we held each other for whatever seemingly endless amount of time it took for us to have our lovely mother back in our arms, back in the safety of her two children. We couldn’t do anything then, but at least the safety we’d provide her with would be a true one, one that held so much honesty that her heart shattered at the thought of it. So, every night she’d rest with us, she’d rest just as a building in ruins would after a 7.4 earthquake. At least every morning she’d have us there to gather her broken pieces in an attempt to put them back together.

And even at six years old, I would always wonder if some day we’d stop being the construction workers of her soul, and instead the harborers of the life she never had.


When I Was Nineteen

When I was nineteen years old, I think I felt a lot. I think I felt things for the world that would never be felt back.

There’s a certain pain and heartbreak in baring your sleeves to a person, hoping they understand, maybe just listen to fallen words as opposed to catching each syllable and making it their own. That tense feeling of an impending scream that rises from your toes and through your chest, feeling it in your wrists as it scratches its way up and out into that void that never existed for you in the first place.

I think that when I was eighteen I didn’t know what to feel, how to think about the things that hurt. Maybe writing them down would help. Maybe shouting into the softness of a pillow would do the trick zero times out of ten. I don’t think I ever even knew who I was. To feel things for yourself that you’ve never felt for yourself before is terrifying. The way I stripped myself of beauty and love at that time felt like I wanted to tell myself something. Something that was so important, but never quite made contact with the vessels of a little girl’s heart.

When do we stop. When is it okay to say that we’re tired even when we haven’t done anything at all?

Perhaps when I was seventeen, I felt that I had the answers to that question, the way I was so prepared to stop might be more inspiring than not. I wanted to stop feeling hate for somebody that hadn’t even seen the world, I wanted to love a girl that would never love me back. Even on a good day, she would say I wasn’t good, not enough to be seen nor heard by those that asked for my voice. Back then, I never had any answers, the hills of my worn heart were never destined to feel sunlight peeking through the horizons of its jagged edges.

Sixteen years old and I was tired of a life that refused to feel like living. Hormones, melodrama, and teenage angst were excuses fed to me by a poisoned society. I thought I could breathe through the tubes of promises always broken, promises that weren’t ever even made for me. I think that when I was sixteen I didn’t feel like there was a seventeen, or even a sixteen and a half. The child inside of me wondered of a future not held in high esteem, though the woman that became woman too quickly meandered down a path of remembered sorrows.

Three years prior and I was thirteen and already well-versed in a secret language called anxiety. I think I wanted people to know. Not sure if they already knew despite the loudness in me turning silent. Despite a child in eighth grade seeming more like an old man who went through a war called Vietnam. Shaking, scarred. It was true, every day I went home and entered a zone of war between two people that never remained in a stalemate. The shards of broken hearts rained down on me like some sort of blitzkrieg and while I saw the sharp pieces coming, I never did have time to jump out of the way. It took a single summer to turn a girl in seventh grade into a woman in eighth grade. Quiet and forgotten.

And so, when I was nineteen years old, I still had trouble understanding that it wasn’t my job to pick up every shattered piece of debris. I had a house full of resentment, and at every turn the hate grew stronger and the weight of love felt lighter, nonexistent. The dark hallways of what was supposed to be a home became graveyards for the humans that became demons. Every blink of an eye became a nightmare while every dream that could’ve been dreamt became darker with every second. The philosophies of a heart beating slower than the doubt of a brain that ran rampant with the quickly formed ideas of despair.

And so, one day the nineteen year old will turn twenty, and she’ll never believe that she can be twenty-one, or even twenty and a half.


We sit in silence

The air is dead, filled with an almost audible turmoil

I think we’re okay

I hope it’s okay

Then, I see the terror and disgust register all over his face

His lips downturned in a deep frown

His eyes glossy with what looks like remorse

Hands fly to his awestruck face, he covers his mouth

I say I’m sorry

Even through the speech of solemn forgiveness

Tears roll down our faces

Escaping in a way that we could only hope to

I see it coming

Feel it when he stands

His flustered frame approaches and embraces me

I say I’m sorry

We cry and somehow,

through this

Everything is back to normal

I wish this was normal

Empath Doozy

Always stuck between dreaming and feeling the weight of reality on my being.

I don’t know if the realism and the dreaming ever intertwine, perhaps they don’t. Are they two sincere moments of existing that may merely compliment each other?

Perhaps these two words are not enough to explain the feeling of dysphoria that they present to me time and time again.

When I dream and I blink I think things are after me. Really.

I dream of a chase that I can never quite understand.

What am I chasing? Why?

These questions are always formulated in my head. Always lingering when I feel as though I may have caught that thing, that concept, that emotion… or whatever it is.

When I’m in the realm of realism, I feel the most alive that I can ever feel.

I feel the hurt of the world, the pain and the agony of those who suffer. I feel all of the things that I shall never wish for even the worst of enemies to experience.

I tend to always understand and conceptualize the world this way.

What a way to live, though if I weren’t to feel any of this, who am I to even exist?

Will He Understand?

It hurts him more to hear that I don’t believe in his God than it hurts for him to hear that I’m hurt.

Says I should believe because he doesn’t want me to go to the inferno.

What if I’m already there? What can I do?

Do I have more faith in a God that doesn’t believe in me or do I try to have more faith in my own conscious self?

Why doesn’t he hurt for me instead of hurting for my beliefs, or lack thereof?

More questions.

Less answers.

I suppose that’s where the disbelief began.



I have a distaste for a lot. This may be a current event, maybe it’ll pass. Maybe I get it from my father and his father and so on.

I can’t feel, and when I do it just hurts. Everything I do, I hate. Everything I am, I hate. Or maybe it’s just distaste. My chest aches for the pain I remember and it doesn’t allow me to forget.

For the entirety of my life I’ve been holding on. All my life I’ve been feeling. So, why now do I choose to let go and remain numb?

Am I a terrible person for not caring? For hating? For throwing around the malice that I feel for myself at other people? At the people that I love?

So many questions and so little answers, answers that my mind and heart will never hold.

My life makes me nauseous. My life gives me migraines and heartbreak.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to experience any more for it is all bitter and terrible. I don’t like anything anymore and I can’t do anything about it.

Maybe I’m whining and complaining at nothing, but all I know is that, if they knew all of me, nobody I love will love me back.

I don’t want to live. My life should have been given to someone more deserving, like to Uncle Ben from Spiderman. 

I feel like I should go, maybe I shouldn’t wait for my time, but instead create my own moment of disappearance.

Will my ending be abrupt?