Progress

4:26 am. Got out of bed.

Feeling really low again. Envy at my sister's good fortune and new friends. She is getting ahead, she is in a good place- but we are not and I am definitely not. Everything in her life presently makes her happy except me. She never trusted me because I dated G. Now I don't trust her either. I don't want anything from her. I finished the story. She didn't edit. She hasn't offered me anything from her end. "Jotted down some notes" is all she said. She did that in college with all her professors, and got As. It isn't fair. See, she does things whenever she feels like it and IF. And she doesn't trust me? I stopped asking her to do anything. If she wants to she can. I did my part.

I don't know where my life is taking me. I am working ******* little ropes that come at my direction-- but I am not even sure if they are worthwhile endeavors and if they will turn into anything. I just know I have nothing else.

I consider contacting my ex, F. Why him? He's the only one messed up like me. L is married with a beautiful baby and that woman he left me for, G is probably already married by now to that other stunning girl. But F will always be alone.

He doesn't want me. Why should I contact him? I had told myself I won't contact him until I at least got a full time job. He's an Ivy League P.H.D scientist at Penn researching the brain, traveling, making intelligent beautiful friends, and doing triathlons successfully (of course the smart ones are successful at many things). However, he still has trouble finding the "one". He's ******* 37. No one is ever good enough for him. I wasn't good enough for him. *******. He's broken like me. No, he ignored me. I won't contact him. ******* can contact me if he wants to.

I realized I have no friends. None at all. I used to think I had so many friends. Mostly men that just follow me around for a while and then leave me when they realize they aint getting this *****.

There's K, but he's J's ex's friend- so our friendship is limited. There's my sis S, who I meet once every other month, but she doesn't always respond to messages (and I rarely text her anyway). There's Je- she and I meet twice a year and we don't really connect anyway. She has other best friends and I am not really in that circle.

Cas- she is academically successful(valedictorian) and has a job, but frankly she is a bit slow. Can't explain it. Plus she bailed at me about the apartment thing and strangely she doesn't like me to meet her other friends in intimate settings, she just likes meeting people one by one. Like she's met my friends and got some of their numbers, but for some reason has never provided me an opportunity to meet hers. Maybe she feels awkward introducing me since she and I met online? Since she's not philosophical or an intellectual, I don't understand the point of meeting more than once a month if it's just me and her. I like her, but she always seems high without actually being high. I feel like I have to go out of the to meet her, but she doesn't have any energy at all.

Ro- the verbally abusive drunk? Let's face it. It's a mutually beneficial- two lonely people who have no friendship compatibility uplift each other relationship- but he's actually of the the more interesting to talk to people . Then there is Chr who just flirts all the time and fights. I swear his ex wife drilled some holes into his brain. He's just rude. He acts nice, but he's ******* nuts inside. Then there are those occasional people that text you Happy New Year. When I was in a relationship, I was so consumed by it that not having friends didn't matter. I have no friends. I am completely alone. Always have been. In law school, in elementary school, in middle school- I was always the only one who sat alone.

I like sad music. I just listened to the Hollywood version of Les Miserables- one of my favorite all time literary pieces and the beautiful Selena Gomez' new single Heart Wants What it Wants. I love to hear singing melodically, softly, simply of their pain. Every single singer in that musical has a painful story. The innkeepers in their desperation, Javert, of course Fantine, Jean Valjean, and the most relatable Eponine. And the sound of the violin. And the harp.

5:13 am. Let's talk progress.

Today I finally had the trial tutoring session. It was Algebra 2. The girl who is my tutee, she is sweet and extremely hard working. As and Bs in Algebra 2 weren't enough for her. I prepared extensively. My own Algebra 2 teacher was terrible in high school. He flirted with the pretty girls and bragged about himself. I got As for nothing. We spent most of the semesters on the same one or two chapters. I've always wanted to good at everything, to redo and master everything. Maybe this is my chance to become good at everything I **** at.

I am teaching myself before I teach her. I am supposed to be proficient. I had to begin on a surface level pace today. She and her mother both seemed happy. I touched on all her first semester topics. Next week is the second trial session. I will learn more and teach her in depth. If all goes well, she will end up being my client and I will be assigned more tutees. If only I could make a full time job out of this- I totally would. Each session pays well. Of course, the first two sessions I give are complimentary. After that.

This is a gamble. If I don't get enough clients- I will still have to manage the ones I have, invest a lot of time into studying for assignments, and then still make enough money to qualify as full time- then I will be scrambling. I can't imagine possibly getting between 6-8 hours of tutoring every day, since most people get out of work after 5pm and I have to travel around for sessions. I hope it's possible. I would work very hard.

My plan is to ace this Algebra 2 tutee preparation. I have a week to make myself more of an expert.

I have to go to more networking events. Sign up for Asian Film Festival & World Affairs. Meet people. Get connected. Make friends.

Keep reading current events, legal issues, technological advancements, and foreign news.

Re-reading my previously written Step 1- Embodying Positively helped me by reminding me to trudge forward and remain strong and positive, for both my own sake and the sake of the people in the world.

6:02 am.

I am going to do a second 5k this December. My first one ever was last month. Second one in December will be progress. I've got to start practicing again.

I gave up sugar instead of meat for Advent. I felt it was much harder, but more rewarding. Today is my third day of the no sweets diet. I did have sweet iced tea and a pretzel with sweet cream cheese, but I will stop those too. I might allow myself to have just one iced tea a week- moderation is more effective than going cold turkey and messing up. This is a huge accomplishment as I am a sugar addict. I look pretty fit, except a little tummy that goes up and down and only noticed by closest family members and friends.

I need to be fit for my health, to be the best I can be, to be fit, for a future potential job in the FBI or PO.  I only get up once a night to *** now. Some nights I used to *** 6 times a day. Is that an indicator of future diabetes or what? Consuming a lot of sugar can lead to a lot of internal diseases including infertility and cancer. If I can give up sugar for one month, I may try to keep doing it. Wow.

6:27 am. Go to sleep, T. Good night moon. Good night stars. Good night Mercury. Good night everyone.

.........

12/16/2014

Went to an Asian Law Society event last week. Made a couple friends, excited to be a member and get involved. Also met a guy, hope he's Catholic so my parents will accept the relationship if I decide to go out with him. He's emotional, Korean American, and verbal- a Gemini. Interesting but probably just as crazy as me. I am looking forward to getting to know him.

Just finished my weekly career discussion group, this is my second week in attendance. I was about to give up on the group, but John one of the members, who is a runner (and I think out of work firefighter), reached out to help me by emailing my resume around to different people he knows. He's the reason I decided to keep coming until I find a job. We shall see what happens. I have a tendency to jump around to things and not see them to fruition, but I am working on developing strong skills.

Today, I am feeling grateful. I live in a generation in which globalization is both a positive and negative thing. However, today I feel positive despite all the problems. There are so many opportunities, and I just have to figure out to unlock the how.

The last word has been written.
My pencil, dotting the I.
Excitement is fitting,
but I end with a sigh.

I've let my self down,
my potential; a waste.
It ends with a frown
and a tear on my face.

I never had many friends
I was always late to school
Ate lunch alone
Maintained grades pretty well
Graduated

Lived at the same place
Moved schools to a 3 year middle time
Became captain on a basketball team
Maintained grades pretty well
Heart Broken

They took my dreams
They threw them down
Past my knees and below my feet
No school no school no school
Good grades and school dreams shot down

From there even after some injuries
I went downhill
Like I did when I gained a concussion
I fell and smacked the floor
Point blank like a gun at a shooting range

High school in black and white
No friends and only anxiety attacks
No more sports teams or good grades
Skipping class my attendance was doomed
Moving along as if hurdles were in my way

Hospitalized twice and almost once before
Scarred waist and black decay
Tear stains throughout the night
When I could only lay awake
Words trapped inside, my mouth a cage

Summer smoking gone by now in 10th grade
Two attempts
Sleeping day and night
No attendance period throughout the day
Grades and mind slain

Semesters slipping away like life
Passed one regents of which previously I failed
Grades go in I start trying again
I attend full fledged new meds
Passing grades like a miracle

Slowly falling behind
Broken thoughts along the night
Slipping away like the shadows in the light
Stopped going to school again
But why? I feel no pain

No grades nor attendance
No improvement no getting out of bed
The meds aren't helping
I only feel, there are no thoughts in my head
Ruining my future must repeat 10th grade

Getting worse no emotions
Going back to the way I was before
No friends no trust
Regret fills my veins people are going away
They must know that I'm not immune to all pain

When is the final round?
         Conception Semesters Birth
         Sit Crawl First step
         Crèche Primary Secondary
         Bachelors Honours Masters
         Junior Senior Manager
         Lust Love Family
         Unemployed Gainful Pension
         Plan Experience Memory  
                         ∞
When is the final round?
         Field Farm Fort
         Tack Gravel Tar road
         Rural Remote Urban
         Wood Rock Concrete jungle
         Developing Established Revitalization
         White Multi racial Black
         Conservative Liberal Decadent
         Pretoria Tshwane Tshwane Metro
                        ∞
When is the final round?
         Bushmen Dutch British
         Colony Union Republic
         Native Settlers Previously disadvantaged
         Undiscovered Developed Commercial
         Subsistence Commercial Corporation
         Oppressed Equal Masters
         Apartheid Democracy Socialistic rule
         Logical Confused Insane

To 2016:
I'd love to say that I hated you, but to be honest, you made me grow.
You gave me direction. You pulled me out of a 4 month long rock bottom depression, showed me what I wanted to do in my life and sent me on my way.
You gave me two semesters of college, and a decision.
You gave me my first teaching experience, and you taught me the true value of patience.
You brought some new friends into my life and reunited me with old ones. You also got rid of a few, but I trust that's for the best.
You explained to me how easily I can be used.
You showed me that relationships don't define me, and that even if I think I am in love, life goes on and that I am an independent woman.
You blessed me with a baby, and then you took it away. But within that you gave me hope.
You sent me through hookups, drunken texts, hospital trips, gallons of tears and two D&Cs.;
You helped me on my wavering journey in my walk with God. You led me to being Baptized and you gave me the one chance in my life to feel that I was my family's priority.  
You taught me that it's okay to not always have the answer to everything, including the question of "who are you?".
You taught me to accept the word queer and make it my own. Like a beautiful pair of glasses, this is how I see the world.
You taught me the value of family after my dads accident, and then again after the baby.
And even after all the drama, fights, murders, and injustices, 2016, you taught me that a bad year isn't always a bad as we make it seem, and that even on our darkest days, there is a lesson to be learned.
And to 2016: Thank you.

Lecture twenty-three of first period of the last semester:
Today’s topic – “What went wrong with Wall Street”

The professor’s trying to connect with the class. He’s trying to have us look past
Sagan-like hair, black pants poorly paired with brown shoes, sleeves stained with chalk, an undeniable excitement in his voice when he says the word “canonical”.

He’s trying to get us to see a forty-four year old father who watches The Daily Show before bed, someone that’s hip with the times. He says something about Twitter and that singer in the meat dress. He references Charlie Sheen.

He draws a graph on the board with three lines
red: Normal
blue: Poisson
green: Cauchy-Lorentz

And we’re all thinking it- What the **** is that green line.

He begins.

Cauchy-Lorentz:
fully defined by two parameters;
x-nought and
gamma
mean;
undefined
variance;
undefined
meaning
­graphs drawn in green have fat tails
meaning
a summation of green graphs with fat tails- a summation of par bonds will default with some non-zero probability
meaning
Lehman Brothers should have taken statistical physics

That is his joke for the day. Only students paying attention and students who bother with current events and students with a sense of humor laugh. It’s a small subset.

The kids in the sixth row aren’t listening, the ones in the Greek lettered shirts with their pledge names on the back and their laptops open. Sixth row is just close enough to look like they give a **** but far enough in the back so the TA’s can’t tell they’re checking their fantasy football teams. The TA’s sit in rows one through four.

The joke is for the kids in the sixth row. Anyone in the first through fourth, the ones considering graduate school in higher dimensional theory or quantum chromodynamics, doesn’t know what Lehman Brothers is, least of all a par bond. A joke about spherical cows? Laughter from rows one through four would interfere constructively off the chalkboards, but that is not who Sagan-wannabe is talking to, and the kids in row six aren’t listening.

They are watching Sunday night highlights, ignoring green lines and fat tails because, let’s be honest, they’re only here to get the answer to the question on the homework that they couldn’t find online.

The sixth row has taken what they learned in the lectures before this, the semesters before this one, the first days of classical mechanics, where they learned the universe is governed by predictable and definable laws, and given a set of initial conditions one can determine an outcome.

Salary|physics degree:
fully defined by one parameter;
sophomore-year internship
time;
ten years
mean;
one million

The sixth row Facebook’ed their way through the undeterminableness of quantum, the green lines on the board now. Their laptop screens hide the fat tails describing the bundles of par bonds they will be selling upon the completion of this semester.

Things I Can Say About MFA Writing Programs Now That I No Longer Teach in One


"You’re going to need to spend a lot of time alone." - James Yamasaki


I recently left a teaching position in a master of fine arts creative-writing program. I had a handful of students whose work changed my life. The vast majority of my students were hardworking, thoughtful people devoted to improving their craft despite having nothing interesting to express and no interesting way to express it. My hope for them was that they would become better readers. And then there were students whose work was so awful that it literally put me to sleep. Here are some things I learned from these experiences.

Writers are born with talent.

Either you have a propensity for creative expression or you don't. Some people have more talent than others. That's not to say that someone with minimal talent can't work her *** off and maximize it and write something great, or that a writer born with great talent can't squander it. It's simply that writers are not all born equal. The MFA student who is the Real Deal is exceedingly rare, and nothing excites a faculty adviser more than discovering one. I can count my Real Deal students on one hand, with fingers to spare.

If you didn't decide to take writing seriously by the time you were a teenager, you're probably not going to make it.

There are notable exceptions to this rule, Haruki Murakami being one. But for most people, deciding to begin pursuing creative writing in one's 30s or 40s is probably too late. Being a writer means developing a lifelong intimacy with language. You have to be crazy about books as a kid to establish the neural architecture required to write one.

If you complain about not having time to write, please do us both a favor and drop out.

I went to a low-residency MFA program and, years later, taught at a low-residency MFA program. "Low-residency" basically means I met with my students two weeks out of the year and spent the rest of the semester critiquing their work by mail. My experience tells me this: Students who ask a lot of questions about time management, blow deadlines, and whine about how complicated their lives are should just give up and do something else. Their complaints are an insult to the writers who managed to produce great work under far more difficult conditions than the 21st-century MFA student. On a related note: Students who ask if they're "real writers," simply by asking that question, prove that they are not.

If you aren't a serious reader, don't expect anyone to read what you write.

Without exception, my best students were the ones who read the hardest books I could assign and asked for more. One student, having finished his assigned books early, asked me to assign him three big novels for the period between semesters. Infinite Jest, 2666, and Gravity's Rainbow, I told him, almost as a joke. He read all three and submitted an extra-credit essay, too. That guy was the Real Deal.

Conversely, I've had students ask if I could assign shorter books, or—without a trace of embarrassment—say they weren't into "the classics" as if "the classics" was some single, aesthetically consistent genre. Students who claimed to enjoy "all sorts" of books were invariably the ones with the most limited taste. One student, upon reading The Great Gatsby (for the first time! Yes, a graduate student!), told me she preferred to read books "that don't make me work so hard to understand the words." I almost quit my job on the spot.

No one cares about your problems if you're a ****** writer.

I worked with a number of students writing memoirs. One of my Real Deal students wrote a memoir that actually made me cry. He was a rare exception. For the most part, MFA students who choose to write memoirs are narcissists using the genre as therapy. They want someone to feel sorry for them, and they believe that the supposed candor of their reflective essay excuses its technical faults. Just because you were abused as a child does not make your inability to stick with the same verb tense for more than two sentences any more bearable. In fact, having to slog through 500 pages of your error-riddled student memoir makes me wish you had suffered more.

You don't need my help to get published.

When I was working on my MFA between 1997 and 1999, I understood that if I wanted any of the work I was doing to ever be published, I'd better listen to my faculty advisers. MFA programs of that era were useful from a professional development standpoint—I still think about a lecture the poet Jason Shinder gave at Bennington College that was full of tremendously helpful career advice I use to this day. But in today's Kindle/e-book/self-publishing environment, with New York publishing sliding into cultural irrelevance, I find questions about working with agents and editors increasingly old-fashioned. Anyone who claims to have useful information about the publishing industry is lying to you, because nobody knows what the hell is happening. My advice is for writers to reject the old models and take over the production of their own and each other's work as much as possible.

It's not important that people think you're smart.

After eight years of teaching at the graduate level, I grew increasingly intolerant of writing designed to make the writer look smart, clever, or edgy. I know this work when I see it; I've written a fair amount of it myself. But writing that's motivated by the desire to give the reader a pleasurable experience really is best. I told a few students over the years that their only job was to keep me entertained, and the ones who got it started to enjoy themselves, and the work got better. Those who didn't get it were stuck on the notion that their writing was a tool designed to procure my validation. The funny thing is, if you can put your ego on the back burner and focus on giving someone a wonderful reading experience, that's the cleverest writing.

It's important to woodshed.

Occasionally my students asked me about how I got published after I got my MFA, and the answer usually disappointed them. After I received my degree in 1999, I spent seven years writing work that no one has ever read—two novels and a book's worth of stories totaling about 1,500 final draft pages. These unread pages are my most important work because they're where I applied what I'd learned from my workshops and the books I read, one sentence at a time. Those seven years spent in obscurity, with no attempt to share my work with anyone, were my training, and they are what allowed me to eventually write books that got published.

We've been trained to turn to our phones to inform our followers of our somewhat witty observations. I think the instant validation of our apps is an enemy to producing the kind of writing that takes years to complete. That's why I advise anyone serious about writing books to spend at least a few years keeping it secret. If you're able to continue writing while embracing the assumption that no one will ever read your work, it will reward you in ways you never imagined. recommended

Ryan Boudinot is executive director of Seattle City of Literature.

at eight
i stood at open closed caskets and planted plastic flowers
upon silent graves;
in the backseat on the way to my grandfather's wake
mom and dad played a song about angels over the stereo. they
had to turn it off when i burst into tears.
i did not understand the twenty one gun salute
but i left a piece of myself in the folding of the flag,
left it with forty nine stars in the wrinkled hands of the widow.
vulnerable, kissing the loss of the dewy cemetery, the fresh dirt and

at thirteen
she was stolen at the hands of another,
just after her forty-second trip around the sun;
i cradled my always strong father as he cursed god on the kitchen floor.
the night my sister cried into my shoulder i read ten different articles,
each one with a headline reading "manslaughter", while
the soles of my feet knew it meant "******".
the pool of blood flashed to my vision and
i've spent seven years trying to bleach the stain out
from behind my eyelids -
lighting a memorial candle at my future wedding, graduation, childbirth
my mother did not deserve generic music at her remembrance.

at sixteen
i squeezed into a pew as
the church sanctuary was too small for her service.
widely loved and widely known, she
had been sick for fourteen years with no rest; fought
collapsed lungs and bared organs and
her eyes were as soft as the words she would leave you with.
her breath marooned the thirteenth of february and
on valentine's day, my best friend received a rose at her doorstep
with a note that read, "i love you more than chocolate.
love, mom".

at nineteen
we did not have class for one week. his daughter was five years old
and he was two semesters away from
getting his bachelor's degree in a helping profession;
he sat two rows ahead of me, one seat over
next to a boy named aaron and an empty chair.
the pastor spoke of a freedom from pain,
joy joy, hallelujah, a man who loved god;
they did not disclose the cause of death the morning the dean
entered our classroom,
spoke three words and
the silence fell -
sometimes, sometimes, we will never know why.

10 Years of Discretion
9 Months of Persecution
8 Semesters of Imitation
7 Weeks of Affliction
6 Days of Temptation
5 Hours of drug Consumption
4 Minutes of thought Malfunction
3 Moments of Desperation
2 Seconds until Eradication
1 Life of Lacrimation

Lights! camera! action!
Pretending that events are accidents
Appointed laughter
Framed gatherings
Steady buffing
Drawing
Smearing
Lathering
Turn your face into a masterpiece
And your fashion into a catastrophe
Then your catastrophe into outcasting
Take away normalcy then preach you blasphemy
Then wonder "why are they after me"
X then dotted line just says "that you're mine"
It says "sign neatly" and "read briefly"
And now that he's gone...your the repeat
And if you leave...they gotta 3 peat
*** will get you a check
And if you thirsty for a disbursement... Burp out controversy
And swallow grade A *******
You'll get applauded for being a first class fool
Who didn't graduate
But there's still fans who gravitate
While your old class mates are still someone else's class mates
The former students now have degrees
The ones you call to design your foreign furnished mansion
The ones sold you that million dollar car
The ones you pay to fly your private jet
The ones you pay to manage your career
The ones who indict you for your drug possession
The ones who over the counter prescribing you your addiction
The ones who will do the incision to try and maintain your drunk liver
Miss and mister
They demand their respect
Surviving grueling semesters
The newly alumnus
Will retire after they make a difference
A difference for our children
And by the time that your contract has ended all you talked about is killing
Rims spinning
Money getting
Blunt twisting
Liquor sickening
Girls stripping
Discharge sipping
Jewelry glistening
Superstition
Stomach itching
Teeth missing
Thread stitching
Eye twitching
Thirst quenching
I don't get it
Albums full of insignificance
...
But your not trippin'
Because you won't fall as long as you don't walk when your boss tell you to crawl
If you rock shows
Wear clothes that you never chose
If you pose to live a life that's another man's role
You'll soon believe that you're not from this globe
And you'll soon speak how satan stole your soul
Everything you value is so extraneous
And for that you're famous?

So it's only one recipe
If you wanna be a celebrity you must lose your integrity

tonight is an
old-enough-to-vote-scotch-in-a-coffee-mug
kind of night i'm in one of those moods
where it's hard to communicate anything specific
i'm delving deeper into the vast emotional cavern because
i haven't found someplace open yet to flourish
& i haven't reached my usual vibration so i'll just bolt
the door wash my hair with hand-soap
because i'm a ***** guy with a ***** shadow body
i'll sit down in the shower to relax the muscles in my legs
watch the tears streak down the clear shower curtain
& accept the same marvelous sensation of wetness
tumbling across the skin of my face pooling in my top lip dimple
& soaking the soft yellow flannel splayed open on my chest

when the ball drops & the piano coda to Layla kicks in
i'll melt under the sweaty first-last moon of the year
as it sneaks up behind me bathed in the creature light
of the television shining out from the silent second living room
of my sister's house the one with the chandelier
& it's no surprise i turned out this way

last year i felt as cool as raindrops gathered together
in the shade of a wide tree & now i've never felt so alone
in my whole ******* life at least then i had roommates
to not give a **** about me because i'm nothing
i've come so far but sometimes
i'm still so scared i can't breathe
sweat trickles down my rib-cage as i re-inhabit myself
& next year i'll continue to dig myself out of this concrete hole
of low self-esteem this deep urban well of trembling
amateur sadness & feigned calamity maybe learn to not
blame them or make the tree feel guilty for blocking
the small bright sun from shining on my puddle because
i am no longer defenseless against my own racking fears
but right now it's too hard to see tomorrow's sunrise
from the wan of today so i'll just sleep out by the pool tonight under the stars to wait for it's richness & apprehend it's depth
if i get champagne drunk & can't
slide open the glass door i'll shiver my shoulders
& cry soul-struck blubbering in my sleeping bag as the
fireworks or flashlights cut
a Morse code dirge through the thick elm trees

the smell of spent powder or snuffed out candles
hangs like a noose around the throat
of the street with the fog in the morning as i brush
my sleepy-eyed teeth with my finger
i'm remembering the only summer you & i spent
together between college semesters
as you were getting over your ex-boyfriend i helped
by keeping pictures of you hidden in my room until spring
you said he took steroids & you liked a guy with muscles
so i did push-ups every morning before anyone else woke up
i did whatever you wanted in bed all night
but it didn't matter because you always left
as soon as you came

the weekend you got your wisdom teeth out
you made me promise to kiss you everywhere
except the bottom half of your face
starting with the swallowtail butterfly cocoon
of your collarbone or your belly-button at the bottom
of the neighbor's swimming pool
& you held your breath for me between
your swollen catch-me-if-you-can smile as
billows of your flaxen hair
floated into my open mouth
i was pretty sure i was the only guy
you hooked up with that desolate summer
but i was wrong

Somehow people could grow and go

and move happily among inspiring college friends

Literature, professors, winter love, everyone’s camaraderie—

sometimes wondering to myself if I really belonged


Now I'm feeling like becoming

the same person I was on campus, being the same again

Would that be a fine change to close out my life?

Then would I have to think anymore?

Pizza boxes sit at curb sides every thursday.
Bottles and cans fill most weekends, some
week days because why not?
We celebrate in ***** rooms, letting liquids leave all sorts of stains.
Semesters pass and we pass (sometimes),
with nothing left in our pockets but long-term debt, friendly conversations lost in the haze of moderate alcoholism, and memories that we feel will last forever.
Youth is wasted on the young, they say,
but what better way to spend a Tuesday than day-drinking in eternal ecstasy?

Before I knew it, He had a dead locked grip
But the monster is breathing his last dying breath

It's pitiful I had to feel it to hate it
I saw him ******* our empire
He had his grip on my family tree
While I was a fetus
It happened near the time I was born
At 20 he eased his grip on my father
And it took me so, so long to realize that it was simply so
He could tighten his grip on me
I thought my mortal soul
Could handle a Real Killer Demon
All by myself
Yeah ******* right
I have to admit, I kept him at bay for longer than most
I just rode around on his back for the first years
When she left, I didn't stop buying her share
I just did twice as ******* much
And I thought I was way past rock bottom
280 milligrams
Still not where I wanna be          
I still got a bag full, though                 [keep going man, you got this]
But i loosened my grip on him                   - th' demon whispers-
I played dead for a while
I just had to put it down
I have to admit
The scars were painful
His hand really sticks, and believe me....
The longer he's got you, the harder it sticks
You gotta grow a backbone
And a set of big *****
                            To force out of his grip
Everybody around me is just trading drugs for other drugs
Like really
There is a ******* drug
that helps you to get off drugs
That is truly *******
Did you hear what I just said?
People actually think drugs...
Are gonna help you....
Get off drugs....
Cold Turkey is tride and true
The only bona-fide method
I did it, and I promise you can too
Ten days or so is worth the rest of your life, I promise....
Good thing I kicked in-between semesters
I would have never made it through class Detoxing
And I surely wouldn't have the top spot
That means no student of the month
Only questionable job prospects...
**** that
I really am gonna be the best of the best
I just can't settle for "At-Least" Livin'
The Pharmaceutical monster lost his grip a long time ago
Oxycontin is dead
But there's one loose end
I really gotta clear the fog
Epic change is among us
It was a great ride
But I have to say goodbye to you Mrs. Mary Jane   :(
I really do love you
I do
And yes I can still be great if you come along for the ride
But I can only be the best if I leave you here for a while
Goodbye my dear
We have had much fun
We might surely cross path later
You never know what direction the world will go
We'll just have to see
I really never thought I would see this day
But I have decided
That it has to be tonight
You have it here on paper
Finally nippin' it in the bud....
I gotta let you go, too Mary
Peace

Everything that endlessly entangles my mind.
All things.
The soothing voice of victory divine.
These words of love, hate, and indifference...
Interfering.
Intertwined.
The twisted kind.
The only love i can find.
None.
Neither.
Either way, nothing matters.
All i do is make disasters.

Redefining refined.
Silent semesters of sarcasm.
Mental spasms.
Pure poetry flowing thru me.
Freely.
I'll never regret it...
The feeling...
When you're giving like there's nothing else to live for.
A lust for love and life...
A life of love and lust.

This place where love is born...
And hearts are never torn by human hands.
Only human minds.

Depression and anxiety had completely taken over my life at the age of 19. At 19, I was completely done with life. I was ready to die. I was ready to leave all the friendships I had ever known and all the family I had ever learnt to love. I want to share my story with you, so you know that you do not have to do this alone.

My struggles started at the age of 15, when I had gone through somewhat a traumatic incident in high school. I went from being jovial, full of life, bright and brilliant to quiet, self-hating and isolated. At this point of time, I had heard of the term depression but didn't think it was what I was experiencing. I told myself that it was just PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder; and it would be gone in no time at all. The incident that had altered my personality never seemed to go away, but I drowned myself in books as I was about to sit for one of the two major exams I had to face in high school. I got through it with flying colors and my parents were extremely proud of me.

Time went on and things got better, I had forgotten about the ordeal; not completely - but definitely progressively. I was never again the old, happy me. My parents assumed it was me growing up - and so did I. Then, I lost my grandfather.

I spent the 3 month break I had before starting college staying with my grandmother. It was lovely, I spent my time lazing around and talking to her about her past and she enjoyed telling me stories of how she grew up. The loss of my grandfather still feels unreal. There are days I'd tell my cousins or my family that I can't believe it's been over a year that he's left us all. I think death leaves behind a void that time doesn't really heal - time doesn't heal all wounds, just the wounds you choose to nurse.

Then, I started college. Things were alright for the first couple of months and then, everything started going downhill. I was no longer interested in going for classes, and all I wanted to do was sleep, really. I wasn't eating -  I could go two days without a single sip of water and my sleep schedule was altered terribly. I spent my afternoons and evenings asleep and would be wide awake from 10 at night to 4 in the morning. The world that I had built was falling apart and I could not piece it back together. I was in so much of mental pain that I resorted to self-harming. I would sit in the shower and cry for hours sometimes, praying that my sadness would go away and everything would return to the way it was. I could no longer write poems, or read. I didn't want to go out and I wanted to do everything in my power to be dead.

Not long later, I started counting on alcohol and cigarettes to get me through my days. I would find comfort for nothing more than a night and then find myself back to square one - alone, hurting, upset, tired. I hadn't felt anything like that and thought that I was just being lazy, but my mind knew it was more than just that. My results deteriorated and I was forced to open up to the lecturer who was in charge of the Student Council. I joined the Student Council because I was terrible at making friends - I sat through two semesters in college and had held less than 10 conversations with my classmates. I remember having nightmares at night when my lecturer said that we had to pair up in groups of 4 for every lab session. I was terrified at the very idea of having to talk to 3 strangers for one whole hour - I didn't show up for any lab sessions that semester.

My lecturer suggested that I see the college psychologist. I met her once and she was pretty straightforward - what I was experiencing was depression and anxiety. She urged me to see a psychiatrist to undergo a psychiatric evaluation to understand fully the seriousness of my mental health. I was afraid and I could not do it. I didn't know how I was going to tell my parents that I was depressed - I wasn't able to get out of bed and I was crazy. I was crazy - or so I made myself believe. I was agitated - how could she tell me that? I was terribly devastated at the fact that once again - I had let my parents down.

I skipped therapy after that, only to find myself getting worse - day by day, week by week. I was terrified at the idea of depression and medication. At the age of 19, I had attempted suicide close to ten times. I would sit by the balcony of the apartment I was living in at weird hours of the morning and say my goodbyes in my head, and be too afraid to leap because my mum's face would flash in front of my eyes. I would take the blade and hold it to my wrists and say this is it, just a little deeper this time. The voices in my head grew louder and the rocks in my chest became heavier. I would think - maybe pesticide, maybe asphyxiation, maybe drowning. All these thoughts and yet, something was holding me back. Hope - perhaps?

There was literally no more order left in my life. I was in a terrible state when one of my friends had asked me to move in with her - fearing my safety. She made me breakfast, talked to me, made me take regular showers and planned dinner. I had the best friends in the world - to which I owe my life. They saved me; through God, through faith, through kindness, through understanding, through love, care and compassion. Then - it was rock bottom. I was on the edge of my life when I had no choice but to inform my parents.

They decided that I would return home. I will always remember that day. My best friends and I held hands on my bed - formed a prayer circle and prayed for my recovery. That very image still brings tears to my eyes. I came home and had no choice but to see a psychiatrist and this time, quitting wasn't an option. I was very quickly diagnosed and put on antidepressants. I go for psychotherapy once every two weeks. I wasn't able to leave my house for over a month but I have made some progress.  My shoulders feel lighter - I do not have to carry the weight of the world. I have given up smoking and drinking, recovery is my only goal.

At 19 years old, I was this close to death. At 19 years old, I survived the darkest days of my life. At 19 years old, I fought for my survival and made it out alive. I made it out alive. You may think a 19 year old has yet to see the world, and I may be too young to say anything at all. But always remember, you are never alone. Maybe you think your sadness will always be a part of you, maybe the voices will keep talking to you, maybe your nightmares will never stop. But you do not have to do this on your own.

Just today I returned from a vacation with my family - we really needed it. We went out to dinner and I saw probably the prettiest sunset in the world - it's on my Instagram account! Then, we decided to go shopping and I walked into a bookstore and flipped one of the self-help books and came across a quote that caught my attention - " it is better to light one candle, than to curse at the dark".

I'd like to think that that was life's way of telling me that better days are coming and that; was my new beginning.

That was my sunset, that was my new beginning.

**I am a fighter, and I am worthy of life.

These nights are what I hope these years would have been,
Laughing away until the early morn when I speak my way into your dreams,
The time we have here is but our only time upon this earth,
And every choice we make will be sealed in the fate that is called time,
For we cannot go backwards or forwards only one direction which is now,
Streaking campus, shoving food in to our mouth only to gag and make our friends laugh,
I know it sounds stupid to most of you,

But these memories are my years and months and days, these memories are the semesters of hard work and hours, of blood and sweat and toil which has driven me insane,

I am finally having the fun I was promised when I was given this gift called life, and you do not dare take that away from me.

In between school semesters.
In between trainings.
In between jobs.
In between deployments.
In between miles.
In between phone calls.
In between letters.
In between waves.
In between breaths.
In between dreams.
Why are we always so far apart?
Baby I'll meet you in the in-betweens,
But I'll love you during it all.

Enjoy it while you can
      they say
These next 4 years are going to fly by
      and they did

-Join a club
-Do an internship
-Make friends
-Write a resume, cover letter
-Fall in love
-Apply for jobs
-Do something crazy
-Build your professional portfolio
-Socialize for hours
-Find a grad school
       they say "it's the college experience"

Is it the college experience to feel
Underappreciated and Overworked?
Elated and Devastated?
Accomplished and Incompetent?

It never feels like it's enough
      no, I never feel like I'm enough
I've spent hours staring at a screen
Either in class or at home, it doesn't matter
I scrolled through so many blogposts and jobposts
Applied to countless positions and internships
All for nothing

"What's the best way to do college?"
      is the question I'm constantly asking myself
      and anyone who will listen that might have the answers
"What am I doing wrong?"
      how can so many people have accomplished so much
      before I've even made a name for myself

my 21 credit semester
my double major
my additional minor
my 6 semesters of straight A's
my 2-year executive board position
my part-time minimum wage job
Were they all not enough? What am I doing wrong?
Why can't I find even an unpaid internship?

Despite my exhaustive efforts,
      and I do mean exhaustive, full burn-out
I still see people
people who have done way less, tried way less
with full rides, wonderful internships and jobs right out of college.

None of it is fair.

And I have nothing to show for it.

So has this just been 4 wasted years?

What can I make of myself in the real world,
with nothing to show for my college career?

I invited the wolves at the door in for tea.
We calmly discussed my circumstances:
No money to pay rent,
No fulfillment in waiting tables,
No way to silence the noise catapulting through my brain.
Their crash-and-burn solutions were inelegant,
but held a certain visceral appeal.

I could drop it all and drive through the dizzying heat
in my old, un-air conditioned Ford.
I could drop out of college--why not?
I've flunked three semesters in a row.
I could balance just enough caliber under the ceiling of my mouth,
and pull a trigger.
The *******-esque spatter of blood
would be my crowning artistic achievement.

"You're not getting any better," the wolves explained.
They were right.
The sinister beauty of depression is in its ups and downs,
the way it coaxes you into believing, just maybe,
you're finally getting better,
you've finally escaped the labyrinth,
but the wolves always come knocking again.

They always seem to know where to find me.

At the most I'll be his sidekick for a few semesters,
crunching leaves as I walk back to his apartment, where I'll take a nap while he studies ancient philosophies, waiting for his reappearance. We'll get ****** and bicker over where to go for lunch, even though we know it'll end up being sushi (it always is).

At the least I'll be the girl he's talking about ten years from now, when explaining his firsthand experience with the deadly combination of a pretty face and a sad, sad soul. The reason he knows anyone can sink deep into that hole and he will never again judge a book by its cover, because of me.

they say that summer's when you hate yourself. you look down at the valleys between your thighs and the hills making their way across your stomach and let the beach towel drape across your chest instead of on the sand. they say that summer's where you find yourself, in the internships between semesters and the hours spent with your fingers wrapped in a telephone cord, your feet dangling off the edge of the desk. yet i think that summer's where i lose myself. in the time that seems both endless and ending, and the sunrises that i both greet and miss (usually the latter). the ocean is crisp and clear, yet the grass is just as inviting and so is a game football or even a game of "who can eat the most marshmallows" in between swallows of laughter and air. summer's the season of love, emanating from the records in my room to the hot air outside. it doesn't matter what tomorrow means, or when he'll come home (or if he ever will at all). **you are young. you are beautiful. you are the summer. and you've only just begun.

maybe it's the fact i've been living in garbage, surrounded by rotting food and ***** laundry, because i can't find the energy to get out of bed, because i've been to depressed to anything but eat and feel sorry for myself and stew in not only my own sweat and dirt but my suicidal thoughts.

maybe it's the yellowing teeth because of the countless cigarettes i smoked to get the approval i craved of my boyfriend--sorry, EX boyfriend--who dumped me for seeking acceptance from his friends because it reeked of narcissism, because i was acting out of low self esteem and desire for validation.

maybe from the early signs of gum disease because of the substance abuse i was groomed to believe was the new vogue, or because blacking out every night is what freshman do and not a concerning coping mechanism i was using to hide a bigger issue.

maybe it's a result of the judgmental looks and comments on my worth from men and women alike because of my self medication in the form of intimacy and ****** attention--the ease at which i could be led to bed: through a lazy, slurred compliment and promises of a ride home in the morning (and not to mention means of keeping my mind off of my trauma.) or how after spending my last $10 at the bar i would consistently rely on my ability to give a peep show of the same body that was violated a year ago for a free shot of tequila that burned all the way down and a grimy slice of lime.

or maybe it's because despite it being over 365...366...367...too many ******* days since his filthy hands and body introduced itself to mine uninvited, despite not 1 but 2 police reports, despite 5...6...7...endless calls with victims advocates, despite 1...2...who knows how many failed semesters, despite 1 too many failed suicide attempts....

i was still *****.

that was when my habits just got worse. i was so incredibly angry with everything. i was so confused by my feelings and wants and needs. i became so self destructive that even others who didn't know me could see the effects. one day, senior year, a blonde girl in my photography class grabbed ahold of my arm for closer observation. the gashes stung and they ripped open anew.

"why do you do this to yourself?" she asked. it was so blunt. this girl i didn't even know asked a question that my closest friends were too afraid to even mutter. i was so shocked, i did not know how to react but gather my belongings and leave.

i became someone other than myself. i no longer recognized the reflection in the mirror. the eyes hazed with indifference, body aching and weak from the constant loss of blood. for safety reasons i will not describe everything i did out of confusion. but it got to the point where sobriety was like an itching wooly  sweater, clinging to my neck.  

i was called to the office by three separate teachers over those two semesters, i was able to beg two of them not to call my parents. they were 'concerned' because i 'was not acting like myself.' i was such an angry, hateful person. angry that the man i loved didn't want to be alive, to stick around for me. angry that my parents never spoke up. that was all i needed. just for them to tell me to stop.

nothing particular sparked the suicide attempt. just a continuous dissatisfaction with the world, i suppose. so vertically i drew the razor blade, releasing me finally.

I've seen 6 semesters of you, and
I wonder who I hate the most.
I still remember 10th grade, glad you finally asked
a question
and now I'm throwing pencils at you.
Some things never change.

jesus!
a jarred pickle!
what do you think,
you think pickles
come in bathtubs?!
well, no,
but i didn't think
goosebumps had a
permanence on
cucumbers pickled.
it's called chinese stubble
you idiot;
five o'clock beautification?
yarn ball in the plateau wind
across semesters of
earth and hours dividing
begun with coordinates of Greenwich...
and so the cat yawned
becoming bored from man's
encouragement of play...
cat said: god giveth sleep,
god taketh sleep away -
live it, and seize the augmenting argument
of borrowed inspection of beliefs
as necessary, given you only ****** on
a taboo, and inspect no further.

Close your eyes...
Take a few deep breaths...
All I hear in my head is...
Failure.

No matter how hard
I try to get that outta
My head...
It echoes.

Failure...
What does that
Even mean?
Am I a...

Am I a failure?
Most will say
Yeah...
I am.

I lost count of
How many times
I’ve failed and
Wanted to give up.

College #1...
Too many classes...
And semesters...
Life?

Maybe...
Maybe I am a...
Failure?
Maybe not?

I looked back on
The things I’ve done
When I fell so far down
And I feel blessed.

Been an EMT for 10 years...
Worked in the ED for 5 years...
Saved hundreds of lives...
Birthed a few.

I cried...
I screamed...
I wanted to quit...
But I didn’t.

When I failed...
I learned so much
About myself
And my purpose.

I learned empathy,
To not hide my emotions,
That things happen
For a reason.

I learned that
It’s ok to fall
But just get back up.
We all fall down.

I learned that
So many people
Support me and
Love me.

I learned that
I’m not alone
And I’m never
Alone.

I learned that
The first few falls
Hurt the most
But it’ll be ok.

I’m never alone.
I’m never alone.
I’m...
I’m never alone.

Am I a failure?
When I close my eyes...
All that echoes is...
You got this!

Am I a failure?
Hell no!