my body had caved

his eyes, well they simply lied.
they matched each sylible that slipped from his lips.
and his body moved towards me, i wanted to run
and i guess my mind must have, but my body just stayed
lacking conciousness then, its hard to remember that day
not for hours did my mind slink back in,
only to find from with soreness it had been betrayed
my body had caved

some phase

darkened skin,
brightening her eyes, her smile
widening but rarely.
and clearly,
things aren't meant to last
but this phase could be the best
for these next otherwise lethargic months.
and the days
that i do not portray the characteristics of this phase,
will eventually make sense to fit rightously and awkwardly
into the uncompleted puzzle of my timeline

end up

well i turned to him and said
"baby, this is not where i meant to end up
but if all else fails we can love each other"
and he stared back and with sharply moving lips
he replied
"dear, that's just it
you to me are the very least"

we all faced each other and with unopening mouths claimed
that this, is not where we meant to end up.
so with a pact to find the better
we marched in the oppisite direction,
and i wondered outloud whether we would wish to return.

ohh boy

It is so easy to forget oneself when removed from those whom we are most comfortable with and whom we inevitably most emulate. As I have been cloaked in this comfort for the past nine months, this fact has escaped me and I have grown strong, confident, and falsely brave. So I step out into the freezing November morning remembering nothing but the warm Augest ones that have preceded it and find myself shocked and betrayed by the nipping wind; 'next time I won't be so brave' I think to myselfas I wrap a few more layers onto my shivering skin. Next time perhaps, I won't even go outside at all.

It's a metaphor you see.

When I am with certain people who I have grown so accustomed to over the past school year, I feel confident and happy. I feel as if I have something to offer people, I feel wanted and deserved. HOwever, the second I step into a new surrounding I remember who I've been more commonly in life: an inconfident, questioning, terrified little girl.

social anxiety

In attempts to continuously self-improve, I have once again placed myself in a situation bound to prey upon my largest discomforts and anxieties. It is the effort to grow past fears, leap out of comfort zones. In theory, signing on to these kinds of projects is wanderfuly ambitious and brave and I crave them in my everyday life. However, once the time comes and I have to actualize these ambitions, I find myself feeling all of the terrible things I had expected and well, wishing for the comfort of my bed, my puppy, I'll even go so far as to say "I want my daddddy".
Here I am at camp. I got hired onto this job because my prerequisites fit the title; I am to be a counsler for a group of students who are "Leaders in Training". This place is beautiful. Actually, if I had happened upon these grounds with a group of my close friends I would probably call it my heaven on earth. Forest, lake, wallclimbs, horses, ropes courses; it is an absolute fantasy. Unfortunately, because I am a socially anxious wimp, I am so tainted by this new group of people that I can hardly enjoy the beauty that lies around me. My fellow staff is a group of people who are somehow already unbelievably connected; they fill with joy in each others' precense. As I step in as a newcomer, I am forced to jealously observe and somehow, I forget all of my supposed attributes and quiver into the corner. Other newcomers come in and feel right at home, make quick friends, and always haev someone to sit with, chat with, laugh with. However, I come in with an abundance of control dramas and can barely piece together sentences to redeem myself for not having gone to this camp since before my menstral cycle began.
It is times like these that I try to remember who I am, how I can present myself to these brand new individuals who have no concept of my history. I think to myself how I went into other situations of the sort; this sometimes is comforting as I think of how wanderful I feel in that group now (Greeno) or makes my stomache ulcer a bit stronger (as I recount many days of ASB).
This is going to be an amazing experience, eventually I am going to fall in love with this place, stop beign afaid and intimidated, and maybe I'll even remember that I am a confident, beautiful, intelligent young lady. I am aren't I?
This is for the best; I will get through these first terrible uncomfortable days and be a bit better at meeting new people and groups. Or else I will give in to my ultimate desire to live in a cabin in the forest and write for the rest of my life. It's looking good lately, I'm sayin.

self-healing

I like to believe that if you listen to your body, if you react to all of its subtle and screaming instincts, then you can reach an all-encompassingly state of healthyness. The truest way to heal comes not from prescription drugs, expensive appointments, and late-night alcohol binges. These treatments may seem ambitious but truly fall short, leaving patients consitently unsatified and ever-searching for the next cheap solution. The more canny form of healing (however underrated it has become) is paying attention to the tiny twinges and impulses that come up from moment to moment, understanding what they mean, and feeding them as they ask. This is a beautiful ideology, one so sagicious that I would be proud to hold it as the theme to my lifestyle. Alas, it is just another belief that contradicts the way I actually live.
Last night I came home feeling satisfied and exhausted after a pleasent evening with a friend. I unlocked and pushed open the door to find an expectant Charlie waiting excitedly there for me. He pushed his nose into my jeaned leg, asking for a scratch on the ear, wondering where I had been all evening. Together, we pounded up to the stairs towards my (guess it is fair to say our) bed. I put out the lights, tore my pants off leaving them crumpled on the floor and fell onto my over-pillowed bed. He jumped in after me without outspoken invitation. For an hour I tossed this way and that, trying to find a comfortable place for my exhausted body to give in and fall into sleep. Nothing came. Next to me, Charlie's head on the pillow softly let out quiet puppy snores. Frusterated that I wasn't harmonizing, I mazed at his ability to react to his body's needs. If he's hungry, he tucks up to his bowl to munch on dry cereal. If his throat is dry, he runs right to his water bowl to lap. When I'm hungry I try to ignore the stomache pains until they go away so as not to add weight to my ever-plumping stomache...sleepy? I drink caffiene so that instead of falling into slumber I eternally have to pee.
I take drugs in attempts to clear my nose, allow me to focus, allow me to feel dillusioned. I have put myself in a position where I am incapable of falling asleep when my body and mind is exhausted. I have kept myself numb by interrupting emotions with intoxicants that keep me stupidly content. When I begin to realize how destructive I am being I go into hermit mode; I tear myself away from the world, only allowing my dog in as I hide behind hikes, early bedtimes, and literature. Though I feel like taking this time is a method of healing, in reality it probably puts me in a worse place. A place where I feel confident in being alone but also feel lonely and unsatisfied. I suppose I embrace this place because I feel like in the quiet, I can start to better hear what my body is telling me to do. It is my attempt to learn how to listen to her urges and grunts.
However through realizations, through learnings, I am still not at a place where I feel like I can take care of myself without the use of alien healing.

used to

I used to be a writer. I used to be a painter. I used to be the goalie for a state semi-final hockey team. Funny; returning to this house I questioningly refer to as home always makes me remember what and who I used to be. Caitlin came by the other day and sweetly admired the paintings that my papa proudly snagged, framed, and hung around the house. Paintings I had excitedly created under the learned guidance of Mrs. Cliche, my high school art teacher. That was two years ago now. Since then, I have painted a bit but accomplished nothing spectacular. Why is it that I need an assigned period of time and space in order to enthuse myself to paint? I used to love to create but I am now finding myself with a sincere lack of ambitiousness.
When I return to this house, I neglect who I have become by reminiscing over who once was. Though I would certainly still consider myself a writer, my inability to place words to paper in the past month makes me queasy about such a self-titling. I know that I need a break from the kind of writing and reflecting I have put out over the past academic year, but to completely free my typing hands from the board seems more like back-tracking than allowing myself a vacation. Anyways, words pass through my mind so rushed and determinedly that to not have a space of outlet is damaging and keeps my head too foggy.
Alas, I have landed here after a good search of “free blogs”. Perhaps next I shall step up to the easel, brush off my paintbrushes and acrylic paints and truly start reconnecting my “used to”s into my nows.