Thursday, July 9, 2015

Sometimes there's not a silver lining?

95 days ago my mom tried to kill herself. I don't think she wanted to; she didn't even take the right pills. Didn't make it hurt less. But I can't say that I have truly felt feelings yet. I don't know that I know how to. I returned to the hospital she was initially admitted to 3 days later. Same floor. As I walked to say my final goodbyes to a man that had impacted my life in a way words can't explain, I stared at a room, just a few doors down, that I had walked through days before. He hadn't chosen his fate. She tried. I am thankful. I am thankful her attempt didn't work. I am thankful Adrian was a part of my life. But when it comes to my mom, I'm unequipped as to how to feel. Sometimes I think I can't feel because it will hurt her. When someone says their only reason for living is you and then they decide the bottom of a pill bottle is worth more... Where do you go with that?

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Letter to a younger me

You're doing okay. You don't have to be the best always. The people that matter will still love you. right now. You are discovering life in you. You're going to fuck up. You're going to hurt. Everyone breaks. right now. Genuine love comes after you're broken. Then you see the people through their eyes. You can't understand who anyone is until you figure out life after experience.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010


The plans we make for projects, for life; what we expect verses what occurs is never parallel. I planned to continue on explaining my relationships past. However, here came life.

I originally began this literative escapade to allow me to work through a situation in my life I had to put into words in order to deal with the pain. Words have always been my refuge. Even as a little girl, I found that the best way for me to handle things in my life over which I had no control, but affected me, was to write. I had to process the circumstances I was facing in my own terms. Some people seem unable to understand this; see this as me being weak and obsessive. However,I believe that people often are against things that they themselves cannot comprehend. I have to process my emotions, deal with the pain, put a logical order to it all. Others are scared to embark on a journey like this as it means they must face what they've been running from, avoiding. I tried that. Just makes me crazier than I already am.

More recently, this collection of words I utilized in attempts to bring myself back to my own version of sanity was necessary because of a choice I had no idea would affect me as it did. I could not scream, force, activate any sort of closure in my most recent, incredibly intense relationship. I was dealing with a sorrow unlike any I had experienced.

I contacted Jake, through an impersonal message on a social site regarding a particular situation that was relevant to my current life that I was concerned about; especially considering the extent of his lies. It was short, to the point and required a simple response.

I have reached out to him other times in the last few months. Not as someone who wants a relationship or wishes to rekindle feelings, but as a woman who was left standing clueless, without real answers to the reason why this man she thought could potentially be a real part of her life disappeared without explanation.

Apparently, my most recent question struck a chord with not only Jake, but his girlfriend as well.

I, once again, woke up and began my morning with communication from a grown woman playing the part of a fool. She wrote to me. She mimicked my words, my soul I had not only put into sentences, but also chosen to share.

Not sure what led her to this blog, but I know she found and read it all by her own accord.

She informed me to stop contacting him. That every message received from me set back their relationship. In her mind, no conversation Jake and I would have would assist in the healing process. She asked me to leave them alone to "explore their journey".

I am a fairly reasonable, prideful woman. However, the relationship with Jake had take me out of every comfort zone, every rule I've attempted to follow.

I refused to ignore her message and her attempt to once again control the situation that Jake refused to be man enough to handle. And I told her so.

There was no reason for her to be reading the correspondence, or lack thereof, between Jake and me. If he desired to face the situation and completely discontinue contact, he should be more than capable do to so for himself. He should be able to provide an explanation for the bridges he burned.

In my response, I went on into more detail-more than I should have, I'm quite sure.

I did not expect a response.

I was sitting at Chili's in the middle of my workday when I felt my phone vibrate. The text I received threatened to reveal a "secret" Jake was sure would affect me and my life. I informed him his threat had no merit. I have no shame. The people in my life, family and friends, know more about me than most could imagine. I told him he could attempt to slander me in whatever fashion he pleased.

We went on to share unpleasantries, the details of which do not matter.

What matters is the fact that I am free from the emotional ties into this relationship. I had struggled, cried, prayed through these emotions that came from the end of Jake and me. The unanswered questions, lack of explanations.

I have always said it is much easier to be angry at someone than to miss them.

Thank you so much Jake. I thank you for your blindness, your immaturity, your hatred, your inability to comprehend how mature adults process emotions and for being someone for me to fall so hard for that I was not sure I could pick myself up.

But I have. And I realize I am surrounded by blessings. From the man still in my life after my foolish choices, my friends who will do anything and everything for me, from showing up in the middle of the night to listen to me rant to those that buy me too many shots of Tequila, to my family that has no choice but to support me, but does in an amazing, loving way.

It takes a journey to the center of emotional Hell to understand not only how incredibly dysfunctional individuals can be, but also how worthwhile it is to make the right choice, to be the good person, to the tell truth even when it hurts.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Old School Poems...

Election Day

I know I should. I want to raise my voice.
Who attends my political party?
Determining the country’s fate by choice--
I wish it did not have to be dirty.
One promises a program called Bush Moon.
The other contradicts himself instead.
November nominates impending doom.
It seems we must all love blue, white and red.
Participants make you think they can fly.
But soon they start the futile missile rain.
I’m wary of on whom I can rely.
Hope for a leader who will break the chain.
And until then I’ll pray for surrender
to keep this melting pot from the blender.

“Gentle Dauphin, I am called Joan the Maiden”

St. Michael and St. Catharine selected a pristine maiden
to consummate a Divine mission.
The diminutive backwoodswoman
clothed herself in pallid menswear
and bore a sword from Robert de Baudricourt.

The godly auditory hallucinations’ provocations
led the maiden to the vanguard of 6,000 men.
Fortitude among the French forces intensified
following encounters with this virgin feud master.

Innumerable grueling duels later,
the war of ten decades was countermanded
by the defeat of the elite English.

Joan of Arc tramped into camps
to urge mercenaries to attend basilica
and mend their broken commandments.

Marching into the fray, she slew no adversary,
but carried a white banner ornamented with the depiction
of God blessing the fluer-de-lis.

In the end, Phillip “the good” apprehended the innocuous conqueror
before Saint John’s Day.
The resplendent spirit was reduced to ashes
for fallacious accusations of heresy.

Dismayed spectators of the scandalous soirée bellowed,
“We are lost. We have burned a Saint.”
The lips of the lifeless prey seized their last breath. “Jesus,”
became the resilient steward’s terminal susurration.

After an epoch, the church acknowledged their ignorance,
admitting the child’s innocence. Joan of Arc emerged
as the Maid of Orleans and an omnipresent peasant as St. Jeanne d’Arc.

Friday, 4:26 PM

He peeks around the curtain,
bright green eyes searching for his sister
amid the colored dots of faces.

“These thousand tricky tongue twisters trip thrillingly off the tongue,” they all recite
in mime.
Twisting and turning his tongue, Justin prepares for his journey to Oz.
To his left, an imbecile stuffs his costume with straw.
To his right, a pig-tailed young lady kneels to soothe her yapping Scottish terrier.
Justin’s opening night debut leaves him searching for breath and composure as he rehearses again and again the lines of Tin Man.

Across town, a young woman, who has the most beautiful green eyes,
almost as bright as her brother’s,
passes the bowl to the left, to Matt, coughing and smiling.
Her sweaty apartment leaves the air in no condition to enjoy their game
of counting dominos’ dots.
“Ding-dong…dong.” Along with a knock.
“Oh, shit! Hide the bong!”
She unlocks the three latches to create a crack wide enough to peep.
Her heart beats quickly as paranoia runs through her veins.
She sighs as she realizes it is only the air conditioner repair man.
“Yes, sir, Boss, I just arrived” replies the benevolent Mr. Fix-It man into a rustic walkie talkie and then strolls inside the hazy apartment.

Behind his sturdy oak desk, Mr. Boss slams down the phone, and leans back in his chair as he closes his weary green eyes.
He thinks of his wife and her afternoon agenda, calculating the ideal time to meet up for a lecherous afternoon rendezvous.
He frets for a split second about the hazel shirt he left lying on top of their floral duvet,
he wonders if it reeks of her perfume once again.
Worry free almost instantly, he picks up the receiver and dials
the young blue eyed blondie who bares a perfectly placed mustang tattoo under
the freckle of her left thigh.
Minutes later Boss gazes around his gray drapes in delight at the sight of the tiny black mini skirt.

Mrs. Boss picks a hint of lint off the black wool of her skirt.
She diverts her compassionate emerald eyes to the empty seats on her left and right.
She busies herself with the gold theater program, running her fingers across her son’s embossed name, peering around and behind her,
willing just one of them to show up for his sixty three minutes of fame.
Boss follows the yellow brick road and then miraculously finds her way home.
She jumps to her feet and claps her hands loud enough for three
during Tin Man’s curtain call.
The Tin Man bows and smiles as if he has no heart.
But, backstage, if only for two ticks of the clocks’ second hand, his bright eyes become dim.

This poem is so old it has no title...







Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Second. Ethan.

I cannot remember a time in my seemingly short lifetime of romances that another woman has not been involved in my relationships in some aspect or another. In some instances, I was aware of an additional individual within the equation. However, more often than not, the male in my life went to great lengths to ensure this female remained furtive.

It astonishes me that men seem to be so sure of themselves when they enter into surreptitious connections. I know not one man that has not eventually been caught.

Women are born equipped certain instincts. It is referred to most often as Mother’s instinct, but we all have it. It is the ability to read the face, behavior and tone of someone in our lives that is close to us and realize all the words they are not saying. It is how mothers know when their newborn needs food, not a diaper change and how we can read the face of disheartened friend and know whether they need a hug, an encouraging word, or a drink.

Instinct is also how we can tell when there is something more going on behind the eyes of our partner. Most of us will push it aside at first; rationalize and justify many bits of truth. Nonetheless, our intuition will eventually manage to overpower the portion of our thoughts that keeps us from crossing the boundary between prying woman to what many men refer to as “crazy woman.” We will begin to take the bits and pieces of fortuitous honesty and explore them on our own in a journey of discovery that will often lead to exactly where we did not want to go.

Whether by fated run-ins, purposeful encounters or within the reflection staring back at us in the morning light- in one way or another, we find ourselves face to face with the other woman.

For a long time I played the part of a blind woman. To this day, I cannot tell you whether I realized that I had created this canopy of unreality between my awareness of who I thought my boyfriend was and how he treated me versus the actual facts or if I was truly unaware of this distinction. I cannot tell you which I would prefer, either. There is one thing I do know now; there were many other women included in our bond that spanned 4 years.

Of course there were other girls around in the beginning of our dating game, before it became what I would describe as serious; that was to be expected for my age as well as the lifestyle I led. I was 19, attending college and worked as a waitress in my free time. Life was laid-back and fun and parties were not hard to find. Most often I stumbled upon them in my living room.

Ethan and I met at work. I still remember the first time I saw him, sitting on a bar stool. I thought he looked tall and Italian. I suppose I was half right. So many years later, I cannot remember the specifics that occurred before settling on the idea that we liked one another. However, I do remember the girl first involved. In fact, she stuck around for the remainder of our relationship in one way or another, often used as a pawn in his plays when he was feeling angry or insecure.

I suppose this should have been a red flag. But, obviously, I am good at ignoring those. And he was very good at saying what was necessary, even doing what was needed at times, to mend the current rift. In the beginning the supplementary ladies were few and added mainly phone calls and occasional flirtatious messaging to the relationship.

However, one weekend I left town to attend my sister’s graduation. I was somewhat concerned, but knew that he would be working and spending time mainly with my roommate and our mutual friends. Four months later I was made brutally aware of how valid this previous apprehension was. Ethan revealed to me that he and my roommate had slept together and both vowed to keep this skeleton in their closets. Their exchange damaged me in ways I will likely deal with for years to come.

Unfortunately enough, the timing of this revealed secret came when Ethan and I had been making progress in our twosome. Looking back now, I believe that what I observed as improvements in our relationship was actually Ethan engaging in a form of reaction formation, attempting to nullify his guilt and wrong doing by playing the role of a supportive, nurturing, thoughtful boyfriend.

I remember how odd it was that I felt nothing in that moment. No anger or sadness. More like it was something I had been expecting or deep down already knew and was now being vindicated. I decided I did not need to move out, that this was our business and would stay between the three of us and Ethan and I would continue to grow in our relationship.

I came home and my roommate had folded all my laundry, I suppose in an attempt to convey the depth of her regret. It did not work so well. For me, it made the whole situation seem real. Nothing was ever the same between any of us.

Ethan and I continued to date and had great things going on in our lives. By this point, we were intermingled in each other’s family traditions and holidays. He had promised to never cheat again and I believed him. The relationship between my roommate and I did not adjust so well to the hurt. We both knew it was best to go our separate ways, and swiftly, as the tension in our diminutive living space was unnerving and overwhelming. Ethan had months left in a lease, so we made a pressurized choice, and moved in with one another.


Saturday, January 23, 2010

Confessions of an Only Child

Dad and Charlene are getting married today
Everyone is watching us kids, waiting
for the Tick-tock, Tick-tock,
of our emotional time bombs
to stop.

(We would explode into a thousand tiny confetti pieces
that sprinkle the ground where we used to be standing.
Our new aunts and grandfathers could gather our fragments up,
and toss them at the happy wedded couple as they leave.)

But Casey and I just practice our matronly march, up and down the stairs of the house.


I retie the white ribbon around her waist.
I've never been a big sister before.

It's not the new family living at Dad's house.
It's all the people who come with them.
Like my Grandma, I think that is what I'm supposed to call her, who fell in the snow today.
She has mean eyes.

And that Dad lives in Parker, Colorado.
That means I have to punch in eleven numbers to talk to him.
And I only get to see him every other Christmas and summers.
I guess there won't be anymore cheese omelets before school.

Mom sent me to a psychologist.
All I did was draw pictures of me and my new family.
It was hard to figure out where I was supposed to go.

Mom is dating now. Sometimes he stays the night.
He leaves his baseball hat on our couch.
I wake up in the middle of the night scared.
And her door is locked.

When I go visit my dad, his door always opens.
Charlene is the only one who wakes up.
She doesn't know the right way to pat my back,
or the song Mom made up for bedtime.

Now, I just put myself to sleep,
no matter whose bed I'm in.

First. Jake.

I am used to being shocked by men.

And not in the, “surprise flowers at work” or “cooked dinner and cleaned house” kind of way.

I would like to say that I could pinpoint an exact moment in my past that this began, detailing some traumatic event involving wretched memories of my father saying he was going to buy me some extravagant gift or be present at an important event, but instead used his money to buy narcotics or flew cross country to meet with his mistress rather than making me feel important, but no such luck.

My parents did divorce when I was young, but I feel as if, for the most part, this situation did not disturb my ability to develop and learn to engage in fairly normal, semi-healthy relationships. However, I am beginning to wonder what exactly it is that is leading to my fairly consistent involvement in relationships with men than continue to stun the shit out of me.

The first moment of the day is a poignant point for me in defining the tone of my day.

One particular moment, on a mild Texas January morning, defined more than just the tone of my day.

My phone rings. It is an area code I recognize, somewhere in Colorado. I answer, expecting to hear the apologetic voice of a man. However, I am instead greeted with, “Hi, is this Meagan? This is Carol, Jake’s girlfriend.” Silence. “Well, hey Carol, this is Meagan, Jake’s girlfriend, how are you doing today?”


Jake was a man I met at my brother’s wedding. In fact, he was my brother’s best friend. We walked down the aisle together. There was an almost instantaneous connection between the two of us, although we both tried to ignore it. Everyone around could see it, including my family.

But I had a boyfriend; Jake lived in Colorado, I lived in Texas and, not only that, he was my brother’s best friend. Lots of boundaries to be crossed. However, weddings often cause unmarried individuals, particularly those in their late 20s and early 30s to act uncharacteristically. Add champagne and a whiskey and coke or two (or three?) to the occasion and it’s amazing what can occur.

Jake and I ended up riding down the mountain together that night. We kissed for the first time, and cuddled, watching old TV reruns. The next morning I woke up in my dad’s guest room and felt immediate guilt. I texted Jake and apologized for my foolish antics and explained I had a boyfriend. He agreed that the chain of events from the previous night was out of the ordinary for him as well, but we agreed to become friends and keep in contact.

From this moment on, our relationship was back and forth between friendship, flirtation and the desire to be lovers-all through phone and text communication. I ended my current relationship. Jake and mine’s level of emotional involvement with one another continued to deepen. I was falling in love with him. We discussed relocating. I was semi-hesitant and in no rush. He desired to move to Texas, and quickly. We decided to be exclusive, albeit long distance. Jake called my brother the day his firstborn son was greeting the world to tell him that he had feelings for me and soon planned to move 600 miles to be with me.

I visited Colorado for Thanksgiving to meet the new addition to our family as well as celebrate the holidays. Jake drove an hour and rented a hotel room for the night in the town where my father lives to take me on a date. It was amazing---nerve-wracking at first---after all, the reality was we had been creating this relationship over the phone, through texts; we were unsure of interacting in person initially. However, this night, along with the rest of the times we shared and were close enough to actually look into one other’s eyes and touch fingertips, was captivating, unlike other connections I had experienced.

I have a tendency, that I believe other women share, to create high ideals in the beginning stages of a relationship. Every love song I hear reminds me of this new interest. I begin to contemplate how the majority of my activities would be better with this new person in my life taking part. And the holidays---of course he will be the first man I have met who not only enjoys the holidays, from Christmas to Valentine’s Day, but he is going to participate, and make them special for me. Now this delusional state of mind is likely to last for me for about 2 days, give or take an hour. It was different with Jake. He, of course, did not fulfill every irrational idea I had within a span of a night, but the butterflies never went away.

So this is how it began. And included numerous conversations, loving words, plans, goals, tears. He said he loved me, wanted to marry me, wanted to move to Texas to start over with me. To have children with me. We looked for jobs for him locally, he met my friends, my mother, my grandmother. Spouted off specific dates in terms of his arrival in Texas.

Now at this point, most would look at this situation and say, this is too good to be true, this rushing indicates red flags, you are walking right into the most painful event of your life. But I guess I’m not most. I am not the first girl to jump into a relationship. I do not need a man. I like them, and once I have feelings for them, I have difficulty walking away, but when I’m single, I am happy. And I’m not the affectionate type, nor the type seeking out a partner to impregnate me and turn me into a housewife. I loved this man and for once I was willing to jump in, feet first, to what could be the most irrational and insane decision of my life. But he seemed to be ready to take the leap along with me.

I had been unable to get a hold of Jake since Christmas Eve. He had spent the weekend before in town with me, in Texas. Four weeks later, by mid to late January, I decided that, although I had been forced to move on from him due to his complete and utter lack of communication and, therefore consideration for my emotions, I was still curious as to what happened in the three days since he had been in my home, in my bed. I called his work to leave a message on a Wednesday night. My phone call was returned, from a blocked number. It was Jake. He did not say hello, he said “the phone calls have to stop.” I was floored and confused. I was unsure of what phone calls he was referring to as I had no number for him since the 24th of December and it was now four weeks later. He hung up the phone on me without an explanation. About fifteen minutes later my phone was ringing from a blocked number once again. Like a fool, I answered. “You and I cannot talk anymore, it’s creating problems with my girlfriend” said a voice that I knew was Jake’s but sounded nothing like him. “Your fucking girlfriend?!?!” I screamed into the phone. He hung up. I called my brother, hysterical. My friend showed up at my door at 11:30 with exactly what I needed. She sat with me and we talked and I screamed and I made myself another drink.

And then the phone call. I was thankful I had drank so late into the night. It made the conversation with Carol somewhat less painful, less real. “We’ve been dating since the end of July…he says he wants to marry me…I drove him to the airport, but didn’t realize it was to see you…we fight about you, I knew there was something more to friendship than this.” Silence.

“I’m sorry I had no idea you existed.”

But now it made sense. He wasn’t scared. And it all played out as he called me from her phone. She screamed at him, “Just say it! Why is it so hard to say it!?!” and then, this man I thought I knew, said, “I don’t love you, I love her” and handed the phone to her. As I sat in my empty bathtub, in leftover work clothes, tear stained cheeks and unable to make the heaving sobs stop, he handed the phone to her so she could comfort me.