After The One

They tell you life is cut and dry. As if things work or they don’t. As if we still live in the vein existence of a black and white television coated with accurate simplicity. They tell you about princesses and the princes that carry them away. They speak on the importance of obtaining a degree, or two, or three. They suggest you fold to the pressures of our societal norms: save money, vacation with a purpose, find the one who makes your heart seep like sand through the cracks of your hands only to coat the exposed skin. Or if nothing else, pay your bills. They tell us all of these things in hopes of guiding our decision into a practical conundrum. They tell us these things in hope to spare an ounce or two of lung puncturing pain.

Of nauseating thought.

Of stomach wrenching sadness.

There was this point after college where life seemed set. In a relationship with a breathtaking man, a ground breaking career on the horizon, and a handful of close friends to lean on in lack luster times of need.

Then all of it came to an end. Came slowly breaking down onto the floor of a 400 square foot efficiency.

My career became spent through the decision to move home. My heart physically sickened by lost love. And a gaping hole pushing any ounce of security out of the world so precisely planned. The life of a washed up 20-something was starring at a sunken cheeked, black eyed, outline of the person I could never be.

It took three months to go a day without crying. Five months to let go of social stipulation. Ten to go a day without thinking of him. And twelve to understand the universe had placed me in the exact right position.

They tell you all of these things that seem great in theory though neglect to tell you pain-stakingly plausible outcomes. Perhaps it is a cover, or perhaps a constant fault of the generations before. The only problem with it, they never tell you what happens after the one.

Let The Darkness In


There are days when I just can’t. Can’t get out of bed, can’t get my head in the game, can’t even produce words to explain this feeling of cant-ness. I just can’t.

Today is one of those days. I find myself starting on a project and ending on Facebook stalking people with deep encompassing sadness. Can’t seem to get my pants pulled all the way up without taking a break, but my impulse is exceptional when clicking through 5-year-old profile pictures. I don’t actually have feelings for these people and their lives without me, but I simple can’t, so I stalk on.

It is in these moments I feel this ever lasting fear that the world is going on without me, that those around me will succeed and strive while I will sit in the background and sink. I ask myself what is becoming of my being? Are my goals worthy? Should I stack my money in a pile and watch its very existence burn? It is in these moments that my mind fights to reflect on the good while all that is visible is the bad.

The day before my senior year of high school my group of girl friends gathered to chalk paint our car windows. It was the ultimate statement of seniority. No Junior could resist the gawking slurs like “Bow Down” and “Get On Your Knees” we garnished with hearts on our early 2000 makes and models.

As we pulled away from our clever yet completely unoriginal session my car was met with a tree’s trunk. One left turn and a small drop of water caused Susie the Isuzu Rodeo to spin out of control and screech to its demising death. Though it was not the tree that I feared, or the pile of glass surrounding me, it was the lack of feeling I had for getting out alive.

Like many my life is a battle of feeling, and like many I chose to let it settle behind my brick piled walls. I don’t share this for pity, but simply because it has become evident that many feel the same. We are all a little bit damaged, and maybe that’s okay.