Unwielded Words

If I used my words well, like my dear friend urges;

Then our conversation would have looked different.

If I had been obedient,

To the gentle tugging

On my twisted insides,

Maybe we both could have grown in understanding.

But instead,

I spoke swiftly with a stammer,

Figited too much,

Rushed through my answers,

Avoiding your eye contact.

The consequences are real.

Sitting here, wishing I’d been bolder;

That my normally brazen nature;

Filled with unfiltered ideas hadn’t fallen short.

Surely I’ll make excuses

Because I can’t stand the guilt,

Or swallow the truth for that matter.

For now the pendulum swings

Between disappointment and hope

Knowing it doesn’t rely on my ability to perform

Wishing it was easier to tell the truth;

The truth about You.

Quiet Steps

I recently stumbled upon a song I’ve loved for a long time, one that never really gets old. However, for whatever reason, it felt particularly poignant this time and every time after as I listened to it on repeat. More than once in my life I’ve awoken to find myself in a serious state of disarray, as if someone turned on a light and illuminated just how far I’ve wandered. I know I should be more surprised when the realizations hit. I know I should feel worse but in reality succumbing to guilt isn’t something that I do well.  But it’s different now. I’m in a new stage of life, one that details very little control and extreme vulnerability and it has certainly illuminated my current state of disarray.

I know how I got here, living life one calculated risk at a time mixed in with a compromise or two. The lines of the aforementioned song say it perfectly.

“I don't remember one jump or one leap;
Just quiet steps away from your lead.”

I’ve taken quiet albeit deliberate steps in the wrong direction because frankly it is just easier. It is easier to go with what feels “right” than to be diligent to deciphering the “right” direction. It is easier to shut down the more sensitive sides of myself than to feel disappointment and heartache. So here I stand cold calculated steps away from reality, far from where I want to be and even farther from where I should be.

Call this an admission of guilt of sorts, maybe even a step back in the other direction. The only question I’m left asking myself is, “Is it worth it?” Is the journey back towards reality worth the time of naivety and false assurance? Or would it have been easier to stay put?

Daydream Dancing

This piece began from this prompt, but I don't know that I actually accomplished the objective.


I shouldn’t have listened to that song when it came on the radio. Normally I would turn the station but today I allowed myself to linger.  I was surprised at how quickly I slipped into the routine, the one we perfected on Sunday nights between sweaty bodies on the smoky dance floor. It was as if I could feel your right hand lock into mine and your left one slide around the small of my back. We’d made friends with the band and they would always play our song. When we got good, everyone would clear a circle in the center and watch our choreographed intimacy. They'd clap and whistle when we got to the extra spins and steps we’d added for flair.

I didn’t feel guilty until it got close to the finale; the part where you moved in close and locked your hips to mine, your hands slipping down the front of my thighs as we swayed back and forth to the rise and fall of the melody. Then as the last few bars of the song expired you would dip me low towards the floor and each time we would pause longer than the last, all caught up in each other, the heaviness of the moment. It was always slow motion for me, the rise and fall of my chest as I tried to find my breath and beads of sweat rolling down my collar bone towards the nape of my neck.  You’d pull me up laughing and we would retire to our corner booth, all our energy spent.

It didn’t get much better than that for us. We couldn’t seem to communicate anywhere but the dance floor and our love didn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t even love, but I’m not sure. I shrugged off all my uncertainties as I made my way back to reality. I tried not to feel guilty as I tucked away all the little memories that found their way into my daydream. After all, it was just a dance, just 4 minutes of cha-cha-ing through our yesterdays. 

9 Across

Prompted Again

I’ve never been a huge fan of reading the newspaper. It’s full of depressing material, deaths, murders, abuse and articles about benefits for sick and dying children. I can’t help but put it down and walk away with my stomach twisted in knots and my mind troubled with helplessness. I want to fix all the problems I read about, and I didn’t even make it past the Local section. Even though I know this familiar feeling I can’t help but pick one up and read it nearly every day, maybe I’m a glutton for punishment? Yesterday was no different. I picked up a couple sections of the LA Times as the lunch table conversation turned to daycare horror stories and general “kid talk.”

As I browsed over the headlines I couldn’t stop the sick feeling as it began to churn in my insides. It was loud and clear on every page, “You’re not good enough!” (And neither is anyone else) I retreated to find some solace in the crossword. I only got 3 clues in before the knot in my stomach twisted a little tighter. 9 Across: Drug Addict – 4 letters. Easy, USER. I didn’t even think twice about the answer. I’m all too familiar with this terminology. It’s what everyone called my brother for about 3 years. They referred to his habits as “using” and I suppose they were in the simplest version of the word. He was using whole bottles of Jack Daniels and homemade tourniquets; dirty needles and street side remedies to cure his afflictions. I was naïve to the severity of his habits. In fact I thought it was cool that he got me into dirty pubs and ordered me Red Bull and vodka so I could stay awake while he partied late into the night. I lived in my underage fantasy world until the night he called me at 3 a.m. tripping off an unknown combination of whiskey and amphetamines. He was enraged and depressed, fighting sobs between lines of expletives; flirting with the barrel of his shotgun. I tried to stay calm and told him stories of our childhood. I talked and talked until he fell asleep. I listened and wept for another hour making sure I could hear the deep breathing on the other end of the phone. That night raw and youthful went out the window and until he got clean I was scared ____less every time I saw mom’s number on my caller ID.

All things considered, it didn’t stop me from becoming a user, but not the hard drug variety. I was the copious volumes of alcohol and random sexual encounters type. I went to an AA meeting with my brother as his “support.” He got his 12 steps and I secretly got a hefty dose of guilt. We stopped using, my brother and I, at least in regards to those addictions. However, it hasn’t stopped us from becoming addicted to other things just like everybody else in the newspaper. We’re all users, addicted to working out, dieting, conflict, violence, fear, recognition, image, ambiance, attention, fantasy, knowledge, entitlement, money, sex, power, justice, guilt etc. It’s obvious in our headlines, each one reeking of addiction, good and bad. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop reading the newspaper, I’m addicted to that guilty feeling; maybe everyone else’s addictions make me feel better about mine. Regardless of the reason, one thing is obvious, I’m still a user.

Lunch "Dates"

We meet for lunch from time to time to “catch up” or so you call it. I call it that too until I encounter someone who thinks our contact is inappropriate, in which case I make more holy excuses to escape judgment. You always let me choose the venue, even though I still “owe” you a meal at your favorite restaurant. You bring it up every time but I know you’ll never make me pay my debt on account of the provocative things that occurred to make me lose that bet. You brought up the “bet” in front of my husband once. I laughed it off as something playful followed directly by a piercing glare in your direction.  It bugs me that we can still communicate in that way, that you can almost read my thoughts.  I always choose a restaurant close to where you work; partially because you didn’t have a car for so long, and partially because I like to feel like I’m pursuing the situation and not other way around.  The last few times we ate at the same sandwich shop. You’re always late but manage to jump into line as if I were waiting for you. You talk about me to the ladies preparing the sandwiches and order mine for me.  (Am I that predictable that after 6 years my sandwich order is still the same?) We get to the cash register and I retrieve my wallet only to have you slide your card across the counter.  I decline repeatedly but the cashier lets you pay. She thinks you are being chivalrous but she wouldn’t if she knew our story.  You say you’ll let me pay next time but I know you won’t.

We sit down and flow into conversation like old friends which indeed we are. I used to hate hearing about all the girls you are dating but now it doesn’t bother me. You tell me all about them and ask my opinion because you know I always give it freely. We talk about my husband and how we all need to get together. It’s strange how well the two of you get along. You ask about mom and dad and my brother and sisters. I sometimes forget you were like family for a long time. You ask about church. A topic that I know you bring up for my sake. I tell you about Mosaic and all the crazy things happening. I can tell that you stopped listening and it hurts my feelings but I hope that you tune back in to hear a little. In the middle of my story you ask about new years, a reasonable topic since it was last week. I start telling you about the wonderful time I had in Chicago and the amazing girls I spent it with. You ask if it was as amazing as our new years, throwing in buzz words like “hot tub” that will surely make me blush. You succeed in making me blush but I push through my sentence defiantly avoiding your bait. I talk about how encouraged I was without using any “Christian words” (like encouraged).  You smile and tell me how much you love to see me happy. The part of me that wants to be bitter towards you for everything wants to make a snide comment but the bigger part of me that wants you to know what I know and feel what I feel wins out. I’m reminded of why I have lunch with you.  It’s not because I feel guilty or because I have an agenda, it’s because I see part of who I used to be in you and I want to take the time to love that,  the way someone took the time to love me.  So I’ll continue to sit through awkward innuendos praying that one day you’ll see past me into the bigger picture, that you'll learn to love and be loved.