a plea for self doubt.

Fall, autumn, rain, dark clouds, and crisp air. These feed my purest me.

I've struggled with self-doubt for as long as I can remember. Sometimes when people say that, I think "really? as long as you can remember?" I mean this, truly. My self-doubt has manifested in various ways, as well as been fed by things completely uncontrolled by me.

My first struggle with body image was when I was five or six years old. I always had a little pooch for a belly and I always had a heightened awareness of the way clothes fit me. I can honestly say I don't know what it's like to have the coveted flat stomach, and probably never will. At that time my mom was grossly obese. It was heart breaking. While running errands together strangers would yell to her, "fat bitch." She struggled to breathe, ate poorly, and was often sick. One day this all changed, but that's another story. However, I learned very early on that being overweight was socially unacceptable and apparently, if you were overweight public shaming was fair game.

Most of my young childhood years I had little-to-no friends. After my dad died, my mom and I attended a very small church that took advantage of its congregates in various ways. She worked a ton, and tried to go to school while I was in the care of the church's head pastor and wife. At the time, our church most impacted my inability to be a carefree kid. I tattled on people for sinning, and I told the teacher when girls in my class were "being seductive" by putting stickers on their bottoms for attention. They were called butt-stickers from some secular country music station. Oh yeah, and I used the word "secular" constantly. Yeah, I was a weird kid who consequently had no friends and was often made fun of...perhaps I was asking for it. The thing was, I loved talking and connecting; but when you don't have friends to share your thoughts, anxieties, and hopes to, you start to live in your head. I became my own best friend, second only to my cat, Pinto Bean.

Living in your head can breed creativity or can cause a person to painfully disconnect with the world. I craved intimacy with someone, anyone--I was disconnected, but not by choice. I practiced conversations with kids in my head. The next day I'd put my plan into action, but it never went as I thought it would. So, alone in my room, I was back to plotting my first real friendship. Eventually, my mom became my primary guardian again, we left the church, and switched schools. This was it. I'd reinvent myself. These kids didn't know me, I could be whoever I wanted. I could listen secular music, and dammit I'd stop calling it secular and call it by its rightful name: hip hop.

It worked. I made my first real friend, but I never learned how to stop living in my head, or how to stop second guessing every word that came out of my mouth or every action I took. My adolescence sucked, but most peoples' adolescence sucked. It's that time when you're first sorting out the worst parts of yourself. Self doubt manifested in the aforementioned ways, but my insecurities were just on overdrive. I had severe body issues, I was convinced that no one liked me, and I spent hours in my head identifying every flaw I had and ways to amend them.

Let's fast forward to now. I am still that girl. I am woman, self doubting, and sometimes self loathing. However, now I am able to discern things that are within my control and things that are not. Yes, self doubt at its worst is truly debilitating. However, it is because of my self doubt that I have strived to become the best version of myself. And while I wish I could say that becoming my best self has been something I've done only for myself, or for my mom, or God...that's just not true. Constantly worrying about what others, what you think about me has fueled me to speak with more tact, to exercise often, and to never stop learning.

Self doubt no longer hinders or dictates my every move, but it's always whispering to me softly. With confidence I expose, "I struggle with self doubt and constantly worry about what others think of me." What's often unheard in this reveal is the strength it takes for someone, for me, to admit this. I divulge not to incite sympathy, but as a plea for understanding. Self doubt has shaped me. Mostly, it's bred a genuine concern with others' feelings, interpretations, and insecurities. I love that about myself. I'd even say self doubt blossomed into one of the best qualities I have: unending compassion.

Thus, I ask of you...
Don't deter me from self doubt, let me revel.
watch me
as I prove it wrong.

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Here's a picture of me, my mom, and the pastor's wife who I called "Mama T."

something bigger than me.

birthdays are good for a few things. for me, i usually like to take time to reflect on how influential the person is to me, how much i love them, and how their qualities make them fit perfectly into my life.

i like to dwell, so i dont forget.

saturday was my mom's 50th birthday.

and this is what i dwelt upon.

i wondered. this year, does my mom know i love her more than i did the year before? has she forgiven me for the horrible things ive put her through? does she know ive forgiven her for the same? i am so blessed to have a mom who believes in such unconditional love. my grama taught her to love like that; and that's how i learned to love. without question, despite ourselves.

does my mom know that she is truly my best friend? or of the terror i feel when i think of her absence? she knows that she's the only person i tell my secrets and unflattering desires to, but i just hope she knows i appreciate it, and that i dont have a back up plan yet.

despite our ups and downs, and there have been a lot, i am grateful for our relationship because our closeness is not common.
i see that now.

ever since she got diagnosed with cancer she has taught me so much about how to do life. she's an example of strength. here my mom is dealing with painful chemo sessions, adjusting to her colostomy bag, working full-time, without a car, and yet she still finds time to just comfort me. i want to push everyone away, steal my mom, and just kick and scream, but mostly cry. she tells me that's okay, but encourages me to not worry, to find humor in sad things, to pray, to allow myself to let go.
she mothers me.
i just dont understand how she does it. how she finds the time, has the energy, or patience for mothering when her life has been turned upside down yet again.
she's miraculous.

i dwelt, i dwell. because my mom has given me so much.
my mom is my world. i just wanted you to know.

happy 50th birthday again, mom.

love letters.

and as for me and mine
we can only be together
in misplaced time

independent

i am alone.
but ive forgotten what it is to feel lonely.
the difference: longing.
and i do not.
sounds are louder now. and i prefer them to repeat once theyve caught my attention.
words echo and reverberate in my mind longer than usual.
longer than usual...
there's more to look at, and i look longer.
chairs are more comfortable, and i take up more space in my bed.
food is more succulent, so i savor my food as it travels through my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach.
the season's change teases me, and i like that. i wait for its turbulence, as i have none of my own to ride.
dreams are the only thing to haunt me. and it's the only place i choose to visit you. but i wish i didnt.
id rather be awake and alone because in my wake i am not lonely.

i feel a terrifying softness within me coming to surface. a softness coerced by a gentle acceptance and remorse.
then a resilient bitterness harks, you know better.
oh but this soft forgiveness reminds me this is who you are. the fire always a'glow, the sun no longer casts its shadow,

the softness murmurs a gentle hint, with which bitterness agrees.
if you cannot erase, i say replace.
create a new memory to yield its place.

walk the line

as of late ive noticed myself walking fine lines.

where are these lines? (they sneak up out of no where.)


are they boundaries? or meant for guidance?

am i supposed to walk the line?
can i cross it? (would you mind?)
do these lines intersect? (can we?)
do they run parallel? (will we never touch?)

and most of all do they have an end?
these lines are tangled. and so am i.

father's day

you are never easy. you sneak up on me when i am alone to remind me why i am alone...while everyone else is celebrating father's day and i am not.

my dad passed away eighteen years ago. i dont talk about it a lot, because i'm not sure what to say. i still hate having that initial conversation when someone finally acknowledges that i never mention my dad. i preface my explanation with: i was four, almost five years old, so it was a long time ago. i say that to assure the person, and myself for the thousandth time, that it doesnt hurt anymore. then the next inevitable and painful question comes, "how did he die?" i've never learned the right delivery for this answer. do i pause before i tell this person the truth? do i just rapidly spew it out? i dont know. i dont know! but then i answer: a drug overdose. i feel small and helpless immediately after. i want to explain to them that i understand his choices, or at least the explanation of those choices. i want them to unconditionally love my dad just like i do, even though he made a mistake.

a brave or curious person will ask me if i remember him very much. and i do, i so do. "it's a blessing and a curse," i add always feeling shamefully cliche. i shouldnt reduce my dad's memories to a cliche. but i do remember him, and it makes it hard.

father's day and the anniversary of his death sneak up on me like a sickness. at first it's a subtle tickle in my throat and i wonder what is wrong with me? i grow increasingly sad for what i think is no good reason. then one night it haunts me in my dreams. i see my dad, dream the same haunting dream i had after his death for years. as i grew older, the dream frequented me less, but it never left my subconscious. then the tickle in my throat becomes a fever, then chills, then i cant get out of bed and im down for the count.

the illness traps me and i am a four-year-old girl again. i am hiding tears from my mom alone in my room. she cant know it hurts this much. i am calling to the moon because that's where heaven is, right? and just because he died of a drug overdose doesnt mean he didnt go to heaven, right? and even if he is gone, i can still be the proverbial apple of his eye, right?

i was a daddy's girl. and i still claim that title.

these days dont come at me with grace. rather they shake and shock me to remind me i am just a daddy's-girl who lost her dad. and while im convinced i am a strong woman -- sometimes, these times, this time i am a delicate little girl and i miss my dad.