The Divorce

Lissy was a seven year old with pretty blond hair and dark brown eyes when she watched her daddy drive away for the last time. His fishing polls and ratty t-shirts packed into boxes.
She'd heard mommy crying as he walked out of the side door. Mommy spent a lot of time crying anymore. Ever since her baby brother had to go away.
Lissy knew what "divorce" meant, but she didn't know why it had to happen to her family. She remembered times when she'd gone to the park with mommy, or gone to the river with daddy. Happy times. But not anymore.
Lissy walked downstairs, holding onto the railing the whole way. Mommy sat on the floor in the kitchen staring at the cabinets. Maybe she saw shapes in the glass fronts just like Lissy did.
"Mommy?" Lissy said.
Mommy stared at the cabinets some more.
"Mommy, is daddy gone?"
Mommy nodded her head without looking. "He went away because he isn't happy."
"Is he coming back?" Lissy already knew the answer.
"No. No he isn't coming back."
Mommy stood up and walked over to Lissy. "Lissybeth you know how to make grilled cheese right?"
Lissy nodded her head, happy that she could do something so grown up.
"And you know how to make cereal for yourself?"
Again, Lissy nodded.
"You have plenty of clean clothes, and you know how to take a bath by yourself right?"
Lissy started to wonder if maybe she'd done something wrong. "Yes maam."
Mommy walked into the livingroom, again never looking at Lissy.
"Lissybeth you know how much I love your daddy don't you?"
"You used to call him your super hero."
"He still is Lissy. But I can't make him happy."
Lissy stood next to mommy and held her hand. "Maybe it was me, maybe I didn't make him happy."
Finally mommy glanced down at her. "No Lissybeth, it isn't you."
Mommy walked over to the desk in front of the big window. "Lissybeth, you know I can't live without your daddy don't you? I can't be alone."
Lissy stood where she was. "But you have me mommy."
"I know, but I can't do this without him." It sounded like mommy was far away. "Lissy, I want you to go up to your room now. Go up to your room and be a good girl."
Lissy automatically did what mommy asked, something she'd always been told to do. When she got to the stairs she looked back at mommy.
"I love you mommy."
Mommy looked at her. "I love you too Lissybeth."
Lissy had just closed the door to her room when she heard the loud POP.
She knew what that sound was, and she knew not to go downstairs.
And so Lissy did the only thing she could.
She crawled into her pink and white bed, and went to sleep.

Ravings of a Mad Woman

I think it's interesting how people are constantly wearing masks. Not literally masks, but they make they're face portray something other than what they actually feel.

I suppose most of this is due to the stigma that it is somehow unacceptable to be anything but stupidly happy all of the time. Does it mean there's something wrong with being sad or angry or disappointed?

I understand that it isn't exactly healthy to walk around feeling sorry for yourself every minute of everyday. And really I am not the person to tell anyone to talk about what is in the depths of they're psyche.

How many times have I been told that I never talk about myself, or when something is visibly wrong I tend to shut down and get angry if pushed too far.

I have never been a big fan of talking about feelings. It usually makes me feel stupid afterward.

But does this make me seem boring to those who don't know me? Does this preference to listen to others instead of myself make me seem dull?

There are times when I wish my brain would shut of for a while, just so I could spend an hour or so without over thinking everything. Over-analyzing is one of my specialties.

I've never been afraid of being alone, not lonely, but alone. There is a difference.

You can be alone and not be lonely, just as you can be lonely but never alone.

Being alone has never scared me. For the most part I do well by myself.

So what does that say about me?

Doorknobs and Candle Wax

There once was this girl.
And this girl had a red door.
Not a new door, but not an old one either.
But a well loved and well used red door.

Behind this red door she put all her memories, both good and bad.
She put all her sad thoughts.
They were all stacked in messy stacks with big blue signs on top.

After every memory she would choose the most interesting sign and stick the memory.
All the while this girl would smile and say that she had no regrets, no mistakes.
Because you see, this girl had convinced herself that if she couldn't see it then the hurt didn't exist.

But one day this girl opened the door and all of her memories were gone.
All her sad feelings were missing.
She slammed the red door and kicked at the wall.

It was the doors fault, it had failed her.
Because you see, instead of being locked behind a door they had all found they're way into her mind.
And so now, this girl I know, is looking for a new red door.

Mint Julips and Porch Swings

There are specific things I love about the South.

I love sitting outside at night, especially summer nights.

The air is so thick it feels like someone covered you with a wet sheet in the middle of a sauna.

People talk about how southern nights are quiet, but I find them anything but. The screech of frogs and cicadas filling the darkness.

June bugs and moths circling the glow of street lamps.

Lightening bugs dancing in yards.

And no matter where you are there are stars to be seen. And even if you're in the middle of a city it's rarely more than a 20 minute drive to the middle of nowhere.

The slowness of summertime is maybe my favorite, although a little hurry and rush is never a terrible thing.

These are some of the things I love most.

One foot out the door, one foot on the threshold.

Sad, melancholy, forlorn. Whatever you want to call it, that's what I am.

I can't explain why I feel that way. I just do.

There should be more than this. I should be more.

But how do you change something when you're not even sure what "it" is?

Talking about it isn't an option. Sympathy is and will not be tolerated.

To say I feel alone is an understatement.

But why am I not ok with that? Why do I need someone to pay attention?

Why should I care?

Saying I need something to change no longer helps.

Saying that I feel restless doesn't begin to cover it.

I need my turning point!

It's not that I want things to be better. I need them to be more.

I need myself to be more.

I want to be satisfied.

I want to be content.

Does that mean settling?

Does that mean becoming complacent?

Unhappiness has become part of my routine.

I need some shock and awe!

Something, dear God anything!