On Ceiling Fans and Losing my Memory

You put up walls so high that nobody can touch you. And then one day, in the most mundane and un-earth-shattering moment possible, you realize people CAN get to you. You’re sitting in bed binging on Netflix, you’re pumping gas at the gas station, you’re asking Google questions you should already know; whatever, you’re just living life. 

And then it hits you…


You ARE vulnerable. You are human. You do have feelings. You're not unbreakable, now.


And you sigh, out of relief, because you realize that it IS possible to feel again. Which gives you hope that maybe one day you can love again. Which gives you instant jumping beans in your stomach that maybe one day you can fall as hard as you fell, and you can give as much as you gave; more than you did before.


And you sigh, out of disappointment, because now you can be let down. Now every one of your remarks isn't sarcastic, and it's not a game. It's your heart. It's your future.


And aside from reassuring the ever-so-clingy Netflix that yes, you are still there, and yes, you are still watching, you begin to feel a little afraid.


I have three irrational fears... That come to mind right now. Ceiling fans, losing my memory, and not being enough.


Ceiling fans, well, just write this one off. It is the definition of an irrational fear. But to my defense, have you seen these HUGE fans they make now?! Talk about sudden death when one of those suckers spins too fast! Hard pass, please.


Losing my memory, though, maybe not so irrational. I'm 24 right now, but know that our minds are fickle. Lumosity brain games are forever enticing, and I constantly fret that the size of my hippocampus is shrinking; which it does. The struggle is real here, people. I have the memory of a goldfish. (Actually, I learned that gold fish actually have a memory span that is approximately three months. How they test that? I have no earthly idea! But just humor me here…I’m a living version of Dory.)


Not being enough, though, is a real fear. It is deeply rooted, in society and my inner voice, your inner voice, too.

Let me put it simply, 

not even your average BOWL will suffice these days. 

Bread bowls have become all the rage, and now they are introducing churro bowls and chocolate bowls!

A standard bowl is not enough anymore, what makes me think I AM?!


You get the point. Everything is, 'new and improved.' Everything is, 'the most badass,' and everything is version 2.0. Everything is a bread bowl, not an average bowl.


I'm just me.

Little me who is okay with using a ceramic bowl, or a plastic bowl, to scoop gallons of ice cream in to assuage my fear that I am not enough.


I think it’s time to put my irrational fears to bed. (A bed with a ceiling fan not directly above it, while playing my nightly memory game.)


I'm just me. I am enough.

You are enough, too.


You deserve a home that welcomes you in. 

You deserve a career that satiates your craving to grow.

You deserve to unabashedly soak in this beautiful life.

You deserve someone who makes vulnerability as easy as a Sunday drive.

You deserve someone who gives you jumping beans in the pit of your belly when you see their face.



Remember when your inner voice shakes, that you are enough, and you deserve it all.
You’re more than enough.

Dear FuckBoys,

My heart aches for you.

Seriously.

We live in a world where, "Fuckboy Repellent," exists because there are so many 'FuckBoys.' (Jeez; the term is about as brash as the negative connotation behind it..but there's no dancing around this one.) 

My heart aches for me, too; for the girls in the world.  Because I seem only to be attracted to these not-so-rare creatures called fuck boys; to the point that I'm buying stock in FuckBoy repellent. (Wait; that's childish, let me rephrase..... I'm merely investing in a business endeavor capitalizing on FuckBoys 'round the world. Cheers.) 

I live with my eyes wide open. I've made a habit of this. It lets me have an open mind about mistakes and heartbreak and new adventures and strangers and loved ones. It lets me make each day some semblance of an adventure without the high price of flying to Paris for brunch. (Bottomless mimosas, anyone?) 

But as wide as my eyes are, I'm going to see the best in you. I'm going to believe your words. I'm going to hang on them; trust them. 

You don't know how to let people in. You don't know how to let people trust you or believe in you. 

••DISCLAIMER: I think you can be happy, not letting people in. My happiness does not equal your happiness and vice versa; the pursuit and definition of happiness is different for everyone. So if you're a FuckBoy reading this and you're sincerely happy, stop now and keep on keepin' on.••

But my heart aches for the FuckBoys who are FuckBoys because of FuckGirls in their past or fucked up situations that made them into FuckBoys. ((Saying all the prayers and apologizing profusely to my coworker who hates the F bomb and my mother; love you! Sorry! Had to be said!))

You don't want someone to focus on you. You no longer posses the ability to believe in love, to value another human and their ability to bring you happiness. You ride the surface waves of contentment. Never breaking down your walls, never letting anyone in deep enough to hurt you, you've been too hurt in the past.

Here's a love letter to you; because even Some-Other-Word-For-Fuck-Boys need love; 

Dear FuckBoy, 

You don't need fixed. You're not a project. You're not actually a, "FuckBoy," and we should SERIOUSLY stop using that term. It's only giving a title to something that we shouldn't be giving attention to, so let me start over: 

Dear Human Like Me, 

I love the way you're independent. The way you have a passion that exudes into every facet of life. I love the way you're strong and bold and get exactly what you want. I love those things about you. 

I love the life that has led you to this point, because it's written a story on your heart. It's made you, you. It's given you an edge that no one else has. A heart that has struggled and reflected, a heart that wasn't fed by a silver spoon. 

I know you don't want someone to tell you nice things, though. Not enough to the point of actually caring. To tell you they believe in you and have your back 110%. You don't want someone to put all their focus on you, because you can't put all your focus on them. 

I get it, though. Because I've been you, with someone else. I've been the one that just needs someone to fill a void for a moment, but not ready to commit. I've been someone who needs the attention, but not the feelings. Ive been the one ignoring slews of text messages and phone calls and not feeling a thing whilst doing so. I've unknowingly hurt people because I was hurt myself. I didn't do it with malicious intent, I did it with a slightly-still-broken heart. 

I've been you, and you've been me.

I don't wish you could value me, or value another human, or believe in true love that conquers all. I wish you could see how valuable YOU are. How much I crave seeing your soul with no barriers. How the world comes alive when I get thirty second snippets of your true feelings. I wish you could see you, how I see you. I wish you could value you, like I value you. 

You're not a #FuckBoy, you're a #ValuedMan. And I wish you would let others see that, but more importantly, I wish you'd look in the mirror and see it, too. 

Im writing this to let you in on a little secret. One day you will meet someone who questions everything you've been doing this far. Who meets you in the middle; who's crazy matches your crazy. Who makes you feel like your waiter just brought your food and two desserts you didn't pay for. Who shares your darkest secrets, and unravels your biggest dreams. Who grinds with you and never lets you settle. Who pushes you towards your dreams. Who's got you, and if that day ever comes, you've got too. 

You're worthy of love. And I hope you accept the love you deserve. 

Sincerely,

In Your Court. 

I Should Have Written This In Second Grade

I took my first plane ride from Denver, CO to Tampa, FL. Yes, of course I chose some of the largest airports in the United States to go fumble around like a lost puppy and attempt to board my flight. I literally get lost going to the end of my driveway, so, the airport itself was an adventure.

 

I kept finding myself wanting a hand to hold, scanning the vast space for a familiar face, or wanting to giggle about this whole experience with someone; but in the end, I am glad I took the plunge myself. 

 

I don’t remember ever being in an airport, honestly. I have seen them in movies, and I have a general knowledge of what goes on in these mystery gigantic warehouses, but I had NO idea what they actually looked or felt like… or smelled like for that matter.

 

So although a, “My First Plane Ride,” post probably should have come when I was in second grade, here I am at 24 writing about my first time boarding my flight.

 

Here are a few snippets that went through my mind:

 

-       The train is FAST. (Who even knew you had to ride a train to get to your gate, and then back to the terminal… Two in one?! Ch’yeahhhh) Everyone stands there like they are on some important business venture, no matter what nonsense they are wearing, and then there I was- Smiling from ear to ear like I’m on my first rollercoaster ride. IT’S FAST, people, SMILE. Jeez.

-       The only people populating the airport are apparently lovers and weirdos. I guess I’ll qualify for the latter this time around.

-       There’s so much sleeping. I’ve never seen more lethargic people in my entire life. I wrote this one off on my first flight because it was at midnight; I assumed that was the name of the game. Then I got on a flight at around 6, and same case. I didn’t get the memo that the social norm was to be lethargic and laizzes-faire; UT OH. 

(SorryNotSorry for all you sleeping beauties in the picture) 

-       I have to actively remind myself to keep my eyes at a normal size. BUT THERE’S SO MUCH TO SEE…and I have giant eyes.

-       The safety tutorial in the plane was everything I dreamed of and more.

-       There has to be a crying baby or it’s no flight at all.

-       My first plane smelled like old McDonald’s french fries. In case you were wondering, they don’t smell good when they are…fresh? Let alone old. Y.U.C.K.

-       Escalator are so much scarier with luggage on hand. Not for me, guys, but this less-than-pleasant bro in front of me, he could care less if my flip flop got eaten alive by the escalator. Near death experience PRE-flight, not my cup of tea. Hard pass, please… and these flip flops were NEW. #AllTheRageEmojis #EscalatorScars #MoveYoLuggageBro

-       I’ve never seen a more gorgeous sunset.

-       People don’t talk on planes. It is almost like you are being MORE rude, if you politely introduce yourself, and then it’s more awkward for the entire flight instead of just ignoring them. Who would have known. 

-       I’ve never been able to describe something as a “heavy weightlessness,” but this is exactly how I felt on the plane.

There you have it. A few tiny tidbits of my first experience flying.

The whole experience was just… WOW. I want to fly everywhere, everyday. Now.. Time to unpack. 

 

Calling Bullshit On Our Generation.

I'm calling bullshit on our generation.

#SorryNotSorry.

^ we say weird shit like this, obvi. Totes acceptable to abbreviate every word. Strawbana smoothie, anyone? 

We're too scared to feel. Too fucking scared to be open. Dating requires openness and being vulnerable and exposed, but we can't. We #canteven.

Because we've fallen before. We've shown our deepest parts to someone who left, someone who took the biggest parts of us with. 

We've been hurt, and to knowingly revisit that hurt, would be dumb. We shut people out. We get so used to not feeling that eventually, we can't. We're used to being numb, so being casual is the norm. No titles. No commitment. 

We're too fucking afraid to care.

We march by the beat of this, "live in the moment, #YOLO, experience every moment to the fullest," mantra; which is basically just an eloquent way to say, "I'm doing whatever the hell I want, this is living to me, so just make sure you don't get feelings." 

But I call bullshit.

I think we're a generation who's been hurt. 

Because casual isn't fun when you find someone who is brilliant and funny and sexy AF. Not caring isn't fun when one tiny cinder block falls off your wall and you start to wonder what it would be like to lose this person. Being numb loses it's protective shield when those 2am mornings creep in like an unwanted visitor. 

And so we go in circles. We strive to not care so we don't get hurt, then we let our guard down when we least expect it. When our iPhones beg us to pick up the phone and text that someone, and it hits us, we're hurting; bleeding even. 

Never healed. 

And so our walls get fortified. 

And we go on being the generation that never healed. The generation that was hurt. The generation that numbs because caring would be too much of a fucking chore; too big of a sacrifice for our YOLO lifestyle.

And I get it; because these circles might be better than that ultimate loss.

I just can't do it, though.

It's bullshit.

We're a generation that is too smart not to care. A generation that **insert Beyoncé song here** rules the world. Really. 

This world is our oyster right now. While we are 24 and free. While we are educated and driven and charismatic and beautiful. 

Now is the time to care, while the world is ours. So I'm begging you, millennials and beyond-- just care. 

Falling While Standing

I feel good; great even.

I feel confident in my own skin, of course with those deeply self-loathing moments we all have.

I recently got the keys to this studio apartment that is everything I imagined. It has these less-than-perfect brick floors with a few bricks I’ve mapped in my mind not to step on again. It has four giant windows that are the death of me when I forget to close the curtains. It has so much space, for just one me, that I’ve had to fill the walls with laughter and daydreams instead of furniture. I have this flawless view of the peak, a bike trail right in front of me whispering, “one more run,” perpetually in my ear, a park in front and a pool to the side. It’s bliss. I’m not exaggerating.

I have found my feet, and I’m standing. I know what I want, and I’m working for it.  A woman who has made up her mind is truly a powerful creature; I’m telling you this as I can’t for the life of me decide on which font I want to use here... 

I’m not the same soul I once was, because so much has changed. So much had to change.

 

But now I’ve hit the point of independence where I’m not sure I know how to be vulnerable any longer. Vulnerability is something I struggle with immensely. Because I don’t know shades of gray; I am an all or nothing person. I either forget to eat the whole day, or eat every taco that ever existed on Taco Tuesday. I give you none of me or I give you all of me. I'm working on balance, but I'm working more on being okay with ME; and not looking for someone to change me or want anything different than who I am. 

And boy, has this taken a long time; there's no finish-line in self-respect, it's a perpetual game of owing yourself what you deserve. 

I'm not preaching about feminism, or telling you to never let anyone in. Quite the opposite. Men are not terrible beings. (Scratch that, they are, at times.. But so are the bombshells, ladies, I'm talking to you) They're intoxicating, addictive, messes of chaos and wonder that we crave the craziness of falling for. 

But we can be strong and independent, and we can fall at the same time. 

The problem is finding the right one to fall for... The one who helps us see parts of ourselves that we cannot alone, the one who makes vulnerability easy as pie on Sunday morning.

So I'm asking you to find your place, and stand. Stand up for your self-worth, as tempting as it may be not to. Stand up for your morals, your dreams, and those tiny places in your heart that are healing. You deserve someone who sees you. You deserve someone who makes you laugh. And you deserve to fill your cup before it can overflow to others. 

And know that in the end, it's okay to fall while you're standing. 

I Am So Mean!

I'm mean. 

I'm literally the meanest person I will ever meet.

My artwork is never good enough, my writing never finished enough, my stomach never flat enough, and my heart never big enough.

I am my own worst critic. 

I think you are, too.

I know because I see the way you look at yourself in the mirror. I know because you hide your smile. I know because if I asked you to name three things you love about yourself, you'd stand there for twenty minutes and not be able to come up with one. You'd be like, "I can make a mean grilled cheese," or some weird schtuff like that. If I asked you to name three things you hate about yourself, your list would be longer than the list of things that offended people in 2015 (if you don't keep up with the internet abyss, that was everything. Every. Single. Thing.) 

Sometimes our inner, berating ourselves voice gets SO LOUD, that we can't hear anything anyone is telling us.

We can't accept a compliment because we couldn't ever possibly believe it. We can't consider ourselves beautiful because there are far prettier girls out there. We never think our body is enough, and our wardrobe?! Don't get me started...

But what happens when we start being confident in ourselves? 

I've started to silence that mean-girl inside of me. The one that scoffs at my ideas, the one that makes a disgusted face in the mirror after her shower, the one that never shows her smile. I would really never have any friends if I talked to them the way I talk to myself, so no more. Bye, mean girl. HELLO, not-so-much-of-a-biotch girl. 

Sometimes we need to silence our inner voice enough to hear the praises around us; the viewpoint of a friend. And then we need to transition that jerk inside our own mind into a friend. 

Dear noggin, you've got a friend in me.

Sincerely,

Nice Girl. 

P.S. That is a giant pink cookie cake. The apple of my eye. Don't know where and don't know why. You're the only reason I keep on coming home. 

Hello... It's Me.

I am a slow healer.

If someone gets through a break up in six months, it's going to take me two years. 

If someone mourns the loss of a loved one passing away for years, I'll be weeping sporadically my whole life.

I go through the healing process slowly, but surely... For lack of a better phrase. Some just call me stubborn and emotional, but, there's method to my madness sweet pea. 

I believe so strongly in experiencing every emotion to its fullest, so when I'm heartbroken, or mourning, or whatever it may be, I'm going to experience it. 

I'm not going to shove it aside like yesterday's pizza (bad analogy, day-old pizza is honestly the bees knees; but you get my point.) Emotions are powerful, and if truly FELT, can invoke a sense of self that you may not have felt before.

I like to be happy with the rest of you, trust me. A day at the pool with the sunshine beating down on me, a turkey burger in hand, and an ice-cold drink in the other is more than welcome on my calendar any day. But, I know that I can't push aside the bad days, the bad feelings, and the bad memories.

They're a part of me; they've created this human that I'm becoming proud to know. 

So, hello. It's me. This is me on the other side, Adele. 

 

I really did call (text) my ex a thousand times. I really was sorry for breaking him down. As I'm sure he was I. But, here I am, today, January 24th, 2016 at 8:16 pm being proud of the woman I am becoming {smacks gavel on podium, uproarious applause commences. Sorry, I got carried away! Saying the whole date just made this whole thing sound so monumental!! Can ya blame a girl?!} 

I know 2016 didn't roll around and VOILA! new year, new me. I know that because I've worked damn hard. I don't wake up not missing people. I don't wake up with a fiery desire to go to work every day. I don't naturally have all I need to face the day. But I am working for it all, slowly and surely. 

I've been working on my mental health, physical well-being, emotional strength, my education, my travel dreams, how far I can make it on one tank of gas, how many large pizzas I can order before I need an intervention, you know, the usual. 

So although I heal slow, I heal well. I heal strong. I heal. 

That's the sad part about our society. We tend to get broken, and then we carelessly place a bandaid over it, pretend we are happy, and then that festering wound never truly heals.... It just affects every part of our life from then on out. 

I urge you to heal slow. Heal in your own time. If you need to cry it out a hundred and one thousand times, do just that. But then I need that wound to heal. Because you have so much in you that deserves to not miss the past. You have so much in you that deserves a future, that deserves happiness. 

Grow strong and steady. 

Take your time. 

Heal slow.