The Tales of Virago-- A Beautiful Mess

     Today I was asked to come face to face with the things I have been dishonest about. The things I carry in my pocket. The things I protect. The things I bury. The things I have justified, or believed for so long as just practice- and tried to rationalize as okay when all along they have done nothing, but rob me of my freedom, and design. Leave me void of the life I have been called to live, and envelop me in a veil of darkness that oftentimes keeps me awake until 3am questioning my own decisions.     But still- I swear that I am right  Ed is right.      On my list I rejoiced because things I struggled with, and addictions I justified and hid have been chains that have been broken even in the last six months since I performed this exercise. But then, I looked long and hard at this little orange sheet of paper that stood before my eyes. At the words that stood before what was only my two eyes, or so I thought for all of a spli...

    Precarious. She sat precariously teetering on the line of O.K., numb, and desperate for quite some time, but did not realize what the tipping point would be until she had pushed it beyond the boundary. It happened so quickly, and looking behind her, she wonders where the time has escaped to.      She opens herself. Surveying the contents, as if they were a disheveled drawer that contained all the contents for which she had been looking for. They were there all along, but she could not seem to find them, nor could she begin to grasp them or remember how to even use them. Fog: A paralyzed state of mind, and sense of perception. Feeling detached from oneself, in a distorted sense of view.       It is in these moments, she casts her gaze within herself and draws upon obsolete emotion, that objects her to dark matter that only propels her further away. Or worse yet, she reaches within herself, and looks at the outer veil to ...

         There is another part of Samantha who exists, but there are few people presently involved in my life that know about her. Otherwise, she mostly remains unnamed, unmentioned, and I attempt to keep her at bay as she is the Samantha who is the remains of an unwelcome guest who still occasionally haunts me. She is the Samantha who has no place in my life today as the woman I stand for. As the woman I am becoming, and have become.       I often find myself flashing back to moments wherein I am reminded of this young lady who was so troubled. For so long, I tried to rid myself of what I thought was a shameful past that needed to be kept a secret from those I met today simply because it is not conventional and perfect . It holds stigma. I have felt so much shame from it that I have hidden it from even my professors and colleagues because I feared their judgement . I hid it from my closest friends. My church. Things I w...

    Pink Martini was playing in the car when I read "no fat girls." This bumper sticker plastered to the back of this old, worn nissan driven by a man who had been eyeing me as I tread through the parking lot certainly made me want a martini, but I sat behind this man for a solid two minutes at a stoplight of what seemed to last eons, feeling the repulsed state of hatred and anger within myself further manifest.      This is not the first time I have seen this or things such as this either. Unfortunately, it will probably not be the last either. I realize America is a free country, of free speech, and before I go running my mouth- I know just as I have the right to express my outrage, he has the right to express his opinions of sexualized, false manhood, and egocentrical boyhood vain, and shallow desires in the land of unattainable appearances in the complex of what I would furthermore simply describe as- "asshole."       Ok......

      I finally thought I had found my worth, and then I came home. Life unraveling at the seams in a matter of days- the progress fought so hard for unhinging at the tips. Your pointed words seemed to creep closer until I found myself being suffocated by a tangle of denigration by not only myself now, but the affirmation of others of what a waste I was. How I was a burden. How my work was but meaningless.  How I was meaningless.      It feels as though the waters are rising around me, and I gasp for air that simply does not exist, or lifeguards that simply cannot save me, and I feel pathetic as I cannot save myself. Somehow I have forgotten how. Amidst your words, your calls, the body shaming encounters I have had- the attacks upon my dignity, the mutters beneath his breath when I enter the room, the outbursts... I feel overwhelmed.     I know I must make it, but I do not know how. I must. I must. I have to. I must.  ...

     It is not your fault.  I know you probably don't believe me, but I wanted you to know that. I have fought a war of denigration for years to make peace with mind, soul, and body in this pursuit of acceptance- and I have watched far too silently as others struggle drowning beneath the crash of their own self deafening waves that have overtaken them...      We look away because it hurts to watch. It's uncomfortable.  This is what infuriates me, and saddens me. The lack of ignorance, but also the refusal and closed mindedness to learning. We do not choose our storms- our adversities- our oceans, and the waves that transcend us. Each of of us would give just about anything for the taste of freedom amidst the struggle. Yet, the issue is we do not know how. How to free ourselves. How to stop flailing, and ride our waves of terror, and swim- or trust the lifeguards that come to help us because we have been hurt so many times that we have tra...

     “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. ” Maya Angelou       You could pay for my entire college education, and I would still never repeat elementary school. I would not repeat middle school, so lest a crocodile came- grabbed me by my leg, and dragged me - and you sure as hell wouldn't dare ask me to walk the halls of my high school as a student once more. No.       To the people who used to make me feel small:       No, I am not talking about skinny , or attractive , and societies imposed, demented standards of beauty . You were always quick to do the opposite. As you called me out for being different - or being intelligent . You tried to teach me that was wrong. Your harsh words as the children we were ended up being the very thing that drove me to sitting alone at lunchtime- or playing by myself...