I was this human that wasn't human but a shell. I was a vessel for toxic tendencies.

I'm an observer. It is something that has portrayed me as shy and quiet. However, if I am comfortable with you and have plenty of sleep I am not shy and quiet. I like to watch people and listen to people. I presume that people don't always find this as true. I do not ask people to understand me. I ask people to not assume.

When I first start to get involved with someone I tend to be hyper aware but intrigued at the same time. Talking about myself, like most people, comes easy to me although opening up about the dark corners of my heart and mind are troubling. I get attached easy. I want to relate as well. Though opening those dark corners is opening myself up in ways not many people receive.

I recently got out of a relationship a bit ago. I'm not one to over analyze too much but I am one to try and understand what happened and how did it happen. I started to not feel heard. I started to feel as though my problems were not big enough to be heard. My heart retracted and started to detach. I drew back and started to observe again, to understand the situation. It was already too late. Things happen to us and we instantly argue and think that it is the other person's fault. Oddly enough, it so could happen to be that the issue was mutual.

When someone critics my character, life choices, personality, and the like I want to change it for the better whether it is true or not. I become quiet and observe in my own life at my own self. I look around and see how people interact with me. I have dealt with a lot of anger in my life and it doesn't suit me anymore. It impinges my heart in a way that I can't stand.

A simplistic lifestyle is something I enjoy. Admittedly, I like the expensive things and all the tasty foods but I find when I cultivate simplistic values and experiences I am more happy. It is a viewpoint that can change your world view dramatically.

The pain I have felt and have had to deal with is a lot to say the least. My story is my story. When I work with my patients, kids and teenagers who are mentally unstable, I see my younger self sometimes. The scary thing is I could of benefited from going to intense therapy or maybe even a partial program at a mental health hospital. There were times were I couldn't think clearly for more than a hour. I was this human that wasn't human but a shell. I was a vessel for toxic tendencies.

It has only been three years that I have felt me. I have experienced the real me. I find that relationships have been easier to build and maintain. I have two people in my life that I cannot imagine life without. They have seen me at my worse, have felt my worse, seen my best, have felt my best, and have guided me. My love for them is a great and empowering love.

I have been observing again. I've been observing people I once knew only a month ago. I'm observing people I just met. I have been observing how people relate to me and I relate to them. I have been observing how people dissociate and associate to pain in their own lives. It has taught me that change is possible and a human is complex. It takes more than a few months or even a year to fully know a human. I can't judge a human in my life solely on a few months of knowing them. I wouldn't want that for myself.

I believe the best way to get to really know someone and who they are is to see how they deal with pain. In that you will find how resilient they are, how determined, how resourceful, how spiritual, how loving and caring, and how their body heals mentally...what being healthy is for them.

Trauma doesn't understand healing.

Beauty and honesty can go hand in hand. There is beauty in honesty and honesty in beauty. This is something I've been trying to write for years and years but there never seemed a right time until now. 

4:09am. I’ve woken up between 3am and 4am for years now. It’s my fears and tears still trickling in. Somehow now I can’t shake it off. In October it will be 9 years. When I was living on the coastline in the sunshine there was this timeline that has forever impacted me. It sometimes prevents me to make contact with the most simplest interactions. 

4:09am. My brother woke me up. 4:09am my brother woke me up on October 31st, 2007. It wasn’t to prepare for all those early trick or treaters. But it definitely felt like a trick, like weighted bricks on my back ready to somehow attack me to the point that I wake up now between 3am and 4am every night. 

She would make me one of my favorite desserts. Combining egg whites with cake batter to make me angel food cake. Hearing her chatter in the kitchen to some best friend for hours. Outside in the sunshine I would be picking flowers for her to say I was sorry for splattering the batter all over the floor. 

She nicknamed me precious and called me the icing on her cake. Once in awhile I would let her dress me in pink and think thats what I wanted…though all that would happen would be a bellyache growing inside me. I was her little girl, her only girl. I wasn’t allowed to like girls. 

4:09am I woke up to my brother saying “It’s time.” He couldn’t utter the words, for saying She’s dead, she died, it happened, forms an instant stutter in your mouth like peanut butter incrusted on your lips. You dip into this mood that forms an eternal feeling of feeling like your unveiling your deepest self every time someone asks “Where does your mom live?” “What does she do for a living?"

After dinner, my dad asked me if I was willing to give my mom a shower. A tower of the most uncomfortable feelings surrounded me. The cancer spread from her breast to her hip to her lungs to her brain. I wasn’t trained for this. I didn’t understand this. 16 and showering the vomit from your mother’s body. Her mind was losing control only to show me tell me with smile before I showered her, “It’s like your my mother now.” 

When trauma sets in with a warning or not, the impact is an attack for your entire life. Cutting in like a serrated knife and trying to gain friction to get away from the affliction and constriction. Oh, Momma there is always this drama in my life. I’ve been in a coma, this comatose state. I let depression hit me like a freight train that I couldn’t tame for years. I got my diploma like I said. I forgot your aroma and the sound of your voice. I make choices sometimes that hurt the ones around me only to ground me so no one gets too close. I break down and bring down, let down because trauma…doesn’t understand healing. 

When I was 16, 4 in the morning was her last breath on Halloween. Trauma. Tragic trauma. It has made me strong and create these bonds with certain humans. It has made me frustrate and deflate others. I’m tragically imperfect and I don’t need your verdict to know. But yes this is me, this is my circuit. I try to rewire and resurface myself because trauma doesn’t understand healing. Healing understands feelings even the most unappealing feelings. So yes I am selfish because one day you will die too and I don’t know if I will be able to handle it.

B I T C H

We hear this word more often than not. It doesn’t have to be before a gun shot goes off. Or after the thought of someone mistreating another. Don’t bother to guess because I’ll tell you anyways. The word we used started to describe a female dog. And not the kind that just sits on a log waiting to be petted. No, this kind of dog is the one that's over sexed. Or how they say it? in heat. Let me not beat around the bush but it may used when a woman is not in heat but being beaten. Normally it isn’t for the women that are sweetened a little, no its the women that seem to taste like a lemon. It’s not for the smitten kitten who seems to be wearing mittens sitting in the kitchen on Reddit. Its for the villain or the timid chicken in the story. Its the timid chicken swimming in someone else’s linens in prison.

The word is bitch. When I get nervous I itch the side of my arm or the side of my head. This word bitch makes me itch and twitch. A bit ago I found myself on the ridge of this word though I think I found a bridge that doesn’t glitch. A bridge to start to build the gap and remove it from the word witch or bewitched. It removes the word from bullying. Mistreating. It helps to improve us, women. It’s called conversation and to remove the starvation of attention to this word. I call to attention the usage and the abusive tendency it has to offer.

Feminist are starting to change it or is that just Beyonce. Or I’m I saying Beyonce because I like to use Beyonce in all my spoken words? Bow down bitches? Or is the  mountain range feminist have to climb high and far but by far this is one word has to change.

Then there is another phrase that has been developing. The ways in which it seems to be staying is relevant in that fact that we now dress up as them in Halloween, even the tweens do. In today culture it may seem native to this breed and it is anything but invasive...or is it? Basic bitch. A basic bitch defined in my handy dandy urban dictionary comes out to be a “bum-ass woman who think she the shit but really ain’t”, although the one that struck in my head the most was number 4, “A person, particularly a female, who believes they are the shit because they own a certain type of clothing/material that differentiates them from other people. They may also believe they hold a higher standard then regular people.” Somebody who is boring and unoriginal....They are not scoring or roaring their achievements, they are pouring with snoring attitudes.

But when you think basic bitch, all you think is a bland white female middle upper class woman. Is the term tearing down a culture? A gender? Or is it just fun to say?
When we surrender to this terminology, we render the word and make in slender than the actually meaning by putting all the definitions in a blender and calling it funny.

Is it acceptable? Are we making this word adaptable? IF the skeleton of the word falls in to the wrong hands it does make it extremely terrible. My dream however is to ream out the ugliness of the word bitch and be able to scream it whenever. The word when you say it makes you feel some type of power. Is that good? Beyonce does say bow down bitches but Jay Z says 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one...
What does the word bitch do to you? Does it itch the back of your throat and make your voice go into a high pitch? Is your brain unhitched from your tongue which makes it impossible for you to see that the word bitch, basic bitch, bitches, needs some action, some reaction?

If you call me a bitch I won’t twitch, flinch, and have an allergic reaction to this transaction but let it roll off your tongue because it has flung off my tongue like a pile dung before. It has sprung out and stung the ones close by me. But when I say “My Chain hits my chest/When I’m banging on the dashboard/My chain hits my chest/When I’m banging on the radio” I feel like a bad bitch.

Rest in My Laughter

"A tornado flew around my room before you came

Excuse the mess it made, it usually doesn't rain

In Southern California, much like Arizona"

Alarm off no wait alarm to snooze. Ten more minutes

"A tornado flew around my room before you"

Alarm off. Get up. Change my clothes. wash my face. put something on my face. do something with this hair. 

Go downstairs. Make coffee. Make lunch. make breakfast.

Get in the car. clock in. sit down for report. 

Read through the sheet. Act like nothing bothers you. nothing bothers anyone here. Then wait you see something huge and the words “What the fuuuu?!?” spew out. 

I have these stories jumbled in my head.

I force them in sometimes so they don’t tumble out to the floor. 

They will either bore them or frighten them and silence ensues. 

Kids yelling Kids screaming. Kids saying Fuck you. 

little hands doing grown up things. 

little minds not so little here. 

though most of the stories make me laugh. and when you bring them to the surface for others to hear there is no laughter. 

But when you work my job, laughter is what saves you. bow down to laughter. behave in front of it or it disowns you.

I’ve been swung at, I’ve been cursed at by a 6 year old, I’ve been grabbed at, my chest has been grabbed. But I haven’t been bitten, yet. Though my clothes have been ripped. 

I’ve been a support system….a safe ground. I smile to find and hide in your pocket forever. I’ve been a friend for 8 hours. I’ve secretly cried on the inside when they told me their story. 

I’ve asked them, if you could combine two animals what would it be and what would you call it?

I’ve asked them, you have two months to travel all paid for where do you go?

I’ve asked them, you are stranded on an island what two items that you can buy on amazon would you pick?

I haven’t asked…how long did it take you to make those scars on your arms? I haven’t asked how did you escape from that last mental hospital? I haven’t asked what did you think about last night in those super fucking cold rooms?

Instead I make them think and tink around their mind to find that someone here is willing to be their friend. and not have to bend over backwards. 

Performance performance performance appraisal. one year down in the pin. at work I try to do my best in any situation even if this might not be my vocation. Someone mentioned that I appeared unprofessional but over all I was professional. I get it. I’m too funny for work. I get it I’m too laid back for kids who talk to doctors all day. that see shadows in their room. that think the only way to survive is to die. I get it my humor isn't wanted. I get it having my mom die and falling into thoughts of suicide means I can’t be professional and having my degrees in Psych doesn’t mean a thing. I get it. 

though Laughter, I want to laugh. I want to laugh like a giraffe does, isn’t that a funny picture? I want to laugh like the golden cafe did when the Israelites were anxious for Moses to come down. I want to practice a level of care that isn't obnoxious, that doesn’t make you anxious, that isn’t being an actress or actor like that other doctors, I want to be a blank canvas for those who are anxious, obnoxious, actress or actors 

The factor is, what are you going to do when they reach the boiling point reactor. You gotta be the butt joint to hinge the joint from rage to a page of chronic laughter.

Being harmonic with not their demonic side but the laughter that's inside. 

When the page turner comes around in report and nothing makes sense to how they are acting…you gotta say What the fuck is going on…If I have to spit and spat like donald duck to make one of them laugh then I can pass that on as a success that I did my best.