I hate you

I hate you for making me smile

I hate you for making me laugh

I hate you for every time you said my hair looked nice

I hate you for every time you said you wanted a hug

I hate you for every single moment you spent with me

I hate you for every kiss I wanted to steal from you

I hate you for falling asleep on me

I hate you for saying my name the way you do

I hate you for holding me

I hate you for making me feel like I had really found somone

I hate you for making me think I was worth something

I hate you for making me feel safe

I hate you for texting me in the middle of the night

I hate you for staying up late on the phone until I fell asleep

But most of all

I hate you because I really don't hate you at all

See You In The Next One

-A.E.T.

When I see you

It's hard for me not to kiss you right on the spot

When I hear you

Butterflies begin to grow in my stomach

When I feel you

My heart begins to beat faster

When I smell your smell

I can't hold myself back from hugging you

It's 8 letters but it's so hard to say

It's hard to mumble to you

It's hard to do anything

I'm sorry that I couldn't do better

I'm sorry I'm not good enough

I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for you when you needed me the most

8 Letters and yet if I said them

We could still be together

Right?

-A.E.T.

I reclaimed my body by leaving pieces of it all over town.

The piercing parlor here, a doctor's office there. Pieces of "me" left in my wake. But instead of disappearing at the end of it, I sought to emerge whole, to discard the excess and strip myself down to the essentials.

It started long before I transformed it into a journey-on-purpose.

All four wisdom teeth, extracted the summer I was nineteen. The surgery offered assurances of feeling better, being better. I suffered through the painful, swollen healing process and recovered. The pain in my jaw, the headaches - all gone. Better.

Dozens of haircuts, tiny bits of my previous identity discarded to the floor. I wonder how many pieces of me are still out there in a landfill. Did any escape from a torn garbage bag and blow away to fertilize a patch of grass? Are they part of a bird's nest somewhere? Where did I go?

My dentist and his impossibly gorgeous assistants delve into my mouth to repair deep cavities. The drill buzzes and whines, removing layer after layer of enamel, creating larger and larger holes before they are backfilled with specialized cement. Organic teeth, diseased and decayed, replaced by artificial crowns that will never rot from plaque. Better.

I ask the dermatologist to remove a mole that constantly rubs against my bra strap. I find myself wondering where that little piece of me ended up. A waste bin decorated with biohazard stickers? A sterile landfill? An incinerator? But even incinerated, reduced to its primal elements of carbon and waste molecules, it's still out there.

Blood lost during a root canal while the endodontist and his young male assistant drawl about golf. I fall asleep out of boredom. When I jerk awake, my jaw is sore from being propped open, and they tell me that I snore. The doctor says that perhaps I should get that fixed. One "fix" reveals the need for another. This mission will never be over, I think.

Blood donations. Altruism in the form of literally donating a part of my body. The vital fluid will be renewed when my marrow produces fresh cells. The loss will not be permanent. But the sense of having done a good deed lingers.

I'm a better person now that part of me is missing, sucked out through a sterile needle and refrigerated until it is needed. I eat a cookie in the fluorescent-lit kitchen at the blood donation center. I go home and take a too-hot shower and almost faint. Stupid. I should have known better.

I feel like I am not a better person after all, I'm still my regular dumb self. Part of me is missing for a good cause and I almost died by fainting in the shower. I donate more blood as soon as I am eligible, paying careful attention to my shower's water temperature after each visit. If I do this correctly, again and again, I will become a better person.

A tattoo at twenty-seven after nearly a decade of indecision, unable to select a design that I will still love when I'm eighty. I finally choose my astrological symbol, reasoning that the only thing that will not change between here and the retirement home is my birthday. I am electric with anxiety, unsure of what to expect. The artist is a dude, about my age, and seemingly not all there. It hurts differently than I thought it would, but not too much, and it takes ages longer than I anticipated.

The itch lingers in my mind for weeks. I chase the buzzing and the pain of it four more times. Four more sessions with an artist. Four more healing periods of swelling and seeping, followed by scabbing and peeling. Pieces of me falling away, getting better. Closer to the new me.

At twenty-eight I have a child. The water breaking reminds me that I was carrying a whole world within my body, now drained and soaking into the absorbent pads on the gurney underneath my hips. The induction does not produce the desired outcome. My doctor leans over me with her warm, kind eyes and says that she needs to operate. An emergency C-section.

This time an entire human being is removed from me. I grew her myself, and now she can safely be detached to start her own life. Another piece of me - although not a selfish one, not one that was mine alone - is now gone. Pounds and inches fall away from my body while breastfeeding. I cut my hair short and chase the promise of a better me.

It does not work.

I am broken that entire spring and summer. I cry when I drop my keys. I cry when the toilet overflows. I cry when I think of how tiny my daughter is, and how everything that is wrong with her must be my fault. I want to disappear. I want to release everyone from the burden of caring for me. I do not wish to die, I simply wish to cease existing.

Postpartum depression. A medication from my doctor promises to fix the wonky brain chemicals, to make me better. It works. Pieces of my essential self start coming back to me.

More surgeries, age thirty. Severe sinus problems, and I think that my surgeon is soap-opera handsome and entirely too nice of a person to have the disgusting job of digging around in my skull. But the surgery works. Better.

Three months later I visit the ER with severe abdominal pain. My gallbladder needs to come out, but I get to keep a series of gnarly, full-color photos of it. One shows it laying on a blue surgical drape, in the next it is cut open to reveal the pearls that were hiding within. Another piece of me gone. Am I getting better?

I have an empty, inadequate, lifelong need inside. I try to fill it. Drinking. Drugs. Food. Nothing works.

I am forever hoping that I'll fit somewhere, but I'm not a puzzle piece looking for a spot to land, I'm a hungry hole rolling around and swallowing everything I can in order to fill myself. And holes don't fit anywhere.

I realize that the more I consume, the less of “me” there is to give to anyone. I quit the drugs. I quit drinking. I feel terrible. I fight the urge to shave my head, to make a mass statement of discarding "the old me."

Finally, slowly, deep down I start to feel better, and my husband and I decide we’re ready to have a second child. More blood spilled, another C-section cut into me by my excellent surgeon.

Despite the fact that I have “accomplished” things like having my name on a mortgage and birthing two children, I feel as if nothing about me is good enough. I have a career that others tell me I am good at… and sometimes I actually believe them. But even that does not last.

I change jobs and it is a mistake. I make more mistakes. I make one huge mistake and get fired. Twelve years of a "good" career, gone in an afternoon.

I cry about it, but deep down I am relieved.

I throw myself into being a housewife. I stay sober. I learn to cook. I turn forty. My son is about to enter kindergarten, my daughter will go to middle school. This is a good time for a new me, I think.

I go back to school to pursue a long-buried dream, a course of study that has haunted me since I gave it up twenty years before.

I hate that I am finally finding myself long after I “should have” done so. Despite the fact that I am pursuing my dream, I think that it is embarrassing to be back in school at my age, not exemplary. I am uncomfortable when people express admiration for my choices. But I stuff the discomfort down and chatter excitedly about my studies and my plans to go to grad school.

Being an undergraduate student makes me feel competent and smart, as if the promise of who I am “supposed to be” is finally within reach. I throw myself into my studies that first fall semester. I lean hard into the new me. I take extra classes and push myself harder the next spring.

Pandemic hits. COVID. Unprecedented times. Schools shut down, and suddenly my husband and two children are home with me all day, every day. But I can do this, right? I can keep going, study harder, do better.

I continue my studies full-time over the spring that first year of quarantine, losing patience with my children when they interrupt me.

I sign up for three online classes that summer, and study in between continuous interruptions. I make a low grade in one class. I berate myself for it.

August. Everything is still virtual. I sign up for a full course load and oversee my children during their Zoom schooling, even when it interrupts my own Zoom meetings. I stay up until midnight or past it, completing my own work.

Despite my best efforts, we all struggle.

I drop two of my four classes, expecting a sense of relief. Instead I feel worse.

The incessant conflict between my family’s needs and my desires makes me feel as if I am wedged between two boulders, being ground into a fine paste. Soon there will not be anything left of me to scoop up.

I drop another class, down to only one.

I do not like giving up parts of my dream, but my dream is the only part of our family machine that can be cut to keep us whole. My husband must work, my children must attend school, but my dream is optional. It’s better for everyone if I sacrifice.

I try to keep my dream alive. I interview for an exhilarating internship for the coming spring semester. They offer it to me. My husband buys me flowers in congratulations.

A week later I realize how little of me there is to go around. I write a polite email and regretfully decline the internship. I finish my lone fall semester class with a B. I feel like a failure.

I realize that I cannot spread myself any thinner than I already have. Something will have to give, and it turns out to be the remainder of my dream.

I do what is necessary to hold my family together.

I do not re-enroll for what would be the final, graduating semester of my shiny new Bachelors degree. I do not get the opportunity to apply for grad school. I will not become the person who I desperately want to be. The dream I have been chasing for the past twenty months and the twenty years before that is gone.

The new year arrives. There is nothing of “me” left, just blunt shards wet with tears.

I tell people that I am taking a “pandemic pause” so that I do not have to say “I dropped out.” I begrudgingly accept their sympathy and reassurances that someday I will go back and finish. But deep down I know that I am no longer good or smart enough to pursue that dream.

I look at my shelf full of textbooks and I feel ashamed. How stupid of me to think that I ever had a chance. My shame is mixed with the metallic tinge of fear that I will never get another chance like this. The path to my dream career has closed, overgrown with obstacles, and I am now so thoroughly broken that I cannot take any more steps.

I fight the urge to sink into depression, the familiar pull of giving up. But I have no choice except to keep going, to take care of my family and to keep them alive, even if I feel dead inside.

I go through the motions of my routines and my duties.

I read in order to keep my brain occupied. If I am not using that organ for school it may as well be put to good use on fiction and non-fiction, current affairs and ancient history.

I begin to feel skittishly curious about things, and ideas ferment in my brain.

I start to write, another long-dormant habit from more than twenty years before. I write every day, in and around the interruptions of children and housework. A chance meeting online introduces me to a new friend, who introduces me to a writing community. I stay up late into the night writing. I produce pieces that I am proud of, and that other people seem to enjoy reading.

I read more. I write more.

I enroll in a summer creative writing class at the community college. I produce more work, more pieces of me that take shape and go out into the world.

I leave more pieces of myself around town.

Another autumn. I schedule a surgery to remove a part of me that has been causing problems for thirty years. I decide to have my nose pierced, a desire from twenty years before that I denied because of my first career. The surgical center and the piercing shop both accept me for who I am and take away the pieces of me that are hurting.

I am starting to feel whole, more like myself. I have reclaimed some pieces of myself, although there is much more to do.

I spill my brain out onto paper, I refill my fountain pens directly from my jugular.

I start to dream again.

Where did y'all come from-

Normally I have more people followed than the people who are following me-

Yo - 58 followers

and 42 followed. . .or like..51 and 48. HOWWWWW

Thank you so much

It means a lot.

<3

-A.E.T.

Reflection through the magnification and the determination that you strive to give. Every single ounce of yourself all of your soul depleted, as you claw your way up through the soft earth, a freshly dug grave.

Whispering winter willow trees howl through your hair, as you sit up and reach for the forbidden fruit, finding it’s bitten by the apple of his eye.

You’ll feel a small bit of pressure, a small pinch sedated and unable to be present in the moments that are miraculous.

Looking through the window and watching your life do a broadway show number unable to feel all the pieces intertwine and work together like a true team.

Group projects were never really your deal.

Being present was never your longevity.

Feeling distant and different from It all, lying down and burying yourself shallowly below the work, the progress, the determination and the denial of talent that lies beneath your shell.

Fistful after fistful of damp cold soil packed right on top just loosely enough to encase your soul, sewing new seeds over to create something beautiful.

Rough

Soft

Firm

Pointy

Ragged

Loud

Cry

Scream

Quiet

Whisper

Spicy

Sour

Sad

Tear deserving

Yummy

Favorite!

Forward

Left

Right

Behind

Dark

Light

Blurry

Clear

Tear-covered

Nothing

Horrid

Sweet

Sneeze Worthy

Dusty

Sour

Potant

These senses. . .These things I have. They all go to waste, right? God made me with these gifts to be able to hear, see, touch, taste, and smell but I'm wasting them by crying. Truly, what is the point? If I was made with purpose, what is it? I need to know before the stinging, metal-tasting, red, sour-smelling, dripping goes too far.

-A.E.T.

Even though I finally felt happy after a long time

I still hate it

I hate me

I hate this

I hate the voices

I want to die

I need to die

I feel like shit all of the time

Sure, seeing that one person made me feel better

but then they were gone again

What the hell is wrong with me?

Can anyone hear me calling out for help?

-A.E.T.

I walk in and I hear my name

I look around but don't see anyone

then

out of the corner of my eye

I can see her running towards me

Arms open wide

When she jumps into my arms, I nearly fall to the floor, trying to steady myself

I fight all of the tears and the urge to kiss her so I carry her to the table and hug her tightly

Almost a whole month without this laugh

Almost a whole month without this Hug

Almost a whole month without these Eyes

Almost a whole month without this Feeling

Almost a whole month without this Girl

Almost a whole month without this Love

-A.E.T.

There is good reason to prefer my body over my mind.

My body is mine to do with what I please. I can decorate it, mold it, pamper it… even kill it if so inclined. My body is free to wander wherever it is strong enough to roam right up until it isn’t.

My mind, though; that thing belongs to others. My mind has been filled by others, trained by others, and must behave itself on account of others. Whenever my mind ventures outside of it’s box it is quickly pushed back inside by those who witness, lest I am found to be odd, or wicked, or plain Jane insane. And worse about the mind? I fear I may never be free of it.

Yet, despite that I do not prefer the physical me. I remain equally partial to body and mind, and could not choose one over the other, nor would I trade either for another. I am satisfied. Mine are good partners, body and mind, partners which together stand alone through this life, while also working diligently to face whatever lies ahead.

Meet me in a dream

In a world where our past

hasn't passed yet.

Where all that we would take back has yet to be given

Driven on our knowledge of the pain of loss make with me the better choices we needed to do.

I love who you pretend to be so dream a dream with Me and play that role you undoubtedly cast yourself in. I had just wanted the truth trust And a friend.

What we took from ourselves we are without and it is an empty spot and faded out lines scrawling the image of the future we'd hoped to make.

But now we are awake and I am alone and I miss you sometimes. You are; who knows but I hope you're just fine; and I hope you don't miss me.

I pray this to be a one-sided agony and for you to have a fulfilled future without a thought of me to bring on that tumbled stomach hollow ache

That bitter taste with our memories.

But when you dream

When you dream I pray you meet me under that street light and that I forgive youa and we can float together and dance on stars and just not have to wonder where you are again. For a time...

An ode to you my love lost friend.