<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/descend”>Descend </a>

Fall from finger tips

Or clouds of cumulus

To land among stars

In my lovers eyes

Unable to see 

passed the folly

Of fate

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Post the Nineteenth

via Daily Prompt: Final

Instead of a poem, as I usually do with the Daily Prompt, I want to talk to you guys about me. Last night and this morning I posted some insight to my instability. I got a little heavy. It gets heavier, so I don’t want to not address it.

I was raped when I was nineteen. That was seven years ago. Almost seven years ago. It happened in late August of 2010. I didn’t tell anyone that mattered until June of 2011. I had what the legal people call an Outcry Witness. I remember distinctly being balled up in my then-boyfriends bed where it happened and texting my then-room mate “I want to die.” So, she knew. My best friend, though, who’s boyfriend did the heinous act, had no idea until I couldn’t take it anymore and showed her a poem I wrote about it.

She believed me at first, but then asked for some time to process it. I gave that to her, out of respect. He didn’t. During the next few weeks or months (time gets a little blurry there) he did he best at convincing her I was lying. Then she did her best at ruining what little life I had left.

It wasn’t until a little while later, when he sexually assaulted her one day, that she actually believed me. Which hurt. A lot. But it’s been years since then and many tears and shaking later, we came to terms with everything. She and I are still best friends.

I got really heavy into drinking. I got really heavy into smoking, and cocaine. I had numerous sleep overs with people I can’t even name at this point. I had a list, but it made me want to vomit every time I looked at the numbers of names that all blurred together. I thought I was taking control of my body. I wasn’t. I was searching for any way I could possibly loose control, really.

That was seven years ago. In the last two or three years I stopped having flashbacks. I stopped having nightmares. I only talk to two or three people who knew me back then. I don’t mind that so much. I had a good life before it, but my life isn’t bad now. Just different. And when I say I stopped having vivid PTSD symtpoms about it, I don’t mean to say that I’m over it entirely. I thought I was, I said that I was, but I think that was just another way of trying to control what I can’t control.

So, what I wanted to say from this is that this feeling isn’t Final. The remembrance I’m feeling right now, the anxiety, the out of control emotions, the tears that seem to spring out for nearly no reason what so ever, they aren’t Final. This will always be a part of me, because it happened, but it doesn’t need to define me. On the day-to-day it doesn’t define me. But it is a part of me. It gets easier every day. It gets more manageable.

Being upset isn’t Final. I get through every day. I may have faltered, I may be faltering, but I haven’t given up. I won’t. I’ll keep talking about it. Because that’s how we take control. We can’t let people do these things and then not say anything. I didn’t go to the police. I’m not going to. I don’t want to. It won’t give me closure, and at this point I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is up. . A part of me died that night, and I don’t want any more negativity. I don’t want to be the smaller person. I just want to get better every day.

Not sure if this wall of text will actually be read by anyone, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this feeling isn’t Final. That’s the thing about surviving. It’s always in the present tense. Yes, I survived that night, but the point is I’m still surviving. Everyday. Because nothing is Final. There is always more path to be followed.

Post the Eighth

I haven’t decided if I want this page to be solely for my writing. I think I don’t. I think I want to give a little insight every now and then to the life behind the person writing these things. I little insight into me.

I only just got back onto the writing scene and I’m a bit over and underwhelmed by it all. I remember when I used to be part of tight knit communities back in the days of Greatest Journal and then Insane Journal (I never really liked the limits Live Journal put on creativity in profiles and such). This was back in High School where I would have considered myself pretty tech savvy. Now, I don’t even know how to tag properly.

I’m searching for the communal bond, again. I can feel it when I read everyone else’s posts, and if I follow you you can rest assured that I have tried my hardest to read as many of your posts as possible. I’ve only been on here for two days though, so give me some time.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t want to be afraid to comment/critique/question everything. We’re all putting ourselves out there in one way or another, and I think as writers and readers we owe it to ourselves to engage as much as possible. I started this page and my Instagram page as a way to stop being passive. I hope it works out.

Can’t wait to be your new neighbor.

First blog post

This is the first post on a new page of my life. I’m not sure how I want to do this yet. How does one go about pursuing their dreams? I’ve somehow been gifted this wonderful chance to devote a good chunk of my time to getting my poetry and short stories out there and I’m really nervous/excited/sick to my stomach about it.

You see, I’ve always called myself a writer. I have a damned degree in it after all. But that really doesn’t mean shit when it comes down to it. The truth of the matter is I’ve always been anxious about my writing.

I remember my first short story in first grade. I was so proud of it, but no one seemed to care. The more time went on the more the people around me just sort of took it for granted that I’d be writing daily and so never really asked to read it.

So, now, I’m wondering why that ever mattered to me. So, here you go World Wide Web. I know none of you asked to read my writing, but I hope you do none the less. And I hope you enjoy. But if you don’t, that’s ok, too. It’s not the most preferable, but let’s face it. As writers, we really write for our own sanity as much as that of those around us.

Let’s get started.