thelonelymonths

[thelonelymonths]

I Remember

Based on “I Remember” by Joe Brainard. Part of my writing through trauma series.

I remember the coupon bin I’d look through after Girl Scout meetings, when my troop leader would call my mom to come get me so she could lock up.

I remember the foggy windows of my neighbor’s car, how I’d draw on them as she drove me to choir concerts because my parents were working late.

I remember the purple dress I wore for my third-grade ballet recital.

I remember how few times I’ve felt noticed.

I remember the diamond pattern of the seat cushions at my grandma’s funeral.

I remember the nun who held my hand as I cried, as she whispered to me, “heartbreaks don’t last forever.” She smelled like vanilla, and passed away the following December.

I remember five winters in a row of strep throat. The pattern ended the next year, after my doctor said I’d have to have my tonsils removed if it happened again.

I remember how much it takes to be sick, and to dance, and to die.

I remember my friend driving to the school to pick me up an hour after rehearsal ended. He brought his dogs with him, in an attempt to cheer me up, and cussed out my parents for forgetting again.

I remember the rotten banana on the floor of my sister’s car. We laughed at it. She gave the excuse of “it’s not bad. it’s just cold.”

I remember having to walk home from musical practices when my father wouldn’t answer my texts.

I remember being cold.

I remember how fast my heart was pounding the first time I snuck out of the house.

I remember the arcade games in the back of The Smiling Moose.

I remember the shitty music loudly thumping through the speakers, played by less shitty (but equally loud) people.

I remember chugging water out of Dixie cups– I had to stay hydrated enough to body check anyone who tried to cause problems.

I remember stickers covering the walls of the disgusting bathroom.

I remember the warmth of every stranger whose hand I’ve held.

I remember grape soda. And toast.

I remember late night photo shoots on Mt. Washington trails.

I remember being remembered.

I remember it’s getting cold again.

I remember I hate the cold.

#poem #poetry #poet #poetblr #writing #queer #queer poet #queer poetry #creative writing #nonbinary #trauma writing #the lonely months #i remember #joe brainard #memory #memories #written word #winter #cold #coldness #youth #loneliness #lonely #lonely poetry #pittsburgh poet #coping #life experiences #personal writing #short poem #short poetry

[thelonelymonths]

My speech teacher’s best tip

use lots of visual aids, so the tremors in my hands became less noticeable.

As I avoided her eyes, she told me “Shaky hands make for shaky words,” and I was an earthquake.

In middle school, a friend told me when I grow up so will my feelings. “Everyone gets nervous sometimes,”

and it was unfair that I got “sympathy points” for crying after class activities.

My parents lectured me, for hiding in the bathroom at social events, saying I “won’t get anywhere in life”

if I don’t open up to others. At least, that’s what I could make out through the ringing in my ears.

In high school, my chemistry teacher laughed when I came back from a panic attack. Said life will be filled with people

asking me questions. Said he hopes I answer loud enough then.

My trauma said “let’s play hide and seek with your memories.”

Told me I could have help, knew I wouldn’t ask for it.

I found some of them, on my own, buried in the rubble of my aftershocks. Most of them are still missing.

My hands shake as I dial, and I can’t tell if the ringing in my ears is louder than the ringing of the phone.

Maybe I’ll start therapy next week.

(from my trauma and healing series)

#social anxiety #poetry #poet #poem #queer #queer poet #queer poetry #lgbtq poet #writing #creative writing #nonbinary #nonbinary writer #the lonely months #anxiety #trauma writing #trauma poetry #healing writing #healing poetry #trauma #high school #shaky hands #poetblr #writer #words

[thelonelymonths]

kissing girls.

the taste of your lips, i want more with each kiss. i crave your touch–

to fall asleep in your arms once more (and more after that) until your body is the only home i know.

soft giggles intertwined with sighs of content, the way i get intertwined with you.

interlocked fingers, mischievous smiles, and secrets swallowed as if

they were never there. what i’d give to kiss you goodbye.

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[thelonelymonths]

god nothing compares to you:

the look on your face when

you see me for the first time in forever.

don’t think i didn’t notice your eyes––

they kept wandering to me.

i was scared to look back

but looking back,

i think of what might have happened

if i did.

#drunk blurb #drunk thoughts #poetry #poem #poetblr #writing #drunk writing #drunk poetry #drunk #i forget who this is about #longing #wishing #past #memories #memory #resentment

[thelonelymonths]

What Now?

Birthdays are weird. I used to hate them because I had to survive yet another year. Now when my birthday comes around, it reminds me that I’ve somehow made it this far and still don’t know what I’m doing. They send me into a sort of existential crisis.

I’m not sure where to go next, or what to do. I never thought I’d get through my teens, let alone another two years. It’s a survival game. Depression doesn’t have a care in the world about milestones. “You made it this far?” it asks. “Isn’t that good enough? You don’t have a plan for where to go next. What now?” And sometimes, I almost agree.

I am so tired. I’ve been tired all day, despite drinking 2 cups of coffee and a diet pepsi. I spent the day responding to texts of love and pleasantries, but all I really wanted today was for someone to hug me– arms enveloping my body and telling me that it was going to be okay.

Instead, I got silence from those whose kind words I sure would have liked to hear, or read, or something. Don’t get me wrong, I have some of the best friends and an even better roommate who absolutely made my day, but only seeing 3 people on the one day that’s already interwoven with crises and depressive episodes is a tough blow to take.

My friends mean the world to me; I don’t know where I’d be without them. But every year, I grow some more, and the older I get, the less I have a clue of what I’m doing. I don’t expect to be given life advice from those who are also struggling, but as the saying goes, a smile goes a long way. 21 years of surviving. Let’s hope for another, but in the meantime, what now?

#text post #blog #blog post #birthday #happy birthday #happy birthday to me #depression #tired #what now #post #paragraphs

[thelonelymonths]

Coping

the golden light of the morning hours creeps slowly up my walls. it wakes up my body and part of the world from a nightmare where angels fall.

for a moment i think i hear your voice, veiled in dust, a distant memory. what was there one moment is gone the next. i let the light of the mourning enter me.

venom dripped words are coated with honey roses are covered in thorns. there was light in the morning to break through the dark. but the light became faded, the laughs became worn

memories come and memories go: a montage, laced with confusion. i force the blinds closed, i let myself sleep. the lull of peace, just a fatal illusion.

#i wrote this so long ago that i think it is not good anymore #oh well #here this is #poem #poetry #bad poetry #about you #memories #coping #light #dark #illusions #peace #writing #personal writing #poetblr #irregular #confrontation #confrontations

[thelonelymonths]

Every day is

a new beginning,

but i am still the same me,

and you

are still the same you.

What is new about

still being tired

even though i sleep

the recommended 8 hours

sometimes more?

What is new about

water being wet?

About days and nights

coming and going?

What is new about

pining,

hoping you will

notice me?

What is new about

you

doing the same?

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[thelonelymonths]

Cutting Ties

I dreamed about him last night

again.

Rather, an idealized version of him:

my former idol

my former friend

my former dream.

Cutting ties is difficult,

but I refuse to let the past take control of my future

its hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel

driving me to loneliness via

the expressway.

Pictures connected

by red string.

Faces, ghosts of who we were

once. I say my goodbyes.

Snip.

A piece of my heart falls away.

With my final breaths,

a flame.

I blow gently and you become fire, then ash.

What had been once is no longer and

much like the remnants I dump out my window

and rise off my hands,

You are gone from my life

my mind

my heart.

I speak this out loud

it is truth.

You are gone from my life.

My mind.

My heart.

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[thelonelymonths]

Social Anxiety Adventures: Shaky Hands Make For Shaky Words

Living with social anxiety is a cruel reality for those who are forced to endure it. However, it is a large part of my life. Ever since I was little, I would constantly shy away from meeting new people, occasionally running to the nearest bathroom in tears, and locking myself away in hopes that if the people left, my fears would leave with them. (This is a true story: Upon meeting my brother’s Tae Kwon Do instructor, I really burst into tears. My parents laughed it off.) Everyone would pass it off, saying that I was just a little shy and that I would grow out of it. If only it was that easy...

When I got to middle school, though, it only continued to get worse. I would fake sore throats to get out of speaking in classes, make up aches and pains so I wouldn’t have to go to swim lessons, refrain from asking my parents for anything and everything. I still have flashbacks of going into my mom’s room once to ask her for something and her getting mad because this was my third time within the hour in there, working up the courage to finally ask.

High school was a series of losing points on oral presentations for not presenting well enough, or getting a fail in participation grades even if the other aspects of my learning were fine. Each time I was called on, or up in front of the class, my heart felt like it was about to beat right out of my chest. Between shaky hands and even shakier words, sometimes I'd think that a life of tremors would be easier than what I was being forced to endure.

Physical education and chemistry were two classes in particular for which I can call myself out. Before being switched to an alternative gym class, I spent my 9th grade year in a regular class that would sometimes be co-ed depending on the sport. I didn’t care for the male gym teacher that accompanied us during these times and he was annoyed with my lack of skill. I almost failed gym that year due to skipping, not dressing, or making snarky remarks back when sarcastically asked if I’d like to join.

With my chemistry class, I just stopped showing up after my teacher made me cry. He had discovered that I was made uncomfortable being called on at random to answer questions, so one particular day he kept making a point to call on me. This was a double period and we had 4 minutes in between classes to do what we wanted. I went to get a snack with my lab partner and immediately started crying. By the time I arrived back to the classroom, I was hyperventilating. I asked to go to the bathroom and Mr. Campbell replied (in an amused tone, may I add) asking if I’d rather go to the counselor. Since the counselors were shit and I was full of rage I declined and sat in the bathroom the rest of class. I returned occasionally for quizzes and whatnot and my friends would drop off my homework so I didn’t fail, but that was still an unfair situation to be put in.

That same year, though, was luckily when I had the greatest English teacher in the world, who helped me discover my love of the language. (Shoutout to Hilary Domencic.) She would occasionally have discussion circles for the classes and I think we compromised that I would get points if I spoke even once. (It was here where she discovered that my fascination with the written word trumped my inability for spoken words and recommended that I go into Honors English my senior year.)

Not only did social anxiety have an impact on my education, but it affected my relationships and abilities to perform simple tasks. Ordering food is a risky move and there have been times where I opted to not eat rather than try to speak my order to someone. I usually request friends help me out by doing the speaking, but I don’t always have the luxury of having them around. If they do it, it leaves me feeling as if they're annoyed with me not being able to “grow up” and talk to others. This happened as recently as last semester when I had to have my friend order Subway for me as I stood there near tears with my heart inching toward my stomach.

Phone calls are another thing that fuel my nightmares. In a text-savvy world, this may not seem as bad, until family members wonder why I won't return calls, or I’m forced to schedule my own doctors appointments. I'm accused of my lack of reciprocation being because I “don’t care.” I do care about them; they just don't understand the irrational fears in my head. Usually when I have to make important and adult phone calls, I write down how I will begin and if I know how certain parts of it will go, I write those down, too, so that I still have them when I inevitably lose my train of thought. I had to do this during the phone portion of my job interview, where I wrote down answers to the usual questions they ask, which I got from a list off of google. I didn’t even use half of them, but my brain had to be prepared in case of a mental shut down.

Speaking of work, I work at a hybrid gas station/made to order food store that rhymes with let low. I started there last summer and was to be trained both in the kitchen and at the registers. I spent 2 days being trained on the register, after a week training in the kitchen, and then was forced on by myself. 8 hours of having to socially interact on any given day really made me feel like I was inching closer to death. I ended up having to ask my assistant manager for kitchen shifts only, after coming in having a panic attack because I was scheduled on register. I luckily got my coworker James to switch with me so I could be in the kitchen and he even came to check and make sure I was okay. I apologized over and over for crying to him and I think called myself a weenie, but I haven’t had to work register since.

Social anxiety has limited me from doing things that I’ve wanted to do. I cannot paint it as a beautiful picture, because it’s not. It has caused tears, panic, and disdain for things that should be enjoyable. But it has also made me stronger, and I’ve grown with different experiences from others. I am empathetic and tolerant to others struggling, maybe not with my exact experiences, but similar ones. I am patient with kids who are nervous about doing things, and I am loving to those who cannot do things. Nobody is ever alone in this life, even when it feels like we are. My 10-year-old self had support through friends, books, and television. My 20-year-old self has support through friends, writing, plants, and colleagues. My hands may shake when I speak, and sometimes I just may not speak, but I am powerful through other means.

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[thelonelymonths]

When Mothers Appear...

I’m writing this while in an extra strength bedtime tea haze on my mother’s final night of her visit. Yes, you heard that right: my mother came to visit. For a simple backstory, she moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico in the summer of 2017, shortly after I graduated high school, since her and my dad had been having a rough time. It also happened to be the same weekend my twin brother was leaving to start college, which was a double blow. My parents are now legally separated and I see my mom usually once or twice a year.

I got to go visit her once in the summer of 2018. If you haven’t been there or seen pictures, New Mexico is beautiful. While the dryness and elevation caused me a couple nosebleeds during my stay, it was absolutely worth it to experience the sights: the mountains, the deserts, and all of the art. I came home with about 5 or 6 prints from art fairs.

My mom is usually the one who comes to visit, though. She pops in on occasion, the most standard one being when my little brother finishes grade school for the summer and she takes him to go stay with her. This means that the visitation usually consists of helping him with anything he may need to bring for a 3-month stay. The only other occasion she’s visited was when he was in the high school’s musical that was being put on and she stayed the weekend. This, however, was not one of those times.

On the evening of the 21st, the night before my brother’s birthday, she appeared. It was around 10pm and my brother had been outside for a while. I was fresh out of the shower, watching Impractical Jokers: Dinner Party with my sister. Suddenly my brother came in with a small suitcase and a Sheetz bag. Then, my mother walked in the doorway. I think the shock lasted a good half hour. I didn’t know what to think, do, or say.

She didn’t tell anyone that she was arriving; I guess she wanted to surprise my brother for his birthday. We were all freaked out, but I think my dad was the most. I can’t forget his reaction after he finally got off the phone with my twin and saw her. He stood there, mouth agape, for probably two minutes-- I thought he was going to have a heart attack. None of us knew what to do.

Immediately, we were fear stricken with the state of the house. My dad is a hoarder, but that’s a story for another time. He rushed as soon as he got the chance to clean off his bed. I keep telling my mother that I think she’s a witch, because the next day, he vacuumed... multiple rooms. I was awestruck. My mom knows he’s a hoarder; it’s part of the reason she left. She also knows that it’s not our fault, so she only nags him about the mess. Little did we know, she came armed with a plan.

My mom had a job interview set up on Monday morning about 4 hours away, and planned to stay in a hotel overnight. My little brother and I knew our mission. Clean something, anything, while he’s gone. We were going to have to throw out piles of mail, choke on dust, hope that there wasn’t anything too gross lurking, and I especially tried to avoid any bugs that might have been around. We opted to attempt fixing up the dining room since it was too hot to even try the attic. The table in there and most of the floor was covered in boxes and plenty of other things.

We ended up filling a whole contractor bag with mail and other dated papers, which we immediately took and buried in the garbage bin so my dad wouldn’t be able to go through it. We got our dining room table cleaned off, though, which took until they came home the next evening. My mom was satisfied with what was done, and also sat downstairs with us so my dad wouldn’t be able to freak out.

Besides being able to clean the house without lifting a finger, I swear her mere presence helps plants grow. All of the flowers I’ve planted have sprouted and my herb cuttings have started to root. I can’t act surprised; she’s always been good with plants. If she is a witch, she’s a green witch. Her apartment is filled with various plants, including succulents, foliage, flowers, anything you can think of. Her spider plants continue to spew out babies, she has aloes that are at least 10 years old, and I don’t think a plant has ever died near her.

Alas, she leaves tomorrow back to her sunshine across the country, but she’ll be back in a few weeks for a knee thing and to collect my brother. She’s agreed to pierce my ears upon her return, and I hope she’ll be able to help with yard work. I’m already finding things on pinterest to make when she’s back. While she did cause a good bit of my childhood trauma, she is there for us sometimes. For now, I’ll have to breathe through the emotions, and look forward to her next visit.

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[thelonelymonths]

Sisters. Am I Right, Ladies?

I’m 20 years old and presently sharing a very small room with my sister at my dad’s house. I honestly forgot how infuriating it is, which is surprising since this was a reality from 5th grade through high school. It is still the worst. Don’t get me wrong, I love her, but having her as a roommate is a nightmare.

My day consists of waking up, brushing my teeth and washing my face, coming back to the room for my skin care, and then never stepping in there again, unless I need something, until I go up to go back to bed. She’s always in there. I know that we both need our space and I’m a very non-confrontational person, so I just let it be and hope that I’ll get some peace elsewhere in my house. This is usually in the living room or on the roof, though occasionally I’ll find things to do outside or in the kitchen.

When we were in grade school, she was terrible to me and I’d not come in until she was sleeping or in the bathroom and I’d pretend like I was sleeping so she wouldn’t be able to speak to me. I think in a way my mind still thinks that’s the situation going on. One of my favorite memories for how bad it was is from when I was in 11th grade and she was in 12th.

I had fallen down a flight of stairs at school, and even though the nurse said my ankle would be alright, she still told me to elevate and ice it when I got home. The issue with this was that my sister stress cleans, and back then would yell at us and be so mean trying to get us to help her. This happened to be one of those days.

There I was, elevating and icing my poor swelling ankle, and she entered trying to get me to clean a room. I basically told her “my ankle hurts and I’m elevating it to get the swelling down.” (I helped build homecoming floats in high school and was trying to be able to walk on it during the meeting later that night.) She went off loudly complaining and trying to contest it saying that she “bet[s] it isn’t even that bad.” I should mention that it ended up being swollen and bruised for the next two months. I was on homecoming court that year and had to wear some of my mom’s flats because they were the only thing that fit my gigantic foot/ankle. I like to taunt her with that sometimes, on her good days.

Anyways, my mind gets flashbacks to that and similar moments, because that’s what 7 years of my life were like. She’s better now sometimes, but she still cleans when she’s manic or stressed. The thing is, with her depression she doesn’t even open the curtains half of the time so our room stays pretty dark. I had to move my plants into my brother’s room so that they could get the sunlight they deserved. One day sunlight will pour back into my room, though I don’t know how soon. She plans to move in with my other sister, but I don’t know when that will be a reality. All I know is she moved the table that was by the window, upon which my plants sat, back to the foot of my bed. I hate it there.

Her method of moving and cleaning things is in a way that only benefits herself as well. I have no room of my own in the closet or under the bed. The boxes I moved around to make room to have stuff in there got stashed, courtesy of her, in my brother’s room. We plan to rebel and take the boxes to the attic. She also took my laundry bin and hasn’t given it back. I am protesting by leaving dirty clothes and towels in a pile on the floor.

I miss having somewhere peaceful to meditate and practice piano. I cannot do either of those things if somebody is in the room with me thought, unless it is my cats. Before she moved back in, my cats were allowed to come in and out as they pleased and I left the door open for this reason (and air circulation). They’d even get to sleep in there with me, which was the cutest thing. Vlad would sleep right on my back and stay there all night. I miss having him around in the room with me.

I do love my sister; she’s funny and we have good times together. But if you’re going to stick two mentally ill people in a room together, make sure that they can get along for long periods of time in enclosed spaces.

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[thelonelymonths]

the wind can hold secrets

unlike any others

she breathes her power through them,

hiding them

protecting them.

she knows better than us

when they will be ready.

listen to the secrets she whispers

for she speaks carefully

and only to those who will understand.

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[thelonelymonths]

sometimes your best

isn’t as good as you wanted

but it’s as good as it could have been

given the circumstances.

you do not have to do

everything

all of the time,

and especially not correctly.

it is okay to mess up

it helps you learn

to grow

to empathize

to be.

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[thelonelymonths]

call me when you’re lonely

but i’ll always reply

i get myself drunk

but you’ll always get me high

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[thelonelymonths]

the night creeps in

i get lonely.

you kissed me

and the sky exploded.

heart to plenty

home to few,

all my wishes

coming true.

a passion play

a plan of action.

did you get your

satisfaction?

twilight phantom

mixed perception.

it was always

sick deception.

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[thelonelymonths]

This is a written adaptation of my “It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Knees” speech.

“Snap, crackle, and pop” are usually the sounds associated with Rice Krispies. However, it is also the sound my knees make and will make forever. I suffer from two separate things wrong with my knees, creating issues for which I have to go to physical therapy. Basically, my knees aren’t good and they will never be good again.

I have, but do not yet suffer from, Chondromalacia Patellae. If you’re like me, you’re probably thinking “yep, those are words,” which are real words I said, out loud, to the doctor who gave me the diagnosis. This is a condition where the cartilage under your kneecap is soft. It’s not supposed to be. When the cartilage under the kneecap is smooth and hard, extending a leg is no problem. Whereas, when the cartilage is soft, it moves around in the grooves in the kneecap and makes for an uncomfortable and LOUD experience when extending a leg. I personally find this the worst when I ascend or descend stairs.

This condition is accompanied by the fact that my knees are misaligned and go more inwards than they’re supposed to. It is commonly referred to as “knock knees,” but the notes my doctor gave me name it Lateral Patellar Compression Syndrome. This puts stress on the knees and can cause hip and ankle pain, as well as causing stiff joints. The opposite of this would be bow-legged, where the knees go more outwards than they’re supposed to. Either way, my hips and knees are constantly cracking and I have to stretch frequently. Whenever I stand up or move the lower half of my body, I sound like a glow stick.

I tried putting off getting my knees checked out for a couple of months, but eventually the feeling was super annoying. I started noticing the awfulness around Thanksgiving when I was walking down the stairs at my uncle’s house and HEARD the crunching sound and felt it slightly in my knee. I thought it was weird but hoped it would go away. Obviously it didn’t. Eventually in late January, I sent a video to my mom of me walking up the stairs in my building with my cellphone mic right next to my knee so she could hear it and asked, “does this sound weird? And should i get it checked out?” For some background, my mother is a nurse and has been for quite some time, so of course she said yes. 

The doctor with whom I booked an appointment was super cool. While there, I got a couple X-Rays done of my knees. He told me what was up and what I’m going to have to do. Unfortunately, it’s not gonna go away and it will start being more noticeable in my other knee. He then wrote me a prescription for physical therapy and off we were to the next step.

It took me about a month to get to a physical therapist and during the first meeting with him, he told me about the other issue, the knock knees. We worked to find exercises that I could do both during PT and at home. They were pretty simple and the first meeting was mostly just him showing me proper technique so I didn’t get myself even more messed up doing something incorrectly. The next couple meetings worked me so hard that I was actually sweating during the last one.

My favorite part always came at the end, though I haven’t been in two months because of the pandemic. They get to stick things on the sides of my knee and give it a nice electroshock therapy. It goes for 10 minutes and they give me the remote to control the voltage. I think the highest voltage I’d set was 14.5. This helps to stimulate the muscles, which makes it a bit tired afterwards, but I enjoy the feeling and it does help.

Going to physical therapy for my knee issues has kept the pain down, but I need to keep up on my exercises, because building up muscles around my knees and hips will help realign them and act as a sort of cushion, therefore alleviating pain I’ll get in the future and maybe making them quieter.

My knees will never be good again, but through hard work I can make them not the worst. Chondromalacia Patellae and Lateral Patellar Compression Syndrome are the bane of my existence and I have to remember to exercise caution in my daily life.

#speech #speech turned text #textpost #chondromalacia patellae #knock knees #knee pain #knee issues #experience #writing #blog #blog post #new blog post #english writing #blog writing #text blog #text post #text #personal #nonbinary #asexual #knee #knees #physical therapy #doctor #rice krispies #diagnosis #new post #school #electroshock #electroshock therapy

[thelonelymonths]

do you think of me in the summer

when the grass grows tall

and as green as your eyes?

i remind myself to stop

and breathe.

i try to remember the good

but the bad finds a way to stay with it;

sometimes i think about you

and the more i’d rather not,

the further back my mind goes—

the wheels of time

reversing in their solemn ways

showing me how i loved you

i supported you

until you stripped all that i knew away.

i am reluctant to admit

that i miss you sometimes,

but it’s mostly

in the summer

when the grass is tall

and your eyes are green

#blog #english #nonbinary #personal #writing #ace #enby #english major #poetry #bad poetry #poem #blog poem #anti love #missing you #summer #sad #healing #green eyes #green #grass #past #present #asexual #english writing #heartbreak #thinking of you #memories #spilled ink #text post