updates. updatez. more writing.

I’ll start to post more and be more active once at least one of two things happen. 1) I get a web developer. 2) I take the GRE and free up some daily time to maintaining this organization. Priorities are blog post at least once weekly with Twitter and (coming soon) Instagram publicity AND (this is the bigger priority) full-scale curriculum development that allows me to both launch and share (pitch?) the in-person support group / healing program to appropriate entities.

For now, something I just wrote (completely un-edited except for one comma):


(She was with an addict because she was an addict. I am with abusive men because I am abusive / it is what I do / it is what I know).

I’m looking for substance and not style. I don’t know what to write about, I constantly say. My abortion, my pregnancy, my rape, my body, my hunger, my fear, my shame – how it echoes – how we all echo each other. How I’m looking for an echo. Haven’t found an echo yet. I can’t trust my judgment in an echo chamber, where he echoes him and him echoes you and I don’t know if its a real echo or just your voice re-finding me. You always find me. You always find me. You always find me. I wanted to tell you, never speak to me again, when you asked me what I wanted. That was the first. The rest of it is in the past. There are desires locked up in those six months of moments that can’t be speak without breaking through broken vocal chords and echo chambers of tears. And you don’t want that. I know you don’t want that. You don’t want that. What I want from you is isolated and crystallized – so far gone – I was going to say, but it isn’t. It is preserved like pickles in a jar of glass. Like a fetus in a membrane. I want to connect the two images, but that’s not how it happened to me. That’s how it happened in a sci-fi movie when she really waited for me. I had her on the shelf one, two, three – it’s been three years. And she’s still waiting. And you’re still here. I told myself, I don’t want anything now. I said that to you, I don’t know, I said, I don’t think I’d want to be with you now. I said that. I said that? I said something like that. But I said, I would’ve been with you back then. When I said it, I was thinking of my abortion, rather, my pregnancy – I think of the two, mostly the first one, with you. But those are lies that I tell. I wouldn’t have been with you; otherwise, I would have been with you. I wouldn’t be with you. I won’t be with you. I chose not to, I choose, not to be with you. This pain doesn’t break or crackle on the surface of my brain. It’s not pain anymore, just honesty. But in those moments, the ones before you lied, the ones before I was with you, the ones in my journal entries, deeply hidden between the lines, tucked away even from myself, the truth of how I loved you. You were a fixation. And it wasn’t a million miles deep. It was eons. Decades. Generations. Four years. I loved it. I loved you. Something changed; maybe your personality or my tolerance for it. There were too many lies. Too many times I didn’t get what I needed, I kept writing. Too much ambivalence. Something didn’t feel right, maybe, I presume, but I kept chasing you. Sex was fun, I wrote. I like the attention. I want to see him, but I’m not sure. There were so many weeks I had to wait in between. You made me do this. We couldn’t build anything. I made you wait first. Maybe this was punishment. You were never with me. You reminded me that you were never with her. The truth was that you were with both of us and I was your secret. And I was just learning how to say, I don’t want to be a secret keeper anymore.

-Inspired by the practice of writing everyday and by Kassi Underwood’s May Cause Love.

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