Are you self aware? 

If not, you should be. For we are incapable of fully connecting with others, if we lack the ability to see ourselves.

Self reflection is vital. It allows you to process, to grow, to overcome, to accept, to change.

We must be willing to see ourselves fully. 

Our Flaws, our irritating habits, our ugly truths, our personal demons. Acknowledging their presence enables you to also see your own light and beauty.

Being self aware, provides you with an expanse of necessary tools like understanding, compassion, empathy, patience and wisdom.

Self awareness is the most essential factor for all of us to become better humans. To ourselves and others.

The most loving embrace that I’ve ever known, is that of silence and solitude.

The way they, when coupled together, welcome me home.

The peaceful embrace that engulfs me, the moment the door closes behind me, saying 

“ you are home…let your guard down, be at ease, you’re off duty…exhale.”

The comfort that is felt, in my own space, surrounded by my own things, everything exactly where I want it or put it. A familiarity that is, for me, empowering.

You see, I love doing my own thing. Exactly when and how I want to. No explanations. No compromises. No settling.

My most treasured possession…my time. I know the value of it. I understand that, for me, time alone is not only essential, but critical to my survival.

I am never whole or completely at ease with another’s presence. The space they are taking up feels like hands shoving me in directions I don’t want to go.

I feel censored, exhausted and trapped when confined to another’s company.

So please, don’t take it personal when I push away from you, it’s only personal for me.

I’m different.

I’ve always known that I’m not like everyone else. 

As a preteen, I hung in the peripheral of the adults. When all of the kids in town were out playing on Saturday’s, you could find me at the table of Grandma Daisy. Or Ms. Gath and Ms. Kronsage’s kitchen floor. I would listen closely to the stories of their lives. Enthralled and excited just to be privileged enough that they talked to a seven year old me, with tar stained bare feet. But I never talked about grandpa sneaking into my room.

In high school, I tried desperately to fit in. I didn’t. So I tried to blend in. That didn’t work for me either. I got lost in the crowd of this clique and that one, which was on the opposite end of the spectrum. So I chose the comfort of simply standing to the side and watching. Trying to learn how I was supposed to be, till thankfully it was over, and I could exhale for awhile.

But I never talked about what my brother did.

I spent a few years traveling. Learning that not all areas of the country were like that little town I grew up in. It was fascinating! I found my love of the ocean, sitting in the hot sands of Virginia Beach. I discovered a peace, a calmness where my soul could rest easy. I walked everywhere or rode the trolley to feel my hair whipping in the wind while enjoying an ice cream cone.

Completely engrossed in the people. Though I talked to very few…I was always watching. Committing their behaviors to memory. 

But I never talked about what happened in the alley that night! I never talked about what happened to Raph!

In my mid twenties, I returned to the area of my small home town. Tragic events sent me fleeing to what I deemed my safe zone. My family said I was different. “What happened to me?” They wanted to know…”where is the girl that left?” I guess the transformation I went through of feeling freedom was too much for them. My clothing was different. My vocabulary greater. My accent had become Bostonian. Dirty feet, were now a little pampered and always polished. 

I found a job and got to work on being who they said I was supposed to be. For a long time, I believed them. I adapted to faking a smile. To showing interest in the mundane things everyone else saw as important. They thought me eccentric because I wanted to know our purpose here. I’ve never been one capable of thriving on the buzz feed of mediocrity.

My thirties brought me a family of my own. I gave birth to three boys. Their lives became the reason for my existence. My days were filled with caring for and nurturing these beautiful, rambunctious little souls that God put in my care. Their individuality was, and is still, a source of awe and inspiration for me. I became the proverbial soccer mom. On the board of several PTO’s. Our home, was the home all the other kids wanted to be at. I aimed desperately to be the perfect mom. Home cooked meals and Christmas decorations that would have made Martha Stewart  proud.

Then it happened…2007! 

For a writer, putting pen to paper is vital!

It’s a necessary purging process that is essential to our overall wellbeing.

The only authentic way, for us, to sort out all of the chaos that goes on inside our mind.

We speak the truth with sincerity. 

Give our voice to everything we don’t say out loud.

You see, a writers world, is internal. 

We are the observers. The ones that pay attention but do not react or join in.

We’ll spend days on end withdrawn and detached. Analyzing every angle, every aspect, every emotion, every solution. This is called processing. Let me warn you, it’s exhausting.

Then comes the purge at 2am. Pen and paper the only ones to bare witness. The ink flows,  like blood from your veins, as the words slam down onto innocent paper enduring the emotional crucifixion. 

Only then, when it’s all written out, do you find your salvation and know what you wanted to say.

We’re all a little broken. A little damaged. We have jagged edges from carving our way through a not so peaceful life.
We’ve mended ourselves in the only way we knew how to.
Damn straight! We didn’t go back to what we were before.
Lessons teach you that.
You lose tiny shards of who yourself.
This prevents the other pieces from fitting like they used to.
It takes strength, bravery, and resiliency to always see your worth.
Regardless of the visible imperfections that are now on your surface.
So what…you’re not smooth anymore!
You are still useful to someone, and yourself.
Be proud of the scars!
They are proof of the battles that you’ve endured and conquered.
They become your armour so that you can continue to survive.
Wear them proudly.

I won’t paint you a pretty picture
Just to set your mind at ease
If you don’t like my contrast color wheel
By all means, you may leave.
My primary colors are bold
Though long since washed away
The center of this masterpiece
Is now a faded grey.
Look beyond the middle
See the colors I once bore
Though you’ll only find me on the edges
Now curled, frayed, and tore.
My signature has been erased
No watermark remains,
Though a scholar might uncover me,
They’ll never know my name.