Guilt-Soaked Goodbyes.

Guilt. It’s a tricky little thing. Just an itty bitty five letter word, but oh how quickly it can bring you to your knees…


**

I’m leaving soon; heading back home to Tennessee. I have one last follow-up with my primary care doctor next week, and then I’ll FINALLY be done with all these doctors…hopefully. As much as I would love to say that I’m cured and the headaches are gone…I can’t. Because I’m not and they aren’t. I’m still getting them on a regular basis…about every other day or so. And it really depends on the day how bad/intolerable they are. Some days I get lucky and I manage to take the meds in time either before or just as one is coming on and I catch a break and the headache’s not too bad. I’ll still have it—I’ll still feel miserable as all hell…but at least I can work through it. Unlike the bad days when I’m not so lucky and it doesn’t matter how many of those little white pills for the headaches or pain killers combined—I have no choice to suffer through it by way of hiding away in bed all day in a dark, quiet bedroom just trying to breathe through the tears and the excruciating pain that in the moment, seems endless. I refuse to go back to another ER—even on those bad days. I won’t do it. I refuse to put myself through the circus of trying one cocktail of meds after another…with only a brief, temporary period of relief—if that–and no real answers or solutions to why I’m still having these headaches—over 4 months now since the accident—and why none of the dozen or so different meds I’ve tried have worked. I don’t see the point of putting myself through that. It’s insane. Literally—it’s INSANE…the definition of insane is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. That’s what I’ve been doing. I keep going back, thinking that maybe one of these doctors will give me something for these headaches that actually works. Or at the very least, give me some kind of explanation as to why this is happening…and when I can expect all this to go away. Because the headaches will go away. Or so I’ve been told. Eventually, they will go away. I’d just like to know when, so I know how much longer I’ve got to live with the pain. Because right now, not having an expiration date on these headaches, it all just seems really hopeless. But yeah, after next week, I’m done with the doctors for a while. Other than that, I really only just need to meet with my lawyer about the case and then I can get out of New York. We were supposed to meet last week, but he was called into court the morning of our meeting and had to cancel. While I could just have him answer my questions over the phone or by email as we’ve been doing, I figure that since I’m already up here, we might as well have a face-to-face meeting at least once before I head back down to Tennessee…and I really want to get everything squared away BEFORE I go back so I don’t have to worry about any loose ends to deal with once I’m gone.


**

Once I’m down in TN, I don’t think I’ll be coming back up to NY for a visit for a long while. A really, really long while. I love my family, I do. But these past four months…they’ve made me more certain now than ever that what I did—moving 900 miles away to Nashville—was the best decision I ever made. And this place, this town, this entire area—it doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. Which is really weird, but it’s the truth. I don’t feel like I belong here…and a part of me can’t help but wonder if I ever did, or if that was just something that I convinced myself of. I honestly never thought I’d be the one to leave. Never in a million years. I never thought I’d be happy living 900 miles away from my family…spending holidays and celebrating birthdays without them. Away from the little ones that are–without a doubt–my heart and soul. But I did find it…happiness. In fact, I’m happier in Tennessee than I’ve been in years.


**

But as seems to be the case with most good things in life I’ve found–happiness is a double-edged sword. With it comes the guilt of leaving everyone and everything behind. I know that moving to Nashville was a good decision…the right decision…and I don’t for a second regret that decision. I’ve made some pretty reckless, spur-of-the-moment decisions in my life…but this time was different. I thought long and hard on the decision to move to TN before I made it. I knew going in that it wasn’t going to be easy. I also knew that I wasn’t just leaving my family and friends behind. I was leaving my old life behind. And in a sense, I was leaving the old me behind as well—the broken girl with haunted eyes and a tragic past. That was one of the hardest obstacles I had to face in moving…the letting go of who I was. But at the same time…it was the easiest, because I really didn’t like who I was…who I’d become as a result of some events of the preceding recent years. I allowed people to intimidate, bully, and mold me into someone that I wasn’t…someone that I’d always sworn I would never become…someone that I despised with every fiber of my being. I felt so unaccomplished. A failure. Looking back—at that point—there really was nowhere else to go but up.


**

They say you can’t start over, that you can’t wipe the slate clean…but that’s exactly what I’ve done…what I’m doing. It’s easy in Nashville. Everyone is so nice and welcoming and they make you feel like you’re part of the fold…like you belong. It’s like a breath of fresh air…a huge change from how things are here in New York, that’s for sure. I’m really lucky because I’ve made a lot of really great friends since I’ve moved to Nashville, people that I really feel like I can trust, despite having only known them less than a year. I’m not lying to them or pretending to be someone that I’m not, if that’s what anyone thinks—what with the whole clean slate and all. It’s not like that. Granted, I haven’t exactly been overly forthcoming about what ALL that sent me running down to Tennessee, but I’ve been pretty open about most everything else. My guy BFF down in Nashville—Alan—he just looooves to tease me that he’s going to write a screenplay about my life one day because of all the crazy family/personal/love life/WTF-filled stories of mine that I’ve shared with him. He thinks they’re absolutely hilarious. But what’s really funny is that he doesn’t even know the half of it. Oh, the things I could tell him…but won’t. A girl has to have some secrets, doesn’t she?


**

So that’s pretty much where I’m at right now. Excited to go back and see all my friends–my “Tennessee family”…and feeling guilty for being excited to leave…and of course, all sorts of anxious and stressed out about feeling guilty for being excited about leaving. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle. An unavoidable one, unfortunately. If I were one of those people that believed that everything happens for a reason—and I am—then I would have to say that there must be a reason why I moved to Tennessee…a greater purpose that I’m just not aware of yet. One thing I do know is that I’m happy there…and for now, that’s enough for me. In fact, right now…it’s everything. The rest…I can figure out later…


**

xo MESSIE

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The Words That Lie Between The Lines.

For as long as I can remember, words and stories have been my safe haven. My escape. I remember, way back when I was in grade school—I couldn’t have been more than 9 or 10 at the time—I had this teacher who moved me from my seat in the back of the class—which happened to be near the windows—simply because she grew tired of constantly catching me staring out those windows and “daydreaming”—as she put it. While the seat change may have put a damper on my window-watching that year, it did nothing to hinder my imagination. I remember that it was there that some of my first stories came about. Sitting there in that little desk, my Lisa Frank pencil flying across the pages of loose leaf whilst the teacher wasn’t looking, my little mind racing faster than my fingers could even write at times. To say that writing has always been my first love, while true, is also a bit of an understatement. I didn’t find writing. I didn’t seek it out. It found me. It’s been there, all along…like an obsession, or an addiction…or a disease. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I hate it. At times, it’s like having schizophrenia…like there’s this voice inside of me—only it’s all these words and these stories just floating around—and there’s no rest to be had until I’ve written it down, until it’s out. And then there’s this cathartic peace to be had. It’s like a climber reaching the summit of Everest—that dizzying rush you get when you look around and see all your hard work has finally paid off.


Sometimes, it’s about more than the rush. Sometimes, it’s about having all these words and emotions inside of you and just needing a release…of sorts. To let it all out. Before it consumes you. That’s what writing became for me. An outlet. A release—for when that sweet, innocent little girl with an obsession for Lisa Frank everything grew up into a teenager and everything that was once bright and cheerful turned dark and colorless, seemingly overnight. I started writing poetry…a lot of it. There was no rhyme or reason to a good majority of it…just a way for me to put to paper the thoughts that were racing through my mind at the time. There was a lot of anger in those poems. A lot of confusion, sadness, grief, despair…you name the emotion, chances are it was in there. It became my therapy, of sorts. And it helped—a least for those few brief moments when the words were finally out—it did. I remember it was my English teacher in Junior High that was really supportive of my poetry writing—and the first one to really encourage me to find my “inner poet” and to play around with that type of prose. I remember her telling me how much she liked my poems, and how honest and insightful they were for someone my age. One memory in particular that I haven’t forgotten is of an exchange we had one day; she happened to ask me why I chose to write sad poems instead of happy ones and I remember simply just shrugging and saying “…because it’s not realistic… life isn’t all rainbows…” I can still picture the look on her face when I said it—that typical initial look of surprise that’s all too quickly followed by that inquisitive stare-down that’s intended to make you break down and “talk it out”. Yeah…that didn’t happen. I stopped writing poems after that. Or at least—I should say—that’s the lie I told her weeks later when she cornered me after class one day and asked me how things were and if I had any new poems to show her. The truth is, I’d had plenty of poems I could have shown her…but I wasn’t going to. It was bad enough that she looked at and treated me like I was broken or something whenever I was in anywhere in her vicinity. I certainly wasn’t going to encourage her curiosity or confirm/deny whatever inferences she’d made from my poems. I mean, granted there were some pretty messed up things going on at the time and sure, some of what she’d gathered from the subtext wasn’t all wrong…but then, what teenager doesn’t have issues? And while I realize she might have had good intentions and meant well—the fact that she was my teacher didn’t earn her my automatic trust. Don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for the teaching profession—my own sister is a teacher—and I realize they’re mandated by law to report certain things and whatnot…but that doesn’t mean I have to like it or agree with it. And I’m sorry, but it’s a little hard to trust a person who isn’t capable of keeping your confidence—and it’s even more of a betrayal when they break that confidence and then have the audacity to tell you they did it “for your own well-being.” Right. Because turning someone’s world inside-out and making the situation ten times worse is sooo much better for their well-being. Riiighhht. And teachers, for all their good intentions, aren’t really there for the aftermath. It’d be one thing if they were, but they aren’t. You can’t just get involved, mess with someone’s life, then hand off the responsibility as if to say “well, I got the ball rolling, my job here is done.”. I’m sorry, but no. Just no.


Anyways, that was really the last time I voluntarily showed my poems to anyone…at least during my teenage years. I started keeping a journal when I was about 14 or so…right around the time I developed a couple of not-so-healthy, self-destructive-type habits…aka my less-than-lovely eating disorder and even less-than-lovelier self-harm problem. Before then, I’d always looked at the whole “keeping a diary” thing as kind of cheesy and childish…but after a few entries, I found it hard to stop. And it didn’t seem so cheesy or childish so long as I referred to it as a “journal” and not a “diary”. Gotta love the illogical silly semantics of a teenager. Anyhow, I would write nearly every day in that hard-covered book…and not just a paragraph or two—we’re talking more like pages. And looking back—I can honestly say that journal was my saving grace on more than a few occasions during those years. It literally held my heart and soul within those pages…all my hopes and dreams and fears. All the secrets and scars I kept hidden from the rest of the world. It was my lifeline to sanity. Without that outlet—without it—I’d have gone crazy, for sure. Or worse. I still have them actually. All 14 of them—yes, 14!—I guess I figure it’ll be cool to keep and look back at them years and years from now and see what’s changed and how much I’ve changed. Maybe I’ll use them to write my memoirs someday when I’m old…maybe. If I get that far.


Since I’ve started this blog–about 5 years ago now–I’ve gotten a bit lax on my journal writing. I’ll write here and there, but definitely not as much or as often as I used to. I think that’s going to be one of my EARLY New Year’s resolutions…to disconnect a bit and do a little more re-connecting with some things of old. I kind of miss my down-time journal writing. Just curling up on my comfy couch in my PJ’s and a blanket, a glass of wine or two at the ready (though I admit, it’s more like coffee these days than alcohol anything) … just me, my ultra-fine point pen (is it weird that I refuse to use pens that have anything bigger than a fine point on them?? err, oh well) my journal, and all my darkest, deepest, most personal thoughts. Yeah, I really do miss those writing sessions.


So…where exactly was I going with this post? I’m not entirely sure. (*Not surprising, I know. Lol) Anyhow, it started off as an ode of sorts to writing and I guess that’s where I’ll end it. It’s funny how things haven’t changed all that much from those grade school, day-dreaming days…even though I still have my days and those moments when I have to wonder if that girl is even still in there—in here—somewhere, after everything that’s happened and everything I’ve seen. I’d like to think that she is…that I haven’t become that jaded that I’ve lost her completely. And maybe it was me, maybe I saved myself…but a lot of it was the writing, too. It’s really always been there for me as a crutch when I needed it. A harbor in even the most intense, darkest of storms that I’ve encountered over the years…and trust me, I’ve encountered plenty. For some people its music, or dance, or another hobby they’re passionate about. But for me…it’s the words. It’s the story. And whether it’s those stories or poems or blogging or journals…it’s all the same. Writing…it’s my saving grace. The one thing no one can take from me. It’s mine. All mine.


xoMESSIE

Halloween Two-Oh-One-Five.

So the little ones had a dry-run Halloween party/parade thing at Avie’s school tonight…

When oh when did they grow up–they’re getting so big!! How do I make it stop??!! 😦


<3 Avie J (*Doc McStuffins*)
Avie J. (*Doc McStuffins*)
Emmie (*Bumblebee*)
Emmie (*Bumblebee*)
Angelina (*Butterfly*)
Angelina (*Butterfly*)
Lena w/ her Daddy.
Lena w/ her Daddy.
Ty Bear (*Iron Man*)
Ty Bear (*Iron Man*)
"...make me fly, Dad..."
“…make me fly, Dad…”
Ty (*Iron Man*)
Ty (*Iron Man*)
Ty & his Dad
Ty & his Dad

**Halloween Dry Run 2015*

You Only Wake Up When It’s Over.

VERSE:

It wasn’t one big blow that brought our love down
It was the hairline cracks that took it to the ground
Just kept creepin’ over time, spreadin’ like wildfire
It wasn’t one big blow that brought our love down

CHORUS:

Oh we didn’t wanna see
We didn’t wanna believe
The dream was gettin’ colder
Oh, we begged the truth to bend
It’s easier to pretend
Than to see it when you’re sober
You only wake up when it’s over
You only wake up when it’s over

VERSE:

There was so much ’bout you I didn’t realize
There was so much ’bout me I couldn’t recognize
You can only get a clear view, when it’s fadin’ in the rearview
There was so much ’bout you I didn’t realize

BRIDGE:

Oh we didn’t wanna see
We didn’t wanna believe
It’s easier to pretend
Than to see it when you’re sober

You only wake up when it’s over
You only wake up when it’s over…

(“Wake Up When It’s Over” – Michael Logen & Maren Morris)



**

Why, oh WHY, is it that it’s only in hindsight that we see all things in 20/20 perspective?

**

Why’d we first have to fall before we learned to stand? Why did there always have to be a lesson to be learned…why couldn’t things just be what they were? Simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. Why couldn’t it have just gone our way for once?

**

Why weren’t we satisfied until we’d broken and destroyed one another? Why did we toss around the words that cut the deepest? Why didn’t we take the high road and bow out gracefully? Left with our dignity? Why’d we let it go that far? Why didn’t we stop ourselves? Why’d we make excuses when we knew it was wrong? Why’d you get off so easy–how’d you, of all people, get to play the victim card? Why’d you have to go and make forgetting you easy but forgiving you  so damn hard? Why?

**