Author: Charlotte Drane

I’m waiting for the call from my mother to officially declare how much she hates me. I want the call- I need to hear it from her mouth and let it sink into my bones and settle into the crook of my ears, just so I won’t forget it when we’re riding down the road together.

I’ll want to tell her about my day and all off the things that I said and thought but then her voice will fall from my left ear crook into the canal and I’ll remember that she doesn’t care. No one, especially her, wants to hear about the madness in my mind. I’ll stay silent.

She knows my favorite food is spaghetti- it’s why she makes nothing by roasts: grilled, baked, crock-pot, steamed. I’ve been eating roasts for the last five years of my life, but it’s okay, I  deserve them. I think she needs to cook roasts to remind herself to hate me, because otherwise, she might ask me how my day was. She can’t do that do that while focusing on seasoning the afternoon roast.

It started when I was nine and dropped her ring that she told me to not drop. It was lost in her car for over a year. She looked at me differently after that. Sure, I was the one to find it after its escapade under the driver’s seat, but she deemed that I was untrustworthy. She was right. I get it from her.

I have a basic sense of morals that remind me not to murder anyone or the like, but beyond that, what needs to happen goes. (I don’t know how to make this sound less crude.) This has never sat well with her because, despite her hatred for me, she is a very compassionate person who lives her life to please others. I am not like this- she is angry about it. We argue about it a lot.

I don’t think I’ll ever get her to utter the words we both need to hear. She needs them to sit on her shoulder and whisper all of the terrible things I’ve done, just as I need them ready to fall from my ear into my canal and scream their reminder that we’re not right for each other. I don’t think it will ever happen.

I’ll tell her about my days as we ride down the road, and every couple of weeks she’ll make something other than roast. Maybe not spaghetti, possibly something with chicken.

I think love is ridiculously over-rated, but I can’t seem to find my way out of the pit I’ve let myself fall into. It sounds dumb (and it is, mind you) but what can a person do?

I think of myself as someone with reliable decision-making skills, and given the problems this predicament is causing, I would think I could make the appropriate decision to let this person go.

It should be easy.  Factors out of my control enter the equation and butt their way into my life. There should be little to consider about the situation, and that is what I have been telling myself for almost a year- and a year is a long time to pathetically pine after someone who doesn’t care about your existence. Take my word for it, and just trust me.

In fact, I had called myself getting over this person, but the moment I lay my eyes on them, I knew I was screwed in a sticky place (possibly forever).

What do you do when you see them smile at someone else the same way they used to smile at you?

Or what about how their hands find the other one’s waist on a slow song?

Heaven forbid you watch them disappear from the after-party to be alone together.

What do you do then? (Don’t ask me)

(I don’t have it all figured out)

Get angry is my usual response to things that would make a functioning human begin cry, or whatever.

Smoking  a pack of cigarettes is easier than crying, lung cancer and all.  Anything is better than crying in front of them.

What about when the cigarettes are gone?  I don’t know- find another pack.  Jump off the back porch, it’ll work for a few minutes. Or, until  you realize the porch is only about three feet off the ground and the only thing that hurts is your wrist from trying to catch yourself on the fall down.

Perhaps, try non self-detrimental exercises to cure your heart of its  harrowing illness. Eat two salads a day. Drown yourself in hydration. Run three miles in the morning and three more at night. Go out on ‘adventures’. Meet and use new people. Try to feel anything but the them-sized lump stuck on your heart.

If, by some terrible happening those things don’t work, resort back to cigarettes.

(This post, in no way, endorses smoking cigarettes- this is all metaphorical)

2/21/18

(This is an odd post, bear with me please.)

My outlooks on life are seemingly crude despite my inner outreach for positivity. It is for the sole and simple fact that I am constantly and irrevocably terrified of everything around me. I am scared that if I actually show the amount of content I am with myself, someone or something will come along and take that security  away from me.

It’s something I’ve feared for a long time. Life was not simple or fun or easy before coming to school here. Heck, it’s usually not any of those things now, but days are easier and I feel like I can breathe. It’s an odd feeling.

Going years and years not realizing how the thoughts in your head are not right and the way you see yourself is actually distorted is something that people can get caught up in. I spent years (I feel dumb writing this because it makes me sound older than I am and I hate that but at the same time I feel older than I am so I’m just going to go with it- I’m sorry) doing and feeling things that I shouldn’t have. I’ve gotten myself into situations that not only hurt myself, but the people around me. Years of, not only physical, but mental self-harm left a lot of scars that I feel like I am constantly trying to cover up. With like, metaphorical scar cream or something.

I put people that I care about in unfair positions just to see how they would react. This is not a good thing, I suggest not doing it. It causes more problems than its worth.

My mom and I have a very complicated relationship because of me. And her. I can’t say mostly her or mostly me because it was team effort to screw up the whole thing. Even though it has gotten better, things are still tense and weird at times. (Update: she’s not mad about my tattoo.)

I don’t really know what else to put for the last 100 words. This was as personal as I’ve gotten in a long time, and it’s not even that personal so that shows how I am, I guess.

 I’m tired of hating myself? That’s a thing I can add. It’s boring and cliche and extremely exhausting. I don’t technically love myself, but I’m in the process of at least accepting that my stomach is not completely flat and how my nose resembles a bird’s beak more than an actual nose. I love birds. I want to be a bird when I grow up.

butterfly kisses and hard-won breaths,

torn clothes and filthy skin,

the weight of the world on your shoulders,

cold eyes and forked tongues-

all aching to land like whips on your self-worth.

cool night breezes that sweep away the  sweat of today’s mask.

broken promises that lead to a broken home,

that leads to walls that refuse to come down.

even to silken touches,

your body is coarse from weathered hands.

aching feet tired of carrying the burden of you –

and your mind.

tear holes in yourself to let the light in.

stand alone in the dark,

realize you’re not alone.

“The art of being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common things.”

-Henry Ward Beecher

I want to wake up early enough in the morning to have a cup of coffee and watch the sun rise- insomnia free. I want to hear a song on the radio and manage to sing along- without hearing the silence between the words. I want to run three miles a day, not to be thinner, but to see how strong my body can become.I want to go to college and go to parties. I want to enjoy myself- make friends with strangers on the street and tell that person that I think they’re beautiful- without the voice in my head saying its not worth it. 

I want the world.

I believe that looking for the little things in life is what makes it livable. If we go day to day and only acknowledge the things that don’t seem to go our way, our lives add up to be pretty miserable. In my opinion, we don’t live long enough for there to be time for us to feel sorry for ourselves. Bad things happen and sometimes it gets tough, but the world keeps spinning and life goes on.

Part of me feels like 17 is too young of an age to attempt to make a drastic change in one’s life, but here I am, trying my best to do just that. I don’t want to wake up when I’m 25 and decide to finally fight against the constant pressure of sadness that seems to come as a side-effect of the human condition. It seems like a waste of time that’s already too short.

My goal in life is to be as happy as possible with the things around me, and if those things are not up to par- change them. I don’t expect happiness to come running for me but hopefully to be waiting on a bench while I find the way.

I feel like I’m repeating myself in this post by continuously saying that I don’t believe in wallowing in your sadness, but I don’t think people get told often enough and then they get swallowed up by the heavy feeling of self-pity. It’s addictive and can take more than just yourself to shake away that heaviness, so do that thing where you ask people for a little help.

This post is all over the place and I’ve been writing it over the course of a couple of weeks, trying to get my thoughts together on the topic, but I’m not having much luck getting out what I feel. It’s started to sound more like a self-help website rather than one of my blogs. Whoops.

sing me a song that come from the soles of your feet and reminds you of your boss’s favorite tie- the same one that hung him from the rafters

wear the jacket that makes you feel like a fallen angel, hidden in the hell of mortality right beside my brother’s broken heart

“Where did he go?”

watch the sunset and wish on the moon as it calls to all of the lost children staring up at the stars from their caverns of misunderstood rationalizations

hold your breath on sunny days and blow out the nectar of your mother’s sweet lies as you choke on the smoke of your grandma’s last cigarette

hear her voice and tell the man sitting next to you on the train that his father would be proud- complement his shoes

“I’m homeless.”

tell me about the summer you fell from a tree and couldn’t remember the color blue, but you knew the color of my eyes

stare at the car sitting in the parking lot-  remember when your mom had the exact same one, and you lost her favorite amethyst ring inside its heart for a year

“Just don’t drop it.”

you dropped it and her heart, losing both to your inability to hold tight to what means the most to you- was it on purpose?

ask your father why he doesn’t love you like he loves the amber in his cup, stop crying when after all these years his answer never changes:

“It doesn’t disappoint me.”

did your mother realize what she was saying when she told you to leave?  you came back- she never asked you to.

throw up the words you didn’t say when you had the chance, it’s too late, they don’t care anymore

“Neither should you.”

Watch me stand alone at night and listen to the voices in my head-hear me scream your name in my sleep and wonder if it’s because I love or hate you.

Tell me that you love me, and realize that my walls have been up this whole time. You don’t want them to come down- I would be a different person. You’re already in love with the sad me, I shouldn’t bother with anything else.

Let me know how you feel on bad days and good days and all the days in between- send the ‘I’m busy’ text when I get emotional.

Wrap your vine arms around me and feel me shake, hold me tighter. Tell yourself that I’m cold and it’s not the fact that your arms remind me of a cage I couldn’t escapef. You don’t even know the story. My teeth have shattered.

Listen to my silence and make it your melody. Count the beats until I crescendo into nothingness. Breathe through your nose. Keep your back straight.

Follow me into the dark, strike a match and watch me burn. Relish in my light- singe your eyebrows. Take a step back. Stare as my ashes are blown away in the wind. Leave.

Eat my heart. Feel my blood soak through your tongue, washing away your lies with my own. Devour my eyes- see what I keep hidden.

Don’t let me see your scars. Feel the ridges on my arms and squirm- I’ll start to hide mine too. Long sleeves and locked up words. Everyone is satisfied. My throat is burning.

Wait until I’m asleep, cast your shadows on top of my own. Choke the flame from my dreams-make it your own.

Want what we can’t have. Wish on a million stars, beg the gods, hold your breath. Our hands do not fit together.

Fear the future. Flee from the right now. Hold down your shaking hands. Drop your concerns on my doorstep- don’t leave a return address.

Smile at my middle name. Tell me it fits perfectly- beauty and callus bring the smells of spring and my exhaustion.

Wonder when I’ll come to my senses- try to run back. Daydream of untied shoelaces and slippery streets. Feel content with broken bones.

Imagine a day when our eyes will be able to meet without the world erupting. It’s impossible. You squint your eyes. The picture stays fuzzy.

I’m sitting in bed, writing this, trying to think of something that will make people think. (3:44a.m). I have nothing to say and no words to use to tell you how little I have to say. I could write a poem or two or ten about things I would rather forget. I could make a bad decision and text the wrong person the wrong thing and regret it probably never. I could finish the workout that I didn’t really feel like doing this afternoon, or figure out what I’m going to wear tomorrow. But I wear the clothes that feel right for the day and the me right now will not be the same me that gets up in two hours and fifty-one minutes, therefore, the outfit will not work and my trials will have been for nothing. I could study the geometry lesson I’m sure I’m going to have a pop quiz on tomorrow, and possibly make my mom proud of my grades for the first time in a long time.

I would really like to get up and run- it’s cold outside and the world is ripe for the taking. Lemonade and I, who is also awake right now, wouldn’t split the world and its people and their things- we would march side by side, a team.

My stomach is churning and I’m not sure whether it’s because of something I’ve eaten or the fact that I haven’t eaten enough today to sustain a normal human body. My mom was worried about this when I moved away. I forget.

If I go to sleep in exactly one minute, I will be able to have two hours and thirty-three minutes of sleep. That’s plenty and not enough all at the same time, which is confusing.

I was having a conversation today about self-destruction- where it comes from and why people do it. I made the arguament that I, being hyper-aware of my own  self-care, would know how to control the urge to stay up all night or the small task of forgetting to eat. Obviously, I was incorrect. It happens more often than not.

I don’t know what I will title this piece or if I’ll have the gall to actually transfer it from my phone to Herbert.  I don’t know how many more words it needs. Lemonade is attempting to sleep.

I’ve been in the same position for over three hours, because I sleep on top bunk and when I move it makes enough noise to wake up my roommates. My hands are cold ,but if I tuck them under the covers I can’t type. My left leg is asleep; my back is aching. I’d rather let my roommates sleep.

(4:18a.m) Lemonade has given up on sleep and is now watching Vines. I wish I had mittens. My bad knee is starting to get onto me for my lack of movement. Maybe instead of a pop quiz tomorrow, we’ll get to take a nap. Maybe the world will end in the next two hours and seventeen minutes and I won’t have to worry about geometry or exercise or the fact that I’m not asleep when I should be. Lemonade has moved on to Netflix.

shaking you off of my shoulders would be a burden lifted,

a deep breath out i know i’ve been holding,

(you’re crushing my frame)

my soul was never supposed to be the color of the night sky,

my mind should never have searched for comfort in the stars.

i shrank from the sun’s rays,

afraid it’s light would find its way into my viens,

boiling my blood and scorching my bones.

(maybe it could burn you too)

i never realized the catastrophe you hid beneath your skin,

maybe because i was busy hiding mine too.

our secrets lay behind bloodshot eyes,

yours more chaotic than my own,

(that’s what you told yourself)

i’m tired to tell you to stop spilling sugar,

all over my wounds.

(the sticky residue is starting to itch)