To the Man Who Could Have Been My Father…

The only memory I have of you is when I was younger. Around four-years-old, to be exact. I remember it was a Thursday because mamma was always out of work that day. I was in the years of Barbie dolls and hide-n-seek. My days were filled with made-up adventures and finding sunken pirate ships out back in the old lake mamma told me not to get in.

This day was special. It was my birthday, and to any four-year-old, this day is the most important of them all. You promised my mother you would stop by on my birthday. I had never heard of you or really thought about you. I remember asking my mom if I had a dad like Hannah from daycare had. You would tell me, “yes, but he is gone.” I never understood what she meant by this, but now that I’m older I see that she was protecting me from the sadness and betrayal you put us through. Either way, I was excited to meet the man I thought never existed. I was excited to meet the man that I tried so hard to imagine in my preschool mind.

I remember waiting on the old, gray front porch all day for you to pull into my driveway. I was playing with my two favorite Barbie’s. I think I named one Sarah and the other Charlotte (both named after my aunt and mother). For a four-year-old, all day is like a whole year in our minds, so finding things to do was very difficult. I mean, god forbid I be bored for two seconds, right?  I remember my mother bringing me dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for lunch, and a home cooked meal for dinner and then water every hour. She looked disappointing every time she would come to check on me. I know now how bad she felt for me.

I didn’t know what kind of a car you drove because I never knew you, despite how much I wish I did. Every time a car would start down our street, I’d stand up in excitement, but then it would pass, so I sat back down waiting for the next one, never letting my hope go away. I didn’t care if you were a little late because all I care about was meeting my father. Everything else didn’t matter to me at the moment.

After it had become dark, mother came out and said that you weren’t coming. I remember crying so hard wondering why you decided not to come. I remember wanting to know who you were. I hated trying to piece together the images of who I imagined you to be. I was so heartbroken. I remember asking my mother, “who is my dad?” I’d get no answer. Just eyes of sorrow.

This is the only memory I have of you, and it has been an example of how I feel every time I have to think about you. Every single year in elementary school when they had the “bring your dad to school day.” Every single time I asked about you and got no answer in return. Every single time I wondered who you were. You broke my heart without even knowing my middle name, and to me, that is what hurt the most. Wanting to know absolutely everything about you, and you not even giving me a second thought. You hurt me even when your name was never spoken. The sight of my half-siblings having relationships with their father breaks me into two. I feel like half of me is missing. Like another part of me is a mystery that I’ve been trying so hard to find out about.

I want you to see that without you I became strong. I was raised by a strong woman you left in pieces. I watched her pick herself back up and put them back in their place. I watched her struggle, and I watched her grow into the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She taught me how to be strong when there was no one else around. Because of you, she had to take up not only the position of being a mother but also the position that you decided just wasn’t for you.

I want you to know that I love who I have become. I want you to know that despite all the trials you’ve put me though, I came out alive and I am thriving. I have accomplished great things and trust me, my story is long from being over. I have so many great opportunities going for me. I want you to know that I am who I am not because of you, but because of who I made myself to be. You had no part in this because you chose to have no part in this.

Letters to My Summer Lover.

Those late, summer nights,

have always given me the best memories.

We’d sneak out and go to a field,

just watching the stars,

talking all night long.

You’d tell me about you’re movie star dreams,

And your mile long bucket list.

Your car always smelled like pizza,

It made sense because you worked a summer job at Papa John’s.

I miss getting free bread sticks,

and listening your bizarre stories about your co-workers.

I loved those nights the most,

when we would eat out at Waffle House,

because it was the only place open in our old farm town.

Remember when we saw my mom’s best friend there,

and had to leave before she recognized us?

That was so funny,

now that I’m looking back on it.

We got so scared even though she probably wouldn’t have cared.

Oh, and the cliche walks on the beach.

How huge of a crush I had on you,

Just wondering if you felt the same for me.

When you held me close,

you smelled like a fresh cappuccino,

waiting on my marble kitchen counter.

It made me feel secure and protected,

from the breathtaking darkness around us.

I remember the night time crickets,

would attempt to hoodwink our perfect nights.

We were smart enough to not let them phase us,

but dumb enough to let them get a scare out of us.

We knew if our parents ever found out where we were,

we would be forever looked down on.

Forever chastised.

I’d be forced to never see you again,

but we would just go through the same routine,

we’ve been doing for months.

But like any great love fling,

they all die.

Our love was thrown in the gutter,

with the rest of the summer lovers.

Looking back, those nights were so wicked.

Breaking into hotel swimming pools,

and screaming out the window at the top of our lungs.

I know I don’t see you now,

and I want you to know I’m doing quite swell.

Just remember to swing around the back way to my house,

when the summer nights revolve around us again.

The Cancer.

The Cancer

Victoria Jerde

 

My day has been for the most part well,

Then again depression eats away at every happy thought.

I go through this battle every day.

Almost every time, I’m the one on the ground.

The work overload eats me whole.

Digging my way out to just catch one breath.

I’m always sucked back down,

In a pile of anxiety,

In a pile of self doubt.

And I just lie there.

Too tired to pick myself back up.

Too tired to try and grasp the light.

And don’t forget about the voices.

Because they will never let it slip your mind.

They fill you with, “you’re not good enough.”

“You need this to look okay.”

“Your life is worthless.”

“You don’t deserve to be here.”

And you believe it because if it’s your own mind saying it.

Why would it lie to you, right?

Right?

No.

Yes.

No.

No always wins.

It’s like pulling a joke on the Joker.

He invented it.

Then, when I lose the war I just want to scream.

I want to scream at myself for believing it.

But my heart and my head are at each other’s throats.

And it’s slowing overtaking me.

Until all that rings in my mind are negative thoughts.

Which is the cancer to any self love you thought you had.

This three year battle has been exhausting.

I’ve been ripped apart like a useless piece of paper.

And blown away into the air without a care.

I want it to go away.

I want to be done with it.

I want it to be gone.

Vanished from my spiralling life.

I want to be able to pick up my shattered pieces.

And glue them back together.

Maybe then I’ll feel just a little more whole.

A little more complete.

A little more alive.

But, until then,

My day’s like this will just repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Everyday Struggles of Having an RBF.

We all know what RBF stands for, and if you don’t, just hit up the Urban Dictionary. They’ll be happy to help. So, yeah, I know I have a HORRIBLE RBF. It could be the number one cause for me not having many friends, but hey, quality over quantity. Am I right?

So, when it comes to smiling, I’m so lazy. I mean my face is so comfortable at its normal standstill. I have to use a whole lot of energy that I don’t have just to smile at one person. I pass by and see MANY people on a daily bases, so if I smile at everyone I know, I’d have wrinkles right now, ya dig? Usually, I just give this flat smile and go on with my life. Well, I began to notice that not many people smile back. I never knew why or if it was just a bad day, so I always just brushed it off. I mean, let’s be honest, if I got angry over EVERYONE who didn’t return a smile, I’d be a very sad person.

After many months of wondering why I don’t have *cough* friends *cough*, I saw a video that a friend got of me where I was smiling, or so I thought. No, it was NOT a smile. It was a “don’t talk to me,” face. I was so embarrassed and finally came to the conclusion that I literally do not know how to smile…at all. So, today I’m celebrating all of those who struggle daily with RBF. Women and men. Girl or boy. I’m here to say that I get it. I know your struggle. I live with it. Today we are here to just sit back, laugh and relate to these everyday struggles of having an RBF.

I feel like the reason I don’t have many friends is that people think I’m unapproachable. Yeah, I get it, I look like a b, but “I swear, it’s just my face.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that sentence, I’d be able to fix my RBF.

“I never wanted to approach you because you seemed like a b.” I’m pretty sure almost all my friends have said this one line to me at least once. It’s gotten to where I now just expect it to be said at one point.

After actually getting to know me instead of just judging a book by its cover, you also get the infamous line, “you’re actually really nice.” I’m like, “Did you expect me not to be?”

I can’t tell you how many times my mom or teachers have come to the conclusion that I have a “bad attitude.” I mean, come on, I haven’t said a word to any of you. Oh yeah, I forgot that when you add no talking to an RBF, you end up with an eternal attitude.

When people actually do approach you, there absolutely has to be something wrong with you. I mean, no one’s face can look like that without being something wrong. Right? And that leads to the repeated question of, “are you okay?” When you say, “yes” they automatically think you’re lying to them, so they ask 238,478,923 more times, believing they might get a new answer. It’s like they don’t want you to be okay.

Oh, and the constant “cheer up” faces you get after finally proving to them that you are OKAY. Good grief.

Then, when you take their advice, you have to put in so much extra work to appear “happy.” I don’t know about you, but smiling is a chore for me. Seriously.

Of course, when you do smile, it comes off as fake because no one has ever seen you smile without effort. Don’t ya just love assumptions?

Let’s not forget the struggle of actually having friends. At least once a week they ask you, “are you mad at me?” When you tell them no because you have no clue what they are talking about, they insist that you are, and end up avoiding you for the rest of the day.

If you have ever struggled with any of these scenarios, you most likely have an RBF. But, hey, welcome to the club. It’s not always a great face to live with, but maybe when we are 60 we will look 30 years old due to the lack of smiling we’ve endured. Yeah, maybe not, but it’s something to wish for.

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I Am a Woman.

In my intermediate poetry class, we were given the task to observe different art pieces and write poetry about a specific piece that spoke to us the most. This exercise is also known as, “Ekphrastic Poetry.” The piece I went with was a painting created by Kelly Varner called, “That’s Not a Worm, Bird, That’s My Brain.” I believe I interpreted the work of art in a different way than Varner did, but I guess that’s the beauty of art. Am I right? I took in the painting in a way that described how woman have been struggling to be equal for their entire existence. In the painting, it shows a woman having three faces, and I took it as her having three different sides to herself: who she shows, who she hides, and who she really is. She also had a bird picking at her brain. I saw that as people constantly trying to figure us out. There were also flowers all over the woman’s body, and I saw that as being hair blooming all over. My favorite part of the piece was that there were stepping stones or stairs that led to a door on her neck. To me, that closed door shows how people don’t want us to voice our opinions. They want us to keep quiet or “sit still and look pretty.” But that “norm” has vanished. Women are standing up for what they believe in, and it’s empowering and beautiful. I wrote this poem to voice my views on being a woman. Take it how you want. Leave it how it is.

 

“I Am a Woman”

Victoria Jerde

 

I am a woman.

My teeth aren’t naturally straight.

People are constantly picking at my brain.

My personality is forced to stay inside a bubble.

There are three sides to me:

Who I show,

Who I hide,

And who I really am.

They tell me to hide my true self.

Push her away to the deepest parts of your heart.

They only want closed doors at the end,

Of the stepping stones that lead to my voice,

And expect my skin to be smooth and bare,

Without any trace of flowers growing,

Only allowing those within.

I am a woman.

Who was forced to be the formation,

That fell into the lines,

Of their perfect fairy tale.

But my flowers won’t stop blooming.

The hinges on the door are breaking.

My true self is waking.

My heart is shaking.

Behind my perfect teeth,

I’m screaming,

“Let her out!”

“Let her out!”

But I’m shoved back in.

Before even getting a glimpse of the light.

Yet, I keep trying.

Day after day,

Because I am a woman,

And as a woman, I fight,

Despite how many times I’m stomped on.