A Ramble Through Love

A four letter word as rife with controversy, intrigue, and confusion as any other: love.  An abstract idea, both verb and noun, we strive for it.  To feel it.  To see it.  To share it.  We seek it out enthusiastically and grieve for it when it is taken away.

Love is beautiful and kind, selfless and warm.  It fills us up and lightens our dark corners, dulling the pain we encounter in our everyday lives.  It is the stuff of poetry and music, the ultimate muse.  It lifts us up where we belong and makes us fools.  Love is alluring.

It is also cruel.  It can be selfish and harmful, terrifying and damaging. We can lose ourselves to it, become overwhelmed to the point of loss of personal identity.  Love can breed resentment and guilt, turn us into both abuser and abused. 

New Year

At the close of every year, I find myself driven to pause for reflection.  I feel the urge to take to the pen, purge myself of the experiences, emotions, and thoughts of the past year onto paper in an effort to gain perspective.  Out of this desire to revisit my life often comes a mix bag of emotions.  Optimism, regret, fear, nostalgia.  Positive or negative, the time I typically devote to this is time taken away from being in the here and now.  I unintentionally force myself to carry bits of the past on with me into the future, disallowing myself to fully let go and move on. 

In itself this is not inherently destructive, as the past continually informs the present and future and disregarding it can be naive and potentially harmful.  However, by actively seeking to live in these moments gone by, I open myself up to missing what is to come by dwelling in times I cannot fix or change.  There is a balance to be achieved here; a balance I have yet to perfect in my 26 years.  How can you carry on the lessons and experiences without actively letting them infect what is to come?

So this is my breakup letter, 2012.  Believe me when I say "it's not you, it's me."  We had a rocky relationship, filled with ups and downs, but I think we can still be friends.  I believe I can make a clean break, choose not to drag this on unnecessarily.  I carry on within me the good times we shared, the connections we made.  The new interests you piqued in me will continue to thrive, the new loves you provided me will grow, until they too must find their home in the past.  The times you made me cry will exist only as shadows; tear stained memories with no more power than I choose to instill in them.  

Likewise, the times you made me smile, though easier and decidedly less painful to hold on to, will be moved to the archives to make room for new happiness.  They will poke their heads out from time to time—reminders to laugh and allow contentment to occasionally overwhelm me—but they will not exist under a magnifying glass to prod and dissect until they are husks of themselves.  

Old bitterness and frustration will have no room in my heart, for they will exist only as reminders to grow and accept.  I will not weep for your departure, because our end marks the start of a blank slate, a sponge ready to soak up all the pleasures and heartache of the year to come.  My regrets will not pull me down, but bolster me to make wiser decisions.  

I will do my best to remember you fondly without holding on to you so tightly that I am unable to grasp the new delights that come to me.  The lessons you taught me will be filed away to be pulled out as needed, though the circumstances that taught me those lessons will remain only as context.  The pain we shared left its mark, but I will patch the wounds rather than allowing them to bleed freely.

So, goodbye friend.  Here is to now. Here is to making new memories.  To kissing in the rain and dancing under the stars.  To loving fully and without expectation.  To allowing sadness without guilt, anger without shame, and fear without caution.  To forgetting pain and continuing to risk our hearts for the pleasure of now.  To friends, family, and lovers.  To working hard and feeling proud while remembering the things that truly matter.  To unrestrained giggles, unabashed childlike wonder, and playing with those we love.  To being free and moving on.

I See You

I am not in the business of putting people on pedestals.  There is too much effort and disappointment involved in crafting and sculpting—gingerly making sure each piece fits properly to create a sturdy foundation—only to have it all topple before your eyes.  The illusion shatters before you even have a chance to admire your own handiwork.  

I have fallen from far too many pedestals myself.  Placed gently upon the top, only to retain glory for a fraction of time before teetering and losing balance, falling slowly to the ground until my body crumples, broken and ashamed.  Feeling regret that I was unable to live up to the person another saw in me, my ideal who is beautiful and selfless and untouchable.  The slight aftertaste of self-loathing soon follows, chased away by a hefty dose of resentment as I see the disappointment in the eyes that once held me in such high regard.

There is much more beauty to be had in reality.  Our perceptions are shallow and unsustainable, cruel and impossible to attain.  We often view all the good in a person under a microscope, not allowing room for any negative particles.  This stunts growth and acceptance, creating a reality that is built on dishonesty and expectation.  We inadvertently abort future emotional education, denying ourselves the beauty of discovering the hidden nooks and crannies of those we surround ourselves with.

We are all vulnerable.  We fear exposing ourselves and facing blatant rejection of our weakest parts.  Yet we often do not extend the same acceptance and gentility we crave to those around us.  

So, I just wanted you to know I see you.  Feet planted firmly on the ground with the rest of us, flaws shining and tangible.  You are beautiful in your imperfection, reachable in a way that allows me to glorify in my own brokenness, unashamed.  You are a mirror image; your cracks differ from mine but there is comfort in seeing our asymmetrical similarities.  

I relish in your dark corners, cobwebs and dust collecting in the spaces that rarely see the light.  The cubby holes and forgotten drawers that house your fears and regrets, nestled atop a bed of insecurity and mistakes.  I cherish the glimpses because they make your light so much brighter.  They make you real and fallible; human, just like me.  I can see the limitlessness of your worth, intuit the vastness of your spirit and delight in accepting that to know you fully would take more than a lifetime.

I see you in the ways I wish to be seen, honestly and without judgment.  I see you, complex and lovely and crippled in the ways we all are.  I see you.

Please return in like-new condition

We traverse life giving out pieces of ourselves with the hope that they are well-tended while on loan.  When we are young, these pieces are handed out freely, carelessly, as we begin to test the often shaky line of trust we bestow upon others.  We have much to give: love, faith, generosity, and friendship flow from us in abundance, supple fruit ready to be picked or given enthusiastically to anyone who shows interest.  

We experience the human need to connect, the desire to deter loneliness and apathy.  The wish for someone to share in secrets and pain.  The longing to look at someone and see ourselves reflected back, more beautiful and inspiring than the reality.  So we continue to hand out our pieces, willing others to treat them with care and kindness.  Not losing faith when they are tossed back at us with a hasty "dysfunctional, please return to sender," but bolstering our determination to find them a safe and happy home. 

As we grow, the healthy pieces lessen in quantity.  Some are returned scuffed up and unrecognizable, others lost to us forever.  The few that remain become precious; rarities that we hold onto just a little too tightly.  We start to realize that to give out these pieces is to equip the receiver with the perfect weaponry to damage us further.  Opening up is no longer simply exciting and joyful, it is scary.  It is the largest risk with the most terrifying and beautiful consequences.

Our hearts continue to function like overeager puppies, fluttering about merrily and shouting "open me up! Lay me bare! I want to feel!"  The capacity for caution, for bitterness, does not exist.  Trepidation is reserved for our brains, which wrap our hearts in barbed wire and ward off any potential threats. 

The same desires remain, but they are often tinged with bitterness and cynicism.  There are only so many times we can play with fire before the burn scares us away from enjoying the warmth.  The skin heals over, but the memory of pain remains to remind us to use caution, to stand far enough away that the sparks cannot reach us.


With the new knowledge of the potential danger that exists when exposing ourselves also comes the realization that in fortifying our protective barriers we also deny ourselves the beautiful experience of having the pieces we share treated with respect and love.  We cannot ignore those who recognize the value and responsibility in not just accepting, but exchanging and trusting.  

Connection is alluring.  It is frightening and exhilarating at the same time.  It is a whirlwind of anticipation and tentativeness, fear and exaltation.  A beautiful drug that fires our synapses and retards our senses.  It can be overwhelming, in both the best and worst possible way.  

And so we freeze.  Our emotions seize up. We back away slowly, tails between our legs, fear dancing in our eyes.  We don't say the words that emanate from our hearts and batter the insides of our lips looking for release.  We cower from the idea of rejection. We refuse to invite that new friend over. To offer our lips to a potential lover. To open up to a long lost relative. 

Like caged birds, we are protected from harm, but cannot experience the ultimate release of stretching our wings and feeling that delicious tension as we press against the wind. We keep ourselves safe, though unfulfilled. 

And by we, I guess I really just mean me. 

I'm not who you think I am

I laugh and dance and play and effervesce all over my own little world.  My giggles run rampant and unrestrained, fueled by the delight I take in the world around me.  I pull funny faces and sing off key, skate across the floor in mismatched socks, and skip carefree and breathless down the street.  I'm awkward and clumsy, but don't take myself seriously enough to mind.  

I snort when I laugh and drive around town with Yoda and Yoshi as my passengers.  I go geek over a well-turned phrase or newly acquired addition to my personal vocabulary.  I nuzzle my friends and milk the elbows of the people I care about.  I'm a good friend.  One who always listens, offering advice when needed and hugs always.  I lend my shoulder for tears and my laugh for distraction.  I enjoy making you smile, making sure you feel special and loved as everyone should.  

But I also think and feel and hurt with a depth you don't give me credit for.  Sometimes my smile is strained.  Sometimes it spreads across my cheeks because the familiar upward lift of muscles is easier than giving in and breaking down.  Other times it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep it in place so I don't shake the foundation of the image you've built of me.  I can be selfish and cruel, jealous and vindictive.  I cry.  Sometimes it all rushes out in a wave that leaves me breathless and hiccuping, exhausted emotionally and physically by the sheer force of emotion, my face raw and ravaged by the physical manifestation of pain and frustration.

I've loved, hated, lusted, and obsessed.  Despite my best intentions, I've hurt others.  I've given too much of myself and had the pieces returned to me mangled and unrecognizable; and I've come out of it more jaded and cynical than I will ever let on.   

I'm human.  I'm complex, unpredictable, and driven by needs and desires that can never be fully understood or articulated.  I don't expect everyone to fully grasp the totality of my personality, but sometimes the juxtaposition between what you see and what I am is exhausting.  In the course of my life, I've managed to dichotomize myself to the point of personal tension.  When my smile slips, I feel your expectations pulsing against my being.  They pelt me erratically as I struggle to retain the Jessica you know.  The one you rely on to make you feel better; to be a little silly, a little weird.  

As I battle the resentment that rises in my throat when you look at me like I've let you down because my sunshine is a bit dimmer than normal, I suddenly feel lonely.  In a room full of people, surrounded by sound and motion, I am alienated.  Detached.  Unanchored.  To know so many, but be known by so few.  

As much as I want to, I can't blame you: the masks I wear are my own creation.  They've been carefully constructed over the years, molded perfectly to my being, keeping me hidden and safe and untouchable.  When the day is over and I can peel them away, those interested in sharing my space lessen.  The few that remain accept and love me, naked and raw as I am without my protective barriers.

The truth is, I'm just as beautiful and fucked up as everyone else.

A writer writes about writing (AKA: Holy Meta, Batman!)

I have once again fallen into the trap of completely neglecting my blog.  I will admit that this is partially due to the fact that I receive great personal pleasure out of having my most recent post comprised of gratuitous swearing.  There is something inherently sad about burying that mountain of fucks and shits under a comparatively tame post, but, alas, insomnia has taken hold of me and my default into random writing kicked in.

Why Swearing is FUN!

If you are reading this, chances are you are my friend or, at the very least, my acquaintance.  I’m sure you are well aware of the fact that I have a little sailor who lives inside my mouth, shouting out filthy words and phrases and laughing gleefully.  In my life, I have encountered many people who equate swearing with a lack of classiness or eloquence.  Bullshit, I say.  Words are words: they are empty sounds until we project meaning and connotation upon them.  I am not ashamed to admit that I harshly judge the “oh fudge,” “fiddlesticks,” and “heck” mutterers of the world.  By denying yourself the use of one word, only to replace it with a similarly sounding word that holds the exact same meaning and intent, is ludicrous.  If you have a problem with me saying “fuck,” you are implying that you take issue with the meaning behind it.  If I say “fudge” in its place, the meaning has not changed.  The intent remains the same despite the switch of letters.

The argument is much more complex than this, I’m aware.  We have been socially conditioned to recognize certain words as bad and improper, taught that these words are inappropriate in certain social settings, and berated for using them at unacceptable times.  I just want to know why these particular words are the ones that are the most satisfying to use.