Fair warning, this is not a pretty piece of prose. My head is a hot mess right now, and it’s a miracle that I was able to put this together. I am posting it as is because the psych major in me has always been fascinated by my own mental health issues and for once in my life, I am somewhat able to document it. More on that later. Why am I making it public? Because maybe someone out there would be interested in conversation, or maybe they’re thinking the same thing and they want to know if anyone else knows what it’s like. This is my fleeting moment of “sobriety”. I’m clearheaded enough to know that talking about this is important. Lucid enough to understand and feel some kind of empathy with others who might be going through what I go through.
I’m not posting this because I want anyone to feel bad for me. On the contrary, I don’t really think I’m worth the effort at the moment so anyone trying to say otherwise is probably wasting their time and I’ll just look at you funny. That’s just where I am at. Cry someone else a river, they deserve it more.
Also, trigger warning, I do talk about suicide. I do it in a pretty blasé manner. If that disturbs you, please go read something else.
Now on to the shit show…
Continue reading “The Face of My Depression”
I am my mother’s daughter, she hates it.
Hates the strength and independence she bled into my veins,
hates the haughty glare in my eyes when I talk back,
hates my careless disregard for tradition.
She hates my loud, boisterous laugh,
hates how I roll my eyes and scoff at society,
hates that I don’t give respect unless earned.
Mostly, she hates the depth of her pride in me.
forget me, not because I am forgettable,
but because the memory of me is too painful.
forget me, not because you can easily move on,
but because I haunt you.
forget my smile, my laugh, the taste of my lips.
erase from your mind my touch, my love.
forget me because to remember me is worse than death.
I love people
I love their smiles, their laughs
Their differences create bright lights and new flavors in life
People are exhausting
Every dive into a conversation is an exercise in decreasing stamina
Tolerance is not built
I tried for decades now
Continue reading “Hermit Evolution”
Imaginary friends are the OG original characters before fan fiction ever became a thing after the internet blew up. The following is a scene in my mind if I ever had the chance to introduce my two favorite imaginary friends together (this is definitely still a work in progress):
Wary eyes glared at each other from across the room. Ice blue locked on dark brown, both filled with judgement and more than a hint of dislike. It wasn’t about who came first, but about who did the most for their creator. Who held her when she cried as a child versus who destroyed her enemies now when the world became too much. Protectors, they both were, but friends. Did they know friendship outside what was designed in them? Love? Could they understand the dichotomy they represented in the mind of someone who once saw herself as righteous compared to the realist, the grey, the demon who wasn’t really a demon as much as a djinn with too much fire, too much power, and not enough morality to care what she did with it. Both pairs of eyes rolled. She was thinking too much again, they said without words. They didn’t need words. Just smug smirks of understanding. Of acknowledgement. No, they’d not ever be friends. They both thought they knew best, wanted to be the sole protectors and providers. Their creator apologizes, has apologized, for that glitch in their matrix. She hadn’t wanted them to become as she was: a servant, a server, a provider. But broad shoulders shrugged off her useless sentiments, not in anger but acceptance. They were who they were and happy with their places in life. One, a dark knight, a paladin, with a righteous fury that slashed at her creator’s enemies with a broadsword and held evil at bay. Another, the djinn, a creature of fire and nature, a destructive force that brushed off what was considered right or wrong and thought only of what was wanted, who catered to her creator’s every whim because why the fuck not? Continue reading “A Scene Between Original Characters”
I am not old. Almost 28, and yet I’ve helped in raising a lot of my younger cousins. This weekend I discovered, as most parents usually find out, that my kiddos are getting older and becoming adults. And I hate it.
Continue reading “Age is Tricky”
I want no one.
I never have.
I want her.
I want to touch her,
I want her to touch me.
Continue reading “Confounding Thoughts”
Just a little something while I was flying to Tampa yesterday:
I’m in a fucking can in the sky. I am gliding to my death. I’m touching clouds, staring down below at the world so small, I feel like a damn giant.
I love to fly. I love seeing all that God created from a height only They can reach and I can never aspire to.
I’m afraid of heights. I’m small and I was made of the earth and my feet should never leave the ground.
Continue reading “Airplane Mode”
I haven’t been good about posting anything, and one of my favorite ways to get back into the writing habit is to begin with a story. This time I have decided that the story would be a personal one, my coming out story. Normally, because of the multitude of times that a person comes out, it’s customary to pick one of significance to your identity. I have been figuring myself out for many years, however, so this is kind of my ultimate coming out story. Or better said, this is my coming out journey. Fair warning, it’s very long and very much a work in progress. Here we go:
I have been having problems. Problems in that I’m done hating myself. I’m done trying to bend without breaking. I am done with trying to make my mother happy. But part of making my mother happy is also in line with what I grew up with, what my beliefs are, what my thoughts are. So I’m basically going against everything that has essentially made me who I am for over twenty years of my life.
I cannot remember a time when I was not fascinated with
women. Even with the Bible teachings and my family reinforcing them, I was sure
God, my creator, was a woman. Too perfect for the He, the Father role, the male
neutral. Because my mother was my world, and in my eyes God’s very
representative on this Earth sent to show me the path I needed to be on. Women
were the backbone of my family, the feeders and caretakers. All my teachers up
to fifth grade had been mainly women. My favorite shows had women leads and
strong relationships with other women. It seemed the most normal thing in the
world, then, to believe that the crushes I had on other girls, on my role
models, on my favorite actresses were just an everyday thing. Until they
weren’t. Continue reading “My Path to Me”
I have accepted that as an Afro-Latina who identifies as queer, asexual, and homoromantic/lesbian, I am a triple strike. Or quadruple or whatever the number may be. My name has always immediately identified me as other because Erisel Cruz is in no way a white name. But in reality, I am not scared for me.
I am scared for my brother who is Afro-Latino, and damn proud of his Blackness. I am scared because he used to be (probably still is but won’t tell me) stopped by the police for “looking Middle-Eastern”. I am scared because (God bless) he found his truth in Islam (and I could not be more proud, regardless of our “opposing faiths”). Because now he’s a “Middle-Eastern looking”, loud and proud Black man with a non-white name who worships the same God I worship but in a different tongue and style. And the only thing that might keep him safe is his uniform because to this country, at least he’s useful through his service but God forbid he tries to walk down the street in a hoodie instead of Army greens. Continue reading “I Am Scared”