Truth or Nothing

Truth or Nothing

My eyes hurt from crying

My heart hurts from holding it in

And still I can’t tell you

Because I dread the hurt you’d feel

The hurt I would cause if you knew

So I walk past, holding my breath as you ask

What’s wrong?

You can sense something

You must know

Only a mother can notice a quiet change

When did you notice?

Was it when I let out a sniffle?

Said my allergies were the cause of my blood shot eyes?

The eyes that had seen a nonstop flow of salty tears, that forced me to catch my breath

The same eyes that focused on yours, and said I was okay

When did you know?

Do you know?

What do you think was wrong?

Can I even ask without admitting there was something wrong?

My eyes still hurt from crying

And my heart squeezes in anger for holding it in

But I still can’t tell you

Because I’d dread the hurt you’d feel

So I’ll take the pain, just to spare you my truth

Rise Up

I don’t know what to feel, besides anger, disappointment, and total sadness.  And maybe that’s what I need in order to understand what just took place with the whole Title IX situation.  DeVos decided survivors were not as important as their perpetrators.  Yes, I’m making that assessment, even if Betsy herself won’t come out and say it.  

Title IX is beyond important.  To survivors who tell of their assault(s); to those who haven’t yet grasped what happened to them; to those who still can’t speak of it; and even for future survivors.  Yes, there will be more survivors. And as utterly f***ed as that seems, this is why Title IX is needed. 

It goes beyond universities, and into the minds of young adults.  Title IX protects those not even in college.  Or would have protected them, had DeVos not decided what was best for them.  

My sadness and anger fluctuate, because as a SA survivor, I know, had I understood Title IX, it would have been helpful.  And now, as I continue to learn more about its benefits and guidelines, I cannot let its destruction take place. 

I stand with survivors.  I am a survivor.  I suffer PTSD, even to this day.  And some days it becomes too much to breathe.  Especially when it feels as though rights are being taken away.  But I cannot stop fighting.  I can’t stop for that person who has lost all hope in the system that should protect them.  For that person looking for justice, when everyone disclaims their story. And for the countless others who are nameless.  

I stand with you, will write letters, and I will fight with you, to make sure everyone knows they are not alone.  They were not to blame.  And that they are loved.  

#TitleIX #StopDeVos #SurvivorSupport #NoMore 

~Kyra C.

Adolescence Tested

I walked away.  I walked away from that day.  The day I told of my failures, and was dismissed.  The day I told of my losing value.  I walked away.  Well, I thought I did.  And yet I held onto those nights.  Those days where uncomfortable hands were "normal."  I didn't seem too scared in the moment.  Just confused.  And confused.  And not questioning what was routine for a visit.  Years of consistent images; feeling older than I was; made to know objects, and parts that were intended for married couples . . . I was confused.  Uncomfortable.  But not terrified of the routine.  I had been taught at the young age of three, not to cry, but take the pain.  To toughen up.  To deal.  I had been taught at the age of three to grow up.

*Part one

Why?

I'm rushing to feel.  Anything and everything -- wanting to know if I'm still even here.
I've felt guilty since that day, and yet I haven't told you.  I can't.
It was my fault for what happened to you.  And I can't bare to think about the pain you've endured.
And why I'm still even here.

I wish I could retrace the moment to where I messed up.  You tell me what I should know: it wasn't my carelessness that caused this.  And yet I just want to take it all back.  I would do anything to see you free from my mistake(s).  I count them all each day.

And I don't sleep much -- not with knowing what I've done, and that I can't go back and undo it.
If we could trade places, I'd be happy to not have even made it out alive.  Just for you to feel relieved from the journey you must endure.  I ask myself each day and night, as I sit alone, why am I still here?

I can't tell you any of this, because I'd hate to see your sadness show.  I don't tell you I've bottled each moment inside, and it pours over every night. So, I try and not close my eyes.

I have thought about giving up so many times.  And then I remember how I'm the rock that you need.  And that you need me because of what I did.  It's frustrating to know that I can't waste away, because I would leave you in even more pain.  But each day I'm here, I'm feeling my self slowly wasting.  If only I could disappear without causing too much of a disruption.  If only I could go away and vanish from your thoughts, your heart, and from your hurt.

I'd honestly take it all -- just to feel your freedom coming back with my leaving.
I try to shake these moments.  These times are constant.
I'll try harder.  I must convince myself why I'm still even here.  
I want to know why.

Reverie by Luchs

Struggling To Manage

I can't seem to close my eyes.  Not without feeling tears.  I only feel tears, and I don't know why.  Why at this moment, or these moments, when I'm left contemplating my existence?  I'm trying to shake it.  These eyes looking down on me -- from within.  Have you ever felt yourself being watched?  But the eyes are your own?

I can't seem to close my eyes.  Not without feeling fear.  I hold onto that fear, and I don't know why.  Why is it so familiar, this scarce plight I search for, but stop before reaching the door?  I'm trying to push past this.  I want to see the other side -- another side from stagnant emotion.

I look up, close my eyes, then take a deep breath and hold it.  I don't want to exhale, but I do.  I avoid my reflection as I stare into the rain formed pool gathering before me. I don't see myself anymore.  I melt into concrete -- into nothing.  Nothing but a puddle of lost hope.

Still Mesmorized by Frank T.

An American Elegy

This song has to be one of my favorite wind symphony pieces, to play and listen to.  I remember when I first played this song in high school.  It was with our A Band - Wind Symphony, and I can recall every moment of this song etching its way into my heart.  I memorized my part of course, the first part clarinet portion, but I also became entranced with the other instrument parts.  There is just something about a Frank Ticheli piece, that just pulls you in.  I feel this way with Frank, and Eric Whitacre.  But in this post, I'll stick to Frank.  This song, along with Blue Shades, Simple Gifts, Vesuvius, Shenandoah, Cajun Folk Songs, and Sun Dance, are some of my favorites.  But An American Elegy has to be my number one song from him.  I can place this song in its entirety, on repeat and never get sick of it.  To listen to this masterful piece, by an extremely talented band (you must), you will fall in love.  If you take anything from this post, take a listen to Frank's music, and with the link included, it will be by the Wind Symphony band of Michigan State University.  I said you'd need to hear his music from an extremely talented band, and that's what you'll get with them.  There is just something about the composition of a great song, topped off with dedicated musicians.  Feel free to become infatuated with these songs.  And don't feel bad about it.  I'm right there with you, repeat and all.

Quick change

I smiled yesterday.
Laughed, talked, joked around,
was happy.
And then I tried to go to sleep, but heard you.
I smelled you.
This awful, putrid, and manly stench.
I couldn't get rid of it.
And I tried.

I tried to hold my breath,
but my tears kept making me gasp for air.
I tried to cover my mouth,
but panic only echoed through my fingers.
Yesterday I was happy.
Now, I can't sleep.

Emotionless Instruction Needed

Disclaimer **The following post may be triggering for some people**


I sat there, on that traction table, legs propped, staring at the plastered ceiling, the strewn curtain, the fire sprinkler, and the bright white staggered lights. I stared until that curtain began to close from behind. Those same lights now only one bulb, shadowing over my body.

And then my body slowly slid down onto the table -- fixated at the sounds of my increasing heart, drowning out the breaths I was trying to take.

Relax . . . that's what you'll need to do, so that this goes well, she said. Or was it him, telling me from before? Relax.

All I can hear is pounding. Is it my head? My heart? Or my lungs, as I try and scream? Are the sounds producing anything recognizable?

Just relax, is all I hear. I tighten up, as I am told to just relax. Was I too relaxed when I drank? Too relaxed when I partied with a crowd of unknowns? Or too relaxed, as I lied down on a couch, waiting to sleep off my night, waking up to find so many things missing?

I can't seem to recall much, but feeling. And whose feeling is this? Whose feeling did this? Two shadows, standing, and lying beside me. Splayed in a half couch, half floor position, I see them. But where am I? Was I too relaxed to move? To roll off the couch, and walk away?

And why won't this screaming stop? Where were you when I needed to scream, as I felt everything important being ripped from me? Where was that loud, beating heart? Where were the words, that blared over, just relax?

Where did it all go? My scream -- my voice -- my laugh -- my security? And why had I not held closer? Relax, echoes, but it doesn't sound like me.

Imagine/Answers

Where do you runnaway to, when there is no way to get there?
How do you justify moments when being with someone, makes you feel more alone then when you're alone?
When can you determine enough is enough? And that it's time to snap out of it?
How can you smile, showing the most pleasure pleasing, gratifying greeting, when you are screaming inside?
And do you even remember that sound?  The scream -- one held in for so long, like your voice, it trembles, as it fights to be heard.
Where does fight or flight kick in to just living?
When can a group of people laughing, not feel like distant chatter, thrusted into your space?
And why is it calm at night, when no one is around, that you feel safe and heard?

Does closeness mean happiness? Because by standards, if it does, then you are one miserable human being.
Does inner turmoil mean you aren't normal?  Or that you are insane?
Because if it does, why would that be okay to show?

Have you ever imagined peace, serenity, adoration, and a slow hug that actually gave comfort instead of cringing?

Or a white space, filled with cool rain, and penetrating sun rays -- holding you ever so close, but not infringing on your beating heart?

Why is falling so freeing? But standing still cuts?  Though every moment changes.
It creates displacement -- uncertainty -- numbness, yet bouts of life.

Your life. Have you lived? Do you even want to?  Or would it even matter, if your split decision changed after permanently deciding?

Have you loved?  Can you even?  How could you, when you can't find the attraction within?  When your own feeling makes you palpitate, do you hold your breath, close your eyes, and wait?

Wait for life to change, or for your mind to say it's okay?

It's okay to not know.  To not know the answers.  To not know why you're even feeling bombarded.  Or why no one seems to know.  It's okay to hold onto your heart.  To yourself.  Even if there are broken pieces.  Hold onto them.  To yourself.

Love. Even when you feel no one can or will love you.  Love.  Love your fight.  Love your light, even while dimming.  Love yourself.