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

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.

T minus June 30, 2008, but now

T minus June 30, 2008, but now

The war was isolation
Contemplation, yet inward retaliation
I trapped my tears inside, where I left my screams to hide
I walked, talked, and dreamed of a way out
That same year, I tried for my way out

Nothing came, but a day of pain
And yet, I couldn't remember the names
Faces so mashed, but a taste so potent
The fact that I hadn't yet awoken
Blurred movements, intertwined with clarity

I tried, and yet failed
Something stopped
So much so, my perfectionism hadn't lead me to the drop
Dark is where I was
I was one with the blurred moments

There was forced understanding
Blaming, and second guessing
Focus on strategic placements
And loathing for my staying
One sticky eyelid drop, sleep would make it all stop

But it never did

There still lies a war with isolation
Contemplation, yet inward retaliation
I trap my tears inside, where I leave all my screams and hide
I walk, talk, and dream of a way out
This eighth year, I didn't try for my way out

I constantly wish for clarity
Although photos wouldn't help me
Feeling, it's what removes me
Back to memories, moments and movements, where I don't want to be
One day I'll see, where I can walk, talk and dream of a peace with me

Confused Much?

Sometimes we are at the top of our game -- riding these amazing adventures, and not looking down.  Other times, we are just trying to grab onto something.  Anything.  But we just can't.

It is as though we feel we aren't good enough.  Not worthy enough to make ourselves happy.  Or possibly not good enough to take in that happiness.  I know many people who feel that way.  Heck, I do, on some occasions.  And many of my past posts have been an indication of that.

But still, we keep going.  Some of us.  We keep pressing on.  Because we don't REALLY want to give up.  To not reach our potential.  Yet, those moments when nothing seems feasible, we think we can't.  Can't make it.  Can't survive what we've just gone through, or constantly been enduring.

To those people:  (as "Hallmark" as it sounds) you have to keep going.  And I know this contradicts my own thoughts.  Especially when they continue to change.  One moment I'm happy.  Thrilled to be here.  Other times?  I feel as though EVERYTHING is coming down, crashing all around me.  I don't want to be a burden with my words.  This is MY blog, so, I just thought I'd describe myself.

It's confusing.  I know.  These moments confuse me too.  Just earlier, I was happy, smiling and thinking of the future.  And then . . . out of nowhere, something clicked.  Like an autopilot switch.  One that constantly is in between, but more so on the off position.

You become entranced in thoughts.  But those thoughts are blank.  Weird, eh?  Blank thoughts, which then turn into memories.  Ones that are in fact actually you -- in that moment -- in that space -- as though time were standing still, and you were just observing.  But it's not an observation.  It's you.  It's me.

We are the same.  We are what forces one another to not give in to our forced wants.  Because quick fixes are indeed not the solution.  We are the same.  Pushing one to fight until we cannot stand to go any further.

And then -- click.  We're back in the same situation.

Time Passes (Dear Mariska Hargitay)

This letter was written almost 2 years ago, but took longer to compose.  It was sent to Mariska, and until now, it has never been seen anywhere else.  This is yet another look into what makes me, me.  And the stories NEVER told.  *Picture was taken between years of memory and loss.  It was added later*

Dear Mariska Hargitay,

I am writing this letter to express how much I admire your support to the causes in today’s world, that touch so many lives.  From your Philanthropies to charities and your ability to portray such a convincing character as Detective Olivia Benson on Law & Order:  SVU, you always show such authority, conviction and truth to every facet that you tend to.

My name is Kyra.  I am 23 and a Senior at Michigan State University, majoring in English with a Concentration in Creative Writing.  I am also President of Sigma Alpha Iota International Music Fraternity’s Alpha Lambda Collegiate Chapter (here at MSU) and an actor/director/producer/set designer/playwright for Michigan State University’s Tunnel Of Oppression, which is very dear to me as well as the other positions that I hold.

I will be graduating this May and going into another area; without taking courses and that sometimes frightens me:  the thought of leaving such a beautiful and helpful community.  I guess what I’m trying to get at is, this university has been a great tool for me in my entire university career.  It helped give me a chance to thrive academically and personally.  It made resources possible, even when I didn't want them at the time.

My fright, it comes from suppressing anger and feelings, because I have always been that person that helps everyone and talks them through their problems, never discussing my own.

I am the youngest child of 17 girls and five boys (two sisters from my mom, whom I grew up with and the rest are half siblings), which means everyone is older.  Therefore most of their children were older . . . When I was young, maybe around 4 or 5, I began getting molested by one of my older nephews, and at the time, the only thing I knew was that I was uncomfortable.  They lived next door and somehow I knew I wouldn't get away from him.  This happened for a while.  A long while, and after time, I just put everything out of my mind and blocked it out.

I never told my family about those times, because I had tried blocking it so much.  Many times I would forget what happened during those years, until something triggered it.  When I was 12, the summer before entering high school, I went to visit my half siblings and their family at their house and I couldn't remember why I didn't want to be there, but my family went, and so did I.

I went to the basement to play board games and look at bikes with my younger nephews.  And as everyone left, I felt at peace - Alone, without feeling suffocated.  My older nephew came downstairs, quietly, and came up behind me and . . . It happened again, but this time I told.  I told my mom and two sisters and they became upset.  They approached my older half sister about her son.  She said he was never there.  She covered for him.  His younger brother had to tell his mom he was there AND  in the basement.  Ever since, I couldn't trust them, nor ever wanted to be around that side of the family.  And although I had told my family, it was buried and never again talked about.  Maybe it was because I was embarrassed (mostly that), or that family secrets are just that, “family secrets.”  Whatever the reason, I never mention it and always avoid conversations about those years.  Or those people.

Reminders

*Spoiler Alert - The picture below may not be suitable for everyone*

So many things can make you dredge up the past:  faces, a smell, a picture, a sound . . . a thought.  And when you come face-to-face with that emotion, it can often be too difficult to erase.  Been there, done that.  Reminders are more than just an alert from a calender -- telling you it's the anniversary of something you'd rather forget.  Maybe the reminder is to try and forget -- putting your energy into something else more time consuming.  Whatever it is, reminders can also be a trigger.  

I must say, placing this picture (taken a while back) in my blog was beyond one of the most impacting, yet extremely terrifying moments I've had to overcome.  Just as the following poem that leads after (will be posted soon). 

I'm such an enclosed person, that I never discuss my own emotions -- never wanting to be bothersome.  Most of my friends come to me to vent, but I never let it go the other way.  I'm there -- a bouncing board of ideas as to what to do -- how to stay calm -- how to breathe -- how to be positive.  Why hasn't that worked for me?  Why, now, must I write about the past?  Well, because it just seems to continue bringing its way back into my present being.  And I'm secretly hoping it never makes it to my future.  

Yes, I've tried to kick the habit of being my own psychiatrist -- prescribing my own remedies for unwanted thoughts -- Still trying.  Yes, I've gone days, weeks, months even, without resorting to those habits.  But just as one small whiff of odor can set one into a tail spin, so can one unblocked and blurry image.  

Moment by moment -- that's what happens.  I don't see myself as a person venting.  However, now, I see myself as a person FINALLY being able to speak.  And I hope that in time, I can speak about other moments.