#@$%^ (translation: summer of ’16)


So as I hop around on my newly fixed MacBook Air, I enjoy reading old documents, even if they’re sometimes painful to remember that point in time. It’s a Catch 22 type of situation in that I have the documents (yay!) but they are written in difficult times (ugh). So I wonder how to somehow moderate this imbalance, and writing these lines, at this time, somehow helps to assuage past pains.


I have really solid support structures, though they were wildly rocked at their base this summer. When I think of this summer, most of it, at least; all that comes to mind is a string of expletives that hurl from my mouth in anger, and disbelief. I have no good words to describe my state of mind. And foul words seem to make me handle the memory of that time with more grit. Like I’m spitting back in the face of that relentless confusion.


I hadn’t had a breakdown that bad since 2003, and in 2003, I went into the hospital for it. This time: no hospital. Looking back, it was not a bad decision. It made sense at the time. But, summer of ’16: #@$%^


Now, the fires of spontaneity, the fever-like urge to compete, complete, carry on; all of this fuels my actions.

*Picture credit to: free google images

Searching for Moderation


Dedicated to John Holden Lillis, who requested something more “positive”

Driving fast
Endangering fellow high schoolers’

The wild unawareness
Of youth

What I would give
for that body I had

somehow surprisingly surviving
the recklessness

why did I think my
beliefs would stay with me?

The cosmos shivered from
My attempts at being a good
Person (in my mind)

Everything was larger than life

My commitment to my BFFs
My clamor for sculpting the perfect body
My attempt to be the top student

All that yearning.

I get my walk in,
Attempt to eat judiciously
And give my husband and family
All my love.

Am I so different now?

My search for perfection
Has been fine-tuned
To graceful moderate days.



My wide open space

I miss

The farm


I spent my first 6 weeks of life there

On my dad’s parents 150 acres


As I grew

My grandparents invited me to stay often

Complete with a silver tray to hold my

Home cooked farm breakfasts


In high school

In my “sucking marrow out of life” time

I transcendentalized in the crops out on the

“North 40”


then eventually

it sold


is it almost like a tear in my heart


that that haven

no longer exists for me?



I’ll think

Of jumping onto the hay bales

In one of the barns


Of mowing the 2 acres around the

Farm house


Of my grandparents


All memories

Still alive

And accessible