When my grandmother abandoned me
on a Friday night, I was watching
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
I was on the couch, the small loveseat my father
bought when he moved to Fishers–
It was our weekend together.
Friday, August 20th
I thought, I haven’t heard from her in awhile. I’ll
My father, never one to push
me, shook me awake that night. Whispered.
Cried with me as he said she had a heart attack.
Her legs over the side of the bed. Small, fat body motionless.
God, I cried. Like my heart had burst. I had put all my dreams
into her, like she was my Easter Basket.
her touching my hair one Easter, saying
how thick and beautiful it was.
Right now, I can’t explain it. The anger and pain
for a woman I knew only five or so years. Mother loves to
say how terrible she was, how crazy, how…
the list goes on.
I want to forget the list. Tell me something good.
tell me that time she made you tea, sewed your wedding dress.
Remember the soccer game, when I made brownies
and she was diabetic but
ate them anyway? Remember when we went to
Grandpa couldn’t drive well
so she had to? Remember when
on September 26th, 2007 I got
my period, and later you, me, and her
went to Target, bought a 7 dollar t-shirt?
I accidentally put the cardboard applicator in,
and we laughed, like you expect
the Golden Girls to
laugh. With their
bosoms, with their
Hi! This is Chloe over in Indianapolis, Indiana. I am here to get a few things off my chest.
I think you should reevaluate how you can appeal to young voters, specifically those that have indicated they would vote for Senator Bernie Sanders in the primary election. I am a great brain to pick, as I am a female Bernie Sanders supporter. I have campaigned for Senator Sanders for several months now, and I am here to tell you how disappointed I was at what Madeline Albright and Gloria Steinem said about women like me. Really, people should be proud to see women voting for whoever they choose! So long ago, we didn’t have that right.
Why are we going to hell because we won’t vote for you? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had to support every woman simply because that is her gender identity and we share it?? Should I support Ann Coulter too? How about Sarah Palin or Carly Fiorina? It is so ridiculous that women are being shamed for their voting preferences in 2016. If I want to vote for someone, gender has nothing to do with it.
And as for Gloria Steinem—I will save the seat next to me in Hell for Steinem and her sexist bullshit. To say that I only campaign for Bernie because that is where the boys are? Too many assumptions. And here I will destroy her nonsense:
- Many women DGAF about guys
- Many women are indeed lesbians, asexual, or celibate
- “Yeah, I’m DTF 😉 Let me finish passing out these fliers and voter registration cards,” said no one ever.
- Also: “I’m so glad I’m meeting all these single, available, democratic socialists! It was really worth three hours of canvassing and phone banking!” Yeah, right.
- *Shocker* Women are passionate about politics, too
I love reading about politics. Admittedly, I am not a political wizard, but I do know that you can’t keep attacking women to get their vote. You can’t expect things to be handed to you because of gender, and many of your accomplishments weren’t handed to you! I will settle in for a good term if you win the election because you aren’t a bad person. I admire you. You are just worried you don’t have it in the bag. I want more thoughtful, honest women elected, but not just because they are female. Because they are great Americans.
Thank you, and please make Bernie your running mate if you win the primary. You will get all the young voters. #electiongoals
I am going to New York City in two weeks. Exactly two weeks from today. And for the past few days, I have been in inundated with headaches and nausea. Nausea that grasps the back of the throat and does not let go. For awhile, I thought it was because of my phobia of taking medication, but I know it’s my travel fright. Ha! Travel fright. I think that should be a thing. Unless it’s already taken?
I feel guilty a bit because I just bought a plane ticket a few weeks ago and didn’t tell my parents. If you remember the horrid time I had in Paris, then you know I have bad luck. And since the trip to Paris and England (That Time I Got Lost And Had Several Seizures, Not In That Order), I’ve felt my family thinks I’m irresponsible in traveling and can’t take care of myself. I had this big fantasy when I bought the airplane ticket to go quietly to NYC, have an awesome time, and then reveal my successful journey to my fam later. They would be so surprised and impressed. Never would they say I was a bad traveler!
But it seems I already think I’m a bad traveler because I feel horrible.
My trip secret only lasted two days. I asked my brother to come with me, and he spilled the beans to my parents. Ugh, brothers. But after a lot of fighting, my brother gets to come to NY with me! So I won’t go alone. Because I was originally very scared to go alone. You must understand my mother, though–she is apprehensive when it comes to me traveling. True story: I was going to DC and it appeared my flight would land in Baltimore. I get a text twenty minutes after I told her. baltimore is the 32nd unsafest city in the united states
She kind of freaked out when I said I was thinking of living in the Big Apple after college for publishing.
So I am writing about my Travel Fright in hopes of curing it. Or postponing it. And so far, it’s worked.
More Updates That You Probably Don’t Care About
- I’m off Facebook because the fucking politically correct feminazis pissed me off too much. And I just realized I cared too much what they and others thought of me. Now I’m on Instagram and Pinterest. And Snapchat. Wow. Still too much SM.
- Still single af. But not quite as bad. Actually went on two dates last week, but they both went terribly. My fault.
- My pill phobia is worse.
- I’m campaigning for Bernie Sanders, but kinda like Hillary Clinton. I bought a suit and it has shoulder pads and I love it. I feel like her when I wear it.
It’s been 18 months since I had my last seizure and was put on medication, and almost a year and a half since my August seizure episode.
On August 8th, 2014 while studying abroad in England, I started having a seizure during my sleep. I only know this because my bedmate was awakened by my jerking, and called for help. Apparently she had to get several people to carry me down the stairs (for some reason, this makes me laugh). I don’t remember any of that. I was not conscious for the seizure, only the odd aftermath:
Wake up. People are surrounding me.
Ambulance comes. They decide I should go to the hospital.
(Black out again. They say I had two more seizures and had to be sedated.)
Wake up in a South Warwickshire hospital bed almost 36 hours later. They’ve put needles in me, done a CT scan, X-rays, etc. My bed is wet. I fucking pissed the bed during the (second? third?) seizure.
I leave. My wonderful teacher, who stayed with me at the hospital, gets our train tickets. We go to Bath.
For the longest time, I didn’t want to write about it. Now it kind of seems comical. I can honestly say that time in the hospital was fine, great, even—I mean, how many times do you get to say, “Dude, I was so fucked up, they had to put me under.” And to this day, it was the best sleep of my life. The peeing part was embarrassing, but whatever.
Before, I knew nothing about epilepsy or even what type of seizures I had. Now I know they are nocturnal seizures. They only happen when I’m asleep, because the brain is free to go crazy then.
Before, I took my medication semi-regularly. I had to take three pills a day (excluding my other meds) and I hated it. Now I have stopped. I told myself it was because I didn’t need to, because I hated pills, because I needed to focus on my depression. Surely I would die from complications from depression before I died of epilepsy. Now I think it’s because I hate parts of myself and I wanted my consciousness to melt away. It would be better if I had a seizure–maybe it would damage me so I wouldn’t feel bad. Or wouldn’t feel at all.
I dreamt it was nightness
dived into the algid pool
º —grecian pillars encircling—
my blonde, fish-blooded sister
clamped around my lovely businessman
an angler told me
the businessman loved me—
but sister revealed
an elephant in her belly
that would stay for two years,
that would keep him locked between her teeth
rupture my dreams
Almost everyone does the best they can do at the time. I see this in my own life and when I watch my friends struggle and grow. Some people are so ignorant. They think people are lazy or make excuses. Sometimes that’s true. But believe me, if we thought we could do better—be better—we would. If we thought we could jump higher, we would, we would soar!
If I thought I was a treasure, I would polish myself till I gleamed, and come out of that bottle the most beautiful genie. If they thought they were worth it, my friends would put down their razors and make their beds and sleep for eight hours. If we knew in our hearts that we could achieve something wonderful, we would. But we are afraid. We don’t think it’s true.
Sometimes it’s a struggle to get out of bed, make food, do my homework. So little things don’t seem important. They seem ridiculous.
How can my teacher be angry that I was 2 minutes late? I’m proud I even got to class.
Someone wants me to sit them at a larger booth.
I have to use the term “folks” instead of “guys” bc it’s more inclusive? Get fucked.
I still care, which is the worst. I care too much about the little things and not enough about the important things. I am a zombie. So please, be considerate and communicative with depressed and anxious people. “It’s not like we can’t handle criticism,” said a friend. “I’m not going to kill myself if you don’t like something I’ve done.”
But please understand that I have a lot going on my mind, often things I haven’t shared.
I’m listening to the Violent Femmes and wondering how a supermoon can change a relationship. I’m thinking about how I’ve never been dancing–no one’s ever asked me to dance. And this is the time I should go and dance. I should go and not care that I’m alone.
I don’t know why I almost cried when my lover said he didn’t like dancing. My mother used to dance forever with me. In a living room with oak that melted like the barn my father burnt down, probably for the insurance money. It was the happiest memory I have of my youth.
I think my favorite lines are “just a come on from the whores on 7th avenue. I do declare I was so lonesome, I took some comfort there.”
How will I live on my own if I don’t work? How will I be a good human if I have no money or opportunities?
Two stink bugs on the window to the right of me–they’ve found each other.
This is poetry. This is tension, and I love this. Sex and drugs. What more could an angst-ridden teen want? It’s kind of scary, all the drugs and the neighbor who beats his wife. But it’s so beautiful. I ache when I hear these words.
I feel too much, don’t I? It bubbles up inside me and I must cut it out.