Tag Archives: Story

Cleaning Closets

Posted by Zeannaroux on

I found a pair of socks that I kept from 2001. Well, I got them from an old best friend’s mother sometime around 2011, but they are one of those new year’s socks. The one with won’t clocks on them to celebrate the end of the year. They are cute, and I loved them. I still do, but they have holes in the toe from me wearing them too much. They are also a little more grey than white. No amount of bleaching will bring back the color they used to be. But I love them.

They reminded me of a time when I wasn’t happy but content. Yeah I remember that I spent a lot of time with this friend. Her parents would let me come over nearly every weekend. We celebrated almost every holiday together as well. There were actually a few times when I would go home with this friend on a Friday only to go back to my parent’s house that following Monday after school. Notice that I said home, because hers was more a home than any place that I had lived before.

It wasn’t perfect. This friend and I had fights. I occasionally disappointed her parents. And I am almost certain that 2 of her three older siblings hated me. I would say all three, but in recent years, one of them messaged me cause he wanted to date. Which was strange, but he was the hot older brother, so score (?).

This friend and I lost touch after high school. Honestly, it was bound to happen. Thinking about it now we were friends due to proximity. We had enough in common to hang out but not enough to keep the relationship from turning toxic. Back then mg disorder was not yet diagnosed and I wasn’t seeing a doctor. So I had a lot of issues that went unnoticed by many people. She had some problems as well. Some of them ok but others pretty toxic in their own right. We could have attended therapy and grown up together, but we didn’t.

I tried my hardest to stick around, but she wasn’t for it. So we stopped being friends, that is. She stopped answering my phone calls and text messages.

But I kept those socks her mother gave me. Even when I was homeless, they stayed in whatever backpack I carted around. Even when a shelter I stayed at kicked me out and refused to let me get my belongings, I still kept those damn socks.

It’s been nearly a decade since I spoke to her. What’s funny is I kept in contact with her momma for a bit after that, but she was a major republican and worshipped tr0mp. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I was pretty vocal in my distaste for him, so eventually, she unfriended me.

I still got the socks, though—those 20-year-old socks.

Posted by Zeannaroux on

My daughter is in therapy. There really is no reason for it. Mentally, she is fairly healthy. No, this is so she can work through the struggles that came from being raised in a single parent home when said single parent has a personality disorder. I can’t, I won’t let her turn out like me. Instead I put her in therapy so that she can speak to someone who can help her understand that I love her unconditionally even if I do not always show it and that my flaws are not a representation of her at all. So far, I think it has helped her.

But I overheard something the other day. Or was it today. I can’t recall. Well one day I heard something while she was talking to her therapist.

Normally, I do not my best to not listen in. I play music or watch something. There have been times when I will stand outside. Her therapy is her time. But today, or was it last week, maybe it never happened, she read a book to her therapist about people with BPD.

It is a book geared more towards children. A series, in fact, that details a lot of disorders but I gave her the one fo used on mine. She read this book to her therapist and told her how it was one that made me cry every time I read it. How, while reading it, she discovered that the charecter with BPD acted a lot like me. Her therapist asked her opinion on this and my daughter stated

“It’s fine”

….

It’s fine?

As she continued to read she ran across a part that gave her pause. Within this book is a section that talks about people with BPD often having problems with boundaries because they are afraid of being abandoned. So when someone goes a long time without answering text or phone calls, the person with BPD will start to freak out. In the process they may respond in anger or fear. My daughter, being the rather opinionated person that she is, told her therapist that this was something she found to be mean. When her therapist asked her to explain what she meant she just repeated herself and kept on reading.

Now, this is something that I do. But it is an aspect of myself that I tend to ignore. Mainly because I feel justified in my mass text or phone calls if I am repeatedly ignored. Of course I do not do it for long. Because after some time I will just convince myself that the person hates me and wants me dead. That’s exactly why they are ignoring me. It doesn’t matter what the true reasoning is. What I feel is right because I believe it is. They hate me, they want me dead, I annoy them, thus they are no longer my friend.

But this isn’t true. At least that is what reality says. Yet I still feel this way. So when my child looked to her therapist and said that she behavior was mean…I had to check myself.

Am I being mean?

I don’t rightly know.

Nana

Posted by Zeannaroux on

I melted to a tall tale
Whispered children with the braided hair
Her skin, aged like the earth, brought forth stories on unknown worth.
I melted as far as the oak tree stands
Wine in hand with berry delight
A beautiful sight on a beautiful night
Clear cut eyes crinkle under the moonlight


Whispered the children with the kinked up hair
Her skin, aged like the earth, showed visions of stories never told
And I melted to hear the tale
My dark brown skin and coiled hair, My children!
All standing there
Whispered, ‘Nana, thank you for being here.’

Written for my Nana Vivian Person

Love you

A church of Echos

Posted by Zeannaroux on

Why is no one listening to me

Screams the child in the church pew

Grandfathers hand down their top

And grandmothers over their mouth

Mom and dad standing at the opposite ends

Trying not to listen to the shouts

But that is not what gave the room pause

Over there sits a little boy with a gun in his lap

And rewards on his jacket

Drawing up a dagger and slicing into a peer

Color coded lettering screaming

Why is no one listening

But move the camera preacher man

Over there you’ll see

A girl squating over pill bottles chocking them down with ease

Shitting out insta likes

As the wolves paw at her feet

The shacking of the pills bottles gives a signal

As hands reach to spread her knees

Why is no one listening to me

Down the asle lies a bible

Covered in well wishes and kisses

Thumbs up with well intentions

It holds the congregations attention

As the preacher man walks by

with gleam in his eye

Giving twisted smile to the lost boys

And waving at the confused girls

Praising the mothers and fathers

Only to step past the blooded child

Give and Take

Posted by Zeannaroux on

I wanted her but I did not desire her. Maybe it was the way her head tilted when she smiled. Joy radiating from every pour just begging me to take hold. I used to dream about that smile and how it made me feel.

How It made me feel.

My heart racing with want for her. The need to take hold and possess her every being. I wished to never let go for fear that I would wake up and it would all be a dream. I guess in reality that is exactly what it was.

See, I did not desire her but I longed to control her. To feel her trembling as I splayed my hand across her chest. A finger dipping past her navel to that special place that made her quiver. I longed for it. Prayed for it. But I did not desire it.

I wonder if there was something wrong with me.

How could I, a healthy human being, not see all that she had to offer. An amazing body with a personality to match. She was the ideal being and yet I could only dream.

I often wonder what she truly thinks of me when she smiles, if she smiles still.

Does she also dream of me?

Screaming

Posted by Zeannaroux on

I am afraid to vent

Cause you’ll grab a gun and your brain will splatter

And right in the same matter you’ll write

And repent

And ask me what I meant

As though it isn’t already to late

I lost a bet and you choice the date

To fuck it all up but blame me for the mistake

Because it is

A mistake

One that I am unable to accept as anything but my own

Cause your gone now

No one is home

All because I couldn’t vent

Couldn’t tell you what it all meant

When I would sign in pillow

Lie a little when you asked

grabbed a baseball bat to pass the time

As though all would be all right with a little fucking excessive exercise

It is my fault my mistakes my lost fate

That gave you a reason to choose that fucking date

Did you lose focus before you felt the beed to bleed

Leave me to grieve for things I can not see

I was already in pain so why the fuck did you leave

Did you think it will fix everything?

A repetition to the same problem

Now what am I suppose to do?

I can’t vent

Tell the world what I meant

Make them understand this mistake

For your sake

I am hope you are happy in that new place

The Tape: Unheard Lyrics Are The Loudest, Side A

Posted by Zeannaroux on

I love the way you scream.  How your blood seeps into my skin. I truly hope that this moment never ends. Can you see how this may excite me? How this has been a dream come true? 

I bet you are scared aren’t you? Don’t lie now, I can see the fear in your eyes. Want me to tell you a story? About how I got I got these scars in my wrist? About how, for awhile, I couldn’t think past the bullet jn my head. I can tell it to you darling.  Let you see the true me. Just know though, I am telling you this cause you will never have the chance to tell anyone else. Cause I am going to kill you. Oh no don’t shake your head and cry more. You knew this was going to happen. You knew that this was result of your very own actions. 

Where to begin…

Oh yes…

See, my name is Hannah.

….to be continued…

Listen

Posted by Zeannaroux on

   Today I had a conversation with someone about parenting.  Now normally these end on a pretty positive note despite some arguments in the middle. Yet this time I was left with a horrible taste in my mouth. I felt so very dirty after talking to them.

     They told me how once they became a parent they would not allow their children to have any toys or watch TV. They would monitor the  friends they made and their lives will be filled with nothing but learning. Even from the womb they would be teaching them a new language.

      Now all that isn’t all that bad. All parents do a variation of this. What made me feel ill is how they would go about doing this. How the child would not be allowed to talk to others outside of the family. How they had no choice in this and werent not allowed to play. First they said no tv but that they could play old school games. When I mentioned that games where TV time pretty much, they changed it to that the child can watch TV but not much. They would only get movies and the child would not allowed to read anything that wasn’t educational.

If the child did not like this then the childs only option was to move out. They had to obey all rules or would be forced to go to the nearest mental ward for a bit…no matter the age. So if their 4-year-old was giving them problems they would call the comes and have them admitted.

I listened to this for as long as I could handle before I couldn’t take anymore. They said that they lived a life such as this and grew up fine but when talking about their parents you could tell they hated them. They treated the parents like shit and gleefully explained how they should no longer be allowed do certain things. Like be on social media or even talk to them. They said they loved their parents a lot.

They said that they turned out fine but they are homeless and they have a sibling who is in jail…yet both turned out fine from their own choices. Despite having a life they said guarantees them success in life.

I urged them to read a parenting book but they explained that they would make the perfect parent. I highly doubt that…

There is nothing wrong with being a someone strict parent but being both strict and a helicopter parent won’t help a thing.

This life of this hypothetical child sounded horrible. I felt like crying because I couldn’t image this sort of suffering. To not be able to have friends and enjoy life. They wouldn’t even be allowed outside cause they had studies to do. Sure they may have a good adult life but what about their childhood. Being smart is something we all strive for but that won’t bring us happiness. Sure having a crap ton of money, doing well in school, having various skills is nice, but what about life?
What is the point of living when you are alone?

This person seemed almost proud of how things are and I hate them for it. I know I am judging their life. I have my own issues. My life wasn’t perfect at all. I had the strict parent and I had the one who wasn’t there. I had the parent who tried to be my best friend and I had the parent who wanted me to worship the air they breathe. The ones who say they are always right no matter what and the ones who admitted perpetual defeat.
I was raised with it all and I did not turn out fine. I was spanked as a child and hate the ones who did it. I plotted their deaths for quite some time. Wasn’t till I was an adult that I realized that they came out of the experience able to sleep at night, and I was the only one who hated myself for it.

As a parent I see myself as more Permissive/ authoritative style. I give in a lot of the time. I want my daughter to have her own mind and at times forget that I have one. I have a hard time staying structured. I am pretty spontaneous as a parent which can be good and bad. I love talking to my daughter about how she is feeling. Is she gets into trouble we talk it through. Sometimes I just randomly ask her how she feels. It makes me happy cause there are times she will do the same for me. Praise is often given for no real reason in my home. I can be distant when I go through a bout of depression and I really hate playing pretend. But I make up for it by singing with her and reading her books whenever I can. We play dress up and paint our nails.

I do not expect much from her. I just got to the point where she has to pick up her own toys but I do not push a lot of issues. As long as she does her best I am happy.

This can make it seem as though I see her as a friend and I guess there are times I do. My daughter is the only person I talk to. I can go months without speaking to anyone who isn’t paid to be around me (Therapists, Doctors,etc). I sometimes forget what it feels like to talk to an actual adult. Now I go about a week without speaking to friends but it still takes a toll on my parenting. I am a single mom and it is hard for me to get to know people. I came from a pretty chaotic background. She is all I have really. It takes looking through articles such as this for me to realize how what I am doing affects her development.

I still have structure. She get rewarded or disciplined for bad behaviour. I no longer allow her to do what she wants but I am not yet where I want to be as a parent.

Still when this person told me about their plans it sickened me. It sounded like a prison.  I know I am probably judging them harshly but I couldn’t take it. Once they left a weight was lifted from me. Their  very presence was causing me to go insane.

This may not make any sense to many. It may even seem a bit silly to get upset over something like this. Something so small as talking about a child who isn’t here. Looking back at it all I probably over reacted but I won’t say a thing to them. I no longer trust them and want nothing to do with them. In my eyes they are monsters. How could they do this? How could they treat a child so? I have a feeling that is silly but my hurt and anger won’t go away.

I hate this…

L

I still like the petty poet thing

Posted by Zeannaroux on

So working on my story thing is going ok. I haven’t really decided on a theme and am just writing random stuff. On a later date I will go through what I have and decided what to keep and what to use in a different book. 

I want to do a bunch of short stories but am thinking that combining it with some poems will help as well. Short of like an anthology but instead of other people writing it will just me. 

Like person who wrote ‘Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark’ mated with Shel Silverman and had a book baby. 

Or that one lady who wrote those poem stories but doesn’t piss people off cause she is obsessed with everyone getting unhappy endings even though we expected them to have one. Like seriously why would you end a book on a good note only for them to come back in a different book doing the same shit they were in the last book. Like do you want them to fail at life, cause that’s how you fail at life.

No in my stories happy endings are not to be expected. Unless you feel like death is a happy ending. In that case you will not be disappointed. Cause someone is dying, I can assure you of that. 
I have always felt a little bit of pitty for the bad guy in almost every book. So this will be a story of the bad guys getting their just desserts. Not all victems ate innocent you know. Not all  monsters are without a heart. 

…..

Maybe

We shall see how it goes

Update: I need to learn how to edit as I write. Or at least go over things… 

Life as a Poster Child

Posted by Zeannaroux on

Ever pay attention to those posters in your doctor’s office and say, “Glad that person isn’t me!”, Or , “Wow that’s sad, I should Facebook that”.

You never really stop to think if that person is truly like you. They could be talking about starving children in Africa, and all of a sudden you forget you are in that office due to an eating disorder, brought on from constant malnutrition as a child.

You forget it all because they seem worse off . You suddenly have your crap together, despite dying inside, because someone on that poster is suffering.

You will never see yourself as that child. Never see yourself hunched over in pain with overly watered eyes. Will never see yourself covered in bruises, crying in a dark corner as someone yells at you…again…

You will never see your scars as you stare at the poster of the child with scars on Their wrist.

You won’t see it because they are suffering more.

You will strive to get better, sure, but there is always someone out there that has it worse than you do.

It is like you invalidate what to have been through. Because you are…

It is easy to care about those poster kids. So why can’t we care about ourselves?

See, I am a poster child for mental health. Not the good kind but the one where the homeless kid in a beany (why are they always wearing beanies) is sitting on a bus stop (again why always a bus stop) looking at the people around them with vacant eyes. I am that girl ( cause it’s nearly always a female in these posters) who is homeless and clutching the hand of child. A child who may or may not be crying (usually not crying because that defeats the purpose of the unhappy mother. Always put lost mother next to somewhat better dressed and vacant eyed child. There lies the money-maker). 

Always surrounded by those who are better off.

In some shots she is smiling with her child and others they stand as if they are drones.

I am that poster child who is holding out a broken bowl for food

I am that child who covers their bandaged wrist.

I am that mother whom begs on the street corner for help.

I am them and I still believe that their suffering matter more than mine ever will.

I am a poster child who can’t help but view the posters of others and try to figure out the best ways to help them.

I know what my picture means, I will not ignore it, but at times I find myself forgetting all about it.
My suffering is no where equal to that of others.

My favorite poster to ignore is that of a single mom. Mainly cause there are not a lot of posters on the subject. At least not many attempting to seek help. 

Just success stories of those who rose up from the life given to them and raised children who is turn where successful. 

The “Thanks mom, Thanks dad” posters.

The ones littered around some community colleges.

They are there though, go, take a look. You are bound to find at least one or two posters, maybe just a pamphlet, stating something about single parents support-group. If you don’t find one I will make you a special gold star made of real gold and the tears of a very hangry dragon. A very hungry…very angry…dragon.

It is my favorite to ignore because I tell people that being a single parent isn’t that bad all the time. I tell them that I enjoy the solitude. That I am perfectly fine being single and alone. I like eating pizza with just a toddler. I hate going on dates anyways. That it eventually gets easier to tune out the most basic cartoon noises.

It is not that bad.

But it is.

It is that bad.

But I won’t tell anyone why. I won’t tell them that some days I go into my room and cry. How there are days when I washing the dishes and have to fight the urge to “accidentally” slice open my arm. I will never tell them of the days I resent my child. Of those times when I want to run away. See I can’t tell them that I go days without adult interaction and the reason I am so silent is because I forgot how to talk to people my age. I can’t tell them how my daughter is my best friend. They would think I was strange but she is the one person who has never left me. She has never abandoned me to the wolves and instead tells that I am the best person ever.

I talk to people online. They keep me insane more than they know.

If I died do you know how long my child would sit here alone? Days…maybe even weeks before someone started to worry about us. Even then it would be because I haven’t posted a video or picture of her.

I am the Poster child of a single mom.

But it is one I will greatly ignore. I will share pictures to the world about how single parenting can be fun. Every once in a while I will reach out for help.  Only rarely though.

I will lie to the best of them but am also willing to help others in the end. Other single mothers that is. The posters always meant more to me then my very own. I will seek help, I will not ignore, but I will invalidate my own poster for the better of others.

Cause I am the perfect poster child of a broken home.