Sad Poetry

I always wondered why my soul was so dark. When I was a teenager everyone assumed it was just teenage angst. They thought it was a phase. My anger began to rise and I would have these massive outbursts. As I mentioned in a blog post before I have bipolar disorder yet no one knew that then. They just knew that I would have these depressive episodes and was sad an awful lot.

In order to release the pain I would write. I wrote many things but my outlet at the time was poetry. When I was sad I would write tons of poems. I recently went through my old things from high school. (I can’t seem to let anything go.) I found tons of poems that I wrote. Some of them were terrible but I like them because I know exactly what I was feeling when I wrote them.

The poem below was one that I wrote as a way to curb some of the anger I was feeling. My best friend and I had a fight and we refused to speak to each other until years later when we were both in college. I didn’t want to admit that I was really hurt so I wrote this poem to let go of my pain.


Funeral Poem 



“Mommy is it weird if I play with my dollies like this?”

“Mommy is it weird if I drink my milk like this?”

“Mommy is it weird if I drink my water with this cup?”

These are the questions that my 4 year old daughter has been asking me for a month straight. After a while I found them to be quite annoying. They were so cute at first but now I’m so over it. These questions started when her two older sisters began to call her weird.

“Dylan, you are so weird.” They would say. At four years old she doesn’t really understand that they are just teasing her. It is normal for siblings to tease each other and because she is the youngest, she gets it two fold.

The results however is that she feels as if something is wrong with her. Weird to her is something negative. I understand what she must feel. I grew up feeling weird and out of place. I still feel like I do not fit in anywhere. I struggle on a daily basis with feelings of inadequacies and alienation. I wasn’t as a child given the tools ot deal with my uniqueness and so I grew up thinking something was wrong with me and, you know…of course I don’t have friends or people that like me because…I’m weird.

As I grew I learned being “weird” is not always a bad thing. There are plenty of people that are fine with my eccentricities. My husband of almost 10 years is still with me. (I think that says more abot him than me but…)

weirdMy daughter is being affected by these things at an early age She began to question every aspect of her life.

“Is it weird if I rubbed the cat this way?”

After months of this I finally set her down to have a talk. .  I refused to let her go through what I went through and what I know I am still going through.  She was on a roll that day with the marathon of weird questions so I explained to her that weird and unique are not terrible things.

“Sweetie,” I began with her on my lap. “Weird is not a bad thing. You just need to be yourself.”

She looked at me skeptically.

“Look,” I continued. “If it makes you feel better your mama is extremely weird.”

Her eyes widened

“Mommy, you’re weird too?” she asked.

I nodded. If only she knew how out of the norm and eccentric I could be.

“Yes sweetie. Mommy is crazy weird. Your mommy is Cray Cray.”fairy Weird quote

She laughed extremely tickled at my statement. Then she hopped off my lap. She ran down the hall screaming,”

“Mady! Guess what! You can call me weird because mommy is weird to.”

This scenario taught me a lot about parenting. I know I don’t have all the answers, and sometimes I wonder how in the world they allow me to have children under my supervision, but I know it is like to be a girl with low self-esteem about her body, her way of thinking and knowing someone is in your corner can go a long way. I teach my daughter’s that mommy may yell, I may have to discipline you, but I will always be here in your corner… Your weird crazy mother will always be there for you no matter how crazy you are.


My eyes have seen

more than my age can tell,

More than my heart can confess.

They have seen pain.

the beauty in civil unrest,

As I corrupt my spirit


My ears have heard,

More than my heart can comprehend,

More than my mouth can say.

Through the passage of time,

I have weakened my voice.

I exploit myself.


My heart has felt,

More than my youth can handle,

More than innocence can take.

While I journey toward acceptance,

I degrade my fate.


My soul has suffered,

More than my mind can bear,

More than my body can withstand.

The pain of being alone

Leaves me dying from the inside.

I devalue my existence.


Farther than my eyes can see

More than my journey reveals.






I did not start out as a novelist. I did not start out as a short story writer. I first began to write as a poet. I started writing poetry when I was a child. It was one of the first things I wrote. There were the short stories now and then. There was a moment in time where I wrote short stories around the sixth grade. After that in my teenage years my focus was on poetry.

Poems were my go to in writing. In school I’d write poems about teenage angst, depression and unrequited love. My senior year in high school I wrote a poem in Spanish for fun. I happened to show it to my Spanish teacher at the time and she made sure to include it in an anthology that the city was putting together of high school students.Poetry Book 1

When I was a teenager my attention span was only capable of producing poetry. It was my only method of releasing my teenage emotions and smothered pain that had no other outlet. As I grew, I let my poetic self fade and the novelist in me took over.

My ultimate goal was to be a novelist. I felt that as I got older my brain began to process more things and I was able to focus on larger projects. I started my first novel at the age of 22. It took me until the age of 27 to actually publish that novel (but that’s another story for another time.)

The origin of my writer self was developed as a poet.

Recently I have found myself again looking for an outlet that my novels did not give me.  I love writing my novels but I felt like my writing was not expressing how I felt. I was able to capture my characters and the emotions they were feeling but they were not my own. That is when I thought back to a time in my life when I could best express myself.

That time involved poetry.Poetry Book.jpg

Then to reinforce what I had been feeling, I attended the Writers of Kern Spring Conference. The first speaker was a poet and his talk about poetry sparked the poet in me again.  I wanted to get back to that place where happy or sad I could express my personal self like I did when I was younger.

I want to get back to where my writing began. Where I started.

My Origin.

Yellow Flicker Beats : A short story

And now people talk to me, but nothing ever hits home. People talk to me, and all the voices just burn holes. I’m done with it…

 I bobbed my head to the beat as the smooth smoky voice of Lorde spilled through the speakers of my car. I loved this song. Yellow Flicker Beat had been my theme song for the last few days. I was listening to it on my drive to work at the Irwin Memorial Library on campus. I was a circulation clerk tasked with the responsibility of checking in books as well as being yelled at by patrons wondering why they had to pay $50 for two lost books.

I let the music soothe me as I sat through horrendous traffic. It wasn’t going to please Greta. Librarians don’t like it when you show up for work late. They are a punctual bunch. I started to sing the words out loud when suddenly my music was interrupted by ringing from my speakers. I had my blue tooth from my phone connected to my car. I didn’t want another ticket from using my phone while driving. Who would have thought they actually ticketed it for that.

I didn’t recognize the number. I don’t answer calls from random numbers. I reached over and hit the side button on my phone to decline the call. After a few seconds my favorite song started to play again and I suffered through the torrent of the traffic. A half hour later I turned to the library parking lot. On my way inside my cell began to ring again.


“Well hey there belissima mia

Of course I recognized the voice. I could hear the slight Italian accent accompanied by a holier than thou aura.

“What’s up,” I said.

This is awkward, I thought. I was still upset at the way I acted with Rocco two nights ago. I never should have gone with him. I barely knew him. I’m not usually a give it out to anyone type of girl.  Though, it was some of the best sex I had in a very long time. I’m happy my overconsumption of alcohol didn’t affect my memory. The next morning I awoke alone. I wasn’t surprised. He didn’t seem like he really wanted to be there in the first place. It seemed like being with a poor black girl was new for him.

“I was wondering if I could see you today.”

His words threw me off. It didn’t however over shadow one little thing…

“How did you get my number?”

He chuckled.

“I know people who know people.”

“Now why would you want to see me tonight?”

I was very curious about what his answer would be.

“Well, I had an exceptionally incredible time on Saturday and I was hoping that we could discuss repeating that night over dinner and wine.”

I smiled.

“So, you want to take me to dinner and then fuck.”

I heard him laugh.


“Cool. Meet at my place at 6. Bring Chinese and don’t be late.”

“I’m never late. Ciao,” he said.

The call ended and I felt butterflies in my gut. It was a strange way to feel about a booty call, but I knew I was excited.

Later that evening, I paced my living room. It was almost six o’clock and I was actually nervous. I ran back to the bathroom multiple times to fix my hair.

At exactly 6pm, there was a knock at my door. I straightened my skirt and walked over to the door. I swung it opened and leaning against the frame was a well dressed Rocco holding up a large bag.

Buonasera, Anna,” he said walking passed me into my apartment.

“I’m guessing that’s hi or something.”  I replied closing and locking the door.

He laughed.

“Something like that.” He placed a large bag on my living room table. “I brought dinner.”

“Grab that food and let’s head to the kitchen.”

He followed me into my kitchen and placed the bag on the table.  I grabbed plates and a bottle of wine.  I sat those on the table as he pulled boxes from the bag.  When I turned to retrieve a couple of wine glasses from the dishwasher, he grabbed me and pushed me against the wall. He began to place kisses on my neck and my jaw line.

“So, no dinner first?”

“I want you now and I cannot wait. Two days was enough.”

He moved to kiss me on the lips and I turned my head.

“Wait, is this what we’re going to do now? Just meet up for sex?”

“I wasn’t under the impression neither of us wanted more than that.”

“I don’t want more than that. I just don’t like how you made the assumption I just wanted sex. Saturday was a fluke. I don’t normally do that on the first date.”

I don’t know why I was explaining anything to him. It didn’t really matter. I didn’t want anything more from him than sex. Yet, I felt a little disappointed.

He laughed

“Technically, that wasn’t a first date. You didn’t know me and didn’t seem to like me yet you insisted we have sex.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I am merely stating facts.” He said.

“Well, whatever.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to duplicate what we did Saturday night?”

I thought about that. He was such a douche and I should just leave him alone. However, I really wanted him.

I leaned over and kissed him. I pulled back in time to see his eyes closed. He opened them and smiled.

“Let’s take this to your bedroom.”

We entered the room and undressed. As soon as we were both naked, we climbed onto the bed began to make out. Kissing and caressing and pressing our bodies close together. They were entwined sliding sensuously against each other’s.

His lips traveled down my body until they reached the soft dark mounds on my chest. His tongue traced circles around my nipples. I gasped as his fingers found the soft and moist area between my legs. His touch was gentle and masterful. He knew his way around a woman’s body. This was a landscape he had traversed before and he explored me like the map of my body was burned into his mind.

He moved further south until his tongue replaced his fingers.

“Oh,” I moaned.

I couldn’t remember ever being touched this way before. My fingers slid into his soft jet black hair. I found myself holding my breath at times unable to deal with the pleasure I was feeling. He lifted his head and brought his lips to mine. They were soft and still very moist. I could taste myself with every kiss.

He slid himself between my legs and I knew then it wasn’t just a part of my drunken stupor. He was well endowed to a point it was almost scary. He pressed against me but he didn’t push for entry. He only wanted to tease me. He watched my face for any and every emotion.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked. “I wouldn’t want you to get too attached.”

“Stop being an asshole.” I muttered

He laughed right before he entered me.




“So are we just fuck buddies?” I asked Rocco.

We were lying in my bed after another session of incredible sex.  I expected him to leave immediately after but he insisted he was starving and still wanted dinner. Yet, here we were still in my bed.

He laughed at my question.

“Are we still in high school? Fuck buddies?” He continued to laugh.

“Arrogant jackass…” I mumbled under my breath.

His laughter stopped.

“You have an obsession with seeing me as a villain.”

“It’s not an obsession. I’m just stating facts.”

He rolled over on top of me.

“Facts? You don’t know me.”

I stared him right in the eyes. I refused to back down.

“Oh I know you. You’re a rich white Republican man living off your white privilege and money you were by your father. You are a card carrying member of the 1% who looks down the rest of us. You probably see me as some fantasy come true. I bet you brag about fucking some young black girl with the guys at the country club.”

I’m not quite sure where all that venom I just spit out came from. I really didn’t mean to be so vicious…even if it was true. He glared at me for a second without moving. Then he climbed off me and the bed. He began to put on his clothes. I sat up and leaned on one elbow.

“So you’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’m done listening to you.”

His face was red and his brow was furrowed. I can definitively he was not happy by my word choice.

“Look, I didn’t mean to say it like that. But you have to admit there is some truth to it.”

He turned to look at me as he buttoned his shirt.

“What you just said sounds like regurgitated liberal feminist bullshit. Too bad none of that pertains to me. If it makes you feel better to lie in your pool of self-righteousness go ahead but do your homework before making judgments.”

He walked out of my bedroom slamming the door behind him.

I sat there for a minute staring at the door. I knew I was going to have to apologize to him. I didn’t want to leave things like this.

I dropped my head to my pillow and began to sing my favorite song.

“We’re at the start, the colors disappear. I never watch the stars, there’s so much down here.

So I just try to keep up with the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart…”

Theist and the Agnostic

I’m not extremely religious. I come from a family that was pretty mixed on what we believe. I have siblings that believe in many different things. Some of my siblings are Christian and they follow the teachings of the Bible loosely. I have family members that are Christian and they follow the teachings of the Bible strictly. I have family members who changes their beliefs like the seasons.

However, we were raised Baptist and at one point in our lives we attended church pretty regularly. I remember sitting in church and being the big reader that I am I opted to read the Bible for myself rather than listen to the Pastor preach on for hours. While I read I came up with many questions that I wanted answered. No adult in my life could answer those questions to my satisfaction. Also, there were things that you should not question. At least that is what they told me.

I spent many years of my life trying to find my spiritual self. What do I believe versus what people tell me I should believe? I knew that I believed people should be good to others, they should look out for one another and you should try your best to be the kindest and most empathetic and sympathetic person that you could be.

It took at least 30 years of my life before I figured out what exactly I believed. Once I discovered it I wanted to know if there were others that thought like me. I mean it’s in human nature to not want to fill alone, to want to feel a connection to others and to know that you’re not the only one that feels that way.

After much soul-searching and research I discovered I was an Agnostic Theist. What is an Agnostic theist? Does it mean I’m an atheist?

To answer the first question and probably the second question as well,  I would probably have to explain what a theist is, what an Agnostic is, what a Gnostic is and how none of the three means I’m an atheist.

First I’ll explain what an agnostic is. Agnosticism means not knowing. Being an agnostic means you do not know if there is a God or if there isn’t one. It means that either could be true but…there is no proof. The opposite of that would be a Gnostic. Gnosticism means certainty. A Gnostic believes that they know without a doubt. agnostic theist

Theism is a belief in a higher power. A theist believes that God exists or a higher power. An atheist does not believe that God exists and that there is no higher power. Therefore an agnostic is not the same as an atheist. They are not mutually exclusive.

I’m an agnostic theist. I believe there is a God or a higher power yet I feel this belief is based solely on faith alone because there is no proof God exists or doesn’t exist.

A Gnostic Theist says and believes that the Bible is definitive proof that God exist. I do not.

I must admit, it was much easier telling people I was bisexual and that I have bipolar disorder than telling them I was an agnostic. Either way it feels good to finally know where I stand.


No Control

Writing is the weirdest thing for me. I never seem like I have any control over it. I do not get to decide what I write. My characters only show up when they want to and they tell their stories on their own time. I am just the vessel that the muses use. I don’t always know when a story is ready to be told ahead of time.

Most writers will understand what I am talking about. Lately it has been such a source of headaches and stress.

One night I found myself trying to write something the entire day. I wrote many things that I quickly crushed in my hand and tossed them into the trash can. 1…2…3…balls of paper and I was no closer to a story than I was three hours before.

I took a nap. I cleaned the house. I did a load of laundry. I did my hair. I painted my nails.

I tried very hard to come up with a short story for my erotic romance blog. I just couldn’t think of something new and something fresh. I felt like I was in a writing rut.

Weeks went by and my trash can in my bedroom just continued to pile up with wadded pieces of paper discarded sometimes after I had written two or three pages worth

One night I could not sleep. I was feeling down and frustrated. You know how it feels as a writer when you want to write or cannot write and it just eats at you. It pesters you and it is all you can think about.

Suddenly out of nowhere an idea popped in my head. It seemed like a good idea, but so did the other twenty I tried to write. I began by writing down the title. Then I thought of an opening line. I thought about the characters and where I wanted to be and what type of things they would say. Then like magic…they began to tell me their story. I could see a nightclub with dancing and everyone drinking and having a god time. It was as if I was there.

Before I knew it at 2 am I had a pretty good first draft of a story. The next day I had another story.

This writing lifestyle is crazy. I sometimes have no control.anxiety 1

Magnetic : a short story

“Why are you so dressed up?” I asked taking a sip of my vodka and cranberry cocktail.

I screamed my question over the loud music in the night club.

The Seven nightclub and lounge was packed. It was ladies night and there were plenty of ladies taking advantage of the half off drinks and the men buying up the bar. The disco lights made the room sparkle and Jay-Z blaring from the speakers only enhanced the good vibrations.

The atmosphere was sexed up by half dressed women grinding to the music. The men were like puppies following behind them trying to take advantage of the women with lowered inhibitions. The aura was not lost on me. I came here with the intention of finding someone to go home with tonight. I increased my odds by wearing my black “freak’em” dress. It was a mini strapless little black number that I found from a thrift shop. My large breasts threatened to spill out with every move.

Rocco, the guy I was stuck with raised an eyebrow.

“Is there something wrong with wanting to look nice when you go out?”

I laughed.

“Well you look like a mobster in that suit.”

I finished off my drink and grabbed my friend’s half empty glass of lemon vodka and sprite. I finished it off as well placing the glass on the table.

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“That’s pretty racist,” he said.

I was caught off guard. Me, racist?

“What the hell do you mean that’s racist?” I asked. “How could that be racist?”

He turned in the booth that we were sitting in and faced me.

“I’m an Italian man… in a suit. Anyone could be wearing the same suit and you wouldn’t call them a mobster.”

He was making a valid point. I wasn’t going to admit that. All night he’s been condescending and trying to come off better than the rest of our group. He seemed like an arrogant prick that likes to always be right and looked down on other people. I’ve met men like him and felt disgusted by their ego driven power trips over women and minorities. Since I was both a woman and a person of color, I had no idea why I was still sitting here listening to him talk. I was on the verge of hitting my peak of drunkenness. He was killing my vibe.

“… if I saw black a guy in a suit and said he looked like a Butler, that would be racist.”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. I just came out to have a good night with my friends. I needed a night out to drink and have fun with my girls. Instead they stick me with the stiff in the corner booth while they hit the dance floor. My friend Ashley’s boyfriend brought a few of his friends. He was hoping to hook them up with Ashley’s friends. I, being one of the single ones, had no problem entertaining the guys. Except for this one. He was way too serious and had no intention of drinking or having a good time. I had no clue why he was here. We started to talk and before I knew it I was stuck with him. I tried to lighten the mood to make a joke about his appearance, and now I was getting a lecture.

“Look,” I said. “I was just joking…”

“No Anna,” he said interrupting me. “You are stereotyping me. You’re black so you should know better.”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shut up,” I screamed in frustration.

His eyes widened then he glared at me. I didn’t want to cause a scene or kill my buzz so I decided to diffuse the situation.

“Let’s dance.” I said sliding toward the opening of the booth. I could’ve just waited for him to slide out first.  Instead I slid the entire length of the booth to the other side. I was too drunk for rational thought. After I climbed out, stood and fixed my black dress, I noticed he was calmly watching me.

“What?” I asked placing one hand on my hip.

“No one has ever talked to me like that,” he asserted.

“Are you coming or not?”

He looked reluctant to budge. He just sat with his arms folded across his chest.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he confessed.

I rolled my eyes “Who cares! There’s nothing but shit faced white boys out there. How awful can you be?”

He shook his head and smiled.

“Yes, I know what I just said was racist. Doesn’t make it any less true.”

He laughed.

“Look, you’re wasted. I don’t think you should dance. You may make a fool of yourself.”

I heaved a sigh.

“Come on suit boy,” I joked. “It’s no fun if you can’t let go and make a fool of yourself once in a while.”

I grabbed him by the arm and tugged. Finally he stood and I drug him toward the dance nightclub 3floor. As we maneuvered through the crowd, he pulled me roughly to his side. Because I was wearing heels, I almost fell.  Yet his strong arms caught me and without a word led me safely to the middle of the floor.

The music was loud. The beat of the rap music was calling me and I danced without care. I could feel every vibration of the base ripple through my body. I released myself and moved to the beat. I gyrated and grinded at my body against tears wanting to feel the warmth of him. As I danced I looked over and saw our friends. I made my way over to them and we all danced as a group as if we didn’t have a care in the world.

Except of course Rocco.

He wasn’t doing any dancing. In fact, he was looking less like a mobster and more like someone’s body guard. While I danced he just stood there watching me. It turned me on to see him staring at me that way.  My body was feeling good all over. I decided at that moment it was my mission to fuck him tonight. Maybe that’s what he needed to loosen up.


“Thank you for getting me home.” I said as Rocco led me up the sidewalk to my apartment building.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave you there,” he said.

All my friends decided to leave early and get more drinks at other bars. I said I wanted to stay at the nightclub and dance some more. Our friends’ guilt tripped him into staying with me to make sure that I made it home.

“You’re such a gentleman.”

We reached my apartment and I tried to unlock the door.  It seemed like someone changed the locks, at least that’s what my drunken mind thought. After trying for what felt like forever, he forcefully grabbed my keys for me and opened the door. When the door swung open I made sure to pull him inside with me.

“I got you home, now I need to go.”

I moved around him to close the door before he could exit. I made sure to lock it.

“I’m really wasted,” I said. “Can you just help me to get into my pajamas?”

“No, you’re a big girl and you can do it yourself.”


He sighed.


I led him by the hand down the hall to my bedroom. Once inside I began to take my clothes.

“Where are your pajamas?” He asked rummaging through my drawers.

I walked up to him from behind and wrapped my arms around him. Clad only in panties, I began to rub my body against his.

“What are you doing?” He asked turning around and grabbing my arms. He seemed to be offended by my actions.

“I’m trying to get you to have sex with me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” He searched my eyes for a second. “No, you’re intoxicated.”

I pulled my arms from his grasp.

“You won’t be taking advantage of me. I know exactly what I want and right now I want you.” I assured him.

For good measure I took off my panties and tossed them across the room. He watched them until they landed and then he brought his eyes back to me.

“Let’s just table this for another time”

Fucking Jesus Christ!

I pressed my body against his and let my hand caress the bulge in his pants. I could tell he was enjoying it before he moved my hand away.

His eyes widened and then narrowed. I could tell he was trying hard to swallow the temptation. Then his demeanor changed. I could see it in his eyes. He began to gaze at me like a cat stalking its prey waiting on the appropriate time to pounce. Slowly he removed his suit jacket letting it fall to the ground. That was followed by his shirt then his pants. He was lean and muscular. His dark tanned skin was smooth and my goodness how perfect.

I licked my lips as he finally removed his underwear revealing to me what I already knew. He wanted me just as much as I wanted him. He grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me. He pushed me backing me up until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I fell backward onto the bed. He laughed and called back on top of me. His lips made contact with mine. Our tongues tasting each other’s savoring every flavor.

He kissed me passionately. Then his lips left my mouth and found my sweet spot on my neck. He licked and sucked there like he just knew what turned me on. He placed kisses down my body as his hands explored me. Slowly he slid his body between my legs. I opened to him and as he filled me I moaned with pleasure.

We moved to the rhythm he set. He leaned back placing his hand on my chest for leverage. His strokes were slow and deliberate. His dark brown eyes never left mine. Then he dropped down once again letting his lips find mine. It felt like volts of electricity flowed through my body. Then I came. My entire body shook like an earthquake in process.

I felt like I was hyperventilating only able to breathe in short gasps. His breathing was labored and the warmth of his breath made me shiver. He sat up lifting one leg over his shoulder making his strokes deeper. He placed kisses on my feet and my ankles as he continued. He made me feel so good. My drunken stupor was wearing off and I was glad. Somewhat clear headed I was able to enjoy how well he filled me.

I came again. I came hard.

I started a chain reaction. He came moaning loudly. He collapsed on my chest. We lay that way without words for a few minutes.  Finally I broke the silence.

“You can get the fuck out now.”

He laughed kissing me softly on the lips.

“With pleasure, you foul mouthed hoodlum.”

I couldn’t help but smile.


I see those quotes that say things like,

When I see my child smile my bad day goes away.

I feel guilty. My children sometimes only add to my bad day. Some days they give me more anxiety than happiness. I see that quote and I know deep down they can’t take my pain away when I go through bipolar depression. And for the past week I had been feeling just that. Depressed.

My depression has been deep lately and there are many things contributing to those feelings. I’ve had medical issues to deal with, I have weight to lose, I hadn’t been sleeping, and I just can’t seem to get it together.

On Friday nothing was getting any better but I had to suck it up and get ready to go to a Condors’ hockey game. My youngest daughter and her group of karate kids were going to go out on the ice at half time and show off their skills. I really didn’t want to go. On that day my bad mood had not gone away, but my daughter was beyond excited and she would be highly disappointed if her mom wasn’t there to see her. So despite my negative attitude, we all loaded into the car and drove to Rabobank Arena.

When we arrived, the crowds of people only made me feel worse. My social anxiety was catching up to me and I could feel tightness in my chest. Eventually I could see my family getting caught up in the excitement of the loud music and cheering from the rest of the crowd.

Throughout the game, there was a woman sitting in front of me with her family. Her son was also doing Karate. She was there as I was, to watch her child perform. It seems however, not only was she there to watch her child perform but she was also there to try and get on the Jumbotron.

Every time the camera spun around there she was standing in her seat waving her arms doing everything she could to get noticed. Ultimately her attempts failed but that didn’t stop her from trying. At one point I noticed that she was trying to take a selfie with her child. I glanced down to see that clearly my youngest daughter and I were in the photo. I remember thinking; I am obviously in her photo. Can she see me and my child are literally in her photo.

I tried to look away and pretend I didn’t see her taking the picture. But I glanced down again and realized that she was fixing the photo but she didn’t crop us out. Everyone knows how to fucking crop. I sat there trying to decide if I was going to say anything or not.

Did she really just put a fucking filter on this picture?

Deep inside I was little uncomfortable that I would be shared in her life and probably on several social media sites for strangers to see. I decided to calm myself down and not think about it. I just continued to watch the game.

Suddenly I heard her laughing and then she turned in my direction.

“Hi, I was taking some photos and look.”

She pointed her phone so I could see she had zoomed into the photo. It was so close I could make out my daughter’s face.

“Look, she smiled in every picture.”

She showed me several photos and in the back of every one of her pictures was my daughter smiling. My little girl also noticed they were taking pictures and had no trouble photobombing them.

She was smiling and in a few of them she made funny faces

And you know what… I laughed harder than I had laughed in a week. It was the funniest thing. I hadn’t seen anything so funny in a long long time. It was as if my daughter was saying; if you get a put me in your photo that I’m not a make some faces. I hadn’t laughed this deeply in a long time and it felt so good. Actually, I felt a lot better.

Because my depression with bipolar disorder is not something that I can always control, the feeling didn’t last throughout the weekend but for the rest of that night my little girl did some that I didn’t think she could ever do. She brought me out of that sour mood and we laughed about her sweet little smile and funny faces for the rest of the evening.


They say the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. Indifference means there is a lack of concern or sympathy. You have no stake in the game. When you are indifferent to something or the plight of someone situation you neither love it nor hate it. In other words “There are no fucks given.”

I cannot speak for everyone, but when I love…I love hard and deeply. I hate or strongly dislike…nouns (people places and things) with the same depth of emotion. With love and with hate there is a burning passion that consumes you. This is why they say there’s a thin line between love and hate. If you hate someone it truly means deep down inside you care? Maybe not about the person or the object but if you didn’t care you wouldn’t feel so deeply.

I write about indifference because I have a secret to share.


giving a fuck 1I am someone who has trouble being indifferent.. This is no exaggeration. I care deeply all the time. Whether it’s love, hate, compassion or empathy to the plight of another I have learned that I do not have the capacity to be indifferent.

I am one of those sensitive people that cry at the drop of a hat and can hate with a fiery passion that can only be compared to the depths of hell. There is never any in between with me. I either love it or hate it.

Since I was very young I’ve always seen this as a curse. It was a miserable, stressful, life consuming curse.  Most people tell me that to care so deeply about so much is not a curse but a testament to my big heart. I agree. I do have a big generous heart. That doesn’t bother me. What keeps me up at night is the constant obsessing about things and feeling like I am always on an emotional rollercoaster.

My bipolar disorder takes me on a crazy ride to begin with. I never feel in control of my emotions and when I am hating or loving something my mind does not know how not to take it to an extreme. I am always on the far end of both sides of the spectrum when it comes to my feelings.

I hate it so much. (See…there I go with the hate again.)

It causes me to stress over everything. The worse part is when I am extremely sympathetic and empathetic to those that in our society are undeserving of such emotions.. Like, I could never be on a jury. I want to be on one so bad but I know that I could never be impartial.

I watch a lot of Investigative Discovery shows and I am amazed at my reaction to the giving a fuck 2things I see. When I watch these trials I notice that I always have reasonable doubt. I know you are thinking “what does that have to do with anything?” Well, it means that no matter the evidence I can always empathize with the defendant and therefore I would find it hard to find almost anyone guilty. My heart always finds the good in everyone even the worse criminals.

Having the opportunity to me to just feel MEH about anything would be a vacation from myself. I want to just be and not give a damn.

Indifference is a luxury in my world.

Sometimes I beg the universe to just give me peace and help me to not care about every little

thing I hear and see. Imagine me kneeling next to my bed with my hands pressed together in prayer and I say.

“Dear God, bless my husband and my three daughters. Bless my dad, my cats and despite how much they do not deserve it…you can bless the rest of my family too. Oh and God…can you help me not to give a fuck about life? Amen.”