Focusing my Energy

There are moments that you must remind yourself ‘stop reaching out’. I am stronger by myself. I have friends that I love dearly right now. People who find me when they want me. Who invite me in their life and join into mine. Who remind me that they care. I need to remind myself sometimes that the ones that don’t – the ones that don’t take a step to go ‘Hey’ – are not worth my energy or time.

I will always be the most loyal soul. When I attach myself to someone, friend or otherwise, they will always have a place in my heart. Even people I have drawn boundaries and blocked out of my life for personal reasons could knock on my door tomorrow looking for a place to sleep, and I would open their doors and ask them how many blankets they want.

But that doesn’t mean I need to allow myself to be forgotten. If you wish to forget me? Or ignore me, or anything as such then I will do the same. The energy it takes to continue reaching out to certain people in my life takes away from the many good things I could be doing.

This is one of those moments I remind myself to stop wasting my energy on the people that try so hard to forget me and focus on the people that welcome me with open arms.

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Am I?

In one of my Facebook writer groups, the question was asked – “When did you start calling yourself a writer?”

One of the Writers of the group offers up a question and I attempt to answer them daily. Sometimes my answers are witty, or simple. Sometimes my answers are thoughtful. Today, when this question was asked, I started out witty. “I am?”. This was answered by two of the more active members (one of who which offered up the question to begin with) reminding me that I am. “You writer, therefore you are a writer.”

I know I am. I state it now daily. My Facebook page, website, Twitter, and Instagram are all labeled Kris Star dash Writer. This is the foundation of how I see myself. It is a wonderful thing to actually see myself as a writer. It wasn’t a title I instantly claimed. I actually turned away from it. I didn’t feel worthy of it.

To feel I have the right to call myself this – Writer. Two finished books under my belt. Seven other books hidden away within my computer and files, I know that

I am a writer.

I don’t write for ‘fun’. For that classic idea of ‘oh I’ll write a book someday’. At times it is fun and I have written a book, but it isn’t why I do it. It isn’t a whim or passing desire.

I think to call one’s self a writer, you have to actually invest more than your joy into it. I have stared at pages and cried. I have hated myself for weeks over grammar mistakes. Or not feeling good enough. I have hated every word I written at times. I have wanted to smash computers. I have written dull boring scenes that needed to be written to move the story along. I have edited and re-edited the same four words seven times to simply find no correct placement and delete them out of frustration. I have hated and loved.

So, when did I decide I was actually a writer? Below is the answer I gave to this question.

Now that I think about it. I’ve always had a need to tell a story. Be it art, acting, or writing. I started a novel (something like V.C. Andrews – an author I was obsessed with at the time) when I was around 13 or so. It never got past 20 pages. Those 20 pages took me over 4 years to write, and I said more than once that I wanted to be published by 15. 15 came and went. I then said I wanted to be published by 16. That left with 15. I stopped dreaming of writing, and focused on the visual arts in High School. I had that need to produce the images in my head outward for others to see.

Even after graduating from college with a BA in English, I didn’t see myself as a writer. Short stories, novels, poems littered my room and my education. Even with a few Nanowrimos under my belt. I told people I wrote. I told people I ‘dreamed’ of publishing a book. But I didn’t call myself a writer.

The moment I decided I was a writer, was the day I was writing Master’s Degree application essay. I had to explain my reason for writing. When it came down to it, my reason for writing is there are voices and stories in my head that want their stories told. This, in a sense, always sounds crazy to say to a non-writer. “I hear voices!”

But as I wrote that essay. I realized that I was a writer. I was an artist. I was a creator. However I can offer up the stories and images in my head to the world I will. I find that my talent leans toward the creative world of writing, instead of visual art. I can illustrate a picture of the world through word better than paint.

I am a writer.

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Was it Suicide?

“I don’t want to die. Sometimes I wish I had never been born at all.” ~Queen

 

Am I suicidal? No. Now, as a 32 year old adult, I know that I was never suicidal. But, as I look over my life, I wasn’t always so sure. I, and everyone in my life, thought I was at one point. So much so that I spent a short time within therapy as an attempt to over come the needs to end my life. But I am getting ahead of things.

 

A Sophomore in High School, I know nothing. That is easy to admit now – years later. I was fight with my mother more than I need to, and my world wasn’t happy. Even at my lowest weight in my life, I was constantly made fun of. Seen as the ‘fat girl’. No one would date me. Even through I was well endowed for my age, I didn’t have the breast of my best friend, but she really didn’t want hers – they were massive and she spent a lot of time in pain. I was ‘overweight’ at 150 pounds. The odd white girl among the barely 100 white kids in my school. Freshman year, I was one of 14 white kids in the whole school.

 

The guys I dated were normally long distances, because I didn’t think guys could like me in person. I still struggle with this idea. When a guy did like me, I normally thought where odd or crazy. Thank you John for noticing me Freshman/Sophomore year. I wish I had enjoyed it more and dated you.

 

After some random sad event in my life, I went into school and told a friend I tried to commit suicide last night. I don’t believe my friend even blinked an eye. We were all depressed teens. Many of us thought about no longer dealing with our lives.

 

The teacher, on the other hand, heard. She said nothing and started class. She was a long term sub, and after this day I never saw her again. I don’t even remember her name. After class she went to the nurse, principal, or someone, and told them that I was suicidal. I later found out that her daughter had attempted suicided a few weeks before and was placed into the hospital because of it.

 

Sitting in the nurses office with my secret out, as they told my parents (mother), I started the longest journey of my life. Understanding my depression. Almost 20 years later, I am still struggling with this battle.

 

I know now I wasn’t suicidal. I was a ‘cutter’. This term did not exist then. At least not in mainstream culture. It is a need to inflict pain to your body to control your emotions – and something in general. I would never want to die. The idea of leaving my mother childless was enough for me to continue with my life.

 

But exist? There are still days I would like to stop existing. To never be born. To never feel the way I feel daily. That is the depression talking.

 

I am still the over weight, odd white girl I was at 15, but now I know that isn’t a bad thing. I am smart. There is nothing I can’t learn or figure out. I am creative. I can creative an immersive worlds. And paint a decent picture.

 

I am loyal and loving. Things hurt deep for me. So deep I get angry and feel things for years afterward. I am a loyal friend, and this gets me hurt more than it should, but that is who I am.
I was all that at 15, but it took almost 20 years to figure out that I am worth living and existing.

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Poetry Challenge: Song Titles

I was presented with a poetry challenge earlier and decided to embrace this. Below is a poem written using song titles from my playlist on Spotify.

 

One Song Glory

Baby it’s you
who’s Evil like me.
Drag me down.
Make me wanna Follow You.
i Beg for mercy.
You say it’s Not a bad thing.
but I look at you
as the Path of Decay.
Be Nice to Me, Please.

 

 

( Baby It’s You by The Beatles. Evil like me by Kristin Chenoweth. Drag Me Down by One Direction. Make Me Wanna by Thomas Rhett. Follow You by Bring Me The Horizon. Beg For Mercy by Adam Lambert. You Say by Vertical Horizon. Not A Bad Thing by Justin Timberlake. I look at you by George Strait. Path of Decay by Sirenia. Be Nice to Me by Front Bottoms. Please by Lutan Fyah )

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Time to get Unstuck!

Time to start again. To create a blog that helps show the world changing before my eyes, even if it in tiny steps.
I am 32 years old. Single. Well Educated. And Stuck!
What?
Stuck. Life isn’t going anywhere quickly. I am afraid of my own shadows. I know not everyone is this deep in their anxieties. But, maybe, you can relate to something I say as I take small little steps out of my trapped life. The things that help me overcome my stuckness. They won’t work for everyone. They may not always work for me. The pages of this blog will be full of ranting, ravings, venting, and mistakes. I am a human being simply trying to be a little better than I am today.

Status: Single
Weight: Overly Obesity
Age: 32
Mental: I hate leaving the safety of my house.

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