Have you ever had someone tell you a secret you wish you didn’t have to carry? When it comes to my friends, I would rather they unload their heaviest burdens on me and let me support them rather than have them hold those secrets alone. On the flip side though, that often means I’m very honest with opening up about my struggles and I wonder if sometimes I share too much. I never want to be a burden.
I’m of the mindset that we should always support those that we care about, no matter what. The best of friends should never give up on one another, no matter how heavy our honesty weighs. I encourage you to tell your friends you love them and make sure they truly know it, not because you told them, but because you were there to carry them on your shoulders when they couldn’t walk.
I’m no stranger to crying. I cry during ASPCA commercials. I cried at the end of the newest Cinderella movie. I cry when they name the winner of The Voice. Rarely, however, does poetry make me cry. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.
I usually write poetry as a response to crying whereas few poems have truly moved me to tears. Today as I was sitting at my desk, listening to Pandora like any other Monday at the office, Tom Petty’s song Free Fallin came on and I needed to write this poem, didn’t have a choice.
I reread what I wrote, and suddenly, my throat started tightening. Something about this poem makes me cry, even as I look at it now. I guess it’s because this poem is my heart.
I like the freedom of Sunday mornings, that I could sleep indefinitely if I wanted, that I can waste the morning making pancakes and then eat them in bed. I rarely make plans for Sundays, just drift through the day and see what happens, let who I see be a surprise.
I’ve been obsessed with reading poetry lately, scouring the internet for hidden gems, loving the surge of available verse with National Poetry Month in full swing. I’ve found some good stuff, but haven’t yet found one that really hits me. I want to be brought to tears. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know!
It feels like it’s been awhile since I’ve been on here. Every time I’ve tried to write a poem in the last several days I end up cranking out about 2 lines and then “finishing” the poem with several words of profanity before closing my notebook and filling up a glass of wine. There isn’t more to the story. Writing is rarely glamorous.
My dad asked me a couple days ago if I knew what the definition of insanity was. Yes, I said, it’s trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So he asked me why I keep trying.
I just moved into a new apartment. I feel like I’m starting a new life, starting over, taking ownership of the aspects of my life I didn’t own before. I asked my roommate tonight what her advice to you all would be if she could impart one piece of wisdom. By happenstance, she said “take a chance.”
I’m often asked where I find my inspiration. Most of the time it’s random, like the color of my hot tea or hearing a song playing at the grocery store, but sometimes I seek out inspiration too. On Thursday I asked a handful of my friends what their favorite word was that day. I didn’t explain why I was asking, which netted me some pretty interesting responses, like burrito or sandwich. One of my friends even made up a word.
There were a few answers however that stuck out: storm, alacrity, and illuminate. The strength behind these words is consuming and even more intriguing are the reasons that my friends chose these. I initially intended to write a separate poem for each word, but then I realized how interconnected they could be, which again, is a pretty powerful discovery.
This poem is dedicated to my friends Kelsey, Charlie, and Cameron.
I write about this once a year and once a year only. Fourteen years ago today I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I remember that day in chunks: when my pediatrician told us to drive to the hospital, when the nurse weighed me and commented that I was skin and bones, when I had to pee so badly as they were admitting me that I almost went in my pants, the first shot they gave me, the first shot I gave myself, sobbing in my mom’s arms in my dark hospital room, convinced that I’d never be able to eat pizza again.
Type 1 diabetes isn’t one of those diseases that people know you have. Aside from insulin pumps and hordes of empty juice boxes, we’re undetectable. I don’t hide my condition, but I don’t bring it up either. It’s a part of me now, locked into every moment of every day, burned into my routine, into my history, and into my future.
This is my confessional. Sometimes I’m still embarrassed to bring out my insulin pump at the dinner table, even with my closest friends. It’s been fourteen years and I still struggle with dosing food correctly. I don’t like to admit when I don’t feel well and I cancel doctor’s appointments when I’ve had trouble controlling my blood sugars just so my doctor won’t find out that I’m “failing” at being a good diabetic.
I’m not shy about my disease. I always welcome conversation and questions and will share my stories to anyone that cares to ask. It’s a strange dichotomy: being an open book that’s shoved inside a backpack.
Thanks for listening to my D-Day story. I guarantee next March 26th will reveal another chapter.
None of us can keep it together 100% of the time, especially when we’re afraid. We eventually learn that it’s ok to fall apart. We become pros at putting the pieces back together, so good in fact that most people around us wouldn’t know we were struggling unless we wrote a poem about it and put it on the internet.
This one is dedicated to my friends. I read an article yesterday talking about the differences between introverted and extroverted people. I fall right in the middle of both, equally outgoing as an extrovert and equally introspective as an introvert. What that basically boils down to is that relationships mean the world to me. I care for the people in my world with an almost unhealthy level of intensity. Annoying as it may be, they always know I have their back.