Poetry for a Breaking Heart

This blog is entitled Something About Poetry, but as of yet, I have not posted a single poetic thing! So I suppose that this moment of sleeplessness at 2 o'clock in the morning provides an excellent opportunity for me to do so. Especially since my unrequited love has been haunting me afresh as of late. And whenever that happens, I find that scrolling through listings of relatable poems and having a good cry is immensely relieving. Perhaps at another time, I'll go into greater detail about this one-sided love, and try to relate just exactly how it feels. It is difficult to understand the pain of it if you've never experienced unrequited love before. But for now, I will let others express it for me.

All the love,

<3 Ashlynne

I watched
the rain today;

studied close, as it

collided

with the pavement,

and dispersed,

and it

reminded me

of the way I

fell into you;

helplessly

hopelessly

and in eternity;

the whole

of my self,

crashing down

and becoming

lost

in you,

while your attention was

ever occupied

by every other

drop

of water

that floated

so lightly

down

to kiss your skin.

--Unknown

*      *      *

Bring me your suffering.

The rattle roar of broken bones.

Bring me the riot in your heart.

Angry, wild and raw.

Bring it all.

I am not afraid of the dark.

--Mia Hollow

*      *      *

I thought

I knew what

real pain felt like

but I didn't

until I saw the way

you looked at her

--Unknown

*       *       *

Sonnet XVII

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforward, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way 

than this: where I do not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

--Pablo Neruda

*       *       *

There I was, way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute.

--F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

*       *       *

If I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more.

--Jane Austen

*      *       *

There

are fires,

vast and endless,

that burn in me 

for you.

And I will

carry them until

you are ready

to walk through

the flames of me.

--William c. Hannan

*        *        *

Dyslexia

There were letters I wrote you that I gave up sending, long before I stopped writing. I don't remember their contents but I can recall with absolute clarity, your name scrawled across the pages. I could never quite contain you to those messy sheets of blue ink. I could not stop you from overtaking everything else.

I wrote your name over and over--on scraps of paper, in books and on the backs of my wrists. I carved it like sacred markings into trees and the tops of my thighs. Years went by and the scars have vanished but the sting has not left me. Sometimes when I read a book, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name. Like a code to remind me it's not over. Like dyslexia in reverse.

--Lang Leav

Dreaming

All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them. --Walt Disney 

       I have spent a lifetime dreaming. When I was five, I would dance around my house, a costume dress that was two sizes too big fitting loosely over my t-shirt and jeans, a crown on my brow and my head full of nonsense. I pretended that I was Mary Poppins, making magical things happen, or Aurora from Disney's Sleeping Beauty, enchanting, beautiful, and hopelessly in love. Some days, I would be a damsel in distress. Some days, I would be my own hero. But no matter what day it was, I was dreaming about rescue, and dreaming about love. I was a child then, but if those are the terms that define a child--dreaming of impossibly good fortune and romance--then I suppose that I am still a child today.

       For me, dreaming was a necessary state of being; it was more than just a pastime, or something that I did when I fell asleep. I was always dreaming, because I was always having to imagine scenarios where I was not quite so alone. Now, no: this is not going to be a post about how sad and pathetic my life has been. Really, the biggest reason I was lonely as a kid was just for the simple fact that my siblings were all so much older than me; by the time I was able to play with dolls and weave drunken narrations of gaiety, my brothers were out skateboarding with their long-haired friends, and my sister was painting her nails in her room while listening to music that could be heard from the other end of the house. And perhaps lonely is not such an accurate adjective; I never felt my loneliness, or rather, I felt it very rarely. I was so wrapped up in my dreaming that everything else faded from my immediate notice. And really, that is the wonder of dreaming. 

       J. R. R. Tolkien, a man who knew more than most about dreams, said this: "One dream is better than a thousand realities." I take this to mean that no matter how good your reality may be, one simple dream can outclass it like a glass of chardonnay outclasses a Miller Lite. There is a mystery to dreaming, a something that makes it surreal and beautifully painful, a something that true life can never really attain. I have learned throughout the years that reality will always disappoint us. That first kiss might not send shivers up your spine; it might not do anything at all, except give you an overwhelming sense of heat and self-consciousness. That first dance might not hold all the magic you dreamed it would; it might be boring, your feet might be sore, any number of things. And that's the thing: disappointment is an effect of dreaming. We are constantly spinning around in this world, while even sillier things are spinning around in our minds. For instance, I have had this notion (probably induced by too much social media and one-too-many late-night romantic comedy marathons) that my first love would be unspeakably beautiful. I had never doubted that the love would be mutual, would be at first sight, and would last forever. 
       Yeah. So not. 
       But there are so many other things that disappoint us in life, besides unrequited love: family, friends, ourselves, our future, memories, plans, religion...The list goes ever on. The catch-22 is that we are disgruntled about our realities because we dreamed they would be different, and yet we still continue to dream, because dreams are so much better than reality.
       At this point, I believe I'm rambling. But the point I am trying to make is this: dreams may set us up for failure, but they are so worth it. To take a page out of Disney's book (or rather, to take a scene from one of the corporation's more recent films), the story of Rapunzel as portrayed in Tangled is centered around dreaming. My favorite line is this: as Flynn Rider lays dying in Rapunzel's arms, he says, "You were my new dream." These two unlikely companions had embarked on a journey together, both seeking to realize their dreams, only to find that what they had been searching for all along had been each other. Now, of course, Flynn does not truly die. (Er, spoiler by the way.) It's a Disney movie, and there is no way in hell they are letting that happen. But in reality? He would have gone. He would have gone, and he would have never embraced the dream that he had. Fear held him back, like it holds so many of us back. It holds me back. It is the only thing holding me back, now that my stepmother is no longer doing that. I am constricted from realizing my dreams because I am afraid of them.
       I know that if I put my dreams into action, they will not result in the bliss that my heart tells me they will. But I run into this dilemma: do I let my dreams go on, and merely try to be content with their distraction, or do I do something about them? Do I approach that boy who stole my heart five years ago, and tell him, flat out, all out, "I love you"? Do I keep believing that someday, after hard work and hundreds of Top Ramen dinners, I will make it to England, to live my dream as an English teacher in the city that I pine for, day and night? Where do I draw the line between reality and fantasy? And where is it okay for them to blend together into a mellow grey--for the blackness of truth to fold into the silver embrace of dreams? 
       Do I listen to my intellect? Or my heart?
       Even though I have been disappointed countlessly, I must say that I do still believe in my dreams. For 17 years of my life now, they are all that have kept me going, hoping that someday, somewhere, somehow, my dreams will come true, and I will be happy. 
       But before I can be happy in England, or anywhere, I have to be happy here. I have to take the risks to make that happiness happen, and stop letting time pass me by. I have to dream, before it's too late, and my dreams become nothing more than my last regrets, and my last words.
       As Walt Disney himself once said, "If you can dream it you can do it." And to compliment him, Les Brown has said, "Too many of us are not living our dreams because we are living our fears." There is no room for fear in this short life we all have been given. Embrace your dreams. That's the only way you will ever find them; running away from them doesn't bring them any nearer to reality. 

All the love,

Ashlynne <3

Do not let your dreams always be dreams. --Unknown

We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams. --Willy Wonka

       

A Summary of Past Events

Better a serpent than a stepmother! --Euripides 

       The last nine years of my life have been filled with absolute chaos, most of which centered around interaction with my stepmother. My dad remarried when I was eight years old; shortly afterward, we moved, and I had to change schools for the third time in five years; two of my siblings moved away, and the only one remaining stayed holed up in his room all the time, in order to avoid having to make contact with our stepmother. Of course, being as young as I was, I was not too awfully reflective on the situation, and just thought it was cool to have a mother around the house. We started out as friends; she took me places, made sure my friends and I had a good time, let me go to church activities, and taught me to do household chores. We had a good time when we were together, and there were not very many problems between us. 
        In 6th grade, all of that would change when I had my first very serious crush. Granted, I will tell you now that I did not handle it as properly as it could have been handled; I did keep this infatuation a secret from my parents. Reason being, I had learned by this time that my stepmother was rather worrisome, and I did not want to upset her. I knew that if I told her about this boy, she would scrutinize everything from the way I dressed in the morning to what subject I chose to do school projects on. She was, and is, as paranoid as hell. So I kept this rather innocent crush of mine a secret. Something that I don't think my stepmother ever realized is that the relationship this boy and I had was purely innocent, at least on my part: harmless flirting (as in, elbowing one another. Or, as happened once, his taking my school ID card and taunting me with it.), chatting on Facebook, sending notes to friends to debate over whether or not he was into me. I mean, it was typical puppy love. In hindsight, I realize actually how adorable it all was, compared to the state of my love life at the current moment. We were 12 years old, and were still holding on to some scraps of innocence.
       And then, Stepmother found the message on Facebook--the one that I had not seen yet, and, fatefully, the one where this boy decided to ask me out. (Just a note to the boys: never, for Christ's sake, ask a girl out over any electronic device, ever.) She blew up. I panicked, tried to lie, tried to make excuses, but she was having none of it. She put a curtain up in the house, creating a physical and emotional rift in the family: my brother, my dad and I were on one side of the house, she was on the other. She said she felt betrayed. I felt overwhelmed and confused. But nobody asked me. Amazingly, my brother and dad just did their best to act normally. And I guess it worked pretty well, because soon, my stepmother emerged from her little cave of irrationalism, and decided that instead of banishing herself, she would banish me. She sent me and my brother out of the house (reminding me sneakily now of Hansel and Gretel's stepmother), and when we came back, she had removed everything from my room, with the exception of an air mattress on the floor (which I had to blow up every night, because it was old and deflated quickly) and a few items of clothing, all of which were ugly and far too big for me. I was to stay in my room at all times. Door shut. No contact with the outside world, except for school. (Which, by the way, she made as close to hell as possible for me; she notified all of the teachers and half of the other staff members of the "incident" between this boy and me, and she had me removed from all the classes I shared with him. I ate bologna and cheese sandwiches for lunch everyday, no exception. And I hate bologna, so I just stopped eating period.) 
       Fast-forward four years, and this basically was still the state my life was in. There were a few breaks in between, but they were short and insignificant. I moved in with my vagrant mother for one year in 7th grade, but that was no less of a hell than living with my father; my mother was selfish and neglected me. I quickly gained weight and acted out at school, disrespecting teachers and peers alike. I thought that if I moved in with my father again, possibly things would be different than they had been; they seemed willing enough to let me, once they had noticed how I had started gaining weight and just altogether letting my life go to Hades. So I moved back in, and things were great for a while. 
       Until. Until something set my stepmother off again (I cannot even remember what it was; that's how insignificant the incidents are that upset her). Then we were back to playing this game of "Ashlynne's-in-her-room-this-week-let's-see-how-long-she'll-be-in-there-for-this-time". This went on for three years. No one ever knew when I would or when I wouldn't be locked up in my room. It was hell; I have legitimately gone crazy on several occasions. I stopped trying to please my parents at some point, since it got me absolutely nowhere, and I also stopped caring. I carelessly disobeyed, carelessly lied about it, and carelessly became less and less of the person I had always dreamed I'd become. Stepmother began taking my homework away and not allowing me to complete school assignments, since I poured everything that I had left of me into schoolwork, knowing that it would pay off in the end and be my ticket out of here. My grades dropped, and with them my desire to live another day. I was suicidal, depressed, full of bitterness and hatred. I couldn't see a way out of my situation. I had absolutely no control over it, despite what my stepmother said. Every day, I became more and more desperate. I didn't care what happened to me, just so long as I got out of there.
       Luckily, reason got a better hold on me than impulse, and I did not runaway, or call my mother out of lost hopes and desperation. I succumbed to my fate, just slinking into my room after every school day, sneaking a few chapters of a book in if I was lucky, and being always hopeful of early bedtimes and long hours of sleep. 
       At some point, teachers at school began to get worried, and inquired into my situation. Before, if they had ever asked, I had shied away from them, not wishing for any confrontation--which is something that I avoid like the plague, or like Harry Potter avoids Draco Malfoy (yet, they always seem to bump into one another, don't they?). But this time, I just let it all out; I didn't care anymore. I didn't care if my stepmother pulled me out of school, I didn't care if they somehow got her arrested. I just wanted it to stop, I just wanted someone to at least know. And that is how, two weeks later, I ended up moving in with my brother. Staff at the school had asked if I had anywhere to go, and after thinking about it, I said, Yes, my brother's. Of course I had thought of it before, but never very seriously; he has a wife and a small son, and I did not wish to impose on them, or cause a rift between them and the rest of the family. But one day, after another homework-less night (my homework privileges had been taken away because I had failed to pick all the weeds in a large 15x30 patch of dirt in our backyard in 45 minutes or less; it had ended up taking me three goddamn hours, if that doesn't give you a good idea of how many blimey weeds were out there.), I did something daring, and walked the 4 blocks from my bus stop to his house after school. I had called him at school, let him know the situation, and asked if I could live with him for a while. He was more than willing to let me in. 
       And that is how, a month later, I am sitting at the counter in his basement, typing this out and becoming, day-by-day, more and more O.K. Moving in like that was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I had to stand up for myself, and show my stepmother that she was not going to walk all over me anymore. I had to show her and my dad that I am done with it all. It's all still very weird and saddening. I do not feel like everything is okay now, or will ever really be okay, and if I'm being honest with myself, I'm not exactly happy. I feel out of place and unsure. But I have a lot to recover from, and a lot of lies to untangle myself from, a lot of lies that my stepmother told me about myself: that I am stupid, unworthy, a disappointment, a failure. There are also a lot of lies that I told myself, along the same line, and I'm not sure if I will ever believe again in love triumphing over anything, or in the power of a father's embrace. But I do believe still that someday things will work out, if not be happier and filled once more with light and belly-deep laughter. I am learning to hope again. I am learning that it's okay to sing off-key in a car full of friends, to laugh as loudly as I please, to express myself fully, and to read whatever the hell I feel like reading, even if it does involve a romance or contains swearing; I am learning to embrace scandals, I suppose!
       This truly is why I have started this blog: because I am embarking on the journey of finding myself, and I want to be able to share those experiences, of humor and heartbreak. I want to be able to relate to others, and to be able to laugh together over some of the things that have brought us to where we are today--like the knock-off-brand Vans that brought me to my brother's house, with a little pink heart drawn on the foxing. I want to be able to share life, as I begin to experience it for myself the way that it was meant to be experienced: through living it, not reading about it in a book, secretly, or watching it playing itself out in the lives of my classmates. As George Bernard Shaw said, "Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." And thank God that I'm a creative person. 

All the love,

Ashlynne <3

In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years. --Abraham Lincoln

A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing. --George Bernard Shaw

The First Act

At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. --Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

       First impressions. They are either completely erroneous, or everlasting. Either way, first impressions are immensely important, as is common knowledge. What isn't so obvious, however, is how to make a good first impression. Flimsy, secondhand advice such as Be yourself, Don't mumble, Have a strong handshake, Make eye contact, drifts lazily and unhelpfully through a panicking mind when one is faced with the frightening prospect of meeting someone for the first time. What we really wish (well, maybe I shouldn't speak for everyone else in this; maybe it's just me) is that when we meet this person, whoever they may be, we would be able to look them in the eye, and be able to see to the very depths of who they are. We wish they would do the same to us--peer deep inside us, to the bottom of the dried-up wells that our hearts have become, and understand. We wish they would like us immediately, even as they see the things inside us that shame us, embarrass us, hurt us.
       Let's be honest: we all know that first impressions don't count for much, not when we are practically auditioning for the other person, trying to earn their immediate approval. No matter how we address them, how we carry ourselves, how alluring we have fixed ourselves up to be...none of it matters. If they are the kind of person who can look into another's eyes and read a history, or are able to decipher the lines in a face and glean from it poetry, there is no use trying to deceive them. It is not about how we present ourselves, but rather about how our experiences present themselves. Despite what you might think, it is not the appearance or the carriage that makes a man; it is not how well he can hide his feelings, history, or thoughts. What makes a man is how his feelings, his history and his thoughts convey themselves through his expression, his very being. 
        I have a difficult task set before me: to express myself through words, mere letters strung together like candy beads on a child's necklace. Sadly, reader, you cannot look me in the eye and try to read there, in my irises, all that I have to say here; that would make it a lot easier for both of us. (And while I'm being honest, no one really can do that; not even California Psychics. If we really could look in other's eyes and read their entire life story there, there would be more compassion in this world.) Expression is one of the most difficult arts to master; it takes courage, honesty, and the ability to laugh at oneself. If you don't have those traits, or at least have the will to possess those traits, you will never truly, deeply connect with another human being. You will be stuck in a sort of music box carousel relationship, only ever singing the same shallow song, only ever treading the same elliptical course. This blog is about breaking away from that, about trying to hum a different ditty, trying to dance a different waltz--a more intimate ditty (if ditty's can be intimate), a more intimate waltz. It all sounds very cheesy and superficial. But I believe that is because this tale has only just begun. (Then again, it may be because it is one-thirty in the morning, and I am functioning on less than seven hours of sleep and No. Coffee.) There is no character development yet; it's only the beginning of the story! Wait 'til we get to the climax! This is only the first act! Wait until the season finale! I feel like Bilbo Baggins, just setting out on a journey that's going to lead me only-God-knows-where. But it is not where I am led that makes the difference; "It is the journey that matters, in the end," as Hemingway put it. 
       Along the way, I can assure you that there will be poetry, rants, existential crises, and hormonal tirades (primarily about unrequited love). There will be humor--depending on how I choose to perceive my situations--insomnia, and there will be growth. Also, there will be Josh Hutcherson fangirl-ing and the occasional meme. You have been warned.
       Maybe my "address" hasn't been exactly charming, but I do hope that my expression has caught your interest. I hope that a year from now, we can look back together on how far we all have come. And if you are feeling nauseous from all of these cliches, then thank God I am too and let's call it quits and spare ourselves before my insomnia-numbed mind spills out anymore, shall we?

All the love,

Ashlynne <3

Not all those who wonder are lost. --J. R. R. Tolkien

The only journey is the one within. --Rainer Maria Rilke