The Struggle

Have you ever struggled with what’s real, what’s relevant? In this world we measure success on our ability to influence others. Artists create rebelliousness to draw discussion, they envision greatness in the form of what draws the most dollars, and are motivated by clicks, shares, and comments.

How do you measure sanity? I measure it by the expression of any and all thought. By the release of emotion without regard to embarrassment and guilt and all those other plagues that prevent the presentation of honest emotion. My sanity depends on sharing those things you don’t want to know but that have to be known.

It’s seems we’ve encountered a conflict of interests. As an artist my success depends on pleasing you but my sanity longs to please me.

Ruminations on heartbreak confront the reminders that soft is better silent than shared.

Reflections on conflict and mistrust meet predictions of silence from those frustrated with the predominance of teen angst over positive, motivating rhetoric.

In other words, are my emotions too much for the masses? I’ve got things to say but what meaningful contribution can my emotional struggle make to the world.

I’ve been holding back, but something’s gotta give.

I want you to care about what I share but what matters most is what I care to share. Can you dig that?


Last Thursday I went to my grandmother’s sister’s funeral. Not my great aunt’s, my grandmother’s sister’s funeral.

I went on her behalf, even though years of disagreements had left me unfamiliar with that side of the family. In fact, when my grandma still had lucid thoughts she got a phone call from her sister after which she refused to talk to her again. Maybe that’s my grandmother’s sister’s funeral playbill had no pictures of the two together.

So, naturally, I was a bit detached from the actual reason for the funeral. But I did cry.

I cried when my mom forced an introduction between me and one of my grandmother’s old friends. She just wanted to meet the girl Evelyn thought so highly of. “She was always talking about her Briana.” Yeah, I was over then. Couldn’t even politely thank the lady.

Before the dementia got so bad that she pleaded for death my grandma was my truest, best friend. I guess that doesn’t go away just because illness falls but my grandma was and wasn’t the same person I knew.

I don’t remember much about my childhood. But I remember the way my grandma clenched the door when she taught me to drive. I remember her picking me up from the high school principal’s office because I didn’t feel well. I remember laying in bed talking about God and why I shouldn’t fear death. I remember sleeping on the left twin cushion that formed half of her bed. I remember a lazy summer afternoon discovering the Golden Girls with her in the background.

I need a best friend like that back. Sometimes, Cleo will bark into the air, and there will be no shadows or flies in her line of sight, and I’ll pray that it’s my grandmother peeking in to make sure I’m ok.

This loss will be felt forever.


How do you apologize for the way you feel?
How do you apologize for being a woman and filled with hormones?
How do you apologize for hypersensitivity and behaving in a manner you wouldn’t expect?
But those are real feelings aren’t they? Just the buried ones, right?
Well then, how do you apologize for feeling hurt?
For fighting back tears and pushing people away to protect yourself?
How do you apologize when you reach a dark corner and get tested even further by criticism?
How do you apologize to someone who didn’t even care to understand what went wrong?
How do you tell someone, “I’m sorry for feeling like I couldn’t trust you, I’m sorry I pushed you away, I’m sorry I have emotions I can’t keep checked to spare your feelings”?

Hmm…I guess you don’t.


I can’t wait until I fall for this amazing guy and then just as I think the butterflies will fade, he tells me he’s crazy about me and won’t let me go. I don’t want him to just be any guy, a temporary guy, a crush. I want him to be the guy that’s gonna make me smile any and every day, not because I can’t smile without him but because God said I was finally ready to appreciate him.

I can’t wait until I find someone I can trust. Who I can fall asleep with, get breakfast with, and rush home from work for. He’d be my warmth every night, or at least he’d gladly pay an outrageous heat bill to keep me cozy.

I can’t wait until this time ends.

This time where all I have are the guys I can’t give my heart to and the other guys who can’t take mine.


I keep getting reminders to keep writing. Thank you! I need that because Lord knows I get distracted.

For example, I walked away from this post and forgot about it for three hours.

But I’m back and the same thought remains. It’s time to get out of here.

This suburb, this job, my grandma’s house…but mostly this mindset. I got this nagging feeling that is simply, “My time here is up.” YOLO and I’m on to the next phase.

I’m pretty sure I know where I’m trying to go next, just not sure how to get there.

Do I buy a one-way ticket same way my homie did? Or do I plan and plan, settling on a new job, new apartment, new city before I pack up? Somewhere in between maybe.

I’m not the first person to get the “itch”, but my greatest fear is being the person who doesn’t follow through.

Stay thirsty, my friends.