From the Storm A Butterfly Flew

Long has it been since I’ve felt super. Be it super Mom, Friend, Wife,  or importantly Super Self. Trials and tests are hard and breaking. If we never shed our minds and souls the way lizards shed their skin, we would never grow into something more than what we are.

For the first time since November,  I feel great. No, not super. I have grown. Leaving super for a rainy, bad hair day. I have the house closest to spotless since we moved. The kids are loving each other and life. My husband and I are working through things in ways we hadn’t before. I am starting back on my writing. I am at peace. I am strong. I finally found my ADULT self. It took a lot to get me here. It was torture. Through the wild pain and confusion, I woke today great.

In November, a person blatantly lied to my face and she shunned my small family. She meant the world to me but it was time to stand up for my family. In January,

11. A Cutter’s Secrets Craft

Her demons dance on closed eyelids. The pain drives deep and deeper still. She bites her lip while her finger tips make the tiny blade twirl, teasing her fingertips.  Such a lovely gift her grandmother gave.

She opened her eyes. Wide.

‘Every little girl deserved her own pair of fingernail clippers.’

Especially one with a fingernail file,  blade combo attachment. She held it up in the sneaks of sunlight. The glitters of silver, gold, and orange swirls and edging belonged among the floating particles showing themselves to her in the slivers of light. She takes a deep breath.

If only everything showed itself in the light.

Soul, Mate (Part 3)

And they lived happily ever after…

Happily Married After...

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Soul, Mate (Part 2)

Chris Hope and I had a strictly phone conversation and text friendship. When he sent me flowers on Valentine’s day I set out a quest to figure this guy out. I mean who spends over $50 on someone they talk to rarely and have never met in person? We quickly became friends on MySpace and Facebook. I started talking to him daily whether a phone call or text. He found himself  enamored with how I interacted with my children. He was blow away by my writing. He consistently complimented my intelligence. He never once asked for inappropriate pictures. He never once demeaned the stranger sides of my life. He was always there. The terrifying day came that I dreaded… The day he told me he was returning from Colorado and wanted to take me on a date.

This person knew a lot about me. He looked different in every picture. He seemed to say all the correct things and jumped through all of my hoops. I was either going on a date with a serial stalker/killer or someone of great importance to my life.  Needless to say I could have pissed myself at any moment that night.

Chris in Colorado.

Soul, Mate (Part1)

I do not believe there is just one person for everyone or A soul-mate if you will.

I believe in life you are given a handful of kindred spirits and we are truly blessed if we recognize them. I am lucky. I have my musical soul-mate Sara. I have the yin to my yang soul-mate Jennifer. And now, I have my life partner soul-mate Chris. You may believe that destiny or fate are why I am with these people. I don’t. I believe there are specific events in our life to happen: A, B, and C. However, we make the choices and beat the path to the next bullet point on the map, if we ever get there.There have been plenty of people much like them to come in and out of my life. I have made major choices in my life including recognizing these people in me. See, I believe you can fall in love with anyone if you spend enough time with them. I also believe that people give up and give in too easily to the floosy sayings of, “you deserve better” or “there are plenty of fish in the sea.” To be quite frank, I had made peace with the fact that I truly did NOT deserve a lifetime mate. Chris and I will hit 2 years of marriage this October, so we have quite the road ahead of us.

When we were first dating

Though you will get to see and read much of that journey on this bloggage space, I have promised a few of my readers the story of how we got here to this place. We didn’t meet in Rome. We didn’t lock eyes from across a room. Our first kiss wasn’t movie magic. The way my husband and I came to be was work, persistence, hope, and neither of us lowering our standards. Perhaps there is something magical in that; maybe not. You decide.

The Cherry Canopy’s Sister Souls

When speaking of love and when speaking of women there is always one color that comes to mind. Red. Strawberry Wine. Strawberry Fields. Cherry Chapstick. Need I go on? For her the only red that pulls the weight of an ocean is her best friend and the closet.

Her best friend had a closet the size of a very small home office. Instead of just hanging clothes, she hung a huge red canopy. It tapered down, twinkling from Christmas lights, into the mess of a pallet made of random pillows and blankets. So many days of young adulthood were spent laying within the red. Smoking weed and contact highs; dreaming life away while discussing life, love, and failure. The future and reality slipping calmly away in the mixture of smoke and red. Whenever she thinks of her, she finds herself swirling in the red.

The cloud tinted red and thick. Her best friend found her  in the crowded club, dancing away the days of  woe.  She walked in, white pants slit to the top of her hip bones and a small white tube top barely covering the top half of her petite, hourglass figure. Her tanned skin radiated off the white in the clubs lighting. She walked straight to them and whispered to an apparent mutual friend. Their eyes met and next thing, she was sizing her up & walking directly to her. She grabbed her lower back and forcefully brought their bare bellies to touch. She grabbed her face and kissed her passionately. As they kissed, she led her in a dance; gyrating and kissing for a mere few minutes that seemed forever in mind. She pulled her lips away, grabbed her tightly, and whispered in her ear; “I like you.”

A Public Apology

When writing personal experiences, feathers are bound to be ruffled occasionally.  Unfortunately my last post, Kill Me Already, caused quite a stink. Though I still stand by my work, I would like to offer a formal apology.

I have learned several things during the last couple of days. Telling personal memories is like  removing the rug you swept all the floor’s trash and dirt under: It makes a mess. With intensely emotional prose, people are likely to react emotionally and even more-so negatively. My intentions with this series has never been to hurt the people involved that I love. But,  I have learned you cannot assume  people will accept such personal pieces with open arms and an open mind; even through talks, warnings, and the current state of your relationship. I do know there are ways to write something in a way that it doesn’t out-right say things, but I feel there is no other way I could have told this experience without being false to my memory. However, I have also clearly stated that this is my perception and my individual truth- which when there is more than one character of a story, one view-point does not make it fact. Here is an excerpt explaining this concept from my preface:

“In my journey, I know I have lived more than I give and take credit. It gets hard, growing older, to realize the way I lived it wasn’t how the others around me experienced the same. The sensory, emotional, and impressions are all personal. The places, the people, the things… well they all have their own stories to tell. Though they are the exact experience, it always carries a very different livelihood. They have their own paths with their own destiny. When our paths cross it creates a chemistry of chaotic proportion for it brings us close and can easily tear us apart. However, we always stay connected.” Preface- Minutes into the Moments

Though my intentions where from a good place, this has set a rift in my family. I have and still continue to encourage them to voice their opinions and their perception and own memory of these experiences. I love them greatly, beyond what they might feel or know, and I would like to say that I apologize for the feelings that this series has invoked. I would like to make the offer now that if they write their own version of the story, I will post it here.

I would also like to apologize to my readers and followers for any discomfort this may have caused. I hope that as this mess I have created is worked through, that you feel comfortable continuing this journey with me discovering the evolution of my mind.

Thank you for all the love and support,

Chrystalyn

 

10. Kill Me Already

The tears were like tsunami waves crashing upon everything within reach, washing away everything but the pain.

“I… I-I just don’t think I should be alone tonight. Not with all these… thoughts…” She whispered with head hung low. She couldn’t comprehend that this was happening. Confusion fogged her thoughts. He was hurt. They weren’t breaking up but it was scary none the less. But, this was normal for high school love… right?

“Go call your friend and see if you can stay the night.” He whispered through his tears.

“What about mom…she won’t let me…”

“I’ll handle her… I- I’ll make it okay…”

9. A Page in the Diary of A Go-Go Dancer

Loo a Gogo

 

 

The bar looked post-apocalyptic. The tables empty. The chairs strewn about. The large, caged speakers silent. The only lights on in the club were behind the bar where a group of black uniformed 20 and 30 somethings huddled.

“Morning Loo, breakfast shot?” The bartender quipped from a shadowed smile.

She threw her small bag over her shoulder and made her way to the bar. “Morning everyone,” she smiled sheepishly,” let’s get this night started!”

 

 

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One Shot of Rumple + One shot of Jager

A fire rolling down the pipes and nothing can save her

The music will start and she’ll dance till she’s dead

Spinning and twirling, stomping out the best night ahead

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8. Don’t You Believe in God?

...Don't You Believe in God...

The sweat beaded and suspended on her skin, stuck in a place no one wants to go. Her skin crawled cold and complacent as her bones stiffened. Her muscles unable to move. Her eyes flashed open. Darting around the dimly orange tinted dark, she was looking for any signs of the culprit. There was nothing seen; just the heavy darkness felt. The air was too thick and hard to breathe in. Her heart seized with terror. She couldn’t run if she had wanted to. He suffocated her, taunted her, dared her for a challenge.

7. Cause and Effect

Two years end like this in a broken promise not to her but to her little boy. His small body lies on the couch sobbing. Trembling all over from the uncontrollable tears and moans. Murmmering words through the tears like “where is he…”

“He’s not coming…”

“He doesn’t love me…”

“He won’t look at me…”

He is devastated, depressed, overwhelmed, unsure, questioning, angry, and beyond. A mixture of emotion that he has yet to experience, that he has yet to understand. This is no way a three-year-old should learn about the loss and heartbreak of love.This is no way to treat anyone so young.

6. The Laughter of Dead Children

 

She walked in and bee-lined to the bathroom. The art of avoiding her prostitute roommate had become an art. She spun her body round and round as she peeled off the disgusting waitress get-up. She turned on the facet and tested the water that flowed into the claw tub. She used to love this colonial plantation house built into the side of a hill.  The steam rose and the smell of fried, greasy diner food was finally started to dissipate. She slowly stepped in and turned on the shower head and let the hot water spray her in tiny stinging bullets upon her skin. Compared to her roommate she felt like Mother Teresa. She wasn’t one for the straight and narrow but she was even a better mother to roomie’s 4-year-old, Little Boy Blue. It had always gotten too foggy in the bathroom. This night the steam rose making the dim-lit bathroom a little too dark. It didn’t help she always felt like eyes were on her in this house. Especially since Little Boy Blue told her he was so afraid to sleep in his bed alone because of ‘the man in the corner.’ She couldn’t wait to move in with her favorite guy friends from highschool. Bye bye drug induced mood swings. Bye bye random guys coming over at all times. Bye bye to being the 19-year-old girl who got suckered  by a dirty whore into taking care of a kid and paying for a house. She still had to give her props for knowing how to turn tricks to get what she wanted from anyone. Anyone at all. 

5. The Lies Told With Hushed Lips

He looked at her with empty eyes.

 

She has only four memories of his stint as her mother’s second husband and all she can remember are those empty eyes.

Watching the Simpson’s late at night with his back to her and her brother, not listening to the worries that their mother had yet to return from work 3 hours late with no phone call. He just smiled oddly and had her sit in his lap.

Sitting on the couch in their new house mid-day, his hands weirdly worn always fumbling with bottles, spoons, pipes, and the liquids that filled them. He acted as if nothing was wrong, little did they know he was.

His boot pressing the pedal in madness with no attention to her screams of oncoming traffic as she tried to crouch and brace for an impact that miraculously never seemed to come…

Then the last night she ever remembered seeing him…