The girl with the gentle eyes and soft touch is the same girl who calls herself useless and a burden, but no one sees that so it doesn't matter. The same girl who smiled no matter what in grades k-5 is the same girl who tried to commit suicide in sixth and seventh grade. She might not show her pain but she feels it deeper than most. Every night when she believes no one is looking she bursts into tears wanting to use her skin as an outlet but she won't let herself. The thoughts that seem to be in her mind as often as the blood in her veins are never positive. She promised many people she wouldn't cut again after she almost went too deep. For her, this promise is almost impossible because she never feels like she's enough. No matter what she does she can't outrun her thoughts. She begins going numb, she cuts once again just so she can feel something and she breaks her promise. She never truly believed that she could keep it but she tried. In the end the promise she couldn't keep was a dangerous one, it was a promise of staying alive.
It was 1977 and I was alone with my young sons. Eleven years earlier, when I looked into his beautiful blue eyes and said, “I do”, never in my wildest dreams did I ever think my sweet, handsome husband would change his mind. Now I was alone and bewildered – and broke! The alimony and child support weren't enough to pay the mortgage and the meager salary I made covered the utility bills and a few groceries. I found pasta with sauce was and easy and cheap meal that we all liked. A few times each week wouldn't hurt us. Meatloaf was a good meal stretcher. A bit of ground beef with some spices, a few potatoes and a vegetable usually made two meals. Casseroles always found a way into our weekly menus. I made the meals work. However, at times, when my sons needed new shoes or jeans, a bill would have to slide until the next payday. All too often, I found myself behind. The few times when I called my ex to ask for help, he always replied that I should take extra child support from the alimony. To which I always replied, if it were that simple, I wouldn't be asking him for help. He never failed to remind me that I had custody and therefore the boys were my responsibility. Not wanting to keep borrowing from my parents, I felt there was no where left to turn. I found a second job which helped a bit more, not much more, but a little. Yet, no matter how desperate the situation, it never failed that I'd manage to find the 65 cents for a pack of cigarettes. A bad habit that started when I was sixteen and never considered stopping. I did, however, manage to cut my habit down to 20 cigarettes a-day, but I still smoked. It seemed that the predicament I was in, became easier to bear if I had a cigarette to rely on. Never once did I consider that the cost, as low as it was back then, took food away from my sons. That thought never crossed my mind, but it should have. Maybe I was selfish; maybe I was just so addicted to the nicotine that it clouded my thinking. Either way, I still smoked. My sons were 10 and 8 years old at the time. They knew things were tough since their father left and never asked for much. They were good kids, helping around the house as much as possible. Each had paper routes giving them the allowance that I couldn't afford. Often, they'd pool their money together and offer a “pizza night” for all three of us. As I said, they were good kids. Christmas was fast approaching that gave me another dilemma. What can I possibly give my sons who deserved so much and had so little? Back then, Sears, Roebuck & Co. had a “wish book” catalog filled with pictures of the latest toys for all ages. Handing them the book, I said they could one have one major gift each. I would borrow the money from my parents, but they would have their Christmas. They took the book, walked to their shared bedroom and closed the door. Approximately 45-mintues later, they left the bedroom and handed me the book. What they said next, shocked me and brought tears to my eyes. My older son did the talking. “Mom, we decided. There's just one thing we want.” “What's that?” I asked as I scanned the book looking on every page for their “X” s. “We talked it over and decided the only thing we want is for you to stop smoking.” I was stunned. Of all the things they could have chosen, that's was all they wanted. Without stopping to think, I retrieved the half-pack from the kitchen table and handed it to them. “Go in the bathroom and rip them to pieces. Flush them down the toilet and you have my word. I'll never smoke again.” We hugged for several minutes that seemed like hours and then, taking my half pack of Camels, they walked toward the bathroom. I called my mom and told her what happened. That weekend, my parents visited us and although my parents weren't wealthy, they still took my sons shopping. They did get one special gift from them along with a few smaller items but to this day, more than 40 years later, they both agree that the best gift was the promise I made and never once broke. It was also the best gift my children could have given me. Through the years, there were many words spoken, a few small promises made and eventually broken but I although I was tempted, I never once had another cigarette. Every time I was tempted, I thought of my sons. To have even one cigarette would be, in my mind, like taking back the only Christmas gift I could give them so many years ago, the only one they asked for, the one that meant so much to them. I just couldn't do it. That thought was almost foremost on my mind: it was the one promise they wanted and the one I could afford to give. It was that one solid promise that meant so much to them and me: the one solid promise that to this day, I never broke.
The bare bones of writing comes down to expressing a thought, idea, or feeling. We use it to communicate with others, as a way to convey a message we find important or personal. The bare bones doesn't care about brilliance, complexity, mistakes, or your chosen medium (pen and paper, anyone?). It's significant in only having written your word or words of choice, and the rest—be it a masterpiece, or just a grocery list—is up to you. When I was a teenager, the act of writing was a way to release, and to entertain myself. I wrote stories with characters that accurately, if not dramatically, conveyed the emotions that I had a hard time expressing in my adolescence. The themes crossed paths with things I experienced, and things that I anticipated to experience. It was my world, glittering and bright, even through the dark themes and circumstances that were written. While I didn't know it at the time, it was an important self-reflection through elaborate plot lines and quirky characters. It didn't matter that it wasn't what I had deemed publish-worthy. All that mattered was that I conveyed my feelings, and sometimes shared them with others—and with that, catharsis. I stopped writing like that years ago. These days, writing has become something of a chore. The pressures I put upon myself to just write something good, or even better than good, made my joy burn out like a candle wick. I put writing on hold while my life unraveled into the milestone of young adulthood. Through it all, I'm certain that my life would have a clearer direction, and my soul a happier glow, had I written... anything. No matter what though, I couldn't bring myself to do it, even if it were simply “Today sucked.” The desire to create was burning in my veins, but my self doubt riddled me with a hate plague I couldn't shake. Taking a look back, I knew I yearned simply for life experience. I wanted to experience without reflection, even if that took me through a lot of impulsive choices that I regret now. It also took work to sit down, focus, and write. Now, with the desire to be heard, to be seen as articulate, and with something to offer, I still struggle. The fear of a page written with utter garbage is a greater fear than of an empty one. And I want to change that—even if the page is merely filled with one word, I'll know I've put forth an effort to say something. In today's world, where everyone puts out their best image, their best work, and the edited, filtered versions of themselves—I vow to allow myself to be raw, messy, mediocre, and riddled with mistakes. To speak what's on my mind, to dare to create, to do. It's now my time for honesty, even if it masquerades as a poem, a crime drama screenplay, an essay, or an account of my day. The bare bones are all that matter, and even if to no avail, it all ends up in a graveyard—then, at least for a moment, they lived.
