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Posted 1 February 2016 / By MC / Archives/ Featured/ Miss Clariss Musings

Because I have left words unsaid, pages unturned, chapters unfinished… and I am ready to start new books.

 


 

Golden

The fire used to burn

All the words used to hurt

But you’re not like us

You are different

I couldn’t see that that was a compliment

Cause the last thing I want now is to be you

And the flames don’t feel as hot as they used to

Burn, burn, burn

You used to yell

You thought I was coal

My friend I’m gold

Can’t you tell

Burn, burn, burn

You used to yell

You thought I was coal

My friend I’m gold

Can’t you tell

Cause I’m not weak, I’m not broken I am bold

And the fire you put me through turned me into gold

I’m not done, I’m no loser

Watch me take on my bright future

Tonight I’m no bronze, I’m no silver

You’ll be thinking damn I knew her

But you didn’t

Don’t get it twisted

Out of the ash that you buried me in

I am golden

I am golden

You tried so hard to break me down

Like a fire breathing dragon

But I guess I took your crown

You pushed for me to change for you

But I’m so glad that I stayed true to who I am

Burn, burn, burn

They used to yell

You thought I was coal

My friend I’m gold

Can’t you tell

Burn, burn, burn

They used to yell

You thought I was coal

My friend I’m gold

Can’t you tell

Cause I’m not weak, I’m not broken I am bold

And the fire you put me through turned me into gold

I’m not done, I’m no loser

Watch me take on my bright future

Tonight I’m no bronze, I’m no silver

You’ll be thinking damn I knew her

But you didn’t

Don’t get it twisted

Out of the ashes you buried me in

I am golden

I am golden

The fire that you tried to burn me with

It made me who I am

All the things you said I couldn’t do

Guess what

Yes I can

The fire that you tried to burn me with

It made me who I am

All the things you said I couldn’t do

Guess what

Yes I can

Cause I’m not weak, I’m not broken I am bold

And the fire you put me through turned me into gold

I’m not done, I’m no loser

Watch me take on my bright future

Tonight I’m no bronze, I’m no silver

You’ll be thinking damn I knew her

But you didn’t

Don’t get it twisted

Out of the ashes you buried me in

I am golden

I am golden golden gold

I am golden golden golden

– Ruth B.

Red

I had this piece planned for months.

In my mind, I was speaking directly to you, updating you, showing you – showing you just what you were missing. In my mind, I was crafting one last letter to you. Golden was supposed to be my very last, “Fuck you.”

But that all changed a few thousand feet above Texas. Or maybe it was New Mexico…

I was flying back to San Diego after Christmas break on the East Coast (my first trip back since moving to California). It was dark and quiet on the plane. I was inside of myself – inside my thoughts, my head – reflecting. Coldplay was the perfect soundtrack to the ideas running through my mind. Chris Martin sang loudly in my ears. And then, the iPod abruptly switched to Ed Sheeran’s, Photograph.

At that moment, something clicked. Everything fell into place. The sky opened up. Birds flew, angels sang – there were rays of sunshine and harps. In an instant, my entire perspective changed.

Because the second that track switched over, I realized it wasn’t about you – it never was about you, or us, or this big fucking mess we had created – it was about me.

Tears silently fell from my eyes, rolled down my cheeks and onto my lap.

I smiled.

That moment was the most pivotal point in my healing process. Thousands of pounds were instantly lifted off of my shoulders. It was as if I had been feeling my way down a dark corridor, and then suddenly, someone decided to flip the lights on. I can’t explain it. I’m not even sure why everything felt all-together different or what even changed exactly. But for some reason, I can pinpoint that very second.

Just like I could pinpoint the very second I fell in love with you…

Truthfully, that’s how I know it was real. It was the same sort of “ahh-ha” moment – that same rush of realization – as the moment I knew I loved you. And just as quickly as you filled every crevasse of my being… you were gone.

I have finally found her – that girl you missed so terribly bad. The pretty girl who carelessly chased after fireflies and boldly went after her dreams. The happy girl who desperately wanted to believe anything was possible. The silly girl who spoke freely, and loved deeply, and kissed passionately. I discovered her cowering in a dark corner… buried far back in the mind of a woman you helped create.

I purposefully spent this last year alone.

I have never known an adult life without you. I have never known grocery shopping, car maintenance, projects around the house, holidays, birthdays, job hunting, or even a fucking Tuesday without you. You were my life. I bought things I wouldn’t normally buy – just because you needed them, or wanted them, or liked them. I did stuff, and went places, and said shit, and wore my hair certain ways just because you were into it. I bought a house. I drove 113.6 miles to and from work everyday because you didn’t want to leave our small town. I spent most of my free time alone or third-wheeling it because you couldn’t sacrifice a race, or a job, or what-the-fuck-ever to spend time with me.

That’s cool. It was life. Our life. My life. It was the life I had chosen for myself. And at some point, I have to stop blaming you for my own decisions. I have to stop bitching and moaning – victimizing myself by claiming, “He just wouldn’t let me leave.”

Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Chelsea.

‘Cause you know what? I was a pain in the ass too. I refused to tell you what was really wrong. I had so much resentment, anger, and just downright rage toward you. Unhappiness oozed out of my every pore. I flew off the handle at the smallest of things because I refused to believe it just wasn’t. going. to. work. I was convinced I could be the white-picket-fence woman you wanted me to be. And every time you raised the stakes, I became more and more disgusted with myself for wanting to reach them. For whatever reason, I just refused to grow a pair of fucking balls and walk the fuck away. I would change my locks… buuuut then open the door when you showed up on my porch. Uhh, hello? Perpetuate the madness much?

I hope you forgive me for being weak, and petty, and hopeful, and so very much in love.

It occurred to me, while I was putting together some IKEA furniture with no issue the other day, that I pretended to need you all those years. And maybe that’s where it all started…

For the last twelve months, I have carried every: case of water, bag of dog food, piece of luggage, sack of groceries, box of beer, etc. into the house myself. I have walked Sonny every. single. time. he’s whined to go outside. I have handled every oil change, home repair, and appliance installation without you. I have put together every single piece of furniture in my new house by myself. (Which, by the way, is coming together fucking phenomenally. And you would hate every inch of it.) I have even scheduled an appointment with the DMV and looked into changing my car insurance, sans your assistance. Actually, if we’re talkin’ about all the shit I’ve done here lately, you know, on my own… can I just mention that one time I moved myself across the entire goddamn country without your packing expertise, or navigational skills, or tiny automotive-related digs? Yeah, how’s about that for a little personal W?

Anywho, the irony is, not once has it occurred to me over this last year to pick up the phone and call you for help. Sure, I think, “Humm. How did I get this done before? Oh. Yeah. Him.” And then, I’m all, “Hey, look at me, fucker. Doin’ all the shit by my got-daymn self. Get on my level, bitch. Get. on. my. level. #rawr” (True story. I really do say these things. And then, I power clean whole 45-pound IKEA boxes up to my apartment. [Okay, so that part was a lie. I go to the leasing office, grab one of those little package cart thingys, and roll those bitches into the elevator. {Basically the same thing though.}])

So I figure that’s maybe where I started to lose myself. Maybe that “pretty girl” you used to know started to retreat when I began chipping away at my own independence. Or maybe that “happy girl” you used to know started to shy away when I began giving you small pieces of my own responsibilities. Or maybe that “silly girl” you used to know started to withdraw when I began thinking, “To love someone is to make them feel needed.”

Regardless, I have my independence back. And my strength. And my confidence.

Hey, so speaking of confidence… last year, while on our annual vacation together you said something to me that has never left the forefront of my mind. Do you remember what it was you said?

It was just six words.

Yeah, I know.

And you’re probably right.

A lot has happened since then.

Here, let me refresh your memory: I asked you to take a picture of me with one of those towel animals. Was it a frog? A monkey? Anyhow, as I laid down on our bed to pose with the towel, I heard you mumble something. My face got flush. A lump settled in my throat.

“You look like a beached whale.”

hiphop

Ring a bell?

I spent the night crying in the bathroom like a little bitch. You went to bed and slept like a baby. The next day – NYE in Mexico – we half pretended nothing happened the night before. We went to the Mayan ruins, and ate those tacos on the bus on our way back to the ship, and you told me you loved my eyes. (Hey, thanks for that, by the way.) I probably called you a jackass half-a-dozen times, we kissed at midnight, and then you bailed on me (again) to go to bed.

My point is, we weren’t good for each other. We were toxic and emotionally damaging. Some of the memories I have of our relationship are just downright disgusting. I am ashamed of myself. Mainly, for letting you treat me the way you did. But also, for how I treated you. Despite all the bad you have ever did or said – despite how terrible you ever made me feel – I blame myself for letting it go as far as it did. I am a grown woman. I am an intelligent, beautiful, strong, caring, and independent individual.

And I should damn well know better than to ever stay with anyone who makes me feel anything less than fucking fabulous.

I hope you have spent this last year reflecting every bit as much as I have on the right-s and wrong-s of our relationship. I hope you have reconsidered some of the things you did, and said, and choices you made. Maybe you even have regrets. Maybe you can finally sit down, take an objective view of our entire relationship, and admit to the role you played in its demise. At the very least, maybe you could be grateful for all I sacrificed… for us… for you.

If not, that’s fine too. Your loss. Because despite all the hurt, and the pain, and the tears, and the heartbreak, and the sleepless nights, and the fits of nausea – I would do every one of these last 365 days over again.

I would make these same choices. I would still choose to be here a hundred times over again, for the next hundred years, in the next hundred lifetimes. It may not be clean. It might not be a straight path to success (thumbs up + wink). It may have been a dusty, winding road filled with tears and lonely nights (holy country song, Batman…) but it has been worth it.

You were worth it.

And finally, after all these months, and all of this change – all of that bullshit – I don’t regret you.

I can appreciate our ten years again. I can be grateful for the time we had together – the decade we spent growing up with one another. I can be thankful for you once more. After all, it wasn’t all bad. You weren’t all bad. Hell, you slept with a stuffed bear for ten years and never really said a word about it. That’s got to count for something, right?

Do I agree with your choices? Do I agree with how you handled us? How you moved on? How you coped?

No.

But I also didn’t agree with a lot of things you did along the way and that’s what brought us here. Those disagreements – that pile of dissimilarities sitting between us – is what inevitably caused me to leave.

We were two totally different people, from two totally different worlds, who were trying to build a life on love. And as romantic and dreamy as that sounds… it is hard. So. goddamn. hard. But for ten years we busted our asses trying to fit that square peg into that round hole and I fucking thank you for trying. It might have gotten messy, and ugly, and completely out of fucking control at times but our hearts were in the right place.

I can see that now.

Last year, I wrote, “May you find your happiness. May you find a love that transcends any love we could have ever had. May you find freedom, and joy, and contentment. May all of your dreams come true. But most of all, may you find peace in what might have been.”

I want you to know – because I know now that you truly do care – I really, honestly am happy. I have found a love for life I never thought I was capable of feeling. The sudden unwarranted waves of claustrophobia that would come over me in the shower, you know, the ones I couldn’t explain? Gone. I don’t feel trapped anymore. I am full of a disgusting amount of joy. I smile for no reason. I am content.

And I think I am finally at peace now.

I hope you are too.

 

Love,

Chelsea

 


 

Photograph

Loving can hurt

Loving can hurt sometimes

But it’s the only thing that I know

When it gets hard

You know it can get hard sometimes

It is the only thing that makes us feel alive

We keep this love in a photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Hearts are never broken

Times forever frozen still

So you can keep me

Inside the pocket

Of your ripped jeans

Holdin’ me closer

‘Til our eyes meet

You won’t ever be alone

Wait for me to come home

Loving can heal

Loving can mend your soul

And it’s the only thing that I know (know)

I swear it will get easier

Remember that with every piece of ya

And it’s the only thing we take with us when we die

We keep this love in this photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Our hearts were never broken

Times forever frozen still

So you can keep me

Inside the pocket

Of your ripped jeans

Holdin’ me closer

‘Til our eyes meet

You won’t ever be alone

And if you hurt me

That’s OK, baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages you just hold me

And I won’t ever let you go

Wait for me to come home [4x]

Oh you can fit me

Inside the necklace you got when you were 16

Next to your heartbeat

Where I should be

Keep it deep within your soul

And if you hurt me

Well, that’s OK, baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages you just hold me

And I won’t ever let you go

When I’m away

I will remember how you kissed me

Under the lamppost

Back on 6th street

Hearing you whisper through the phone,

“Wait for me to come home.”

– Ed Sheeran

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Since February 1, 2015, I have rediscovered myself.

I have spent time getting to know who I am and what I am willing to put up with. I have learned to let shit go. Also, I’ve learned to accept the fact that some people are just dickbags. And let me tell ya, Ballas, there ain’t no changing a dickbag’s spots.

In these last twelve months, it’s become more apparent to me – I guess since I’ve started to speak to so many more strangers – just how weird I truly am. Like, really fucking weird, guys. And I say some random ass shit too. Take this text to my sister, for example, “Be who you are. Those who mind don’t matter and those who matter fuck them. Or something like that.” She replied with a brief, “Yeah idk if that’s right.” Or how’s about this little convo to drive my point home:

MC: How come any time I hear loud music I automatically think, “Oh! Must be a baby shower.” #sorandom

MC: Also, last night, I was in bed by 9:15 (it was a really crazy Saturday, obvi)… and the fucking fire alarm starts going off… like, for the whole complex, right? So, naturally I’m all, “Think I’m gonna risk it.” #whatthefuckiswrongwithme

Mace: Oh God, I did the same thing Friday Morning.

Mace: Locked my door and turned the light off and continued getting ready

MC: Sonny just wiggled out of his collar – like a bastard – and I whisper-yelled, “NO SONNY! You cannot go to the baby shower!”

MC: Also, might have just said “Come on, Sonny. Let’s go check out these streets…” And then led him down a hallway in our building. #youuusneeeeakymooommm”

Her response: “You’re a shenanigan.”

Hey, you know what, Ballas?

I am a shenanigan.

I am 27 years old and I can finally admit to the world that I am, in fact, a goddamn shenanigan.

I lock myself out of everything. I am accident prone. Some even claim I am a hypochondriac. Whatevs. I like to give everything a name. I’m thoroughly convinced I can catch a pigeon – with my bare hands. What I would do with a fucking pigeon if I caught it? Who the fuck knows? Haven’t gotten that far yet. But I’ll tell ya what I do know… and that’s, I’m excited as hell at the prospect of capturing one of those fuckers. I collect shoes and koozies. I say things that make people uncomfortable. I’m not the girl boys take out on dates and think to themselves, “Say, I really want this one to meet my parents. Especially Momma and Grandma-ma. They will absolutely love her!”

No they won’t.

No one loves me. I’m not cuddly, or cute, or warm, or inviting. I’m horrible at first impressions. I’m horrible with moms, and grandmoms, and aunts, and sisters, and – well – just women in general. Actually, no one is safe. Sometimes, I even ask toddlers why they’re being assholes. Plus, I wear a lot of black.

But I would choose to be this version of myself any fucking day of the week.

I’d choose to be her every. single. got. daymn. day.

I am finally happy, and healthy, and positive again. One of my co-workers mentioned to me the other day, “You know why you have a hard time getting guys to ask you out? Because you are confident as hell. And that is intimidating. You are intimidating.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes but he was exactly right.

I feel good. I feel like I look good too. I may not be a milliondy pounds lighter – or back to my pre-“shit-hit-the-fan” weight – but I know I don’t look bad.

I walk Sonny by the gym at my apartment complex about 4 times a day, and not once do I think, “I should really get my fat ass on that elliptical.” Actually, I look at the reflection of myself in the window and think, “Damn, girl. Look at that fine ass. #work”

No seriously.

I really do.

And then, I kick myself for not bringing my cell phone so I can snap a selfie and post that shit all up on tha social medias.

What am I doing differently, you ask?

Well, I keep a drawer full of candy at work. I drink soft drinks whenever I good and damn well feel like it. I try not to eat anything that doesn’t have a bagillion preservatives (P.S.: You’re welc for that little beauty hack, peeps.). Some mornings, I eat pepperoni pizza Hot Pockets for breakfast… others, I’ll do spaghetti.

And contrary to popular belief, I get up every morning, look at myself in the mirror, and I actually like what I see.

I see roots that always need dying, eyebrows that always need waxing, and cheeks that always need powdering. I see these boobs that drive me in-fucking-sane. I see an ass that will never fill out a pair of jeans… despite how much weight I might gain. I see a complexion that will never be flawless… at least not without a few layers of foundation first. But most importantly, I see the stretch marks from when I was at my heaviest…

These thin little lines that trace the inside of my thighs, and the outside of my hips, and the side of those unruly tits. They pop-up anywhere and everywhere. Sometimes, they glare at me in the mirror. Other times, they stare up at me when I’m taking a quick pee in our nicely lit corporate bathroom. I used to be so concerned about them. I used to make wardrobe decisions according to whether they were visible or not. I used to be so very ashamed of them. Now? Well, now I just don’t really give a shit if they ever go away.

Why?

Because life is fucking hard.

Actually, it’s really goddamn hard. And I might not have given life to another human being but the scars on my body represent the life I have struggled to make for myself.

Beauty isn’t skin deep. It isn’t the color of your hair, whether or not you can still fit into the jeans you wore in high school, how tall you are, the size of your bra, or if you choose to only wear mascara on a first date. It doesn’t fit into an XS or a shmedium. It doesn’t wear five inch heels to work every day. It isn’t a skinny jean, or a booty short, or a crop top, or a two-piece mother fucking bathing suit (… it isn’t censoring yourself either.). It isn’t an hourglass figure, a pin-up girl, or a model. It isn’t how long you’ve gone without a carb. It isn’t American, European, Hispanic, black, white, or straight. It isn’t man or woman.

And beauty sure as fuck isn’t a number on a goddamn scale.

Beauty is a emotion. A way of life. A mantra. A feeling that consumes your soul and infiltrates your entire being. Beauty is the people you know, and love, and pray for, and think about, and can’t do without. Beauty is fluid and ever-changing. It is every moment of every inch of your life projected out into the universe at one time. It is large, and great, and grand – yet – it is small. It can be the tiniest, most subtle blip in time. It takes your breath away. It is over-looked, and ignored, and disregarded.

It. is. everything.

I’ve had to relearn a lot of things over the last year. Accepting the fact that happiness doesn’t just happen – not when the stars align perfectly, or when you barter for it, or when you mark it on your calendar – was probably the hardest concept to grasp. Next, would most likely have to be the idea of contentment – simply just being okay with being “OK.” But reprogramming my brain to recognize and appreciate true beauty?

That shit was difficult.

Nothing has to be perfect to be beautiful. Life doesn’t have to fit into a specific sort of mold to work. Looking back, some of my best memories are the ones that seem the most deranged. Like, the trip we all took to Gatlinburg a few years ago, for instance. (Not the break-up trip but the one when Tyler and I threw beer on each other at the Italian restaurant.) I think back on that particular weekend frequently and fondly.

All of us had so much fun those couple of days in the mountains. Tyler and I got along so well the entire weekend. So much so, Midget even commented on how affectionate we were being and how weird it was to see us acting so loving toward one another – especially in public. Even after the beer throwing incident, the two of us woke up the next morning, apologized, had a really good laugh about it, and went on to have a great rest of the trip.

We had legitimately made asses out of ourselves in a public place, had just experienced one of our Top 5 Worst Domestic Disputes of all time, and were literally over it by morning. Never – in the history of our entire relationship – had we ever turned a fight around that quickly. And to be honest, the only people who had a huge problem with our bad behavior were his family members. Who – might I add – weren’t even there.

My point is, for so long I was waiting for every piece of this imaginary life puzzle to fall into place that I completely overlooked just how perfect the chaos was – how perfect my chaos was.

Now, my life is scattered all over the country. I have shit in California, in North Carolina, at Momma’s, at my old house, my new house, and Kristen’s. Hell, I can’t even get a fucking Christmas card delivered without some sort of USPS shenanigan. My days are spent fighting with an 8-year-old basset hound… about everything. Where he can and cannot sleep. Why he whines all. the. fucking. time. Who the boss is (Which is me. Obviously. Because, “I’m the Momma.”). We argue over things like what a walk is, how long said walk takes, who is truly walking whom, why he doesn’t need to sniff every God forsaken brick in Southern California, when he needs to wear his collar, and where it’s okay to bark like a banshee.

I spend my evenings putting furniture together, and dancing around my apartment in my underwear, and talking to myself, and texting, and eating crap food, and shoving trash down this ridiculously small trash shoot. I open the door to my balcony and watch the people below park their cars, or walk to the grocery store, or yell at the bum across the street. Sometimes, I watch my murder shows on ID. Other times, I watch “Gossip Girl” in the dark on my iPad. I talk to Momma, or Bubba, or Mace every other day. I FaceTime with Katie.

Today, I have those stupid marks on my thighs and tens of extra pounds padding every inch of my 5’8” frame. I wear pants 10 times the size of my high school self (… if you could technically multiply 0 by 10). My nails are chipped at all times. I always have a super attractive purple bruise somewhere on my body (mostly from ramming one extremity or another into a doorknob at some point throughout the week). There’s typically dog hair on every inch of my clothing. And I may, or may not, have bags the size of a small country under my eyes at any given time.

But every night, before I get in the shower, I take a good, hard look at myself, and I smile wide.

Why?

Because I realize now I am not Perfect…

I am Beautiful.

And I have busted. my. ass. to be her.
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Photo Cred: All of the photos above were taken on an iPhone 6 by either my best friend, Kristen, or my right arm. Sometimes, I got real fucking froggy with it and took a pic or two with my left arm. They were taken in the comfort of my own home, under really bad lighting, after a chocolate-covered Entenmann’s donut and half a glass of rosé. Glam squad = Me. I did all of the editing myself on said iPhone 6 and just a bit of cropping on my computer. Speaking of editing… I tried to only brighten or sharpen the images as to not fuck with the intent of the photoshoot. Therefore, you can see many of the imperfections listed above (e.g., unruly eyebrows, bruises, fat, dark roots, pimples, #falseeyelashfails, etc.). That was the purpose of these photos. Must I add a – “Keep your shit comments to yourself or I will come through this goddamn MacBook and choke a bitch.” – disclaimer? Let’s hope not. Do not use these photos, you know, to: post up at the corporate water cooler for break-time dart competitions, Tinder catfish, submit to some low-rate JUGS mag, etc. without my permission or I will fucking cut you. Also, yes. My mother knew I was going to do this. And, no. She didn’t give a shit (as long as I didn’t put my vagina on blast), thanks. Oh, and P.S.: Surprise, Ma! I got a new tattoo! Orrrr two… 

 

#savethewhales

 

XOXO,

MC

Comments (4)

  • Anita

    You rock girl

  • Anita

    You speak what most women want to say…….and you look beautiful, you should be using that talent to be modeling…..

  • Mama Wands

    ok….pix – gorg, blog – excellent, tears – real, smiles – yes, language – too much (lol), missing you – bunches, I am so happy to know the before, the during and the NOW (I’m pretty certain we are not in after just yet). I noticed your new tat right away and was trying to get a better look at it. Very cute.

  • Beautiful pics! Nice job! 🙂

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