Honesty From the Rooftops

The ones who scream from the rooftops about how honest they are should be watched at all times.

Listened to but never trusted.

Lies come easy to them. Even about the simple act of honesty.

If every other social media post is “people don’t like me because I’m honest” then there’s something wrong there.

Here’s a dose of honesty: people don’t like you because you’re an asshole and you’re an asshole because you lie through your teeth and treat people like shit.

It’s interesting because people have complained to me in the past that I shouldn’t write about them. That I shouldn’t write about them in a negative light.

But that’s the only light you show me, and that light is dim.

Like a flickering light in a damp basement, you’re afraid to go into as a child.

I am not perfect. I am angry to the point where I react without thinking. I say fuck a lot but who’s to say that’s a bad thing?

I am overly emotional and can overreact. I sometimes feel like I pour too much of my problems on my friends. I can be selfish but again is it bad? Sometimes it’s necessary.

We all have flaws.

Yet the ones who should take some time to reflect, seem to spend their time tearing people down. They love the sound of their own voice or in this case, the sound of their fingers becoming littler personal keyboard warriors to post passive-aggressive shit on a 24/7 basis.

I for one am tired.

Tired of feeling like an afterthought, someone’s personal bank account, someone’s punching bag, someone’s doormat.

I have spent YEARS of my life living in other people’s problems. Being dragged down with them because there’s no one else to hold onto but me.

We all fuck up.

We all make mistakes in life.

But if life is so short, why have you spent most of it being a dishonest fool?

Posting pseudo sympathetic messages on Facebook doesn’t make you a good person.

A good person reflects and grows. Makes changes when things don’t seem to be working.

You do the same things over and over. I know when you spend a long stretch of time not posting on social media, you’re about to come in with a shitstorm.

I know if it’s past 10pm and you’re starting to pick on people online, you are looking for a confrontation, because how else will you get rid of all the pent of frustration?

BUT I AM NOT IT.

I am not the trash can for your garbage anymore.

You have been babied and coddled your entire life to the point where you seem to have forgotten how to function.

So you lash out and talk about how much of an honest man you are.

If you’re an honest man then I am a millionaire.

But we are neither of those things.

 

**People have made assumptions about past writings that I am talking about my fiance, so to clarify: I AM NOT.**

Say When

Ever have someone pour you a drink and tell you to say when? This indicates they’ve poured enough and stops the cup from overflowing.

I find myself wanting to scream “WHEN!!!” at the top of my lungs.

I was always an anxious kid. I was the teen that felt guilty all the time. The young adult that felt trapped. The adult who can’t get herself under control. Always that voice telling me I’ve done everything wrong. That voice that one minute sounds sweet and the next is telling me I’m never going to amount to anything.

A hug and a kiss goodbye and then a message telling me I’m terrible and my future husband will leave me.

Things have changed so much in my life but there’s been a constant. That voice who was thousands of miles away that said they missed me but in the same breath told me I’m getting fat.

That voice that cried wolf if things weren’t going their way. That person who’d try to manipulate me into feeling sorry for them, to apologize to them for things I didn’t even do. Who’d let someone call me a whore. Who would call my phone 20, 30, 40 times just to yell at me cuz I was 23 and it’s past midnight why wasn’t I home. Then I’d be home for a few days in a row and why wasn’t I getting any fresh air?

They bring out the worst in me. They make me angry. I feel things towards them I should not be feeling but that can’t be helped. Because for 33 years I’ve been dragged about and told to straighten my hair because I look like a witch with my hair curly. I was too skinny once then too fat. I lost weight but not enough. They’re so proud of what I’ve achieved but I’m too lazy.

I want to scream “WHEN!!!!!”

But it’s too late. My anger is overflowing.

What Anxiety Is Doing to Me

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I think too much.

I cry.

I scream.

I get angry.

I question everything.

I doubt everything and everyone.

I doubt myself most of all.

I panic and feel tired.

I feel awake and not tired at all.

I feel like I am losing, even though I barely try.

I feel like I am lonely even when I know you love me.

I feel buried and useless.

I get angry.

I scream.

I cry.

I think too much.

I can’t think.

I can’t breathe.

Why does anxiety do this to me?

Ask Me No Questions, I Will Tell You No Lies.

 

Pace. Sit. Pace. Sit.

She does this for hours and then heads straight to bed.

She can’t get her mind to stay silent, and she can’t stop her heart from racing.

Her eyes close for about an hour, but she’s not sleeping.

She opens them back up and looks around the dark room. The shadows whispering everything she tries to ignore the entire day.

They tell her so many things. They make her mind spin, and when she gets up to start pacing around the house the room begins to spin along with her mind.

Dazed and feeling frustrated from not sleeping, she makes herself a cup of coffee.

Sits on the couch with the mug in her hand, steam rising along with her heart rate.

She stares off out the window watching the sun come up, and everyone goes about their day.

She just sits there. The coffee goes cold.

Her phone lights up because it’s always on silent. Some sounds make her clench her jaw.

“Hey! How are you?” the screen asks.

“I’m good!” she replies.

“I’m good!” she lies.

©2018 Joana F. Simoes

The Mourning Song

 

This is a fictional essay inspired by current events. If you are concerned about my mental state, I promise I am doing well. Inspiration strikes in weird ways, and I felt I needed to write this.

TRIGGER WARNING: This essay mentions depression and suicide. If these things have negative impacts on your mental state, please do not continue reading.

The Mourning Song 

© Joana F. Simoes 2017

In Honor and in memory of all those that gave us something to hold onto in our darkest moments, but could no longer fight for themselves. We miss you.

 

 It is not poetic this morning that the rain is coming down harder than it has all year. It is not romantic or cozy today that even with all the windows wide open, the clouds and the pouring rain aren’t allowing much light to shine through. I imagine this is what my head looks like right now. I want to let all the light and brightness to come in, but something just does not allow it. I would turn to my favorite singer’s voice and lyrics, but it’s too hard.

Last night as I scrolled through my phone, as one does to pass the time these days, I started to see little trickles of news that were less than appealing to me. Also not exactly a shocker at the moment, but it was something harder to believe. This had to be some kind of hoax. He could not be dead. As time passed it was harder to ignore. News agencies all around the world were reporting it now. He died. My heart turned to stone and instantly dropped out of my body.

People take a lot away from teens, and their emotions. They chalk it up to hormones, and body changes, but for some it’s deeper than that and their feelings still go ignored. This is why as a teen I turned to his music. His voice, his melodies, and his powerful words were the stable ground I had to walk on when everything else seemed to be crumbling underneath my feet. As an adult it was still a coping mechanism and the most powerful tool I had in my arsenal.

He died, because he lost his fight with depression. I don’t like to say he committed suicide. The only thing he committed was a life of putting forth strong and powerful music that somehow saved so many lives without him realizing it. The battle with depression is a hard and treacherous one. It deceives even the most pure souls into believing they have nothing left to give to this world. It will make a great day turn to dust in a split second, and you cannot reason with it, you cannot negotiate with it.

I am having a hard time this morning. I am ignoring my medication, which I should never do. I am ignoring all the things I have learned from my therapist about what I should be doing to get myself out of bed and into the day. He has left this big black hole in my soul, and I don’t know how to fill it. Am I worthy to be here if he was not? How many people in the world are feeling the exact same way?

People have been writing online that mourning a rockstar’s death when there are other important things happening in the world is a waste of time. I don’t accept that at all. If people knew or felt a quarter of what some of us feel when we hear a certain song or watch a movie that makes us laugh deeper than we have laughed in ages, they would get it. They would understand that not only do these people deserve to be mourned; they deserve respect, our love, and attention.

That was the moment that it hit me. Maybe he would no longer create music that could bring meaning to my dark days, but all the music he’s already created will always be a part of me. I am doing myself and his memory a disservice by ignoring all the steps forward I have taken, that his music had helped me make in the past.

I get up take my medicine. Give my depression the care and love that any other illness requires and demands.

I put on one of his records and let the words and music roll over me, blanket me in comfort. This is a song like no other, but today it is the mourning song.

 

 

4am Anxiety

matthew-kane-162961

 

It’s hard to put into words what it feels like when I can’t get my mind to just quiet down. To pace around our apartment at 3am like the ghost of Christmas past.

I move from the bed, to the desk chair, to the couch, and back to the bed. On heavy rotation, and more like a broken record I can’t seem to throw away. I close my eyes and the visions behind them play over and over like a silent film. Visions of things I have done or said long ago or things I have yet to do or say.

My eyes fly open and I decide I need some water. I drink and think that maybe it’s better if I just stay awake. If I am awake I am prepared for whatever the world has to throw at me. Asleep I’m vulnerable.

Then come the tears. I cry for no reason at all and sometimes for a million reasons all at the same time. It’s exhausting and exhilarating, it’s depressing and motivating. It’s something different every time.

My body is tired of course. My brain is well aware that I need sleep, but it’s too aware of everything else that I struggle with on a daily basis. I could list things that bother me. Things that trigger me to panic but some days that list will be empty and I will still feel it all building up deep within my bones. It’s a messed up spidey sense I never asked for.

I over think and underestimate just how much I can do. Some days I do nothing. I sleep and think and then sleep some more because it’s the only way I can keep the thoughts silenced.

I can conquer the world one day and barely lift a finger the next.

People don’t understand and people judge what they don’t understand.

Anxiety is not just a little feeling in the pit of your stomach. Depression is not just feeling sad.

It’s all consuming and tremendously frustrating. Your mind is a tangled mess and you spend all day trying to untangle it and you spend all night trying to think of why the tangles happen in the first place.

I write this as the clock strikes 4:00am and I can’t sleep because I wonder will the new day bring me more to worry about or will I be able to function properly?

And that generally sums up these feelings. I worry about worrying and it’s never ending.

But never say never.

Why I Write

writing

I don’t think I need to tell you that books mean the world to me. This is an obvious fact about me, and doesn’t need much of an explanation.

My love for reading very quickly bred a love of writing. I always enjoyed writing. I wrote ridiculous amounts of poetry as a teen and young adult that should never be published unless it’s going to be done in a comedic sense. Writing though, is not about perfection. Books on every level are a very subjective form of art. There are so many popular titles out in the world that I just did not enjoy. Just like there are many that I love, that others dislike as well. To be a writer you must first realize that not everyone is going to love your work, and the second thing to realize is that there will always be someone better than you. Seems daunting doesn’t it? It’s okay. We are all in this together. While these things may turn many people off from ever writing a single word of a story, it makes me want to tell my stories even more. So Why do I write?

To be a writer you must only do ONE thing, and that is to write. YOU HAVE TO WRITE. I consider myself a writer. I have spent countless hours writing thousands upon thousands of words. I am in the process of editing one book, while also throwing myself head first into research for another one. I have ideas written on notecards, notebooks, iPhone notes, and even a sandwich bag because my mind is constantly telling me stories. No this is not my way of admitting that I am crazy, although, I think to be a writer you need to have at least some dose of insanity somewhere within you.

What Inspires me?

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I get asked this sometimes by friends or family. I think what originally inspired me was stories like Harry Potter. That series specifically burst open my imagination. The detailing, and just unique story made me realize I had characters and stories of my own running around in my head. Characters with loud personalities matching those of the people who I have crossed paths with. Characters with personalities matching my own. Quiet, shy, and ready to kick ass if necessary.

I have always had notebooks scattered about the house. Piles of them telling different stories of my own reality. It was only in the past 5-6 years that I realized that I wanted to write about the other characters my imagination decided to introduce into my daily life.

Possibly the biggest inspiration behind my writing, really the biggest of them all is Portugal. I was born there you see. In a beautiful city called Viseu, where at the age of 30 I have only set foot on its streets a handful of times. rua-direitaI was raised so far away from it, far from it’s cobble stoned sidewalks, it’s gorgeous parks, and beautiful architecture, that for most of my adult life I’ve had a hunger–no, an unstoppable desire to become better acquainted with a land that I barely know, and yet love unconditionally.

A place where family has grown, aged, and lived without me within their immediate bubble. I am inspired to create worlds around that longing, and the history of Portugal. I can’t explain it any further here. One day, with a little bit of luck and a whole lot of hard work, I will be able to share the stories this feeling has inspired.

Till then, I leave you with these words:

Telling a story isn’t about perfection. It’s about expression, emotion, and that feeling that you’re making something bigger than yourself.
I write almost every day. None of it perfect. Never let that stop you because it will never stop me.