Miscellaneous Musings

Just some creative writing I’ve never posted before.

“The Art of Breaking Up”

When she looked back now, it was strange. It felt strange. Looking at pictures taken a year or so ago and she didn’t recognize herself. How could one person change this drastically in such a short amount of time? It was strange. It was sad. The way she knew him, the way he knew her. And now they don’t talk at all. She never quite understood the art of breaking up with someone, and it made her infinitely sad. Not sad because she was no longer with him, but sad that she no longer knew him. The one person, who for so long was the only person she trusted, the one she was sure she was going to marry. The one. And now he was just another one. Just another disappointment.

He had asked her, of course, when it happened almost a year ago, “why?” She didn’t know what to say. “Just like that?” He questioned her again. No, not just like that. It took months of realization, months of dwelling on them, what they once had and what they would never have again. It was something she had never wanted to admit, but she was sure of it now. Once a relationship hits a certain point, either they fight for it, or they fall apart.

They fell apart.

“No, not just like that.” She finally responded.

“You’ve changed.” He had said bitterly. “What happened to you?”

“Yes, I’ve changed.” She replied, a bit surprised because at that point, she hadn’t realized just how much. He sighed, long and loud over the phone. She was crying silently, still could cry.

“Why couldn’t things have stayed the same?” He was talking more to himself than her.

“Could you imagine if they had?”

“Why couldn’t you have stayed the same?” He asked her.

My God

Could you imagine if I had?



“Feeble Fantasies”

Sometimes I wish I could stop time, you know? Sometimes, most of the time, I fear I’m letting life pass me by, but I don’t know how to live it. How do you do that? Teach me, please.

I’m growing old in my room without living, but I don’t know what to do.

Go to a bar? Go to…a play? New York for a day?

Go to…the movies? School?

Go to…the mall?

I’m fucking broke most of the time, so it’s a nice thought, but it’s not gonna fucking happen.

I live in my head. Oh, the lives I live in my head…

I have lived as a writer, a journalist, a singer, an actress, I have even lived as a nomad with no point but to travel.

I have saved lives, went to other continents, helped children learn to read. Helped women. Helped men. I have been selfless inside my head.

In my head, I have been to India, Rome, Egypt, London, Ireland, Tokyo, Zimbabwe.

In my head, I have fallen in love with people who write about me. For once I am not the person doing the writing. I have moved to Hollywood for a year.

New York City for two.

In my head, I have made enough money to give my parent’s some. My sisters some, my brothers, my nieces.

Just enough, you know? Just enough to get by…

That’ll be enough, won’t it?

Isn’t that what you say? We can do anything, we can be anything.

It’s America, after all.

My head.

It fucking scares me.




The other day was my sister’s 22nd birthday, so I was going through old photo albums with my other sister. I was looking for an embarrassingly cute photo of the birthday girl, just so I could post it, you know? Write some cheesy ass caption, and then maybe call her and tell her happy birthday.

I was looking, and looking, and stumbling across all of these old memories. I was looking at younger me, chunky little kid me, holding an ice cream cone at Disney. I was looking at younger me, with my short haircut that led a teacher to mistake me for a boy, embarrassing me and cementing my place as an outsider from a very young age. I was looking at younger me, with my baggy shorts and baggy shirts, wrestling around with my younger brother and cousin, happy. Blissfully ignorant. I was looking at younger me and my siblings all dressed up for Halloween. My sisters as pink ladies, a dead bride, and me as an alien.

I was looking at me making my communion, standing before my dad as he held my shoulders, smiling.

I was looking at me, not recognizing me, and knowing the younger me would not have recognized the older me, with my pixie cut and currently pink hair. (My older brother keeps asking my mom if me constantly changing my hair is a cry for help. She laughs, I laugh). I couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere out there, in the galaxy or what have you, there is an alternate version of me. Someone who grew up differently, who is fine with the norms, who is fine with the path life has laid out for her and everyone else. If there is a happy version of myself.

I was thinking of these things, sitting next to my sister, sifting through old photos when a card fell into my lap.

It was a valentine’s day card. I turned to my sister, chuckling and said hey, remember when mommy used to give us gifts for valentine’s day? Nothing ever extravagant, just candy, soap, makeup maybe.

“Yea.” She said, still concentrating on the photos in her lap.

I looked at the card, at the words my Mother wrote, that read:

“To my beautiful daughter, Briana. I love you. Have a happy Valentine’s Day.

XOXO Mom.”

And it hit me so viciously. It twisted my gut, caused me to flinch a little. My God, I thought to myself, it is no wonder my parents resent me. All of us.

The things they do, did, for their kids. For us. All of us.

And I still can’t help but resent them a little.

I’m surprised they don’t hate us.

We are their lives. Sure, they raised us all with level heads on our shoulders, but my God, I am still disappointed in them.

Everything they have done for me, and I still can’t stand the sound of their voices sometimes.

Everything they have done for me, and all I can think about is the darkness that eats away at my brain. The demons that laugh inside my head. The voices that drive me to sanity.

Everything they have done for me, and all I can think about is yelling and fights and cries and tears and heartache and chaos and mess mess mess. Dust, dirt, holes.

And all I can think about is younger Briana with her ice cream cone in Disney World, looking at the camera with eyes that are my own, but they are empty. Unrecognizable. Those eyes that have not yet experienced anything but ignorance.

And all I can think about is my parents. All I can see reflected in those eyes is innocence, and when I look in the mirror today, I see pieces of that innocence turned into hate, disgust, regrets, pain, so much fucking pain.

Then the demons laugh again, and I am surprised I do not hate my parents.

I know it is not their fault. Life happens to all of us at one point or another. I know this. Life happens to some of us more so than others, but sometimes it’s your head, you know? I can’t balance out the chemicals in my brain. I can’t erase my anxiety. So I know life would have happened to me, anyway. I know, at that young age, it was already beginning to happen to me.

But who can I rage at? Who can I be pissed at? Who will take the blame for me growing up?

My parents, of course.

And then I looked at that card again, turned to my sister, and said how fucking depressing.

“What?” She said, in her own world.

Mommy and Daddy, I said, just how fucking depressing.

Her eyes cleared a little, and in them I saw shards of her younger self. Pieces of hate, disgust, pain, so much fucking pain.

“Yea,” she said, “I know.”



“Head Games”

Yesterday I told my Mom I needed help.

She told me to get another job.

It wasn’t in a mean way. It was more philosophical. Like she believes another part time job would really heal the pain, and maybe it will help.

But I need help.

I tried to explain it to her, but I don’t think she understood. She told me she would try to get me on antidepressants. Then she said she didn’t want this to hinder my future career plans. Like she didn’t want my medical record to show I was on antidepressants. Not that it would, anyway.

And I felt sad.

So I tried to explain to her that I think there’s something wrong with me. She told me there’s nothing wrong with me, that sometimes people just get sad and sometime a small dosage of antidepressants will really help. Then I can start to focus on myself, and what I want to do with my future and the plans I have.

I tried to explain it to her.

I told her I wanted to check myself into a mental health facility. You know? Just to get away from this town (world) and everyone in it for a while. She scoffed at the idea.

She told me that was for people who were really bad, people who needed to be numb.

I tried to explain it to her.

I started to, I really did, but then I stopped. I said, yea, you’re probably right, Mom.

I wanted to tell her that the other night, when I drank too much and sat outside my friend’s house crying hysterically, that I looked at the dark night sky and I thought…

It can’t be that bad. Being dead, you know? How beautiful that night sky was. How peaceful it looked. The darkness.

I swore I would never think about suicide after Michael, but the darkness is alluring…The light is blinding….

I’m so tired, Michael. I’m so very tired.

I felt peaceful in that moment when I looked up at that dark night sky and how easy it would have been in that moment to just…

In that moment, everything seemed right. The planets had aligned. I was at peace.

Well, a moment later my friend came out to talk to me, asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know what to say, so I let them assume what they wanted.

My ex was at the party and we got into a fight (no surprise there). Well, of course they assumed I was crying because of him, which I probably was, partly.

But I started talking to my Mom about him and she made things sound reasonable, like she always does. That’s a Mother’s power, isn’t it? The world will be burning around you and she will walk through the fire and tell you everything will be ok, and you believe it will be.

That’s a Mother’s danger.

Well, I let her assume it was mostly about my ex, too. I guess once she started talking about it, I might have been upset because of my ex.

But that’s not it.

I tried to explain it to her.

She wasn’t really listening.

I listened to her reason my sadness with words that meant nothing to me. For an hour and a half, I listened to her talk about my feelings.

I started to tell her that it wasn’t my ex. It was more than that. How can I explain it properly? I don’t know.

It’s this darkness, right, and the darkness is terrifying but beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s destructive. It’s alluring, this darkness I live in. It engulfs me and why should it not when I am tiny compared to it?

It’s a tsunami that hits me, drowns me, surrounds me.

It gets in my lungs. It’s in the air I breathe.

It seeps into my pores.

There are times when I see a light. A light that is so terrifying, much more terrifying than the darkness. It blinds me, this light.

When I see this light there are times I swim furiously towards it. I break out of the tsunami, I can breathe. I breathe the light in.

There are times when that light forces me to cower further into the tsunami, letting it consume me. I am too tired to swim. I drown.

I haven’t seen that light in a long time, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. That light.

I tried to explain it to my Mom.

She told me to think about the future and my goals.

I thought about what I wanted in life. To write. To become a renowned author. A memorable person. I wanted to create masterpiece’s. I wanted to create classics.

I thought about where I wanted to live, in a city. A big city. London, New York, Los Angeles. I thought about the future.

I thought about helping people.

I thought about my ambitions.

Gosh I am almost indestructible with these thoughts swarming around my head. I create my own light.

I am light.


But, of course, I am surrounded by darkness.

What if I don’t get out of this town? What if I am stuck here forever, doomed to live a life of normality? Mediocrity? What if I am simply another brick in the wall?

All in all…

What if I become a washed up pebble on the beach.

Washed up, drowned, destroyed.

All in all…

That darkness has no name, no limits. That darkness which I live in. This darkness.

I look left, look right, shift in my bed.

I tried to explain it to my Mom.

I told her there are days I can’t get out of my bed. It is hard to move. Time is warped.

Everlasting, nonstop, seconds, minutes, hours.

Days. Months. Years.

And I cannot move out of my bed today.

I am thinking about him, and you, and me, and her, and us, and the future, the past, the present, happiness, sadness, what is happiness? Success. Love.

Is love worth it?

Am I enough? Can I be enough?

Can I move out of bed today?

Do I see the light?

How is today going to be?

Am I going to have a good day?

Am I going to cry today?

Am I?

Will I laugh?

Will I succeed? Am I going to fail?

Get out of my head.

Get out of your head, Bri.

Get out.

Get out.


Wait, come back.

I am so lonely without you.

I am lonely.


I enjoy being alone. I really do.

You will be fine, Bri. Move out of bed today. Go for a run.

I am too tired.

No, you are not. You will be fine. Everything will be fine.

Are you sure? Are you sure, little voice? How can you be sure?

I am sure.

I am so tired. I’m just tired.

Move out of bed, go eat breakfast, go get go.

I am moving, I am trying to move.

I glance at the digital clock.

It reads:



And today, I am moving out of my bed.

But it is so comfortable.




He told me to write. Then he handed me my laptop, and went to do whatever it is he said he was doing. He told me to write, so here I am.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. I am depressed, and I can’t even muster up the energy to go to class, or to do my homework. Even going to work drains me recently. I know this happens to me, the way it’s always happened to me. Each time though, it’s like it’s happening all over again. Like the first time. And isn’t it? Isn’t it happening to me each time?

I guess I get so high, not high, but creative.





That when it slows down, when my brain seems to slow down, it catches me off guard. Every single time.

I become heavy. Tired. Sad. I’m fragile. I’m breaking. I’m disintegrating. I’m blowing away

in the wind, and it feels good just laying down. Sleeping for hours and hours on end. I don’t mind it, but my head does.

When I sleep, my brain yells at me. Tells me to get up. Tells me how lazy I’m being. Tells me I should be doing things. Homework, writing, cleaning, writing, writing, writing. It’s no wonder I’m still living at my parents. Doing nothing with my life. I’m so lazy.

Then I get up, and I’m so tired.

I just want to sleep.

Monotonous routine of living, I suppose.

He told me to write, and for the first time in a very long time, I have nothing new to say.




I am afraid.

You only ever become afraid of anything when you have something to lose.

I have Evan. He is mine.

I do not want to lose him, but what choice do I have?

I once read things are sweeter when they’re lost.

If that’s true, I would embrace the sour taste of love, if I never have to say goodbye to him.

I would wake up with a bitter taste lingering on my tongue, if it meant I could turn over and see Evan sleeping next to me.

Does that make me…

What does that make me?


I am afraid.

You only ever become afraid of anything when you have something to lose.

I have Evan. He is mine.

I do not want to lose him, but what choice do I have?

I once read things are sweeter when they’re lost.

If that’s true, I would embrace the sour taste of love, if I never have to say goodbye to him.

I would wake up with a bitter taste lingering on my tongue, if it meant I could turn over and see Evan sleeping next to me.

Holly once screamed “People don’t belong to people.”

And for the longest time, I agreed. I may still agree. Logically, I can say people don’t belong to people.

Logically, I can say love is a societal construct that has no real definition. Ambiguous, intangible, unreal.

Logically, I can say these things.

But when I am sitting next to him on my bed as I stare into his eyes, I am anything but logical.

I am giddy, blushing, moaning, smiling, laughing, biting, squeezing him as tight as I can.

“You’ve got a glow about you.” He says to me.

I want to tell him that I don’t. Or I never did.

That he is the light inside of me, causing me to glow.

I want to tell him how very grateful I am for someone like him existing, let alone being mine.

And I am his, as much as I would never admit it to anyone else.

I belong to him.

I want to tell him that I have never met a person who makes me feel alive.

I want to tell him that I’ve only ever felt empty and numb, or broken and deranged.

I want to tell him that he makes me feel like I can conquer the world, as long as he stands next to me as I do so.

I want to tell him… although I’ve said I’ve been in love twice, I have only felt invincible once.

I love him, and I want to tell him that love has never meant anything but pain to me. But with him…

I can see why wars are started, people are murdered, and why humanity needs more of it.

I want to tell him that the feelings I have for him are so awe inspiring, so monumental, they make me forget anyone ever mattered to me, ever existed in conjunction with me before him.

I want to tell you that in my overly complex and twisted mind, you make things simple.

You make me happy.

I am in love, and I belong to you.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s