I wonder sometimes. I think; “Why me? Why now?” I can’t very well answer myself. But I do go to the trouble of asking myself, about myself. And my whole, grown-ass self might respond by saying one simple thing: who cares.

I really wonder. As I certainly do not care, and thus why would it matter if any other does? Because I am but one person, I am my person. I am in charge of almost everything I do. I have been given responsibilities of reason and have been granted gifts from God.  I am the pilot of my craft, and I am the energy of my existence.

I really do wonder sometimes. Even after the day is done, amongst the ashes of a world I used to know, and besieged by weakness, I ask again; “Why me? And why now?”

For mine is the path of righteousness, I remain pertinent. And I knew it all along.

I’m Gay.

Asked and Answered,

Daniel J. Neebes

One, two, three, four, five

It is impossible to count them all

These pictures on the wall

 

Women wailing, men sailing

Devils dancing, knights lancing

These pictures depict it all

 

The human spirit

What is right and wrong

The mighty and strong

The righteous and divine

 

You could spend all day and still not find

your favorite piece

But there is no better way to spend

your time

By not spending a dime

 

You see windows into another time

A different way to living

A different way of life, but still the same strife

 

Six, seven, eight, nine

Pictures on the wall

You cannot count them all

Life does not come with a guide book. Basically, everything we think, do, or say, are all educated guesses derived from more educated guesses. Doug Stanhope said it best: “To be human is to be wrong,” or some shit like that.

We’re all born onto a giant rock so large that it hurtled through space until it found something larger than itself to revolve around. From there, living shit popped up and began to fuck-badda bing, badda boom- now you’re here reading some dumb shit written by a dumb shit with a computer and an infant’s knowledge on how to use the internet(turns out it is more than just porn and memes).

What was I on about?(read in a British accent it’ll make more sense) Ah yes: Life. What are we doing? Where are we going? Why do you play that game? Oooh, can I join? Oh, well I didn’t wanna play anyway. Ya see, all I have are questions, and very rarely do I have or get answers. In fact I sit around with my friends and ask: “Do you have a plan? What is going on?”

They reply: “I thought you had a plan, I don’t have a plan”

It then goes: “I don’t have a plan. So if you don’t have a plan, and I don’t have a plan. Who has a plan?

“Well, that’s the question isn’t it?”

I also forgot to mention that whenever I encounter anybody that “seems” to have the “answers” I think they are full of shit!(heavy emphasis on the air quotes, and read the underlines passage as if Lewis Black was yelling it).

This rejection of any objective truth or lack thereof leads me to think that maybe I’m the cause for the never ending revolving door of existential angst that I posses(or maybe it is a hamster wheel?).

In conclusion, I apologize if I misled you with the opening paragraph-I don’t apologize for the title. Maybe you started to reading this hoping to get some insider info on the meaning of life, only to be severely disappointed by the internal monologue of a 20 year old up late cause he can’t seem to sleep, for that I am sorry.

Cheers,

Titch

P.S. I’m full of shit too, don’t let me fool you.

 

After a long week of traveling and gallivanting across southern France and northern Italy, it was time to head back home to Lille. Waking up, bleary eyed and dog tired from a night of drinking and merriment with my friend Eric, I gather my things and headed out the door of our hostel to the bus stop that would take me to the airport. The time was seven o’clock in the morning, and my flight left at nine. I had awoken early because I did not want to have a frantic run through the airport in an attempt to make my flight-an escapade that kicked off the holiday and almost caused me a heart attack.

Getting on the bus and making sure to validate the ticket that I bought, to ensure that the Nice Transportation authority didn’t pull a sting operation on me like they did the night before-a mistake that cost me and my friend 69 euro en totale.

I arrived at the airport around 7:30 A.M., stopping to get a pain au chocolat and a coffee to keep my hunger at bay, I began bounding up the steps to the airport terminal. With Time by Pink Floyd playing in my ear(not realizing the irony of the song) I pulled out my passport to scan at the self-check in. Fully expecting my face, I was instead greeted by my friend’s mean mug. I paused, and closed the passport. Opened it again, and once again was greeted by the expressionless gaze of my friend. The time was eight o’clock, I had one hour to get to my passport back. Mass hysteria and panic ensued: holy shit we must have switched passports when we got stopped by the transport authority. Ah damn, how am I gonna reach him.

I begin to run the gambit of contacting him: Facetime, iMessage, Facebook Messenger, even the archaic “phone call.” All the while, frantically trying to contact my friend, I remember something he had told me the night before. My brain-on the verge of short circuiting under the stress that I have imposed on it-remembers him saying something to the effect of shutting his phone off every night so as not to be disturbed by external forces. Which is respectable, but not when you’ve switched passports and the plane I need to get on leaves in an hour!

So, while my internal monologue is that of me screaming, I walk up to a desk and explain to them the predicament that I am in. With sorrowful looks and a consoling tone they tell me to try and hail a cab to retrieve my passport telling me that it is the only way for me to get on my plane in time. Taking a deep breath I walk outside to try and get a cab, only to find that every single cab that is in the airport terminal to be vacant, no driver in sight. Now, I’m pacing around the terminal like a madman, messaging in vain, and sweating like a pig(after all it is the South of France and I chose to wear a zip up sweatshirt).

I finally got a reply from my friend, and we make a plan to meet at terminal 1. Me: still panicking begins to run to Terminal 1-the logical move would’ve been to take the free shuttle between the two terminals, but logic at this point has been thrown out the window and run over by a truck. Running, with jeans, a backpack, and my aforementioned sweatshirt, I get to my destination, and am looking even more like a madman now. I am mumbling to myself, continuing to pace, and the sweat is dripping down like a leaky faucet(at this point people passing by must think I am crazy).

I waited and watched as countless busses passed by, and witnessed the minutes tick away on my watch. Finally the panic began to subside and acceptance took over: I am not in control of any of this right now, so there is no reason to keep worrying, I told myself. It was at this point that I felt one with myself and the world around me, I felt solid and whole(who would have thought that losing my passport would bring me so much Zen).

While I was being a counterculture Zen master, the infamous 52 bus showed up(the same bus that we had gotten busted on the night before). My friend stepped off and I was snapped back into the reality of making my flight. Handing me my passport all he had to say as I ran off was: “You’re an idiot,” meanwhile all I was thinking was: it’s showtime baby! Let’s make this plane!(in my head Mission Impossible music was playing). Stepping onto the free shuttle to Terminal 2-logic having been reinstated- I made it to the terminal with ample time to spare. The same people that I plead with earlier at the desk, with a surprised look on their face, gave me my boarding pass. I walked through security and boarded the plane feeling like I just pulled off the greatest stunt the world had ever seen. When in reality the whole escapade could have been avoided by just simply checking to make sure I had my passport before I left the hostel.

The sky is black and grey

I haven’t seen the sun in ninety nine and one half days

What is this sick trick that life plays?

Living in a foggy haze

All I do is gaze at the ceiling

Hoping that it will provide some healing

But all it is, is stealing

 

Days turn to weeks, into months

And I am still reeling

 

When will these dark clouds start receding?

 

But they never do

That is not the point, that is not the truth

The truth is: dark clouds come and go

They go as the cold wind blows

But what you need to know: there is always hope

That it is no trope

Because above those clouds is a new hope

A bright burning hope

Where in the middle of the darkness there is a light

And it shines so beautiful and bright

Even if the dark clouds cover it at night

Take solace in knowing that it never goes out

It never lets the darkness win without a fight

 

**TRIGGER WARNING: this post includes topics such as self-harm and suicide.

This isn’t a sappy love story. It starts with a suicide attempt.

I found myself on the floor contemplating death, blood running down my body. I am bipolar, and this was a particularly bad depressive episode. For days at a time, I lay in fetal position, crying for hours and wishing the pain would go away.

He had done all he could to make me happy. My serious boyfriend of a year had brought me frozen yogurt, held me as I cried, and taken me on a hike. Nothing worked. He loved me so much, and hated to see me hurt like this. The only thing he could actually do to help was to take away all the sharp objects and hold me back as I tried to jump out of the window.

Months later, he crushed under pressure. I had solely counted on him for support. Yeah, I had great friends. I had a therapist and a psychiatrist, and my family helped as well. But he was the one I trusted with everything. And it was too much. No one should have to save someone from suicide. We broke things off. I was heavyhearted and broken. It was time for me to learn to live on my own.

Let me tell you, I am not stagnant. After my boyfriend and I broke up, I healed. I learned from what went wrong and the hurt that was caused. I discovered methods of self-care and medications that would help with my bipolar disorder. I stopped self-harming. I created a crisis plan with the help of my amazing best friends. These were all good things. I learned how to feel safe and sound and cared for by myself. I learned how to love myself.

But I never really felt ready to try again. Sure, I hooked up with people. I would find a cute guy, spend some time with him, and then leave. Or he would leave. And that was fine.

It’s better if I can’t trust him, I thought. Then I don’t have to share this part of me. I can just keep pretending that everything is okay. I don’t have to cause him pain or anxiety. I won’t depend on him. Everything is better this way.

You see, it’s impossible for me to be in a relationship again.

I care very deeply for the people closest to me. My favorite thing to do is listen to someone I love. Listen to the things they care most about—listen to their joys, their hurt, their anxieties, and hopes and dreams—and share mine. These are moments I thrive in. I love to hug and kiss and cry and cuddle and laugh and talk for hours.

I care too much about the people around me to involve them in this shit.

I’m okay, but it’s still shitty. I have no authority over my body. I spin out of control upon a moments notice. I won’t sleep for weeks at a time. I lose my short-term memory capacity. I am impulsive and have a tendency of thinking about walking in front of trains. I lose sight of what is important. Most of the time I feel like the world is ending. I feel violent or hopeless or infinite or all three at once.

And I don’t want to put that on anyone else. So I will continue to meet men, sleep with them, break my own heart and drift away.

But the desire is still there. It’s not abnormal to want someone to hold you close and really care about you. It’s not wrong to want a deeper relationship than just sex. I’d like someone I could trust. But it’s complicated. Love stories always are.

Signed,

-xxxx

“Hey, I don’t wanna seem ungrateful. I don’t wanna seem like I don’t need anyone’s help, to get me through the rainy days, to push through the haze, so I can get on my feet and I can stand up and do what it takes”-Streetlight Manifesto

The holiday of Thanksgiving is a very peculiar one. As children, we are told that it was born of Native Americans and the Pilgrims that landed at Plymouth coming together to eat. However, growing up and reading history books this idea of coming together regardless of our differences starts to get dismantled.

Stories of genocide, enslavement, and indiscriminate killings slowly come forward as the narrative of American history. You do not have to look far today to see these elements that plague our history manifested. Indiscriminate killings to Afro-Americans at the hands of the police, and the violence that Native Americans face in North Dakota in order to protect their sacred land are just two of many instances where our history, once again, comes to life.

Even still, with all of these horrible and brutal events going on coupled with the uncertainty that our future holds, I would like to redefine or re-craft the idea of this holiday.

Recently a friend of mine wrote me a letter telling me exactly what many of us need to hear, which is: “you matter.” After reading the letter and wiping tears from my eyes, I began to think about how we could all make this world a better place by just saying those two words.

Because to be blunt: life can be a real asshole. Full of pain, hardship and tragedy, but if you surround yourself with the right people and tell them how you feel, you can make grey clouds turn white.

Far too often, at least in my experience, we’re led to believe that we’re just bricks in wall, stacked on top of each other in order to stabilize the foundation. In reality, we’re puzzle pieces, relying on another piece–multiple pieces, in fact–to come together and make something beautiful.

Metaphors aside, what I’m trying to say is: during this holiday, come together and tell your loved ones how much they mean to you. Time moves too fast and is too unforgiving for us to keep our love for one another under-wraps. Laugh, eat, and enjoy today because while it may look bleak, and it may seem like there is no light at the end of the tunnel, there are bright faces and warm hearts all around us.

With much love,

Mitchell Timmerman

We walked in silence down the block. Under a streetlight, I realized that our hands were still clasped together. I didn’t make a move to do anything about it. Instead, I stared ahead, lo0king at the ivy covered brick wall that was hosting a sign for some local deli, advertising fresh vegetables on their sandwiches. Mia hummed, and gripped my hand a little tighter. Her hands, so slender and smooth, fit nicely interlocked in my own, larger and wrapping around her hand. My thumb subconsciously kept moving in reassuring circles along the back of her hand. She squeezed a little harder.

“I suppose you would want to hear the reason why I didn’t show up yesterday?” she broke through the silence and my thoughts.

“Honestly Mia, this is nice. I really don’t want to hear why. It would only make me sad, yea? And I’m not a huge fan of being sad. I don’t like that. I’d much rather be happy and enjoy the moment,” I countered.

“But” Mia began, stretching out her words, as she turned to face me, the floral skirt gently rolling in the light breeze that came rolling down along the city avenue. “You still ought to know.”

Ok, fine. If she felt so strongly that she should tell me, I would let her. So I turned to face her as well.  I stared into her eyes, using my slight height differential to the most of its advantage. She looked back up at me.

“I got caught in a meeting with the worst person in the world,” she said, in the most conversational tone you would ever hear from a girl who stood you up, despite 4 weeks of flirting across public transit and local watering holes.

“That’s it?” I was pretty damned confused. “You brought me out of Harry’s where I got a free drink, which never happens, to say that you missed our date because you got, and I quote: ‘caught up,’” dropping my air quotations, ‘in a meeting’ I hissed, dropping the register of my voice to a frighteningly low level. “You will just have to do better than that Mia,” I began.

She cut me off there, her willingness to argue coming through, her eyes sharpening towards me. “Understand this, Jay, that I did want to come. I tried to get there on time. But by the time I got to Harry’s at 8:45, you were gone. Now you can listen to why I got caught or you can leave,” she retorted.

I grunted in acknowledgement of her statement, but didn’t make a move to leave.

“That’s what I thought,” Mia replied smugly, tightening her intertwining grip in my hands. “This man was simply awful. He would catch me and just wouldn’t let me escape. Then, he would put his hand on my shoulder to refuse to let me move at all,” I frowned. This sounded vaguely rapey

‘He did what?” I cut in

“Don’t worry too much, it happens a lot,” she said nonchalant.

“But it’s not ok! He was harassing you! That isn’t appropriate at all!” I sputtered.  And she damn laughed at me.

“That’s one more thing I like about you, you get all passionate and incoherent. It looks good on you,” she chimed. And with that she moved closer to me, right in my side, smiling, closing her eyes gently. It felt rather nice.

“Well that’s one thing. So this guy is the reason that you couldn’t show up?” I questioned. “Well, it only added to the terror that was my daily existence.” I added in.

“You need to relax. You sound like some emo kid who has just discovered the works of Tim Burton and Edgar Allen Poe,” Mia scoffed attractively. I didn’t even know you could do that, scoffing attractively. This girl was unbelievable. “But I doubt it was that bad. I mean, you got to work in a fancy building in the middle of the city. If you could ever escape from your cubicle, I bet you have a great view of the entire city. Imagine that, the whole city right there,” she threw her hand not attaché to mine out in front of her. “Right at your fingertips,”a smile tugged at my lips but was quickly shot down.

“I suppose. But it really isn’t that interesting. Corporate life is rather dull. Money is average. Hours are rather boring. It’s a job, which I’m glad to have in this economy, but it’s not the thing that keeps me motivated to get out of bed in the morning,” She grinned.

“I hope that the reason is me,” cheeky girl. I couldn’t help my smile here.

“Dunno, I was pretty sad yesterday, but things are looking better now,” I nudged her in the shoulder. In return, she squeezed my hand tightly, in an attempt to crush it. It wasn’t working, but it certainly was cute to watch. Each action she took drew me in a little deeper into her.

“You hush. But it seems so interesting. You do fancy corporate stuff. I don’t get to do that in my job, not at all,” she said, still leading me down the concrete jungle.

“You never told me,” I interjected in a hope to shape the conversation, “where it is you work. Or what you even do for that matter.”

“Oh, it’s nothing super cool like yours, I just work in a book store. Its right by the park’s main entrance,” she said, quickly. “It’s a nice, peaceful job.”

“So what’s the endgame for that?”

“Why does there need to be an endgame? Can’t something be done, just to be done?”

“Makes it rather pointless then, huh?”

“You always have an endgame?” Mia asked of me, spinning to face me. She stopped and put her hand in front of her to stop me as well.

“It’s what I do, darling. I work to the endgame. Each thing I do builds to the final goal.”

“So what’s the so called ‘final goal’ then?”

“I don’t know if you are ready to find that out darling,” I drawled out.

“Cheeky, but you don’t get to call me darling.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t earned it.”

“How do I do that?”

“Figure it out. Though, telling me that endgame of yours might help.”

“Maybe, but you have to earn that,” I responded. Mia, pulled the still intertwined hands up, drawing us close together. She wrapped her free hand above my neck, and moved her head forward. Her hair fell over her face. I moved a delicate strand to display her face, which glowed. She leaned in. I reciprocated. My eyes fluttered shut. I felt Mia move her delicate lips right up to the shell of my ear and whisper

“This a good way to start?”

Suddenly, her warmth was ripped away from me. I jerked open my eyes. And Mia was out 2 meters in front of me, staring at me as I tried to regain my bearings.

“Yea, that was a good way to start. Care to finish it?” I quipped. Mia just laughed that god damn sexy laugh and ran away, her hair bouncing over her shoulder.

I couldn’t help it.  I grinned and chased after her.

I was standing outside Harry’s at 7:15 that night. Pacing nervously along the sidewalk, I kept smoothing out my jacket. It was 7:30. She still wasn’t there. By 8, I had a beer in my hand, a courtesy of Harry, who handed it to me with what might have been a glance of pity. I left at 8:30.

I got a text the next day. It was from her. I ignored it. I got another. I ignored that one. I got a phone call from her. I ignored that one too. I got two more that night. I ignored them as well.

I was in Harry’s two nights later. The boys were joking around, but it wasn’t hard to sense the change in the attitude between us. I was being handled. I didn’t like it. It made me feel weak. Rather than join in, I stared sullenly into my half empty glass. Suddenly the gentle joking stopped abruptly. The bar echoed with the sharp clacking noise of shoes on the hard floor.

“Mate, you are right fucked now,” Roman muttered, his eyes gazing at the approaching person.

“Shut up you nitwit,” Sam replied, though his voice also housed the level of shock Roman’s had. Nik didn’t speak. I still stared at my glass.

“OK, that is it. You need to talk to me,” I looked up. Mia stood above me, her hand rested on her hips, her lips pursed, and her face was scrunched together as she glared at me. Even now, she looked absolutely stunning. I swallowed what was left of my drink, stood up, and moved towards the bar. She quickly moved to get in my way.

“You are in my way. I need a new drink.”

“You are being an asshole,” she snapped back.

“That is a well known fact.”

“It’s true. He is like a cactus. Not for everyone, but some people like to look at him. Don’t get too close though,” Roman interjected, his amusement not even trying to be hidden “He gets a little prickly.”

“Shut up,” Mia snapped.

“She is defending you man, that’s good right?” Roman asked. He was promptly slapped upside the head.

“Look Jay, I know I mess-” she began, but I quickly cut her off, trying not to betray how much her using my name affected my stomach. Digest those butterflies!

“Mia, the thing is I really don’t care. I spent all day in that god awful job waiting for you to show up, and you didn’t. It hurt, and I got burned. The thing is, I don’t get burned twice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get myself a new drink,” I said, making my voice as steely as possible, hoping that no emotion creeped through. Even now, I could hear the old voice of my grandfather rasping out to me that emotions are a weakness just waiting to be exploited.

Mia stood there, transfixed. I pushed past her and headed to the bar, keeping my hands firmly in my pockets.

As I approached the bar, I listened as Sam moved towards Mia and mutter something quietly to her.

She made her move towards the bar and me.

“I want a do over,” she demanded.

“I’m not sure it works like that,” I replied, a small smile playing on my lips.  She took the smile on my face as a good sign. She leaned in very close to me.

“Are you sure?” She whispered. This wasn’t her usual comfortable purring, dripping with self confidence. Instead, it was laced with bashfulness and the easily identifiable worry of being rejected.

“FOR FUCKS SAKE MAN, JUST KISS HER AND TAKE HER OUT!” Roman boomed out from our corner table.

“Your friend is an absolute moron, but I like that idea,” Mia quipped. She held her hand for me to take.

I stared at it. “I don’t know Mia,” I started.

But this time, she is the one who cut me off:“I have a really good reason why, I Promise!” her voice filled with so much down pleading, that I cannot even manage to find a single reason to say no. So I took her hand and moved out towards the door with her.  Meanwhile, the boys whistling and hollering at us, and Roman loudly making crude suggestions.

To my family and friends who voted for Donald J. Trump,

Let me begin by saying that I still love you. I do not hate you. I am, however, hurt, scared, and angry. We could debate policy all day, every day, and still not agree. And that is okay. We could talk about proper diplomatic rhetoric, foreign relations, the economy, and the merits of small versus big government, but that is not what I’m trying to discuss. I’ve been struggling to write this for months now, always starting and then deleting the whole thing. But I can’t remain silent any longer.

To introduce myself, since I intend to remain anonymous: I am a twenty-something year old college student. I work full time, attend classes full time, and maintain a high GPA at a diverse university in the midwest. I am a diehard feminist, like my momma. I have many near and dear friends who are hispanic, black, Muslim, transgender, gay, disabled, and any combination of those. I am bipolar.

My friends are afraid for their lives. But you already know that. I’ve shared countless articles detailing why, I’ve repeated anecdotal stories to you, I’ve made my own opinions and fears for them clear. As incredibly important as that is to me, that is also not what I wish to discuss in this letter. It has not been enough to get through to you.

You say that you’re disappointed in me for taking politics too personally. But for me, the events of the past few months have transcended a simple political discourse. It is personal for me.

A year and a half into my college career, I became the victim of a violent sexual assault. I was intimidated into taking no legal action, and humiliated to the point where I did not make my  own family aware of what had happened to me. Imagine my surprise, disgust, and relief at not disclosing my trauma when I learned that half of my family had voted Donald Trump for President.

I am angry. Angry that you saw something presidential in a man who has been on trial for rape, and has been accused of sexual assault by twelve women. Twelve. I know that you’ll jump to saying :“they’re just accusations.” But before you go to say that, do you believe that I’m just “making accusations” when I say I was raped? What makes me more or less believable than those women?

I am hurt that you voted for him. I am a woman who thought I could always seek support from my family when I needed it. The past year, I’ve bitten my tongue countless times when I’ve wanted to reach out for help and love. Knowing that you supported a man who said:“when you’re a star, they [women] let you do it. You can do anything…Grab ‘em by the pussy, you can do anything,” I no longer feel comfortable with the idea of bringing up my sexual assault to you. The man that raped me believed he could get away with grabbing my pussy, and doing worse, all because he had money. Because he had power. He made me feel so small. I’ve been hurting, and now I’m hurting even more.

Lastly, I am terrified of what the next four years will bring. Any time that Donald Trump speaks out against women or trivializes sexual assault, it tears off scabs that I’ve been working so hard to form. Any healing, any progress that I have made, is gone in an instant. The knowledge that you excused this rhetoric is acid poured directly in those wounds.

I would apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable, except for the fact that I am not sorry. I have been uncomfortable for the past year, and even more so the past few days. I need you to hear my voice.

So while some of you gloat as if the election was a football game that your team won, know that there are some of us out there who are afraid for our lives. In my case, my sanity. Panic attacks aren’t fun (something I’ve learned in the year). Know that while you call your own family and friends crybabies, sore losers, and flip us off for being upset with you for voting for Trump, there’s often good reasoning behind why we’re upset. You do not always know the whole story. If this were a normal election, with normal candidates, I would have no problem “just getting over it.” But as I said before, this election has gone beyond politics. I cannot “just get over” what happened to me, or how Donald Trump’s words and attitude tie into it.

One last time, I will reiterate that I do not hate you. I still love you, but I hope that you’ll understand why I am distancing myself from you. I need time to regroup myself, process my emotions, try to heal new and old wounds, and make a plan for how to survive the next four years with my mind and self still intact. I don’t expect you to understand the trauma caused by rape, or the triggers that can send a woman spiraling into the darkest place in her past. I don’t have any desire for you (or anyone) to understand it, ever.

All I ask is that you respect my request for distance and try to realize that I have been through something that you have most likely never had to deal with, and that it is shaping my experiences and emotions every day. Right now, I need to surround myself with those who will support me and the 20 million other survivors of sexual assault currently living in the United States. I wish I felt as if I could count you amongst those who would support me, but at this time I do not feel that way.

This election has been divisive and dirty on both sides. Unfortunately, I feel you picked the side that will most hurt me and those I care about. I hope to reconnect and reunite with you eventually, but for now, I need to cut the cord. Once again, I hope you can understand.

Love,

xxxxx