The Writer and the Wrench

Last week, I came across a Facebook sticker that claimed the following: Food is the most abused anxiety drug.Exercise is the most underutilized antidepressant. I agree with the generality of this statement. There are people who abuse food as a coping mechanism, and exercise is proven to release endorphins. True and true. But, I did what you’re not supposed to do: read the comments. A lady who apparently has never suffered from chronic depression decided to impart her expertise about the issue. Bless her heart. “Feed the homeless and hungry. Take a poor person to lunch. That is a great antidepressant…thinking of someone other than me me me.” I wish…

We don’t fall in love gracefully.Our hearts are intruded uponBy Cupid’s golden point.Lodged,It infectsFrustrating all reasonMaking us damaged and erraticCaptive and taking commandsFrom a synthetic chemical. But we can snatch the arrow from our chestsYes, the barbs will rip the heartAnd cause you to bleed out.Maybe even die.But sometimes, loving anotherIs a fate far worse than death.

What’s the matter with matter?We’re all made of it.Protons, neutrons, and electrons.Teeny, tiny atoms.Yet not so small when the atomic bomb was dropped. Now they package them for baths.

The fake out happened when we were taughtThe smooth curvaturesAnd piercing point of the heartPerfectly symmetricalEmpty bubbles to be colored inPink and red.It became sweet confectionsThat dissolved sticky on our tonguesAnd the emblem of forbidden notes. But it wasn’t untilWe slit the skin and cracked the ribsTo expose a heart.The heart.KnottedTubes sprawling in all directionsVeiny, crimson and gory,And a beat hanging on for dear life,That I understood why love is such a mess.

I was tuning each breath to the tick of a clockWhen the words tumbled out of your mouthEach letter dripping with syrupSticky and sweet.In my ears they flewWhipping around the twisted curves of my brainUntil recognition forced them to whiplash.The pulp that was created began dripping downThe column of my spine.Slowly it infected my heartAnd brewed with what I already knew.The awakening forced air into my lungsAnd what I heard yesterdayDesired liberation.“Don’t tell anyone,” she had whispered.So I choked the twisted letters back downForcing submission with each swallowThe crooks and edges scraping the back of my throatAll of the way down to the tomb of my stomachWhere they will dissolveAnd…

if we resisted all of the friction… we would be found orbiting the planet-weightless-friendless-loveless-childless-hopeless

in an attempt to be self-awarestraightforwardsincerehe frequented thrift storeslistened to folk musicsipped on fair trade coffeeand attended grass-roots campaigns.he created countless adventuresstating that danger was subjective.none of those things could be accomplishedthough, without the snap of a pictureand an upload eliciting favor and praise,the proof of what it is like to be alive. trespassing,his last picture was standing in the middleof a train trestle, suspended over a canyonthe caption comprised of Gundersen lyrics,“here I stand in the landof the rocks in the valley,trying to be a better man.” but being authentic does not equal invincibility.the conductor still has nightmares.

In youthIt was about rocking and rollingFollowed byTiny humans invading your sheets.And empty nest sometimes leadsTo a periodic, cold-sided bed.But those who last beyondThe orgasmic sweat,The pb&j smearsAnd pang of solitude,Find that the real bed of loveIs holding a bluish, wrinkled handSadly waiting for the line to flatten.

Sometimes I need a dose of my own medicine, specifically, the “I’ve already told you this 1,000 times” white, chalky spoonful that’s hard to choke down. I have finally figured out a truth about parenting and it’s this: You have to continuously recalibrate yourself. When I was pregnant with my daughter, I was an idealist. I had dreams of how we would bond, what traditions I’d pass down from my family, what new traditions we would implement. I subscribed to Parents magazine and clipped out ideas of fun, memory filled activities and I kept them in a binder…and then she was born and I never opened that binder. In fact, when I…

As a subscriber to Parents magazine, I recently stumbled upon one of its online articles titled the following: “Can We Please AgreeTeachers Do Not Need ‘Back to School’ Gifts?” As a former teacher of eleven years, I will agree with the following: teachers don’t need them. Teachers don’t expectthem. Some teachers (although I don’t know any personally) might not want them. But that’s about all I agree with. The author of the article, O’Connor argues that she supports teachers, knowing the hard work they perform, citing that her father was a teacher. I’m sorry, but you WILL NEVER understand how sacrificially, hard-working a teacher is until you’ve actually been one. I can watch an Olympian…