this isn't the way i wanted to come back.

it's been four years, four months, and two days since i last posted on this blog.

i stopped giving a fuck about punctuation. i also sold out to the corporate world of banking and holding my breath all day while trying to fill up my 401k, making just barely enough to survive as a single mother and also make sure my life isn't totally worthless and full of void.

yeah, that was a short synopsis. so much has happened, as expected. i still listen to most or some of the same awesome shitty music and am quite often depressed. i'm still the same person with the same bad memories as well as some great ones added on top of my life.

i've really taken to poetry in the past year. it has definitely allowed me the outlet blogging & writing used to. it just.. sort of happened. i really like spoken word, but haven't done any in a while.

recently, i was in a relationship.
before that, i was just in a one sided relationship.
the one sided relationship broke me.
it made me feel pretty worthless.
but the relationship-relationship just made me numb.
it was filled with absolute terror.
and some happy days.
two beautiful kids. one that was my bonus child.
and the other that was just all mine.
before they came along.

i have something i came here to say.

so i'm just going to say it.


domestic violence isn't pretty.
it isn't always lengthy.
and sometimes, just sometimes, you just need to be believed.
because there is nothing to gain, and so much lost.
i am speaking only from my perspective as a victim.
i am leaving behind any expectations to be all inclusive or
not leave anyone out based on their experiences.
this is for my healing.
this is catharsis.

a victim doesn't always cry.
to you.
in front of you.
they don't always bear all the passion.
and the shame.
right there to you.
they don't 'act' any certain way.
they don't call the cops. or they do.
there is no one universal way to react.
they don't always reach out for help.
or call you crying at 2 am when he finally hit his breaking point.
he finally couldn't control his rage.
and contest for her. her success. and her strong head.
they just don't meet these expectations.
they haven't always been abused.
maybe this was the first time.
the first time he got physical with her.
and the last time.
because a victim is not one way.
they don't always stay.
sometimes they get up.
and leave.
and sometimes those are the hardest victims to
believe.
but it's not her job to make you believe her.
post evidence.
or be provocative or manipulative or inventive enough to
get your attention. or persuade you.
it is only her job
to tell her story.
if she damn well pleases. 

as of november seventh, 2013

i was an aunt. i am still an aunt! i am so fucking excited to be an aunt. his name is bryson uriah aguilar and he was about 7.6 ounces and 23 inches long i believe. he's a healthy baby boy and surrounded by so much love.

i am so happy, happy, happy. other shit doesn't even stress me out when i think of that face. the little tiny martian that came out of my sisters womb and is going to grow up to be a happy, hopefully, and healthy, individual. as good as he can be. as much as anyone can.

gah. i was thinking earlier tonight as i picked out my nickname for him... "aunt keke," that i used to have a nickname. now people just call me kelsey and i miss my nicknames.

my dad used to call me tutti. as in tutti frutti. i loved that nick name at first. then i hated it. i began to peak in my adolescence and i was so embarrassed of that nick name. mostly because "tooting" embarrassed me, hahhaaha. in retrospect, that was the best nickname ever, and it made me feel loved for a really long time. i wish my father to call me it again. maybe he will. ;)


lovelovelove

can i just say that i have had conversations about being a child with many people. many people have many opinions, but the one i run into the most is that being a child is really uncomplicated for them. most people feel like being a child was some kind of effortless memory in which they don't really remember.this is fucking strange to me because i don't feel the same way. sitting here, in my apartment, listening to music and typing on this keyboard i reminisce. i see myself in all of the different phases of me.

mē/
pronoun
1.
used by a speaker to refer to himself or herself as the object of a verb or preposition.
"do you understand me?"
2.
informal
used in exclamations.
"dear me!"


this is who i am and who i have spent my whole life trying to be. every single day to "me" is something i can change, fix, better, or hope for.

as a child, in retrospect, i always felt the constant need to change and it has been a reoccurring pattern in my entire lifespan. as a young "adult" i see myself striving for more, understandably, with a coherent understanding of what "life" is. what is life, though? is it the past? is it the present? is it the future? is it growing old and greying hairs along with arthritis and some kind of  cancer?

i digress, only because i progressed too quickly. the reason i started writing this post is because i just called my dad to tell him how much i fucking love him and i think i may have freaked him out (sort of kidding), but only not because i know he, himself, is  as crazy as i am.

i don't think i can write anymore, so i'm gonna stop. pheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. breathe, kelsey.

finals time, final times

whilst laying on my bed the other evening with my beau, i noticed how much change has occurred in my life. accrued in my life. change is inevitable and this is inevitable. life is so many short moments strung together and we can't expect it all to remain the same.

on another note, im in search of a good dildo.


i can't believe how much i've changed.

this is nothing.