I grew up all over the place. Eighteen different houses, thirteen different towns, six different “states” and two different countries are where I call home. From day one my life was an adventure; and only once did I hate moving. Packing and unpacking was my norm and it’s what made me unique. I have always loved being able to tell people how many different places I’ve lived. The only problem I have with it is the misconception school counselors and shrinks seem to hold over my head.
According to parenting books a good mom creates a stable environment for her children. Who said stable had to be boring? In the second grade we had to fill out a report on where we were born and were we had lived since then. Besides me only two people had ever lived in more than one place. In fact, one kid was even born on his kitchen floor thanks to his immense impatience. Now with that information one might think “wow, what memories that house must hold,” but memories are held in a person’s heart and head, not a structure. I grew up with just as many sad and happy moments as Mr. Never-Leave-Home, only my moments were probably much more interesting and filled with all sorts of different places and people.
Perhaps I’m being a little abrasive; there is nothing wrong with staying in one place. There was even a time I thought my mother and I might just settle down for good. It was five years after her divorce with my father and she was remarrying. The man who, at that time, was my soon to be stepdad was a lot like my mother in the fact that he had grown up in a small town. They decided that after the wedding we would move back to his roots, also known as Bonner Springs, Kansas. There we found a two-story house that was perfect: three bedrooms, two baths, a fireplace, great school system, neighborhood full of kids, and smack dab on the curve of a cul-de-sac. It was a piece of cliché paradise, and since everything I’d lived in before was either an apartment or townhouse it would be the first actual house I was ever going to be able to call my own. So that is exactly what I did.
Like an animal I claimed my territory with pink paint and Winnie the Pooh wallpaper, which two years later turned to turquoise paint and Scooby Doo paper, and then once again to purple leopard print. I befriended all the neighborhood kids and took place in silly miscreant acts and illegal pond swimming. I cracked my elbow on a neighbor’s deck, sprained my ankle in my garage, fought over everything with Holly from two houses down, kicked a hole in my bedroom wall after a fight with my mom, and was madly in love with the kid across the street. Life was perfectly imperfect in that house, and then we were moving again. This time to a place called Oregon.
This is that one move I wasn’t ready for. The one move I cried as we drove off in the cab of our U-Haul covered wagon embarking on a new sort of Oregon Trail. It took me a year to feel comfortable in the new and wet town of Wilsonville. However my feet eventually webbed, I made friends and went to high school. I started freshmen year at Wilsonville High, and graduated from Wilsonville High; quite an accomplishment for my family, a total of five years in one school district. Not that we stayed in the same house ofcourse. We went from Jamaica Street to Vlahos Drive and almost to Sunny Side Lane, which I am very grateful, did not happen.
Now that high school is over there was naturally to be another move for me, but I decided to live with my mom and stepdad for awhile longer at home. I have no problem saying that word because I believe in everything that stands behind it. I know that the next move I make will be the first one I do on my own. Despite my reservations on living by myself I know that I will at least have my memories. Even if they are slightly erratic and seemingly unstable, they are still mine and that’s what makes them ultimately my home. It’s true that home is where the heart is, and while I am saying that I might as well add that there is no place like it and it is doubly sweet.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Wish You Were Here...(wrote it awhile ago, just now publishing it)
I just got my new laptop. I love it. It is a Toshiba and it rocks. It’s a dark blue in some lighting and a black in others. It has a huge screen and is really easy to use. Plus it was all under 500 dollars. Yay for money saving.
Besides that, I have had lot on my mind for the last few hours or so. I couldn’t even read. My head is like a bunch of nothing. It’s all rambled together. Sometimes I just want to scream. Scream so loud that the entire world can hear me. That it makes my face turn red and then purple and then blue. I want my voice to go hoarse from all that screaming. And then I want to be able to stop. Stop screaming and feel better. That’s what I want.
If only it were that simple. It’s not.
My other aunt from my dad’s side contacted me. She wants me to go and visit them sometime. That’s great right? I would love to get to know them. And then, I think, why is it that my aunts can want a relationship with me, and my dad doesn’t? Ugh. I hate this. I hate feeling like ‘daddy’s little defect’. I always wonder what things would be like if he was still in my life. Would I be able to write the way I do? Is it the pain that he brings me that gives me my talent? I probably wouldn’t be chubby. In fact, I would probably be thin and beautiful. Like my stepsisters. They are so gorgeous. Dad has this odd fixation with size. I remember that from that time I stayed with him in second grade. But, would I be a virgin then? Would my morals have disappeared along with my baby fat? I can’t help but ask if I am the way I am because I am his daughter, or because he gave up that responsibility?
What is worse than asking myself that question? Knowing the answer. Knowing the answer hurts more than I can even pretend to explain. He didn’t want me. Doesn’t want me. Sure, we have the occasional conversation every three years or so. I call him or he calls me, and then we play phone tag for three weeks before we just give up. That’s my relationship with my dad. It’s peachy.
I will never forget that night in Canada with him when I was seven. I had gone to stay with them for two weeks, and we were taking a road trip. Going to different friends of his houses and stuff, one night a whole bunch of us where sleeping on the basement floor at one of the stops. There was a wedding and a lot of people were in town camped out throughout the place. It was the first night that I wasn’t crying from homesickness. I think it was because it was like a slumber party. I always did better with a group of people then with the just one on one when it came to sleepovers; more people to comfort me or something. Anyways, my dad and I were the only ones still awake and he was talking to me about Galen, my (at the time) soon to be stepdad. I don’t remember all of what was said, but I remember him telling me that it was okay to accept him as my father. That it wouldn’t hurt his feelings if I chose to call Galen “Dad”. I didn’t really get it at the time. It took a long time for the real effect of that to sink in. My dad was giving me up. You know, when the beautiful bride walks down the aisle on her wedding day, and the father gives up his daughter’s hand for marriage? Well, my dad was doing that, only it wasn’t for my wedding, it was for my moms.
Even though I get what all that that conversation meant, I still don’t get why. Why would he do that? Did he think I wasn’t going to need him anymore? I don’t understand. I wanted to crawl into his lap so many times throughout my childhood, and wasn’t able to, and now, at 18 I still want to. But worse than that, at 18 I carry anger so intense that I don’t even understand it. I should not be angry at him, should I?
See, I know the answer to that question too. Yes, I may have a right to be angry, but sooner or later I need to let it go. And preferably sooner. Only I have been trying to for so long, and I don’t know how. How do I get over something like this? It wasn’t like he stole my favorite crayon in Kindergarten, he stole my childhood. At least that’s what it feels like. Maybe he isn’t the one who took it. Maybe I just never let myself have one. All I know is that I grew up way to fast. I didn’t get to have fun, the way I should have. In the back of my mind, all day EVERY DAY was his face. A made up face, because I still don’t know exactly what he looks like.
I blame him. I think that is the first time I have admitted that. I freaking blame him.
I’m angry at him. I am hurt. I am confused. But mostly, I am just sad. Depressed. I want to know how to fix all this. And I just don’t think that it’s fixable, not at this point anyway. I don’t seem to have the right parts to do the proper mechanics.
Ugh. It’s just so…complex. So layered; full of too many different emotions. I really have no idea how I am supposed to deal with all these feelings
Besides that, I have had lot on my mind for the last few hours or so. I couldn’t even read. My head is like a bunch of nothing. It’s all rambled together. Sometimes I just want to scream. Scream so loud that the entire world can hear me. That it makes my face turn red and then purple and then blue. I want my voice to go hoarse from all that screaming. And then I want to be able to stop. Stop screaming and feel better. That’s what I want.
If only it were that simple. It’s not.
My other aunt from my dad’s side contacted me. She wants me to go and visit them sometime. That’s great right? I would love to get to know them. And then, I think, why is it that my aunts can want a relationship with me, and my dad doesn’t? Ugh. I hate this. I hate feeling like ‘daddy’s little defect’. I always wonder what things would be like if he was still in my life. Would I be able to write the way I do? Is it the pain that he brings me that gives me my talent? I probably wouldn’t be chubby. In fact, I would probably be thin and beautiful. Like my stepsisters. They are so gorgeous. Dad has this odd fixation with size. I remember that from that time I stayed with him in second grade. But, would I be a virgin then? Would my morals have disappeared along with my baby fat? I can’t help but ask if I am the way I am because I am his daughter, or because he gave up that responsibility?
What is worse than asking myself that question? Knowing the answer. Knowing the answer hurts more than I can even pretend to explain. He didn’t want me. Doesn’t want me. Sure, we have the occasional conversation every three years or so. I call him or he calls me, and then we play phone tag for three weeks before we just give up. That’s my relationship with my dad. It’s peachy.
I will never forget that night in Canada with him when I was seven. I had gone to stay with them for two weeks, and we were taking a road trip. Going to different friends of his houses and stuff, one night a whole bunch of us where sleeping on the basement floor at one of the stops. There was a wedding and a lot of people were in town camped out throughout the place. It was the first night that I wasn’t crying from homesickness. I think it was because it was like a slumber party. I always did better with a group of people then with the just one on one when it came to sleepovers; more people to comfort me or something. Anyways, my dad and I were the only ones still awake and he was talking to me about Galen, my (at the time) soon to be stepdad. I don’t remember all of what was said, but I remember him telling me that it was okay to accept him as my father. That it wouldn’t hurt his feelings if I chose to call Galen “Dad”. I didn’t really get it at the time. It took a long time for the real effect of that to sink in. My dad was giving me up. You know, when the beautiful bride walks down the aisle on her wedding day, and the father gives up his daughter’s hand for marriage? Well, my dad was doing that, only it wasn’t for my wedding, it was for my moms.
Even though I get what all that that conversation meant, I still don’t get why. Why would he do that? Did he think I wasn’t going to need him anymore? I don’t understand. I wanted to crawl into his lap so many times throughout my childhood, and wasn’t able to, and now, at 18 I still want to. But worse than that, at 18 I carry anger so intense that I don’t even understand it. I should not be angry at him, should I?
See, I know the answer to that question too. Yes, I may have a right to be angry, but sooner or later I need to let it go. And preferably sooner. Only I have been trying to for so long, and I don’t know how. How do I get over something like this? It wasn’t like he stole my favorite crayon in Kindergarten, he stole my childhood. At least that’s what it feels like. Maybe he isn’t the one who took it. Maybe I just never let myself have one. All I know is that I grew up way to fast. I didn’t get to have fun, the way I should have. In the back of my mind, all day EVERY DAY was his face. A made up face, because I still don’t know exactly what he looks like.
I blame him. I think that is the first time I have admitted that. I freaking blame him.
I’m angry at him. I am hurt. I am confused. But mostly, I am just sad. Depressed. I want to know how to fix all this. And I just don’t think that it’s fixable, not at this point anyway. I don’t seem to have the right parts to do the proper mechanics.
Ugh. It’s just so…complex. So layered; full of too many different emotions. I really have no idea how I am supposed to deal with all these feelings
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
If you get the chance, you must DANCE DANCE DANCE!
Have you heard of Yael Naim, I think she is French? I'm not sure, but she sings "New Soul," which I love, and when I went to her page to listen to it, I noticed she had her own version of "Toxic," you know, the Brittany Spears song…? Yeah, it's pretty much amazing…haha...
My dad called me. Weird, I know. I haven't called him back. I said it was because of the time difference, and I couldn't remember if their providence did daylight savings or not…but truth is I'm just too scared. Chantelle Anne Chicken. My new name; it has a sort of ring to it, no?
You know what I just noticed? Whenever I talk about my dad I always say "them" like it's me vs. "them". That's pretty stupid, don't you think? I mean, they're family, aren't they? I suppose that would depend on your opinion of 'family'. Hmm, I sound like I am upset about that, but I'm not, I am totally content right now…it feels weird.
First semester is over, and I am sad to see it go, each day that passes is a day closer to the end of my high school career. I wasn't good at high school, but I really enjoyed it. What the heck does that even meen? I wasn't good at high school? I am so dumb sometimes. Whatever. This year, senior year, has been the best so far, I'm not ready to see it go. In fact, the more I focus on what leaving WHS will be like, the more I am reminded of fifth grade; I did not want to go into middle school. I was going to have a locker?!?!?!! What if I couldn't open it? And how was I supposed to get to my next class in only four minutes??? And then I cried a little the first day of sixth grade, but by day two, and day three, and day 137, I was fine! I loved sixth grade, as much as one loves being at the bottom of the food chain!
This time however, it's not just about leaving my environment, it's about leaving literally everything and one I know and love. Will my friends still be my friends in five years? Will I keep in touch with most of them? What about college? What is that going to be like? Why do I have so many questions?
On another note, I have to retake Healthful Living, I am actually really livid about this, and will be able to explain it in detail later, right now the mere thought of it is causing me to steam…just so you know though, I DID NOT fail it the first time…(I had to drop it due to illness, and took it online instead, but there is nothing available for me to take in fifth period besides it…so here we go again penis's). Why did I just explain it after I said I wasn't going to?? And what is with these questions???
My hands a really cold, like ice!
I started reading a new book. Just finished the first chapter and it already made me cry. Haha. I am such a sap. Whatever. It's called Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac, by Gabrielle Zevin, she wrote Elsewhere, as well. That book made me cry too, really hard. Not sob, just got me thinking, and once I started thinking…and I started crying…I sort of cry a lot…sometimes. Anyways, It was about afterlife, even though it was really about how to live. It was really intense, and even though I don't believe in reincarnation, I couldn't help fall in love with the beauty of Zevin's morbidity. It's funny how it often takes losing something/one to understand how much you needed 'em.
Speaking of books and such, I have not worked on my "novel" (haha, novel!) since um, awhile. I have this elaborate plan; I know it's plot, I know its theme, I know which chapter I will cry in while I'm writing it (again with the crying!?!), I know which characters will change and which won't…what I don't know, is why I have all this information on a complete fictional character and why the story is so sad…?
I've always been a sad-book kind of girl. Summer of my German Soldier, Stones of Mourning Creak, Making the Run, The Alison Rules, not crappy teenage love stories gone wrong, books about death and how screwed up life can be. At the same time though, pure happy endings make me believe in magic. And isn't that the point of books? To make you believe in them? Why else are there stories about princesses? I mean, why would Meg Cabot be making millions off her Princess Diaries, series if people didn't secretly wish that they could be Mia? Go to bed an ugly duck, wake up a rich, pretty (after some make-up tips) and a princess? Seriously, Princess fairy? You know where I live right?
Ahh, okay, this was the biggest waste of blog space ever, but that's okay, I only have I think two real readers, maybe only one (hi Catherine!). I think I am going to go read some more, take a shower and go to bed. Mmm, bed. Sleep is good.
Peace, Love and ME!
My dad called me. Weird, I know. I haven't called him back. I said it was because of the time difference, and I couldn't remember if their providence did daylight savings or not…but truth is I'm just too scared. Chantelle Anne Chicken. My new name; it has a sort of ring to it, no?
You know what I just noticed? Whenever I talk about my dad I always say "them" like it's me vs. "them". That's pretty stupid, don't you think? I mean, they're family, aren't they? I suppose that would depend on your opinion of 'family'. Hmm, I sound like I am upset about that, but I'm not, I am totally content right now…it feels weird.
First semester is over, and I am sad to see it go, each day that passes is a day closer to the end of my high school career. I wasn't good at high school, but I really enjoyed it. What the heck does that even meen? I wasn't good at high school? I am so dumb sometimes. Whatever. This year, senior year, has been the best so far, I'm not ready to see it go. In fact, the more I focus on what leaving WHS will be like, the more I am reminded of fifth grade; I did not want to go into middle school. I was going to have a locker?!?!?!! What if I couldn't open it? And how was I supposed to get to my next class in only four minutes??? And then I cried a little the first day of sixth grade, but by day two, and day three, and day 137, I was fine! I loved sixth grade, as much as one loves being at the bottom of the food chain!
This time however, it's not just about leaving my environment, it's about leaving literally everything and one I know and love. Will my friends still be my friends in five years? Will I keep in touch with most of them? What about college? What is that going to be like? Why do I have so many questions?
On another note, I have to retake Healthful Living, I am actually really livid about this, and will be able to explain it in detail later, right now the mere thought of it is causing me to steam…just so you know though, I DID NOT fail it the first time…(I had to drop it due to illness, and took it online instead, but there is nothing available for me to take in fifth period besides it…so here we go again penis's). Why did I just explain it after I said I wasn't going to?? And what is with these questions???
My hands a really cold, like ice!
I started reading a new book. Just finished the first chapter and it already made me cry. Haha. I am such a sap. Whatever. It's called Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac, by Gabrielle Zevin, she wrote Elsewhere, as well. That book made me cry too, really hard. Not sob, just got me thinking, and once I started thinking…and I started crying…I sort of cry a lot…sometimes. Anyways, It was about afterlife, even though it was really about how to live. It was really intense, and even though I don't believe in reincarnation, I couldn't help fall in love with the beauty of Zevin's morbidity. It's funny how it often takes losing something/one to understand how much you needed 'em.
Speaking of books and such, I have not worked on my "novel" (haha, novel!) since um, awhile. I have this elaborate plan; I know it's plot, I know its theme, I know which chapter I will cry in while I'm writing it (again with the crying!?!), I know which characters will change and which won't…what I don't know, is why I have all this information on a complete fictional character and why the story is so sad…?
I've always been a sad-book kind of girl. Summer of my German Soldier, Stones of Mourning Creak, Making the Run, The Alison Rules, not crappy teenage love stories gone wrong, books about death and how screwed up life can be. At the same time though, pure happy endings make me believe in magic. And isn't that the point of books? To make you believe in them? Why else are there stories about princesses? I mean, why would Meg Cabot be making millions off her Princess Diaries, series if people didn't secretly wish that they could be Mia? Go to bed an ugly duck, wake up a rich, pretty (after some make-up tips) and a princess? Seriously, Princess fairy? You know where I live right?
Ahh, okay, this was the biggest waste of blog space ever, but that's okay, I only have I think two real readers, maybe only one (hi Catherine!). I think I am going to go read some more, take a shower and go to bed. Mmm, bed. Sleep is good.
Peace, Love and ME!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
I'll Be Loving You, Aways...
Dear Grandpa,
I'm not quite sure how to write this letter. After starting it several times in my head I am still nowhere satisfied with the way it sounds. I suppose for the most part I have yet to completely comprehend your absence. But then, I'm not sure one ever really does comprehend death. It has always been an act of God that people question. Maybe you could ask him about it? Because if anything confuses me, the one thing that does not is that the faith you
had throughout your life has brought you to our heavenly father.
In the past few days I have remembered so many things about you that I had long forgotten. I remember the candy store that was just a few stores down from Grandma's, and how you used to come down and get change from the cash-register to take me to get sweets. I remember asking you serious question on those trips.
"Grandpa, why are horseradishes spicy?"
"Grandpa, why are they called horseradishes?"
"Do horses make them?"
I remember particularly the horseradish debacle because when you answered each question with "I don't know," it wasn't in an aggravated way like other peoples, but in a way that made me feel you too wanted answers to the world's horseradish questions.
I remember reading The Monster at the end of this Book, in your chair. That brown chair that was old and torn and full of history. I learned that the best way to eat cookies was with coffee in that chair. I told you the stories I made up in my head in that chair. We would sing songs together in that chair.
One thing I don't remember is you ever getting mad. I'm sure you did, anger is a natural emotion, but for some reason you never seemed to. One time when you came to pick me up from preschool and I had pinched another kid. After my teacher told you I was so afraid I was going to be in trouble, all the way home I was quiet, but you never mentioned it to me. You never told Mom or Grandma either, and I never got in trouble, even so though I never pinched anyone again.
You ate grilled cheese dipped in applesauce. An odd combination I've always thought, but still whenever I eat grilled cheese I can't help but crave a little applesauce myself. Of course I don't dunk my sandwich but it's still something I picked up from you. Like whistling; you taught me to whistle and teased me with you wiggling ears and slippery teeth and screechy – hearing – aid ears.
There are many more things that I remember about you, grape juice, stripped overalls, old spice, cowboy boots, shoe horns, and on and on and on. But the important thing is that I do remember you. And I hope that you save a place for me next to you in heaven just like you used to in your chair. I love you Grandpa, and I don't plan on ever stopping.
Love,
Your Granddaughter,
Chantelle Gemmill
I'm not quite sure how to write this letter. After starting it several times in my head I am still nowhere satisfied with the way it sounds. I suppose for the most part I have yet to completely comprehend your absence. But then, I'm not sure one ever really does comprehend death. It has always been an act of God that people question. Maybe you could ask him about it? Because if anything confuses me, the one thing that does not is that the faith you
had throughout your life has brought you to our heavenly father.
In the past few days I have remembered so many things about you that I had long forgotten. I remember the candy store that was just a few stores down from Grandma's, and how you used to come down and get change from the cash-register to take me to get sweets. I remember asking you serious question on those trips.
"Grandpa, why are horseradishes spicy?"
"Grandpa, why are they called horseradishes?"
"Do horses make them?"
I remember particularly the horseradish debacle because when you answered each question with "I don't know," it wasn't in an aggravated way like other peoples, but in a way that made me feel you too wanted answers to the world's horseradish questions.
I remember reading The Monster at the end of this Book, in your chair. That brown chair that was old and torn and full of history. I learned that the best way to eat cookies was with coffee in that chair. I told you the stories I made up in my head in that chair. We would sing songs together in that chair.
One thing I don't remember is you ever getting mad. I'm sure you did, anger is a natural emotion, but for some reason you never seemed to. One time when you came to pick me up from preschool and I had pinched another kid. After my teacher told you I was so afraid I was going to be in trouble, all the way home I was quiet, but you never mentioned it to me. You never told Mom or Grandma either, and I never got in trouble, even so though I never pinched anyone again.
You ate grilled cheese dipped in applesauce. An odd combination I've always thought, but still whenever I eat grilled cheese I can't help but crave a little applesauce myself. Of course I don't dunk my sandwich but it's still something I picked up from you. Like whistling; you taught me to whistle and teased me with you wiggling ears and slippery teeth and screechy – hearing – aid ears.
There are many more things that I remember about you, grape juice, stripped overalls, old spice, cowboy boots, shoe horns, and on and on and on. But the important thing is that I do remember you. And I hope that you save a place for me next to you in heaven just like you used to in your chair. I love you Grandpa, and I don't plan on ever stopping.
Love,
Your Granddaughter,
Chantelle Gemmill
Monday, January 7, 2008
My "Stuffz"
No one
In world with no one
You cannot hate,
Yet never be loved.
You’ll never get angry,
Or ever get a hug.
You’ll never fail,
Yet never succeed;
You’re always trapped,
And always set free.
Because in world with no one:
There’s no one at all
Not even you and me.
-Chantelle A. G.
Background Noise
Everything keeps making noise.
It won’t stop.
It screams.
It yells.
It taunts.
Coming from behind:
It grabs and wraps me in its sound,
Echoing and blasting all around;
It slowly takes and breaks me.
It won’t stop.
It screams.
It yells.
It taunts.
Everything keeps making noise.
I try to catch it; to adjust the sound,
But I can’t reach the volume!
It screams.
It yells.
It taunts.
It won’t stop.
Everything behind me explodes with sound.
I try and try to turn it down,
But I can’t reach the past
I can’t reach that blast
Of noise,
That comes from behind.
Everything keeps making noise.
Everything keeps making noise.
-Chantelle A.G.
Broken
Broken
Is what I am.
All the years that I have
Cried my tears
Over my pathetic fears
Has left me
Broken.
My head and heart ache
For you
The one who left me
Broken.
-Chantelle A.G.
Perfect Pictures
Paint me a picture.
Make it black,
Or make it white;
But before you
Give it a title and a frame
Be sure
To make it real.
Add my pain,
And my hate.
Add the world’s misfortune,
And all the evil pleasures.
Now let it be finished
Call it Life, and it will be
Anything but perfect.
-Chantelle A.G.
Privacy
Can’t you let me be?
I want to be alone,
To close my eyes; and
Lock myself up deep inside.
You won’t give me any privacy
You’re always there;
Nagging and
Controlling me.
(Chorus)
I stand up tall.
I open my eyes.
I walk behind you in one strait line;
I say the words that you tell me to:
In hopes that someday you’ll
Give me back my
Privacy.
Can’t you let me be?
I want to be alone,
To close my eyes; and
Lock myself up deep inside.
I want to just be on my own.
Can’t tell you how much it hurts;
To never be alone.
To not be free or have any
Privacy.
(Chorus)
I stand up tall.
I open my eyes.
I walk behind you in one strait line;
I say the words that you tell me to:
In hopes that someday you’ll
Give me back my
Privacy.
Can’t you let me be?
Privacy!
(Chorus)
I stand up tall.
I open my eyes.
I walk behind in one strait line;
I say the words that you tell me to:
In hopes that someday you’ll
Give me back my
Privacy.
-Chantelle A.G.
An end to disaster
Wish I was dead.
Unfortunate I’m not.
I used to smile;
But now my teeth have rot.
You think you’re oh so sweet,
But I know the real truth.
I claimed we were over yesterday,
And that’s the way it will forever stay.
-Chantelle A.G.
My Fear of You
I fear every year;
That you will reappear,
Causing only more tears.
I’m left so anxious,
Because you were so heartless.
Bounding me down,
You threw me on the ground.
Creating madness.
Engaging me in sadness.
And leaving me with nothing
But fear.
-Chantelle A.G.
A Teenage Tragedy
Cell phone numbers, Fancy cars,
Baby tees, and Baggy jeans.
The teenage population
Has become nothing more
Then an imitation,
Of what shouldn’t be.
It started out
As a fun little mission.
But has become nothing more,
Then an annoying tradition.
Of drinking beer, and joining gangs
Cheering and playing in football games.
Smoking pot, failing class, and speeding
Way too fast.
It has come too far.
The chain can’t be broken
On and on it goes; throwing failures
Into the next generation.
-Chantelle A.G.
I write this poem because!
I write this poem because:
I have nothing else to do.
I write this poem because:
Lately I’ve been thinking of you.
I write this poem because:
For some reason you’ve been on my mind
I write this poem because:
I fear I’m starting to fall behind
I write this poem because:
My last may have been untrue.
I write this poem because:
I might start to do the things I use to.
I write this poem because:
Once I was fixed…not so broken
I write this poem because:
You’re my friend; a lucky token.
-Chantelle A.G.
A Desperate Death
I’m thirsty for your kiss.
I’m weeping for you sweet bliss.
I have nothing to offer you;
Nothing to give.
I only have love,
But that isn’t enough.
I will sit here
Pouring my self out to you!
And when your laughter leaves me dry,
I will wither up and die.
-Chantelle A.G.
When roses die
My petals match your blood
My thorns match your love
My tears match your lies
Who says roses can’t cry?
-Chantelle A. G.
In world with no one
You cannot hate,
Yet never be loved.
You’ll never get angry,
Or ever get a hug.
You’ll never fail,
Yet never succeed;
You’re always trapped,
And always set free.
Because in world with no one:
There’s no one at all
Not even you and me.
-Chantelle A. G.
Background Noise
Everything keeps making noise.
It won’t stop.
It screams.
It yells.
It taunts.
Coming from behind:
It grabs and wraps me in its sound,
Echoing and blasting all around;
It slowly takes and breaks me.
It won’t stop.
It screams.
It yells.
It taunts.
Everything keeps making noise.
I try to catch it; to adjust the sound,
But I can’t reach the volume!
It screams.
It yells.
It taunts.
It won’t stop.
Everything behind me explodes with sound.
I try and try to turn it down,
But I can’t reach the past
I can’t reach that blast
Of noise,
That comes from behind.
Everything keeps making noise.
Everything keeps making noise.
-Chantelle A.G.
Broken
Broken
Is what I am.
All the years that I have
Cried my tears
Over my pathetic fears
Has left me
Broken.
My head and heart ache
For you
The one who left me
Broken.
-Chantelle A.G.
Perfect Pictures
Paint me a picture.
Make it black,
Or make it white;
But before you
Give it a title and a frame
Be sure
To make it real.
Add my pain,
And my hate.
Add the world’s misfortune,
And all the evil pleasures.
Now let it be finished
Call it Life, and it will be
Anything but perfect.
-Chantelle A.G.
Privacy
Can’t you let me be?
I want to be alone,
To close my eyes; and
Lock myself up deep inside.
You won’t give me any privacy
You’re always there;
Nagging and
Controlling me.
(Chorus)
I stand up tall.
I open my eyes.
I walk behind you in one strait line;
I say the words that you tell me to:
In hopes that someday you’ll
Give me back my
Privacy.
Can’t you let me be?
I want to be alone,
To close my eyes; and
Lock myself up deep inside.
I want to just be on my own.
Can’t tell you how much it hurts;
To never be alone.
To not be free or have any
Privacy.
(Chorus)
I stand up tall.
I open my eyes.
I walk behind you in one strait line;
I say the words that you tell me to:
In hopes that someday you’ll
Give me back my
Privacy.
Can’t you let me be?
Privacy!
(Chorus)
I stand up tall.
I open my eyes.
I walk behind in one strait line;
I say the words that you tell me to:
In hopes that someday you’ll
Give me back my
Privacy.
-Chantelle A.G.
An end to disaster
Wish I was dead.
Unfortunate I’m not.
I used to smile;
But now my teeth have rot.
You think you’re oh so sweet,
But I know the real truth.
I claimed we were over yesterday,
And that’s the way it will forever stay.
-Chantelle A.G.
My Fear of You
I fear every year;
That you will reappear,
Causing only more tears.
I’m left so anxious,
Because you were so heartless.
Bounding me down,
You threw me on the ground.
Creating madness.
Engaging me in sadness.
And leaving me with nothing
But fear.
-Chantelle A.G.
A Teenage Tragedy
Cell phone numbers, Fancy cars,
Baby tees, and Baggy jeans.
The teenage population
Has become nothing more
Then an imitation,
Of what shouldn’t be.
It started out
As a fun little mission.
But has become nothing more,
Then an annoying tradition.
Of drinking beer, and joining gangs
Cheering and playing in football games.
Smoking pot, failing class, and speeding
Way too fast.
It has come too far.
The chain can’t be broken
On and on it goes; throwing failures
Into the next generation.
-Chantelle A.G.
I write this poem because!
I write this poem because:
I have nothing else to do.
I write this poem because:
Lately I’ve been thinking of you.
I write this poem because:
For some reason you’ve been on my mind
I write this poem because:
I fear I’m starting to fall behind
I write this poem because:
My last may have been untrue.
I write this poem because:
I might start to do the things I use to.
I write this poem because:
Once I was fixed…not so broken
I write this poem because:
You’re my friend; a lucky token.
-Chantelle A.G.
A Desperate Death
I’m thirsty for your kiss.
I’m weeping for you sweet bliss.
I have nothing to offer you;
Nothing to give.
I only have love,
But that isn’t enough.
I will sit here
Pouring my self out to you!
And when your laughter leaves me dry,
I will wither up and die.
-Chantelle A.G.
When roses die
My petals match your blood
My thorns match your love
My tears match your lies
Who says roses can’t cry?
-Chantelle A. G.
You're Neither a Friend or Foe...
I hate him you know. I despise the way he treats me; my father the heart breaker. I hate that it took me five phone calls and 3 messages at least to get him to call me back. I hate that he didn't call me when my grandpa died, even though he knew. The death of his dad is what caused most of the alcoholic problems, so wouldn't he understand more than anyone how hard this is for everyone on my moms side of the family??? Wasn't it my grandpa that invited him and every one of his siblings over to the farm after his dad died? All I have wanted my entire life was to crawl up into my daddy's lap, like Montana is doing in the pictures I have of them. Instead I get tears so thick I can't see what I am typing clearly.
Everyone tells me that eventually I will have to forgive them, what they don't understand is that I have forgiven him. I could hate him so much more. I could hold him responsible for everything, except I don't. I don't blame him, or anyone for that matter. What happened happened, but that doesn't make it any less painful.
And besides, don't I deserve a morning period? Doesn't everyone deserve the feel sad and have a moment in time to pity themselves and reflect on how things could be…if only they were different? I think yes. And so every year, I usually feel like crap from October 2nd through January 1st. I guess it's no different than most people. You either love the holidays or you hate them, I just happen to hate and love them equally.
It is probably faire to say that I hate myself almost as much. Not because I caused him to leave or whatever, like I said before I don't blame anyone, but because instead of talking to someone about this, I bottle it up. I bottle it up and go through a box of Kleenex's a night practically trying to avoid any confrontation. No, I don't want people to know how truly week and pathetic I am, so when I am about to cry at school, I run to the bathroom or I bite my tongue. Leaving me, in the end, relying on my cats for comfort. Only how much comfort can a cat give? No more than an absent father I suppose.
I have so many questions running through my head about him. What color are his eyes? What's his middle name? Why doesn't he call? What did I do wrong? Because I had to have done something wrong, right? I mean, that's what I keep telling myself, because the other reason, that he doesn't call or write because he just doesn't care, is too hard to bear.
In the book After the Leaves Fall, there is a quote on page 73, "…you apologized for all the wrong things." Never before have I read a quote that pinpointed the exact emotion for me. When I do talk to my dad, he will say he is sorry for not calling or keeping in touch often enough, but it's never because he actually wants to change and repent, it's just simply to clear his conscious. Yet, every time I hear those words "I'm sorry," I am sure that he is serious this time. Sure that I will get to talk to him later on this week, like my stepdad does to his kids. Calls them all the time and they are adults now with families of their own. All but Amy, but she's 21, so she is almost on her own…
I know that it would be wrong to stay bitter for the rest of my life at him. But I am not going to lie to you all and say that I will eventually get over this all, because I can't actually promise that right now. I wish I new what I needed. Not just from him either, I don't know what I need in anything. It's like I am in this big drift. I'm lonely all the time and there doesn't seem to be a way to shake that feeling. When I read I feel better, but then the book is finished and I am left empty again. I suppose that statement up there was a little untrue. I do know what I need: God. Only I've come so far I don't know how to get him back I my life. I don't even know if I am away from him.
A part of me is angry at him. Not really angry, just confused. I don't understand how he works. Why would he take away a man so wonderful from the lives of people who need him the most just before the holidays? Why would he give someone a dad as crappy as mine? Not that I know if he is a crappy dad, because I don't know him at all. I have never questioned the things that I find myself pondering now before in my life. Which I guess is a good thing; I mean you have to know what you're missing to know that you need it right?
Having read through this the only thing I can think of now is that stupid Annie song, "It's a Hard Knock Life," or whatever. Pretty dumb of me to vent all of this in a blog. I just hope someone will read it and know what I should do…
Peace, Love, ME!
Everyone tells me that eventually I will have to forgive them, what they don't understand is that I have forgiven him. I could hate him so much more. I could hold him responsible for everything, except I don't. I don't blame him, or anyone for that matter. What happened happened, but that doesn't make it any less painful.
And besides, don't I deserve a morning period? Doesn't everyone deserve the feel sad and have a moment in time to pity themselves and reflect on how things could be…if only they were different? I think yes. And so every year, I usually feel like crap from October 2nd through January 1st. I guess it's no different than most people. You either love the holidays or you hate them, I just happen to hate and love them equally.
It is probably faire to say that I hate myself almost as much. Not because I caused him to leave or whatever, like I said before I don't blame anyone, but because instead of talking to someone about this, I bottle it up. I bottle it up and go through a box of Kleenex's a night practically trying to avoid any confrontation. No, I don't want people to know how truly week and pathetic I am, so when I am about to cry at school, I run to the bathroom or I bite my tongue. Leaving me, in the end, relying on my cats for comfort. Only how much comfort can a cat give? No more than an absent father I suppose.
I have so many questions running through my head about him. What color are his eyes? What's his middle name? Why doesn't he call? What did I do wrong? Because I had to have done something wrong, right? I mean, that's what I keep telling myself, because the other reason, that he doesn't call or write because he just doesn't care, is too hard to bear.
In the book After the Leaves Fall, there is a quote on page 73, "…you apologized for all the wrong things." Never before have I read a quote that pinpointed the exact emotion for me. When I do talk to my dad, he will say he is sorry for not calling or keeping in touch often enough, but it's never because he actually wants to change and repent, it's just simply to clear his conscious. Yet, every time I hear those words "I'm sorry," I am sure that he is serious this time. Sure that I will get to talk to him later on this week, like my stepdad does to his kids. Calls them all the time and they are adults now with families of their own. All but Amy, but she's 21, so she is almost on her own…
I know that it would be wrong to stay bitter for the rest of my life at him. But I am not going to lie to you all and say that I will eventually get over this all, because I can't actually promise that right now. I wish I new what I needed. Not just from him either, I don't know what I need in anything. It's like I am in this big drift. I'm lonely all the time and there doesn't seem to be a way to shake that feeling. When I read I feel better, but then the book is finished and I am left empty again. I suppose that statement up there was a little untrue. I do know what I need: God. Only I've come so far I don't know how to get him back I my life. I don't even know if I am away from him.
A part of me is angry at him. Not really angry, just confused. I don't understand how he works. Why would he take away a man so wonderful from the lives of people who need him the most just before the holidays? Why would he give someone a dad as crappy as mine? Not that I know if he is a crappy dad, because I don't know him at all. I have never questioned the things that I find myself pondering now before in my life. Which I guess is a good thing; I mean you have to know what you're missing to know that you need it right?
Having read through this the only thing I can think of now is that stupid Annie song, "It's a Hard Knock Life," or whatever. Pretty dumb of me to vent all of this in a blog. I just hope someone will read it and know what I should do…
Peace, Love, ME!
Le Sigh...(here we go again)
Something people seem to forget or just don't know about me is that I am extremely self conscious in EVERYTHING I do and say and even think. In my opinion I can't to anything right. I answer every question with pure uncertainty out of fear that I will actually be answering it wrong. Even when the question was asked by me.
It's not the knowledge of my insecurities that most people don't have; it's the understanding of them. And the understandings of how I deal with them. I guess my not so deepest but definitely darkest secret is that I sort of hate myself. You know how people always say if you love yourself others will love you too? I know that is true, which is why I try as hard as possible to stay positive. For instance I know that I am a good writer. I know that I have a knack for making people laugh. I know that I can sing. I know that I get a long with pretty much anyone. I know that my eyes are very pretty. I know that my family loves me and so do my friends and of course my kitty cats and puppy dog. I'm sure it doesn't stop there either.
It's just once I become completely open with a person I feel like I can no longer hide. So I start telling them everything. All of my insecurities poor out in everything I do. I criticize myself outwardly instead of mocking myself in my head. I'm not sure why. I guess that in my mind, if someone now knows my background and why I act the way I do, then they should be able to understand and be okay with my quirky dislike for self. Except, I have noticed that it often works the opposite.
Someone will nag and nag me to open up to them, and when I finally do, they don't know how to react. And I don't know when to stop, so I end up causing people to pull away from me because I'm trying so hard to hold on to them. Great friendships don't come to me often. I don't understand unconditional love from someone other than family, because all of my relationships out of my immediate relatives have been strained and I have had so many people stab me in the back and twist that knife in farther so many times that I don't even feel it when it happens anymore. Except I do.
I feel it more than the average person. When someone calls me a 'bad' name, especially a friend I break down. When a friend gives me the cold shoulder or the silent treatment, I don't know how to act besides break down into a crying fit because I don't know how long it's going to last. I have had friends not speak to me for 6 week or 6 months at a time. And let me tell you something, it sucks being the person no one wants. People say they will never do that to me, but my past shows other wise.
I am a very vulnerable person and I think people feed off that. I have never been the "leader of the pack" in any of my relationships and I think that is pretty obvious to some people and they use that to walk all over me. I wish I could say that I am sick of it and done with it. But I am not. I mean of course I am sick of it, and I want to be done with it, but I won't be able to actually end it until I stick up for myself…but some things are easier said then done, you know?
That's all for now,
Peace, Love and ME
It's not the knowledge of my insecurities that most people don't have; it's the understanding of them. And the understandings of how I deal with them. I guess my not so deepest but definitely darkest secret is that I sort of hate myself. You know how people always say if you love yourself others will love you too? I know that is true, which is why I try as hard as possible to stay positive. For instance I know that I am a good writer. I know that I have a knack for making people laugh. I know that I can sing. I know that I get a long with pretty much anyone. I know that my eyes are very pretty. I know that my family loves me and so do my friends and of course my kitty cats and puppy dog. I'm sure it doesn't stop there either.
It's just once I become completely open with a person I feel like I can no longer hide. So I start telling them everything. All of my insecurities poor out in everything I do. I criticize myself outwardly instead of mocking myself in my head. I'm not sure why. I guess that in my mind, if someone now knows my background and why I act the way I do, then they should be able to understand and be okay with my quirky dislike for self. Except, I have noticed that it often works the opposite.
Someone will nag and nag me to open up to them, and when I finally do, they don't know how to react. And I don't know when to stop, so I end up causing people to pull away from me because I'm trying so hard to hold on to them. Great friendships don't come to me often. I don't understand unconditional love from someone other than family, because all of my relationships out of my immediate relatives have been strained and I have had so many people stab me in the back and twist that knife in farther so many times that I don't even feel it when it happens anymore. Except I do.
I feel it more than the average person. When someone calls me a 'bad' name, especially a friend I break down. When a friend gives me the cold shoulder or the silent treatment, I don't know how to act besides break down into a crying fit because I don't know how long it's going to last. I have had friends not speak to me for 6 week or 6 months at a time. And let me tell you something, it sucks being the person no one wants. People say they will never do that to me, but my past shows other wise.
I am a very vulnerable person and I think people feed off that. I have never been the "leader of the pack" in any of my relationships and I think that is pretty obvious to some people and they use that to walk all over me. I wish I could say that I am sick of it and done with it. But I am not. I mean of course I am sick of it, and I want to be done with it, but I won't be able to actually end it until I stick up for myself…but some things are easier said then done, you know?
That's all for now,
Peace, Love and ME
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
