Redemption '08

I remember earnestly exposing my scars for the first time. I was merely 13 years old, naive with illusions of sincere love. We sat in a blank room filled with instruments. His music thickened the air; each note enticed me further into our young infatuation.

After each song we would have sober confessions. I openly admitted my most troubling vice. He asked if he could see the flesh proof of my self hatred. Without hesitation I rolled up my sleeve and stretched my arm out toward his open hands. My palm faced the ceiling as my cheeks grew rosy with shame.

He removed one hand from my arm and touched my cheek, forcing me to gaze at those metallic grey eyes. Without breaking eye contact he put two fingers onto the two inch scab. His eyes swelled with tears as he said, "It breaks my heart that you feel such intense pain that you're driven to hurt yourself like this."

He had such a deep sense of compassion towards me and it dwelled in him for no reason other than the Holy Spirit inside his heart.

He was the vessel God used to hold my arm steady as He ran two fingers across my scars, calling me redeemed.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

A Siren's Cry

I'm not sure anyone understands what it feels like to look into the mirror and literally hate the persistently shallow grimace I refer to as my face. I hate my brassy hair that never lays correctly. I hate my scarlet blemishes that stain my forehead. I hate my thick, untamable eyebrows. I hate my shit colored eyes. I hate my random freckles. I hate my hooked shaped nose. I hate my chapped lips. I hate my uneven collar bone. I hate my plump arms. I hate my ever-growing waistline. I hate my dimpled thighs. I hate my round calfs. I hate my stubby toes. I hate that I have to shave every inch of my body just to stay presentable to the general public. I hate that number on the scale. 
I hate my unrelenting hatred for myself. 


Moreover, I'm not sure anyone understands what it's like to keep this dissatisfaction to myself. I constantly find myself desperate to explain this deep revulsion to anyone that is willing to listen. All the while I am terrified of being judged accordingly. The thought of being that girl horrifies me to no end. And so I mention my vices but quickly change my mind. And the subject. 


I'm not sure I know how to look into the mirror in an estimable fashion. There is nothing I want more than to love myself the way I've felt you love me. But it's an incessant battle that will never go away. It's tenacious; nearly stronger than my will. It catches me by surprise and is triggered by nothing more than a glance at my reflection. 


When I was ten I was granted permission to join a club. It was called Merely Mortal, and I was only permitted to become a member if I knew what the words meant. Merely meaning only, simply, or just so. Mortal meaning human; often compared to and falling short to a divine being. Merely Mortal: only, simply and just human. 


As debilitating as my opinion of myself can be, I'm only human. I suppose the beauty of my mortality is that I'm sanctioned to hate myself and the things that I do, but still learn from it. Essentially, it doesn't matter in what regard I hold myself. There's always someone or something out there that looks to me in a higher esteem. I guess that's what keeps a person going, right?


Yours until the pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

Genesis 1:27

I imagine God standing in a kitchen, looking silly in an apron. While He gracefully removed all the proper utensils from the cabinets, He hummed a song of love. He took each and every ingredient, measured it to perfection, and added it into the mixing bowl with great care. He spooned the batter into the pan gently and was careful not to spill. He placed it in the oven, and patiently waited for the timer to ding so He could remove His creation and gaze at it with eyes of wonder. 

“You are beautiful.” 

His piece is an acquired taste. One can hardly grow accustomed to it’s crass behavior. It strives for perfection, but always falls short. It wants to be brave and courageous. It seeks approval. It’s motives are unknown to not just it’s peers, but also to itself. It question’s the ingredients God used, and talks to Him with doubts and uncertainties about it’s character. 

God created me. But the magic about it all is that only He knows why He used pecans instead of walnuts. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Excuses

I haven't been here in a while. I mean, yes, I have been to this specific location quite regularly for a long time. I've sat in my black and white bean-bag chair, decorated with hundreds of circles, making me feel as though I'm sitting on eyeballs. I've stared at this blank page for hours, and I've tried composing something mildly interesting probably a dozen times this week alone. But I haven’t been here. My heart hasn’t been present in my mundane writings. I’ve been perusing it out of habit; writing out of haste. I’ve been acting the way a writer should not. 

But then perhaps, I have an incorrect notion of how a writer should act. Am I lesser of a writer because I feel everything different? Am I wrong for feeling numb or simply angry? Everything feels jumbled up in my head, and the words refuse to arrange themselves properly on paper. The way it should be is a perfect picture in my heart and mind. But the correlation between my invention and the world’s truth is somehow lost in translation. 

There are not enough words in the extensive english language for me to describe the vast amount of things that have occurred in the past few months. There's been death, injury, sickness, and hardship. But there's also been life, growth, revelation and a different kind of wealth. 


I work with three little miracles three times a week. I have the honor and privilege to watch these children grow into their own people. I received bad news yesterday while I was working. Once I got off the phone with my mother, cousin, and boss, I took in a deep breath and looked into the eyes of the lives that just began seventeen months ago. After a whine and a giggle or two, I picked up Katie and she blew me a kiss. I thought to myself, "Out of all the places I could be, I'm so glad I got the news while I was here." I kissed Katie's forehead and took her into the kitchen and moved on with my day. 


There have been certain things I've learned to handle with grace. That being one of them. That's something worth writing about. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

I cry more for fiction than I do for Real Life

I escape into books. They move me in a way that reality doesn't. They manipulate my feelings and sneak into my thoughts. I launch myself into an intentional state of psychosis. I become attached to these fictional people. I learn their quirks, see their mistakes. Sometimes I'm baffled with their ability to handle situations with calmness and grace. Why I can't be like that? 


Then I remember that as much as I would sometimes love to be a character in a book, I am not. I am a sixteen year old girl that follows a mundane life. My daily struggles are mainly decisions regarding lunch or who to bring to Senior Ball. There is no heroism in real life. There is no climax. There is no magic. There is no struggle to win. 


What makes a great story is the incessant battle to live, and how the hero managed to come out on the other side. Either that, or a tragedy; in which case, the hero does not survive. 


However, I am not faced with a struggle between life and death. I am faced with a struggle relating to my indifference towards life. The boredom that is constantly tugging at my heart relates back to my desire need for adventure. 


I almost feel as if my life isn't my own, and until it is, my mind will thrive in a realm out of reach from the world that my body partakes in.


But the truth is quite the contrary. One day I will live my fairy tale, I will solve the mystery, I will learn to love, I will change a life, I will save a life, I will conquer all of my fears, I will feel something beyond anxiety, I will be larger than life.
I will do and be something grand. 


One day I won't turn to a book to fulfill the need of an adventure. Rather, I will grow weary because of my exciting life, and desire a good read. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie 

The Bucket List

• Hike
• Make an alias and disappear for 3 days 
• Give a stranger $100
• Make a recipe
• Make art
• Make love
• Perform
• Stay in the city for 3 days
• Live the night life
• Hot air balloon 
• Throw a tantrum 
• Turn eyes
• Spit like a man
• Horseback riding on the beach
• Cruise 
• Disney world
• Harry Potter Land
• Meet Meg & Dia 
• Just drive
• Steal something
• Attend 33 County Fairs
• Go stargazing 
• Run away
• Rent a flat in London until the lease is up
• Be hypnotized 
• Adopt vegetarianism for a month
• See the sun rise, and the sun set on the same day
• Learn to play piano
• Own a pig
• Fall asleep on the hills
• Have a food fight in my own home
• Just say 'yes'
• Plant a tree in memory of someone (something)
• 3 Country festivals
• Hold a Koala Bear
• Climb a volcano 
• Disrupt rich people 
• Pretend to be a superhero 
• Skinny dip
• Milk a cow
• Visit South America
• Sleep in a castle ruin
• Write a story
• Write my story
• Take a pottery class
• Go fishing
• Quote movies in serious moments

Inadvertently Reaching You.

I bet you're sitting on your air bed, your computer chair, on the couch, somewhere, with your gorgeous blue eyes glistening in the light, tears staining your face, telling yourself life is unfair and cursing the God that's always done right by you. 


Everything turned black and white the moment you rushed into my house. I closed my eyes and time stopped and I asked God what was happening. I begged Him to make it all stop. It broke my heart that I broke yours. When I opened my eyes, I was dumbstruck, because you were still there. Your hands shaky, your eyes heavy, your heart racing. 


I had a moment of wonder when we were sitting, talking, challenging one another. I looked at your sweaty forehead; it was blemished and far from perfect. I saw your long, dark eyelashes, and fought the urge to brush away the loose one. I watched your mouth quiver, turn to stone, look defeated. I looked and saw your undeniable beauty. I saw the person I could never attain. You're not mine. 

You sat there, knowing the battle had been lost, and claimed Shakespeare to be stupid.

To which I looked back and said, "Shakespeare wasn't stupid; he wrote tragedies. He was a genius." 

The only thing I knew to do at that point was to consult God who never audibly answers me. 


You weren't there to see me once you walked away. Don't you think for a single second that I don't care because if you were God and saw from His omniscient view, you'd know that your words destroyed me. I can write how I saw you, but there aren't enough words in the vast english dictionary  to describe how I saw me. 


I know I confided in you. I know I have things to work on. I know I'm not perfect. 
I know you confided in me. I know you have things to work on. I know you're not perfect. 


I promise there is something better for you. 
And I promise it's not me. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie