Sacred Heart Garden

As few of you know, I have waged war upon the ten-thousand square foot beast that is The Sacred Heart Garden (or known as Mom’s Garden, THE Garden, “Oh, fuckinghellno,” The Weedy Hell-hole, or The Reason we Hate Saturdays.) Why? For this reason.

On Tuesday I sat up and wrapped my arms around my stomach and did not like the way it felt. I began to wish I was one of those people who could commit and go to the gym. Who had the willpower to get their desired body. It was at that moment of self-pity that I just so happened to glance behind me, looking out my window doors, and saw The Weedy Hell-hole. It clicked, like someone flicking me on the back of the head: Your gym, and the greatest workout, is right there and it is in the sun. I decided right then that I was going make that garden Better Home and Gardens cover story worthy.
I immediately went to HEB and got the supplies I would need to stand the heat: five bags of ice, a pack of Gatorade, and two gallons of sport water. Then I went to the local garden store and got what I’d need to revive the garden: organic bug repellent, organic plant disease prevent and kill. When I came home I told my mom that I’d need to borrow the truck (or Diesel Beast). I got the large ice-chest, loaded it up, and put it along with the garden supplies in the truck. This was just Phase One of my plan. Phase Two? Super soak the ground to make the weeds come up easily and attack the garden with such mighty vengeance to make Thor seem demure. It worked. Those weeds didn’t stand a chance.
I still have a long, long, long way to go  but I am winning. I could go on to write about the deep emotional reason I am doing this but I think I will write that post when the garden is finished. For now, it is because I want to be more athletic looking and to have applicable strength again.

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How I Survived.

Not many of you know that I tried to commit suicide two weeks ago but I didn’t. In the instant I tried to breathe in water, I was reminded of everything I loved, of every person I loved. It was their voices, faces, the memory of their hugs and words encouragement against my depression that really pulled my head above water. They have always been the ones that have kept me going no matter how low on fuel I am.

“You are my best friend.”

“You are amazing. You are incredible. You are worth a bazillion everything.”

“I’ve heard of you and I don’t know who Norman Reedus is so in my imaginary world you’re way more famous than he is.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“You are intelligent and talented and beautiful. In short, you are amazing. Never forget that.”

These people believe I am amazing but the truth is, they are more amazing than I will every be. They have been my wings when I needed them the most. They have never feared my depression, self-hatred, or my lack of belief in their words. However, from this point onward I will believe, like you do, that I am worth bazillion everything, I am amazing, I am intelligent, and that it will be okay and that I am loved.   

Later, I decided I would share my story last November with  My friend, Dese’Rae L. Stage. During this interview for Live Through This, I was having trouble remembering things I wanted to say and she said, “You’ll remember it when we’re done.” She was right, I remembered more what of what I wished I had said. I remembered what I was afraid to say because it might be triggering for some. I remembered the feelings I had the night I tried to kill myself.

I have always thought that depression felt like ice wrapping itself around my shoulders and knife in my chest. Except the  knife would never reach my heart nor would the ice fully cover me even though I wanted them to.
I didn’t want to be alive. I didn’t want to have other people’s thoughts and wishes in my head anymore. I didn’t want to think of the hundreds of ways that I failed. I didn’t want to let people know just how badly my rape had hurt me. I had felt that way for a while but that night was the final straw.
Everything ached and I was having trouble breathing. I was convincing myself out of hurting myself, like I had promised my family. I promised I wouldn’t cut. What I decided to do was far worse: I began to fill my bathtub with only one motive.  I was going to drown myself in the one place I often sought comfort. What was ironic was that as I watch the bathtub fill, I tried talking myself out of doing it but I was failing because of memories. Memories of bad test scores, disappointment from my parents and teachers, my embarrassment, and being raped by someone I thought loved me thus making me unworthy of love of that kind. All of them at once like a very ugly movie. It was enough. I was done. I pulled myself above the water and here I am.

I wish I had remembered to say that.

Meet Buttons.

I have never owned a cat. Well, a living cat but four months ago my sister found a feral mother and her kittens. With some of my help, we took them in and one of them just so happened to look like a toy I have had since I was one. So we named this little kitten Buttons.

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My sister was determined that I should have this kitten because of the rough time I was going through. She knew that this sweet little tomcat would help me just as the toy Buttons helped me as a child.
At first we thought Buttons was a girl and at around four months…. we found out she was a he.

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It makes sense because the toy Buttons was a boy as well. I like to joke that the toy was incarnated because of the rough time I was going through, like the toy needed to take action. It’s working. Day by day I feel a little bit better when I spend time with him. It helps that he snuggles like a dog and loves to sleep near me. He isn’t just a snugglebug, though. Buttons is very playful and will attack my arm when he wants to play. His favorite conquest is my St. Michael’s medal I wear on my scapular.

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Buttons is my sweet, playful snugglebug.

Action.

Something was pointed out to me, by one of my sisters no less, as to why people may be ignoring it [two posts back.] She didn’t say it like that but her question was, “What would posting that solve? Imagine him reading it. What would you want his response to be? What do you think it would be? I replied, “[It’s] Not really about him reading it, more of  the people around him. Letting them know that someone they put on a pedestal is someone who would say something like this.”Her question was a valid and a good one. Another person said, “People would rather not deal with what they don’t understand or what they don’t want to understand.” These eased my anger and put me in a place of reflection and I came to a few conclusions.
I have very little feeling about how He responds it because I have learned that it is best not to carry the opinions of those who hurt you, but if I had to want him to have a reaction, I would want him to feel ashamed. Also, I am done being seen as the ‘evil one’  because people those around him only have half of the story. Anyone capable of saying things like that to a sexual abuse victim is not a white knight. Reasoning, why do I care about his friends? I wouldn’t want anyone to be friends with someone like that. I am also tired of awful people being praised. You wouldn’t praise someone who slapped and already wounded person, would you? I’m trying to change the way things work, I’m being the change I want to see.
It enrages and saddens me that people aren’t helping. Lack of understanding isn’t an excuse anymore; my mother doesn’t truly understand everything I’m going through but she is still trying to help, she isn’t be ignorant. The true issue is people not wanting to understand and to change because people are afraid of change. The more boastful they are, the least likely they are to actually help, but they continue to boast. I had already learned this but I only believed it when I asked for help yesterday and I’m not one of those Facebook users who posts, “Share this if…” I prefer action. Action like calling-out an asshole who criticizes someone going through PTSD from rape.

The action, the change, I want is for the true good people to win instead of those who are two-faced.

 

Purple

Tonight, while I waited for my sister to pick me up, I sat on a bench and held a purple buttercup flower. They are among my favorite wild flowers because they are adorable and smell like, well, a Reese’s. I held it because of how delicate it was. The goal was not to crush it.

Looking at how perfect it was, how unblemished and okay. The lesson was to be gentle with things that have what I do not, to not envy or feel rage towards or feel jealousy. The lesson was to show myself that is okay to trust. To some, it may seem odd to see it in a simple flower but hear me out: You can trust that those flowers will be soft, so very easily breakable, purple in color and smell like candy.

You can trust. It is okay to trust. Trusting will not inherently bring you pain. To trust is one of the bravest things you can do and it’s also one of the most forgiving. Being cruel and bitter isn’t bravery at all, no—bravery is being vulnerable. To be vulnerable is to begin healing and understanding that, yes, awful things can happen but not letting the awful things become your identity and eradicate you of kindness and hope.

I didn’t crush the flower. I will not lose hope or who I am.