of death and shame

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i write about my mother a lot here.  i suppose it's one of the only places where i feel i can.  i don't feel guilty for bringing it up here, the subject of her death and death in general.  i don't feel ashamed of my big emotions here.  i can have them, loud and unruly behind the ineffectual whiteness of the screen.  no one knows if i am crying or not.  everyone can imagine whatever face they prefer for me to wear.  or they can look away.  many people have and i don't begrudge them for that.  it's been 4 years. eventually, people want to hear about something else. 

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i just re-read that paragraph and feel that it is a half-truth.  i often feel guilty about how much i write about my mother's death.  the last several posts here are specifically about that and i'm sure the majority of posts i've made during the last 4 years since her death are about it too or at least reference it in someway.  i look at my blog sometimes and back away from it because i don't want to be that girl who's droning on and on about her dead mama, about her broken heart, about the tragic twists of her life.  but why not?  why am i ashamed?  this shame is, perhaps, the thing that has made blogging so hard in recent years.  for awhile there i seemed to only manage the courage for it when i was drunk and disgusted with the world, drunk and disgusted with myself.  and for a moment, even i was afraid of those outbursts.  i started wondering if i'd fallen it to that weird literary alcoholism where one believes they can only write if they've had a few drinks.  i'd read back over my posts the next afternoon and feel the knife of shame in my gut but i wouldn't erase any of it.  i wanted to let it stand.  i wanted to be brave enough to endure my shame.  also (dangerously), i was attracted to being a bit of a mess, repulsive.  i was at odds with so many things and i wanted to force the issue of my pain, my disappointment, my revulsion.  i also thought the writing was simply that damn good.  i was willing to scare relatives and friends and the mothers of friends that i was in the midst of a total breakdown.  it wasn't the intention of the writing.  not at all.  but if it was the result, so be it.  i was trying to say something true.

and maybe i was unravelling a bit too.

of course i was.


2008, graduated from college.
2008, decided to end my relationship with my father.
2008, moved to Calistoga and absolutely hated it.
2008 - 2009, explored the possibility that maybe i was bipolar simply due to the fact that i could not get along in my new surroundings. this was encouraged by my partner at the time.
2009, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
2010, her cancer metastasized.
2011, my mother died.  i was 30 years old.
2011, left Calistoga and moved back to Oakland.
2012, left a 7 year relationship that had been sexless for the last 3.



there's a lot in there to fall apart about.  of all those things, my mother's death is the only thing i've really written about.  at first, her death just made everything else seem so small and irrelevant.  it was the biggest, most obvious horror.  maybe it was also the most acceptable thing to write about, despite the overwhelming public discomfort surrounding death.  no one really writes about the trauma of sexual neglect.  at least not in the first person.  not that i've seen.  and not from the female perspective of being denied touch and how wounding that is.  i'd be very interested in reading a text about that if anyone knows of something.  and i'm still afraid to write about certain things, despite just sharing that secret.  i'm afraid i'm going to make some sort of horrible, unforgivable transgression if i write about a past relationship, if i write about my father, if i tell the truth of what really happened, if i tell the whole truth about my mother, her marriages, our family, our undoing, our pain.  despite my bravery, i still sometimes feel stopped.  i censor myself.  i don't want to dump lemon juice on the wounds of others.  one of my biggest fears is hurting other people- a fear that has derailed the lives and selves of so many people.

thankfully, the only member of my family that reads here with any regularity is my sister.  at least that i'm aware of.  all my relatives on my mother's side, curious about my life as an artist, stopped reading here once the drunken 3am posts took over as the norm.  long gone are the days of beautiful paragraphs about running with my dog down highway 128, through orange and red leaves, squirrels lobbing acorns at us from the tall trees, the scent of the vineyard crush filling the air.  so idyllic.  at least if that's all anyone knows, and that was all anyone knew for a very long time about my daily life in calistoga.  i never let on about what a tortured, ignored, untouched "housewife" i'd become.  i was so ashamed of myself and the deterioration i'd allowed to happen to my own life, my own dreams.  i was ashamed of finding myself in a scenario that so horribly resembled my mother's 2nd marriage: man on the couch watching tv, woman reading a book in the other room.  i remember so clearly the night i drunkenly confessed the sin of my sexlessness to my friend, Anne, while puking in the toilet at a mutual friend's house after having gone out and had one too many greyhounds.  at that point, i'd been single about 7 months and no longer felt a responsibility to shield my ex from judgement.  the reality of what my previous life and relationship had been burned within me, an awful dirty secret.  in that moment, my shame burst forth along with all the booze i'd consumed and whatever i'd eaten that day.  unstoppable.  the next afternoon, hungover and dazed by the night's events, i felt embarrassed but also free.  someone knew.  someone knew my dirty secret and they didn't sneer at me.  she sympathized and rubbed my back.  i looked at the crust of vomit on my sequin jacket, called myself "a mess", and went home and wrote about it in my diary.

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there were more deaths than just my mother's.



there are more deaths than just the physical.


perhaps i did "act out".
perhaps i still act out.
i won't allow another death to occur where there should be only one.
i won't be another girl burning her papers on the back porch, afraid of their power to incriminate.


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writer problems

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i need to start over, perhaps. 

i need a different set of rules (or maybe no rules at all) when it comes to this place, when it comes to words on a page, when it comes to reaching out to other human beings through these electronic waves.

i've had this little sandbox of mine for so long, this blog. the last few months it's become increasingly hard to write here and i'm not sure why.  i want to write here.  i miss having a daily love affair with my blog and want to rekindle my fervor. walking home from the grocery store this evening, i agonized over why it's been so hard for me to come here, to type out the words...  and i think it's because i'm judging the whole enterprise by what this blog has been and not allowing for what it could be.  i'm not allowing for change and so it's become stagnant.

maybe i needed a break for awhile too.  maybe i needed to step away from the out-pour.  maybe i needed a bit of privacy.  everyone needs to curl up under the covers some times and just hide from life.  i'm no different.  perhaps that's all i've really been doing by not writing here: claiming a space of silence for myself, allowing myself a deep, abiding privacy and quietude.

some explorations are necessarily made under lock and key, away from the eyes and ears of the world, in total darkness, in total silence, under the sheets, without words, without record, without apology.  i've largely enjoyed my silence. still, it isn't me to not write.  it is such a huge part of who i am and how i live.  there is the diary, yes, and there always will be but the writing i do there is entirely different from what lands in public spaces.  a different impulse is responsible for bringing me to this electric square of light and a different urge is satisfied when i type.  a different demon is exorcised when i publish my thoughts here. 

i need to just let this space evolve.  evolve or die.  the strictures must be chopped away and i need to hold on to the fact that this place was always intended to be a place where i could say whatever i wanted, without fear and without judgement.  it's always been meant to be a play-space.  it's unhelpful for me to judge my life and self and writing NOW by what i wrote BEFORE.  i need to let go of the writer i used to be and nurture the writer i am now. i'm not who i once was.  the temperature of my entire world has changed and, when i look back, certain days feel like total fictions. 

how do i set myself free from what my own practice has been?  how do i stop holding up current projects to the expectations set down by previous accomplishments?  how do i write without thinking at all about what i've written before?  how do i begin again?  how do i start anew?  because that's exactly what needs to happen.


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let me lay a little judgement down, let me cast my questions out

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write. 

don't write for the public, just write. 

don't write for the public, just write.

don't write for the public, just write. 

write as if no one is watching.  

especially your mother's family.

this is what i tell myself tonight as my fingers reach for the keys.  i tell myself: please do not try for eloquence or an even keel.  do not reach toward that horrible expectation to be fucking fair and unbiased and full of benevolence.  i am not a god and don't want the responsibility of one.  though as far as i can tell, gods are really just dead-beats who somehow managed to turn the abuse of neglect in to "mystery".   maybe being a god is the freest thing an entity can be?  still, i prefer the heat of my flesh to the cold skin of aloof perfection.  i turn back through the pages of my ravaged and bent diary and find so many insights to cling to.  and not simply of my own either.  i've recorded the things friends have said to me.  beautiful, intelligent, talented, cultured women who i am stunned by and proud to know. i thankfully had the good sense to write down the advice they gave me and the assessments they made.  whether it be a day ago or a year ago, their words are a balm and a warm hug.  just like everyone else i possess a tremendous talent for convincing myself that i'm Right.  :)  luckily, i am a diarist and can prove to myself otherwise.  my wet and trembling eyes skate hungrily across the thin blue lines that carry my handwriting.  i read page after page.  the ink functions as a mirror.  at times my script becomes wild and loopy as my emotions build and gather steam.  other times, i am controlled.  my script is measured and small, sure of the curve of an N and the beautiful slant of a T.  in the diary i write in cursive so that i can write as fast as possible.  

i will never be able to write fast enough.

what i wanted to talk about tonight is that marriage seems largely like a bunch of bullshit but doesn't that make me sound bitter? does it make me sound envious?  i assure you i am not envious of married people and if any married person wants to know why that might be, i suggest you take a moment and look at how YOU speak about marriage.  y'all don't exactly seem to be a fount of five star reviews.  just sayin.  y'all speak ATROCIOUSLY about what marriage entails.  you use the worst language imaginable to speak about your spouse.  it's sickening.  it really is.  not to mention totally offensive.  WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL MARRIED IF THAT'S HOW YOU REALLY FEEL?  seriously???  why are you married?  and please don't give me that "for the kids" crap.  we are all so beyond that degraded, abusive, deformed logic.  the desire to have children itself is, in our time and place, a pretty thin reason in and of itself to wed.  i myself do not intend to procreate.  i have absolutely no desire to be a mother.  i do not want to bear children.  in fact, i am doing my best to ensure that my particular bloodline has the least chance of survival possible (and if you met some of my family members, you'd understand why).  aside from that glaring bit of judgement, i simply do not find babies to be at all compelling.  i never have.  i have more to offer this planet and humanity than my biological capabilities.  i do not think that raising children would be a worthwhile way to spend my time.  not at all.  and why does everyone seem to throw logic out the fucking window when it comes to this topic???  as if EVERYONE needs to have a baby???  for all you know, i might end up being the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD!  but i suppose it's the same dumbass glitch that makes us all believe that, upon someone's death, even the monsters among us go to heaven.  because i'm not talking about the waiters, artists, and chefs i frequently hang out with, i'm talking about regular people in the suburbs.  all the so-called Christians who esteem the institution of marriage.  y'all should hear how your respective mate speaks about you when you aren't in the room.  better yet, maybe you should go to your room and think about how you speak about your mate.  use it as a mirror.  look at how ugly you've become.  look at what an ugly proposition you've presented marriage to be.  think about all the things you deny your counterpart.  think about all the rules you've wrapped around them and your association with one another.  all the little signals you expect to see as PROOF that he or she really loves you.  i am becoming convinced that it isn't love that most people want, it's protection of their fabulously tiny egos.  as i move forward i realize more and more that i am simply uninterested in a conventional life.  i am not interested in being involved in what others have termed a "real" relationship.  if the utter shit y'all are describing is a "real" relationship, i prefer to play house, thank you.

i know 3 couples, maybe, who seem to truly love and respect each other.  their love is an encouragement to me that maybe something different from what i've known exists.  i don't want to be embittered or smug.  of course i want to believe that i belong somewhere and that at some point in my life i will be appreciated.  why do i need it to be "forever"?  nothing is forever.  we all march toward our demise.  death is not a fiction.  we age every day.  we will all find  another white hair in the mirror tomorrow.  while i'm here and while i am able, i want to create as much joy and passion as possible.  i don't need someone to promise the rest of their life to me in order to appreciate the absolutely stunning beauty of their humanity.  the rest of a person's life is a huge thing.  who am i to dictate the terms of it or feel entitled to make rules regarding it?  love is not subject to scarcity.  there is not a limit to how much love a person can feel.  there is not a limit to how much beauty a person can behold and appreciate.  and pain will come regardless so let's just get over our egos and let people be who they are.  if anything, that's what i want.  i want to be myself.  i want you to be yourself. i don't want to be a parent.  i don't want to suppress another human being.  i want a man that i might love to come back to me freely at night.  i don't want a man to lay next to me out of a sense of obligation or pathetic fear.  i've had that and it is torture.  it is torture to lay next to the sleeping body of someone and know, for a fact, that they are only there because it has become expected, because it has become comfortable.  i would rather risk my heart being broken over and over than ever suffer that shit again.  why should anyone think my heart too fragile to withstand the risk?  i'm an orphan, guys.  we're tough. and like most tough motherfuckers, we are capable of tremendous love.  we are capable of ushering forth tremendous compassion, beauty, understanding, patience, and appreciation for the hardships and horrors inherent to humanity.  what i am no longer capable of (and i hope my siblings aren't either) is allowing another person or social expectation to limit the amount of pleasure, beauty, and love that exists in my life.  if someone loves me for a day or a year or 10 years, it is a gift so long as we are both being ourselves.  i don't need an ordination to know it or a tradition to approve it.  my mother would high-five me and kiss my forehead and hug me so tight and say, "little girl, you better suck every bit of joy you can out of this experience".  i know because she said it to me often enough when she was alive.  she knew my heart.  she knew how soft it is, how eager to please and comfort.  she worried that it would be taken advantage of.  it has been, in horrible ways, but i am not afraid of testing other waters.  i know how to be myself.  i know my own death will find me.  i am afraid of it finding me too soon.  i am afraid of it finding me in the midst of some unreasonable fear or expectation that prevents me from knowing the world in all it's sorrowful glory. i am afraid of it finding me before i kiss the weary eyes of another human being who has also been subject to the wrath of this world's winds and retributions.

fin.

fear

yesterday at work, my friend jamal asked me if i ever think of putting a book together.  i think about it on a regular basis but only as something which may or may not exist in my nebulous, dreamy future.  it's always been a fantasy but ever since i wrote my letter to kate i've been thinking about end points for my writing.  i've been thinking that maybe some pieces should have a different outlet than this blog.  i mean, i tend to think of my blog as a performance space so it is definitely fitting to test drive certain artworks and poems here.  it is definitely part of the performance itself to engage in certain levels and modes of exposure, to move quickly and attempt bravery inside writing.  but the thought of a new form of publication is actually a bit scary for me and i wonder why that is?  i'm not at all afraid of rejection.  i've been rejected enough to have built up a very thick skin when it comes to that and do not take it personally in the least.  in fact, most of the time i receive a rejection letter for an artistic endeavor, i usually end up agreeing that i wasn't the best fit for the project.  but writing is so much different from my visual practice in one key way: i don't know how to end a piece of writing.  i can go on and on in the folds and flips of a poem.  i can go one writing endlessly.  hence my appreciation for the blog format.  i have no clue where The End actually is or how to make one.  maybe there is no end to writing at all?  maybe an End is totally arbitrary and i should simply allow myself to keep working on this 6,000 word secret poem of mine until the end of the year , reign it in, begin the horrible process of editing, and then begin something else?  at very least, volume 2 of the same, long, dirty poem? 

i guess i just put so much stock in writing, so much faith in words that i want to be able to organize something as beautifully as possible and i have no clue how to do that.

i'm afraid of being a bad writer. 

letter to a friend

dear KATE,

most of the time i'm not really sure what i'm doing.  what The Work is and is not.  it all feels like The Work to me.  it all feels like a world i'm creating, like a world i'm mustering-  me and my spills of ink.

language is a crazy thing.  and writing.  and poetry.  i'm not even sure if poetry is what i write.  what are these snippets that come out of me?  these fragments of a life, of a human being, of wishes and dreams.

sometimes i feel like maybe i'm doing something wrong by giving away so much of my writing here on the BLOG.  i worry that i'm going about all this the wrong way and that i should actively try for "real" publication, that i'm somehow selling myself short by not trying to be published.  i'm just too impatient for all that at this point in my life.  i like the instant connection.  i like the rush of blood. 

i kinda hate the word BLOG too.  i definitely hate the word BLOGGER.  i do not title myself as such.  i tend not to think of this space in those terms.  like you, i see it as a notebook.  or better yet, as the white cube.  i see it as a gallery space that is entirely open to hosting any performance, any image i want to display.  in some ways, this is definitely where the real work is done.  or, at least, begins.  some of the best writing i've ever done is nestled here, in electric light, lost in the backward reaching scroll of the blog format.  i don't know if i will ever go back and fish them out from the messy wad of text i've coughed up here.  maybe one day i'll be strong enough for that.  maybe one day i'll be Writer enough for that.  i'm so impressed with you for being able to do it and i can't wait to read Heroines.

but for all my worry and ambivalence, i'm delighted by this little playground of mine.  these games of identity.  the shifting nature of the Self reinforced by the shifting nature of language.  words make the world.  we build our own images.  we erect our own mirrors, our own temples, our own sloppy signs.  not everything is accurate and maybe it doesn't need to be? 

for a long time i was obsessed by the idea of accuracy.  i wanted to be as accurate as possible.  needed to be. otherwise, i felt like a liar.  then one day, i noticed the difference between accuracy and honesty and i chose to move in the direction of honesty instead.  sometimes fogginess, sloppiness, sketchiness is the most honest expression there is.  the diary.  there's something about it that is so barbed, so dangerous.  the potential for danger, the potential for making a mess, the probability that a mess will be made is so attractive...  the taboo of keeping secrets, the danger inherent to teaching females how to read and write.  who knows what the bitch might say?  i don't want to be calm.  i don't want to be measured.  at least not when it comes to writing and not when it comes to art and definitely not when it comes to my own life.  sometimes i think my diary is the best work i have ever done.  it is where everything begins.  all my work starts there, on the cool blue lines of my private notebook.  it is my life's work.  daily, i reach for my pen and, daily, i tell the truth.  it isn't an easy thing to do.  to tell the truth, i mean.  especially about myself.  there are times when the mirror i create in the pages of my diary is quite brutal.  i have felt such massive shame.  but it is a necessary and good thing. i could only watch myself write the same words over and over for so long before i had to act, before i had to cry out against the life i had allowed to spring up all around me, before i had to cut it down.  i cut it down with my pen.  i cut it down with your books by my bedside.

anais nin's diary changed my life.  it's still changing my life.  we've talked about her so many times-  her undeniable courage and dedication.  i think of her when i get afraid.  i think of her when i don't feel equal to the challenges in front of me.  i think of her laying in bed with her diary, the same way i lay with mine, scribbling a world in to existence.  a world she needed, a world she preferred.  i think you're right that she would've kept a blog.

it is brave work you do.  your example has helped me become capable of my own bravery.  and not just bravery on the page either.  if it has been your Work this year, i am thankful to have had access to it.   the world you are building encourages my faith.  i read your words and gather strength.

all my love,
angela

in reference to all that needs to be referenced

i am not interested in spelling anything out or defining a fucking thing.

the meaning i make is my own. the meaning you make is your own. if the meaning you make comes from the meaning i make then our meanings are siblings. sometimes they will love each other. sometimes they will pull each other's hair. sometimes they will grow to become sworn enemies. the cycle is the cycle and as i proceed i see that reason fails. reason fails but the effort toward it is noble, as is the effort toward passion.

these are observations.

the year is winding down.

today on the train i started reading my diary from a year ago. it is absolutely amazing and glaring how different i am today than i was a year ago. a parent burned to ash will do that to you.

so much has changed. so much has remained the same. so much needs to take root and so much needs to be rooted out.

you have no idea how badly i want to caress the side of your face. my cold hand aches to move gently against your warm cheek.

"cold hands, warm heart" becca reminds me.

writing and life and my writing-life

funny... now that i'm not tucked away in the countryside and spend most days at work in san francisco, i am a bit more aware of this space, this blog. i log in to my account and stare at the white rectangle where i am supposed to type, the space i've laid down so many words before, so much yearning and confusion, so many attempts at self-knowledge, and feel such a heavy ambivalence. key-stroke after key-stroke, in the hope of unearthing even the smallest clue as to what direction i should be moving in, some sort of clarity, some sort of assurance, and now this... this streak of days where i just stare stare stare at the white or, worse, fill it up with text and then log out without posting it when i like having the document of my struggle. i like that that's pretty much what this blog is all about now. it's just weird, i guess... by moving back to a more populated place where i run in to friends and acquaintances, both personal and professional, on a regular basis my blog actually comes up in conversation. it's sort of weird. like my alter-ego just had her "true" identity exposed. very much like looking under batman's mask (not that i'm performing any sort of heroism here), ripping away the warm black shield of relative anonymity. it's been interesting. i mentioned it to my friend freya (who reads my blog and we discuss it's contents sometimes and i feel really thankful for that and the massive presence of art/lit/meaning in our friendship) and told her that in some very deep , very serious ways i feel like the people who read my blog know me infinitely better than people who don't. there are people in my flesh-based reality who can't stand the blog. they do not read it. they've tried and it either makes them uncomfortable or sad or they simply don't want to see this side of me. i am reminded of another anais nin quote right now as i am typing this:

The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.

i haven't made up my mind how i feel about that statement yet but something about it caught my attention in a very forceful way. maybe i feel that i am also guilty of this? maybe i feel there are people around me who are guilty of this and it hurts me? and also, getting to know someone in a meaningful way takes time... and sometimes i wonder if/fear that this blog might do a disservice to that meandering road of friendship; the nebulous curiosity and intrigue that is so much fun and integral to a relationship of substance. but then another Nin quote comes to mind:

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.

in so many ways, this blog lays a lot of my cards out on the table. i've chosen to live that way. i've chosen to be this honest. but maybe providing "knowledge" only increases my "mystery", as it were?

i'm being a big fraidy cat, i know. and i'm letting my fear of saying too much or saying the wrong thing hold too much sway lately. i've been writing like crazy in my journal. every day, every day, every day. and i still magically find that inner zone of devilish trance-like fluidity where poetry becomes possible and i am able to bang out a few sentences, sometimes a few paragraphs, and write with the full comfort of no one standing over my shoulder.

i read this late last night (thanks for the link, rebecca!) and it calmed me so much. i read it and i thought: just work. fuck it.

if i end up embarrassing myself here it definitely won't be because i expressed myself badly. or suppose did? so what? i'd rather risk saying too much than never enough. "never enough" is not where art lives, not where meaning lives, not where passion lives and those 3 things are the 3 most important things in my current world-view. i'd rather be here and give you this crazy shit to read. you honor me by spending time with all these words. feel free to mention this blog when you run in to me if you feel like it. this world and the other are not separate. i'd like to see them gel.

the regular fears

my internet connection has been failing off and on for the past week and half and has become totally unreliable. i called customer service and they let me know our modem is bad and so a man is coming out today to check it out and hopefully give us a new one. the upside to this is that yesterday after posting about kate's book, my internet was down all day- effectively hog tying me and keeping me from deleting the post... which i sorta wanted to do and was in a panic all day long, waiting for my phone to ring, and going over and over in my head fear-driven conversations and how to explain the difference between art and life, how to use one to inform the other, and that creative license and honesty are an imperative of our times, etc etc etc. ha!

and then i started thinking about lady gaga. yep. she is a recent fascination of mine. and i thought how a lot of people in this country seem to think she's the spawn of Satan and, looking at her work, listening to her songs, and paying attention to her message of self-acceptance and self-love... i really have no clue where these attacks on her are coming from. it's one thing not to like her work, a totally other to label her as "poison for the minds of our children". and i thought: here's this 24 years old girl that has somehow managed to acquire enough strength and stamina to endure such a massive onslaught of hatred and malice, and here i am, a 29 year old girl, fretting about a "review" i wrote about a book i love and posted on my personal blog. a blog which doesn't get a ton of traffic anyway. at least i don't think it does- i disabled the tracker on it months and months and months ago.

but there it is- the thing every person needs to overcome if they expect to be a writer (in the public sense of the word): getting beyond the fear that you will anger or embarrass your family, and speak from a site of truth and strength. let come what may. this is a very very VERY hard thing to do. very.

i love my family. of course i want them to be proud of me, the work i do, and the person i am. we've been through a lot of shit together and have come out on the other side with a deeper understanding of what it is to be resilient, capable, and how to truly practice forgiveness. still, there are some stories that need to be told. they need to be told because silence seems to have (strangely) become the dominant mode of our era. these stories we have need to be shared. and when i stumble across a piece of writing that i am able to see my own life story in, i feel such a huge comfort. i become stronger. i become more confident, more able to not only stand up for the rights of others, but also for my own. i also become more able to forgive, to see the other side. silence prevents forgiveness.

and so, i must find a way to let my words and work keep their wings. i must find a way to shake off fear, run right through it, and just keep digging digging digging. it is a strange world and a strange life and our stories have such value, such power, such music in them. i want to be strong enough to let that fact sit on high and not apologize for the life i have lived and the life i have found as a result.