Thursday, February 8, 2018

Monday, January 9, 2017

What The Walls Wrote

And suddenly, the room went silent. 

She could still hear the gentle closing of a French door, the tumbling footsteps & uplifted voices from above, streams of long dark hair and eyelashes, blonde curls & eager, grasping eyes, that would fade in a matter of hours. 

Business would continue as usual. The festivities of glitter and bows, pictures, videos and thank you letters the only reminder of what seemed like an open door to a world filled with warmth, weight, children's breath and beating hearts. 

She would go back to the basement, the humidifier's purr blurring out the words "I love you and we'll see you soon." She knows how far away soon truly is, that sometimes it's the drop of a penny in a wishing well, the wait by the train track, the silence of the telephone, an unopened letter. 

She knows how "soon" is not a measurement of time, and with time, there are no guarantees. 

She will stop, listen to the stillness of a spoon clanking in a coffee mug, her own heartbeat, the hands of a clock, close her heavy lids, curl into her own chest, smile to God and realize....

She is just alone, not lonely. 

And suddenly, the walls erupt with applause. 


Yours Truly,
MourningGlory ❤️️


Tuesday, November 29, 2016

A Thank You

In the words of Adele, "Hello, how are you? It's so typical of me to talk about myself; I'm sorry. I hope that you're well."

And it's true. I really, really do care about you. Life is overwhelming as always, full of decisions like marbles falling on cold tile I cannot scoop back up. But life isn't in sepia anymore. It is a rainbow I am reaching for with stronger arms every day. 

Before I try to start promising posts , telling my story at the moment, or describing my current mood, I just wanted to say thank you. 

I am a complete mess. Dirty. Laundry undone. Dishes left in a sink of lukewarm water. Clumsy as the tightrope I fell off when I tripped and lost my self-esteem. Unpredictable--a sunshower on a hot August day. A sponge, squeezing itself out, hands wringing my grievances and pains on your kitchen and all over your face. 

And you listen. You wear patience like a tailored jacket. You hold me in your pockets, polishing me as one does a gemstone, making me shine. You accept my offerings of dirt and borrowed fragment of star, the broken teeth and leftover honey. 

It is with salt, sediment and grain coming from my eyes, I say thank you. Thank you for your love, without which, I would be an empty, unvisited shoreline, a door overgrown with black mold. 

I cling to your coat tails. Don't walk too fast. 

You never do. 



Sunday, April 24, 2016

I Never Promised You A Prose Garden

It's two in the afternoon and I've been dreaming suicide again lying in the darkness of my bedroom on a sunny day, my mother at my sister's house, holding her newborn baby. My father at church. It is my sweetest escape, my last-minute option. And I dream because I know I will never have an actual strength to do it. My body flung into traffic, my blonde hair floating on the water. My brother sobbing. My sister and father driving in silence. My mother: It was for the best. She was miserable. 

I am stuck somewhere in between the ceiling and the floorboards, somewhere near the end of the beginning, floating  on a lake of happiness I cannot submerge myself in fear I will drown--all the while fully aware I love the water against my face, my legs, even the way the fish nip at my feet. 

But what if?? 

What if I forgot how to swim? What if I hate it because it's not the same as it used to be? I don't want to hold on  to a lifeboat. I want someone, something, to hang on to. 

I have drowned so many times before, you see. Not all the way, of course, but enough that I remember lying on the bottom, gasping for air, watching the leaves float across the top of the water. 

So I stay out. On dry land and dull pastures, I build my home. 

I have decided to write my fears down. It's like saying them out loud. In no particular order, here we go:

1. Never making an impact on the world, never leaving my "fingerprint" on the walls of this earth. I know I have so much to give, so many stories to tell, so much to say. And it terrifies me that I will never have the courage or resilience to impart these gifts and experiences.

2. Never learning Busta Rhymes's rap in Chris Brown's song Look At Me Now. I mean, it's been like five or six (?) years. 

3. Not having the ability or resources to continue therapy at a facility or level that challenges me enough to reach my full potential. I know that walking is, by far, the least important out of everything I have lost, but I also know I can. 

4. Never getting a degree or job I truly love. 

5. Ellen never inviting me on her show to surprise me with Taylor Swift. I think that we, as a society, can collectively agree that this is a universal fear, however. 

They would find me totes adorbs. 

6. Not having the drive to actually write my book. Or more poetry. Or the screenplay I've recently felt a pull to do. A friend of mine told me the reason I don't like writing anymore is because of how I have to do it now--how physically exhausting it is. Because my fingers don't really work, I have to type long posts with a stylus and it is a WORKOUT. I'm telling ya! My shoulders are sore after I put in thirty minutes!

7. Never getting out of Arkansas.....or more importantly, my parents' house. Yeah.... I am 31 and need too much help to just move out. And my relationship with them is incredibly strained. They want me out, too, but unfortunately it's not even an option right now. I feel trapped and alone and misunderstood. 

8. Irish Spring never creating a matching laundry detergent and fabric softener. Seriously, y'all. 

9. My Dad dying. I mean, yeah; he will, but I literally cannot even imagine my life without him. BUT, his name IS Duncan Macleod. Heard of The Highlander??

10. Not using whatever gifts I have to the ability to which I'm capable because I'm such a perfectionist I put off my "work" in fear it isn't perfect. 

11. I could go on and on and on. Don't even get me started on my fear of crickets and grasshoppers. Trust me, they are much creepier than they seem to be. But if you have read this blog at all, you'll know that my biggest fear is being alone for the rest of my life, never getting married or being in a long-term relationship with a man I truly love & vice versa. I had it before and he left me. So it obviously wasn't "meant to be, "but I know that love. I know exactly what it feels like. And it hurts, knowing that there probably isn't anyone out there that could ever even compare to him and the relationship we had. And even if I could find something that was different but make me happy, I won't because I am 31 years old already and disabled. I have dated sooo much since my injury, and nothing has worked out. It's been super traumatizing, in fact. 

So what do I do? I don't have an inspiring or happy ending to this post. I just know that I have to keep on trying. I have to keep standing up every time I get pushed down. I have to put at least one toe in the water every single day. Even if it's just for a little bit. And maybe, just maybe, eventually I will learn to swim.

Right?? Right.....? 


I'll be here if anybody is looking....

Monday, March 28, 2016

The Poet Tree

Ugh. So I have not written a poem in almost a year. I know this is way too long and needs major revision, but I made myself do it and this is my five-minute free-write. All critique appreciated. I am such a perfectionist about these things and feel very vulnerable posting it when it is nowhere near finished. But here you go.

I'm going to pepper this with pictures of morning glory flowers throughout so at least you'll have something to look at, if you can keep your eyes opened long enough to see them. 

And FYI: I hate to explain the meaning of a poem, but when I first posted it, the main comment/feeling people gave me or took away from it was wistful. 

And although I hadn't planned to make it sound like that; poems, stories, even blog posts tend to start out one way-with a topic or a feeling, then write themselves, taking you (and your readers...SHOUT OUT TO THE FIVE PEOPLE WITH LIVES BORING ENOUGH TO READ THIS!!) to a place you never intend. But, whoever called it wistful, was correct. 

One day I will wake up to
I love you 
in the fold of your back
pressed against mine
your hands--balmy and solid
holding my fingers-long, cool and broken
like the live oak tree we will grow 
I will read your name when you are gone
on wornwilted book pages
your fingertips have been
etchings of your shoes on the floors

I will need no words
no lace-embellished promises
roses that turn black by week's end 
gifts crinkled on a floor
for you are tissue paper worth unfolding 
we will read each other like the blind
body by body in Braille 
fingers twisting through hair
memorizing freckles, the bump in my nose
how your arm placed softly
across my smallness of shoulder
soothes me as no mother ever could

We will go for drives
speaking slow, dim, permissive 
open windows 
balmy Southern stars
lighting a night sky expanding 
the way my chest greedily breathes you in
a hollow auditorium now filled
with the sound of ten-thousand voices
music twisting circles
like a dance I can't remember the steps to
a dance my legs cannot carry me through 
but alone in the dark 
together in a sun's weary gaze
you will spin me winding 
and unwinding 
like records we will play

will know when I find you
no need for more metaphors or similes
your voice will be my first home
your laugh my last
I will know by something familiar in your face
and you will smile as if to say, 
I knew my heart was yours
from the first day. 


Postscript: People often ask me the significance of the word "MourningGlory," why I use it for my blog, Instagram, Twitter & I shamefully admit, Tumblr, account. They were my favorite flowers as a little girl; I gravitated to the pretty Blues & purples any girly-girl with bows in hair, ballerina daydreams, a canopy bed, and a pink dress would adore. 

After my accident, I was introduced to some of the worst time-wasters of all time for millennials, at least-Twitter & Instagram. Everyone had such clever little names. Well, except for a rather notorious Twitter account with the elegant & charming handle "PoopButt." He did tell me I had "nice boobs" once, though. Talk about a self-esteem boost!

Anyway? I thought of things that made me feel like me-the old me-again. 

And BOOM. There came the name. However, I changed the spelling (DIDN'T YOU NOTICE??!!) in a self-reflective way, if that makes any sense. It's as though I am, or was, comparing the stark difference of my able-bodied life to my new life. And at that time, I was still mourning the loss of what I had once had. I have since embraced it as well as one can, I suppose, but I will never change the name. 

Because no matter what happens in my life-if God decides to touch me with his finger and turn me into an Olympic athlete or something like that-I never want to forget the past, the things I used to be able to do, the feelings, experiences, the moments and the things I loved that I can still enjoy now.

Because, although life is different and there are certain opportunities and things I will never be able to do because of my accident, there are so many things that take its place.

So...? Mourn your glories, friends. 

And then, make new ones. :)

Saturday, March 26, 2016

My Story: An Exercise in Telling

So, I am supposed to be writing a book. 

Hang on, let me catch my breath for a minute....

Hahahaha!! Please. 


But, seriously, as unrealistic and lofty a goal like this is for a girl who can't even write a blog post once a week, this is RIDICULOUS. But I do want to. I do think I have something to say. I think I can. 

But how? I have no idea how this all works-where to start, what to focus on. So what's a perfectionist, scatterbrained, exhausted, and totally unqualified gal to do? One who desperately wants to but just has no idea how or where or why. 

I guess she just starts by telling her stories. I would never begin an actual book like this, and reading over it, this is a perfect insight into my self-described "scatterbrained" brain-a roundabout thinker, one whose brain thinks of one memory that leads to another in seemingly completely unrelated ways. 

But I have to start somewhere; I have to try, to practice. 

Just a little piece of me: 

I am curled into a pile of gangly limps, thin arms astrew, strings of white blonde hair hanging in my eyes, the way clouds cover my sunny yellow walls, my canopy bed. "You can't sleep away your problems, Beth," my mother says. Something is wrong. Something deep down inside my apple-core sheath of remnants of a ten-year-old body. Already wasted."

And I knew it. 

But I remember being alone. I was always alone. I was someone I couldn't put back together when I was broken, something I didn't even want to do. Because if I could, I would have no escape, no reason to block it all out, no reason to figure out why or what was the matter, nothing to quiet the over-stimulation of daily chatter, middle-school gossip, honors classes, passing notes. "Did you know that Anne got asked out three times today?" "I think Tyler likes you. Do you see Seth french kiss Katie?" "What grade did you make on the English paper?"

So I slept and spun in circles in my room. 

"Are you spinning again? I can hear you from upstairs."

"That's not normal behavior."

I denied it and turned on music to quiet the tip-tip-tap of tan bare feet. 

The rings on my carpet, perfect worn-down fragments next to my bed, in front of my dresser giving me away. 

I'm just escaping, making stories, being someone else. 

What was so hard to understand?

I had an internal dialogue, a story I ran on a continuous reel in my head, who I knew I would grow up to be-two blonde children, a mansion with a swimming pool, a Ken doll husband, white carpet, a successful career in business with acting on the side. If I focused hard enough, spun fast enough-maybe, just maybe, I would make it through that day. 

And I did. I had friends. Boys thought I was pretty and constantly "asked me out." I went to multiple sleepovers with pretty and popular girls where we would prank call our boyfriends and jump over bushes, sneaking out. The time we watched the movie Scream and I held a boy's hand for the first time. I made good grades, sang in the choir, had the right clothes, the cool haircut, won "Best Sense of Humor."

Andrea, a doctor's daughter: "I love your clothes! You always have the cutest shirts!"

Trips to the mall every month, $500 sprees every time, my mother living vicariously through my clothes hanger hips, delicate shoulders, porcelain skin. 

China doll. Barbie. Doll-face. 

My school nicknames. The shorthand of my identity. 

So who's to say where things began to go terribly wrong, when I lost it. 

All I know is that I came out headfirst, but I've been backwards ever since. 

That may have not been "good" or up to the crazy standards I make for myself, but I wrote it. It's mine. My story-told in the way no one else could ever do. And I hope I can learn that I am always the only one holding me back. 


A brief history in photographs, if you will.

How I first learned to escape. The first time that I knew I needed to, even though there was no way I could possibly comprehend it at this point.

When the feelings of....brokennes...different...apart...became apparent to me. 

I have always been a good hider.

 But there were good days. 

And nobody truly knew. 

Me with my friends and my smile at the beginning of the worst of it all. 

And even at the very height of it all, I made sure to protect it with pretty make-up, a flashy prom dress, boys....(including this guy with an amazing sweater vest) and a killer Nokia cell phone. Hey, don't knock it! Those things were indestructible; I had mine for about four years!

Today? I embrace it. I talk about it. I make friends with it. It shows in my eyes and that is my favorite feature of mine. It tells the story without me having to say a word.

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Life In The Not-So Tragic Kingdom

First off, I think we should acknowledge my reference to Gwen Stefani in the title.

Sure, she's totally hot now, but I miss the old days-belly shirts, bangs, face piercings, overly-plucked brows, and 90s AWESOMENESS. 

Case in point:

But the point of this post is, that although I post a lot about depression and struggling with certain feelings after my disability, my situation is, in fact, not tragic. At all.

Frustrating? Tedious? Time-consuming? Embarrassing? Physically and emotionally draining?

Oh, yes. Ohhhh, yes. 

But when I really think about it, it's kind of ridiculous how spoiled I am. I mean, I literally have servants come to my house that prepare my food for me, help bathe me, blow dry my hair if I want them to, dress me, put my shoes on, etc. Did you know that back in the day, the royal family in China made people FEED them?!

So yeah, I'm pretty much royalty. I don't even have to walk for myself; I have a $50,000 machine does it for me.

I started coming to this conclusion when I was telling a new friend of mine about what happened. She asked me and I told her the story in complete detail. For some reason, people assume that I would have a hard time talking about it. Which makes sense, actually. But considering the fact that I don't remember any of it, the actual accident part, it's not traumatizing at all. Plus, it seems like a lifetime ago. Like it wasn't me at all.

After I had told her the story, she said, "Seriously?!? That's ALL you've got?! I'll tell you about tragedy. And if I were you, I would embellish that sh*t. Add in some flying monkeys or something."

And not only was it hilarious, it's true.

There are people in this world who are sold into sex trafficking and used over and over again until they die, orphans who die without food or medical care all over the world, children who watch their entire families be murdered in front of them, people who will start to death, people who will never have a home, food, or shelter. Not to mention the people that get paralyzed in other countries and don't have the resources that I have.

And yeah, it still sucks. But overall, it's a first-world problem. I often get sucked into the "Facebook comparison game," which I thought was silly.

Until I watched this....

Every night before I go to bed, I always look around at all the things I have in my room, that are so silly and excessive, the fact that I am sleeping in a warm bed with a full stomach, and can't help but feel almost guilty.

I laugh a lot, and although I don't get to see people very much, I definitely have people and family that love, encourage, and constantly support me.

I also have the free time to do ridiculous things like the following. It's a screenshot from a video I do with my friend, Jen for our YouTube channel.

Check out this 80s awesomeness.

Our main goal is just to get on Ellen.

This is my costume for one video we did. My mother came home and found me sitting in the basement like this and asked me if I was having a Bette Davis meltdown. She was legitimately concerned. I don't blame her.

A small sampling of our videos-please take into we're very twisted....and have no life.

Drive-Thru (UN)accommodation.

How it all started: A spur-of-the-moment performance.The worst part about this is, I not ONLY posted this on Facebook, I sent it to a guy I'm talking to.

Condoms For Kissing: A Second Opinion

MourningGlory xoxo

But I'm a rebel.

PS. I still need help fixing my blog layout!!!