Posted in life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, random, Writing and all its cousins

I Can Only Speak for Myself

Initially, there’s this raw space. We may wonder how it got there, or more importantly, why it’s there.  Perhaps we conditioned ourselves early in life to bandage wounds and carry on, so we slap a Band-Aid on it until it festers, not realizing that giving it time to breathe is better than covering it over.

Then, somewhere during the process, a scab forms. There’s this protective layer now, and we go about our daily routines as we did before. That is until we accidentally bump that spot, exposing it again.  Maybe we overestimated ourselves, or maybe we were just trying to…forget. In any event, there it is. And yes, it still hurts.

An undetermined amount of time passes, and we notice the scab is now a smooth scar. We run our fingers over it, remembering that unsightly place.  But we can do it now, we can run our hand across that area. It reminds us that grief cut us open.  Yet, we survived.


aka Whatevertheyaint

Oct 2017




  • I can only speak for my own experiences. Like most people, there have been more than a few negative events in my life, but I learned to just acknowledge them and allow myself to go through the process. This poem came from waiting on a sore to heal on my leg and then, at random (which tends to happen when I’m ready for my brain to SHUT DOWN), thinking how wounds are a lot like the process of grieving, or dealing with any life-changing event. 



Posted in everyday living, life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, Your Turn

From the Archive: Five Years Ago

Where did you go, you know, the person?  Not the one we see but the you inside.

Where did you go?  You let them strip you of your joy,  your energy, your light.

Lose who you are and you become a collage of everything and everyone else.


Feeling some sort of way that I can’t define. Is it depression? Frustration? Inertia? My writer’s brain says “caged” but that’s a bit dramatic. It’s a long story that I suppose my conscience has nudged me about before. Something has been trying to tell me something for years.

So when do you say, enough is enough? When do you just…free fall? Is there anything besides concrete down there when I jump?

The abridged version of this story is that the current circumstances aren’t working, at all. However, being the overly cautious thinker I am, I’m reluctant to just open a window and plummet.  It seems impractical to starve while happy, and yet it’s crazy to make money while sacrificing one’s self, family, and sanity. Tis the world we live in. We learn to become collages.

I eventually retired from retail in 2012 due to health issues and a couple of surgeries, one of which didn’t go well.  Now, because of more life changes, I find myself at yet another crossroad.

True, I’ve enjoyed the freedom of being fully present when it comes to family. And in hindsight, things happened that I don’t know if I could’ve dealt with while working full-time–serious illnesses, the death of my father, marital separation.

It baffles me that I got more writing done while working thirty to forty hours, with two small children, than I do without a binding schedule and with kids old enough to occupy themselves. I’ve enjoyed watching them grow, I’ve also missed the security of steady paychecks.  I’m saying this to say that happiness doesn’t come from circumstance. Happiness is a state of mind, period.  But we have to figure out who we are, what we want, and how we’ll balance our true callings with the titles society places upon us.

Who are you? Where did you go? Lose who you are and you become a collage of everything and everyone else.


Your turn:

In definition of “inner calling” how would you define yourself?

In terms of societal titles, name at least three that describe you.

If you’re not being true to yourself, what’s the reason?

Map out a way to get back to the real you 😉



In definition of inner calling, I’d define myself as: a writer, an empath, a peacemaker

In terms of societal titles, I’d describe myself as: a mother,  an estranged spouse, an introvert who knows how to play it off when necessary

I’m not true to myself because: I’m not a fan of failure, abstract ideas, or what-ifs

And yes, I’m mapping out a way of getting back to the real me 🙂











Posted in life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, random, Writing

For That I Am Sorry

There’s something she didn’t give you



Whatever it was it wasn’t enough

She wasn’t scarred enough,

Didn’t understand your demons

She didn’t laugh enough, live

But what she provided was stability,

Loyalty, all the boring words one looks for

Beyond adventure and fun

Yet, she failed. In a sense, you failed each other

You sought solace in dark places,

Hell and shot glasses

She swept broken pieces,

Only to hurt herself in the end

And you’ll never honestly say,

This is why you couldn’t save me

And she’ll never really know

What you needed saving from




sms aka whatevertheyaint







Posted in everyday living, life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, poetry, random, Writing

Untitled, September 2016

this is a comfortable life,
the repeating of words
did you brush your teeth?
please pick up your shoes
the toilet’s still broken
please, pick up your shoes!
tasks and outcomes
faucet still leaking
more piles to pick up
it’s fine, really
we take on titles
our names irrelevant
with each metamorphosis

this is a satisfying life,
the repeating of words
why don’t you buy a wallet?
please fix the gazebo
the wipers are broken
seriously! pick up your shoes
plausible outcomes
brake-fluid still leaking
more hats to pile on
we take on roles
our names irrelevant
with each version
of ourselves

SmS aka Whatevertheyaint 9-2016

Posted in everyday living, life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, poetry

April, 2016 Untitled

I looked for you in faces and towns
lyrics and dreams,
landlines acquaintances birthdays

Across miles and states
you said you searched
for me, too

issuing missing person reports
to anyone who’d listen:
knee high, brown, baby face
Special. Very special

Inquiries dismissed by busy workers,
messages that never made it
from their lips to my ears
A hastily written number
that failed to reach my hands

Now you say, now you tell me
You came
For me

Fate crazy late, irony right on time

Seeing you is like calendars flipped back,
images still the same
Hearing you as clear as the first hello

You and Me,
similar spirits,
in spite of paths chosen
Special…Very special


sms aka whatevertheyaint
april 11 2016

Posted in Perhaps...I'll Let You In, Writing and all its cousins

Self, This Is Self

I set out to write this story, to purge myself of the pent-up words and emotions inside. I have always been told that I express myself better on paper, maybe all writers do. And I set out to do the same thing every year, run amongst the crowd in November in the quest to claim the prize:  50,000 words in thirty days.  It isn’t so much the climb out of the mosh pit but the experience itself, to say, “I did it; I survived; I nearly lost my mind in the process, but I made it out alive and fairly unscathed.”  And so that is what I aspired to do,  to release this melancholy that has followed me since daddy’s death.

Sure, there have been cheerleaders and words of encouragement along the way, even when I unreasonably made the decision to take part this year, despite the fact of having carpal tunnel surgery less than a month prior to the competition. Not only surgery, but a somewhat botched one that involves my dominant hand–the one I desperately need to type out or even write this conceived tale formulating itself inside my, at times, over-active brain.

And yet, there are other issues as well. One being that I am a person with a high level of control—or at least that is what I have been told. Not the kind where I wish to dominate others but more so of wanting things to run smoothly, orderly, and with a sense of logic. Mainly attaining to keep myself in order.  Thus the problem with stories and me. I tend to over think them.

First drafts aren’t neat and tidy. At times they don’t even make sense. And I want to say, “Hey, do what I tell you. Do as I think, not as I write. Do what the girl in that book did.  No, you know the book I’m talking about. The one by that really cool, best-selling, NY Times top ten list author. Yeah, her. Do it!!!”

Emotions aren’t always logical either, no matter how much we strive to make sense of them; and this is the problem I usually run into mid-way through a written piece. My beta readers respond with stuff like, “Shouldn’t Rachel be steaming? If I’d been {insert catastrophe here}, I would be livid. I wouldn’t worry about what the guest or my mother think; I would be throwing things and slitting tires and turning up bottles of vodka.”

And so the same with the high hopes I have for this…novella? Which covers the span of daddy’s death and the series of craziness which ensued.

My initial thought was to intertwine it with my subconscious (a little trippy and hard to explain, I know); so let me back track and attempt to clarify.  Some of you may recall the brief free write I did in which I visited my so-called “happy place.”  (I had to create one when working in retail because without a happy place you will certainly crack up in that line of work 🙂

So, anyway, yeah. And that is where I am twenty-seven-thousand words later because (a) that ingrained sense of control won’t allow me to explore my deeper feelings on said subject (b) my inner editor is going berserk. It yearns to come out and play with me and (c) the thought of so many words/pages is at times overwhelming.  Oh, and I suck at outlines.  I dreaded it in school and still have a hard time creating one that is detailed enough to buoy me pass the first five chapters.  And without a solid idea of where you are going—well, lets face it, you can wind up all over the  map.

Excuses, excuses…  I am aware of the fact so shush.

Conundrum: How do I rehash this in a way that is—that puts that “must be right” side of my brain to sleep while, at the same time, not re-opening painful memories over and over again. (I swear if I have to re-read that hospital seen while scrolling one more time!  And how do I collaborate the two stories?

Ooh, I have an idea! A slightly different approach, but…  Yeah, it just might work!

Your Turn:

What difficulties have you run into lately with your creative projects?

How did you resolve them?

Or are you still trying to figure that part out?  🙂


Please feel free to share your thoughts and conundrums under comments.

Posted in everyday living, life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In

What a Difference a Decade Makes

From the journal, ten years ago:


Tired. No time for anything. Do vacations even count when you have two kids? (The baby.. AND baby’s daddy:-) Look how I have to type my journal entries now. Abridged! Remember the days when I could just sit around with candles and an Erykah Badu CD? Then drive 27 miles or so, take myself to Ryan’s restaurant, waste money on a new smell good and CD, then buy a book, the self-discovery ones where you have to fill in the blanks?  “All About Us,” “List Yourself,” “To Our Children’s Children” (Who knew the last one would serve a purpose.)  Sigh…  That was the life. I’m losing part of my sleep just writing this. I should be napping with the little  one, like the parenting magazine says.



*A couple of years later, my second child came along. I can honestly say that my name is S, and I have no nerves.

*Parenthood and family has a way of bringing us out of ourselves and into something much more meaningful and special.

* I ditched novels and dove into magazines. They’re easier to digest, and you can do it mindlessly. Just flip the page, no need to actually read.

* Occasionally, I’ll splurge on a self-discovery book to stay sane.

* Who am I? What did they do with that other me, you know, the narcissist?!





YOUR TURN: How has your life changed over the past decade? How would you say the world in general has changed?