in my 20's, am i a Phoenix

At some point, I had to give up.

Today, I did just that. I let my hair loose. With three satisfying swipes, I took my make up off. Even, yes even, my perfectly set brows. Brave. I know. I stood near the edge before dawn breaks and before my shift begins. The promise of a new day was burning beyond that lazy horizon.

Another cycle of sitting, typing, eating the hours away, and sitting awaits me.

But first, I had to die.

Nobody cares. Not even I care. Deadweight. Easily forgotten. A waste of this planet's resources. There's no point in your existence, I remind myself.

I suck.

Honestly, I have all the potential not to suck, all the advantages - good education, good friends, good enough skills, and a smudge on my face that can pass for a smile - but, I suck anyway. Chances have been given, taken, but were ultimately wasted. What was my excuse for failing? I was a mistake. Move on, I guess, I had to at some point. It took me four sleepless nights, a couple of beer packs before I figured it out. You'd think it would be a challenge to sneak fire-starting paraphernalia into a business area. Funny. I did just that. Immediately, the Girl Scout instincts kicked in. What does one need to make a fire out in the wild or on the 43rd floor, trying your best not to start mewling again? A cheap blue Bic lighter.

You're special.

Mom, you exaggerated. I was cow merde. And you know what? I've mastered the art of projecting myself as a multitude of sitcom characters just to compensate for my insatiable desire to be everyone that isn't me. Anybody but me. Your daughter was no Pulitzer Awardee. She was no goddamned Star. Your daughter was not made for any recognition other than being awarded mild scoliosis, a form of dissociative identity disorder, and closet sociopathy—Well, I'll be. I am special after all, Mom.

Seven minutes will be enough time to burn trash, I supposed.

photo by D. Avery

Never really thought about this, just like everything else I do in the loneliest story that is my life. Holding the lighter up, eye-level, the friction wheel turns at my thumb's command. A stream of butane is released. The spark excites the gas and violà, fire.

I heaved myself atop the ledge.

I wish I could touch the clouds.

Before the sun even gets a glimpse of my embarrassingly bare face, I reached into my jean's right front pocket and felt my way into this folded piece of paper.

Don't ever park your pen.

Mom, stop trying to be cool. Poetry is not your thing. Besides, do you really want me to continue being a sad little potato who writes because sadly that was the only thing she believes she was remotely good at? Shame on you. That should disqualify you for the Best Mom Advice Award. Have you no idea how every poem I conjure at night is made in a bath of mascara tears? You didn't even know I was tired of all the uncalled for changes. All the career decisions. The mistakes. The missteps, most of them forcing me to go back down three paces at a time.

Have you ever even asked if I still wanted to do this?

This. Being sad. Existing to be sad. And nothing more.

I wrote about my chronic despair hoping I can exhume my hallowed shell from all the zeal that died in me at age 11. But resurrection is fiction. There was no point in expending life energy at trying to be the psychologically helpless millennial Dr. Frankie.

Giving up, it is.

I held the paper up, unfolded it, and read the writings out loud, "Here lies Maudlin. Bless her not for she forced me to regret ever existing without Xanax and Benzo by my side. A to the men."

I lit my sadness' paper epitaph on fire at the exact moment I wrote about it yesterday, here, overlooking the rising sun. The slow cascade of the aureate sunlight touched my blues in ways it never did before. Ecstasy is the word. Looking at the fire eating my past away slowly filled up a hole in me. All these months, I've been trying to fill my heart with the forlorn that was easier to achieve than genuine happiness. I kept myself drowned in the water. I know I'm not depressed. I just didn't like myself. I don't have anxiety. I'm just really awful. But the more I argued I was okay, the more I deteriorated. As the days, hours pass by I realized I wasn't ready to give up on living. I had distant virtual acquaintances that are once in a while curious about the latest verses I'd premier to social web communities. There were friends who'd crank messages up at 2 am, wondering if I was still insomniac enough to respond. My family cared. They do. They always have. I just don't want them to, so I could somehow rebel. It was the only way I knew how to be cool. If only I would reach out and ask for help, and request for some homemade champorado.

The world seemed to have wanted more out of me and my potential that I became too proud to go around and take the hands of people who have vowed to protect and take care of me. I have been selfish, with my plans of going against every plan to keep me in the path other people chose for me, even when it was quite assuring. Even when it would easily lead me to succeed. No. I simply had to be independent, strong-willed, different. All they wanted was the best for me. Why did I have to be the naive, clueless, impulsive 20-year-old rebel I have always dreamed of being as a kid? It was the only way I knew how to be cool.

Vain.

Devil-may-care.

Bound to self-destruct at 2 in the morn.

These were the signs. Something had to die. Today, I let Maudlin's ashes dance their way up to the sun, bidding them no farewell.

- in my 20's, am i a Phoenix

photo by Henry Be