Violation

So I was raped. I haven't posted in a while. I really haven't felt the need to.
   On October 7th, 2016, I was attacked by two men. They got me from behind, I saw nothing but arms, legs and heard some voices. Needless to say, I couldn't give a very good description to police. No one has been arrested. They brutalized me. I was groped, raped and sodomized. DNA evidence was next to nothing. I had some bruises and tearing, but really nothing for anyone to go on. I felt dirty, disgusting and like the whole thing was my fault. I still feel like that. The truth is that it's not my fault. And I did the right thing I reported it. I had the forensic exam, which is pretty horrible in itself. It's really messed with my head, but I'm working on it. If anything like this has happened to you, there are people who will help you. Hell, I will. Find me on Facebook - Sarah Kirby Lopez. Message me. But definitely report it, get checked out. If anyone is hurting you in any way. We're around. We can all get better. I'm OK, and you can be, too. Together, my friend, together.

Marriage

  Life is hard. Marriage is harder. Sometimes you want to throw your hands up in the air and say "Fuck it!".
  However, sometimes you get over that little bitch fit that you threw, you stop, take a few deep breaths, and realize that maybe you're wrong. Or maybe he's wrong, but it doesn't really matter. What really matters is that this is love. Love gets ugly sometimes, we argue, we say things that we don't mean, and sometimes we go to bed angry. That's okay. You'll most likely wake up in the morning, roll over and sigh with contentment. If you're lucky, you'll wake up before he does, and you can watch him while he sleeps. He's so peaceful and cute like that. Maybe you'll snuggle up closer to him, even though the dog is hogging all the blankets and he smells like morning breath. Maybe you'll stroke his face, and feel terrible about the things that you said while you were arguing. Maybe you'll apologize, maybe he will.
The apologies are insignificant, because you've both forgiven each other silently already. Then the alarm goes off. Time to get up and face the day. You're both tired and cranky, maybe you'll argue again, about bills, money, etc. Regardless, you'll kiss each other goodbye before you go out into the world. Maybe you both still have a little resentment against each other.
  Later in the day, one of you will call or text. He'll probably beat you to it, you were really just thinking about doing it. It's just a simple text, to say that he loves you. Maybe he calls you by your nickname, and it makes your heart melt. Now you can't wait to see him at the end of the day.
  You discuss your day over dinner, you figure out the bills, the money, and all of your other life situations. Maybe you have a light hearted bicker over what to watch on TV. Maybe you'll try to get comfortable by draping your body all over him. He'll complain, saying that he can't breathe, then you'll ask him if he  just called you fat. He'll shake his head and tell you that he loves you the way you are. Then you'll laugh at him, because you know he doesn't really think you're fat, you just like to mess with his head.
  Maybe then you'll make plans for the weekend, maybe you'll talk about something important, like who's turn it is to scrub the toilet, or why he has to be so annoying all the time. You get on each others nerves so bad. He drives you crazy, and the feeling is mutual. He accuses you of making him go bald, you tell him that he's the reason that you're going gray.
It's the end of the day. Maybe he falls asleep on the couch, or maybe you both go to bed together. Maybe you get up to a little bit of the nasty no-no, or maybe you just go to sleep with the dog sprawled out between the two of you.
  To some people, this sounds boring. It's really not. It's love and commitment. It's two people accepting each other, with all of their flaws and mistakes. This is just a story about my marriage, not anyone else's. Our marriage, like most marriages, is hard work. It's not a walk in the park. It's a grind, we have to work at it constantly. But we don't mind, because we're soulmates. In our strange, opposites attract kinda way, we're meant to be. I love him, and he loves me. That's the important part. The rest is just part of a story that we'll tell to our kids and grandkids someday.
One final thing, marriage is not for the weak of heart. If you're not sure, if you have some reservations, do everyone a favor and don't do it! This shit isn't for everyone, but it's definitely for me.

My Sister

Terah, I miss you in a way that no one in their right mind can miss you. People have asked me all my life, "Do you feel
like half of person?"
Well, the truth is... Yes, yes I do.
I feel your presence. Day in and day out. Our birthday is coming up. We'll be thirty four, tomorrow!  I am sticking with twenty nine, if anyone asks.  I'm just a little gray, but I can bleach the absolute crap out of my hair if I feel like it. I'm a hairstylist.
Yeah, we have a brother. Samuel John Kirby. He's 27 now. I used to call him booger butt and punch him while we played Mario Bros. Now he's 6'2 and has what I call death hands. I can't beat up on him anymore. Our sister in law, her name is Kalindi. She is the most amazing mother to our nephew, Benjamin Ira Kirby. He's beautiful, and I wish you here.  This is the part where I start to cry.
I feel you every day.
Love you Terah Ann Kirby,  from your sister, Sarah Rae Kirby Lopez

#samelove

So, for the second time in six months, I got called a faggot lover. The first guy that did it, said it in person, and I clocked him, right in the mouth. Hey, it was right after a Muay Thai class, I was all amped up. The second guy did it on Facebook. And he's lucky I don't track him down and beat him until he becomes a Sarah lover.
 I hate that word. It's disgusting. It literally makes me sick to my stomach. There's other derogatory terms that bigots use, but I'll save that rant for another post.
 Look, I don't care about how you live, think, feel, or who you love. We are all the same. And we have to learn to get along. It's mandatory.
 I've heard a lot of people saying that being gay is a choice. Are you fucking kidding me? Yeah, I'm sure someone wakes up one day and says "You know, I think I want to be ostracized by friends, family, society and struggle to be accepted in general. Sounds like a plan."
 Uh, no. It doesn't work that way. If you've ever had a feeling deep in your heart that you just had to follow, a deep seated yearning that you just had to go after,then you should understand. Everyone just wants to be themselves. It's easy for me. I'm a straight, white, and almost middle class woman. No one is really discriminating against me. However, if you're gay, bi, transexual, transgendered, or anywhere on that spectrum, the struggle is real.
 They say haters wanna hate, but I'm sick of hate. So the next time you're thinking about using the word faggot, or anything similar, think about this....We all love, hurt, and cry exactly the same. We all want to be happy with someone, and it needs to be the love of our lives, regardless of gender. No one should ever feel ashamed of who they are,  or who they love. Don't like it? Swallow the pill, douchebag.

Just For You, Ma

Dear Mama,
I post some weird shit on Facebook every year on Mothers Day for you.. This year is a little weirder than most, as you well know.
First off, I love you. More than you know sometimes, and more than I express or convey. I can be a royal bitch, and I know that. I'm sorry. I always thank you for giving birth to me, and putting up with my madness, but this year, I don't want to say thank you for anything. No, this year, I just want to say I'm proud of you. Proud of you for being so damn strong. Proud of you for the life you have lived fearlessly, even when you were scared to death. Proud of you for saying no,  even when I wanted you to say yes,and made you feel terrible when you didn't. Few people have people have ever stood up to me like you. Ma, I'm proud of you for trying to understand me during what is probably the most complicated and perplexing points in my life thus far. Most importantly, I'm proud of you for being a Mom, and a damn good one. Never doubt that, through the good times and the bad. I wish I could be with you this weekend, but I'll see you soon. I love you too much.
Always,
Sarah Rae

Stay Gold

Man, has it really been three years?
I love you, I have since I was thirteen. Listening to Pauls Boutique and License To Ill was probably one of the best things to ever happen to me. Look, my life is a ridiculous mess, but listening to the Beastie Boys is helping me get through it. The day you died, I almost couldn't breathe. I was sitting on a bus, going home to my empty apartment. I was already sad, and then  I found out you were gone. It was like I was in an old folks home and someone stole my oxygen. I thought I would fall apart. I did, I just cried really hard, then I went home and ate ice cream.  I know I don't know you, but damn that shit hurt. You were my John Lennon. Bodhisattva Vow was the business, that was beautiful, kind of like your soul. Very few people on this planet take time out of there lives to do the things that you've done.  Most people will never try to save Tibet with that kind of conviction. Some think that humanitarianism is dead, but I think we both know it's alive and well.
You will always have a place in my heart. And I know I'll see you someday. I'll make you sign an autograph in Heaven. (I'm pushy like that) I said it once, and I'll say it again. Stay gold my friend. See you on the other side. Oh, and to quote you.. There's more sides to me then you'll ever know. Maybe someday we'll sit down, have a cup of tea, and discuss it. I miss you.

I'm Not Sure (Or Yeah, I'm A Borderline)

I'm not sure if you know me.
I'm not sure that I want you to.
I'm not sure if I know myself, or what I want, or who I'm going to be when I grow up.
I'm not sure that I even AM going to grow up, I might just be a scared little kid trapped in the body of someone who is more than old enough to vote and buy booze, tobacco products, and firearms for the rest of my life.
I'm not sure that I am making the right choices. Am I doing this for me? Or someone else? Is my smile fake and my words as artificial as my hair color? I'm not sure.
I'm not sure if I'm striving for my own happiness, or if I'm just trying to make everyone else content.
 I'm not sure if I should keep taking these pills, or even if they really work. I take them because everyone says I should. They say I need them, that they are the solution to my problems. They say I'll feel better. They say a lot of things.  I'm not sure if they're all true. Medication can't change circumstance.  Of course, I won't stop taking them, because maybe they are right. Like I said, I'm not sure.
Someday, soon enough, it'll be okay. Those are words I hear a lot, but I'm not sure I believe them anymore. I need more tangible proof, something a little more concrete than just an exhalation of breath formed into syllables and sentences.
I'm not sure if I'm asking too much or not enough. I'm not sure if I am walking alone or in the company of others. Or if I should walk at all.
Maybe you're right, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's the other way around. I used to know, or at least I thought I did. Now I'm not sure. It's all so confusing these days. The line between black and white has blurred to gray and I'm just not sure of the answers anymore. I'm scared to be wrong, but even more scared to be right. Because being right comes with a certain responsibility that I'm not sure I can handle at the moment. One thing I am sure of is this... I'm not sure of anything right now. I apologize for the inconvenience and any other negativity caused by this. I spend countless hours thinking and stressing about what my disorder is doing to others. I want to be typical and bland to appease you, not some psyche ward, drama queen nut job that makes you worry and gives you sleepless nights. Please understand, I can't help the way I am. I'm not doing it on purpose, or vying for attention. Believe me, no one wants to live in my overly analytical, anxious, nervous, depressed, sometimes up, sometimes down brain. It's hell. If you are someone who understands and is living this, thank you. If you're not, I'm not sure that you'll be able to quite grasp any of this. But try to open your mind.  Regardless of whether you comprehend or not, enjoy being normal. I'm not sure I will ever get that chance.

Because I'm Not Normal

  So, I relapsed. Well, fuck. I keep asking myself why. However, after spending a large majority of my day talking to friends and going to a meeting, I've come to a conclusion. I'm not a failure, I'm not a worthless piece of shit, and I'm not a waste of space. I'm just an alcoholic and an addict. I will always be this way. I will never be able to go out (or stay in) and have a couple of drinks or do anything else that will change my head without overdoing it. Because I'm not normal, and you know what? I'm not ashamed of that. If you're riding on my same ship, you understand. For the rest of you, I'm sorry if you've been part of the unfortunate wreckage we can cause. We really do love you, we just don't always love ourselves.
  Today is day one. I would like to promise that I'll maintain perfect sobriety for the rest of my life, but that's not how it works. All I have is today, and I am working really hard on tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and the next.... Oh, fuck off, go have dinner or something. I'm gonna go back to not being normal.

Perfection

 There's this guy. I call him my husband. He's sleeping right  now. I never sleep well. My mind runs a million miles per second. That is why I write. Sometimes, I look at him and think....
    You're perfect.
You're perfect for me. You get on my last nerve. You exhaust me. I hate you. You hate me. Nah,just kidding. We're in love.. We argue over the most ridiculous things. Then we smile and make jokes later, because we both know we're wrong. 
    I'm staring at you right now. We just made love a couple of hours ago, It wasn't perfect, not like in the movies. But what in life is? You really want to know what it was like? It was us, just us. It was perfect. In that moment, we looked into each others eyes and nothing else mattered.
I love you. I'm going to crawl into bed soon. I'll fall asleep and snore, you'll make fun of me tomorrow ,I'll probably get mad at you. Then we'll bicker, and eventually smile , joke, and laugh again.  Absolute fucking perfection. Get used to it, this shit is forever.

Dear Granny

Dear Granny,
I miss you. I miss you like it was yesterday. I don't like remembering the day you passed, but you were always practical, so I'm sure you would tell me to go ahead and talk about it.
It's strange, I don't talk about you that much. I don't know why, because, I think about you every day. You and Grandpa were such a huge part of my life. I don't think I would've had the life I have now if it hadn't been for you. So, here's the part where I get sentimental.
Granny, I miss your smell. You always smelled like those little Avon lipstick samples and something akin to potpourri, but not quite. I remember sitting at your vanity at the foot of your bed with the immaculate chenille bedspread, and thinking that I would be just like you when I grew up. I remember playing pretend in the pantry. All the canned okra, peaches, tomatoes, apricots, berries and everything else. I remember walnut season. Grandpa was a something, wasn't he? Picking the walnuts, shucking the walnuts. Going back to school and being so embarrassed about my nails being stained black. It was dirty work in my mind, at the time.
So many memories in that little house on the corner of Olive and Newcomb St in Porterville
The day you passed, a little part of me did, as well. The day Grandpa passed was also hard. However, we're doing well. Sam has a son, his name is Benjamin Ira Kirby. You'd adore Sams girlfriend. Actually, that doesn't sound good enough. Kalindi is my sister in law, and the proud mother of your great great grandchild. She's amazing, Bens amazing, Sams amazing, the whole Kirby Rogers clan is amazing! . I recently got married to the love of my life, his name is Peter. I was married once before, and in a few other relationships. But you once told me when I was ten, that sometimes, you have more than one great love, but you only have one true love. Well Granny, I found my true love.  We'll be trying for a baby after the new year, and if it's a girl, she'll have your name as a middle name. I digress. Sam has a bachelors degree, he graduated from Humboldt State with honors, and he is an amazing artist. I went to Cosmetology school, and I'm now licensed and working in the industry. There is so much else, but I will save it for another letter. I hope you're proud of us. Give Grandpa a hug from us
Love always,
Sarah Kirby Lopez

How Could You?

Dammit, Javier! I hate you right now. It keeps hitting me right upside the head that you're gone. Just out of nowhere . And then I start bawling. How could you be so stupid? Do you have any idea how much pain your stupid fucking choices have caused? Dude, I don't think you're Mama's ever going to get over it. She's not doing too good, bro. It's aging her a little every day. She's just so damn sad. I can't really compare my pain to hers, but it still hurts pretty bad. I'm so mad at you. Do you have any idea how ugly I am when I cry?
I just miss you. We all do. No amount of wishing, crying, or being angry is going to bring you back, though. So, I guess I'll just deal with it. I love you, you asshole.

Why

Why? Why I am always doubting myself?
I am constantly thinking that I am too fat, that I have too many pimples, that I suck at my job, that I'm ugly. What the fuck? None of that is true. Why do I think that? I spent most of my morning crying, because I felt this way. And it's absolutely untrue. I'm one of the prettiest broads I know. I rock at my job (I'm a hairstylist), and I am just amazing all around. So why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we hate ourselves? Why don't we just love that little bit of jiggle in our wiggle? Why can't we look in the mirror and say, "Damn, that chick is fine"
I am absolutely fucking over it. I'm going to stop asking myself why. Because the answer to that question is,  "Why not?"
No matter what, you're good enough. Regardless of any doubts you may have about yourself, you are a bad bitch . I love you, and you should too. Now, let's go run the world.

Fuck Your Life

Scare of fucking my life. I woke up to someone breaking into my house, and someone standing in my bedroom. I don't understand why, but I somehow turned on my lamp or maybe he did, I don't know, I recognized him. All sucked up, shot out, hollow, like  shell of his former self. Fuck. You're a junkie piece of shit. I always called you Brother, you called me Sis, because we got each other. But you fucked up.
You grabbed my arms,pinned me, and for second, I thought you might do the unimaginable to me, They tell you to stay calm and use a soft voice when facing an attacker. For once in my life, I whispered. I looked into your dead zombie fucking eyes and, said, "Brother, please don't do this"  I said it more than once, maybe three times.I have never been more scared in my life. You reached down, I thought you were going to touch me, It was making my skin crawl. I almost threw up but I  held down the bile, I didn't want to make you more upset. I was terrified at the thought of actually being raped. This would fucking hurt. I kept saying "Brother please, please. We've been through things together. Remember yard duty at St Johns all the fucking leaves we had to rake?"  I finally saw a reflection, maybe a tear. He jumped off and ran. If I owned a gun, I never would have been able to catch a head shot. Who cares? I would have preferred to shoot him in the back. Live like a coward, die like a coward. I don't give a fuck how high you were, I've been there, done that. And I never did anything like the shit you pulled. We were at St John of God together, you met my mother for chrissake. You were my brother from my another mother. Now you break into my home, and nearly violate me? Oh fuck no, you got it twisted
Last time I saw you, was almost two years ago. Gaby and you were clean were clean, she was pregnant.  You called, you and your cousin needed haircuts. I cut hair, played pool, it was fun, that was the **** I will always remember and on the way home, I kept saying how proud I was of both of you. We took pics that night, like a family reunited. I 'm sure they're on my Facebook somewhere. You and your cousin took me home, you shook my husbands hand. Yeah, my husband. We got married recently, and try to lead a normal life. We work hard for everything we have, which is admittedly not much. But ITS OFF LIMITS. OURS NOT YOURS . I'm pissed. How fucking dare you, you lowlife piece of shit? Everyone has given you a million chances. Your family, your sons mother,your other sons mother, everyone expects better. Oh wait, no they don't, they've given up. After rehab, you always would call me to see if I was doing good, because you were sucking at life. I was always there for you no matter what.
But now? You're a fucking bottom feeder. You fucking drain people. You suckle until the tit is dry. Way to go "dad", for going to one whole soccer game.  And child support payments? Who needs them? I can't wait to buy you a fathers day card! Because, you're just the best ever. Gee, why don't you get them a nice card for all the birthdays, soccer matches, mothers days, anniversaries, even Christmases, that you forgot because you're a selfish, self absorbed asshole that was either  fucking loaded or in prison. The fathers day card will be nice and sparkly, and then we'll sign it, "Thanks for being a dick" .
You might wanna keep your head down. You got a surprise coming. Maybe tomorrow, the day after, maybe next week. Who knows? Doesn't the element of surprise just get you excited? Here's a little tasty tid bit for you.... Just found this about an hour ago...... Drum roll please.  You're a fucking pedophile. Lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under 14, 17 counts. That was in Florida. Did you think no one would find out? It's public record you fucking idiot. Only a few bucks to get the info online. What about the THREE. FUCKING. RAPE. AND. SODOMY CHARGES. IN IDAHO. Go team! It would likely be in your best interest to turn yourself in. The authorities might keep you safe. Or maybe, not. Hopefully they get to you before the homies do. Either way, you're quite literally fucked. Do you know how much  inmates hate pedophiles? Do you know what happens to them? I'm sure you do, you've served a couple of terms.
I wanted you to learn . But you don't have it in you. Fuck your life.  I'm not interested in buying your bullshit anymore. I used to love you, but now I would rather watch a speeding train shred you on the track. The way you're going, your life will end in some disgusting gas station bathroom with a fucking needle in your arm, or your neck , slumped over, covered in your own vomit, sitting in some one elses urine. Good luck with that.

Wax

Dear Javi,
I miss you. I'm trying not to get too emotional, because I know you hate when I act like a girl. So, I'll man up and stop crying. However..... I want you to call me again and get on my nerves because you want me to walk to AMPM with you. I want to hear you call me your only "seester"  again, I want you to ask me why I wear so much makeup and tell me that I have a big head one more time. But that's not going to happen. You're gone, permanently, you're never coming back.
  You would have hated the funeral. You were on display like an object, not like a person. Two weeks had passed. I feel like they should have laid you to rest long before, but, I don't call the shots. I sat next to your mama, she is so strong, she barely shed a tear while she was sitting there looking at her first born child in a casket. And then I had to get up, because it was my turn to speak. I got up there and spoke with you right behind me in that fucking wooden box wearing the clothes that I had picked out for you. I said some nice things about you, because you're my brother from another mother, I don't remember exactly what I said, it's kind of a blur.
You should be proud of me,I didn't fall apart. Well, maybe a little.  Because, I don't know exactly why people do this, but everyone walks past the casket, paying there last respects. Everyone was touching you, and I thought to myself, "Oh hell no! I'm not even going to look, let alone touch him" But when I walked past, I couldn't help myself. I leaned down and kissed your cheek. Your skin felt like wax. Like really cold, hard wax.  I will never forget the way it felt. Just like I will never forget you.
You made some bad choices,and one final stupid mistake, but you certainly did not deserve to die the way you did.
Just so you know, I'm still mad at you. I know I'm being selfish, but what the fuck am I supposed to do without you?  Little things remind me of you, like a song or a smell. My grief ebbs and flows, just like the ocean. Sometimes it seems like I'm drowning, and sometimes I'm just getting my ankles wet. There is a place in my heart where you will always live. And that place will never go away. I will visit you there from time to time. There is one thing I know for sure, I will see you again someday, my friend.
Love always,
Sarah
P. S. You still owe me $10

Transformation Tuesday

So it's Transformation Tuesday. I have definitely transformed. I went from being broke, depressed, and emotionally vacant (not to mention gross looking) in 2011  to loving my life and being fine as hell in 2014. Am I conceited for saying that? Fuck no. And if that's your opinion, crawl back into your hole and choke on your negativity. There is a huge difference between confidence and conceit. Confidence is looking in the mirror and saying "I ain't mad at that at all, let's go have a rad day". Conceit is looking in the mirror and saying "I don't like what I see, but I'll pretend I do, and then make everyone else feel bad about themselves."
If you relate more to my latter statement. Good luck and enjoy the ass whooping you're about to receive. Bitch, I don't play.
I am absolutely sick and tired of listening to some of the most beautiful women I've ever seen hating themselves. I'm tired of hearing about how you think you look fat/old/ugly etc.
You don't like the way you look? Transform yourself. I don't mean you should change the way you look. Transform the way you think. Love you. All of you. We're not perfect and never will be. Perfect is really hard to live up to, and I'm not even interested. Just do you. I'm definitely going to keep doing me.
If you're still not convinced, come have a chat with me. I promise, you don't look fat in those jeans, that pimple isn't obvious, and no, you don't jiggle when you wiggle. At least not as much as you think. It's Transformation Tuesday, but what are you doing for the rest of the week? I'll just be over here, kicking ass and taking names.
Now, who's looking forward to Way Back Wednesday?

Sunshine

Sometimes, we fuck up. We ignore what the universe is providing us. We would rather deny the sun, and live in darkness. Mark my words, it's a mistake. I recently made such an error.
My blog is all about honesty.The truth hurts, but so does life. So let's put it all out there. I'm not big on lies these days. 
I really thought that I was ready to end it. I was so depressed, so stressed. I thought "Fuck it. I'm done"
I went and bought the cheapest fifth of vodka I could find. I also spent $20 on 10 Norcos. I was really going to do it. Then, for some reason, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the vodka was still sitting there, so were the pills. Which by the way, I had crushed for easy digestion. I was so fucking disgusted with myself. Like "Really? Why would you think this wasn't a life worth living? So what, the gas and the Internet has been turned off, you can turn it around, kid."
I immediately took the bottle and smashed it, done. The pills I begrudgingly threw away as well. You wanna know the most interesting part? This didn't actually happen.
It could have. I was really feeling bad. But I'm back. I won't ever ignore the sun again. Because I have too much to live for. I have people in my life who love me. I have a nephew who hasn't met his aunt yet. I have friends, some whom I've never even met, who are pulling for me. Most importantly, I have the spirit of a Kirby. I can't turn my back on that. The strong will survive. And I am nothing if not a survivor. Mom and Dad (and everyone else) I hope you're not too mad at me for this. I hope you understand my point. You've loved my crazy ass for 32 years, let's keep it up.

A Letter to Maya

Dear Ms Angelou,
I hate to bother you while you're up there singin` and swingin'. So I'll keep it brief.
There is a part of me that does not grieve for you. Only because you have lived a life so full, so rich, painful, but triumphant. Your 86 years with us must have been exhausting, and your poor body just needed the rest. It was your time. I can accept that.
There is another part of me that weeps every time you sneak into my head today.  I feel as if I lost a member of my own family. I know that our backgrounds and lives were completely different. I would never compare my caged bird to that of a slave. However, I must say, you did teach me how to make that  canary carry a tune.
Regardless of race, upbringing, religion, you, Ms. Angelou, are a prime example of the fact that we are all the same in a way. We love, we get angry, we laugh, we yell and scream, we make mistakes. We hurt, we cry, and sometimes we get our innocence stolen. I won't elaborate on that, because I'm sure you already know.
I remember the first time I read I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. I was 14, and it was assigned reading (I wasn't expecting much, I was an angst ridden teenager) But I saw something of myself in those pages. I didn't want to give the book back, so I hid it under my mattress. I read it probably 50 times in two weeks.
I guess what I really want to say is thank you. Thank you for being bold, and putting every piece of yourself out there for the world to see. If you hadn't, I seriously doubt that I could have done the same in the past few months. You inspired me to be bold. Secrets will choke you if you don't cough them up, you helped me get that infection out.
You will never truly die, Ms. Angelou. There will always be a little piece of you in my soul, and I'm sure you will exist in the souls of many others.
Long story short, I want to be just like you when I grow up. 
Now, get back out there on the dance floor. I'll see you at the crossroads.
All my love,
Sarah Kirby

Truth

After a long meditation, careful thought, and some input from the voice in the back of my head who's two favorite words are “Fuck it", I've decided to be honest. I've already told my mama, which usually means my daddy knows, and I've told my Gma. So all of the important parties have been informed before this shit hits the Internet.
I stayed cancer free for an entire year. I had a slight scare a couple months back when my estrogen levels were sky high, but I was cool. Then, after another set of blood and tissue samples showed that my white blood cell count was unusually high, further probing was required. Turned out, cancer no longer felt that my cervix was a warm and welcoming environment. So, it decided to hit the bricks and move into my pelvic lymph nodes. I panicked when I heard that. I won't lie, I broke the fuck down, locked myself into a bathroom at the oncolgy center, and did a little damage to my right hand when I punched the wall in frustration.
The only thing I could think was, "It's spreading, which means I'm going to die"
That shit fucked me up. It took me back to times where I had prayed for death, even attempted to hurry it along more than once. How ungrateful can one person be? In some way, I felt that this was my penance. For squandering the gift that had been bestowed upon me. I walked out that day, shaking, sobbing, and resigned to an early death.
Since then, I have had my pelvic lymph nodes removed. A very simple procedure. My post op samples look good, and I'm okay. For now. Do I know for sure that it won't ever come back? No more than I know whether or not I'll get hit by a bus tomorrow.
Here's some facts on truth. You may think that you're sparing someone by hiding it from them, and maybe you are. However, if no one knows the truth, no one will come to your rescue. They'll all think everything is fine, that there's nothing to worry about. I'm trying really hard to get off of that lone wolf status and rejoin the pack. It's not the easiest thing in the world, I still don't really like answering the phone, or telling the truth about what's really going on. I'd still rather text you that I'm doing fine, and then go cry by myself. Twisted? Yeah, slightly. But it's me, like it or not.
So, now that I'm done confessing  what's your truth? You don't have to tell me, just tell someone, anyone.
Much love to anyone who reads this. Some days, you're the only backbone I have. Peace and blessings.

Learn To Walk

If you put all of your fucked up business out on Facebook for everyone to see, expect a response. This shit is killing me. When you post a bunch of shit about your man abusing you and fucking with other broads, people who love you are definitely going to respond with some anger, that's what they're for. Your family has your back and would do anything to help you out and make you feel safe. So the next day when you start posting pictures of you and homeboy taken after you bailed his ass out jail for yet another domestic charge (when you still have visible bruises) don't be surprised when everyone is hating on him. I know first hand it's not easy to just walk away from that kind of situation, I'm also guilty of staying way too long. But at some point, you have to say enough is enough. I guess the 12 years you've thrown away with him, all the trips to the emergency room, the broken bones, the bruises, the times you couldn't even get out of bed to get the kids to school because he hurt you so bad, debt accrued with the bail bondsman, the shame and humiliation , haven't seemed like valid reasons to get the fuck out. Everyone has been backing you up for years. You're family begs you to grab the kids and come home. And what do you do? You change your number, go incommunicado on everyone. Thing is, you're burning your bridges. You can't help someone who won't help themselves. If you continue to live this life, I'm not in it with you. I'm sure that seems harsh, but it's tough love, and I'm not the only one on that team. It's bad enough to see these ridiculous pictures you post and have you go off on me and everyone else about how it's none of our business. That's not even the worst part. The thing that's eating me alive is this sick feeling I get when I think about the future. Sadly, I'm pretty sure the next time I see you in person, you'll either be in a body bag or a fucking casket. If you were ever to call me or show up on my doorstep with your kids and your bags packed, I got you. Come on in we'll figure it out. But instead you just talk out of your neck, you don't need me or anyone else. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for your babies. Because right now, you're son is watching, learning how to treat women. Your daughter is watching, too. You're teaching her that it's acceptable to be treated this way as long as he apologizes and buys you something after you're done cleaning your own blood off the kitchen floor. I hope you read this. I hope it pisses you off to the point where you grow a little bit of backbone. Open your fucking eyes, and then call me when you can see clearly again.

Chafing

I don't know if any of you have been blessed with having your mother and your grandmother alive at the same time, and sharing in your life. If you have, and they're as close to you as my mother and my grandmother are to me, it's great, but God bless you and may the force be with you. It's fantastic, but at the same time, does it not want to make you scream and say "Fuck my life! I need some Gold Bond!“
I can see that you're unclear. Let me swoop you under my wing. Sometimes, a conversation will occur between yourself and either Ma or your Gma (as I so lovingly call them), that you will have to pass on. It will go down like this :
Me: Blah blah blah (doesn't really matter what I say, fill in the blank)
Ma or Gma: Blah blah blah whatever I say will piss her off. (again, fill it in)
But then, magic occurs. Like, real Disney style, pink clouds and glitter, POW, The middle generation. I pass it on, laughter happens. I convey exactly what needed to be said, with no irritation involved. Why? Because sometimes, being the middle generation makes you the medicated powder that prevents chafing. The chafing? It's similar to the feeling that you get when your panties have been rubbing against that spot on your thigh and your no-no. It's raw, and you can't ignore it. There is a strange bond that exists between us. Three generations of women who are highly opinionated, independent, and well.... Slightly bitchy. We can discuss anything. Love, sex, vaginal discharge. Are you disgusted yet?  Good, my work here is done. Gold Bond Forever!
This is dedicated to my Mom and my Grandma, my two best friends. Xoxo, love you too much!