Master of Failure

Disclaimer: I am feeling a certain way today. Possibly the most confused I've been in a while. Emotions are fickle, so tomorrow I could be writing in a different tone. But for now, this is a little bit of a dark place. So if you can't handle raw emotion or honesty, don't continue reading.

.....

I used to joke around that I was a Jack of all and master of none. I always seem to have my hand in multiple hats and spin each really well, but may not have maxed my skills in any certain genre. Recently I have found that I, Dianna Lynn Gray, am the Master of Failure. My failure varies from personal skills all the way to love. I have found I am on a Master Splinter level (that's a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle reference) when it comes to how frequently and effortlessly I am able to fail at love. Now, this is where I specify. It's not necessarily that I don't know how to love, because I truly do. I have this extremely passionate, unconditional, and selfless love. I tend to hand it out like dinner mints at a parade. I become addicted to the feeling. Well, I am addicted to love (in all her glorious forms). I like to spread her all over my friends and children. I cuddle and pinch and hug and kiss and hold hands. I'm in all in kind of love(stress).

There's a saying that goes: "Many people love the idea of you but lack the maturity to handle the reality of you." That's my life. 100% applicable.

The issue here:
I rarely get the love back.

Sometimes I do. It's temporal. Like a true addict I go through withdrawals, I have a physical reaction and become emotional. All I want is my next fix.

This is where you should know that I come from a family of addicts. I was blessed to not have any of my childhood demons follow me to adulthood and I have no vices. I have no bad habit that allows me to escape. Instead my drug of choice is love. Beyonce stole lyrics from my journal because I sure do get drunk in love. The horrible fact in all of this is that I tend to fail miserably when it comes to the whole execution of love. I over think and desire these deep connections and I usually receive them. The difficult (and failing) part is when the united party takes a step back, well 300 steps back in a fast pace then turns and starts running and I don't even know what's happening. Before I know it, I'm lost in this maze of confusion. Where did they go? What did I do? Why does this always happen? *hold opens arms* Will they come back and hug me? There's a new generation of abandoners that I had no idea existed, but apparently I attract the species in my life (in all forms).

What I have come to realize is that yes, maybe it is me. I am possibly the world's most intense person in life ever to love. I can be overwhelming. I question anyone's ability to love me. I question words and actions. I doubt people are capable of fighting the good fight with me. I. DOUBT. PEOPLE.

What have I learned? I'm glad you asked.

I don't doubt God.
There has to be a reason He keeps allowing me in all my free will glory to make the decision to try and love people when I know all that is going to happen is failure. In the end, God will be behind me with open arms and a compassionate look ready to receive His daughter again because I went giving away my love in all the dark places. I can only find comfort and solace in knowing that He has a purpose for all of it and a plan. I can't doubt that. I can't doubt Him.

This is the only reason my soul and heart have been able to be even partially resilient. She knows that God has a purpose. My pains are lessons. My hurt is sacrifice. I don't quite know why He uses me as much as He does, sometimes it's quite irritating, Like, "Okay, God. Give a girl a break man." But He's persistent. So whoever you are out there, the person my hurt is sacrificed for. Hurry up and learn your lesson, because I'm ready to be loved.

Beautiful Grit

I saw her not from across the room, but sitting next to me on a bench as we waited
It's harder to observe a person when they're so close to you, but that's what I did
I noticed the braid in her hair was slightly more loose on one side and that she had bitten the edge of her left index nail off
I watched her pick at it as her knees started to bounce in anticipation
She had an alternating twitch of anxiety
I could almost see her nerves trigger each one
I could feel her heart start to pound next to me
I could hear her inhale and imagined her lungs thanking her for finally giving into a motion that should have been involuntary
Her skin was flawed with beauty marks and scars that seemed to tell stories
I was even more intrigued because she used her hair to hide them
She had a story
I wanted to ask
Instead I sat back and told it to myself

She fell in love young and he loved her for her battle wounds
the way the world quietly crushed everything she loved
the way she responded to being denied
the way her heart seemed bruised the perfect hue of purple and black
yet housed her greatest love for him in the darkest corner of everything he didn't know

She was misunderstood most of her life
never able to marry eloquent words constantly divorcing sentences in an effort to share custody of a poem
never able to make love to music efforts futile in a repeated dry exchange of fluids across her lips as she sang off key about a forgotten truth

She was flawed by her openess and scarred by her self inflicted pains of denial
a constant reminder of how tainted her memories would flow
undemanding of her attention until she was alone at 3am

She crashed into everything with a force mighty and unapologetic
for disrupting hearts and lives
for invoking thoughts
for creating fierce lovers
for creating an uprising
for initating evolution in hearts

She left them speechless, breathless and lost
without her to guide their thoughts
because without her their world was dim and shaded grey
without being able to peek at her flaws they only knew what they didn't know
that they couldn't live or breathe

Now I looked at her in awe of her beauty
the grit in her eyes
without knowing the truth cascading down her arm as she reached into her side
pocket
She took out a pen, black the ends chewed on and frayed
I couldn't look away as she permitted the ink to stain her left hand
Palm down she placed her hand on mine
and transferred her story as my own