I feel like there is a certain age at which you are allowed (by society) to no longer give a fuck.
You can dress as you please. Speak as you please. Live as you please. And no one is looking for you to change. They accept that you are “set in your ways”.
This is an age at which you can flip the bird to a 10 year old and a 70 year old on the same block (only if deserved and with no fucks given).
There is no more”respect your elders” talk because, hell, you are an elder and you have lived long enough to know who deserves your respect and who doesn’t.
I have always been told that I am “an old soul” but I must say my “stay the fuck away from me, let me read and swing on the front porch” stage is starting far too soon…
My little sister, Brooke, who juniored me by 18 months, was in a tragic car accident with two other teens early in the morning of March 24, 2008. They were all three killed on impact.
This has been the single most defining event in my life. The lessons that this has taught me could not be understood in any other possible way, as harsh and awful as that seems. I am still learning these lessons everyday. But this is part of my soul’s polishing process- and it hurts.
The most precious human being that I ever had the pleasure to know was Melanie Brooke Dover. Silliness and beauty followed her like light follows the sun.
When the world was able to wipe her from it’s existence sending her onto her next adventure without my permission, my brain melted.
My heart froze.
I denied my soul.
Everything turned black.
For about two years, my anger churned and burned. I cursed God. I became reclusive. I grew apart from my family. My bad relationship got worse. I just didn’t understand.
This was never part of the plan.
HOW? WHY?
I wanted answers. I wanted to understand. I wanted to trade places.
She was the good one. Not me. She had plans. I never have.
I saw multiple psychologists and psychiatrists. I was diagnosed with more ailments and disorders than I can remember. I was switched from anti-depressant to anti-depressant from benzo to benzo. “Here is a pill to level you out daily. Here is a pill to help you sleep every night. And here is an extra pill for when you have panic attacks.”
None of that jazz really worked out for me.
There was one counselor who understood me and that helped me to learn to start loving myself again. She told me that time was all that would make it easier.
She was right.
By now the all that time has let some scar tissue form and the wounds are eight years old.
I still cry and it still hurts often. But somehow, I believe I am a better person because of it.
I consider the value of life more. I want to better the world and be a part of it in a way that I did not before. I no longer feel guilty to be happy. I have a desire to live and travel more than ever before. I don’t fear physical pain like I did before. I am gutsier and more honest. I feel like I have to make a difference in the world, because I know that she would have.
Don’t get me wrong, in her short 17 years, she touched more lives than I even know of. But if I can give back just a smidgen of the love and hope that she gave me, I will have lived well.
Much has occurred, but I am only going to hit on the important stuff, and not in chronological order.
I was in a wedding for a dear friend, Winston and his darling husband, Brian.
I took a 5 day cruise to the Bahamas.
And I was fired for the first time in my (almost) twenty-seven years.
The on-board ceremony for Brian and Winston took place while at port in Jacksonville. They picked the most luxurious venue on the cruise ship. There were giant pink pearls in the ceiling, fancy glass flute-like lights, and a shimmering golden curtain at the front stage area where the ceremony took place. The reception had the fanciest, most delicious food and an open bar. It was both a grand and intimate affair; exactly as a wedding should be.
The cruise was lovely until halfway through, for the two nights when we experienced 5 foot waves. My bed creaked with every sway. Dramamine became my dearest friend (once I finally discovered it on the 2nd day of the movement).
That cruise was about two weeks after my cousin/boss stopped me in the hallway at work and asked to speak with me “just a quick minute”. He followed me into his wife’s office and rapidly told me that he needed someone to work 45+ hours a week and my 22 hours (as agreed upon when I was hired a year ago) was just not enough. He also mentioned that he already had someone in mind to fill my position, and that he refused to ask me to put college on the back burner. So here was a thousand bucks, I could go ahead and clear my desk and take some time off. “Is it something I’ve done?” I managed to stutter, still processing what was happening. “No! And don’t take this as me firing you. We are family and I love you. You are so smart. I just need someone who can be here more. ” Still confused, I wiped my tears and scurried back to my desk.
I have been working since I was fifteen years old. I have never been let go or fired from anything. I have never had someone say, “Thanks, but we really don’t need you.” or “You just aren’t worth it or working out.” This has been a blow to my ego/self-esteem.
I am so thankful for my overly comforting boyfriend. He was angry at first, just because he knew my feelings were hurt. But he keeps reminding me that this is how it is supposed to be and probably a blessing in disguise. “Look, I am working over-time since it is summer and you are still taking classes and all… we don’t necessarily need your income, I mean, you really don’t even have to get a job if you don’t want to.”
Thanks boo, but I need to feel useful and like I am holding my own. I will be ok. I will find something better suited for me. I will stay positive and start looking for my next adventure. Some-fucking-how…
My sister (see this post for more info) came to my house for a visit on a normal Thursday night, March 20, 2008. I lived on the westside of Jacksonville in an old, blue, asbestos-shingled shack. I cooked homemade chicken pot-pie for dinner, a Paula Dean recipe so you know it was gooood!
Afterwards, we drank two shots of cheap tequila and smoked a joint of dirt weed. To get away from my ever hovering high-school sweetheart, we moseyed to the front porch for a couple menthol cigs.
Her company was so genuine. She told me that my boyfriend was greedy with me (he was) and that I could find someone to treat me better (I have). She told me about the weekend ahead and how she was heading to Baxley, GA to see her boyfriend, Mallory and Liana, her best friend in town from Texas. She stayed for about three hours as we gossiped and chirped like chickens.
When it was time to go she kissed my cheek, told me she loved me and pranced towards her car, keys dangling in hand.
As I sat on the front the porch of that old dilapidated, asbestos-shingled house watching her walk away a knot rose in my throat that I could not swallow. “What if something happened to her?” I thought to myself. I quickly paced to her open car door like the bossy, mother-type that I am swinging it further open.
“Brooke- are you sure that you are okay to drive? I mean, we had a nip of tequila and I know the weed was crap, but I would just die if anything were to happen…”
She cut me off, “I am fine, sister. And I love you very much. Call you soon.”
She gave me a quick peck on the lips, a one armed hug and she was gone.
Nothing could happen, right?
It didn’t.
But the dread never left the back of my mind and it was the last time that I laid eyes on my little sister alive.
She made it home that night, but died in a car accident on the way to take Liana back to the airport for Texas early Monday morning. Liana and her boyfriend, Joshua, were also killed in the accident on impact. News Article Here
Brooke and Liana
I kept that bottle of cheap tequila and one of the cigarette butts with her pink lipstick print on it.
But it has been eight long, long years.
The liquor has started to evaporate, the butt has yellowed, and the lip print’s once glittery sparkles are long faded.
I never knew how much it could hurt.
I never thought that she could leave like that, never even considered it an option. I remember having nightmares as a child that she died. I would wake in a fury, put my hand under her nose to check her breathing (in the rare case that I couldn’t already hear her snoring) and hold her hand tight knowing that it could never happen to us. She had too many plans. She was going to go to college to be a teacher. And get married and have children of her own…
Then it happened to her.
To us.
To me.
And life has not ever been the same without her.
Easter Circa ’97
She and I prior to our last Victoria Secret shopping spree
Roaming through the flea market is always interesting. Sometimes you discover treasures that you would never stumble upon anywhere else and other times you find a big, fat nothing.
I have a thing for incense, candles and other smelly goods, so I always make sure to stock up while I am there.
This past weekend, my boyfriend and I took his 9 year old son and 7 year old daughter with us to on our trip to Pecan Park Flea Market.
One of the tobacco shops has a wall lining the outside with over 100 types of incense. At ten for a dollar, I give everyone in the family two bags and tell them to fill them with their favorite scents. We spend at least 30 minutes perusing and testing the varieties. The kids are having fun smelling all of the smells and practicing sounding out labels like Lavender, Honeydew, Frankincense, or Night-time Jasmine Garden.
“Try that one.”
“Yeah!”
“Definitely not this. Shoo-wee…”
“I like the Raspberry one! Here! Try!”
We are all buzzing back and forth filling our bags with little, smelly wooden sticks when a tiny voice fills the air, “This one is weird…Ms. Amber, smell the p-p-pu-pussy”
What was once a glorious celebration of my little sister’s life is now a black hole on my calendar.
Chuck E. Cheese, roller skating rinks, and the zoo all hold memories of days gone by where loved ones surrounded my skinny, blonde haired and blue-eyed sister, singing “Happy Birthday” and showering her in kisses, laughter and gifts. There was always at least one gift tucked away in Brooke’s mountain of toys just for me. “The good ole days” they call them.
On this particular day, similar to the last 7 years, I am throwing a pity party all for myself. I called out of work. I have been drunk(ish) since noon. I told my professor that I was sick and wouldn’t make it to class.
That wasn’t a lie. I am sick… of this day, of this feeling, in the head, to my stomach…
My sister was 18 months younger than me.
She was the most beautiful person that I have ever known in real life. She brought light into a room when she entered it. She went out of her way to befriend the friendless. She had inside jokes with everyone. She was a cheerleading captain and the reigning Miss Junior at the local high school (not that beauty pageants mean shit to me, but so you understand how gorgeous this girl was).
In public, she was a lady. She woke up early every morning to make sure that every hair on her head was in place and that her make-up was flawless. She smiled and waved to all, like the queen she was. 👑
When we were alone though, she would secretly puff on one of my menthol cigarettes, cursing like a sailor as she babbled on about her latest grown-up adventure. That raw side of her was only meant for those of us from whom she never feared judgement, and there weren’t very many of us.
She was not born with rhythm so she practiced over and over in a mirror until she understood and conquered that. She had more determination in her pinky finger than I have in my whole body. She could have changed the world. 🌎
She died in a car accident on March 24th, 2008, about a month after her 17th birthday (Feb. 22).
Most days I accept it. I now love more freely, speak more honestly and live more happily. I don’t take moments for granted. I forgive quicker. It has made me a better person in some strange way.
But not today.
On the day she was born and on the day she died, I don’t have to pretend I am ok with it or hold back my tears. I allow myself these two days a year to mourn, cry, mope, and feel sorry for myself like I want to so often (while I hermit myself in my house with some liquor). I look at old pictures. I simultaneously want company and can’t handle the judgement. My anxiety is at its peak.
I don’t really care what you do with the information once you have it.
I just want to have my pain, my dreams and my short-comings revealed through someone else’s eyes and in the context of the internet forevermore. I want my thoughts to scroll through your mind, in your voice. I want your own pain and experiences to weave and intertwine with mine to give it new life and meaning and therefore more existence.
(Apparently, tonight’s glass of wine is opening my wounds instead of tickling that funny bone.)
ONWARD!
So I have no clue what I am going to school for. If you have read my shit, then you are aware that I am a community college freshman… a late bloomer, if you will.
I had a great career in customer service for a large insurance broker for nearly six years. The pay was great. I had tons of friends within the organization. I felt very appreciated by the owners and the company in general. And I busted ass for them. But when it came down to it… I was not living my dream.
(Not like I know what that is, really)
If there were such things as genies in bottles, my honest-to-God dream job would be to run an orphanage, animal shelter, and horse ranch while simultaneously moonlighting as Tony-winning actor and a regular on the cast of SNL. (Not to mention the great fucking body I would be rocking… Thanks Genie!)
Ha.
The only thing that I honestly know is that I want to help the world (somehow). I mean, I want to be happy. But even more than that, I want to leave my mark on this earth… one that says that I have lived and lived well (thanks R.W.E.).
I want to impact lives. I just wish I had more direction…
Steve Harvey once said that most people don’t realize what their natural gift is because it is something that they love and have done their whole lives. They don’t even realize that they can get paid for it and make a career out of it.
(I don’t think eating puffy cheetos in a tee shirt and undies while watching Cartoon Network counts. -\_(ツ)_/- Oh well.)
Until another day…
xoxo
– Am
P.S. I will be back soon. And I will open up more. I am just the type of girl who gets in the pool toes first… I know that I seem like a jumper, but I’m really a wuss.
I have always preferred to write poetry in the style of Walt Whitman- free, full of feeling and noises. But Emily Dickinson’s gentle cynicism has always been dear to my heart. She was so different and yet still similar to myself.
There is a poem that I was taught in 11th grade when learning about American Literature from Ms. Pulliam- one of my all-time favorite teachers- and it became my immediate goal to memorize it. A short, sweet and utterly brilliant poem, it brought wonder and awe to my young, contentious mind.
I now feel the need to share it and document in blood (kinda since the internet is forever) how meaningful it is to me and to share it with you.
Maybe I am being overly sensitive, but someone shit in the bathroom of my personal office less than five minutes before I arrived back from lunch…
There are only three employees other than myself here today and there are five bathrooms in this office. Other restrooms (whose offices are not occupied) are vacant for the entire day to air out. But mine was chosen…
And right before I return? So that I can be punched in the face execpectedly on a full stomach? Fucking Yuck.
The older I get, the more that I try to purposefully weed out the negativity from my life.
I don’t want to be surrounded with people who droll on about the same issue over and over again and never do anything to alleviate it. I don’t like those who are constantly spewing other people’s business like it’s their own. I can’t stand girls who whine on about how their boyfriend (who has proved over and over again what a bag of shit he is) has been treating her shittily again but she never leaves the fucker..
wah wah wah…
How you react to a situation is everything. Your attitude determines more than your aptitude. (I think I read that on a poster in middle-school somewhere) And bad attitudes can be so infectious. In fact, I have come to a rather brilliant conclusion (if I do say so myself).
A bad attitude is like a large brown fart cloud that continuously follows you around. It is obvious and unpleasant for everyone near.
While sitting at the Comedy Zone last night Ty & I overheard this guy say to his friend “Please…it’s a sure thing; I am about to bust this bitch wide open.”
Ty and I look at each other in shock.
“Well he is awfully confident.” I whisper in Ty’s direction.
“Must be on a date with a hooker,” he replies.
It turned out that he was the opening act…and he did in fact bust that bitch wide open. ShaneIsFunny.com <- (This is the guy!)
Our love story is far from a fairy tale. But he is still my knight in worn-out denim & steel-toed boots, & always will be. 💕
Tyrell and I started dating three years ago. Unbeknownst to me at the time, he was a hardcore drug addict.
He stole from me, lied to me and used me for about six months while hiding his addiction. Then we separated for three months (upon my finding out). He begged and pleaded on how he would get sober if I would give him another chance. So I gave in.
When what my mother warned me of finally did happen, I was in over my head. She told me that it would be easier for him to drag me down than it would be for me to lift him up. I was the most miserable that I have ever been following our reconnection. Momma warned me that she had many seedy friends (like I need reminding) but she had never known any as heavy into the crap as he was to come off of it…
It took nine months of him pretending to get sober for me to open my eyes. I was not living the life that I wanted or deserved. I packed my bags and headed 600 miles away to my best friends house in Nashville. I didn’t even bother to tell him that I was leaving because I knew at the time, he was somewhere on the westside of Jacksonville blowing his entire week’s pay on a single day’s high.
I was over 300 miles away on the other side of Atlanta before I told him what my plan was. It was pretty simple… to get away from all the bullshit.
I knew that I did not want drugs to be part of my daily life. He flipped back and forth from angry to remorseful in milliseconds, as drug addicts so often do. Ty had been on opiates for over six years. He was taking up to 300 milligrams of Roxicontin a day if he could get his hands on them. He begged me to come home. I knew that I couldn’t do it anymore.
He called me the next morning once he calmed down and regained his wits. He said that he would check into a rehabilitation center if I would consider giving him another chance. I agreed. I have always loved him and knew that I was not ready to give up.
Ty checked into Promise of Hope in Cochran, GA on May 29, 2014. He attended for 8 weeks. He has been sober for one year and eight months now, still going strong.
Now that you have heard a lot of negative awful shit about him,
Onto why I love him:
He agrees that I am the boss. (probably the most important reason)
He knows neat things like the makes, models, body styles, details and engines of most antique cars
He thinks I am a genius (I really don’t know why)
He can fix anything
He totally would cry as much as I do (on the regular) if his tear ducts weren’t broken
He reminds me regularly that I am his backbone & driving force behind his sobriety
He holds door & still uses worn out phrases like “yes ma’am” or “no sir”
He always sees the same shapes in the clouds as I do
He remembers the smallest, sweetest details about events and places
He is a fantastic storyteller
He buys me flowers regularly even though he thinks they are a waste of money
He wants to be a good father to his children more than anything
He is a momma’s boy and wants her to know it
He admits when he is being stubborn (sometimes…)
He calls me on my bullshit (also sometimes…)
He helps me with the dishes (even less often, but i’ll still give it a “sometimes”…)
He works hard and loves even harder
xoxo
– Am
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xoxo
My Open Diary 