Smile more they say
Why does she look mad
Is she okay
As they try to whisper walking past me
Unapproachable yet, I’m never approached
Oh face how you are perceived
Oh my face how you are mistaken as upset
Maybe I’m sad
Maybe I’m broken
Maybe I have a lot on my mind
Maybe I’m stressed
Maybe I’m none of the above & I am genuinely filled with Joy
You judge, but don’t ask me what is wrong
You assume I’m everything, but happy
Here’s the kicker I am okay
I am loved
I am in love with whom I am spending the rest of my life with
I am filled with joy
My facial expressions will tell you many things, but you won’t know till you ask
Get to know me before you mistakenly identify me as angry

A year has gone by.

Nothing much about my life has changed since the last time you saw me.

I still wake up at 9am to take my Vyvanse before going back to sleep again til the doctor
prescribed methamphetamines hit an hour later. At which point sleeping is no longer an option. Vyvanse is great because I can’t tell if I’m manic or depressed.

I still make my coffee and let it sit in the press while I walk two blocks to the smoke shop
to bum a loosie. Only one. Last time you saw me I was quitting. I’m still quitting. I’m a regular.
They know my name. I don’t know theirs. Besides one guy who I eventually built friendly
rapport with despite my best efforts not to. He eventually moved back to Michigan.

I was sad.

I still go to all the same spots I took you and all the rest to. Same coffee shops. Same
book shops. Same breakfast shops. Employees always remember my face but never who I was
with. Eventually they learn my name though none of them can ever pronounce it right. I hate it when I realize I’m observed as much as I observe. I hate being perceived. I assume they’re filling in the blanks with all the wrong tenses. I try to convince myself they’re randoms NPCs, but then the NPCs start interrogating me.

Them: What’s your name?

I just tell them to call me Val. And so they call me Val. Most people call me Val. Because
most people can’t be bothered to figure out the other two syllables, six letters of my name and I can’t be bothered to sit them through a phonetics lesson. But I prefer it this way. They only know Val. They only perceive Val.

I respond to Val. I reply to Val. I occasionally refer to myself as Val, but I don’t know a
Val. I only know Valaniece. You called me Val. Probably because you knew Val about as well as I did.

Then they start asking more questions.

Them: How is your day?

Thus I start making assumptions about their perceptions of Val. She has no life. Where
are her friends? Does she ever go out? Does she have a job? Why is she always here at the same time? Who was that guy? Who was that other guy? Where did he go? Then I feel the need to unsolicitedly object to observations they likely never had.

Me: Yeah I work a lot. I work from home. I’m always working. I’m a writer. So I write. I
only get one cigarette because if I buy a pack I smoke a pack also I’m always so busy but I love
working and enjoy the peace because also I’m busy. Also I love being single.

I still light my ciggy with the stove because I still can’t find my lighter and don’t want to
buy a new one just in case I find the old one. I still wear the red hoodie you gave me with the
boxers from the other guy before whenever I smoke so I don’t stink up all my clothes. I still sit on my patio staring at the same view that looks indistinguishable from now and then. I still listen to the same playlist I made a year ago as I inhale my morning ciggy (the rest of the day is all downhill from here).

1. Blurry Days – Camille Jansen
2. Unconscious Melody – Preoccupations
3. Contaminado – La Femme
4. Money Trees – Kendrick Lamar
5. Mirror Forever – Weyes Blood

I know all of these songs mean nothing to you. To be honest, they’re starting to mean less
to me. Sometimes I wonder what songs remind you of me. Songs that somebody who wasn’t you had written for somebody that wasn’t me. I wonder what you got right. What you got wrong. I wonder if my mask slipped last time I slept in your arms. I wonder how much I got right about you. I think I saw more than you wanted me to. I wonder who Val was to you because she’s
nobody to me.

Last I heard you were exactly where I found you. Last I heard you were exactly where I
left you. Last I heard you were planning on leaving yet I still know where to find you.
I smoke the same ciggys, read the same books, drink the same coffee, stuck in the same playlist I made a year ago. I’ve moved on but I still haven’t left. We’re creatures of comfort. Nothing ever changes and time never passes. Today is always yesterday. Tomorrow never came. Even though a year has gone by since the last time you saw me.

Most days,
It’s difficult to breathe.
Shared parenting load? No.
Under the covers are his concerns,
Non-existent because of selfish intent.
Daily challenges a single mother endures,
Encapsulating her in stress,
Rendering restlessness, resentment, and rage.
Seeking solace starved from over speaking,
Often burying regrets
Only to excavate hidden truth,
Dreaming to be understood and heard.

Peanut butter only for me
on my soft bread, between two slices.
Most, maybe eight out of ten,
want jam or jelly, but not me. Please,
please let the taste linger peanut butter
for as long as the flavor will last.

Many might think I am extreme,
but I simply don’t want to distract
from the peanut butter taste.
Waste not your gelatinous jam.
I am not interested in soiling
my bread for the sake of fitting in.

Crunchy or creamy are okay.
Crust on or crust cut off works well.
I prefer no drink to cleanse
my palate from peanut buttered bread.
So please just keep your jelly to yourself.
The rest of us will eat just fine.

P.B. only for me today,
tomorrow, and the next day, as well.
We will get along just fine
in most all other aspects of our
life together, forever, my dear love.
Should you grant me this one politeness.

I look normal, though honestly, I am not.
You wouldn’t know or think twice. Usually my speech or repeating giveaway
A disorder, not fully aware, like to share and explain how it came to be,
The inner struggles, and hopefully food for thought.

My Mom was pregnant with me at forty-two
When the doctor gave her fear, saying I would possibly have Down syndrome or any disability.
But I came out healthy, no problems, double the blessings—-
Being brave and having faith as the breakthrough.

It began one evening when I was only three;
Dinner time was announced, yet I didn’t react or turn around.
My family called my name, screamed, clapped,
Trying to get any attention from me.

One diagnosis was I was becoming deaf;
But up close I could hear just fine, though not everything that was called “normal”
So the solution of having autism was left.

My parents took me to an autism specialist,
And after some tests, came with a smile and said,
“She does not have autism!”
Was the heartfelt testament.

Some signs looked like I have it,
But not correctly, especially how I talked to nurses, keeping their gaze with
A tongue not knowing when to quit.

The long-awaited solution took the form of a rare cause:
Auditory Processing Disorder, or APD for short, was the answer for how I hear and talk.
But for anyone who’s never heard it, come to a confusing pause.

What is APD? What is this disability disorder?
How I explain is like the brain “can’t hear,” may not hear everything,
Even if it was all in order.

For instance, say you tell me three things to do:
I may catch the first instruction, somewhat of the third.
Often the middle I didn’t hear fully, all muddled, not a clue.

I hear just fine, but not always entirely.
My speech sometimes takes work, accidentally repeating.
Visionary learner I proudly am, but everywhere is almost
Auditory teaching is painfully screwing.

I’m a fast learner in many areas, yet slow to learn in other depending sections.
Been jeered by peers growing up for being “slow,” and by teachers and other adults
Thought I was “disobedient” from given directions that
Lead to harsh corrections.

From age four to twelve, twice to three times a week
Having appointments, with different lady teachers, for speech therapy.
Wasn’t grateful then, as I am now, a therapist to a student
Hard at emotional work to teach me the right way to speak.

Almost daily in conversation can be a slip of the mind
It is repeating a topic, a joke, or a feeling that I had mentioned already before.
My words can get mixed up, like “say potato,” which can be misheard as “save turtle.”
I try to make sense, though mentally one thing to find, is give myself grace and be kind.

Even finding a job or more wasn’t always easy;
If misunderstood stepping in leads to overpowering stress, and not getting something
Right make anxiety all the more queasy.

It’s very easy to believe that you’re all alone and can be quite different.
Can be somewhat blessing and curse, though half quiet and kept to self,
Or more ways than one be outgoing or vociferant.

There is great beauty that doesn’t have to be like everyone else:
“I’m not normal, so I’m not boring!”
This world’s too busy to take precious time to see beauty in differences with reassuring
Words that are meant for restoring.

I want to make a difference, a purpose, for those who are like me.
No one is ever perfect. No more focus on what you can’t but focus on what you are able—
The secret of pure joy and growth of life is key.

Being misunderstood does leave a bit of a bruise.
Every day I have a choice to make——self-pity and hide away
Or look for great possibilities for a meaningful life
With an extra mile in my shoes.

I speak, but my words fall through the cracks,
half-heard, half-seen, never fully intact.
They think they know me, think they can tell,
but the pieces they catch are broken as well.
I smile and nod, I play my part,
but none can see the battle in my heart.
They don’t know the silence that shouts inside,
the rage I swallow, the tears I hide.
I try to fit, I try to belong,
but the tune they play is a different song.
I’m not what they expect, not what they want,
a puzzle they try to solve but can’t confront.
I’m too much and too little, a ghost in between,
a person they think they’ve already seen.
But they only catch fragments, never the whole,
they don’t understand the depth of me.
I’m a storm behind a still face,
a maze of thoughts they cannot trace.
Misunderstood, I walk this line,
caught between the world and my mind.
But I’ll keep speaking, even if they don’t hear,
I’ll keep existing, despite the fear.
I am more than they will ever know,
a flame they’ll never let me show.

What is one phrase to describe your life?
Misunderstood

The constant expansion of the universe
A little Pluto stuck within the midst of it
Am I important enough to be a planet?
Yes
No
Yes again
No once more

My head snapping tracing the never concluding question and it’s answers
My heart snapping at the reality
Warm liquid dripping from my eyes

The constant weeping breaking the unstable euphoric episode that lasted for months
Like a broken clock
Don’t bother asking me the time
You know I can’t read the signs

Sent away to get help
“For the sake of you”
But I see the look in your eyes that screams
“For the sake of me”

Because it hurts you to see me like this
But do you understand how much it hurts me to be like this?

Now I’m stuck
The medicine blocking the tears
Shaking in my soul as I become robotic

I’m so sorry I’m tired
I’m sorry I fell asleep first
I’m sorry, it’s my fault
But I’m better this way right?

All of this is worth the lack of a fight
Little Pluto you’re not a planet anymore
So stay quiet
Shove the little pill down your throat
And quiet down
You’re giving me a headache

So I did and now I’m no longer seen
How this truth rips my light out of my flesh
And leaves me a cold lumpy rock
No longer prolific enough to be something important

Swallowed through the universes expansion
Now I’m gone

If only you could step inside my head…maybe, just maybe, then you could understand me instead.

I tend to get judged based on what others think, see, or feel, but how do you know that what I go through isn’t real?

Constantly fighting my brain with things like my emotions or productivity tends to become a daily struggle for me.

I spent so long thinking something was wrong with me. Turns out, I just had undiagnosed ADHD.

See, people don’t understand that my brain just works differently.
I might not be “book smart” but my brain has powerful creativity.

I might seem lazy, but in reality, I’m overwhelmed and exhausted.
I seem distracted or disorganized cause the thing I just had, I already lost it.

People see mood swings and think that I have issues.
Emotional dysregulation is a struggle that I didn’t choose.

Regardless of the bad that people see in ADHD, I invite them to see the good in it too. We’re creative, innovative, and empathetic, to name a few.

Though we may struggle with things like emotions or being organized, ADHD is something that should start being more normalized.

See beyond the stigma and you’ll be surprised at what we can do.
We’re not broken- we’re brilliant, just with a different point of view.

With each farewell of the sun, I gather my thoughts under the company of the moon. It is only under the moon’s light that I feel whole. It is very ironic that I feel the most seen in the darkest conditions. Perhaps it is because no matter how much the sun tries to shed light on my true nature, it is always overlooked. I glisten under the moon’s light, ready to get to the root of my troubles. Each night I have gathered my thoughts into words, waiting to assemble them into the perfect menu. Collected are the starters, how I came to be. Samples of my upbringing, along with childhood joys and sorrows. Some grow impatient, hungry, and eager to skip over to the main course. Here we have what makes me, me. My likes, dislikes, quirks, core values, beliefs, and more. Each ingredient carefully picked and mixed into each dish. All of me is sprinkled into everything because I am never just one key ingredient 24/7. I am all encompassing. This is where the misunderstandings begin. Hungry to get to the root of me, the starters, which is very important in a full course meal, gets skipped. Things I hold dear to me, things that brought me to the woman I am today, seems to not matter to anyone. We skip ahead and make assumptions from the small pictures next to the main course. Written off because certain parts of me doesn’t seem appealing visually. Not even questioning the ingredients that were carefully put together to make me. Not even bothering to ask. I think it is a human trait to assume. As you are reading this you are making assumptions in your head. You can’t help it. So pick your dish. You still may eat it whole and be disappointed. Did you understand what you ate? Do you care to ask what was in it? No. No matter how good it was, you do not ask. You may come back for more one day, but for now you are satisfied. Then we have desserts. The sweetest part of me. Everyone’s favorite. This will all be eaten with a haste as well. After all is gone, the experience is over. Sadly, everyone’s taste buds are different and will never truly understand what I was truly trying to convey. And even if you care to ask me what that is, will you hear me, or will you only listen?