Socially awkward.

I was born from complacent duty
And an alcoholic dependency
Forced out the womb with forceps

Without parental or medical foresight
On how it would affect me. It motivated me
To see limitations as my enemy.

The kin to me would be unknown
Because I was born to this world
But not of it. A singularity.

Only defined by self.
Made in the image of self.
Self made.
Purposed by the most High.

Most of the time… high on hopes
Doped up on fantasy, to escape
An abusive reality… but the stench
Of misery’s scent was stuck to me
Once upon a time

Toxic ties that tethered
Me to despair
I didn’t care to stay there

So I gave myself to prayer
To let my Maker bare the burden
Once I did that I became aware
Of the joy that life offers

I know who I am
Very soon so will you too
With all my love

Dear Unsealers,

There’s a moment in life when things change, not just on the outside but deep within. For me, that moment wasn’t a big, dramatic event—it was more like a whisper, one that slowly grew louder until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I spent a lot of time trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations, thinking that if I checked all the boxes, I’d finally be happy. I wanted to protect everyone, be the best mom, wife, and person I could be, and still somehow find time for myself. But something was missing. I was disconnected from myself, from the love I wanted to feel and share.

The turning point came when I realized that the love I was searching for wasn’t out there—it was already within me. I had to learn to love myself first, to stop depending on others for validation, and to connect with my own heart and soul. It wasn’t easy, but that moment—realizing that I am enough just as I am—changed everything. I stopped chasing perfection and started living with intention. I learned that real power comes from within, and when we embrace who we truly are, we not only heal ourselves but also the people around us.

Now, every day, I try to live with that understanding: that love, kindness, and compassion are choices we make, starting with how we treat ourselves. That’s my turning point—when I realized that in order to give to others, I had to first find peace within myself.

With Love & Light,

Dear Young Allison,
I wish that I could reach back in time, wrap my arms around you, and tell you that what you’re facing doesn’t define you. I know you’re carrying so much weight – both physically and emotionally – and a lot of it comes from the words of someone you love. Maw-Maw’s comments, sharp and painful, dig deep don’t they? It feels like every meal is watched, every outfit is scrutinized, and every part of you is seen through a lens of judgement. I want you to know something important: that shame is not yours to carry.

You are not the problem, your body is not a problem, and you don’t owe anyone an explanation or an apology for how you look. You’re more than a number on a scale or the size of your clothes. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but those criticisms are not about you; they’re a reflection of Maw-Maw’s own struggles, insecurities, and maybe even the world she grew up in. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, does it? You deserve to hear words of love and kindness, and I’m here to tell you those words now.

You are strong. Not just in the way your body carries you, but in how you carry yourself through the endless comments, the side glances, and the unsolicited advice. That strength will become your superpower. One day, you will realize that the things you’ve been told are flaws are actually what make you resilient, fierce, and beautiful.

There will be a moment-many moments, really-when you look at yourself and feel pride. Your body will transform, not because you finally fit someone else’s standard, but because you’ll build it into what makes you feel powerful. Every step you take, every choice you make for your own health and happiness, will feel like reclaiming parts of yourself that were never lost, only hidden under layers of doubt planted by others.

You’ll learn that beauty is not something anyone else can define for you. It’s in the way you move, the way you love, the way you laugh. And one day, you’ll see yourself as I do now: strong, capable, beautiful, inside and out. Maw-Maw’s voice will fade, replaced by your own, full of love and confidence.

Until then, be kind to yourself. You’re already so much more than anyone ever gave you credit for, and I’m so proud of the women you’ll become.

With all my love and strength,
Grown, beautiful, stronger and older Allison

The day approaches near, and I feel an empty space.
My thoughts are so depressing, every turn I see your face.

Our mother’s scream still lingers, through my ears and in my head.
As her words slice through the air, “Oh God Crissy Kate is dead”.

Yes, I thought she’d lost it. But I came to realize.
That she wasn’t nuts at all, I soon saw with my own eyes.

Your body lay half on the bed and I turn to take a look.
As I flipped your body over, my entire soul was shook.

Blood oozed out from your nose, your mouth frozen slight ajar.
Your eyes were rolled inside your head. How did it get this far?

You were cold and you were stiff. You were charcoal, purple, blue.
Your entire body swollen, you just didn’t look like you.

Our mother screaming “Make her breathe”, continually she would yelp.
“Oh Crissy you have to save her”. “Oh Crissy you have to help”.

I tried desperately to revive you. Though I knew it was too late.
Dear God I want my sister. Why the hell are you taking Kate?

There was no pulse or movement, as I compressed repeatedly.
My mouth upon your discolored mouth, the only breathing was from me.

Our mother asking, “is she alive”? “Crissy is she breathing yet?
You were so cold and dark, beneath my hands, I can’t forget.

I failed to make it happen. No matter how tirelessly I had tried.
I failed to make you breathe again, beyond the door, our mother cried.

At some point my movements stopped and I took this final sight.
As my sadness and the anger, just consumed me in my plight.

You were gone and I had to tell her. “Mom, I’m sorry she is dead”.
Her scream of horror ringing on, her heart breaking with what I said.

She looked up to my eyes, and said “Oh Crissy that can’t be, tell me no”.
If I could have traded my life right then, but I held her, as we let you go.

If only I could have saved you. If only there had been some way.
If only I could have filled our Mom’s request, then you’d be here today.

Instead we watched them take you. A black body bag across the floor.
Your body dead within it, as they dragged you out the door.

As if you weren’t a person, pulling you like a fleshy inhuman blotter.
Their callousness invokes me, so I scream “that’s my sister and her daughter”.

As they thumped you down the stairs, stunned, they stop to stare at me.
They look upon the body bag, and finally they begin to see.

From the ground they gently pick you up and they move you to the Hurst .
My misery all consuming, I know my rage is about to burst.

But I have to be the strong one and I have to move along.
To be there for our loving mother, to be the rock to keep her strong.

I will not ever forget that day, because a big part of me died with you.
Regardless of the years since then, this isn’t something I can get through.

I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it sometimes the memories just make me crack.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one, to save you and bring you back.

I miss you and I love you and I am so sorry this was your fait.
The good of you and that horrid day will always live inside me, my sister, Kate.
My Sister Kate
The day approaches near, and I feel an empty space.
My thoughts are so depressing, every turn I see your face.

Our mother’s scream still lingers, through my ears and in my head.
As her words slice through the air, “Oh God Crissy Kate is dead”.

Yes, I thought she’d lost it. But I came to realize.
That she wasn’t nuts at all, I soon saw with my own eyes.

Your body lay half on the bed and I turn to take a look.
As I flipped your body over, my entire soul was shook.

Blood oozed out from your nose, your mouth frozen slight ajar.
Your eyes were rolled inside your head. How did it get this far?

You were cold and you were stiff. You were charcoal, purple, blue.
Your entire body swollen, you just didn’t look like you.

Our mother screaming “Make her breathe”, continually she would yelp.
“Oh Crissy you have to save her”. “Oh Crissy you have to help”.

I tried desperately to revive you. Though I knew it was too late.
Dear God I want my sister. Why the hell are you taking Kate?

There was no pulse or movement, as I compressed repeatedly.
My mouth upon your discolored mouth, the only breathing was from me.

Our mother asking, “is she alive”? “Crissy is she breathing yet?
You were so cold and dark, beneath my hands, I can’t forget.

I failed to make it happen. No matter how tirelessly I had tried.
I failed to make you breathe again, beyond the door, our mother cried.

At some point my movements stopped and I took this final sight.
As my sadness and the anger, just consumed me in my plight.

You were gone and I had to tell her. “Mom, I’m sorry she is dead”.
Her scream of horror ringing on, her heart breaking with what I said.

She looked up to my eyes, and said “Oh Crissy that can’t be, tell me no”.
If I could have traded my life right then, but I held her, as we let you go.

If only I could have saved you. If only there had been some way.
If only I could have filled our Mom’s request, then you’d be here today.

Instead we watched them take you. A black body bag across the floor.
Your body dead within it, as they dragged you out the door.

As if you weren’t a person, pulling you like a fleshy inhuman blotter.
Their callousness invokes me, so I scream “that’s my sister and her daughter”.

As they thumped you down the stairs, stunned, they stop to stare at me.
They look upon the body bag, and finally they begin to see.

From the ground they gently pick you up and they move you to the Hurst .
My misery all consuming, I know my rage is about to burst.

But I have to be the strong one and I have to move along.
To be there for our loving mother, to be the rock to keep her strong.

I will not ever forget that day, because a big part of me died with you.
Regardless of the years since then, this isn’t something I can get through.

I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it sometimes the memories just make me crack.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one, to save you and bring you back.

I miss you and I love you and I am so sorry this was your fait.
The good of you and that horrid day will always live inside me, my sister, Kate.

Dear Little Kendy,
Has Mom come home yet? I can feel your anticipation waiting for a friendly face to enter through the front door. She works hard day and night for your well-being, yet that feeling of emptiness lingers. You crave to be in the presence of another human; you always appreciate the intimacy of a lively conversation. I remember it as if it were yesterday, but for you, it’s now. Waking up in an empty house was always a struggle. Breakfast for one. Playing with our toys was a satisfying pastime. In those isolated moments, Barbie, Pinkie Pie, and our hundreds of Littlest Pet Shop figurines comforted me. After traveling the world, creating new friends, and becoming a fashion icon with my “Gal Pals,” I’d turn to television for new excitement. It was always “Friends.” Chandler, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, and Ross! The gang’s all here! While giggling at Monica’s head stuck in a turkey, I heard her keys jingle. Mom opened the door and sighed. “Friends again?” she spoke. Little did she know I rewatched the same show over and over again because I admired the character’s willingness to spend as much time with each other as humanly possible. Episode after episode, I felt included in their world. Mom and I had our usual little routine. I yap her ear off and she engages as best as she can. I loved our time together, but soon I’d have to close my eyes and be alone all over again. I did everything in my power to escape the endless loop of alone time. Hanging out with our neighbors, who I barely enjoyed spending time with, as a means of escaping my impending solitude. Throughout middle school, I intended to establish connections with as many people as I could, so I’d never have to be alone again. Just know, you do just that. You will meet some of the most kindhearted and compassionate individuals in your life, most of which I am still friends with today! We became close instantly, making it even easier for me to become attached. After getting my first “real” phone, we talked all the time. Late-night Roblox sessions, gossiping about the cutest boys in our grade, or weekly trips to Galleria Mall were times I looked forward to. I remember those school days filled with unforgettable moments, and how I’d rush home to dive straight into voice chat with friends. My routine drastically changed and my alone time ceased to exist. My high school experience was just the same. If someone was throwing a party, I was there. If a friend wanted to grab food, I was there. “Want to come to my dentist’s appointment?” “Absolutely!” I found myself leaving for school at 5 am, going to work until 9 pm, and then staying out until midnight. I graduated high school in May of last year. Everything I had known, changed. I started picking up shifts at work to make up for the lack of school interaction. From June 2023 to May 2024, I went out almost every day. With time, I realized I was pushing myself far beyond my limits. I grew tired and rarely took a second to check in with myself. At the beginning of this summer, I had very few plans, my friends got jobs or boyfriends, and I was alone once again. I cried endlessly. Why was I unable to be alone? Didn’t most people find peace in solitude? I began watching TikToks about self-improvement and emotional regulation. Everyone always said the same thing. “Journaling changed my life.” Initially, I thought those people were naive, but it turns out the only naivety present came from me. I bought an aesthetically pleasing journal, those fancy ballpoint pens, and set an intention for myself. Page 1 of my journal reads, “Contentment.” Journaling quickly became my healthy attachment. I opened up about my thoughts and experiences, reflected, and came to the conclusion I was relying on others for abundance. I am rereading my 2024 affirmations while writing you this letter. On a charcoal-colored page, adorned with constellations and a bouquet, it reads, “I create my own happiness” in my semi-cursive handwriting. Over the summer, I worked hard towards self-improvement and engaged in solo activities including crosswords, building Legos, and practicing Pilates. Now, I am whole and look forward to coming home and experiencing new moments with myself. Overcoming my fear of being alone was a transformative journey where I realized solitude doesn’t equal loneliness, but rather becomes a sanctuary for growth and discovering contentment.
Xoxo,
Twenty-Something Kendy

It was my seventh birthday. The air was stale even at 10 a.m., as it was on most late August days. An echoing hard knock on the forest green-colored door that guarded our house on Grace Ave alarmed me. Even though I was only seven (hours into the age), the knock raised an alert in my stomach that made it drop many stories. Two officers, one holding papers, spoke to my mother as I stood in the doorway, shielding behind her legs. Both officers entered our house, took our furniture, and started throwing it outside. My mother told me to pack my bag with my essentials, which were at the time my favorite blanket, and my Batman action figures. I remember the bass
in my mother’s voice as she begged the men not to take away our home. I remember the bright
eyes of each of our neighbors as they watched from their kitchen windows. I remember the
sound of broken glass as each of the dishes and mugs that once filled our kitchen and served us
dinner every night hit the concrete ground right at the curb of our street. But what I remember most is watching the brand new set of bunkbeds that were an early birthday present being hauled away. I begged for bunkbeds for years to accommodate my friends for sleepovers, but as quickly as my wish was granted after blowing out the candle of last year’s cake, my brand new bed was being tossed into the trash. The sequence of events was blurry after that, as my mother and I
bounced around for years and couch-surfed in many friends’ living rooms. In each new apartment we had, I was hesitant about unpacking my items and often kept them in boxes to not get too comfortable. Even as the years went by and I had my apartments with roommates or current significant others, I refrained from mixing my kitchenware or knick-knacks with theirs because the idea of being vulnerable in my own home was foreign. In one relationship, we combined our books on a bookshelf (in alphabetical order of author’s last name), which fit perfectly into the
space. After a nasty breakup, I came home from work, and the bookshelf was half empty, and my books were the only thing left that was standing in that relationship. My heart went back to my old house on Grace Ave as my body was standing in its same form just a decade later. But this time, instead of feeling empty and without shelter, I reminded myself that it was healthy to let myself be vulnerable and trust another space and another person, as it took me many years to do so. I also realized that I even trust myself. Yes, the books were gone along with some furniture out of our shared apartment, but I still had shelter. I will be okay.

However, to this day, I still crave having bunkbeds even as an adult.

For you-

I wanted to tell you about the decision that was made slowly. Made over the course of a couple semesters of sleepless nights that I filled with colors and unique faces, while smoke curled around me like infinite halos and various mediums stained my clothes. Life was a blur of coffee, shitty parking spots, endless ideas, negativity, and more coffee… and I remember constantly feeling like I was drowning.

The first couple of semesters of college were a lot like that time I visited Tim Burton’s LACMA exhibit on Halloween night. There was a collected presence of awe enveloping every person there, with hushed whispers and pointed fingers wherever you turned. You could feel a sort of beautiful artistic darkness peaking your curiosity and encouraging your creativity- just daring you to get off your ass and pick up your instrument (you know you want to). That was exactly what my first taste of college felt like. The mixture of uneasiness and excitement; a palpable admiration consistently pouring out of me. My curiosity peaked, my creativity raging, I picked up several instruments.

Artistic instruments are similar to instruments of torture. Both will cause you to marvel; both will cause you to scream. Tools that can be picked up as a result of intense passion or emotion; used to satisfy, control, release, create, and destroy. Both can be difficult, meticulous things- but some will find that they have quite a talent for it. I am not one of those people, and I learned this the hard way.

I like to say that I am an artist of mind, not of talent. The visions that I get and the ideas that my mind creates are masterpieces that I’m sure Tim Burton himself would point at and whisper about. However, when whichever instrument my right hand picks up meets the negative space, it’s as if my brain isn’t sending the correct messages to my hand, causing my brilliant vision to fall flat. I justified trying for an art degree because me “wanting it badly enough” mixed with learning and progressing through college art classes was sure to help me close the gap between me and the truly talented artists around me…right? Wrong.

I truly tried, and I gave my classes the absolute best effort I possibly could. Unfortunately, my absolute best wasn’t enough. My life was a chaotic watercolor blend; the kind that hurts your eyes if you stare at it too long. A tangle of fading friendships, betrayal, assault, experiments, and a rawness that cannot be understood unless you were there. I gave every aspect of life my very best, and continuously fell short. I was drowning in this poisonous concoction of mental health issues, social awakenings, and never being quite enough. The knowledge of not being enough ate at me quickly; attacked me, really, using instruments of torture I never thought possible.

I had to accept the fact that although I had wanted to be a professional artist since I was a small girl, and even though I was trying and practicing and learning, it still was not enough.

And just like that, I’m standing on the balcony of the art department building, blood dotting my jeans all the way through while the watercolors staining my fingers flirt with my lips as I inhale the nicotine that I don’t even really like, and release it back out into the night. I’m crying. Tears and snot awaken the dormant watercolors, leaving stains on the butt. My breath catches on an inhale of smoke, causing the toxic stick to fall while my lungs fight for air. When I’m done coughing, I’m left gasping, not enough air finding me. Things go dark for a while, and eventually I come to- sitting in the corner of the balcony clutching myself, every inch of me clammy, hair sticking to my face.

It took me a while to realize I was developing a panic disorder. It took even longer for me to fully face the fact that an art degree was something that I needed to let go of. This turning point marked the end of my adolescence, because being honest with yourself is a step toward adulthood. This step led me to begin nourishing a part of me that was always there, but sometimes forgotten. The medium that I was always naturally decent at, but didn’t always accept as art because it wasn’t as visually appealing to the eye.

Here I am, over a decade later, utilizing my chosen instrument while my hair remains out of my face and my muscles remain relaxed. And while I may never be the absolute best at it, I am certainly good enough.

Love,

Sometimes the world offers us many moments of truths. I believe small ones and then life’s cosmic baseball bat. I had just finished leaving a newer job that I thought would offer me a new start. Really starting a domino effect of leaving the apartment and in the area of my dreams. At this point in my life I was pretty oblivious to the amount of change I had put myself through, completely unaware how unhappy I was. After all I had a job, a place, an area I loved and was completely content being on my own.
As I look back I faced a choice to stay at this toxic job and put my head down, but what came out was “I guess I have to go.” To this point the only thing I had left was myself, my cat, and my car. I could hardly believe at the ripe age of 30, the one place I said I’d never go back to was my parents house. The place I felt was a house of horrors.
After being there sometime and no job offers I could feel what little spirit I had dwindle. The toxic environment I had escaped from my job was no match for the birth place of I first felt it, my childhood.
Feeling powerless I decided that even though I had gone most of my life without any medicine I would go for a thc gummy. Not the real deal, but it was enough for my depression and anxiety to be able to face the days. It really became my non prescribed medicine.
After sometime it didnt seem to effect me and things seemed manageable. I decided to meet up with an old friend to have lunch and the time we were supposed to me kept getting pushed back. So I decided Ill just eat some snacks until we get together. When we got together, finally, we smoked. Harmless seeing I thought seeing as I had taken the gummies over time. We finally got inside to eat and waiting in line I started to feel weak. What is this I thought, why do I feel off. My friend ahead of me I said Im feeling weird. Her response was ” you’ll be okay were almost to the front.” I was true, only two people ahead of us. As I stood there my eyesight went black and lost control of my body. I dropped down in space on the hard tile in the middle of the line. Knocking myself unconscious, with the strength I had left I tried to get up and stay awake.
Whisked off personally by my friend I ended up in the hospital. As I was being rolled in I could feel my consciousness coming and going from my body and has no idea if I was dying. Feeling like I was unattached to my body.
This was it, the turning point. The big cosmic baseball bat not only had I put myself in danger, but my friend who had stood by me all the days of my recovery I had traumatized. I had put any friends that had known and family through so much heartache.
Now you as the reader I have told this is the turning point, but really It was just the crescendo of the turning point. I went through a LONG period of denial and continued to do the same thing. In my house hold someone else was battling worse if not the same issues. Triggering in me the same wounds. How could I change in the environment that I felt stuck in?
How did I start without a job, oh not to mention my car stopped working so I could not leave. I decided to walk, and walk, and walk. Eventually I began to reflect, eventually I found a place away from home where I found connections, and those connections led me to church. In that church while almost allergic to being religious I found community. The community offered me support and sponsored me to get free sessions for therapy. I had a safe space finally away from home. From there it snowballed and made a new friend, a friend who had addictions and probably worse. I could tell her the truth without going into a shame spiral and she challenged me to let go along with the other support to let go. To deal with my situation head on and really empower myself to look at where I was and make smalls steps towards dealing with my deep emotions. Discovering an outlet and healthier ways to deal with the life circumstances.
I can’t say that everything is better, but I will say this is the first time in my life Ive stopped running from my past and was forced to face the truth. My past was horrifying, me going back home nothing had changed. But I have! I became a different person then the child they knew.
I’d like to encourage anyone who reads this letter if youre at a turning point, if you’re at a cross roads to get support. To connect with others you can trust, find community wherever you are and lean on them, just like the song says when you’re not strong. It ‘s the first time being independent I had to reach out and learn not everyone hurts you and can the human spirit can touch you in the darkest of places.

As seasons come, seasons go.
As spring has sprung, the rivers flow.
A new birth of a weary soul is reborn.
Yet, I sit hit with this heavy thorn.
Hoping that I can find peace and learn what I need to know.

From the pain inflicted by the white substance that tore my family apart.
I now sit here writing this poem with a broken heart.
For I once believed I had found what we all long for.
The key to peace and happiness laying behind that familiar yellow door.
But instead, I sit here expressing myself through an emotional form of art.

Picking up the pieces has been the most difficult task that I have done.
Yet, I continue to find my place in this world until the day that I am gone.
Finding my path to journey alone on this one-way street,
Is something I will continue to carve out as I stand alone on my own two feet.
And I will rise and shine, and sing until all the songs in me have been sung.

For a better tomorrow lays beyond the horizon and beyond the unknown.
For my wings will be set free and spread all on my own.
I am determined to fight the fight and create a new life with purpose and pain free.
So I can show my children what it is that they need to learn and see.
And giving them a pure love to show them that they are not alone.

Now I write to escape the reality of what it means to live in pain,
For I fight to keep my mantle free of someone else’s bloody stain,
which feels like a fight that can only be fought by those who are brave,
And I fight for me, as I am the only one I can save.
For this fight is for me to keep myself sane.
And now a new breath of fresh life has been rebirthed,
Knowing that I will never have to look at another blow of white snow.