Hello, Blog

It's been a while.

Fuck it. I hate everyone and my haters are right and I'm a big ball of failure and all I want to do is sleep.

Fuck you.

Rick Ochoa

(taken from my tumblr and put here, which seems more appropriate)

--

You know what haunts me that I’d really like to get off my chest? It’s something that I have a lot of thoughts and feelings on, that I’ve had a very hard time putting to words…

Rick Ochoa.

Now that winter’s come, I wear the wool zip-up hooded sweatshirt he got in Iceland when we went, almost every day. He got it for himself but I kept stealing it from him. It looked so good on him, too, with his black hair and dark skin and the hood’s pointed hood. It was adorable. So I took it, because I wanted to look adorable, too. He let me, and he let me have it. 

Now he’s gone.

One of the last things I told him in person was that I was sorry for the way things happened, and that I love him, and that I want to work on our relationship -we both cried, and hugged, and promised to have another heart-to-heart again soon. Because our relationship was complicated. I was mean. I let him rake his heart through my burning chaos and I told myself that it was his choice to keep me around, to put himself through it- and it wasn’t my responsibility. I loved him, but I was not in love with him. He knew this. I knew this. Everyone knew this. 

I should have been more responsible. I should have taken that burden. The hard choice of being delicate with a heart so bare and open like Rick’s was. It’s easy to put ourselves before others. Even when we believe ourselves to be good and loving. I was selfish. I didn’t want to lose Rick. He accepted me and my faults and he loved me anyway, he forgave me. Because that’s the way he was. 

The day he died was the day him and I were to get together to begin mending, a new beginning in our friendship. We planned on shooting some, but mostly we wanted to hang out. It was a Saturday. He had been in the hospital all week. When I found out he was in the the hospital and staying, I kept up with him and after a few days one of my texts were “you’re not allowed to die”, and he was discharged Thursday. I text him on Friday night and got no answer - but I figured he may have fallen asleep and it was no big deal. 

Saturday morning rolled around and when he didn’t respond I knew something was wrong. He always answered. Because that was the kind of guy he was. 

I should have gone over on Friday when he didn’t answer. I was wrong, he wasallowed to die… Much to a lot of people’s sorrow, which I wish he knew, because I really don’t think he did know how many people truly loved him, including me. 

I’m sorry.

Since Rick’s passing I’ve decided to try to be more like him. More accepting, more forgiving, and more freely loving and understanding. 

I’d like to extend a hand of friendship to any of Rick’s friends. You can take it, or not. I just have this idea that he’d want us all to be friendly, and I’m sorry to those of you I lashed out on when it happened. I was angry and hurt and guilty but I shouldn’t have taken it out on others.

i miss you, Rick

I'm tired. 

I've been hanging around a lot of people - couples, kinky minded people, friends old and new. You know, the norm. I fight with my sister, I take some pictures, hop on a bus or train, go out, keep going, it's all good, I'm fine.

"The word 'fine' is banned in this house" he said, "because no one who says, 'I'm fine' ever actually means it." 

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. 

It's a mantra I say to myself. 

Her red hair is fire like the burning in my soul. They touch. I miss touch. The soft kind when no one is watching and you wish your eyes were cameras or that you could burn a moment in a touch through your memory to never forget. Never forget.

And I am torn up with longing. Not a longing for a person, but a longing to be known, understood, loved... Touched. 

I try not to let anyone touch me. I'm convinced I can feel all your desires in touch. The knowledge of it hurts me, I want to make you happy. Everyone deserves to be happy. It is not my responsibility. 

hypocrite

when I see you naked on the internet, my brain screams no - I want to cover you up, close my eyes, make it disappear. You are better than that, and I am a hypocrite.

unfinished

When I was younger I used to say “only boring people get bored!” and believed it for years. But I was young and nieve and now I am older, and have been through some hell, peeking out from the dark at the light between the leaves here and there and knowing there is more to life, more to a simple existence. I stepped of the marked path and started into the thick of the woods with my head held high and now I’m trekking on, alone with wild determination and thick soles, waiting to cross paths with other travelers, adventurers and general fuck-you’ers. I want the dirt and sweat and the tears, I want the hidden waterfalls and the mythical Great Valley, Neverland, Home Tree. There is more to life than beauty, skinny, fame and riches. I am a fucking explorer; a nomad, looking for my tribe.

Dear Emma,

(A letter I wrote my friend, that I'd like to share)


Hey Emma,

I'm sitting here in this house, day after day, staring at my screen - at Facebook and Tumblr, mostly - trying to find connection, motivation, meaning. You told me you hoped I would be able to figure out my self destructive behavior. This is where it all stems from, this tendency to sink into my mind and find nothing but the searching, a buzz, a static, looking for a channel. I look at photos that inspire me. I bring in the trash can from the back street. I pick up the kitchen that looks like a dude lives here more than a girl. Beer bottles and dirty dishes. Clothes scatter the livingroom, bedroom, bathroom. I should clean the bathroom, I tell myself. I have so much to do, I remind myself yet again. I make lists, I write in my journal, I force myself to type on my typewriter. But none of it is valid, it's just random thoughts, or what I did yesterday, or the argument I got into with my sister. Some such bullshit. None of it feels meaningful. Some days I give up and go back to bed, staring at the ceiling waiting for something to come to mind. I drift off to sleep and dream that my teeth crumble, and unlike other dreams of the same subject, this time I encourage them to break, crunching them into pieces until my mouth is full. When I spit them into my palm, they're semi-precious stones, and I pocket them, toothless. I wake up slightly horrified, but glad it wasn't as terrifying as other nightmares I have. Which happens often, as you know.

Yesterday I decide to stop spending money on anything that I don't need. My money is running out quicker than I planned and I worry about being able to feed myself for another month. While wasting time online, I stumble upon a raw amethyst ring. In the description it tells of a myth about where amethyst comes from. Something about the greek god of wine being heartbroken and drunk, his tears mixing with wine to form this stone, which became a talisman of sobriety and to break addictive patterns. "Amethyst is said to grant a deep understanding, and has been called the stone of spirituality and contentment. They're thought to have a soothing and relaxing effect on people, promoting healthy sleep habits and in some cases apparently curing insomnia. Known as a stone of change, amethyst can bring about any type of change needed to shift your life and awareness. It's also thought to break up old emotional processes and assist in opening to new chapters of life." Perfect. This will be my gift to myself, a parting gift of giving up things I don't need so I can get the things I do need. It'll be a daily reminder. 

When I came here, I was under the thought that I'd leave in June, giving me a good chunk of time to set some things straight, to organize photos and to write. I started thinking about what I wanted to do. Well, I obviously want to go back to sailing. I quickly decided I wanted to cross the Atlantic, which I'd been thinking on for a while now. A couple of days ago, I was talking to a photographer who contacted me on Facebook, and he tells me there is a race called the Bermuda Race that leaves from RI, and it starts on June 20th. Things are starting to take shape, a plan has emerged. I go on the site and find that they have a page dedicated to those who want to crew for boats entering, and I sign up. Today, I talk to another photographer (who's also a sailor) who says he may know someone who needs crew. Perfect. I have faith that I will find a boat, regardless. After Bermuda, I aim to find a boat going to the Azores, and from there to Europe. Even as I say this, I feel something right, some eager and full of light feeling fills me. And this is something that I've known since I started sailing: I've found what truly makes me happy. 

But I do fear this destructive thing I have going on and have always had to battle. I don't want to fuck it up. So I plug away at putting everything in order, day by day trying to find that inner peace. I know the answer lies on the water. I know sailing will bring me to great things.

Miss you so much,
Meagan

ps- because this is the most valid thing I've written in ages, I'll be posting it to my blog. I hope you don't mind.