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a bit about me

Hi, I'm Syd

A writer, a storyteller, weaver of words. I enjoy creating photos, memories, and hearing laughter surround me. At times, I am chaotic and a bit rough around the edges, but that's what life does. It creates edges. That's what this story is about. All of my edges. My story will continue; there will never be an end because that is what pain is, a never ending story.

about: About

and a little bit more

who am i, the extended edition

It’s important to lay out the groundwork of who I am before truly delving into it. For starters, I am damaged goods. In a good way – I think. I really like clichés and grammar, but admittedly a bit of rust has crept up on me regarding the latter. Clichés and grammar must scream for the attention, though; not something thrown in haphazardly, at the last minute. Something meant to be heard. Something that needs to be told, seen, realized. In my opinion, I am someone who needs to be heard, seen, realized. I need to tell. So, let’s begin the short story about who I am. 

There once was a girl – but there’s always just a girl isn’t there? And that very girl is different, unlike any other girl…Well, what if that’s just it? What if she has all these thoughts and big ideas in her mind, but she has no idea where or how to execute any of them?

Obviously, I am the girl. It’s difficult to say if I even am a girl anymore. I don’t feel as young and naïve as I once was, but I assure you, I am no woman either. I lost the charm of the little girl who had no idea what awaits her in the big bad world. Between the hauntingly tiresome family trauma and the shadow of abuse from my former partner, the big bad world shoved her down and left her wondering who the fuck she was after all. On the other hand, the idea of a woman, to me, is a strong divine female energy who has it all figured it out. She struts the street in Manolo Blahniks or the signature red-bottomed shoe, chest forward, shoulders back, hips swaying side to side. Not even glimpsing at the ugly jealous people staring her down. She is powerful.  Yep. Definitely not there yet. I dangle between these two phases of life, wondering when it will all click, or if it ever will.

Now I ask, how did we get here? Maybe it was the five-year span of dying my hair every color in the rainbow. Maybe it was the time I decided to wear cat ears in my hair every day for a year. It’s more than just that though. Sometimes I wonder if I would have been better off with a normal family, if I would have been happier without dating someone who I often thought would kill me one day, if I would… the list can go on, but we don’t have all day. We all have lists, secrets, hidden memories we buried into the deepest depths of our minds, where we only let ourselves catch glimpses from time to time when we need to remind ourselves life is a lot fucking better now. I think. 

Before I landed on writing, I had just started experimenting with my tattoos peeking through more conspicuous places, my hair was purple at the time (at this point, I was already about two years into my colorful hair era), and my clothes were evolving away from the norm. I asked a professor, at the time, if the workplace cares how I dress or how I look. He told me it didn’t matter. The only thing that matters is if you’re faking being creative. Now, here I am a little over three and a half years later wondering, am I faking it?

This question still haunts my mind. People lie to themselves all the time. And they believe the lies, too. While wondering if I would’ve been happier without all my trauma, which I trust I would be, I don’t regret it or wish it away. What’s the fun in that? A little self-loathing and an ego lead to a more interesting character anyway. Leaning into that thought, I’d like to take you down memory lane to how I became this colorful human.

It’s always because of a boy, isn’t it? A love that was so brutal that at its peaks it was beautiful. Let’s take it back a few steps before I get ahead of myself. The first two years of my college experience were tainted by an unfortunate soul. I’m still unsure if he even had a soul. The first time he hit me I almost wasn’t surprised. He tore out a very ugly person. He made me into someone I despised. And from her, I was reborn. Is that another cliché?

A burrito smashed into my face so hard I saw white behind my eyelids. His fist dripped with an orange sauce. The ruined remnants of the burrito lay scattered on his cheap linoleum floor. My stomach curled at the smell of old Mexican food, and I felt bits of food smothered in my hair and side of my face. I looked at him. His green eyes glared back at me, unrecognizable. I pushed him back inside his camper trailer that was parked in a dirty alleyway behind his dad’s auto repair shop. I briefly wondered if anyone had heard us screaming at one another. 

I tried to hug him. I could hear myself whimpering. He shoved me off. “I don’t want you,” he spat at me. Tears streamed down my distorted food covered face. How pathetic did I look? Mexican food crusting around my hair and face, fists bawled up, screaming inside at the person I loved. 

We were dating for two months when he touched me like that for the first time, and the first time he wrapped his dirty calloused covered hands around my neck, we had only been together for less than four months. He blamed me for making him come to visit my family and I over Christmas. 

Black creeped around my vision, clouding everything in front of me. I could hardly see his face peering over top of me. Holding me down, his fists squeezing tighter and tighter around my neck. I can’t breathe. I hear grunts. Is that coming from me? My hands are starting to go limp while trying to push him off me. “I fucking hate you! I want you to die,” his words seared through my muddled brain.

I opened my eyes and saw my childhood bedroom, now stained by this forever. He sat still in the corner watching me. He almost looked like a child. Hel held his knees in his hands, tucking his chin behind his hands. He looked unsure about how he felt. Like he wasn’t sure if he liked what he did or not. Is he covering a slimy smirk? I must have passed out. My hand slowly crawled up to my throat. I coughed. An unfamiliar screechy whisper crept out of my dry lips. “How could you hurt me?” My voice isn’t my own. I sound weak and feeble. I am not supposed to be this limp girl. What is happening to me?

I’ll spare you the gruesome details of what transpired the following year and a half we were together, but I do want to leave you with a few interesting thoughts. I often wonder how he remembers our time together. I now realize that I know nothing about him. He’s quite the magician and puts on a wonderful illusion. After some time passed, I reached out to his previous partner. He started to stalk me and mess with my car and house. He wanted to let me know he was still in control. His ex-partner finally responded. She said, “I’ve been waiting for you to reach out to me.”

My healing journey has not been linear, and while I do believe I have dealt with the majority of my emotions, I have evolved into a performer. I put on a performance every day. I wanted to be the exact opposite of who I was while dating him. I wanted to bury her, so I did. I dyed my hair bright colors, wore flamboyant clothes, pierced and tattooed myself as I pleased. I wanted to look loud because I silenced myself while being with him. 

A little over a year had passed when I realized he started dating someone new. I thought about her often. I wondered what their relationship was like. Another year passed, and I woke up one morning to a message from her. Asking me if I experienced what she did. I thought to myself, I’ve been waiting for you to reach out to me.

This story does not define the entire existence of me. However, it was a defining moment. I dance through life freely. Unrestrained by the chains I broke. Surrounding myself with beauty and grace. I cover my walls in fabric and lace. Old 45s taped up on my vaulted ceiling to remind me of my favorite kind of music. My two dogs kiss my face when I come home to remind me that I am wanted. Hand knitted blankets and fabrics stuffed in a bag at my bedside where I can leisurely create as I please. While my hair is a bit blander than it has been in years, brown with blonde bangs but three inches outgrown. I embrace the change. “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” vibrates from my record player, and I smile at myself in my vanity mirror. I have come so far. I have done so much. I am so proud.

Now a little older, quite a bit wiser, and very jaded, I ask myself, have I been faking being creative this whole time? I sure as well hope not, but you tell me.

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what's next?

If I haven’t made myself clear yet, then I’ll say it again. I’ll say it again and again and again until someone somewhere hears me. All I want to do is write. So, what’s next for me? A book. A poem. A collection of short stories. A screenplay. A blog. A diary entry. I want to write, and I want people to hear me. The lack of resource? Trying to find a place to be heard. The world is my oyster, so to speak, and I’m ready to give the world my all. I’m ready to give writing my all. I feel the excitement coursing through me, as this project comes to an end. My dreams are grandiose, and I ask you to take a chance on me and let me spread my wisdom, my words, my mind with you, with an audience, with the world.

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