Dang, You Guys Are Awesome

My post, What’s in a Name, garnered more appreciation and interaction from all of you than I imagined when I penned it. And I think that’s so stinking cool.

Seriously, thank you.

Like many of you, I have intimate knowledge of depression, hopelessness, loneliness, weariness, and the struggle required to make it through one more day. The thing about social media is that it can be a vehicle for so much deception. We can post photos that we’ve specifically curated to portray a life that seems dazzling, but reality often tells a different story. Because of my struggle with debilitating depression, I love to try and find beauty within the darkness since it’s incredibly difficult to experience true beauty and joy in your spirit when you’re locked in a battle with demons. Often times, I turn to my blog and the community on here to lift my spirits when I’m too tired to continue the fight.

So, again, I just wanted to say you guys are a cool bunch and I appreciate you ♥️

Also, check out this funny video that made me shriek when I saw it 😂 This makes me feel ooollllldddddddd 😂😩 (tell me if you understand what this convo was about.)

I Cannot Say

What was the last thing you searched for online? Why were you looking for it?

If I revealed the last thing I searched for online, it would be the name of the person I was stalking.

The why is obvious—I wanted to know if this person posted anything on their social media accounts that would give me a bit of insight into something I was curious about.

Why do we stalk people from the shadows?

I will be the first to confess that it gives me a thrill. As open as I can be on my blog, I can be just as closed off in real life—but the downside of that is that it’s hard to let people in and it can get really lonely sometimes. My experience these past several years with letting people in has, without fail, ended in disaster. I don’t know if it’s the generation that we currently live in that makes people fickle, or if it’s due to my sheltered upbringing, or my expectations are way off—or a combination of any of these options—but the end result has always been incredibly disappointing.

I read somewhere recently that everyone being online gives people the illusion of options so no one wants to be loyal and committed anymore. It really resonated with me and makes so much sense. The emotional nakedness that comes with face-to-face interactions, especially in todays hookup culture, is harder for most people than being physically naked with a stranger they just met.

Third base now means posting someone on your Instagram story!

First base is sex.

Crazy. Completely and utterly bonkers. I genuinely don’t like this bandwagon we’re all on and I want to get off.

But back to my stalking. As much as I hate it, I also secretly enjoy the thrill. But along with this, I am totally aware of how toxic it is and I’m looking forward to the day that I will no longer have the urge to stalk anyone because of how in love with my own life I will be.

And I’m taking that one to the bank.

What’s in a Name?

Where did your name come from?

I always hated my name when I was growing up.

Why did my parents have to name me something so borinnnggg?

Why couldn’t they have named me something more exciting, like Cleopatra? Or Leah? But no, instead, I had to share my name with multiple cousins.

Larisa.

So unremarkable. I refused to be called by that name, so my older sister gave me another name, Loren, and I eagerly accepted it instead. My mom even fell in line and called me Loren during my formative years.

It wasn’t until I had to start using my name legally for work that I truly accepted my name, but I still had to stress to everyone that it was “Larisa with ONE s!” I had no idea who this Larissa character was that everyone tried ascribing to me.

That, in turn, got me the actual moniker of “Larisa With One S.”

“Good morning Larisa With One S!”

“Good morning Debra.”

Anyway, after a while, I stopped fighting it and finally accepted that this was indeed my name and that trying to run away from it was futile. Strangely, whenever I’d read about a character in a story named Larisa (with one s), I’d always like the name and immediately felt drawn to the character.

I also love it when a romantic interest calls me by my name. Why does it feel like a caress?

Oh, I should probably answer this prompt question—where my name actually came from. It just came from lack of creativity and lack of baby naming books in the Soviet Union where I was born. Larisa is a common Slavic name and my parents didn’t have a Larisa yet so they bestowed it upon yours truly upon my birth.

A Funeral of Years

I cut my teeth on the gap-toothed effervescent glow of innocence

where weeds and wishes grew in wild abandon

in that back yard that seemed to stretch forever.

With pockets full of daydreams, we exchanged small miracles for shiny nickels,

and braided lilting melodies of joy

into the flower crowns we wore.

Running with wild abandon into the future that shined so startlingly bright,

we never thought to look back at the innocence we shucked with every leap we took.

I lost that little girl somewhere in the sands of time and after many years of searching, I realized I’d attended my own funeral when I abandoned her.

Mistakes are for beginners, we experts aim for disaster

From the very beginning, he looked like a bad decision some unfortunate soul was about to make. I was always careful to keep a pristine image, taking every precaution to be a good girl.

But sometimes, good wasn’t good enough.

The confusion lay in the forbidden thrill of deviating from the path.

Why did being wicked feel so euphoric?

He pulls his shirt off impatiently, reaching over his head and tugging it up and over with a swift pull. My eyes fasten on the play of muscles underneath his skin as they ripple with each move he makes.

Dragging in a shallow breath, I still as he prowls over to the bed where I sit.

Are you come as lover or executioner?

In the Grip of a Narcissist

A narcissist will make you question if you are worthy of love. They will almost make you hate yourself because they can turn your natural need for their attention against you, making it a shameful thing, making you ashamed of yourself for being so weak and pitiful. You start hating being inside your own mind, inside your own skin. You start becoming intimate with loathing.

Losses

It’s so interesting how quickly we lose ourselves. It’s as if we don’t believe in the weight we hold with how swiftly we find ourselves shuffled underneath the weight of someone’s opinion, or rejection, or even if it’s an impossible thing, it still feels like rejection. When you make the choice to heal and to start gathering all of your scattered pieces, it feels like getting to know yourself all over again, and what a lovely thing that is. I stumble upon bits and pieces of myself with a surprised exclamation every time. “Oh, I DO love to write poetry, and I can write to my hearts content! I have a blog, and that IS an excellent thing, and I can enjoy it as much as I want. Oh yes, I remember now, I do love my inquisitive nature and I can find joy in pursuing all of my hobbies again. And no one can take that from me.” It’s a shame how quickly we snuff ourselves out when someone fails to recognize our inherent gifts and we die a sort of death. But the beauty is that we can always choose to come alive again, and each time feels a little more magical than the last.