Of course, I begged for the $12 to buy the hanging basket, which died two weeks later. An elderly gardener said she was surprised it lasted that long. “Fuchsias are a delicate and fickle flower. Gotta attend to them.”
My mom said it was a waste of money. But I aspired to be like that—so beautiful and wanted that people would cultivate me. Admire how fickle I was. Work harder to make me thrive.
Once, when I was much, much smaller, I threw a tantrum in a Burger King, and my family left—disappointed I’d ruined something again. But only an hour later, the Burger King burned to the ground, and some of the people inside died. In disbelief, my mom said, “That could have been us.”
But it wasn’t.
I’m not saying I foresaw the future or saved their lives—though my mother seemed to think so—but I know that every time I’ve been upset and acted out, it wasn’t irrational. It was never without cause. It was always logical.
By July, my last family member was dead. Perhaps a lone prophecy.
At the time, I was dreaming of publishing, and my aunt’s scornful reaction to how I’d present our family—my mother, my life—seemed like a drawback. Now I know she was an excuse. I’m just not ready to be seen or known. Not really. Not like that.
If you’re reading this, it’s worth noting I never thought it would go this far. Sure, I’d picked up and put down journals and blogs and poetry since I was a child.
I can’t recall much about those early efforts, other than for one I used the moniker Enid Coleslaw—after Ghost World. The comic book, not the movie. But also the movie.
It all started in 2013. Jealous of my poetry-major acquaintances—friends-of-a-friend—who’d published a poem or two, I started a blog. They all had Blogspots; I thought that was the gold standard for modern poets. Or maybe it was just required for one of their classes.
That same friend gifted me a poetry-writing book. It took me ten years to finish it. In all this time the blog title never changed—A Boundless Place—part of a poem I have tattooed. A matching tattoo, of course, with—you guessed it—that same friend.
Years passed with maybe three, or five, or seven poems a year. And I was happy to pour everything into nothing—a little void to spill my feelings into and escape quickly.
Then, somehow, it became ten, sometimes fifteen in a month. Golly, I couldn’t believe it. I’d share just the poems I liked most with trusted friends—not all, as the quality varied—but the quantity always increased.
Over the last two years, I shared the link with four people. I think. Maybe just four at most.
By then, I was writing almost daily. I started short stories and fiction, and before I knew it, I began to fancy myself a writer. The delusion came on strong.
So I submitted one poem to one journal. It was rejected. And I curled back into the blog, happily pouring everything into nothing again.
It felt nice and safe. After all, I don’t need external validation. I’ve been doing this for myself for over a decade. No need to change now.
To be honest, I always assumed no one read it. I doubted even the four people with the link checked in—maybe one, because she said she did once in a while.
I took that as a white lie, something said to make me feel better. Maybe she read one or two poems every few months, just enough to make it technically true. But surely the others were too busy.
So I just dropped poems into the blog like banana peels into the garbage.
Though, to be truthful, I sometimes go back and read through a few of them. But at almost 800 posts, I’ve forgotten a lot. I probably rehashed the same subjects and metaphors enough—struggled in those early years for form—that I couldn’t stand to read through it all... even if I wanted to.
This part is important, if you’re still reading and still interested: I never looked at the stats. Because I thought no one read it. I didn’t look because I assumed it would just say one or two page views a week—and those were probably me.
Until two weeks ago.
I was updating the password, and the stats were right there. That’s when I discovered many of my posts are viewed the day I post them—often more than once that first day.
There are people who check this blog daily. Not person—persons. With an “s.” More than one.
There are people looking at posts from years ago I’d forgotten. Views from states those four people don’t live in. Views from other countries. Countries I know no one in.
Who the fuck could that be but strangers?
Some posts have 500 views. Most horrifying of all, my blog has over 15,500 views. That can’t be four people and me. Not even five people over the twelve years I've been posting.
And I thought this would scare me. It was my biggest fear realized—to be seen in all this messiness I thought I had just thrown into the internet trash.
Yet... that wasn’t how I felt.
I felt relieved.
(But I probably wouldn’t welcome you back into my life. This is a blessing for you. You really wouldn’t want me back either.)
There isn’t really a point to this post, other than to say I’ve been more open here than I've been in both my marriages combined. More vulnerable than in most of my friendships. Definitely more honest than in all my family relationships, ever.
This blog, which began because I wanted to pretend I was like the poets I was jealous of, has outlasted my first marriage and my mother’s life.
If you are one of those readers, I may not know you, but you know me better than almost anyone else. And that’s scary. Even if you don’t know me—you know me.
And I hope you’re here because some part of you understands what I mean when I say that.
Unintended longevity.
It was never meant to go this far. I’ve been doing this for myself and enjoying it, for the most part.
Because, I guess, you never know the impact our stupid little actions can have.
Dear Reader, if you are still reading, know I pour my fragile, high-maintenance fuchsia soul in here. Please tend to me well.
🩷🩷
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