moving on

pleasefindmehere died in creative writing.

i've outgrown pen names.

i continue to give the latest dirt on my dating life

and my parents continue to hate what i write.

i also feature my feminist views,

an accurate description of the eleven year old me,

god killing himself,

a picture of my fifteen year old sister,

angsty love posts swimming in bad blood,

the inability to forget jxxxx hxxxxxxx

my crush on rxxx (let's face it, who doesn't have a crush on this guy?),

summertime sadness,

another letter to ed,

and i document unhealthy relationships within my immediate family.

and i still say the "f word" more than necessary.

intrigued?

pleasefindmehere lives on at pleasefindmysummerblog.blogspot.com

and she now writes under a name you can look up in the yearbook.

currently more than twenty five posts

with a stronger voice, evolved writing style, and the familiar point of view.

sorry, i don't capitalize shit anymore. it's liberating.

love,

Lxxx Sxxxxxxxxx

ps i should go into advertising.

Looks like a Poem, Feels like a Poem

i'm tired of slipping over my words like it's ice on the driveway
and i'm tired of repeating the sentences you never said over and over in my head
like the lyrics to an overplayed song on the radio
and i'm tired of god telling me the world's going to burn

because i just want someone to tell me that tonight is alright
i can check for monsters under my bed because i won't find any there
and someone doesn't have to shine a flashlight in my head to check what's hiding in the shadows

my heart will start beating the rhythm of yours if we just get close enough to sync them
but i'm scared the itunes of your heart is lined with dubstep
and the clash of my youth lagoon playlist with your 2010 skrillex would give me a seizure

but i never went to science class because i was at the doctor's office
where i learned that the best nurses have tattoos
and the best doctors have dead daughters

i'm just remembering the days the leaves fell
and the ghosts gave in
i always heard that you can't be afraid of just words
but i was

and i'm not ashamed.

for six years i've never seen the colors
and i think it's because of these glasses i was wearing
i was choked by disappointment the same way i first let his hands on my throat
it was easier to spill the numbness in after the fear eroded

you would know i'm guilty of labeling the masses by the way they make me feel
and i can't figure some of you people out, so you go uncounted in this box with no name
but my brain thinks you're still important because i don't forget the memories

i don't know how many swear words i can get away with until they call me low class
or how many big words i have to use until they call me educated

but know i never wanted you to be like me because
i'm sick sick sick in the head and i'm sick sick sick in the heart and all the water is filling up to my chest
and my lungs are too patient and my heart is praying.

and all the words my heart can speak are these
"she's graduating god, she's graduating."
and i think he smiles and looks proud
but i can't be sure

because heaven was always made for the preps and the jocks
and i don't know if i'll ever get to meet god
but i'd ask him if rainbows are the curl of his lips and if they are i'd ask him
why he smiles upside down

i always wanted to meet my piano man
but my fingers were too slow to hear the music properly
and i couldn't tap my fingers along to the sound of your cries
'cause my heartbeat already counts down the seconds til we forget

i forget what it's like to miss you
but it doesn't stop me from tapping my heart on the shoulder every time you walk by
it doesn't stop the flashbacks of winter
or park bathrooms
but it stops the smile halfway on my face
and the butterflies' wings are sitting at the bottom of my stomach
and the acid eats away at the pretty colors

(all i wanted were all the pretty colors
you never gave me all the pretty colors)

i thought one of us would die for the hall of fame
but saying it out loud made it too real
i thought one of us would die for a shout out on nelson's blog
but all you had to do was go to rehab

Please please find me here
because all i ever wanted was someone to tell me
they understand why death is a woman
because of course she wears black stilettos

all i ever wanted was someone to tell me
they understand why blogging is like a one night stand
because my handwriting reminds me of stretchmarks and commitment

all i ever wanted was more than a handful of change in my pocket
and a cardboard kid to tell my story
because cardboard is brown and diagnoses are black and empty
like the back cover of my journal
because cardboard doesn't ask questions
because cardboard is lifeless and a virgin at that

i guess i'm telling you not to forget about the sloppy kisses

i still like the color purple better than i like the color violet
and indigo was always for the painters and art majors

i could always collect my thoughts better on a keyboard than on napkins
but maybe it's because i was finally sitting down long enough to listen

all i remember is the blood blood blood on the sidewalk
and my bones were scared to talk now that they'd seen my eyes
and brushed lips with my skin
right in front of oxygen

all i know is coke tastes better in a bottle
and the red and green of stoplights remind me of bruises
semi-colons
and slammed doors

i want a tattoo but there's too much i want my skin to say
plus i think if i wrote it all out
it'd look more like a novel

and there's billboards that claim to know if i'm going to heaven or hell
and sometimes i dial hoping god's gonna pick up the phone
but it's only a man on the other line
who doesn't know my name or my shoe size

and i hate to say i'm disappointed

but i am.

because as often as i search the clouds for a hint of his face
or breathe in the wind wondering what cologne he wears in the afternoon
i never know where to look for his voice

but i heard it in the titanic sinking and the impromptu happy birthday
i heard it when harold miner talked to me at the assembly about choices
two years ago at the pulpit of a funeral
in the life and verbs of alis priddy
i heard it in grace kelly when she told me to drag out the days and give voice to the i love you's
i heard it in my sister when she said she lived for a reason
in the jumble of letters i plastered into my smashbook
when i reread a letter from god that fell between the cracks
i heard it
i heard it
i heard it

and he hears me.

Talk Talk Talk

You tell me I talk too much.

I do.

I'm scared that if I stop

I won't be able to start again.

My sister is not home yet.

The trees look like bones tonight.
But you, darling, you look alright.

Let's pretend procrastination is a metaphor for perfectionism and let's match up the bass to your heartbeat and then. Maybe then. We'll find it.

We'll find the "jumping for joy" behind the shooting star and self-destruction in ten percent of Johnny Mac's matches and we'll write a book about the recipe for a tragic flaw. Because I've never written a best-seller, but baby, I've read them. Consumed them like candy with too much shoving and not enough savoring.

I'm just tired of this diet of "days well spent" and florescent lighting.
I'm scared of looking for truth behind the emotion in your voice and hearing the truth first and the sarcasm second.
Because I've spent the last seven days puking and the last three days questioning God and four wondering if life is all it is cracked up to be.

And I always wanted to be a mermaid, even after I figured out mermaids didn't "exist." Because neither did the first black President or the first female President or the backspace key. I'm living on a diet of pure imagination and I can't tell you much about the health benefits, but I can tell you about the stomach ache.

And happiness was never supposed to be flirting with sadness, but she got knocked up and out came nostalgia. And he stayed for the baby blues, the couple fell in love, and they named their second daughter "Bittersweet." And the father doesn't beg for money, he begs for moments.

And I've already given the family too much of my time.

Things that explain me.

Hi my name is pleasefindmehere.
My name is Lxxx Sxxxxxxxx.
My name is Daughter.
Sister.
Eating disorder.
Half smile.
Slut.
Bitch.
Chronic illness.
Tennis captain.
Fat girl. Skinny girl.
Mormon. Not-so Mormon.
Writer. Not-so writer.
Dazed and confused.
Eighteen-years-old.

If you really knew me, you would know that I'm self destructive. I spend day after day staring change in the face daring myself to confront him. I spend day after day making characters of every object in my life, but that doesn't mean I know them any better.

I'm five foot two (and a half). You'd know that I love my height. And I look away when I get weighed at the doctor's office.
I'm like the sun. I'm quiet on those quiet mornings. I'm bright on those bright mornings.
But I'm better suited for Seattle.
Because most mornings I don't want to get out of bed.

I've liked Jxxxx Hxxxxxxx ever since sophomore year. He won me over when he took me to a basketball game when my sister was in the hospital. You would know why my sister was in the hospital. You would know he is my favorite person to kiss and I still have his phone number memorized. I would tell you right now but I don't think he would like that very much.

You would know that my favorite color is red, but my favorite color to wear is black.

You would know my favorite book is "The Solitude of Prime Numbers," my fifteen-year-old sister still does my makeup for me, and I met my best friend when she stole my boyfriend. I use this fact to reassure myself that I'm forgiving. But seven times seventy equals 490 in my calculator and I can only count up to a hundred.

I cried for hours at that debate tournament because Cxxxxx Rxxxxxxx sent a forward about me. And Jxxxx Bxxxx was responsible for cheering me up because he was the person who finally decided to tell me about it, two months after the fact. And I wondered why I never could figure out the comments in the commons.

You would know the story of my first kiss, why Monopoly reminds me of hurricane season, and that I have posters of Rafa Nadal in my room. I bought the Shakira "Gypsy" music video just so I could watch him over and over again. And my opinion on his autobiography is although his book gives some insight to why he is so humble, it is poorly written.

You would know what happened October 30, 2010. February 26, 2012. March 9, 2014.

You would have seen me cry at least once.

We wouldn't talk about Tylenol, because I cringe every time someone says it. But you would offer me mints instead of gum because you'd look out for my jaw.

You would remember I saw Orlando Bloom outside a coffee shop in London, Johnny Depp is my celeb crush, and I gave Cxxxxx Cxxxxxx a kiss in exchange for a root beer flavored popsicle in preschool. We'd talk about how I got deported from London at age twelve and how I read a book in one day at the same age to impress Sxxxxxxx Mxxxxxxxx.

You would know that my therapist's name is Sxxxxx and my mom's name is Axx.

And the latter has read all of my blog posts and liked only one.

You would not doubt that I am a Broncos fan because you have heard me complain about missing half their games last year and question their draft grade on the SportsCenter Special. They got a C-.

You would know that I now get nauseous whenever a beer commercial comes on ESPN, "With or Without You" is playing at my wedding reception, and I only tell myself I'm not getting married because I don't want to be disappointed.

You'd know that I delete each of these paragraphs only to type something eerily similar. The best posts come from drafts on my cell phone. And CAPSLOCK scares the living hell out of me.

The last time I was sick, I watched four hours' worth of SportsCenter and two tennis matches. I used to think that raindrops were God's tears on my shoulders and a rainbow meant that he was feeling better. I still show my legs even with the stretch marks in my ears like fireworks. The last time I played Truth or Dare in a hot tub no one even kissed anybody! And I'm afraid afraid afraid of being average.

My name is Lxxx Sxxxxxxxx.
I get attached really easy and Axxxxx Txxxxxx told me I was mysterious.
I shaved my head and I probably mentioned it in my blog posts 873 times.
But really, all I am looking for is a boy who can talk NFL with me
tell me the difference between "then" and "than"
and tell me I'm special.
Because I am a girl who wore a mouse on her head for the film festival.
And I don't want to be told I'm just like everyone else.

I remember everything but the why.

I can't remember a lot of the important things. I can't remember the first time I bore my testimony or when I first doubted God and his opinions. I can't remember how many tennis tournaments I played the summer I was sixteen or even how many finals I made, ending up with the second place trophy. I remember I've never won a tournament.

But no matter how hard I try, I can't remember how many shoes I wore through. The number of friends I told before I disappeared or the ones that had to ask my mom where I went. I don't even remember what we agreed her response should be. All I know is she gave a different response than I was expecting.

I can't remember the names of all the boys I've kissed, but I know the number.

I can't remember how old I was when I learned to tie my shoes or why I needed to know so badly anyways. Because my Converse never get any wear out of them anymore.

But I remember the first person who called me a "bitch." It was on the phone in eighth grade. She was the only one fighting. I didn't even know what I was supposed to be fighting about.

I remember the smell of him and the color of the blanket. The mouse in my hair. Trying to keep a straight face. Seeing him in the hallway and crying in Spanish, and the teacher excusing me to go to the bathroom to wash my face. The phone charger she let me borrow. The days I made up reasons to stay afterschool and see teachers and sit in the hall because I didn't want to go home just yet. My mom thought I was seeing a boy. Roah's eye.

I remember when my boyfriend told me a girl had showed him a video of me "masturbating" in seminary. We were passing the library. I remember asking myself why kids had to be so mean.

I remember my first A-. Fourth term of my junior year. Physical education. I couldn't make up enough participation points. I cried in my car, but was too proud to ask the teacher to change my grade. My second A- was the same term.

I remember all the different days I've swam in my clothes. Her hating my hair no matter how I did it. Blocking her sister's view so she couldn't see the couple making out in the back of the movie theatre. Curling my hair before football games. The smell of my car. His car. Her car. The way his fingers touched my skin. Hating the kids who said they liked high school. Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle.

I remember my second grade teacher. At the parent teacher conference, she told my mom that I had written the word "bum" in my journal. I had written, "My sister can't walk. She scoots around on her bum." She talked about how she found it to be offensive. I was too scared to write anything personal in my journal after that.

I remember when we were doing an art project that required one of us to trace another girl's body. There was silence for several minutes. The silence got louder and louder and louder. None of us wanted to volunteer. We hated our bodies too much. It was at an eating disorder clinic.

I remember coming home late. Twenty-two hours late.

I remember saying "no" a thousand times and the first time I said yes. The colors I saw behind my eyelids after staring into the sun. Talking talking talking just to get the words out. Trying to write in treatment but the techs always looking over my shoulder. Sophomores at McDonald's the night of prom offering weed and driving away. All the questions I couldn't answer. Doing my sister's homework even though she was mad at me. Watching home videos and asking myself where that little girl went.

I remember writing a note saying "I like you" to Zach Murdoch in seventh grade. My friends told me to use messy handwriting so it wouldn't look like I tried too hard. Because of the messy handwriting, he didn't believe it was me.

I remember when I rear-ended somebody in front of the school and never told my parents about it.

I remember the headaches, the doctors, the appointments, the drives, the endless not-knowing. The key that came off the keyboard. The labels and wanting one. Being asked if I kissed Landon Hanneman at a party and desperately wanting to say yes. The smell of unwashed bodies at the hospital. Throwing up in the shower. Wishing I was dead. Dreaming I only had twenty-four hours left. The girl tackled in front of me. Talking talking talking. Telling them to shut up.

My first memory is when my sister was born. No, I don't remember seeing the baby. All I remember is going over to my neighbor's house while my dad rushed my mom out the door and absentmindedly eating a McDonald's kid's meal in front of the television. I watched Fox and the Hound.

I remember my first kiss. He later texted my friend and told her how terrible it was. I read the texts the following Monday at her house. Swore I would never leave the house again and hid in her closet.

I remember my last kiss.

I remember the recurring dreams of being pushed down the stairs. Posting pictures on Facebook without makeup and not needing hashtags. Dunking my head in a bowl of ice three times in a row. Feeling like a celebrity when Jacksonville was mentioned in Twilight. Bringing in sharks' teeth when I moved here for "Show and Tell." The weird looks that should have been looks of worship. The memories I can't stop. Looking for the right cord that connects the camera to the computer. Breaking a glass and getting spanked.

I remember hearing my friend was suicidal that Sunday night. It didn't matter I'd been contemplating suicide since eighth grade. I didn't tell her that. My mom drove me over to her house. We had picked out flowers and her favorite brand of protein bars. I wrote her a note too. The envelope was pink.

I remember seeing my red hair in the sink.

I remember seeing that Nelson wrote a blog post about me. I was so proud I showed my sister. And my mom. And my dad.

I remember saying "no" to a wedding proposal in preschool. The nickname "feminazi" because of my feminist views in debate class. Wanting to sleep in the school gym before I graduated. The long blonde hair on all of my black coats. Throwing up in the Timberline bathroom and going back to class like nothing had happened. Dreams that plastic bags were the only thing that could save us. Telling everyone black was my favorite color and loving their reactions more than the color itself.

I remember the hole in the wall and walking to Savannah's house. The police calling my cell phone.

I remember my mom used to write notes on my napkins and put a handful of Hershey's kisses in my home lunches. Sometimes I would use the paper towels Mr. G left on the table instead of smearing my mom's words.

I remember when I slipped on the juice and fell in the lunchroom. The tray went flying. Spaghetti on the floor, marinara on my shirt. The laughter just like in the movies.

I remember the printer. Being proud that I had a copy machine at my house. Sleeping all day and staying up all night. The taste of the water at different friends' houses. Getting my car taken away for a month. Finally learning how to illegally download music. Reading and rereading blog posts because they never seemed complete.

I remember when my little sister first visited me at Center for Change. She told me this place looked like Dr. Phil behind the scenes. She had a lot of suggestions. She said that this would be a lot more exciting if they had a "Celebrity Day" every month. More pictures on the walls. Televisions in the visiting rooms "to make it more homey." I had to tell her I couldn't come to Lagoon, and she asked if it made a difference if we took a doctor with us.

I remember hearing about Brandon over the pulpit in sacrament meeting.

I remember writing a page in the book he inspired. I left a lot out. Some parts my mom didn't want me to say and some parts I didn't want to admit to myself yet.

I remember hitting the backspace bar at least twenty times on each of these paragraphs.

I remember he would pick the mascara off my eyelashes and she would use the word "chunk" like it was a compliment. Laughing because I got the award for "best dreads." The smell of the chlorine in the bathroom. When I dropped the dog on the stairs and my dad twisted my arm back and yelled at me.

I remember when I first moved here and realizing how dry it was. My knuckles bled when my grandpa held my hand and I prayed he wouldn't notice. The smell of cigarette smoke making me nauseous. The red button and the recording and the screaming.  Dry heaving into the pink bins. The plastic bags. Counting the dents in my walls.

I remember Mother's Day. And how I always wanted to reschedule the day for happier times.

Blackout.

Beauty sucks her thumb. Knows her mother saw. 

She looked trying to make up the time she lost chasing want.

You said no.

You had to know sometimes I felt like I had no choice too.

I worked so hard.

A mistake was a brain-dead accessory. 

Shapes in the trash can.

Whispering adjusted this afternoon.

Not thinking sooner.

Few establish heaven.

They point, look, and carry everything above them.

I can't stand to watch this anymore.

I'm gonna reach the street, the window.

Would you mind showing me where you left?

His hands just ran outside for a second.

So where is the stop?

The man stared blankly into eyes.