Author: Jackie Sieks Writes

Writer, gamer, mother. I write to find peace in an often chaotic mind. I write to cope with the world around me.

What I Learned in Preschool

Recently, my daughter graduated from preschool. The event was emotional for do many reasons, one of which included me finally having to admit that my baby was growing up quickly. My little girl walked into school terrified, and left with so many friends promising to visit her this summer. Though I knew she was off learning about the world around her, I never expected that I would be getting an education as well.

I learned it’s okay to be scared in an unknown situation, because there are always others who are just as lost.

I learned patience and time management. Well, I learned it a bit better. I’m not perfect.

I relived childhood songs, and watched my daughter explore and see the magic that was her world.

I was humbled a number of times as I sat in her class or attended field trips. These children who only knew me as my daughter’s mother soon adopted me and made me their mom, too. It was this that made me realize not every child that leaves school that day will go to a loving home. Some are ignored, some are neglected or abused. Some parents have no choice but to leave them in daycare because they are struggling to make ends meet. For just a few hours out of the day, they are at school where they are loved.

I learned I could never be a preschool teacher. I do not have the kind words, nor the patience. I also don’t have the willpower to give my heart to so many children, only to have them leave me a few months later.

I learned that children don’t see color. They just accept that kids have different color skin, and there’s nothing wrong with it. Young kids don’t care if you wear glasses or how much you weigh. Hatred doesn’t really exist.

Adults could learn a thing or two from preschool.

So many times I felt inspired and amazed, and so much of my life was put into perspective.

Help in Strange Places

For the past few months, I’ve found myself struggling; spiraling into a strange madness from which I could not escape. Everything seemed to be falling apart at the seams, my reality unraveling before me like a delicate fabric. I could handle the stress. In fact, I could handle most out what caused the out of control spinning. But I could not handle the thought that I had lost my imagination.

You see, my mind is something I have always valued, even when it seems broken or betrays me at the worst of times. But after so long of falling, I needed help to find my way back out again. The inner voice that guides my words was silenced, the pictures I paint with my words seemed foreign. I had the desire to create, but only the ability to destroy. The whirlwind was merciless. My mind, my imagination, have always been my coping mechanism for as long as I can remember.

As a child when things were difficult, I would escape to my alternate reality. The adult I was did the same. There, I ruled my lands. Nothing happened without my say so. I constructed ideal situations and gave them the perfect outcome in my perspective, or I took events that had already transpired and said what I wished I had said. I dreamed of a better world, a better life.

I took that gift for granted, and only when it seemed to be hiding did I truly understand the weight of what I had. An extraordinary mind filled with wonder that I needed to capture.

The spiralling took it away, bashed and battered it before hiding it beyond my grasp, replacing it with insignificant problems that only aided my downfall.

I sought help from a naturopath. It is most unfortunate that she cared more for my money than she did my mental health, for had she put forth the effort, she could have claimed such an epiphany for her own personal portfolio. What a success story she could have told. Instead, I’ve ripped such a glory from her, and I cannot tell you the immense joy I feel from that. Rather the glory is to be given to a dear friend of mine.

The advice he gave I shall pass on to you, my readers. It seems so very simple, yet it took hearing it at just the right time for it to finally make sense.

Be the best you that you can be. Do everything to the best of your ability, and fuck what everyone else thinks. You have to live with you more than anyone else does. He also told me to write. Write for me and for no one else. Stop living in the world of digital applause and Facebook likes, superficial shit. Write for yourself, and as you find your voice, that is when the applause will matter. It’s only real if you are real.

We live in a world where our lives are dictated by numbers. Your intelligence is measured by a score on a test, or a grade on a paper. Your worth is measured by your bank account. Your beauty is decided by what size your jeans are, or what the scale reads. And when you become so wrapped up in these numbers, you tend to forget why you’re here. Why you’re doing what you’re doing, and why you live doing it. For me, the number of viewers my blog received was important. I would write, and I would try to write well, only to see low numbers. It discouraged me, so I tried to change me. Instead of writing for myself, I tried to cripple myself in order to better myself. So let me pass on a bit of advice to you. You are more than a number.

You are more than the grade. You’re more than the money you make. You’re more than the number of hits on a blog. You are important. In the words of my friend, I’ll reiterate.

Be the best you that you can be.

I Cannot Cry Today

I cannot cry today.
I have no time today.
My soul may bleed, my heart may break,
But I cannot cry today.

The world keeps going, spinning, turning,
It cannot pause and wait.
I’ll have to try to cry tomorrow,
Deal with the sorrow tomorrow.

But what if I’m not sad tomorrow?
What if I’m okay tomorrow?
Tomorrow is just as busy,
I cannot cry tomorrow either.

Each day I wait for a moment alone,
A moment that’s quiet,
A moment that’s mine.
But I have to keep busy, I have to keep going,
No time this month to cry.

A year has passed, my heart is tattered,
My soul feels battered and bruised.
Each day I never cried built up,
And hangs like the sword of Damocles.

I need to heal,
I need to mend,
But I have no time.
Constantly moving, constantly going,
No time to heal, no time to cry,
I spiral, spin, a constant loop until I fall and fall and fall,
I just want to die today.
If only I’d cried that day…

Hello, everyone. I felt poetic, so I thought I might try my hand at it again. I was attempting to capture what it’s like to have a mental problem in today’s quick paced society, especially when the only advice offered by most is “Just keep going it’ll get better.” It is advice bred from ignorance rather than malicious intent, but still can be bad if we don’t take the time to allow ourselves a chance to heal.

I am a bully

Bullying has hit an all time high thanks to the technology we all crave. It follows us home; we are subjected to the cruelties of the online world where doing something as simple as stating one’s own opinion can launch a fire storm of epic proportions. We see movements every day against bullying, raising awareness and starting campaigns. None of us ever want to admit that we’re bullies, especially now. But I’m going to be brave and admit that I am a bully.

When I was little, there was a girl. She was the same age as me. We liked all the same things. We were best friends. When she fell, I’d laugh at her, sometimes further shove her down with insults and embarrassing comments. When she’d cry, I’d tell her she was stupid for crying. When she was angry I’d taunt her, then make her feel guilty for standing up for herself. No matter how badly I treated her, she wanted desperately for my love and affections, so we remained best friends.

As we grew older, the bullying grew with us, and became much worse. Soon I was cutting this sweet little girl, and forcing her to live in my own personal hell with me. Every time she tried to show me light, I broke it until it was dark as well. Each time she tried to make new friends, I embarrassed her and made her cry. The name calling from the other kids was only made worse by me as I echoed it and remained a constant reminder of it. I called her stupid and ugly, told her she’d never find love and she’d always be alone. I remember telling her one night “at least you have a vagina. Men will always want to fuck you, even if they don’t love you.” We were thirteen.

Speaking of thirteen, the girl started cutting herself and I made fun of her scars. Finally one day I convinced her that her life meant nothing. She tried to kill herself. She managed to live, however, but spent nine days locked in a hell that was supposed to be a rehabilitation ward. Did my bullying stop there? No. In fact, it got worse. I began to treat her as though she were diseased. I told her everyone was watching her. Judging her. Wishing she’d died. She believed me. When another student shoved her down and said she was “just too stupid to die”, she nearly broke again. None of the teachers wanted to help her because she didn’t fit the ideal girl type. I made her believe they were right.

Every failure, every harsh word, I’ve thrown at her and kept reminding her until finally the sweet and innocent girl began to break. I made her feel like she was worth absolutely nothing. Settling would be her best option, because otherwise she’d always be alone. Relationships failed. Friendships fell apart. Distance grew further and further between people who were always supposed to love one another. And it was all her fault, or so I made her believe.

You see, I am a bully. I am the worst kind of bully you can imagine. I am my own self critic. The girl I’ve tortured since childhood was myself…..

We see campaigns launching all the time to try and end bullying. But what of our own self abuse? What of the constant negativity? We’re told to just look in the mirror and lie to ourselves, try to convince ourselves that we are good, and beautiful, and if we keep telling ourselves this, we’ll eventually begin to believe it. The problem is every time I look in the mirror, I see my scars. I see the haunted eyes of a scared little girl who wants love, affection, and acceptance. I see the torn heart of a girl who is still tearing herself apart even though all she has left is scar tissue. I see the darkened mind of a woman who tries to keep herself inspired, who tries to hold onto, and see, the beauty and good the world has to offer…only to witness it crumble around her.

I see a girl who thinks ending it all would be the better option.

For some reason, she holds on to hope. She clings to the positive and eats up any of the good that comes her way, which often times only turns bad because she obsesses and loses her identity to try and make more of a good thing happen…which only further makes her miserable.

I see a girl who lashes out at those around her because she didn’t know how to deal with the crumbling world around her, and she feels as though she’s drowning. Suffocating.

The problem with bullying is so much of it is internal, the only way to truly fix the problem is to fix ourselves first.

This post has no conclusion. It doesn’t end on a happy note, or an inspirational story to prove that you, too, can grow past this because the simple fact is, it’s a fight I’m still fighting. I want to help, I want to inspire. But I cannot lie. I will not lie to you. However. There is one thing I can most assuredly say, with absolute honesty.

You are not alone.

Know your limits. Know your boundaries. Know when you’ve had enough.. And know when it is time to swallow your pride and admit you need help or cannot do this on your own.

You. Are. Not. Alone.

The Past is History

As a society, we are forever focused on moving forward. We crave the newest phones, the newest cars, the newest computers. The world around us is faster paced than ever before, Home cooked meals have been replaced with numerous fast food chains that seem to pop up over night, and dinner time conversation has become yelling at the television during a sporting event.

Instead of stopping to smell the roses, we are downloading digital ones. Social interaction is done by text messaging rather than actually speaking to one another. Education is becoming optional, with schools letting out more and more for pointless breaks. Higher education is too expensive for many, and our intelligence is measured by standardized tests.

We work hard to make money, and we dream of spending that money on grand and glorious things–like a vacation. But often times, it is the work itself that prevents us from doing much more than working. Never ending cycle.

With everything spinning so far and so fast, everything being propelled forward, it is very difficult for any of us to turn our heads and look into the past. Indeed, so often we are taught to keep our eyes forward and let the past remain in the past. It is important to not allow the past to rule us, no matter negative or positive. But it is equally important to remember that our history defines us as people.

I do not speak of such things like wars, and actions of our ancestors. I speak of our individual histories. The reason I have brought this up and made it a point to make a blog about it is I have been in a very bad place mentally for a few months now. As terrifying as it is for me to admit, this cycle almost broke me. I’ve cried more recently than I have in much of my life. I’ve felt more alone now more than ever before. It is difficult to hold on to hope, to hold on to dreams, when it feels as though the world around you is crumbling every time you look around. It was the closest I’ve come to being broken by my own mind in a very long time.

One night in particular I was in my bed, my mind racing with thoughts. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do much more than cry. I had lost so much hope, and faith, in so many things….especially myself. You may be asking yourself now why I began the blog talking about society and the future, when now I talk about myself and the past. It’s simple. The past, for once, saved me. Instead of turning my thoughts to the future, I turned them to the past. Normally this is an equally terrible thing to do, as I have many demons and skeletons waiting to throw all of my mistakes in my face to rub salt into the wounds. I forced myself to focus on those who had passed before me. I focused on my grandfather, so hard until I could hear his voice. I focused on my friend after whom my daughter is named until I could hear her voice. I remembered them, remembered their smiles, their words. Death puts quite a bit into perspective. The living are caught in the fast paced, never ending cycle of the world around us…. but the dead are not. We are little more than the memories we leave behind. Those people, now gone, were proud of me. Those people, now given a fresh perspective and now no longer forced to follow in that cycle, have left memories fro me to recall and draw faith from. The memories from the dead are more comforting at times because of this.

This led to more happy memories. More happy snapshot moments in my head that helped me see that perhaps the world wasn’t a dark and cold place like it sometimes seems. It reminded me that…. sometimes we fail. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we are beaten, and sometimes we are broken. Sometimes, however if we listen hard enough to our pasts, we’ll find whispers long forgotten that can help us pull through. They cannot necessarily heal us, no that is left up to us to do. The memories are a stepping stone. We cannot rely on the past to do everything for us, and we cannot fear the future. Needless to say the only thing that successfully committed suicide that night was the negativity rattling me to the core. It won’t stay away, obviously, as this is as much a never ending cycle as the new phones we crave each year. But for now, I can use my time to create a few more happy memories to use as ammunition in the future.

Another lesson I gathered from this, and this one made me truly rethink myself–We are a huge influence on other people. I began to wonder how many of my friends often found themselves in similar positions, searching their pasts for any hope, or any light in the darkest tunnel. It made me think…. Am I being the type of person that I want to be? Am I being the person whose memories would help pull them through? Am I being true to myself, and to those around me? It is quite a bit to think about.

It is now that I end with this. I urge each and every one of you to stop, for just a bit. Put down your phones, shut your computers, park your cars. Reach out to your friends, to your families. Love them entirely. You never know when it is your voice, memories of you, that may help pull them out of a bad place.

Living with Synesthesia

It’s been a while since I’ve updated my blog. I’m terrible at this, I realize. I have all these wonderful ideas bouncing around in my head, but I can’t seem to catch it long enough and force it down onto paper or computer screen. Or, if I do manage to pin it down, I lose the inspiration because I can’t get the wording quite right.

One thing I have realized is writing in this day and age is intimidating. Perhaps I should reword that and say Writing is intimidating. Everyone has an opinion on what is “good” writing and what is “bad” writing, and often times people pass off an opinion as constructive criticism. What I mean is…. If you take three people and make them read the same article, they’re all going to have different opinions on it based on different experiences. So how can we really tell what’s good and what isn’t? I guess that’s a blog for another time. Today I’m going to talk about synesthesia.

Until a few years ago, I didn’t realize that my way of thinking was any different from the people around me. I thought everyone had the same thought processes. For example, I think in pictures. I thought everyone did until I was talking to my mom about it, and she informed me she thinks in words. So when I start discovering that not everyone thinks of things in terms of music, my mind was a bit blown.

For those of you who aren’t aware, synesthesia is a mental condition where one sense is crossed with another one. Most commonly people will hear colors, see sounds, and so forth. To me, everything has a sound.

Foods have pitches. Chocolate has a lower sound, while anything acidic (like a lemon) has a higher pitch. Rice, or any other bland food, has a quiet note somewhere in the middle. Colors are the same way for me. I’ll describe the different shades of blues in terms of sounds. Darker blues have lower pitches, lighter blues higher pitches.

But what makes synesthesia so difficult for me? Trying to write. That’s right, the writer has a problem with writing because music gets in the way.

Indeed, if you listen to a conversation, and listen to the sounds rather than the words, you begin to realize that conversations are almost like a song. There is a certain rhythm that accompanies speech. You can tell if a sentence is a question, a comment, or an exclamation based on how the sentence sounds. It is almost like visually seeing it written down if only people listen. So when I try to write, in my mind, I’m composing a symphony. My words need to ebb and flow just right, and come together to form a masterpiece. This makes it difficult to proofread other people’s work, because their music sounds different than my own.

Because this blog is being written quickly and off the top of my head, the music sounds and feels whimsical, almost nonsensical. It’s a bit choppy in places where I’d like to extend the notes, but can think of nothing else to add to that section. As I concentrate on the way the music plays in my mind, my sentences begin to grow longer and less choppy, evening out the music. Suddenly the blog begins to take on a different melody, and I can feel a world opening up beneath my fingertips.

The real struggle I have, however, is anything dealing with numbers. It doesn’t help, I should add, that I have a bit of discalculia, or number dyslexia. To me, an equation doesn’t have a flowing sound. Numbers, ironically, sound very choppy and very disorganized. If a one has a low sound, and a nine has a high sound, they don’t go well together, even if they do make ten when added together. I have to wonder if I’d known this problem and recognized it for what it was when I was in school, would I have done better? Could I have found a way to work around it or better work with it? Sometimes problems are better solved by not working around it, but rather finding a way to use a disadvantage as an advantage. That’s probably why I need to do things “my way” rather than how people tell me to, because their rhythm and way of thinking is completely different than my own.

Why is this important to me? Important enough to write a blog about? Because my life has changed exponentially since I finally began to realize and embrace the differences in my mind. Understanding that our minds work differently than our friends can also help us examine situations from multiple points of view, especially if you are like my friends and have conversations about how you think.

Once you figure out the way your mind works, a new world of possibilities begins to open up for you, and multiple paths stretch ahead. Deeper thinking leads to better problem solving.

What I have is only one form of synesthesia, mind you. There are many different combinations! Scientists are still trying to figure out precisely why it happens, and what to do about it. Personally, I don’t want my inner music taken away, so I’m hoping they don’t find a “fix” for it any time soon. If they do, I’ll avoid it. Simple as that.

The world is a magical place if only we take the time to look and see it as such.

For those of you reading this who may be curious as to what synesthesia is, or suspect that you may have it as well, I encourage you to do your own independent research and learn as much as you can. It can make life a bit more difficult, but it can also make it a bit more interesting as well. Perspective matters.

You can begin your research by checking out the following website: https://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/syne.html

I hope I’ve helped someone at least a little bit. Or, at the very least, educated someone on what it’s like living with synesthesia.

The Graveyard

A majority of my life I’ve heard that I’m strange for enjoying staying up all night. As I got older, I was told staying up all night was childish. Now that I’m working a graveyard shift, I often hear “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

I understand that many people who work third shift aren’t there by choice, but for the most part there is an exclusive club of us who do choose it, and mostly enjoy it. There are fewer people, less phone calls, and most of the time there’s less drama as well. I stand beside my point once made that graveyard shifts are perfect for introverts.

It annoys me, and always has, the amount of negativity associated with third shift. So before you start feeling sorry for me, or thinking I’m strange, allow me to shed some light for you.

We’re the people that help with your late night food cravings. We’re your hotel clerks who help you when you simply can’t drive any further. We’re your late night gas station attendants. We’re your 24 hour customer service representatives, road side assistance, phone operators, dispatchers, emergency teams, etc. We’re your bartenders, your hotlines, your police officers, etc. So, before you talk about how strange we night folk are, be thankful for us on your next car ride or late night trip to a hospital. Without us, your world would stop after ten PM.

Third shifters come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and genders. Graveyard workers tend to stick together and watch each other’s backs, a luxury we have since we eliminate some of the daytime chaos.

I’m writing this because I just got off work and I can hear the rumble of a lawnmower. But I can’t complain about it because I’m “wasting the day by sleeping.” While the world keeps spinning on its obsessive need to make the “daytime people” happy, third shifters are subjected to things like “You work at night, that means you’ve got time to do -insert task- during the day.” Or daytime phone calls. Or lawnmowers.

I wish it was okay to do these things at night to daytime people, but that’s “rude”. Not knocking the day shift, I’ve worked my fair share and you guys have your own list of problems. I’m not even saying third shifters have it the worst. We don’t.

Side note: Why is it that when I Swype “people” on my phone, it likes to input purple instead? Just curious.

Anyway. I think we just need to start betting a bit more accepting of people, no matter what shift they work or if they prefer being a night time or day time person.

I’m going to bed now. Good day!

New Year.

I’m sitting in my car listening to sad songs, trying to let music justify the emotions I currently feel. At the very least put into words what I’m feeling so that I might understand them. I’ve been doing that a lot here recently. I’m just unsure about everything.

It’s a little depressing. A few months ago I knew exactly what I wanted. I was finally thinking long term. I finally felt like I belonged. I felt pride and confidence.

But now I feel like my world is slowly crashing and cracking around me. Everyone feels like a stranger, including myself. I’m so overwhelmed with darkness and I’m trying to swim out of it. I can’t let it beat me. Not yet.

I want t the new year to be better. I want happiness and joy. I want someone to think about when I’m down that will make me smile and chase this away.

I had a thought and it’s turned into a goal, I think. I want to start over. I want to find a place where no one knows my name. I want to disappear.

So we’ll see.

Sometimes it’s hard…

So, as you may or may not have noticed, I gave up on the 100 stories thing. Life got in the way and made it very difficult. Plus, I realized that I was writing for therapy, but it wasn’t really working. I’ve turned my attention to art for the time being. But now I’ll sit and write out a blog post.

In a previous post, I talked about my grandfather and his passing. For the longest time I thought I was okay. In fact, I started to worry because I wasn’t sad anymore. I thought, surely there is something wrong with me. I still miss him, mind you. But I wasn’t sad. As I analyzed everything further, I realized it wasn’t that I didn’t feel anything, it was that I had somehow worked myself into a huge state of denial. Further proof that the stages of grief are not limited to six, and they don’t happen in any particular order. Nor do they happen quickly.

A few months before his passing, he left a voicemail. My mom has been checking it regularly and resaving it, but I hadn’t listened to it. A few nights ago, I finally did, and it started the grieving process all over again. For different reasons this time. In my mind, I remember his voice. It was strong and full of joy, full of life. When I remember him, that’s what I remember. The man on the phone didn’t sound like the voice I remembered. It sounded frail. It made me really sad.

I had a dream about him, about a week ago. I’ve been reading this book series called the Dresden Files. There’s a character in the book named Michael. He’s a Knight of the Cross, and fights supernatural bad guys with a sword made from one of the nails used during the Crucifixion. He’s really cool. When I really get into a series, it is not uncommon for my dreams to become themed with said series. So it wasn’t a surprise when I started dreaming about the book. Except instead of Michael, I see my grandfather. He was playing the role of Michael. It was really awesome. I don’t know if it was a “message from the other side” or what, but it still made me happy.

I’m sad for other reasons. October used to be a month I loved so dearly, but now it is a month I dread. I have never been so happy for a month to be over in my life. Now I’m just waiting for the rest of the year. Holidays are difficult to think about. They’ve always been a little hard, but this year I feel they’ll be almost unbearable. I don’t feel like putting on a happy face and pretending everything is okay, knowing that when I leave the family function it’ll be whispers and gossip. I am not happy, and I’m tired of pretending that I am for everyone elses’ sake.

In all of this, I’ve also come to realize that there are some days that I just don’t want to interact with anyone. The idea of having to talk to people through some medium or another makes my skin crawl. A physical touch is like an electric shock wave through me, and it hurts. But I can’t yell “DON’T TOUCH ME” or “DON’T TALK TO ME.” Especially at my job. My boss tried to give me the phone to call someone, and I panicked.

Some days are like that. Other days I’m fine. I will always and forever hate calling people, but sometimes I can do it. Sometimes I just can’t. I hate having to admit that.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel.

I just don’t know.

Oh, What a World We Live In

100 Writings in 100 Days

Writing #4

October 19, 2014

Keep the People Afraid

What a world we live in,

Afraid to drink from water hoses for fear of getting cancer,

We cannot turn on our televisions without seeing mass hysteria and gore.

Children cannot play outside anymore, may end up on the internet.

Parents cannot discipline their children, but are later blamed for the mistakes their kids make.

Most everything we read now, on the internet, is fake.

Media shoves inflated fear and photoshopped violence, now satire is considered credible.

And oh, to be a woman.

We are taught lies of how to protect ourselves, we cannot drink alone.

We cannot even go to the bathroom without worrying if someone will catch us.

That shadow in the alley might be our rapist, or our death.

Men have it just as hard.

A man cannot speak out without being accused of sexism,

Gone is the gentleman lifestyle, replaced with the “playas”.

When a woman hits a man, he cannot defend himself.

He is laughed at when he reaches out for help.

Mankind suffers together, yet we constantly fight.

We kill each other over gender, race, religion, and preference,

When we should be standing side by side.

Our governments lie to us, keeping us afraid so we’ll never trust another person.

Keep us dumb, keep us distracted, while they play their slight of hand.

No longer can we go out into the world and explore, make discoveries,

We’re too scared of what we’ll bring home to our families.

No one protects us, no one keeps us safe.

We live in a world where police officers are not constitutionally bound to protect us,

Yet we give them all the power to control us.

What I fear for most is not the water hose,

It isn’t the media,

It isn’t the rapist or the murderer.

I fear for our children.

We’re creating a world where manners are dead, and common sense is ashes.

We’re creating a world where our children are desensitized to violence, and think it’s funny.

We’re creating a world where moms or dads are breaking their backs and are never home,

Yet the wage brought home can hardly support anyone.

We’re creating a world where children only know one parent, and it’s become the norm,

Children are slaves to the world of technology, and have lost their imaginations.

I do not like this world we live in.