It Is What It Is

Dear Patty Griffin, Taylor Swift, Dolly Parton, Adele, Eddie Van Halen, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Lucy Maud Montgomery, Clive Staples Lewis, Stan Lee, Robert Downey Jr., George Harrison, Lois Lowry, 

One of y’all come fix this mess of a redhead you helped create.

My life is swiftly turning into a classic honkytonk heartache. The vehicle is crashed, the man cheated, the house is underwater, the dogs are probably lost, the kids are somewhere not so oblivious in the middle. 

I’m in a ever lengthening tunnel with the faintest light. Sometime I run fast enough and it gets a bit brighter and closer until suddenly… I look down and wonder… am I even running on solid ground or is this just a goddamn treadmill? Is that light even real, or is it just my ever hopeful, idiotic, pathetic heart fooling me again.

I’m so fucking homesick. Idk how you can be homesick if you’ve never really felt home, but I am.

I just want to lay my head down in a bed I belong in,  near people I belong with, in a place I can rightfully claim. But I’m couch surfing in “my own” house. 

If I hear “strong” or “resilient” one more time I’m gonna cold clock the unsuspecting mouth that utters it. I never wanted to be strong. I wanted to be loved. I never wanted to be good at taking punches. I wanted to be cherished, protected, mutually enjoyed. I wanted someone who picks me. I wanted peace and safety and permanence - because how do you jump out and risk anything from unsteady footing? How do you keep on choosing to move forward with hope when you live through a thousand disappointments?

So… quit singing songs that go for my jugular, quit writing books and making movies that make me believe there is still beauty out there, and quit making that stage look like anywhere I want to be.

I’d give away my guitar and never sing or write or perform again if I knew I’d have home to go to at the end of every day. That’s a deal I’d make with the devil, a politician or even God.