Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 14

You wonder why I get them.

You don’t understand the ink.

Or the addiction.

So let me explain it for you.

This tattoo in the picture is for my Grammy.

She died in 2014.

It broke me.

I had never experienced loss in such a real way like that before.

I was 21.

Living a life for my dad.

A life of fear, resentment, and high expectation

But all of that changed with this phone call.

“Brooke, Grammy had a stroke at church. She’s in the hospital.”

I responded, “hmm”

“What do I say to that” I asked myself?

Because I couldn’t understand.

I just saw her three months ago.

She was outside raking the leaves.

She was fine then.

Yet now she was hanging by a thread in a hospital all the way in Texas while I was in California?

God just simply claimed her without warning?

I wasn’t given notice?

I felt like a computer giving the circle of death.

I could not compute.

So I put it in a box.

I stored those unprocessed feelings away and decided to continue with my studies.

Understand up until this point, no one important in my life had died before.

Also, I was mocked by my father at a young age for my emotion so I thought bottling it up was the way to live your life.

Fake it till you make it, they say.

So I faked it.

Until I got the next call.

She was dying.

“We’re about to pull the plug, Brooke. Any last words?”

Um how about, “Why did you kill my hero, God?”

Why did you kill the one spark of joy in our family?

She was raspberries in the summer.

And hummingbirds in spring.

She was joy.

And now she was dead.

So I did what any young adult would do.

I fucked the world.

I said, “Fuck religion. Fuck god. Fuck my studies.”

Nothing matters if he’ll just kill the most religious person in your life in fucking church for Christ sakes!

So I fucked everyone.

I swiped right all the way to hell.

I was numb to everything for a year after her death.

Yet somehow my friend Bryan pulled me out.

He took me on a walk and said, “This isn’t you.”

And by that point I knew he was right.

I couldn’t fuck the grief out of me.

I had to face it.

She was gone.

And it wasn’t god’s fault.

It was just life.

Life happens.

So 2014 became a milestone for me after that.

A milestone that says, life is precious.

Remember it.

And when I remember her, I think of hummingbirds.

So that’s why I get tattoos, mom.

Because I want to remember my trauma and salute it for its ability to change me.

I love you.

-B. Ray

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 13

I’m speechless.

I come home exhausted and defeated after a two hour walk with my psycho dog

And there in the house is my boyfriend.

My boyfriend who is suppose to be at the job site.

The boyfriend I just got off the phone with.

He’s in the house.

With a bouquet of roses, dinner made, candle lit and music playing.

I’m not joking.

I started crying.

I was so shocked at this huge display of love.

I lost it.

Sometimes a person’s love for you will do that.

It will just sneak up on you and reintroduce itself.

Hey Brooke, my name is love.

We met a while ago, but you’ve gotten a bit comfortable and have forgotten me so I thought I’d reintroduce myself.

It was gentle.

Soft.

And the biggest relief to have dinner made.

Because Fuck I love food.

And he nailed it.

Truly, I am so honored to be his partner in this lifetime.

What a fucking legend.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 12

So far, I’ve met two Americans through facebook this week.

Both very lovely women.

Both married.

And I hope they last.

I mean, I hope our friendship lasts.

This is always my fear.

Rejection

Or even worse

Apathy.

I’m always the initiator in relationships.

I am always searching for that Grey and Yang relationship.

And I actually found it once, in North Carolina, with my roommate Sarah.

But can I find it here?

Will someone let me be their Grey?

Because I miss sleepovers damn it!

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 11

I get it now.

The drinking

The writing

The addiction

It feels good to write intoxicated.

I feel free

Uninhibited

And yet I’m lucky

I don’t have the addiction bug

Like my father

Like my brother

Like all the men in my family

Is it a man thing?

I don’t know

But I’m lucky

I know when to stop

Thank god

Or the devil

For skipping me

I appreciate it.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 10

So I’ve been called a sadist.

But I’d like to describe it more as

A controllist.

I like to believe I have the upper hand.

But what this person doesn’t know

Is this is my wall talking.

He doesn’t know I’m full of shit

He doesn’t see me crumble

in therapy

Or cry with joy from being loved for three years by the most forgiving man I’ve ever met.

He doesn’t know me.

He tried to pull that perceptive card,

But I’ve met his like before.

Confident on the outside

Insecure on the inside.

Like all of us.

So don’t tell me, you can read me.

Because I know you’re no fly on the wall.

You’re just like every other psychology cock sucker thinking you’re the next Freud.

So bye boy.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Water colour tattoo

It was worth it.

A tad more painful than I anticipated

But this girl didn’t budge

Because I don’t squirm under pain

I fuckin thrive yo

Nah I just visualized the pain

Until it became apart of me

I am the pain

Ya suck on that wisdom!

K

bye

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 9

I’m getting a new tattoo tomorrow.

Water color.

It’s my first big color tattoo.

I’m a bit nervous I’ll hate it.

The tattooer sent me her sketch and I hated it.

But I didn’t tell her I did.

I told her the things I liked about it and the things I liked about my inspiration picture I sent her and asked if it’s doable to implement those specific likes.

She said she’ll be free handing it and yes it’s easy to implement.

I responded, I trust you.

But fuck I’m nervous.

But I’ve seen her portfolio.

I like her work.

I really do.

So I know it won’t be shit.

But trust, man.

That’s hard for me.

I’m controlling at best.

More leaning ocd.

I waver between impulsive and compulsive on the daily.

So for her to say she’ll freehand it

Is like me saying let me just eat everything in the kitchen and see if I get fat.

It’s insane to me.

Yet, I’m attracted to it.

I want it.

I want to be open to trust.

To releasing my control.

I want to be free to receive her art.

So

Pray for me

Or

Whatever

Because I’m about to pay almost $1,000 for freedom.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 8

Walking on egg shells

Tip

Toe

Tip

Toe

My mind rewinds

Plays

Rewinds

Plays

Will she understand my intention?

Or

Will she be offended?

I feel like I’m trying to create a relationship with a social media troll

Hush now

Be sensitive

The egg shells may crack

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 7

Today I’ve been thinking about home.

Craving familiarity.

I’ve been listening to country music.

Christian music even though I’m not Christian anymore.

Ya it got that bad. 😂

Craving mac and cheese

Tacos

Friends

My whole being is feeling this pull to reconnect with Americans again.

Being in Australia, I’ve only met 3 Americans.

One was a flake.

The second was too loud.

And the third is an adorable Cuban from Florida who is also very loud but we were able to work on it.

Other than that, I’ve met only Brits and Asians.

And don’t get me wrong, they’re very lovely people. But the Brits want to hang more with the Brits and their slang always throws me for a loop anyways.

So my only friends are Asian. And they’re amazing lovely women, but we can’t relate on everything. There are certain things I want to say, but I know they won’t understand.

Just like any group of people, your group knows you. They see you. They can relate with you.

And I miss that.

So I problem solved.

Where can I find Americans in Sydney?

Facebook.

So here I am today, posting on Facebook if any Americans in the city want to hang.

I don’t care if I sound desperate.

Because if you’re on facebook, you’re desperate too.

We’re all fuckin desperate for friendship and making the first move is my forte anyways.

So if you’re out there Americans, I just wanna say hey!