innermost.

"Rushing and racing
and running in circles
Moving so fast, I'm forgetting my purpose
Blur of the traffic is sending me spinning
Getting nowhere
My head and my heart are colliding, chaotic
Pace of the world
I just wish I could stop it
Try to appear like I've got it together
I'm falling apart
Save me
Somebody take my hand, and lead me
Slow me down
Don't let love pass me by
Just show me how
'Cause I'm ready to fall
Slow me down
Don't let me live a lie
Before my life flies by
I need you to slow me down
Sometimes I fear that I might dissapear
In the blur of fast forward I faulter again
Forgetting to breathe, I need to sleep
I'm getting nowhere
All that I've missed I see in the reflection
Passed me while I wasn't paying attention
Tired of rushing, racing and running.
I'm falling apart"

Emmy Rossum, you know me so well.

proving myself.

and no one knows that she likes the way fingers feel, barely caressing the skin. not clawing, not touching. like a breath you're forever holding, hesitant but riding the ecstasy of that moment. the attention is on her, and she's reaching out trying blindly to find that hand.


I can't wait to put a face to the image, sotospeak.
Within the next 5-10 years I want to be living in Baltimore, Maryland.
I haven't visited yet, but I'm in love with the idea so far.
Right now I'm at TCC, but I don't know anymore what I want.
Photojournalism was my rock.
I figured writing and art were my strong points...
Yes, I settled in a way.
But now my insides are turning over in anxiety.

Politics. Government. Debate. Sociology. etc.
For some reason all these topics hold some sort of significance for me.
My government teacher was old and eccentric, but his lectures hit home.
My sociology teacher is also eccentric, but dominant and blunt.
I'm planning on taking public speaking and doing debate.
Just to explore. Maybe look into being some sort of activist.
I have these urges that I can't explain.

And yet.

There's still art.
Above anything, I don't want to end up at a desk job.
I want to be passionate and outgoing.
I want something I can be creative with.
I'm not sure anymore what role art will play in my career.
I can see myself painting as a leisure, but photography...

The idea of abandoning it makes me feel hollow.

So many choices to make, so much money and time to spend.
I'm not looking forward to the stress,
but definitely the adventure.


Ash and politics? Guffaw.

I can't wait to meet you.

I've always liked the idea of adopting. Taking in a child who is being deprived of a loving home is definitely more appealing than going through an awkward process and pushing out a purpleish blob nine months later. But seriously, I fell in love with the idea of having an Asian daughter in middle school. To this day I sometimes catch myself daydreaming, and she will be all I have ever dreamed of and more.

yes, another letter.

Dear Baby Girl,

You're always on my mind. I think about the day I'll wander into an adoption center, and how in one instant I'll see you and realize it was meant to be. I'll take your tiny little hand in mine and together we'll start our family. I can't promise there will be another mother for you beside me, but I will try. I will try, above all, to keep love in your life.

I'd like to imagine that the friends I have now will stay in my life because I also want them to meet you. My sister -- your aunt -- has teased me for years, but she already loves you. She's funny, you'll like her. In fact, our entire family is full of funny people so you will grow up with a healthy amount of humor. Your grandmother will spoil you rotten, and maybe you'll get to face your great grandpa in chess (don't worry, I'll teach you).

I'm not sure where I'll be in life when we're together, but I promise to take care of you. I promise that each day will be a new adventure for us, and I will do my best to keep you healthy and happy. I won't ever force anything on you, and I'll let you express yourself (I claim the right to dress you up and whatnot when you're a baby, though). As you grow older, we'll be a team. I'll have some rules, but for the most part I'll be liberal. I want you to know that I'll always be there, and that you can talk to me. I want us to have a lot of trust in each other and be able to hang out without tension.

I won't lie to you, Baby Girl: I am worried. I worry that I'm being selfish by wanting you, and we will live a prejudiced life. People will see us as two different ethnicities, and I may be judged as a woman incapable of raising you properly without your culture. More importantly, my orientation will take its toll on you eventually. You will go into school and peer pressure will kick in. I only hope that I have the strength to go through with this, knowing only that I already love and want you enough to fight for that right. I also worry that you won't return my love, growing up to spite me for what I'm putting you through. I worry that you'll hate that I'm gay, I worry that you'll hate that I'm agnostic, I worry that you'll shut me out of your life.

I want you to understand. Please, understand how much I will have gone through just to have you. Understand that I am who I am, and also a person who loves you unconditionally. Understand that really, that's all that will matter. We will find a way through it all, and I will raise you the best I can. I may have adopted you, but in my heart you will be my daughter.

The day I walk into the adoption center, smile real big for me.

That's how I'll find you.

Baby Girl, I can't wait to meet you.

Love,

Mom.

letter to my father.

assignment for myself: write a letter to someone who has betrayed or wronged you some way.

Dear Dad... --- I can't. The task of typing is simple, but he doesn't deserve the title.

Let me try again.


Dear Jeffrey Sampson,

No. That's still not right.


To whom it may concern:

You've forgotten my birthday almost six more times. I'm scared that my financial aid won't come in time for me to start college right away, making you capable of fully exiting my life.

This is your daughter, Ashley.

I don't know why I've thought about you so much lately, but you're there. Well, the memory of you. I can still hear your voice and see your increasing baldness. Normally it doesn't phase me when you're brought up, but lately I've just been fixated on reminiscing. It amazes me that unless you're mentioned I forget that my biological father isn't the one living in a house with me, giving me advice and ruffling my hair. No, that's my stepfather Craig. He wasn't there when I was growing up, and despite your absence I still have random fragments from my memory of you. You were never the advice type; the only time you tried you were drunk and verbally abused me. You were very physical in that you liked to wrestle and encourage me to be active, and even though I clung to my mother more I still remember my tomboyish side feeling the need to constantly impress you. I remember the feeling of being on my toes, but that only started after you taught me how to ride a bike. Remember? I do, somehow. We were still living in military housing back in Hawaii, and I was officially off training wheels. The problem was that I couldn't figure out the brakes and drove around forever, tearing up because the fun was over. I crashed - I vaguely remember a green field - and I came stumbling back crying, asking for a bandaid. You, however, told me that I needed to toughen up and I don't think I got that bandaid. After that one incident I became a person who was/is afraid of showing weakness, especially around you.

The irony of this is that you ended up hurting me the most and a barrier that I had up for years fell dramatically. When you and Mom separated I heard that you said all sorts of spiteful things to Mom, including comments about Amanda and I. There I was, a kid, already trying to adjust to the situation and suddenly I'm hearing that my own Dad thinks I'm fat or what have you. The point isn't that I was hurt, no, it's that for some reason your opinion mattered to me. I entered middle school with a complex for crying out loud. I looked at my feet as I walked and I followed the wrong crowd - but aren't you proud? I didn't have sex or get into drugs. I cut myself once, but I don't think that's a nice topic so we'll move on. It was eighth grade by the time I realized that things weren't going to change and that I needed to move on. We officially got out of contact with you, we didn't visit you in Hawaii, Mom started dating Craig, and I was starting off on my self identity crisis. I got plenty of friends and finally started realizing who I was inside and out.

Yadda, yadda - right? I'm not writing this to tell you my life story. You would know it, or at least mostly, if you'd actually stayed in my life. By saying this I don't mean that I wish you stayed with Mom, however. Hell no. I'm still scarred from seeing her crying after the way you treated her. I know for a fact that Craig makes our family happy, and you had your chance. Yes: our family.

Perhaps it was visiting my best friend's Dad's house that made me think of you. She actually visits her father year after year in spite of her parents' break-up, and I couldn't help but feel slightly envious. I may not like you personally, but it was admirable to see a prospering relationship continuing on. The worst part is that my friend and her dad constantly fight, and sometimes I just felt like yelling at her. At least she can see and talk to her father, at least she knows that he loves her.

Now the hard question: do you love me?

Don't answer. You could be an ass and say no, but I think you'd say yes merely for show. I don't want that. Above all, I don't want anything from you that doesn't take a lot of effort. I want you to acknowledge that you have a daughter, but the only time you realize this is when you send off a check. I want so many apologies, from both you and your wenchwife Teresa. I was told that she was resposible for a lot of mishaps that have caused tension between you and Amanda and I. I will never forgive her (or you, if responsible) for sending that letter to Mom about wanting a blood test for me.

Why would she - or you - think that I'm not your daughter?

Out of all the complexes you gave me, that was the worst. I went from a mindset of not being good enough to not being worthy, and finally I plummeted ultimately into a spiraling whirlwind of emotion. That night I went on a rampage of destruction, literally breaking things and acting violently until I collapsed into a paroxysm of tears.

Then I looked at my feet.

There I was crying my heart out, but then in one instant I realized I'd won. You see, when I actually did "hang out with you", I remember sitting next to you and propping my feet up next to yours. More importantly, I remember all of the relatives that told me I had your "chicken legs", feet, and toes. Back when I did get upset when you were mentioned my mom's favorite thing to do would be to pinch my toes and tell me how much they looked like yours - and they do. Isn't that funny? I remember your feet more than your face.

We don't send you pictures, so my feet profile is the only update you're getting. If you want to actually take the time to build a relationship with me, right now I can't promise you I won't slam a door in your face. I've learned not to expect anything from you, much less get hopeful or dangle on a thread. I have so many negative feelings towards you.

And yet.

A part of me can't hold onto hatred.

Rather than hide my past, I'm facing it right now in this letter. I don't care what type of reaction you get out of this or if you have some brilliant epiphany.

This letter is for me, not you.

I turn nineteen next week, and I won't be a thirteen year old waiting by the phone this time.

Have a nice life.

Your Daughter,

Ash.

/// writing letters is a good way to express things I usually find hard to communicate. The history I have with my father is my most hidden inner turmoil, and the feeling I achieved writing this is indescribable. As I said, this was for me so take it as you will.

disclaimer: no pity parties.