Miracle Workers
Labor day is meant for people to rest and spend time with their family. My labor day consisted of me working on the thing I truly love --writing. Finally, I replenished my submissions with a poetry chapbook and past site that rejected me with secondary rejections.
One site, Literary Orphans, has me stumped. They are offering submissions for their superhero issue. I remember being little hoping for a hero --a boy to save me, a wizard to take me around the world, and a woman flying round the city. I realized not too long ago that heros really do exist but not in masks or capes but on Instagram and math class.
Milk Tyson, of Instagram and twitter, is a real world hero. He offers help to those suffering of anxiety because he himself suffered with it. He hands out his email for people to tell him their story. I would know because I recently had to approach him. My anxiety is getting out of hand as I was too anxious to open my love's door. I stood outside staring at the very knob I turned hundreds of times before but instead, I was stuck. Contemplating the difficultly of turning around versus opening the door really opened my to the severity of my anxiety. Simply talking to him gives me a sense of ease --this isn't going to last forever.
But he lives in California and it's hard to get a high-five for doing something bold, like teaching a spanish class, across states. My personal hero, the one who rescued me, is in fact my boyfriend. I hate dedicating anything to him because I have to admit how much he means to me but really, he's worth the dedication. He encourages my writing as he reads every poem I ask him to even though college football is on and UCLA is playing. He doesn't understand anxiety as much as I wish he did which is why he gets frustrated when I stop dead in my tracks as he tries to introduce me to even more friends. But he does hold my sweat-dripping hand before I go up to read poems and that's enough understandment for me.
One day, I wish someone would look at me as a hero. Despite my anxiety, I still write pages upon pages of poetry to submit to magazines. I still talk to workshop leaders trying to push my career further. I want to better myself so I suck up my fear of public speaking by chugging another gulp of coffee. By the time I swallow, it will be too late to turn around. As scared as I am of people, I still love volunteering and that's exactly what I do. I help people who can't help themselves because I guess I relate to them. A smile on someone else's face makes one come over mine.
So even though I panic at the thought of shaking hands with someone, I try to help myself by helping others. Maybe soon enough, I'll be able to help myself.
One site, Literary Orphans, has me stumped. They are offering submissions for their superhero issue. I remember being little hoping for a hero --a boy to save me, a wizard to take me around the world, and a woman flying round the city. I realized not too long ago that heros really do exist but not in masks or capes but on Instagram and math class.
Milk Tyson, of Instagram and twitter, is a real world hero. He offers help to those suffering of anxiety because he himself suffered with it. He hands out his email for people to tell him their story. I would know because I recently had to approach him. My anxiety is getting out of hand as I was too anxious to open my love's door. I stood outside staring at the very knob I turned hundreds of times before but instead, I was stuck. Contemplating the difficultly of turning around versus opening the door really opened my to the severity of my anxiety. Simply talking to him gives me a sense of ease --this isn't going to last forever.
But he lives in California and it's hard to get a high-five for doing something bold, like teaching a spanish class, across states. My personal hero, the one who rescued me, is in fact my boyfriend. I hate dedicating anything to him because I have to admit how much he means to me but really, he's worth the dedication. He encourages my writing as he reads every poem I ask him to even though college football is on and UCLA is playing. He doesn't understand anxiety as much as I wish he did which is why he gets frustrated when I stop dead in my tracks as he tries to introduce me to even more friends. But he does hold my sweat-dripping hand before I go up to read poems and that's enough understandment for me.
One day, I wish someone would look at me as a hero. Despite my anxiety, I still write pages upon pages of poetry to submit to magazines. I still talk to workshop leaders trying to push my career further. I want to better myself so I suck up my fear of public speaking by chugging another gulp of coffee. By the time I swallow, it will be too late to turn around. As scared as I am of people, I still love volunteering and that's exactly what I do. I help people who can't help themselves because I guess I relate to them. A smile on someone else's face makes one come over mine.
So even though I panic at the thought of shaking hands with someone, I try to help myself by helping others. Maybe soon enough, I'll be able to help myself.
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