The Divine Chaos

When I was a little girl I dreamed of being many, many things. I thought about being a teacher, a librarian, a clothing designer, a singer, a songwriter. The one that stuck around and stood first to most was a Veterinarian who owned her own practice that was run from her farm. As I grew up that goal stuck while nurse, surgeon, actress and a few others floated into the mix. I went through school fantasizing about the future. Little did I know that the future would be nothing I expected it to be.

You see, my life was destined to be difficult.

Difficult meaning needing much effort or skill, to accomplish, deal with, or understand.

You may be thinking everyone’s life is difficult. Stop throwing yourself a pity party. I agree.

Everyone’s life is difficult. But different. Just as everyone living those unique, individual lives is different. We all process things in our own ways and react likewise.

It took me a long, long time to process everything that has happened in my life thus far. I am twenty three years old and I know I have plenty of life left to live. But from where I stand today I dream of being one thing. An author.

My favorite thing to do when I was younger was to read and write. English was always my favorite subject in school. I loved the way new textbooks smelled and being assigned book reports or essays of any kind was thrilling to me. It didn’t feel forced, it felt fun. I look back on why I never thought about making this obvious love into a dream. I suppose it was because as I grew up I thought college and science was the way to go. Science would never go away. Almost every career path that was considered “promising” financially and statistically in my google searches included mathematics or science. So I put writing on a backburner, and made it my favorite hobby. Not my dream.

Like I said just before, my life is difficult. I grew so much hate within me. So much pain and fear and stress. I hated myself. I hated life for being life and I hated people for living it. I found myself constantly wanting more, wishing for more but always finding less and less and less. I grew depressed, anxious, overly cautious and my ambitions sunk under all the weight that life started piling on my shoulders.

But one day I woke up and I knew. I knew that my life was destined to be difficult.

I knew that all the hardship and horror wasn’t happening for nothing. I knew that my life was a story that I was meant to tell. Don’t get me wrong. I am one hundred percent aware that so many people have had way worse than I have ever had and hopefully ever will have to go through. I know everyone has a story to tell of their very own. But this is mine.

So here we go…

A young girl named Stacy was living her life. Happily planning her wedding.. Ready to live her happily ever after.. She meets a young man named Michael. He’s a bartender at the bar she randomly happened to start going to with her friends. She ditches the fiancée for Michael. They fall in love.

That’s the story I have been told of how my parents met. I guess from an outside perspective that could be considered a cute, romantic love story. But that outsider wouldn’t know how the story ended. Did Stacy and Michael get engaged? Get married? Have kids? Did they live happily ever after?

That’s where I come in. I’m Taylor. I am the eldest of the seven children that Michael and Stacy did indeed have. I can tell you that my parents also did get married. At city hall with me and my first younger brother at their side. We went across the street to the church to take pictures afterwards. I don’t remember this but I’ve seen the pictures. That happily ever after part that we were wondering about? Not so much.

It’s hard to admit that your parents are shitty parents. Especially when the stories the pictures tell from when we were younger say otherwise. The birthdays with alleyway petting zoos and monkeys. The smiles. The look of everyone having their shit together. But I guess that’s pictures. They tell one side. The side people want you to see. The times they capture to look back on when things fall apart.

And boy, did things fall apart.

Seven kids. Two adults. That already sounds a little crazy. But it gets crazier.

Drugs, Mental Illness, DYFS, manipulation, court, hospitals, cops, judgement, instability.

And so, so much more.

We lived in Lake Hopatcong. We loved it there. At least me and my brothers did. Our younger siblings were just that, younger. Babies. Our house felt like a mansion to us. I remember the butterflies. The pink walls with the hand-painted butterflies and flowers that my mother had done herself throughout the room. She did that in all our rooms. She said she went to school for art. When we got older the boys would tease her about it. I don’t know if she actually really went or if that was just another lie.

Her décor painting was good nonetheless. Scott’s room had clouds and stars. With a moon and star lamp from Ikea. I feel like every kids bedroom had these. The twins room was my favorite. Corey had a stuffed dog he called Rover and Michael had one he called spot. She played off of this and painted dogs’ houses with footprints leading to them from painted dogs. It was clever. It was motherly.

She was a good mom, Stacy. She loved us. So did our dad. Michael. I believe they both just bit off more than they could chew. They had seven kids while living a lifestyle that wasn’t made for parenthood. My dad has struggled with a chronic mental health condition since his teenage years. Schizoaffective disorder to be exact. I didn’t really witness it when I was younger. Not that I can truly remember. Of course, the stories are endless. The stories of him being out of sorts and taking Scott, Corey, and Michael into a house that was being worked on and giving them random sodas out of the fridge. Letting them play in the excavator. Having them taken away in ambulances, himself included after someone called the cops. Another one of him leaving his car on a bridge and just walking home. Him parking his car in someone's yard. One holding down my grandma and saying the moon told him to do it. The stories are endless.

My dad wasn’t alone in the downfall of our childhood.

Drugs.

Cocaine, heroin and pills. I walked in on my mom once, in and out of sleep on the toilet with the lit end of a cigarette in her mouth. I didn’t realize then but she was high out of her mind. The neighbors who lived behind us lived the same lifestyle. I’ve been told my mother would babysit their kids for drugs. They would come often. The parents and the kids. We would play. They would get high.

Our parents would sleep a lot. But we didn’t notice. We kept busy. There were four of us. We made up so many games. Vamp. Kicky-pillow game. Car. In all honesty, none of these games were particularly safe. Vamp was basically tag in the complete darkness. Stairs, bunk beds, crawlspaces. Nothing was out of bounds. Kicky pillow consisted of three of us laying on the floor while the other ran at us holding a pillow in front of their stomach. We would kick them as hard as we could into the air and fling them across the room onto a bed of pillows we laid out. Car was us chasing each other around with toy cars. The big kinds. Trying to hit one anothers ankles. I loved these games. But I don’t know another person whose parents would allow them to play them.

Faith. My first sister. She came along in 2003. I was so excited. Living with three brothers for so long was great but a sister was something I wanted. I was too young to even think about the life they were subjecting her to. The life they were subjecting all of us to. Five kids. Still doing drugs. My father still not taking the appropriate medication and having periods of mania. Then, they had Julia.

My aunt Cathy tells me that Julia was born addicted. Same for my youngest sibling Kyle. Why keep having kids? Why keep doing drugs and choosing to carry a child? They are both fine. Both bright as can be. And I’m not just saying that because I’m biased. But to think what could have happened. Brain damage, premature birth, death. It gives me chills just thinking about it.

Seven children.

By choice.

No-one forced them into it, they weren't religious. They chose to have each and every one of us. And then chose to abandon each and every one of us.

Maybe abandon is too strong of a word. After all, our grandparents did adopt us. This didn’t happen straight away. It took a little bit more fucking up to get there. (These following events are not in chronological order of any sort. I’m just going to throw them at you. Kind of like they were all sorta thrown at me.) Like my dad lighting our house on fire. And Yes. We were in it.. Sleeping. Then there were the times where our parents just wouldn’t be around. Whether it be rehab or jail or institutions or who knows where else. Our mother’s mom lived with us for a period of time. We called her Grammie. I don’t recall much from this point in my life except for three things. I remember feeling embarrassed seeing the cardboard boxes filled with canned goods donated from DYFS or the school lurking under our china cabinet. Staring up at me, was I poor? I remember my cousins getting dropped off in the big white vans everyday after being driven about 30 minutes home from school. (She was raising them too.. Like I said in the beginning.. complicated.) And finally I remember coming downstairs one night. Finding Grammie sitting at the dining room table. Her back to the sliding doors that led to what had once been our beautiful backyard. Where so many good memories should have been made. She seemed tense. Like she had been crying. I asked her what was wrong and even though I was still young. She told me. My parents were in trouble. They were hiding from the police in the attic. I don’t remember what happened after that. If they got arrested? If the police searched our house? No clue. I was later told they had been caught robbing Christmas presents from Walmart. Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was just a little more icing added to sugarcoat the shit cake that was my childhood.

Anyways where was I? Well I guess we can talk about the rehab where Scott, Corey, Michael, & I spent some time with our mother. I say I guess because this place was brutal. It felt like prison. Like the children there had committed crimes and done drugs like their mothers. Holidays were grim. We never did anything or went anywhere. It felt like summer camp except you still had to take the bus to school 5/7 days of the week and have the other kids make comments about where you’ve been picked up. We weren't allowed TVs except for in the communal living room and we were limited to a very small selection of DVDs every Friday night. Let’s just say I could recite the script of Open Season.. Backwards. The only positive memory I have of the whole experience was when my mom organized a Harry Potter Day for the kids. It was limited. Just a bunch of homemade décor and a lot of effort. But it was something. And something in a world filled with a radio and sewing pillows meant everything. But that memory is drowned by the ones where my Nannie gifted me a pair of Heelys one Tuesday when she brought my three youngest siblings for a visit. You see they were living with her and my PopPop at the time. I cherished the Heelys almost as much as I cherished their visits. She also gifted me scrapbooking supplies. Funky edged scissors that made awesome patterns and stickers and the whole lot. They took them. Said they were a danger. The Heelys too. It was almost like happiness was forbidden there. And then it was decreed.

It was a Tuesday and like I said Tuesday was a visiting day. We always got picked up from school a little early in a van from the rehab center. We went back and got to see our families. We didn’t expect to get there and see our shit in black garbage bags and people explaining we were going to live with our Nannie and PopPop.

I feel like I always say this but I later found out that my mother had gotten herself kicked out of the program there because she was found with a group of other women in the laundry room choking each other to get high. I get the place was depressing but you couldn't stick it out for us? Couldn’t resist the urge? The damage? The heartache?

Do you want to know how many times we moved around when we were younger? I can’t even count. It was unstable. I never made friends. What was the point? I had one in Lake Hopatcong. A best friend. We did all the typical best friend stuff. Sleepovers, hanging out all the time, birthday parties. But she moved, I moved. Then I never really got good at making friends. Didn’t really gain social skills. Or the social comfort. People scared me. People made me uncomfortable. And back then I didn't really even know it.

In the end of all the bouncing around, or what I thought was the end, we ended up being adopted by my father’s parents. All seven of us. I have a picture of the day with everyone in the courtroom. Neither one of my parents is in it. Neither one bothered to show up and try to fight for their parental rights.

So this was a fresh start for us. All seven of us under the same roof again. A lot of new memories. At first, I can honestly say life there was picture perfect. My grandmother spoiled us. Gave us the stability our parents never did. The comfort of home. Her chicken cutlets are something I will cherish always. Her love for going shopping and fear of escalators resides in me. I miss her. She was glue. She was strict. But she was glue.

God forbid, We didn’t come home when the streetlights came on or acted out. Out came the belt. My brothers were the ones who had to worry about that, I may be biased but I was always a good kid. Well, there was this one time I can recall I was at the park playing tag with this boy I had a crush on, his twin sister, and their dad. The streetlights came on and I thought I would be fine staying just a little while longer. I was having fun and I mean, they did just come on.. Right? Wrong! There I am running around and my pop’s red Toyota Rav4 rolls up. There she is screaming at me. I was so embarrassed. But you can bet I came home as soon as I saw those street lights blink on from then on out.

Other than that, I was a good kid. Straight As. I cried, no sobbed when I received the second honor roll on my report card instead of first. Like borderline mental breakdown sobbed. My Nannie comforted me, encouraged me. She may have been cruel and rough around the edges on occasion but she treated us like her own children. Dressed us in nice clothes, took us on countless getaways and vacations, and overall made us feel loved and like we had a place to call home, a family despite our parents' downfalls.

She got cancer.

The glue was fucking melting.

Quickly.

It felt like she was there one minute happy and healthy and hanging clothes on the line in the alleyway and then the next she was bald from chemo sporting scarves on her head and oxygen tubes out of her nose.

Her funeral was the first one I had been to. It was sad.

I was young. I didn’t really get funerals.

Lucky me.

I got to go to another one for my Grammie within the same year.

No more getaways to her house when mine became unbearable.

After my nannie died my grandpa let us go live with our mother again. All of us except Kyle. He kept Kyle with him. I talk to my sisters a lot about the time we lived with her again. Faith even wrote about the last time she saw our mother for an assignment about a moment that changed her forever. Reading it brought me to ugly crying. We all had such different memories. Yet each of us were actually happy. My mom loved us and always made sure we had what we needed and oftentimes even what we wanted. She listened to us. She knew us. It was never perfect like we all know nothing can be. But I was never scared. I wasn’t stressed or depressed or sad over anything but boys and homework and childish dramas. I enjoyed the little things and felt happy again. I think it's safe to say we all did. But it didn’t last and we all ended up back at my grandpas once again. We didn’t know what the future entailed.

Yeah, It got worse and worse and worse and worse and about a thousand times worse.

The glue, my Nannie, was gone and we were falling apart.

My PopPop kind of gave up. Without her it wasn’t family.

There were seven of us and one of him.

My Aunt Cathy lived upstairs. She helped out a lot. Despite having her own daughter.

Elizabeth, my adopted cousin from the Ukraine. She’s about a year younger than me and a lot to handle. It took me most of my life so far to realize she has the best intentions. She’s just got a lot going on like everyone else in our crazy family. But that’s another story. Her story. And this is mine.

So my Pop became so bitter and mean to us over time. He lost his patience too quickly and too often. Held our parents' mistakes over our heads and on more than one occasion said we would amount to nothing more than them. He said horrible things. I would wake up to him cursing to himself “cocksuckers”, “18 can’t come quick enough”, “fucking worthless pigs”. They were words but words become actions. He got violent a lot. Punched my brothers in their faces, threw me into walls, hit my sisters over and over again for things as simple as spilling milk. He hated us. It became clear. He treated the four oldest the worst. We were our parents to him. We were raised by animals so we were animals in his mind. He gave us the bare necessities and if we caught him on a nice day he would buy us shoes or give us cash to go to the movies with our friends. But those days became less and less often overtime and every time he looked at me I remember feeling like I was nothing.

We were in no way the best kids. But we were just that, kids. Kids who didn’t have the easiest or most stable upbringing. Kids who had been tossed aside too many times to count. Kids who had seen and heard and been through things that a lot of kids are fortunate enough to not have to. We just needed guidance and positive reinforcement. We needed someone who cared and wanted us to have good futures. Not someone who was rooting for us to fail. And that’s what it began to feel like. Like he was rooting for us to fail. And then as if things couldn’t get any worse, our aunts joined the club.

It began feeling like I had no one to look up to. No one to learn from or look to when life was dragging me down. We were brainwashed to feel worthless and stupid. I can’t tell you how many times I was told I wasn’t family or how many horrible insults I’ve heard come out of my own families’ mouths. I can tell you that things got worse. I can tell you that they grew to loathe us so much that waiting until they could legally dispose of us without actually facing any true consequences or judgement wasn’t an option for them anymore. “18 couldn’t come quick enough” They started more and more fights randomly. Used so many reactive abuse techniques on us that went over our heads at the time. They would hit us and scream at us and then start calling the cops claiming we were doing it to them. I remember one time they even went as far to assemble a family meeting in which they questioned us all on whether or not we robbed $30,000 from them. They called the cops then to. The cops came and questioned us all. I remember being so embarrassed because I was with my boyfriend at his house when I got the call to come home. “It was an emergency” Why did they hate us this much? Why were we such horrible people in their views?

To this day I don’t know what I ever did to deserve some of the things that have been said about me or done to me. I still can’t come to grips with how people I thought loved me unconditionally treated me like I was so disposable. To the point where restraining orders got involved. You see, all those random fights they started, all the times they called the cops, all the accusations and horrible insults. It was all part of their plan. Their plan to dispose of us just like our parents had. They couldn’t kick us out so they dressed us up as threats to them and hired a lawyer to serve us with restraining orders. It was just Scott and I. We were the oldest. The easiest to get rid of. What they wrote in their reports was so fabricated that it hurt so much to read. To see how much they really hated us. The things they would do and say to eject us from their lives. They did this all because after calling the cops on us numerous times and having them say that there was nothing they could do? We were kids, they couldn’t just call the cops and throw us away? So they found a loophole.. Restraining orders. Kicked us out instantly. As we turned 18 we “weren’t family anymore”. Funny thing is our state checks stopped hitting his bank accounts when we turned 18. Maybe that’s just a coincidence. But it just made me feel all the more hurt. Betrayed. Used.

By my own family.

Someone who created a home in that house for me and my siblings.

One my grandmother took us into. We didn’t ask. They just accepted us. Then they regretted it. And boy did we know.

Imagine, living somewhere after being uprooted so many times. Calling that place your home. Having furniture and your own room. Having clothes in a closet. Things organized neatly at your disposal. Then imagine someone just suddenly taking that from you. For no good reason. Saying it wasn’t your home. It was theirs. Taking all the memories, the good ones and throwing them out. Pretending they never happened. That your presence in this home was always an unwanted one. Voiding out all the love you were showered in initially. Then being told you were crazy, spoiled, greedy, entitled, worthless all because it hurt you. Because how dare that hurt you? How dare you act as if we owed you anything?

And they didn’t owe me anything. I know how much they each sacrificed. My Nannie and PopPop wanted to travel the world. We took their old age. We took their retirement. My Aunt Cathy dedicated a lot of her time to us too. Especially after her mother died. She took on her role. Except she didn’t really fill the shoes. She tried but she said things like my grandfather did. She was cruel to us on behalf of her bitterness towards our parents and what I've recently come to realize as jealousy as well. My Aunt Pattie recently told me that she doesn't hold it against us but that by their mother and father taking us on and devoting so much time to us we deprived their children of the love of their grandparents. I understand her point of view. But imagine being in my shoes and hearing that.. We didn’t ask for this.. I would have loved a picture perfect family. I would have loved to live in a home with my parents and my brothers and sisters. To send out Christmas Cards and have everyone over for thanksgiving. But that wasn’t what happened for us. And none of that was our fault. Yet, they made us feel that way. It wasn’t intentional at first but after time it was clear they enjoyed making us feel like outsiders in a place where we once felt at home. Felt loved.

I know I personally did not feel loved packing all of my belongings and attempting to take the television my PopPop had bought me for Christmas only to have him fight me for it saying it was not mine and that I could not take it with me. I left with what little I had and moved into the projects where my friend had an extra room. It was not ideal for either of us but it was my only option so I took it. It was better than being on the street but I still felt homeless.

I can honestly look back on living there and say shoutout to my friend because I know it was hell. I had no idea how to live completely on my own. I was overwhelmed having to throw myself into working to survive and still managing to feel like I was living and not just existing. Add depression and crippling anxiety to the mix and boom! I was a fucking mess. I wasn’t as responsible as I needed to be in terms of taking care of the house and my dogs and just overall being a good roommate. I started smoking way too much weed to dismiss the hurt and pain I was harboring and my brother drowned himself in 4loko and whatever else he could get his hands on. I can’t look back on my time there and pretend my friend didn’t do me a great favor by even allowing me to live there in the first place being that neither me, my boyfriend, my brother or my dogs were on the lease. I ended up living there for about a year before she couldn’t handle it anymore. She kicked me out via text after I took her to Mexico for a week, making me move all my furniture and hide all my things saying that she was having an inspection only to end up having her stepfather move in.

So from there I moved into my boyfriend’s family house. Their house was like a luxurious hotel. It always had clean towels. It always smelled nice. And there was a cleaning lady who came once a week. But every luxury comes at a price. The price was privacy and feeling comfortable. I once had my boyfriend's uncle walk into the bathroom while I was showering. It was a complete accident being that he was just trying to get to my boyfriend’s room which you have to walk through the bathroom to get to. But still. Privacy!!

The fact that I am a huge introvert which stems from social anxiety also played a big part as to why I never felt truly at home there. I am not good with people. I know my upbringing can take some claim to that. But I also feel so out of place around his family. I guess you could say that I almost feel “unworthy”. They are everything I dream to achieve one day. The beautiful home, the luxury, the picture perfect family who actually eats dinner together. Who speak to each other with words other than curses and insults. It is so foreign to me. So happy.

This living situation came to a halt when I asked his uncle to “mind his business” when Jake and I were outside talking one night. He assumed we were arguing and I was tired and overwhelmed from work so I just snapped. Do I regret it? Not really. I stood up for myself. I don’t believe I was disrespectful and I was proud of myself.

Didn’t feel too proud a few weeks into living in my brother’s two bedroom frat house. No, it wasn’t actually a frat house. It was a third floor apartment where Corey, Michael, Scott and his girlfriend lived at the time. I was pretty happy there. It was the first time in a few years that I was sleeping under the same roof as my brothers. I liked spending time with them and their friends and I could walk to work in 5 minutes.

You guessed it! There was a huge downfall to this. Minus the clear fact that six people and three dogs weren't going to work in a tiny apartment. The girlfriend was even more emotionally unstable than I was. We didn’t get along when we were younger and we definitely didn’t get along here despite my numerous efforts to try. Tensions grew between everyone. Jake and I decided we needed to leave. The fights, the girlfriend, the lack of personal space drove us to beg my grandfather if I could please live in the basement for a few months so that I could save up and get my own place.

There I am back where it all started. The difference this time is I was in the basement and it was quiet and peaceful and it was my own little hideaway. Sure it was a bit depressing with the complete lack of natural light or windows. But it was my stepping stone. I stayed there for a little while before the twins called me one night and asked if Jake and I could meet them by the tree. The tree was a childhood hangout spot a block away from my grandpa's house. We went to find them both sobbing. To the point where their words were breaking as they tried to speak. It was horrifying. They were going to be homeless. I comforted them as my mind raced with solutions. How could I help them? I love them, I have to be able to do something?

We did do something. We got an apartment a week later. Right up the freaking block. I could see my sisters, Scott had taken my place in the basement and the twins were coming to live with Jake and I. It was like a dream come true. Finally somewhere to call home. And I really tried my absolute hardest to make it one.

I spent tons of money & time on this apartment to make it into the stable home I had been craving for so long. I bought decorations every time I got paid. Picture frames and tapestries. Rugs, Throw pillows & blankets. Little Knick knacks and of course anything I could afford from Home Goods or TjMaxx that I liked. I painted and organized. Gave everything a place and cleaned my ass off everyday. I put in so much effort while struggling with on and off depression and constant mood swings triggered by anxiety. While working a full time job and trying my hardest to move forward in life. While trying to still make time for me, my personal life, my hobbies, my relationship.

My brothers couldn’t understand that. The two years we spent in that apartment are never going to be forgotten. The way they treated me, the things they said. The blatant disrespect and refusal to acknowledge any faults unless they were my boyfriend’s. No matter how hard I tried, I always had to do more. Clean more, take care of my dogs more, make more money. The list was never ending.

Of course, I was not perfect. No one ever is. But I did my best while everyone else sat around destroying things I worked hard to have. Destroying things I bought, destroying my happiness, my peace of mind. And the worst part of it all was that I wasn’t ever allowed to say anything because it would never lead anywhere except a full on screaming match with insults, fists, and usually a hole in at least one wall.

They moved out a little over two months ago. My boyfriend and I stayed and my other brother Scott moved in with us. We transformed our place into a home. I feel confident here. Confident that I may have found a little bit of stability for a while. A place to be able to let this all out. A place to tell my story.

I look back on everything that has happened to me and I see how it has broken me in so many ways. The anxieties that fill my head with the ideas that no one I meet likes me, that everyone around me is constantly judging me. The fear of losing what little I have at any given moment all over again. The fear that I'm truly alone in this world . The fear of losing my siblings. The stress of striving for more but always feeling so far behind. The fear that I will be crazy like my father or that I look so skinny and pale that people look at me like my mother and think I’m on drugs. The stress of trying so hard to fit in and make friends in a world you feel like you don't belong to. A world in which I can’t always afford to go out or where I am exhausted from working so much.

I'm in a constant battle with myself now. I see other people my age graduating college and starting families and being happy. I see them going to bars and being invited to parties. I see them wear beautiful clothes and shoes and accessories. I see the years where being young is still a viable excuse for making drunken memories and mistakes float past me from behind a deli counter where I bust my ass only to live paycheck to paycheck to simply survive. I know I’m working towards a goal but I always feel like I will never be able to reach it.

I make it seem like I have nothing but I do have things to hold onto. Things that have helped me push forward when I really didn’t want to anymore. Jake being one of them. Almost six years with him. The relationship has been just as difficult as my life in general. I bring a lot of baggage to the table. But he gets me. He accepts me, understands and relates to me. He takes the baggage and the chaos that defines me and smothers it in a love that feels pure. He isn’t perfect and we have had our issues but overall he has motivated me, guided me, protected me, fought for me, and rooted for me. He has seen all of my insecurities, fears, and anxieties. He has dealt with me at my worst on too many occasions. He has been there and for that I will be eternally grateful. I hope to marry this man some day and create our own wonderful family. I hope we can host thanksgiving dinners where my siblings get to feel happiness instead of hatred. Where we all laugh together and where family isn’t disposable but instead cherished.

I read a book once a while ago in which I stumbled upon a quote that stuck with me ever since. “Life is Divine Chaos. It’s messy but it's supposed to be that way”. Life really is divine chaos. It is messy and difficult. It's scary and stressful. And it will knock you on your ass quite a few times. But without all of that, the moments of pure joy. Like loving Jake, or watching my siblings grow into amazing people despite everything. Like the cuddles of my dogs on a rainy Sunday morning. Like the memories of my mother and father being there and loving us unconditionally. Those things wouldn’t mean anything because joy would mean nothing without pain. Life is messy but it has to be messy. It has to be difficult because in the end when you come across a moment of greatness you feel it so deeply. You feel that success. That happiness you yearned for. That is what keeps me going. The Divine Chaos.

That is what I hope can keep you, the reader, going. If you’ve had a bad day, a bad week, a bad life. Remember the little things. The things we often take for granted. Those moments that get crushed under the day to day struggles of simply living. Push them to the surface, bask in them, appreciate them. The small wins, the good hair days, the times where you feel so utterly in tune with yourself. Keep those things close, because Chaos doesn’t end. It's a part of us and our lives. It defines us more than we would sometimes like to admit. It drives us and pushes us. It ignites change and allows us to experience new things . It comes with mistakes, and lessons and a hell of a lot of pain. But it's worth it. I promise you. Because it allows joy and happiness to really mean something. It creates a balance that we all very much need.

I know it is way easier said than done. I know from tons of personal experience that life has a funny way of knocking you on your ass as hard as it can more often than not. I know it can feel like you are drowning. Like the air will never fill your lungs. But it will. It always will. You just have to keep fighting. Keep jumping through the hoops and over the hurdles. Climb those fucking mountains and scream at the top when you get there. Be true to yourself and strive for your dreams despite whatever life or the people in it do to stop you. You will survive the Chaos and eventually you will thrive in it.