Nothing But The Blues


People say you can tell a lot about someone based on their favorite color(s). I disagree.

Many moons ago, my favorite colors were red and black. I openly admit this was heavily influenced by someone else. Now the only time you see me wear red is on race day OR if I’m crazy pissed off. Last year I wore it on my nails quite a bit, which hadn’t happened in a LONG time, but you get the gist. Red and I are no longer pals, though I do find myself drawn to expanding my polish horizons. I openly admit that a fresh manicure makes me feel human.

I have loved blue nail polish ever since I was about eleven. Wet ‘N Wild had (and probably still does) this awesome metallic blue nail polish that I wore as often as possible. Hell, I probably have a few bottles of it in my nail polish stash because I rarely throw polish away unless it’s gross and needs to be tossed.

When I walked away from red & black, I fully embraced blue & silver. Damn near everything I own is one of those two colors. Sometimes it’s intentional, other times it’s not, but blue keeps me calm and steady. I do not find it depressing. I don’t find the color grey/silver depressing either. In fact, I think it looks really good on me. A person once referred to them as “power colors”. I disagree with that assessment. I just like what I like.

Does color define the person? No. Your favorite color could be canary yellow and I wouldn’t sit here in judgment of that or tell you my opinion. It’s just a color.

How you treat people (and animals) is far more important than your favorite color. How you speak to people is more important than smaller things. I think we can all safely agree on that.

I’ve said this many times and will probably say it many more; words have power. As a writer, I’m a very careful speaker. I try not to say every single thing I think and feel, or my body count in real life would be close to that of many fictional characters I have an affinity for. I am a tried and true armchair coach. I respond to idiots on the radio when they stupid shit, but sometimes when people say nasty, insane, untrue things to me, I let it slide. In moments like this, my silence is what helps keep the other person alive.

If you were to personally insult me, the first reaction I would have is “Who the fuck does this person think they’re talking to?” Within thirty seconds or so, I’ve probably thought of fifteen ways to kill you and get rid of your body. Those are thoughts with zero remorse.

I’m never sure what motivates a person to be hurtful, mean, cruel, vindictive, or just plain evil, and hateful. I try to consider the source before I respond to it. Despite having an abusive father, I’ve been told many times, by so many people, that I have his best qualities, not his worst. I inherited dual tempers from my parents. My father was quick to spark, but he’d fizzle out pretty quickly in many cases. My mother was a slower boil, but once you pushed her, you were in deep trouble. I’m both. I will spark and ignite, and I will also simmer until I explode. When I was last in therapy, I worked on my anger issues and came away feeling like a neutered puppy. I’ve since learned to keep it in check 70% of the time, but that other 30%? Embrace the fact that it’s there, or get out of my way.

I do not believe in saying I love someone if it’s not true. I can’t say “I love you.” and then be hateful and cruel to them. I yell at my brother, but if he needed a kidney, he’d get it.

I almost never fight with my friends. Truly. One of my best friends pisses me off about once a year. Like clockwork, she always chooses the absolute wrong time to upset me so badly, I ice her out for a while until she learns that I’m actually so pissed off, I contemplate ending the friendship so as to avoid it happening again. Usually, it’s her acting out without just cause. I can write something here and she will take it SO personally that she’ll actually try quoting things back to me in her own defense. We finally agreed that she needed to stop reading the things I write, period. Anyone who reads my work and thinks “Oh, she’s talking about me.” has got one hell of an ego. If I’m talking about you, I am happy to call you out by name and give personal details. Sometimes, I am just writing, and we’ll leave it at that.

Everyone has a different style to their writing. I once knew someone whose blog read like a personal journal. It was moving and I was heartbroken for her when she took it down. Another person I know very well would write the most beautiful poetry. Even though she hasn’t written in a few years, I still think she’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever known. Each person has their niche, and some people are still searching for theirs.

Funny to some people is not even remotely amusing to me. It’s like trying to get a stone to laugh; I won’t give someone the satisfaction if they aren’t genuinely amusing or laugh out loud hilarious. Granted, I have a warped sense of humor. Only my close friends find me funny, and I’m okay with that. I don’t try to be funny, I just say what I think and feel. And yes, I’ve been known to laugh at my own jokes when they’re really funny. I think there’s an amazing art to having someone call you hysterical crying, but by the time you hang up with them, they’re laughing and smiling, and they feel better. “Hearing your voice is so calming and soothing.” or “You always make me feel better.”, these are things commonly said to me. I take that as a great compliment because I’m allowed to be myself with a very small group of people and I cherish the fact that they accept me exactly as I am.

Yesterday, I caught myself wishing I could go back ten years and start over. I wanted to reverse all the pain, all the misery, all the loss and unhappiness, and start from scratch a bit. “What would I be giving up?”, I thought. And then I realized I’d be giving up the majority of my friendships. If all the bad things hadn’t happened, even things too painful for me to discuss, I would not have great people behind me.

How many friends did I have ten years ago? Five or six. How much was I writing back then? Not a ton. I was dealing with my father’s cancer battle and my Mom wasn’t doing all that great, either. I was working on a degree and kept taking time off because I couldn’t concentrate. And at the time, maybe earlier now that I think about it, I developed “drop syndrome” from the stress. I made an emergency appointment with my neurologist and explained what was happening to him. One minute I’d be talking to you with a banana in my hand and the next minute I’d be flat on my face on the floor. He told me it would get better. Has it? No. It’s reached a different level where I blackout for 2-6 hours and cannot account for a single second of that time. I am only lucky I have not been found wandering the streets, or worse, during these episodes because coming out of them is fucking scary.

So yes, I’d like to go back ten years. With everything I hold dear today, with all the knowledge, and with the firm belief that no matter how blue things are, tomorrow could be lighter.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.



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