Pull the blanket over my head
Drowning in the memories
They linger by my bed
Slowly creeping closer
Forcing me to look
The weight feels like a boulder
This monster cannot be shook
Breathing deep beneath the crushing
Rage boils up inside me
The blood is rushing
Anxiety and fear
Resentment and despair
Some days I don't want to care
Monday, June 17, 2019
Friday, May 31, 2019
Questions
How quickly can millions of lives be changed?
Ninety seconds, it seems deranged.
How long can one person bear a mountain of grief?
Twenty years and counting, in disbelief.
Did she sense the disaster looming?
I don't think her innocent mind was that assuming.
How far did she run before the grasp?
Did she sense the disaster looming?
I don't think her innocent mind was that assuming.
How far did she run before the grasp?
A few feet it seems till she felt hands clasp.
Why didn't she scream loud enough for me to hear?
She must have been consumed by her fear.
Where did they take her while we searched so hard?
I fear it was somewhere not too far.
Why did I leave her there all alone?
The worst part of guilt is the unknown.
How many nights did she cry herself to sleep?
The wondering and horror cuts deep.
Did she have any hope?
That question sends me down a depressing slope.
Why wasn't she one of the few who return?
That is something I am determined to learn.
Why don't I have all the answers I seek?
The answers are not for the weary and meek.
How many more questions will come to mind?
Hundreds a day till I have what I deserve to find.
Does she know how much I think of her?
I feel she knows how hard it is to endure.
How many more must suffer like I?
This is an epidemic that we must defy.
Why didn't she scream loud enough for me to hear?
She must have been consumed by her fear.
Where did they take her while we searched so hard?
I fear it was somewhere not too far.
Why did I leave her there all alone?
The worst part of guilt is the unknown.
How many nights did she cry herself to sleep?
The wondering and horror cuts deep.
Did she have any hope?
That question sends me down a depressing slope.
Why wasn't she one of the few who return?
That is something I am determined to learn.
Why don't I have all the answers I seek?
The answers are not for the weary and meek.
How many more questions will come to mind?
Hundreds a day till I have what I deserve to find.
Does she know how much I think of her?
I feel she knows how hard it is to endure.
How many more must suffer like I?
This is an epidemic that we must defy.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Colors
My pink and white bike. My mom's yellow sweater. My brothers rosy cheeks. My baby sisters dark hair. She's in a pink onesie. My dads silver glasses. I think he has a white shirt on. Definitely wearing light blue Levi's. The street in the winter sunset looks blue and hazy. My fingertips are slightly purple. The white tire on my pink and white bike still spinning eerily. The brown gate to our house scratches my arm. Our once tan house looks grey in the blue haze. Mikelle's blonde hair flying through the wind. I can see her dirty blonde hair. I can see her teeth and her big smile. I can see her blue jeans being a tad too short for her long legs. They are flared jeans. Flashes of gray and blue haunt me. Pictures flood my mind like an old movie reel. Bits and pieces are fuzzy but the colors are vivid, they are shouting memories at me. The dog leash is red. But what color was the dog? I close my eyes and picture my pink and white bike gliding across the street. The dog is golden brown. Their faces turning to me when their door opens. I see a dark yellow table cloth on a brown table. I remember the brown bench next to it. He comes out to help me. His hair is sandy brown. I think I see a red shirt. The street seems miles long and very blue and hazy. The house is glowing with a yellow hue, every light on as the house fills with more people. We have blue green carpet. I stare at the carpet my parents stand on. I see shiny black shoes. I see a silver badge. My moms face is pale. The light is so bright. I'm squinting into the bright white light of our kitchen. I blink and suddenly I'm in my room. It's dark. I don't bother turning on the light. My white and pink laminate floors need swept. I move my sheer pink curtain, and pull up the off white blinds, stained from the sun. Yellow ribbons are covering the dull brown, leafless tree. A big purple bow sits next to a large poster. Blue background. Colorful stripes of blue, green, and pink. Green headband. I can faintly see the red shirt she is wearing while riding my pink and white bike. The light fades. The colors lose their intensity. Everything becomes dull and muddy.
"Tell us about that January 2nd 1999" "What do you remember about that day?" "Walk us through what you remember" I try to put into elegant words what I remember. I try to form sentences and memories that make sense. But it's only flashes. I don't remember details before I left her on the street. I don't remember much after the police were called. Everything goes dark. I wrote this to explain what is going through my mind every time I get asked these questions.
"Tell us about that January 2nd 1999" "What do you remember about that day?" "Walk us through what you remember" I try to put into elegant words what I remember. I try to form sentences and memories that make sense. But it's only flashes. I don't remember details before I left her on the street. I don't remember much after the police were called. Everything goes dark. I wrote this to explain what is going through my mind every time I get asked these questions.
Sunday, January 13, 2019
The Spot
It's hard to stand where I stand.
Nobody stands here with me.
Nobody feels the way I do.
Nobody knows what I see.
It's my point of view.
It's my version of things.
Nobody stands in my spot but me.
We are all affected.
We all feel the grief.
We all feel and cope differently.
Don't tell me what to do.
Don't tell me what to say.
I've been standing in this spot alone.
Ever since that day.
This spot you must know
Proves life isn't fair.
But despite this tragedy
I will not sit in despair.
Proudly I stand.
This spot that has been created
From more than just land.
It is filled with memories and strength.
It contains anxiety and dread.
This place where my demons are fed.
My spot was built this way you see
On the life altering day she left me.
Nobody stands here with me.
Nobody feels the way I do.
Nobody knows what I see.
It's my point of view.
It's my version of things.
Nobody stands in my spot but me.
We are all affected.
We all feel the grief.
We all feel and cope differently.
Don't tell me what to do.
Don't tell me what to say.
I've been standing in this spot alone.
Ever since that day.
This spot you must know
Proves life isn't fair.
But despite this tragedy
I will not sit in despair.
Proudly I stand.
This spot that has been created
From more than just land.
It is filled with memories and strength.
It contains anxiety and dread.
This place where my demons are fed.
My spot was built this way you see
On the life altering day she left me.
Sunday, October 7, 2018
Explanation
My whole life, I dealt with weird feelings, unexplained exhaustion and stomach aches. Restless nights filled with nightmares, cold sweats, and my heart racing. Stress and paranoia in the simplest of social situations. Barely passing classes and constantly failing tests. I couldn't bring myself to do normal everyday things. I grew up thinking I was lazy, weird, and stupid.
I didn't know I had anxiety.
I knew that Mikelle being taken affected me. I knew that it changed things. But I did not know that it had a name, that there was a reason I felt so off for so long. Slowly as I got older I learned to listen to my body and recognize things. I trusted my intuition more and more, rather it be in less than desirable situations, or untrustworthy people. Certain things happened through out my life, pivotal moments that molded me into who I am. Obviously my older sister being kidnapped when I was only 9 years old is the first and most tragic one. Being followed home from the bus stop when I was 14. Being in a couple toxic relationships in my very early adulthood. But then something happened. I was given an amazing gift. My son. Becoming a mother was almost like an apology for all the horrible shit I had gone through. I realized during my pregnancy, which was not easy, that there was essentially something wrong with me. It wasn't normal hormones. It wasn't normal stress. I came to the conclusion that I was having anxiety attacks. At this point I didn't say I "dealt with" or "had" anxiety. Just that I was experiencing anxiety attacks. For whatever reason I just decided to go with it and took that as "good enough". But it's really only been in the last couple years that I truly learned, and accepted the fact that I have anxiety. Probably PTSD as well. The more I learn about it, and read through ways to cope, the more it's like a weight is lifted off of me. I used to just torture myself about how pathetic I was. That was the only thing I could conclude. Nobody else around me seemed to have such trouble cleaning their room, getting sleep, or taking tests. It was me. I was weird, and wrong. Now I know. It's not easy of course, I have rough days. I still beat myself up sometimes when I order take out instead of cooking, or struggle to just be awake all day. I have also recently opened up more to Zac about the details of my anxiety. I never really used to tell him when I was having an issue or if I had one. I didn't tell him why the house was a mess and why I was still in my pajamas. But I realized communicating with him, and reaching out to him when I am actively having an attack, helps me. It helps me tremendously. Even if he is at work, and all he can do is text me, he will take the time and talk me through it the best he can. It boggles my mind that it took me 20 years to learn to do that. Because of all those pivotal moments in my life, I am now able to be confident in who I am. I am passionate about advocacy, child safety, self defense, writing, art, and expressing myself. Among other things. I like myself, flaws, anxiety and all. No matter the battles I have with my appearance, my house keeping skills, or anything else, over all I actually like myself. I now know that it is actually okay to like who you are even if you suffer from any kind of mental health problems.
I also know that just realizing it isn't a solution. I decided a while back that I needed to see a therapist of some sort. I have put it off (due to my anxiety, shocking irony I'm sure), but I finally feel as though I can actually go through with it. It's weird to think about, honestly, you'd think I'd jump at the chance to see a professional. I'm surprised at how hard it is for me. But I know I need it. I have never really seen one. I know my parents took me to one when I was 9 and I think I basically told the poor lady to leave me alone because all that mattered was finding Mikelle. I apparently hid my issues very well, the therapist and my parents mostly concluded that I was handling it well. And that is something I have heard my whole life when it comes to Mikelle. How well I handle it. How "normal" I am. How I could have turned out so differently. While people mean well, and I truly understand and partly agree, I can't help but feel frustrated. I have issues. I don't handle it well sometimes. I don't feel normal having anxiety. I'm not perfect. It's not easy for me to do interviews, and run a page for Mikelle, write a book about it, and write a blog (obviously since my last post was months ago). It takes all my energy when I decide to write and open up. But I know it's good for me, and more than that I do want to do those things. So I push through, and when I need to take a step back, I allow myself, and I try not to feel guilty for that.
I want to thank those who constantly support, and reassure me. I know so many amazing people, and even those that I don't know that follow Mikelle's page and take the time to send me kind messages or supportive comments. That means more to me than any of you can ever know.
I hope anyone going through any kind of hard time, tragedy or struggle knows that it is okay to reach out and that it does help.
I didn't know I had anxiety.
I knew that Mikelle being taken affected me. I knew that it changed things. But I did not know that it had a name, that there was a reason I felt so off for so long. Slowly as I got older I learned to listen to my body and recognize things. I trusted my intuition more and more, rather it be in less than desirable situations, or untrustworthy people. Certain things happened through out my life, pivotal moments that molded me into who I am. Obviously my older sister being kidnapped when I was only 9 years old is the first and most tragic one. Being followed home from the bus stop when I was 14. Being in a couple toxic relationships in my very early adulthood. But then something happened. I was given an amazing gift. My son. Becoming a mother was almost like an apology for all the horrible shit I had gone through. I realized during my pregnancy, which was not easy, that there was essentially something wrong with me. It wasn't normal hormones. It wasn't normal stress. I came to the conclusion that I was having anxiety attacks. At this point I didn't say I "dealt with" or "had" anxiety. Just that I was experiencing anxiety attacks. For whatever reason I just decided to go with it and took that as "good enough". But it's really only been in the last couple years that I truly learned, and accepted the fact that I have anxiety. Probably PTSD as well. The more I learn about it, and read through ways to cope, the more it's like a weight is lifted off of me. I used to just torture myself about how pathetic I was. That was the only thing I could conclude. Nobody else around me seemed to have such trouble cleaning their room, getting sleep, or taking tests. It was me. I was weird, and wrong. Now I know. It's not easy of course, I have rough days. I still beat myself up sometimes when I order take out instead of cooking, or struggle to just be awake all day. I have also recently opened up more to Zac about the details of my anxiety. I never really used to tell him when I was having an issue or if I had one. I didn't tell him why the house was a mess and why I was still in my pajamas. But I realized communicating with him, and reaching out to him when I am actively having an attack, helps me. It helps me tremendously. Even if he is at work, and all he can do is text me, he will take the time and talk me through it the best he can. It boggles my mind that it took me 20 years to learn to do that. Because of all those pivotal moments in my life, I am now able to be confident in who I am. I am passionate about advocacy, child safety, self defense, writing, art, and expressing myself. Among other things. I like myself, flaws, anxiety and all. No matter the battles I have with my appearance, my house keeping skills, or anything else, over all I actually like myself. I now know that it is actually okay to like who you are even if you suffer from any kind of mental health problems.
I also know that just realizing it isn't a solution. I decided a while back that I needed to see a therapist of some sort. I have put it off (due to my anxiety, shocking irony I'm sure), but I finally feel as though I can actually go through with it. It's weird to think about, honestly, you'd think I'd jump at the chance to see a professional. I'm surprised at how hard it is for me. But I know I need it. I have never really seen one. I know my parents took me to one when I was 9 and I think I basically told the poor lady to leave me alone because all that mattered was finding Mikelle. I apparently hid my issues very well, the therapist and my parents mostly concluded that I was handling it well. And that is something I have heard my whole life when it comes to Mikelle. How well I handle it. How "normal" I am. How I could have turned out so differently. While people mean well, and I truly understand and partly agree, I can't help but feel frustrated. I have issues. I don't handle it well sometimes. I don't feel normal having anxiety. I'm not perfect. It's not easy for me to do interviews, and run a page for Mikelle, write a book about it, and write a blog (obviously since my last post was months ago). It takes all my energy when I decide to write and open up. But I know it's good for me, and more than that I do want to do those things. So I push through, and when I need to take a step back, I allow myself, and I try not to feel guilty for that.
I want to thank those who constantly support, and reassure me. I know so many amazing people, and even those that I don't know that follow Mikelle's page and take the time to send me kind messages or supportive comments. That means more to me than any of you can ever know.
I hope anyone going through any kind of hard time, tragedy or struggle knows that it is okay to reach out and that it does help.
Monday, April 9, 2018
Anxiety
Screaming. It's silent. It's growing louder. The silence screams. Fear. Consumed and confused. A need for peace. Peace comes from silence. The silence is screaming. Embrace or reject. Decisions. Teaching the silence not to scream. Silently screaming. Peace. Breath in all the sound. Nothing and everything. Everything at once. Full of emotion. Feeling empty. Pain. Numbness spreading. It's painful. Breath. Let out the numbness. Let in the pain. Embracing the agony. Feeling it all. Heartbeat. It's growing louder. Chest grows tight. Everything stops. Silence. Heart pounding. Breathing in the peace. The silence is screaming.
By Kimber Biggs
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
Wind
Riding a bike
Wind through her hair
Smiling so carefree
Never knowing
She wouldn't be going
Home
Did she know what was happening?
Did she see it coming?
The darkness
The danger
Did she try to run?
Did she try to scream?
Drop the bike
Wind through her hair
Face frozen in terror
Never knowing
If someone would be there
Faster towards safety
Home
What did she think?
What did she feel?
It's hard to imagine
It doesn't feel real
Why was she alone?
Why did I leave?
I went
Home
She is my sister
I didn't have to leave
She was just a child
She shouldn't have to be scared
When riding a bike
Wind through her hair
By Kimber Biggs
Wind through her hair
Smiling so carefree
Never knowing
She wouldn't be going
Home
Did she know what was happening?
Did she see it coming?
The darkness
The danger
Did she try to run?
Did she try to scream?
Drop the bike
Wind through her hair
Face frozen in terror
Never knowing
If someone would be there
Faster towards safety
Home
What did she think?
What did she feel?
It's hard to imagine
It doesn't feel real
Why was she alone?
Why did I leave?
I went
Home
She is my sister
I didn't have to leave
She was just a child
She shouldn't have to be scared
When riding a bike
Wind through her hair
By Kimber Biggs
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