Author / Gabrielle McLean

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Posts by Gabrielle McLean

Writer of poetry and fiction
by Gabrielle McLean

Heartbreak Hotel

Home. 

I once found solace – refuge – in the love of my childhood. Allowed it to follow me into adulthood. The spark, though changed over and over again, is still there. A lifelong hyperfixation that brought about a sense of community, a sense of belonging, that I never could quite find anywhere else…not even in church, as frightening as it may be to admit aloud. There is nowhere on this earth that’s free from judgment, but the closest I’ve ever come is in Disney. My quirks may remain simple quirks, my insecurities seem so normal while surrounded by a whole array of differences, and people are generally so damn happy to be there that it’s palpable. Even while we’re all nearing heatstroke in the dead of summer, there’s a sense of comradery among the throngs of people everywhere you turn. People are softer in Disney. Tired, overwhelmed, excited. I get compliments on my weirdest outfits from people I’ll never see again, just because they want to. I can be social in the ways that come naturally, without condemnation. All the promises of church-life that I never really got to experience.

Call it blasphemy if you will, but it’s where I can be who God made me, unabashedly. It’s no secret to anyone who meets me that my love for Disney runs deep…hell, if the tattoos don’t give it away then it’s bound to come out in conversation soon enough. I fear I may be the epitome of the “Disney adult” stereotype on the outside, but I can’t bring myself to care enough to water down the passion. It’s been ingrained in me as long as I can remember, and it’ll always be a part of me in some way. 

But this isn’t a story meant to justify a lifelong passion (or obsession, to be more accurate). It’s meant to say: I clearly care deeply about Disney, so naturally I have had a lot of memories made there. Most good, but even Disney can’t erase heartache. Not fully. 

At 8, I was giggling as my Dad feigned dramatic fear over my erratic control of our flying carpet. At 14, my brother hovered over me in the wave pool to keep me safe. At 21, I held my friends’ hands in each of my own, moments before the first Tower of Terror drop – a drunken promise to face my fears.  

My ex proposed to me at the Polynesian Resort during the Happily Ever After fireworks. A good idea, in theory, that would eventually lead to the emotional ruin of two of my all-time favorite things in the world. I spent the year after our breakup averting my eyes every time I boarded the ferry to Magic Kingdom, so I wouldn’t have to look at the place I’d once loved as I passed by, the hundred other memories in the exact same spot quickly replaced with one Big Bad Feeling. I felt like I was losing my mind the couple of times I didn’t get out of Magic Kingdom quickly enough, suddenly surrounded by ear-splitting banging and the ironic lyrics “Reach out and find your happily ever after.”

But, over time and through a lot of exposure therapy, those painful memories faded into unfortunate stains on the places I still loved. Temporary setbacks. Eventually, my now-husband took me to see the fireworks again. He sat with me on the beach of the Polynesian and we ate Dole Whips, and he reminded me that no one was allowed to take away any more of me than they already had. I had my dignity, my time, my sanity, my security, my safety, so much taken away. I felt pain I didn’t know existed. I did things I never thought I would. I spent months doing nothing but drinking and hating God for making me so blind. For not protecting me. For not letting me have anything left to enjoy. But I learned how to take what was stolen back, including the places I once enjoyed going; the things that had love woven into them by people other than my abuser. 

The pain wasn’t linear – I will never be the same – but I can love the same things if I choose to. I don’t have to hate the things that brought me joy just because I shared them with the wrong person. 

So I returned to Disney. I returned to the Polynesian. I watched the fireworks with my husband and cried, not because I was in pain, but because I couldn’t believe how happy I’d become. I didn’t think of the hurt anymore, not with the most important things. Those things became my things again and they, in turn, became our things. Mine and my husband. Magic Kingdom and the Polynesian and the fireworks and all of it were ours. I finally got to share what I love with someone who doesn’t simply tolerate it. Or me. (Cue Tolerate It by Taylor Swift).

We had our wedding there, at the Polynesian. I think some people thought I was weird for that, given the history, but it was fully ours by that point. I have dreamed of a princess-like moment at the Polynesian for my wedding since I was a child and no one, according to my husband, was going to ruin that. My ex called me a princess when he wanted to mock me for caring about anything, but my husband calls me Princess because he actually thinks I’m the embodiment of a real-life Disney princess. Ridiculous, yes, but so endearing. We got married by the banyan tree. We took over-the-top castle photos and I wore a ball gown and by the time the ceremony began, he’d already given me the most magical moments of my life. We changed out of our regalia, and had a laid-back day at the resort with family.

Weddings, by nature, are a disaster. No matter how simultaneously chill and meticulous of a bride you try to be, things will go wrong. No matter how kind and accommodating and open-minded you try to remain, you’ll be tested. Your feelings will get hurt. Family will be selfish, friends will show their true colors, and if you don’t have a good planner you may end up sitting in your mother’s car a half hour before the ceremony starts hysterically laughing because you don’t even know if they actually set the damn thing up. That’s a story for another time, but even with the difficulty, there will be good. There will be people who support you, who know your heart, who love you loudly. The person who loves you wholly, standing at the end of the aisle, is the best part of it all. 

So much of our wedding day was pure chaos, even downright disaster. As grateful as I am for what we ended up with, and as much as I love Disney, I am in the majority of brides who walk out of the experience thinking “Damn, we should’ve just eloped.” Or, at the very least, wishing we could do it again knowing what we know now. But despite all that, I can’t look back at our wedding day and not be joyful. 

Last week, I wanted to revisit that place. I wanted to go back and see it again, just because I can. If you’re a die-hard Disney fan or if you’ve been to the Polynesian recently, you may already know where I’m going with this. On our one year anniversary, we ate nachos at Captain Cook’s and shared a Dole Whip, just like on our wedding day, but it was late and we still had to drive home so all we did was eat and leave. I knew my yearly waterpark trip with my mom was coming up soon, and as our officiant, she wanted to revisit the big banyan tree as well, to relive the best parts of that day; to get sappy and sentimental and think about how much has changed.

Arm-in-arm we walked on the boardwalk, laughing and full of energy, when I turned the corner and all the joy got sucked out of the both of us. The beach, the alcove, the beautiful tree, was all dirt. Rubble. A grey slab of concrete in its place. 

I knew the truth, I knew that mass of concrete was sitting right where I was headed, but I refused to accept it. Laughing, nervously at this point and probably looking like a lunatic, I picked up my pace until I found the pathway I’d walked only a year and a half ago, bouquet in hand. Construction noise, hard hats, go-away-green walls, and a very confused cast member stared at me as tears rolled down my face. My mother hugged me when I realized it was really gone; all of it turned to dust for the sake of another building we probably didn’t need.

After my abuser left, I couldn’t shake the thought that God was bored and I was His toy. That’s how it felt – that no matter how much right I tried to do or how much I praised Him, He was never going to let me keep a good thing. I haven’t had that thought in about a year, but I was reminded of that same twisting pain in my gut that day. I felt betrayed.

I know that I am not some special force for divine change. I know that God isn’t targeting me and only me, but that sense of betrayal is harder to fight than anyone prepares you for. No one signed off on this project with an evil grin saying, “I will destroy the place Gabrielle loves. She doesn’t deserve nice things!” I don’t think I deserve pity. I got married in Disney World to my favorite person, for Pete’s sake. We have a house and life is good and I am finally content…I have no reason to believe anyone is out to get me. But that didn’t stop me from staring out at that construction site wondering why life isn’t ever simple, crying like a child, frozen in place. 

It felt like a cosmic joke. It felt like my abuser won, in some way. I thought my husband and I had both been through enough for a lifetime…or at least a little while longer than this. Sometimes, you let your guard down and you’re once again unprepared for pain, despite telling yourself you’d never let it surprise you again. Sometimes, you just want a win. Sometimes, you’re tired. Sometimes, you want to feel like the things you love aren’t going to be inexplicably torn away from you.

Oh trust me, I know. I know it’s not a sign that everything I love gets ruined or that we don’t deserve nice things or even that God is an angry father figure I can’t seem to please. I tell myself I know these things, because logically I do. Trees get torn down everyday, especially in an ever-changing environment like Disney. It was a lesser-used half of a very popular and very expensive resort, and I even think the tree itself is getting moved to a different location. Times change, places change, we move on. “Keep moving forward,” as they say. But I’m a sucker for nostalgia, for both the greater history and my own. Some things deserve to be preserved. Maybe on a grander scale, this is not one of those things, but on a totally personal level it is. For every other couple who stood at that beautiful banyan tree, it is.

Maybe one of those couples got divorced and there’s a man or woman out there saying “Thank God, it’s gone.” I was surely happy to see the fireworks show get replaced for a couple years, despite the amount of sentimentality it must’ve held for others.

Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything at all, to anyone. For now it does, to me if no one else. This feeling of loss and frustration is not unique, but it is extremely specific. In all honesty, I don’t know what to do with it. I’m not even sure what the point of talking about it is, but some things in life manage to turn a grown woman back into a little girl, crying over something insignificant, knowing deep down it’s not actually insignificant at all.

by Gabrielle McLean

Happy Easter

Jesus was:

  • Radical
  • Subversive
  • Gentle (until He wasn’t)
  • A listener
  • Logical
  • Helpful
  • Honest
  • Empathetic
  • Reflective

He judged those who caused direct harm to others. He never judged a person faced with a complicated decision, a lack of knowing better, a mistake. He understood that little in life is black-and-white; YOU are not simple. Your choices are not simple. Your life is not simple. The practice and understanding of individuality and nuance are essential to joy, to work, and most importantly to maintaining faith.

Remember often to be a Jesus in a culture that praises Pharisees.

by Gabrielle McLean

Unspoken

I only sleep with the thought of you 
Waking up empty-handed 

No one speaks your name, but I wanted to 
Nothing but a theory best preserved in silence 

Distance well-maintained, too long to change 
Because you live nextdoor and I still write you letters 

Letting you down even in fantasy 
I always say more than I mean to 

My secrets within you - I know you keep track 
And I don’t know what occupies your day 

You admit you want me; I admit that I used to 
Hate to admit we ran out of time 

My cliche 
Your missed opportunity 

I’ll always be on the tip of your tongue 
What might have come from simply showing up sooner 

Tangled in intangibility 
The sweetness of heartache - dull and damning 

You could’ve been the death of me 
You aren’t even the life I have left 

There’s supposed to be freedom in a fall 
If only someone learned how to jump 

Speaking in riddles back then 
Sending me forever back in time 

I’m whispering words you pretend not to hear 
Just to see what time may have left to change 

I swear I’m not selfish 
I’m a girl frozen in time 

Promised I’d bury your bones, but I never got around to it 
Your eulogy has sung inside me all along 

Unfinished lyrics I wrote with no intention 
No ulterior motive in waiting on you 

Empty prayers, no resolution 
Let me romanticize nothing at all
by Gabrielle McLean

Battle

A couple years ago, I was in a fantastic creative writing class. College was full of endless wondering if any of it was ultimately worthwhile, but occasionally I’d end up in a class that, grades be damned, made me just want to learn something interesting. I’ve carried those classes with me ever since.

This one in particular focused almost entirely on poetry (my main reason for signing up in the first place) and I quickly found myself being pushed to rediscover my passion. To take what I knew so well and be challenged to do better…which is exactly what I did. The professor, a laid-back hippie-type who gave constructive criticism in such a way that didn’t sting at all, presented us with new forms of poetry every session that we were encouraged to try our hand at.

This poem (Battle) is an example of a pantoum (similar to a villanelle mostly in that there are repeating lines), and, while another much-less-structured version exists at the moment, I quite like this one as well. They serve different purposes. There’s a slow build to this one that can’t be recreated without this particular structure. Though the other version fits my style, I think this one deserves some credit too. I hope you enjoy it.

Battle

Unravel me until I’m vulnerable and exposed.
When all’s been said, I’ll come undone.
You’ve already triumphed in a battle unopposed.
It’s you I won’t fight; can’t outrun. 
When all’s been said, I’ll come undone.
Your words are weapons; cut and thrown.
It’s you I won’t fight; can’t outrun.
Your swords, your might, your stone. 
Your words are weapons; cut and thrown.
My hands are tied behind my bleeding back.
Your swords, your might, your stone.
With ammo I left for the taking, you attack.
My hands are tied behind my bleeding back.
Scalding fury and unrelenting fire.
With ammo I left for the taking, you attack. 
Your Trojan horse calls you a liar. 
Scalding fury and unrelenting fire.
Hit me, hurt me, laugh in your victory.
Your Trojan horse calls you a liar. 
I know you’ve been rewriting our history.
by Gabrielle McLean

(Mis) Communication

I don’t understand the rules of conversation. Things that are unspoken and how to leave things unspoken myself. Understanding others, generally. I’ve spent a lifetime studying, hyper-focusing, trying to mimic communication…and yet something is always a bit off. The ins-and-outs of what is acceptable and pleasant are unclear – always just out of reach. As I learn, something changes. Every situation new and unique and more confusing than the last.

I’m always in the push-and-pull game of seeking genuine connection, but unintentionally being terribly difficult to get to know. Being an open book in case someone takes the bait, while simultaneously being straight-laced and quiet. 

My husband and I were just talking about this hard-to-explain phenomenon where, even when we seem to be on the same wavelength as those around us, so often is what we say still not “right.” Our honest efforts and bids for connection fall flat. We’ll fully digest everyone else’s words and formulate the kind of response we’d like to recieve. Yet, often, it still won’t land. The conversation falters, fades, pauses in a moment of their obvious “What do I say to that?”.

There’s a distinct memory of a time I was thrown into a lively group conversation where, as I sat awaiting my turn, I brewed a question that I was entirely certain would elicit a new wave of interesting commentary…but as I spoke, the energy changed. It got quiet. All eyes averted. No one knew how to answer…and that’s it. Conversation once again moved along just fine without me. Something that felt completely appropriate to the situation – something I was unreasonably excited to say and went on a whole mental journey with before vocally committing to it – was the only topic of them all that no one could figure out how to discuss.

I constantly crave fun conversation, and there I was – ashamed and unsure of how to handle such a wasted opportunity. A chance to be seen for the person inside that refuses to come out. 

My misunderstanding of basic human nature isn’t fun. It’s not the manic-pixie-dream-girl, looks-hot-while-doing-something-silly, Ramona Flowers brand of non-conformity. I accidentally give people too many of my unfiltered thoughts, my brain shuts off at inconvenient times, and I stay up all night thinking about my friends secretly growing bored of me. My voice rises and falls in both volume and pitch as I tell stories I’ve likely told before. I replay my socially awkward moments on a loop and it never comes across as quirky, like I believed (hoped) maybe one day it would. I’m not Jessica Day, because this isn’t television and I’m not in a highlight reel. I’m, more often, an alien wearing a mask. If I pull it off, I am misunderstood. If I put it on, it’s glaringly visible.

Pang after pang of almost-connection, missed chances, frustration at what I lack. So I bend and break for a world that, mostly, doesn’t notice the effort. 

Because it’s not for a lack of trying. The lyrics I got tattooed on my arm say it all: “I’ve never been a natural. All I do is try, try, try.” It’s like saying, “Please understand I’m not like this on purpose.” Either I’m blank-faced, or a try-hard. Desperate, even. 

Desperate to be known as who I know I am. 

And that’s the issue: I desire something intangible and illogical – something that comes wholly unnaturally to me. I’ve never been good at being interesting or funny or a conversationalist on command. I go silent when upset or nervous, while my head screams at me to be normal. There is so much pressure in trying to cultivate (and maintain) friendships, family connections, etc. So much pressure in the unsaid and disappointment in saying too much. Because I know it’s in there. I know who I am at home – who I am when I’m comfortable – and I’ve always envied people who are the same everywhere they go. Likable people who stand in a group as an equal, not someone small and uncertain with a lifetime of messing up and misunderstanding looming over them. They befriend coworkers, bosses, strangers, etc. with nonchalance, and if there’s a lack of confidence – it rarely shows. They know, in a lot of ways unbeknownst to me, how to work the system.

I adapt and mirror and do what I can to be, from the outside, naturally likable. Easygoing. A potential friend. And it’s worked plenty of times, but the illusion shatters rather quickly. The second I open my mouth, all the holes in my safety net start to show.

I had an ex tell me that I act like a robot. Stiff movements and structured sentences and whatnot. He would get frustrated that I didn’t know how to have fun his way. I wasn’t anything like his friends, and it got harder over time to face that reality. I didn’t understand their jokes or know how to jump into conversations that moved at a mile a minute; conversations that would go on with or without me. I cared about my special interest too much, embarrassed him socially, and couldn’t participate in the silly things people who are comfortable in relationships are supposed to do. I took these things to heart and I really tried to be more free. Force it. Be normal. More like people my age, for the first time. I really tried to let go and be more like him, because he had that overwhelmingly likable trait I couldn’t pinpoint. I wanted to be enough because, back then, I believed no one else would get that far with me. I believed that in order to be loved, I had to pretend to be someone else.

Thankfully, when I met my (now) husband, I realized I just had to be listened to. I needed someone to notice my efforts before my shortcomings. I needed someone to look at me in total earnest when I’d say “I don’t feel like a person,” and tell me “you are a person.” I don’t have to be interesting by someone else’s standards because I don’t have to try to be interesting. I can exist without having to put constant thought into it. I can ramble and he listens. Participates. Whether it’s about something entirely made-up, something unimportant in the grand scheme of things, or something completely beyond ourselves. I can be socially awkward with him by my side and he’ll squeeze my hand. We do “performance reports” for each other on our car rides home. And, something incredible to top it all off, I make him laugh. Genuinely.

Often, I crave a form of this in all (or, at least, more) areas of life. There’s a desire for a little more than regurgitated simple responses to my conversational bait, like “oh, interesting,” or the dreaded “that’s deep” that inevitably shuts down any further discussion on impact. I crave something bigger than simple pleasantries. It would be so fun to know I could fall off the deep end and expect a cozy landing because of an inherent understanding of honesty, openness, and the acceptance of a little fumbling.

It’s all unnecessarily complicated living in the world as it is. 

To make myself clear, we’ve all had the introvert conversation shoved down our throats for years, and this isn’t that. The world could simply be a lot less divided with an ounce of open-mindedness. It’s not a divide between introvert and extrovert, man and woman, or any other harsh line between “right” and “wrong” that we’ve created – it’s people like me saying “I can’t function like you,” or “Your world is confusing,” and being met with some form of, “Have you considered trying harder?” Or, worse, a form of “Have you considered being more like me?” I did. Truly, I did. 

I had years full of mask-wearing and performing to show for it. I did all the daily rituals and cared about what I was told to care about and tried every trick in the book fed to me by people who naturally excelled in neurotypical nature. It nearly killed me. 

Societally, I’m tired of being the weird one for not inherently knowing how (or not having the patience) to navigate unspoken rules that were set in stone simply for the sake of being there – just to have something to do. Small talk is fine, but instead of it being a jumping-off point as intended, it’s too often a crutch. An exclusive boundary not to be crossed. 

Conversationally, I’m tired of uncertainty and unfulfillment. I haven’t improved much in pretending, no, but I have improved in saying “my way is worthy too.” And that has, finally, started to get me somewhere substantial. When my walls collapsed, I realized my strengths – which is worth a whole lot more to me than being understood. I quite like the unmasked version of myself: still fumbling, but with forgiveness. Patience. Acceptance.

by Gabrielle McLean

Introduction…?

I’ve spent the last fifteen years creating spaces – voids – to dump my rambling thoughts and occasional poetry into, only to inevitably destroy it all and pretend it never happened. It’s that familiar moment when you, as a writer, wake up to find that what you poured your real thoughts, feelings, and skills into were – for lack of a better word – shit. Whether they truly are shit or not is irrelevant to you in that moment; you’ve seen yourself in a new light and suddenly, none of it’s all that pretty anymore. Your anonymity has shattered and you, now, are known. You’ve been seen. You’ve made human connection and it was terrifying.

Then, in a few months or so, you feel the urge to start again. You get lonely or you write something you really feel good about and the urge to put yourself out there one more time is entirely too enticing. So you try again and the cycle restarts. At least, that’s how it’s always worked for me. I typically write from familiarity and the consequences of that are not being able to write when pain doesn’t feel so poetic or I don’t have the energy to be introspective.

It’s not a big deal when you’re a teenager. It’s not even a big deal when you’re in your early twenties. Eventually though, you hit a point when you’re faced with your own fear of being seen and you have to decide: will I or won’t I?

Of course I will, or I wouldn’t be here. Because I have to. Because it’s always been writing. Like a long-time friend you’ve loved and could never fully commit to because you weren’t brave enough or you were too distracted by other things in life or you were simply too immature (blind, maybe) to notice, but even so – it’s always been them. Always will be. I chose this as a child and just couldn’t seem to let it go. A couple years of running from it can’t erase what I know is true.

The reality is, I don’t care if one person reads what I have to say or one million (maybe a million is a little frightening, admittedly) – I simply have to do it. So, it’s here. For whoever, whenever.

I was so ready to be a writer until I got hit full-force with that not-so-poetic pain I mentioned. I was so ready and motivated and, for a while, I didn’t care who saw me. It wasn’t my best writing, technically-speaking, but I was fearless and that’s something I will always admire about her: the pre-major-unexpected-life-changes version of me. She tried and tried and tried, even if she looked stupid in the end.

So, I took a break. I sought out being as unknowable as I could manage. I discovered parts of me I buried, feelings I never acted on, decisions I regretted (while making decisions I knew I would come to regret), and given the circumstances, it was necessary. Built character, or something like that. Even though it left me a little unsteady, I found safety. Relief. Quiet. And now, thank God, I can write again. I have been writing, in secret. I’m sitting on books and books worth of poetry and stories waiting to be edited for publication…and I’ll get there. Editing is my favorite part, after all.

All in all to say, I’m mostly shouting into an empty void right now, but I know I won’t be forever. That’s okay. I’ll stay.

by Gabrielle McLean

Rubble

So, where do we end up  
With so little left;  
When our tower was built by sheer willpower,  
Sheer stupidity?  
Simple delusion in a whirlwind  
Of wanting things that didn’t exist in us.  
We threw pebbles at boulders,  
Smashed fists into dust,  
And your apology was carved into marble...  
Pretty - all a show.  
Meticulously made by stable hands.  
Sturdy hands to shatter what’s meant to be unbreakable.  
I’m a rock - stoic and unmoving,  
But you tore through me like paper.  
Wore me down to something small and unrecognizable.  
Tell me, through gritted teeth,  
What’s left of us  
Except minuscule pieces of something we thought was perfect, once?  
Casting stones. Pummeled;  
Ground into ash.  
Lit aflame.  
Some parts irreplaceable. Irreparable.  
Indestructive,  
We thought.  
Some things are better left unsaid, hindsight says,  
Some things are better left  
In ruin.