This Weird Girl

True Stories & Contemplations

Recent Posts

  • The Depressed Christian

    This poem was written in 2010, when I finally recognized my inner crazy wasn’t the result of my own failure, but of messed up hormones and lies I was believing about myself. How I was able to find a glimmer of hope in that season of my life only solidifies the testimony of the Holy Spirit’s presence in my life.

    The Depressed Christian
    by Angela Sundaramurthy
    10/18/10

    Breathe in, breathe out, what is the point?
    Breath sustains life, but why live?

    I am valuable but I sell myself cheap.
    I give myself daily to a demon, a thief.
    He tells me I’m nothing, am spent and defiled
    Greedily I accept the abuse and revile

    I live day-to-day analyzing my moods
    Did I sleep? Take my meds? Did I eat the right foods?
    Plastic army men in my brain, like a rattle,
    Are tossed to and fro, too distracted for battle

    My life is a camp on the edge of a field
    Waiting for the last battle’s wounds to be healed
    The Commander yells “Charge!”  I’m too ill to get started.
    Instead, I retreat to my tent, broken hearted

    My face is buried in the spread of my cot
    The whole point of my service is to say that I fought
    How can I fight when I’m tucked down in my tent?
    My passion and strength seems entirely spent.

    A rustling is heard at the edge of my bed
    Silhouettes of the enemy are cast o’er in red
    He whispers a message in the thick of my wail,
    “Injured soldiers,” he taunts, “Can do nothing but fail.”

    “You’re so weak and invalid, what sorry a sight.
    Don’t shame yourself trying to fight ‘gainst my might.
    Here is my weapon, you know what to do.
    Don’t burden your King to take care of you!”

    He places his sword in my hand and I think,
    If I go away now not one comrade would wink.
    I sat up in my bed and thought for a bit
    Then said to Satan, “This is bull shit!”

    “You’re in MY tent, in MY camp, in MY land!
    You think that you’ve got me in the palm of your hand?
    I was hand-picked by the Commander himself.
    He knows of my wounds and has nursed me to health.”

    I threw down the sword and fell to my knees
    I cried out to God to rescue me please
    In the flash of no time, with an earthquake and fire
    Jesus stood in my tent and stared down at the liar

    The enemy’s eyes grew wide with panic
    He screamed like a girl, he just couldn’t stand it!
    He ran from my tent ’cause he hadn’t a chance
    With tail between legs, looking back- not one glance

    “My dear child,” said God, “You need not to strive.”
    I died for your sins.  Look now, I’m alive!
    The enemy thought he had rights to you,
    I dare say you thought what he thought must be true.
    But it is a lie, as you will now see.
    You do not have to fight.  This fight is on Me.
    Submit to the Lord is all I ask you to do.”

    Resist the devil and he will flee from you!

    I picked up the sword that the evil one gave me.
    His intent to destroy was considered so aptly
    I handed the weapon of evil to Jesus
    He took it and used it for the purpose to free us.

    I’m still in my tent on the road to recovery
    But now I have witnessed an age-old discovery
    What is the point of living and breathing?
    To glorify God and enjoy Him in everything.

    Recovery is more important to me
    Than my next breath, or next meal, or next revelry
    When hurts, habits, and hang-ups are a thing of the past
    I will walk in God’s glory, that forever will last.

    Watch out, O you enemies, when I’m once again well
    When the Commander yells “Charge!” You’ll head straight to Hell

    Interested in more of my poetry and accompanying interpretations, look for my book! (coming soon)

  • My Baby Is An Adult Now

    She was the most incredible dream
    But then I woke up
    Now she’s a memory
    A gift box, tied up

    Warm, pink cheeks, she looked at me
    When I spoke, she looked at me
    Peculiar
    I’ve known her all her life
    Yet I don’t know her at all

    As they were stuffing my guts back in
    My flesh and blood stared at me

    She’s known me all her life
    Yet she doesn’t know me at all

    I know her hiccups and heels, and knees
    Swiping and rolling
    “Practice breaths” up and down
    No one knows her like I do
    Yet I know nothing at all

    I feel like I need to put her baby memory in a little box
    Tie it up with a bow, put it on a shelf
    Like she was an incredible dream I once had
    But then I woke up

    -Angela Sundaramurthy

    Check out my poetry book for backstory and interpretation.

  • Are You A Wildflower?

    God gave us the wildflowers
    They bloom in the Spring
    We don’t always want them
    (interruptions, they bring)
    They speckle our lawns
    That we want to stay green
    They’re hardy as heck
    No poison can seem…
    To kill them…
    To kill them…
    To kill them.

    God gave us the wildflowers
    They’re here all year long
    We don’t always want them
    They do not belong
    They speckle our lives
    That we want to stay fine
    Won’t leave us alone,
    And so we’re inclined…
    To kill them…
    To kill them…
    To kill them.

    God gave us the wildflowers
    The flowers don’t know
    Why he made them so different
    From the ones people sow
    The two are both lovely
    With colors arrayed
    One tilled by wind
    And the other by spade
    Wildflowers are strong
    But they’re tender inside
    If you’re one of those “weeds”
    Raise your voice to the sky…
    “Don’t kill them!
    Don’t kill them!
    Don’t kill them!”

    -Angela Sundaramurthy

    Check out my poetry book* for backstory and interpretation.

  • My First Memory

                   The earliest memory I have of my childhood was being held by my dad. I must have been two or three years old, in the middle of the living room of our tiny mobile home. I can still feel the moment, straddled against my dad’s hip with his arms around me.

                   Warm. Strong. Safe. Loved. And waaaaay up in the air where the adults live. It was one of the last times I remember being held and not afraid of the distance to the floor.

                   He might have been swaying to some music. We always had good music in our home, flawlessly balanced from the silver stereo stack Dad kept against the dark paneled wall. Sometimes there was a drum set. But most of the time the drums were stacked, with gold cymbals leaning up against the wall, ready for the next gig.

                   Just a little girl and her dad in the best place on earth. Home.

  • About

    If you think I’m too much, this blog might not be for you. I’m too loud, too honest, too moody, too fun-loving, too transparent, too energetic, too talkative, too creative, too spiritual, and my social filter is likened to a storm drain- almost everything gets through. This blog is everything too much about my thoughts. It’s entirely self-centered and scrappy. If you don’t like it, please go and find less.

    I’m a musician’s daughter. A latchkey, Gen-X kid. The youngest of three and the only girl of that batch of siblings, with three more siblings added when I was older. My mom was a single mother, to whom I’m grateful for being too overwhelmed to keep track of me. I was free-range, unkempt, and too brilliant for homework. Painfully teased and bullied, but inherently resilient, there was never a dull moment in my younger years.

    I tried to fit in as a teen. I did alright. Survived it, which is probably what any parent really hopes for their kids. I did the usual GenX stuff- school, activities, college, and the beginning of a career that was (joyously) sidetracked with marriage and children.

    I’m almost 50 years old now and have enough content to keep ya’ll entertained for a while, with (hopefully) another 30-odd years to come. So, let’s get started!

  • Getting Started

    Well, folks. When I have nightmares about my child being lost, or someone is dying, I’m always trying to use a rotary phone to dial emergency services. I was born in the 1970’s. Does anyone else remember trying to dial a number on a rotary phone only to get the last digit wrong? We have to hang up and start all over again. Exactly how my nightmares go.

    I’m trying to get started with this blog. Once upon a time someone told me I should enroll in Probability & Statistics 101 in college, “Because it’s so easy!” Rrrrrrrrright. Just like someone told me WordPress is so easy.

    The problem with me is I’m used to working with things that actually exist- that I can hold in my hand and manipulate. Let’s just say I didn’t grow too well with computers. (but I did pass Probability & Statistics, with lots of tutoring). I’m also insanely busy. And when I’m not busy, I’m freakin’ tired. And when I’m not busy nor tired, I have Duolingo and Toon Blast streaks to maintain. Ya’ know? Priorities! Ammiright? *sigh*

    And just like a rotary phone, “Patience you must have, my young Padawan.”