This is just a brain dump, in no particular order and of no particular importance - a bunch of junk and gunk stuck in the cracks and creases that I need to offload so I can accumulate more. You know how it is...
~~~~~
I have an STD, likely given to me by my ex-husband when we first met. I say likely because the doctor can't pinpoint when I got it; he can only tell me that it usually takes about a decade to show up, and since I've only had one partner at the likely time of...erm...infection...it is likely my ex. This particular STD can cause cancer, and it seems like I'm one of the ones in whom it is more possible, since it has already cause abnormal cells on my cervix. I've had two procedures to test/remove the cells and am now waiting to find out if they are just weird or if they are cancerous. Joy.
Meanwhile, because of the nature of the second procedure, I can't have sex for two weeks. Double joy.
Because I can't have sex, my sweetie is feeling the absence, and isn't happy about it. Yes, there are things besides traditional sex, and yes, I'm game, but it's not so easy when I'm wiped the fuck out at the end of the day because I've been caring for two kids, four cats, and the little housework I can manage. I fall asleep fast and hard while he's still up and at 'em. Sucks.
I can't help but feel as though the next time the doctor tells me he wants to do a test or a procedure down there, I am going to tell him "No." It isn't worth it. I don't need the bleeding, the worry, or the strain at home (complete with snide comments and porn-a-plenty on the computer). I'd rather risk cancer. Yes, I am serious.
I haven't told my ex, yet - I'm waiting for the test results. If he still reads this blog, I guess he knows, now. Cheers.
~~~~~
Some words keep rolling through my poor, tired brain, of late:
Selfish
Self-Centered
Angry
Inconsiderate
Careless
Cruel
Useless
Unloved
Unwanted
Pointless
Stupid
~~~~~
I am tired of the constant barrage of messages from the media telling me how lucky/unlucky people are in these difficult financial times. Luck doesn't enter into it. I am where I am because I made poor choices, not because I was unlucky. People who accrue wealth don't do so out of luck. People who hang onto wealth they've inherited may have been born with good fortune, but they don't hang onto that money because of luck - act stupid with wealth and it will find someone else to hang out with. Quit trying to make it all even by taking it away from the "lucky" and giving it to the "unlucky".
~~~~~
In the immortal words of John Galt: "Get the hell out of my way".
~~~~~
I am tired of liars, manipulators, and thieves.
~~~~~
I am tired of feeling like I don't matter in my own life. I am tired of feeling like my pain, my sorrow, my depression, my needs, my wants, come in last to everyone else's. I am tired of feeling as if I am doing something wrong on the rare occasions I try to do something for me...as if I have no right to try an be, if not happy, at least content.
~~~~~
I'm tired of feeling as if I cannot do right. Make a salad, don't make a salad - if I make it, then I'm nurturing when it isn't wanted, creating feelings of guilt, and causing anger and resentment. If I don't make it, then I don't care and am just being lazy and manipulating, rewarding or punishing, with food. Can't win.
~~~~~
I'm tired.
~~~~~
There...that oughta do it for a minute.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
I Don't Have Answers
There are so many things I don't understand. So many things I do not know. So many things I cannot do...and in trying, I can but fail.
The Angel is a person of words. She speaks, in earnest, and that is all she has. All I have.
Words won...what? What can words win when there is no faith in them, when they mean nothing, less than nothing, are tossed around like so much chaff to be swept away and forgotten?
Why should I bother speaking, when it has no meaning? I cannot fathom how the two things...words won...they're just meaningless words...how the two things are supposed to coexist. Ether they are, or they are not, real. I have no in between.
What more must I do, what more must I give or give over, before there is faith, trust? Does anyone believe in me? Have they ever? Or has it all been words, words, words, empty, useless, stupid, manipulative, worthless words?
I'm tired of words. I'm tired of wondering what things mean when they clearly don't mean what they're supposed to. I do not have a dictionary, a lexicon, that gives me insight into the warping and twisting that others so clearly comprehend. I speak several languages, but apparently not the right ones because I feel, more and more, that I am lost among strangers who have no care for my confusion, only for their own needs which I can clearly not meet because I do not understand them.
I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering where the barbs are hidden. I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering when the hard words will follow.
I would like to believe, again, in the one thing that gave me a sense of power, of strength, of ability, of pride...the one thing that I now find failing me completely.
I would like to be done with words, since they're so useless...but as useless as my words are, as useless as I am...they're all I have.
As I cannot be done with them, I suppose I will have to learn how to empty them of meaning, to speak or write empty things and keep myself to myself...excepting here and one other place...so not entirely silent or devoid of content, but only where I live and with people who are more real to me that you few who linger here in the shadows with me, as ephemeral as my own self is to you. You shadows will have the truth of me, then, and the people who should know, well...they won't see and won't miss what they clearly never had or wanted in the first place, if I am to believe their words more than they believe mine.
Do not ever tell me that my words have meaning to you. I cannot afford to believe, to hope, that there's truth somewhere in the lie, not again, not any more, not when I will be constantly waiting to hear that they're worthless, after all.
The Angel is a person of words. She speaks, in earnest, and that is all she has. All I have.
Words won...what? What can words win when there is no faith in them, when they mean nothing, less than nothing, are tossed around like so much chaff to be swept away and forgotten?
Why should I bother speaking, when it has no meaning? I cannot fathom how the two things...words won...they're just meaningless words...how the two things are supposed to coexist. Ether they are, or they are not, real. I have no in between.
What more must I do, what more must I give or give over, before there is faith, trust? Does anyone believe in me? Have they ever? Or has it all been words, words, words, empty, useless, stupid, manipulative, worthless words?
I'm tired of words. I'm tired of wondering what things mean when they clearly don't mean what they're supposed to. I do not have a dictionary, a lexicon, that gives me insight into the warping and twisting that others so clearly comprehend. I speak several languages, but apparently not the right ones because I feel, more and more, that I am lost among strangers who have no care for my confusion, only for their own needs which I can clearly not meet because I do not understand them.
I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering where the barbs are hidden. I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering when the hard words will follow.
I would like to believe, again, in the one thing that gave me a sense of power, of strength, of ability, of pride...the one thing that I now find failing me completely.
I would like to be done with words, since they're so useless...but as useless as my words are, as useless as I am...they're all I have.
As I cannot be done with them, I suppose I will have to learn how to empty them of meaning, to speak or write empty things and keep myself to myself...excepting here and one other place...so not entirely silent or devoid of content, but only where I live and with people who are more real to me that you few who linger here in the shadows with me, as ephemeral as my own self is to you. You shadows will have the truth of me, then, and the people who should know, well...they won't see and won't miss what they clearly never had or wanted in the first place, if I am to believe their words more than they believe mine.
Do not ever tell me that my words have meaning to you. I cannot afford to believe, to hope, that there's truth somewhere in the lie, not again, not any more, not when I will be constantly waiting to hear that they're worthless, after all.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Bit of Wist
Sometimes I feel terribly lonely.
Sometimes I feel as though I do not matter.
Sometimes I feel as though my words are unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome.
Sometimes I wonder how long I'm supposed to keep reaching, when what Iam reaching for pulls away.
Sometimes I wonder if I am only here to do the work so that someone else can have the love.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel as though I count for anything.
Sometimes I wish I, too, had another lover, someone to talk to, someone who didn't make me feel unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome, someone who would help drive away this hurt, lonely feeling that weighs me down, wears me out.
Sometimes I feel as though I do not matter.
Sometimes I feel as though my words are unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome.
Sometimes I wonder how long I'm supposed to keep reaching, when what Iam reaching for pulls away.
Sometimes I wonder if I am only here to do the work so that someone else can have the love.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel as though I count for anything.
Sometimes I wish I, too, had another lover, someone to talk to, someone who didn't make me feel unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome, someone who would help drive away this hurt, lonely feeling that weighs me down, wears me out.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Holes
A friend sent me this.
~~~~~
There was once a boy with a fierce anger. He lost his temper often, screaming, throwing things, saying hard words.
One day, his father took him out to the back yard. There, where nothing had been before, was a long board fence. Beside the fence was a box of nails. The father handed the boy a hammer.
"Son, whenever you get angry, you come out here and hammer nails into these boards."
The boy did as his father told him - every time he felt himself losing his temper, he went out into the yard and hammered nails into the boards, working his way down the fence.
When he reached the end, his father said "Now, son, when you are angry, pull the nails out."
The boy did.
One day, he pulled the last nail out...and he found that he no longer needed to hammer nails. He no longer lost his temper.
His father pointed at the fence. "You see that, son? All those holes? Thoes are your angry words - every time you spoke or acted in anger, you made a hole in someone's heart. You can say you're sorry, but the holes will always be there. Remeber this, and think about what you say and do."
The boy learned.
~~~~~
~~~~~
There was once a boy with a fierce anger. He lost his temper often, screaming, throwing things, saying hard words.
One day, his father took him out to the back yard. There, where nothing had been before, was a long board fence. Beside the fence was a box of nails. The father handed the boy a hammer.
"Son, whenever you get angry, you come out here and hammer nails into these boards."
The boy did as his father told him - every time he felt himself losing his temper, he went out into the yard and hammered nails into the boards, working his way down the fence.
When he reached the end, his father said "Now, son, when you are angry, pull the nails out."
The boy did.
One day, he pulled the last nail out...and he found that he no longer needed to hammer nails. He no longer lost his temper.
His father pointed at the fence. "You see that, son? All those holes? Thoes are your angry words - every time you spoke or acted in anger, you made a hole in someone's heart. You can say you're sorry, but the holes will always be there. Remeber this, and think about what you say and do."
The boy learned.
~~~~~
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Scorched Earth
I reached for you last night, and you pulled away.
I reached again, and you flinched from under my hand.
I reached a third time, and you pulled away once more.
Then you leaned into me, and I though you wanted me...until you shrugged off my hand and instead leaned down to my belly. It wasn't me you wanted, but the baby.
A final time I tried, and was rebuffed.
So I moved over as far as I could to give you room, to keep from intruding upon you, so that I wouldn't accidentally brush against you with my obviously unwelcome touch. All night, I hoped you'd reach for me...with a brush of your fingers tell me it was OK, that I could move back into the circle of your arms, that I could have your warmth again. And all night, nothing.
This morning, I hoped again...perhaps he'll touch me now...
Nothing.
I could have made the effort. I always have in the past. But I thought, no, he doesn't want me right now. When he does, he'll touch, or speak, or show some sign, and until then I won't pester.
So I went downstairs to be out of the way. I felt as though simply being in the room was an intrusion. I didn't bother with breakfast or the computer, just took myself out of the way. Twice, when you came downstairs, I said "Good morning" and twice was met with silence.
When I finally came back upstairs, I looked your way, but you didn't turn from the screen, didn't want to see me there. So I went and folded laundry and kept company with my lonely thoughts.
I wondered...if I stopped writing, would anyone notice? If I stopped singing, would anyone hear the silence? If I stopped going out into the world, would anyone miss me? If I stopped reaching, making the effort, would anyone care?
I have my answer. No.
I wonder - should I have reached one more time? Should I have risked being shunned in the hopes that this time I'd be welcomed?
I feel stupid for hoping that some day, maybe, someone will reach for me, for a change. Why would they? No one ever has...no one ever will...and I'm tired of being burned and blackened and left behind, wasted, worthless, and worn.
If I'm not heard when I speak, what difference will my silence make? If I'm not read when I write, what difference does my stillness make? If I'm not noticed when I'm there in the room, what difference will my absence make? If I'm not felt or wanted when I seek to touch, what difference does my withdrawal make?
None at all.
Because you can't miss nothing, now can you?
I reached again, and you flinched from under my hand.
I reached a third time, and you pulled away once more.
Then you leaned into me, and I though you wanted me...until you shrugged off my hand and instead leaned down to my belly. It wasn't me you wanted, but the baby.
A final time I tried, and was rebuffed.
So I moved over as far as I could to give you room, to keep from intruding upon you, so that I wouldn't accidentally brush against you with my obviously unwelcome touch. All night, I hoped you'd reach for me...with a brush of your fingers tell me it was OK, that I could move back into the circle of your arms, that I could have your warmth again. And all night, nothing.
This morning, I hoped again...perhaps he'll touch me now...
Nothing.
I could have made the effort. I always have in the past. But I thought, no, he doesn't want me right now. When he does, he'll touch, or speak, or show some sign, and until then I won't pester.
So I went downstairs to be out of the way. I felt as though simply being in the room was an intrusion. I didn't bother with breakfast or the computer, just took myself out of the way. Twice, when you came downstairs, I said "Good morning" and twice was met with silence.
When I finally came back upstairs, I looked your way, but you didn't turn from the screen, didn't want to see me there. So I went and folded laundry and kept company with my lonely thoughts.
I wondered...if I stopped writing, would anyone notice? If I stopped singing, would anyone hear the silence? If I stopped going out into the world, would anyone miss me? If I stopped reaching, making the effort, would anyone care?
I have my answer. No.
I wonder - should I have reached one more time? Should I have risked being shunned in the hopes that this time I'd be welcomed?
I feel stupid for hoping that some day, maybe, someone will reach for me, for a change. Why would they? No one ever has...no one ever will...and I'm tired of being burned and blackened and left behind, wasted, worthless, and worn.
If I'm not heard when I speak, what difference will my silence make? If I'm not read when I write, what difference does my stillness make? If I'm not noticed when I'm there in the room, what difference will my absence make? If I'm not felt or wanted when I seek to touch, what difference does my withdrawal make?
None at all.
Because you can't miss nothing, now can you?
Friday, December 24, 2010
Three Things/How I Could Do I/If This Isn't the Lesson You Want Me To Learn, Then Quit Teaching It
I prayed for three things, today.
I prayed that when the baby is born, I bleed to death. If the only future I have to look forward to is watching it slowly dawn on my daughter that her mother is a worthless, useless fuckup...why should I want to live for that? Better she should never know me. It's not that I don't want to be here for her...I do...but if there's not a hope in hell that our future can be happy...why subject her to the added misery of bearing me as her burden?
I prayed that the gods take away my music. Strike me mute. No more singing or song writing. I don't want it. Why should I? What good does it do? No one gives a good god damn. What's the point of wanting to sing, to reach others...if no one's listening?
I prayed that the gods take away the stories. No one wants those any more than they want me. I have proof - rejection after rejection from agent after agent. Why try? Why allow myself to be driven, to shape words into images that no one wants to read?
I'm tired of being pointless.
~~~~~
I have spent the last few hours thinking these thoughts...may as well write 'em out. No one reads them, no one cares anyway, can't hurt to put them here.
I can't kill myself. I made a promise. I have never broken my word. But I can sure want to. And I can think about how I'd do it. I can fantasize about the day my word means less to me than this emptiness.
Not a gun. Too messy. I would not like to give anyone another reason to hate me, to think me worthless, selfish...
There's always aspirin. We've got a few bottles of that around here. I can swallow a lot of pills. But no. It's been done, and it's too easy to catch and reverse...and if it fails, the results can be...unfortunate.
A razor, perhaps? I used to think that was how I'd do it. Draw up a nice warm bath. Two good slices, placed just right, and I could open up veins without touching a tendon, bleed out in minutes. It would be less mess for anyone to clean up after...just remove the carcass and rinse out the tub, no worries.
I think if I was to do it now, though...it'd be poetic. I have several vials of insulin. I could inject the entirety of one in a matter of moments...and there's nothing could be done about it, if anyone even cared to try.
~~~~~
Alright already...I get it. I am worth less than a damned computer game, less than addiction, less than the cat shit out in the garden. My hurt is meaningless and no one, not ONE person, gives a good god damn.
If that's not the lesson you wish me to learn, O Universe, then quite teaching it to me. The point has been driven home enough times in the last little while...I don't need any more reminders that I don't deserve to be happy and any time I begin to feel the slightest joy, I should quash it or accept that you will do so for me.
I am done chasing after people and begging them to love me. I am done believing that anyone actually does, has, or ever could. I am done forcing anyone to endure my love. No more illusion on that front, O Universe, so you can leave me alone and go pick on someone else.
I am NOT loved. I am NOT wanted. I am NOT needed. I am a fat, ugly, disgusting, slovenly, stupid, unnecessary burden to be borne, and I would do the world a favor if I simply quit foisting myself upon it. I get it. Thank you.
I prayed that when the baby is born, I bleed to death. If the only future I have to look forward to is watching it slowly dawn on my daughter that her mother is a worthless, useless fuckup...why should I want to live for that? Better she should never know me. It's not that I don't want to be here for her...I do...but if there's not a hope in hell that our future can be happy...why subject her to the added misery of bearing me as her burden?
I prayed that the gods take away my music. Strike me mute. No more singing or song writing. I don't want it. Why should I? What good does it do? No one gives a good god damn. What's the point of wanting to sing, to reach others...if no one's listening?
I prayed that the gods take away the stories. No one wants those any more than they want me. I have proof - rejection after rejection from agent after agent. Why try? Why allow myself to be driven, to shape words into images that no one wants to read?
I'm tired of being pointless.
~~~~~
I have spent the last few hours thinking these thoughts...may as well write 'em out. No one reads them, no one cares anyway, can't hurt to put them here.
I can't kill myself. I made a promise. I have never broken my word. But I can sure want to. And I can think about how I'd do it. I can fantasize about the day my word means less to me than this emptiness.
Not a gun. Too messy. I would not like to give anyone another reason to hate me, to think me worthless, selfish...
There's always aspirin. We've got a few bottles of that around here. I can swallow a lot of pills. But no. It's been done, and it's too easy to catch and reverse...and if it fails, the results can be...unfortunate.
A razor, perhaps? I used to think that was how I'd do it. Draw up a nice warm bath. Two good slices, placed just right, and I could open up veins without touching a tendon, bleed out in minutes. It would be less mess for anyone to clean up after...just remove the carcass and rinse out the tub, no worries.
I think if I was to do it now, though...it'd be poetic. I have several vials of insulin. I could inject the entirety of one in a matter of moments...and there's nothing could be done about it, if anyone even cared to try.
~~~~~
Alright already...I get it. I am worth less than a damned computer game, less than addiction, less than the cat shit out in the garden. My hurt is meaningless and no one, not ONE person, gives a good god damn.
If that's not the lesson you wish me to learn, O Universe, then quite teaching it to me. The point has been driven home enough times in the last little while...I don't need any more reminders that I don't deserve to be happy and any time I begin to feel the slightest joy, I should quash it or accept that you will do so for me.
I am done chasing after people and begging them to love me. I am done believing that anyone actually does, has, or ever could. I am done forcing anyone to endure my love. No more illusion on that front, O Universe, so you can leave me alone and go pick on someone else.
I am NOT loved. I am NOT wanted. I am NOT needed. I am a fat, ugly, disgusting, slovenly, stupid, unnecessary burden to be borne, and I would do the world a favor if I simply quit foisting myself upon it. I get it. Thank you.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
In the Moment
How I'm feeling right this moment:
Fat
Lonely
Unlovely
Ungainly
Bloated
Sad
Bereft
Afraid
In Need of Comfort
Unwanted
Unhappy
Wanting
Alone
Tired
Careworn
A Failure
Bah. I'm going to bed and hoping tomorrow is an improvement.
Fat
Lonely
Unlovely
Ungainly
Bloated
Sad
Bereft
Afraid
In Need of Comfort
Unwanted
Unhappy
Wanting
Alone
Tired
Careworn
A Failure
Bah. I'm going to bed and hoping tomorrow is an improvement.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Empty Fullness
I have grown accustomed to my love's presence here in our home. Not dependent. Accustomed. I love his presence here in our home. I am often aware of him, of what room he's in, of what he does, or what he needs.
I reach for him at night. Often, I am abed first, sometimes hours before he'll crawl beneath the covers. I know when he enters or leaves the room, though, even in my sleep. When he climbs into bed, I inch close, rest my head on his shoulder, feel his arm wrap around me, and am deeply content.
There, in his circle, the circle of his arms, I feel loved, cherished, protected.
I love to run my hands over his body...his hard planes, smooth, soft skin. I love how my touch can arouse him. I love making love to him, slow and sweet, swift and insistent, always deeply in the moment. I love the way he buries himself in me.
I love his scent, often leaning in and breathing deeply, exhaling and breathing him in again.
I am a glutton for his touch, always greedy for more. With his hands, he tells me he loves me. I do not feel judged...all the flaws of my body are there for him to see and feel, but he does not. He makes me feel sexy, beautiful, wanted, worshiped.
Loving him is exhilarating, exhausting, a sweetness that is at once craved and overwhelming.
He is away at the moment, out of town. I miss him. The house is empty without him to fill it with his sounds, his motion, his presence. The days are long, the nights longer, without him to help fill them. My body misses his.
I am glad for this ache, for this absence. It will be all the better when he's home again...and really, he's not gone. The daughter I carry within me, the child growing slowly in my womb, is half him, her movement a reminder that wherever he may be, we are home and he will return to us.
Still...I'm missing him...missing his touch, his kisses, his tongue, his love, his fire...there's an emptiness that will remain until he is home to fill it once again.
I reach for him at night. Often, I am abed first, sometimes hours before he'll crawl beneath the covers. I know when he enters or leaves the room, though, even in my sleep. When he climbs into bed, I inch close, rest my head on his shoulder, feel his arm wrap around me, and am deeply content.
There, in his circle, the circle of his arms, I feel loved, cherished, protected.
I love to run my hands over his body...his hard planes, smooth, soft skin. I love how my touch can arouse him. I love making love to him, slow and sweet, swift and insistent, always deeply in the moment. I love the way he buries himself in me.
I love his scent, often leaning in and breathing deeply, exhaling and breathing him in again.
I am a glutton for his touch, always greedy for more. With his hands, he tells me he loves me. I do not feel judged...all the flaws of my body are there for him to see and feel, but he does not. He makes me feel sexy, beautiful, wanted, worshiped.
Loving him is exhilarating, exhausting, a sweetness that is at once craved and overwhelming.
He is away at the moment, out of town. I miss him. The house is empty without him to fill it with his sounds, his motion, his presence. The days are long, the nights longer, without him to help fill them. My body misses his.
I am glad for this ache, for this absence. It will be all the better when he's home again...and really, he's not gone. The daughter I carry within me, the child growing slowly in my womb, is half him, her movement a reminder that wherever he may be, we are home and he will return to us.
Still...I'm missing him...missing his touch, his kisses, his tongue, his love, his fire...there's an emptiness that will remain until he is home to fill it once again.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Things Left Unsaid
What I say here isn't meant to hurt. I know it doesn't matter, though. Tonight, it seems, I could neither do nor say anything right, and rather than further burden anyone with my blubbing, I'll just type this shit up and be done with it...until it's read, and there are consequences. Although...how can there be consequences when I don't matter, when what I say, think, feel are inconsequential?
~~~~~
Can't sleep. Head aches. Stomach aches. Heart aches.
Fuck you, he said.
Because I asked what happened. Because I wanted to offer help, if it was needed.
Fuck you, and a tirade about how horrible his life is, and why the fuck would I even ask something like that.
So many thoughts crowding my mind, some there for a while now. I shouldn't write them down...writing things down gives them over to others, opens them up to be misread, misinterpreted, used against me later when all I wanted was simply to have done with them...but fuck it, why the hell else did I start this blog if not to empty the dark things out of my mind? I'm not supposed to have to bite my words any more, hold them in my teeth to keep them from spilling out into my world. I'm supposed to have this place to release it all without fearing what follows.
I asked what happened and was told Fuck You, among other things. In words unsaid, I was called stupid. I though I later heard a shut-the-fuck-up, as well. Earlier today it was I can't even drive away...and so I know he feels trapped here, that he wants to escape, and it's my fault he can't.
I don't have the luxury of crawling off and licking my wounds - I had to make the Boy's bed, read him a story, get him settled. I folded laundry and spoke not a word the rest of the evening...and was not missed. Clearly was not missed.
Was not wanted. Clearly was not wanted.
Was invisible.
And all the while, my head has throbbed, eyes aching, stomach roiling.
I lay in bed, finally, because I could do nothing else without being intrusive, without thrusting my obviously unwanted presence into his. I lay in bed and cried and cried and felt alone. Scared and alone.
I know I'm worthless. I know. I know it's stupid to hope, even a tiny bit, that I am important, that I might even come first sometimes. I know better. Still.
I hoped.
I hoped that my need, that my hurt, might be noticed, might having meaning. Stupid, me.
My love is worthless, it seems, and pointless, and foolish.
I thought I had done with crying myself to sleep alone. Damn fool, me.
He mumbled I'm Sorry as he fell asleep...but he did not reach for me, did not touch or seek to comfort.
I will never, ever, come first. I will never, ever, matter. I will never, ever do or be anything of consequence. Worthless, pointless, stupid...these things I am and will always be. Tonight that was made abundantly clear to me.
I come last, period. I get it.
I'm sorry, too.
I'm sorry I have forced him into a corner, made him feel like he has nowhere else to go, no choice but to stay here where he doesn't want to be. I'm sorry that my wanting him here is a chain. I'm sorry my love is a burden. I'm sorry I ruined his life, and I'm sorry he can't just say so but instead feels he has to smile and be nice about it...until truth finds its way out, here and there, slips through his teeth in fits and starts...
I'm sorry he sees that I'm a bad mother, and now has to worry that I will fuck up our child as much as I'm obviously fucking up the Boy. I'm sorry if this baby just makes things worse. I'm sorry that I can't seem to get it right, and my wrongness just makes things harder for him.
I had a thought, tonight...that when this baby is grown and on his/her own, then I'm done. No one will need or want me any more...so I thought to myself, OK, then when this kid's grown up, then I will, for the first and only time in my life, break my word. I will finally do what I should have done when I was sixteen, and finish the job. Surely I can manage to make it another twenty years, and I KNOW I can finish what I started, because all that's kept me from it so far is my refusal to be forsworn.
No one will miss me, and more than one will likely ask what took me so long.
~~~~~
So yeah, if you think this is about you and you want to discuss it, I'm game...but please don't feel you have to. I hate being an imposition. That's why I hide when I cry...I don't want anyone to feel obligated to care when they'd rather not. I'm not trying to lay on a guilt trip, here. And you should know...these thoughts...they're real, they swirl around in my mind...but...I know they aren't real, at the same time. They still hurt, though. I had to get them out. Please understand.
And my head still aches...
~~~~~
Can't sleep. Head aches. Stomach aches. Heart aches.
Fuck you, he said.
Because I asked what happened. Because I wanted to offer help, if it was needed.
Fuck you, and a tirade about how horrible his life is, and why the fuck would I even ask something like that.
So many thoughts crowding my mind, some there for a while now. I shouldn't write them down...writing things down gives them over to others, opens them up to be misread, misinterpreted, used against me later when all I wanted was simply to have done with them...but fuck it, why the hell else did I start this blog if not to empty the dark things out of my mind? I'm not supposed to have to bite my words any more, hold them in my teeth to keep them from spilling out into my world. I'm supposed to have this place to release it all without fearing what follows.
I asked what happened and was told Fuck You, among other things. In words unsaid, I was called stupid. I though I later heard a shut-the-fuck-up, as well. Earlier today it was I can't even drive away...and so I know he feels trapped here, that he wants to escape, and it's my fault he can't.
I don't have the luxury of crawling off and licking my wounds - I had to make the Boy's bed, read him a story, get him settled. I folded laundry and spoke not a word the rest of the evening...and was not missed. Clearly was not missed.
Was not wanted. Clearly was not wanted.
Was invisible.
And all the while, my head has throbbed, eyes aching, stomach roiling.
I lay in bed, finally, because I could do nothing else without being intrusive, without thrusting my obviously unwanted presence into his. I lay in bed and cried and cried and felt alone. Scared and alone.
I know I'm worthless. I know. I know it's stupid to hope, even a tiny bit, that I am important, that I might even come first sometimes. I know better. Still.
I hoped.
I hoped that my need, that my hurt, might be noticed, might having meaning. Stupid, me.
My love is worthless, it seems, and pointless, and foolish.
I thought I had done with crying myself to sleep alone. Damn fool, me.
He mumbled I'm Sorry as he fell asleep...but he did not reach for me, did not touch or seek to comfort.
I will never, ever, come first. I will never, ever, matter. I will never, ever do or be anything of consequence. Worthless, pointless, stupid...these things I am and will always be. Tonight that was made abundantly clear to me.
I come last, period. I get it.
I'm sorry, too.
I'm sorry I have forced him into a corner, made him feel like he has nowhere else to go, no choice but to stay here where he doesn't want to be. I'm sorry that my wanting him here is a chain. I'm sorry my love is a burden. I'm sorry I ruined his life, and I'm sorry he can't just say so but instead feels he has to smile and be nice about it...until truth finds its way out, here and there, slips through his teeth in fits and starts...
I'm sorry he sees that I'm a bad mother, and now has to worry that I will fuck up our child as much as I'm obviously fucking up the Boy. I'm sorry if this baby just makes things worse. I'm sorry that I can't seem to get it right, and my wrongness just makes things harder for him.
I had a thought, tonight...that when this baby is grown and on his/her own, then I'm done. No one will need or want me any more...so I thought to myself, OK, then when this kid's grown up, then I will, for the first and only time in my life, break my word. I will finally do what I should have done when I was sixteen, and finish the job. Surely I can manage to make it another twenty years, and I KNOW I can finish what I started, because all that's kept me from it so far is my refusal to be forsworn.
No one will miss me, and more than one will likely ask what took me so long.
~~~~~
So yeah, if you think this is about you and you want to discuss it, I'm game...but please don't feel you have to. I hate being an imposition. That's why I hide when I cry...I don't want anyone to feel obligated to care when they'd rather not. I'm not trying to lay on a guilt trip, here. And you should know...these thoughts...they're real, they swirl around in my mind...but...I know they aren't real, at the same time. They still hurt, though. I had to get them out. Please understand.
And my head still aches...
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
It's Like That, Sometimes
Sometimes I make mistakes. I don't see what's there. I'm sorry.
Sometimes I crash so fast, it's from one heartbeat to the next that I'm up and then down.
Sometimes, I want to drink myself stupid, cut myself to ribbons, swallow pills and pills and pills, crawl into bed and never come out again.
Sometimes I am terribly tired of failing, of never seeming capable of getting things right, of being useless.
I was a bad wife. I am not much better at being a girlfriend. I am long past suspecting I suck as a mother, too.
Sometimes I think it would be better if I went away, was just gone, better that I didn't poison the world around myself, took my curse and disappeared.
I can't.
I'm too selfish...I love my son and want to watch him become a better person than I am...even as I think I do him a disservice.
Sometimes I don't want to say anything or bother anyone, and there's a voice in my head screaming "Who gives a shit?????" and I want to hide.
Again, I can't.
And I won't. Because it isn't always that way.
Just sometimes.
Sometimes I crash so fast, it's from one heartbeat to the next that I'm up and then down.
Sometimes, I want to drink myself stupid, cut myself to ribbons, swallow pills and pills and pills, crawl into bed and never come out again.
Sometimes I am terribly tired of failing, of never seeming capable of getting things right, of being useless.
I was a bad wife. I am not much better at being a girlfriend. I am long past suspecting I suck as a mother, too.
Sometimes I think it would be better if I went away, was just gone, better that I didn't poison the world around myself, took my curse and disappeared.
I can't.
I'm too selfish...I love my son and want to watch him become a better person than I am...even as I think I do him a disservice.
Sometimes I don't want to say anything or bother anyone, and there's a voice in my head screaming "Who gives a shit?????" and I want to hide.
Again, I can't.
And I won't. Because it isn't always that way.
Just sometimes.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
#%#$@!!@&**&^%$$#@! Birthday
I hate my fucking birthday.
It's not because I had a bad one this year - it was quite nice, as birthdays go (despite my distinct non-winning of the lottery). I happily began tidying my sewing room and started the big freezer defrosting, and went out for dinner to a local hot dog joint that has the best chili-cheese fries for clogging one's arteries on the planet.
No, I hate my fucking birthday because of ghosts and shades of birthdays past.
When I was quite young, I'm sure there were cakes and parties. I vaguely remember one birthday spent at Burger Chef, my favorite dining establishment as a child. See a pattern, here?
But somewhere around the time I hit double digits, birthdays became something of a...meh.
I saw other kids having parties, but I didn't have them. Other kids had family and friends to celebrate with them...I usually spent the day alone, perhaps the recipient of a half-hearted wish for a happy birthday from someone who felt obliged if I happened to mention it was my natal day. I started thinking I didn't like my fucking birthday.
I got tired of begging people to notice or care, so I was quick to quit mentioning it. I was almost certain I didn't care for my fucking birthday.
I watched other kids get gifts and phone calls and visits from family when I was in boarding school, but again, I spent most of my so-called "special day" largely unnoticed, although my mother did try to make sure she called and sent a gift, and that meant a lot to me...but at that age (early teens), one wished one's peers might give a damn. I didn't even harbor a tiny hope that my father would make an appearance of any sort. Or my grandmother would orchestrate a birthday fiasco that was basically a bribe to the other kids to be nice to me for a day so they'd get dinner out and cake.
I firmed up my notion that I hate my fucking birthday.
I spent my high school years without so much as a ruffle on the "happy birthday" waters, and that was fine. I couldn't be bothered to care that I was alive, why the Hell should anyone else.
In my early twenties, I was part of a large social group that sometimes made a fuss over birthdays and sometimes didn't...but I always felt loved. Still...I hated my fucking birthday out of habit.
Mid-twenties, my birthday became a death day, too - a beloved friend and member of my social group died on that day and I was once again firmly entrenched in the idea that my birthday fucking sucks, and I hate it.
Now in my...never mind what age...I'm still not convinced that it's worth the bother. Oh, don't get me wrong...there are people who love me very much who make sure to tell me so (and not JUST on my birthday) and who make an effort to let me know that they're glad I was born. I know I'm loved.
But I'm still that kid who kept getting the message that she didn't matter to anyone, wasn't worth the effort, time, or care. As an adult, I can't shake that old hurt. I also, in recent years, can't help but think I've wasted my life, that I'm wandering through the years in a daze doing nothing of worth...and that maybe it's to late.
So I still hate my fucking birthday and am just as happy to get past it and on with the next downhill slide to aging gracelessly.
It's not because I had a bad one this year - it was quite nice, as birthdays go (despite my distinct non-winning of the lottery). I happily began tidying my sewing room and started the big freezer defrosting, and went out for dinner to a local hot dog joint that has the best chili-cheese fries for clogging one's arteries on the planet.
No, I hate my fucking birthday because of ghosts and shades of birthdays past.
When I was quite young, I'm sure there were cakes and parties. I vaguely remember one birthday spent at Burger Chef, my favorite dining establishment as a child. See a pattern, here?
But somewhere around the time I hit double digits, birthdays became something of a...meh.
I saw other kids having parties, but I didn't have them. Other kids had family and friends to celebrate with them...I usually spent the day alone, perhaps the recipient of a half-hearted wish for a happy birthday from someone who felt obliged if I happened to mention it was my natal day. I started thinking I didn't like my fucking birthday.
I got tired of begging people to notice or care, so I was quick to quit mentioning it. I was almost certain I didn't care for my fucking birthday.
I watched other kids get gifts and phone calls and visits from family when I was in boarding school, but again, I spent most of my so-called "special day" largely unnoticed, although my mother did try to make sure she called and sent a gift, and that meant a lot to me...but at that age (early teens), one wished one's peers might give a damn. I didn't even harbor a tiny hope that my father would make an appearance of any sort. Or my grandmother would orchestrate a birthday fiasco that was basically a bribe to the other kids to be nice to me for a day so they'd get dinner out and cake.
I firmed up my notion that I hate my fucking birthday.
I spent my high school years without so much as a ruffle on the "happy birthday" waters, and that was fine. I couldn't be bothered to care that I was alive, why the Hell should anyone else.
In my early twenties, I was part of a large social group that sometimes made a fuss over birthdays and sometimes didn't...but I always felt loved. Still...I hated my fucking birthday out of habit.
Mid-twenties, my birthday became a death day, too - a beloved friend and member of my social group died on that day and I was once again firmly entrenched in the idea that my birthday fucking sucks, and I hate it.
Now in my...never mind what age...I'm still not convinced that it's worth the bother. Oh, don't get me wrong...there are people who love me very much who make sure to tell me so (and not JUST on my birthday) and who make an effort to let me know that they're glad I was born. I know I'm loved.
But I'm still that kid who kept getting the message that she didn't matter to anyone, wasn't worth the effort, time, or care. As an adult, I can't shake that old hurt. I also, in recent years, can't help but think I've wasted my life, that I'm wandering through the years in a daze doing nothing of worth...and that maybe it's to late.
So I still hate my fucking birthday and am just as happy to get past it and on with the next downhill slide to aging gracelessly.
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Art of Him
Oh, how I love him.
I'm going to photograph him...his lines, curves, dips, shadows, planes, in black and white, in sepia, I'm going to map his body inches at a time.
Long ago, people made maps by exploring territory.
I like that idea.
Sometimes, it's overwhelming, this love. It's huge, and old, and new, and comfortable and frightening. It's a challenge, and a blessing, and as easy and natural as breathing.
I love this beautiful man.
Beauty...more than skin deep, his, and complex, and fine. I wish I could paint him...paint his likeness with oils, acrylics, watercolors. The oils and acrylics for the bold, the strong, the powerful, the anger and the love and the smile and the intelligence...but the watercolors for the soft, the shades, the subtleties.
Or to sculpt...but how would I sculpt what isn't seen? Clay or stone...they can't capture the nuances of personality that I see, that add to this love, layer upon layer...
The soft voice when he speaks to the cats, coaxing them to come take a treat from him or accept a gentle stroke from his warm hand...music...there is no instrument with which I could convey the tones...and it goes right through me, melts the frozen places, transforms my stone or leaden heart onto a warm and beating thing, fluttering in my chest.
Dear Goddess, if a person of words finds it indescribable...
I'm at a loss.
I think...I cloud fill a museum...and still never quite convey what a marvel I find him...
There is no art so fine as the original.
I'm going to photograph him...his lines, curves, dips, shadows, planes, in black and white, in sepia, I'm going to map his body inches at a time.
Long ago, people made maps by exploring territory.
I like that idea.
Sometimes, it's overwhelming, this love. It's huge, and old, and new, and comfortable and frightening. It's a challenge, and a blessing, and as easy and natural as breathing.
I love this beautiful man.
Beauty...more than skin deep, his, and complex, and fine. I wish I could paint him...paint his likeness with oils, acrylics, watercolors. The oils and acrylics for the bold, the strong, the powerful, the anger and the love and the smile and the intelligence...but the watercolors for the soft, the shades, the subtleties.
Or to sculpt...but how would I sculpt what isn't seen? Clay or stone...they can't capture the nuances of personality that I see, that add to this love, layer upon layer...
The soft voice when he speaks to the cats, coaxing them to come take a treat from him or accept a gentle stroke from his warm hand...music...there is no instrument with which I could convey the tones...and it goes right through me, melts the frozen places, transforms my stone or leaden heart onto a warm and beating thing, fluttering in my chest.
Dear Goddess, if a person of words finds it indescribable...
I'm at a loss.
I think...I cloud fill a museum...and still never quite convey what a marvel I find him...
There is no art so fine as the original.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
About the Light
You think the words are gone? That you took them away, sent them away, frightened them away?
No.
About that light...the one on the ceiling...
It reminded me of you, Sir. The flame swayed and the shadows danced, but the light itself didn't falter or fail. In the small hours, as you spoke and spoke and poured yourself out and drew yourself back in, I stared at the candle before me, at the pattern of circles and lines of light that made a sun on the ceiling. I was cold, Sir...
And you were this great, blazing thing. I felt as insignificant as a mote of dust caught up in the wind, made bold to try and gather some of your warmth into my frozen core...and stared at the light, alone.
It was a sun, yes, but also an eye...golden, wide pupiled, hypnotic, it stared back at me as I tried to find my way into its center. I was a shadow, and I was listening from my corner. I heard the hard edges of your words when you spoke to yourself, and how you softened when the little cat Tiger caught you attention, and I wished I could bring that softness, that gentleness, to you and I wished I could get lost in the center of that light, immolated, turned to ash, remade. I wished that I could be lost in your eyes, Sir...
And while you were in one place, within your own darkness and struggle and rage...I was in another. Lost in my world, I couldn't reach yours, so I kept my distance and stared into the light.
That light.
The candle lit to help guide you to where you needed to be. The flame kept alive for months. I watched it move, listened as you paced, felt myself fall farther and farther away...held in place at last by nothing more than that small, tenacious light.
No.
About that light...the one on the ceiling...
It reminded me of you, Sir. The flame swayed and the shadows danced, but the light itself didn't falter or fail. In the small hours, as you spoke and spoke and poured yourself out and drew yourself back in, I stared at the candle before me, at the pattern of circles and lines of light that made a sun on the ceiling. I was cold, Sir...
And you were this great, blazing thing. I felt as insignificant as a mote of dust caught up in the wind, made bold to try and gather some of your warmth into my frozen core...and stared at the light, alone.
It was a sun, yes, but also an eye...golden, wide pupiled, hypnotic, it stared back at me as I tried to find my way into its center. I was a shadow, and I was listening from my corner. I heard the hard edges of your words when you spoke to yourself, and how you softened when the little cat Tiger caught you attention, and I wished I could bring that softness, that gentleness, to you and I wished I could get lost in the center of that light, immolated, turned to ash, remade. I wished that I could be lost in your eyes, Sir...
And while you were in one place, within your own darkness and struggle and rage...I was in another. Lost in my world, I couldn't reach yours, so I kept my distance and stared into the light.
That light.
The candle lit to help guide you to where you needed to be. The flame kept alive for months. I watched it move, listened as you paced, felt myself fall farther and farther away...held in place at last by nothing more than that small, tenacious light.
Friday, January 1, 2010
What to Show
I woke up this morning and felt the crash coming.
Look - I don't know how to do happy.
So...weeks upon weeks of roller-coaster ups and down, culminating in one big rejoicing...there was going to be a crash. It's nothing personal. It's just me, being me.
I woke up worried about things that are mine to worry about, and feeling this sticky blob of shadowy stuff trying to envelope me, envelope my psyche. I need a cry. A good one, the kind that leaves my eyes red, my face sticky and wet, my nose stuffed and running...one of those emptying, unattractive cries that should never be witnessed by loved ones lest they be forever branded by the horrible sight.
I feel...useless. I feel...pointless. I feel...like a drain. I feel helpless, feel hopeless..and I'm trying not to drag anyone else down with me.
I keep trying to hide it. I'm used to internalizing, to denying anything's amiss. It's easier, really. Again, it's nothing personal - I love the people in my life - but if I don't want to deal with this crap, why should I expect anyone else to?
Trouble is...that's not fair. Not fair to me, not fair to the ones I love. They have a right to know I'm not happy...don't they? Or...do they? Is it a privilege or a burden?
I don't want anyone to be weighted down. And I don't want anyone to be hurt. And I don't want anyone to think I'm shutting them out. Conundrum.
What to do...
What to show...
Look - I don't know how to do happy.
So...weeks upon weeks of roller-coaster ups and down, culminating in one big rejoicing...there was going to be a crash. It's nothing personal. It's just me, being me.
I woke up worried about things that are mine to worry about, and feeling this sticky blob of shadowy stuff trying to envelope me, envelope my psyche. I need a cry. A good one, the kind that leaves my eyes red, my face sticky and wet, my nose stuffed and running...one of those emptying, unattractive cries that should never be witnessed by loved ones lest they be forever branded by the horrible sight.
I feel...useless. I feel...pointless. I feel...like a drain. I feel helpless, feel hopeless..and I'm trying not to drag anyone else down with me.
I keep trying to hide it. I'm used to internalizing, to denying anything's amiss. It's easier, really. Again, it's nothing personal - I love the people in my life - but if I don't want to deal with this crap, why should I expect anyone else to?
Trouble is...that's not fair. Not fair to me, not fair to the ones I love. They have a right to know I'm not happy...don't they? Or...do they? Is it a privilege or a burden?
I don't want anyone to be weighted down. And I don't want anyone to be hurt. And I don't want anyone to think I'm shutting them out. Conundrum.
What to do...
What to show...
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Swarms
I woke up this morning with words swirling through my mind. Words, thoughts, about my life, my timeline. This post isn't made up of those words, though. More words came along, pressing me with their need to be written. They were nearly scattered when the phone rang, but they were tenacious...and so, I will give them such voice as I can and hope I don't make a complete hash of them.
I am not writing this for you. I am writing it for me. Please understand...and if you cannot understand...if you can see this in one light or another, see it as written from a place of love and compassion, deep and abiding, and not as a judgement or cry for help.
~~~~~
I'm no stranger to fear. I am full to the brim with fears. They swarm at me, a hive of buzzing, stinging little things. Mostly, I ignore them - they are not the sort of fears that nature gives us to aid in survival...look close enough and you will see them dressed in a fool's motley, ridiculous things that are barbed but useless.
So...when I see someone else wrapped in a swarm of their own, I empathize. It's not easy to breath when the little buggers crowd around. It's not easy to see, to find perspective. It's not easy to stand on one's own feet, maintain balance, look to the future. Hell, it's not always possible to look to the future,
I've invited anger into my life.
I'm not afraid of it.
It's not dangerous, this anger. It's not violent. It is words (which can hurt, yes...but only when meant to)(or, if they pain, it is not with intent but more a by-product of the hurt they sprang from) which are not directed anywhere but inward to the source...and outward to such gods as listen.
It's an anger rooted in hurt, in disappointment, in loss. It's fed by the frustration of a soul that has been knocked down every time it stood, so that it is almost afraid to stand again. It's being fed by hope...the hope that this time, when it rises, it won't fall again, which is itself a frightening contemplation.
I'm not afraid of this anger.
I fear its consequences. Not to me. I'm stronger than I appear, stronger than I make myself out to be. But I fear the consequences to the source. Anger of this kind...it so often turns inward and gnaws...
I am not afraid of this anger.
Sometimes, though, I am like a whipped cur when the anger raises its head. I cannot look at the source, cannot meet his eyes. I slink away, try not to be seen, make myself small. He won't hurt me...I truly believe he would smash himself to pieces before he hurt me...but the child I was (not the woman I am) remembers other anger, older anger. She wants to assuage, to smooth the way, to fix it, or if she cannot do these things, she wishes to go unnoticed until it passes.
I can't fix it. And I won't hide from it. The only way to deal with it is face on.
I am not afraid of this anger.
But I am not brave.
I have my swarms, buzzing and humming...and I can't always see or hear what I need to do to help. Not to fix. Can't fix. But to help...
Do you know The Healer's Laws?
No?
I'm not surprised. I may be the one person who has them written down in any coherent fashion...
Perhaps I made them up entirely. It has been known to happen.
The first law - you cannot heal others unless you yourself are whole. That doesn't mean one must be perfect...it's complicated...but if a body, a mind, is so imbalanced that it's lost within itself...well, it's not very useful for helping others, is it?
The second law - you must wait for them to ask. You can't just wander around fixing people without their permission, without their knowledge. They have to know they are hurting, have to want help, have to ask for it. It's part of the process. Until someone asks...their hurt is their own, and what right has anyone to take that away? You can offer...but you can't just thrust your will onto them.
The third law - sometimes, you have to fail.
There are more. I won't bore you with them.
What has this to do with anything?
I am not afraid of this anger.
My instinct is to sooth, to repair. Last night, I had to remind myself of the second law. I had to be firm with myself...until I couldn't bear it any more, went to the source, and damn near begged to be asked.
I'm sorry.
I had no right.
But my little swarms, my little clouds...they clouded my judgement, and I can only hope I did more good than harm in thrusting my hand past them, past the anger, to reach for the soul choking on its own clouds, its own swarms.
I am not writing this for you. I am writing it for me. Please understand...and if you cannot understand...if you can see this in one light or another, see it as written from a place of love and compassion, deep and abiding, and not as a judgement or cry for help.
~~~~~
I'm no stranger to fear. I am full to the brim with fears. They swarm at me, a hive of buzzing, stinging little things. Mostly, I ignore them - they are not the sort of fears that nature gives us to aid in survival...look close enough and you will see them dressed in a fool's motley, ridiculous things that are barbed but useless.
So...when I see someone else wrapped in a swarm of their own, I empathize. It's not easy to breath when the little buggers crowd around. It's not easy to see, to find perspective. It's not easy to stand on one's own feet, maintain balance, look to the future. Hell, it's not always possible to look to the future,
I've invited anger into my life.
I'm not afraid of it.
It's not dangerous, this anger. It's not violent. It is words (which can hurt, yes...but only when meant to)(or, if they pain, it is not with intent but more a by-product of the hurt they sprang from) which are not directed anywhere but inward to the source...and outward to such gods as listen.
It's an anger rooted in hurt, in disappointment, in loss. It's fed by the frustration of a soul that has been knocked down every time it stood, so that it is almost afraid to stand again. It's being fed by hope...the hope that this time, when it rises, it won't fall again, which is itself a frightening contemplation.
I'm not afraid of this anger.
I fear its consequences. Not to me. I'm stronger than I appear, stronger than I make myself out to be. But I fear the consequences to the source. Anger of this kind...it so often turns inward and gnaws...
I am not afraid of this anger.
Sometimes, though, I am like a whipped cur when the anger raises its head. I cannot look at the source, cannot meet his eyes. I slink away, try not to be seen, make myself small. He won't hurt me...I truly believe he would smash himself to pieces before he hurt me...but the child I was (not the woman I am) remembers other anger, older anger. She wants to assuage, to smooth the way, to fix it, or if she cannot do these things, she wishes to go unnoticed until it passes.
I can't fix it. And I won't hide from it. The only way to deal with it is face on.
I am not afraid of this anger.
But I am not brave.
I have my swarms, buzzing and humming...and I can't always see or hear what I need to do to help. Not to fix. Can't fix. But to help...
Do you know The Healer's Laws?
No?
I'm not surprised. I may be the one person who has them written down in any coherent fashion...
Perhaps I made them up entirely. It has been known to happen.
The first law - you cannot heal others unless you yourself are whole. That doesn't mean one must be perfect...it's complicated...but if a body, a mind, is so imbalanced that it's lost within itself...well, it's not very useful for helping others, is it?
The second law - you must wait for them to ask. You can't just wander around fixing people without their permission, without their knowledge. They have to know they are hurting, have to want help, have to ask for it. It's part of the process. Until someone asks...their hurt is their own, and what right has anyone to take that away? You can offer...but you can't just thrust your will onto them.
The third law - sometimes, you have to fail.
There are more. I won't bore you with them.
What has this to do with anything?
I am not afraid of this anger.
My instinct is to sooth, to repair. Last night, I had to remind myself of the second law. I had to be firm with myself...until I couldn't bear it any more, went to the source, and damn near begged to be asked.
I'm sorry.
I had no right.
But my little swarms, my little clouds...they clouded my judgement, and I can only hope I did more good than harm in thrusting my hand past them, past the anger, to reach for the soul choking on its own clouds, its own swarms.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Shadows, Light
Early in the morning, the light filters through our curtains into the quiet room. I am awake, pulled from slumber by a presence...something has changed.
I don't usually wake slowly, but go from sleep to aware in a matter of moments.
Eyes open, I see the difference beside me, wrapped in sheets, blanket, comforter, grey morning light...
Someone.
Someone is here. Here with me.
He brought relatively little by way of the material world...but he fills this house with himself.
The house approves.
The boy approves.
I? Oh, yes...I approve...
I lean up on an elbow and am tempted...sorely tempted...
...to touch...to smooth my fingers lightly over his face, touch his lips, dip them in the hollow of his collar bone where shadows have come to rest with sighs of content. They drift, mingling with the dawn on his smooth, soft skin...
...to run my palm down his arm, feel the play of muscle, strong even at rest...
...to tease the scattering of hairs on his chest, wiry shafts tickling my face when I cuddle close.
Goddess, how I love to touch him...just to feel him there, radiating heat, vitality, Spirit...
And how I love to see him sleeping there, where it feels so right to have him...to see the shadows and shades molding to him, creating landscapes of chiaroscuro on him...to see them shift and change as he moves, opens his eyes, and light of a different sort fills the room.
I don't usually wake slowly, but go from sleep to aware in a matter of moments.
Eyes open, I see the difference beside me, wrapped in sheets, blanket, comforter, grey morning light...
Someone.
Someone is here. Here with me.
He brought relatively little by way of the material world...but he fills this house with himself.
The house approves.
The boy approves.
I? Oh, yes...I approve...
I lean up on an elbow and am tempted...sorely tempted...
...to touch...to smooth my fingers lightly over his face, touch his lips, dip them in the hollow of his collar bone where shadows have come to rest with sighs of content. They drift, mingling with the dawn on his smooth, soft skin...
...to run my palm down his arm, feel the play of muscle, strong even at rest...
...to tease the scattering of hairs on his chest, wiry shafts tickling my face when I cuddle close.
Goddess, how I love to touch him...just to feel him there, radiating heat, vitality, Spirit...
And how I love to see him sleeping there, where it feels so right to have him...to see the shadows and shades molding to him, creating landscapes of chiaroscuro on him...to see them shift and change as he moves, opens his eyes, and light of a different sort fills the room.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Still Here
I'm still here. So are the shadows. They don't go away. Not without serious medicating, not an option for me.
I'm in an odd state.
I worry. There's a great joy happening here, in the cold, dark, isolated place that is my heart. A great good thing. Not my best good thing - that's my son. He knows it, too, because I tell him he's my best good thing. Something...someone...else has taken up residence, taken root, and seems to be flourishing.
But I worry. I can't recall if I've written this before, but...I don't really know how to do happy...how to be happy. It's...alien. I know sorrow. I know hurt. I know depressed. I know rejection.
I don't know what to do with love. Not the love of a child or parent - the love of an equal. The love of someone who has no reason to love, no familial bond, no obligation. Wow. That's...that's huge. And awfully sweet. Sweetness. Awesome...
And I worry, because I don't know how to just be happy. Don't get me wrong - I revel in each moment, wallow in it, soak it in, savor it. But in the background is the voice telling me I'll screw it up, something will go wrong, I'll go wrong...
It worries me. What have I done to deserve this great good thing?
I worry...not that I doubt him in some way, because oddly I don't. I say oddly because I doubt everyone. It's part of the sickness. I doubt my mother, and my dear friends, and everyone...but not him. This is odd. I doubt myself most of all though, and that's what worries me. What if I am not enough or too much?
Mark Twain said everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows anyone. Not entirely true. I show my darkness, here and in my life. I trust a few people enough to let them see.. He sees. So why am I worried? Because it's unrelenting, this darkness, and what if he comes to realize he wants no more of it...and I can't just put it away, you know? Can't just stuff it in a pocket or in the back of the closet and pretend it's not there. Even if I am too much or not enough, I have to be myself, honestly, openly, entirely me.
Which is worrisome. I don't often like me very much...so how can anyone else?? As for love...whew...let's not go there right now...not love for self, anyway. I don't know if I have it in me...
Still...there is this great joy, and I smile so much my face hurts, and even the fear can't make that go away. People notice, and remark, and tease, and it's fine, it's good. The shadows niggle at me, but they're no match for this great good thing...so they're looming in more ordinary ways, more manageable ways, until they can find an opening and tear me down, claw at me, rend...
Meanwhile, I'm still here, still muddling, still rising and falling, riding it out.
Still rambling aimlessly, pointlessly, endlessly...still here...
I'm in an odd state.
I worry. There's a great joy happening here, in the cold, dark, isolated place that is my heart. A great good thing. Not my best good thing - that's my son. He knows it, too, because I tell him he's my best good thing. Something...someone...else has taken up residence, taken root, and seems to be flourishing.
But I worry. I can't recall if I've written this before, but...I don't really know how to do happy...how to be happy. It's...alien. I know sorrow. I know hurt. I know depressed. I know rejection.
I don't know what to do with love. Not the love of a child or parent - the love of an equal. The love of someone who has no reason to love, no familial bond, no obligation. Wow. That's...that's huge. And awfully sweet. Sweetness. Awesome...
And I worry, because I don't know how to just be happy. Don't get me wrong - I revel in each moment, wallow in it, soak it in, savor it. But in the background is the voice telling me I'll screw it up, something will go wrong, I'll go wrong...
It worries me. What have I done to deserve this great good thing?
I worry...not that I doubt him in some way, because oddly I don't. I say oddly because I doubt everyone. It's part of the sickness. I doubt my mother, and my dear friends, and everyone...but not him. This is odd. I doubt myself most of all though, and that's what worries me. What if I am not enough or too much?
Mark Twain said everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows anyone. Not entirely true. I show my darkness, here and in my life. I trust a few people enough to let them see.. He sees. So why am I worried? Because it's unrelenting, this darkness, and what if he comes to realize he wants no more of it...and I can't just put it away, you know? Can't just stuff it in a pocket or in the back of the closet and pretend it's not there. Even if I am too much or not enough, I have to be myself, honestly, openly, entirely me.
Which is worrisome. I don't often like me very much...so how can anyone else?? As for love...whew...let's not go there right now...not love for self, anyway. I don't know if I have it in me...
Still...there is this great joy, and I smile so much my face hurts, and even the fear can't make that go away. People notice, and remark, and tease, and it's fine, it's good. The shadows niggle at me, but they're no match for this great good thing...so they're looming in more ordinary ways, more manageable ways, until they can find an opening and tear me down, claw at me, rend...
Meanwhile, I'm still here, still muddling, still rising and falling, riding it out.
Still rambling aimlessly, pointlessly, endlessly...still here...
More or Less
There are times, love
When I feel I am not enough
Or perhaps too much
But never quite right
And
There are times, love
When I feel I am more than
Or perhaps less than
Myself
In equal measure
~~~~~
you bring this out in me
this sense
of being more
of being less
more than I have been in the past
in a better sense
more than the definition I've accepted
for so long
of not enough
you make me more
less than I have been in the past
in a better sense
less than the limitations I've accepted
for so long
on what I could be
you make me less
~~~~~
I can't begin to capture it, love
Lover
Beloved
Can't begin to
say
sing
paint
dance
write
express
How much more there is,
Since you came along,
And how much less
More moon
More sun
More stars
More wonder
More laughter
More fear
Less sorrow
Less hurt
Less darkness
Less silence
Less isolation
Less fear
More or less, love
Lover
Beloved
I am better off
And can only hope
I may repay the favor.
When I feel I am not enough
Or perhaps too much
But never quite right
And
There are times, love
When I feel I am more than
Or perhaps less than
Myself
In equal measure
~~~~~
you bring this out in me
this sense
of being more
of being less
more than I have been in the past
in a better sense
more than the definition I've accepted
for so long
of not enough
you make me more
less than I have been in the past
in a better sense
less than the limitations I've accepted
for so long
on what I could be
you make me less
~~~~~
I can't begin to capture it, love
Lover
Beloved
Can't begin to
say
sing
paint
dance
write
express
How much more there is,
Since you came along,
And how much less
More moon
More sun
More stars
More wonder
More laughter
More fear
Less sorrow
Less hurt
Less darkness
Less silence
Less isolation
Less fear
More or less, love
Lover
Beloved
I am better off
And can only hope
I may repay the favor.
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