humpty dumpty sat on a wall...

Child molestation is not a happy topic, especially when an American college football coach is in the middle of the scandal. You've probably heard enough about the man they call Jo Pa, too much in fact. His kingdom is crumbling and he is partially to blame. I have no sympathy for him and the wall of lies built around his unhappy valley.  I want to know where are the stories about the traumatized children and their families?

  

I am enraged.  I am sickened.  I am embarrassed, once again, for our country.  We are socially inept.  We've proven this in several ways.  We claim to help the world, yet at home, our residents are flailing.  Morality and ethics are lost a midst team jerseys and statistical polls.  Blinders must have been on sale this past decade, on the shelf next to the foggy glasses and rosary beads. 

Yes, I'm referring to the Catholic mess.  The entity who raped my generation of dignity and trust.  The church I trusted to teach my children about honor, respect, loving one another, and helping those less fortunate.  My fault, I didn't read the disclaimer:  'priests may seem holier than they appear.'  The Vatican cover up and the Penn State cover up are huge.  Two powerful, public, influential groups who have been revered and praised for good deeds.  Two groups of human beings choosing to look the other way, brush under the rug, deny, create excuses, and harm.  Once wronged, shame on you.  Twice, shame on me.  Action is needed.  

My interest is twofold.  I am a mother.  I am a psychiatric nurse. Protective maternal instincts cannot be matched.  Like the wild animal charging the invader too close to her babies, this mom feels like kicking butt and taking names.  My patients have shared horror stories of child molestation and abuse, sometimes  at the hands of their loved ones, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles...stories that explain the psychosis, dissociation, self-hatred, and self-harm of adulthood.  Where does the cycle end?  How?  When?  

I promise each of you this:  if I see an adult sexually molesting a child, I will be talking to 911 dispatch sooner than that predator can pull up his pants.  Period.  No second thought.  I knew this 22 years ago when my daughter was gracefully growing inside of me.  I know this everyday and forevermore.  Help is my middle name, even when I may be requesting, I can feel others' pain.  Maybe there in lies the motive for my anger today.  Maybe my anger is ever present because I so strongly feel the hurt around me.  I hurt for the children unnecessarily put in contact with predators, unhealthy adults who were given multiple chances to prey, given permission from their bosses, their confidants, their elders, their bishops and cardinals.  I hurt for the children who lost their youth and live daily with doubt, and wonder why they deserve their horror.  I hurt for the students at Penn State who do not understand the severity of their university's indiscretions, their judgement clouded by the pedestal's shadow.  I hurt for the believers who follow doctrine, blindly and unquestionably, their muteness deafening.  

Yes, to be human is to err.  I, of all humans, am a walking err.  I will not cast the first stone.  Too late for that pebble.  I'm looking for a rock to chuck, a boulder to roll, a stick of dynamite, anything I can use to awaken senses and knock heads.  Wanna' join me?

go green!

peace and love

~L

confidence cracked

you know what pisses me off?  friends who don't act like friends.  friends who tell you they always make time for their friends and don't.  friends who ignore you.  friends who are happy to see you until they realize you don't fit into their life.  friends who don't reply to your email, not even one word.  friends who comment on everyone else's wall except yours.  friends who encourage you to open your heart and subsequently crush said heart.

you know what also pisses me off?  how angry i am with my friend and how important this friendship is for me...why are my eyes welling with tears now?  how did i get here?  once hopeful and energized by friend and now frustrated and regretful.  rejected again.  rejected by an old friend, one whom i never thought i would talk to again.  one who reminded me of happy me, pre-depressed me, innocent me.  one with whom i share common interests.  or so i thought.

damned if i do...be myself, tell my truth, feel appreciated.
fuck this world and the horse it rode in on.
too tired to climb the emotional ladder
tired of looking through rose colored fun house mirrors
distortion persuading my heart to peek
look, just a little, maybe this time will be ok
persuading my soul to unlock prayers
and go to bed before I wake
again i fail, fall, frustrate my forward progression

what happened?
no answer
was it something I said?
no answer
one too many emails?
no answer
intrusion of public privacy?
no answer
expectation higher than yours?
no answer
will you please contact me and explain?
nothing
i hear you loud and clear.

i hear gentle crackings, like the iced lake removing itself from the warming shore
that's my confidence
that's why I'm pissed
at myself

my so called lifeline

October 4, 2010

My doubt, self doubt, grows exponentially with my silence.  When I tell him that I don’t think I can satisfy him, what am I really saying? Am I asking him for help or asking him to bail?  He’s heard this over and over and it’s ingrained in his thoughts of me.  He says he needs me to tell him what I want. Now.  He needs me to tell him that I want him or that I don’t want him.  That I want to fight for this relationship or that I won’t fight for it.  He wants and needs to hear me include myself in the fixing of this partnership. Or he needs to hear the alternative.  He wants to stick.  God tells him to.  

I am confused.  I am hurt.  I am sad. I want so many experiences and I don’t feel close to my partner.  Did we ever feel close?  When did we think the same and dream the same dreams?  When did we share our desires?

I know I am growing and exploring who I never got to be.  I have consistently been the work-on-it gal.  But maybe my work hasn’t been for the good of closeness.  Have I been working toward strengthening our togetherness or our separateness?  What are my goals now?  What do I have the capability of working on?  Toward?  What do I want to work on?

Testing my limits by going to school and listening to him doubt that I made the right choice without him.  
Testing my mental health by submitting to illogical expectations of a psychotic boss and resigning before she canned me.  
Testing my self confidence and if he is right about my nursing ability.
Getting blindsided by my own confidence.
Feeling like a fool at the mercy of strangers.  
Falling into similar traps at a job without foundation.  
Exhausting myself to please and push for more and to fit in.
Ignoring the signals of security as I watch the walls crumble around me.
Running away before the explosion begins, setting myself up for self implosion instead.

How did I get here?  Where did I come from?  Why do I think this way?  Where is God?

I have felt lost in the last year or two, crying because I was hurt when he didn’t think well of me.  I recall the times he told me that my way of thinking is wrong, that my way of expressing my thoughts is wrong and inefficient and is not worth his time.  So I shut up.  I stopped expressing myself to him.  I stopped trying to explain myself and where I was coming from and how I felt and what I wanted.  I gave up.  After all, I did not want to hear that the man I loved thought negatively about me.  I did not need him to reinforce my self doubt.  Why put myself in a position where I knew I would hurt?

Our conflicts became broken records of despair and futility.  One negative word or head shake or rolling of the eyes or fuck you,  and I’m gone.  Out the door.  Out of the house.  Out of the city.  Out of my mind. Out of reality.  Out of myself.  This is the truth.  I’ve been living outside of myself.

Depressed enough to give up my license.  Depressed enough to say I’ll work for minimum wage.  Embarrassed enough to tell him he was right about me being a nurse.  Frightened enough to lie to myself and hide from the truth.  Until the sunshine blinded my insecurities for a brief moment of clarity and WTF-ness.

I didn’t want to be Rainey anymore.  Rainey is not taken seriously.  Rainey is a baby and frail and frustrated and fragile.  Rainey doesn’t know how to stand up for herself and speak her thoughts and commit to decisions or make and pursue goals.  I want to grow up and be L.  I want to make my own decisions and speak my mind and joke in public and cheer loudly at the games and talk about passionate subjects and tell my family what I really mean and not take their shit anymore.  That includes him.  No more shit sandwiches.  No more crybaby.  No more sulking in the corner.  No more caring what they think.

And I landed softly.  I landed safely.  I carefully caress my nursing career in the home of mental health.  And I feel confidence anew.  I am a nurse.  I am helping and learning and teaching and growing.  And God is with me.  The dance of life continues in the next room.  Please join us.  Please take off your shoes and get comfortable for this ride.  We welcome you back.  We missed you. Now get to work.

What I believe is truth in this room are lies inside the other room.  How I perform here is different than what I perform there. The train tracks switch in between and my mind does not always follow.  Which way do I turn?  Which way do you want me to turn?

I’m taking my meds.  I’m writing and sorting and releasing stress my way.  My way may be the wrong way.  Wrong for this family.  Wrong for these kids.  Wrong for my parents and his.  

He tells me the way I should do this.  Live.  Relate.  Speak my mind.  Listen.  Form goals and work toward them.  Parent.  Partner.
He suggests and helps when he notices my confusion and frustration.  He advises me to do what he does, because it works for him, has worked since he was a kid, 12 or 13 or 14 years old.  Good for him to be confident in his habits and confident in his patterns and with his goals reached and processes of getting there.  Good for him to rely on consistency.  Good for him to keep him afloat through the dark ages.

When I was 12, 13, 14, I was watching my parents split up for some unknown reason and placing me in the arms of a stranger without skills to know how to relate with him.  Placing me in a different world, switching scenes without telling me I had to follow.  Changing the expectations and allowances of my pre-adolescent hormonally developing mind and soul and heart.

Choices stripped.  Opinions banned.  Extraction from comfortable and forward momentum.  Forced into unknown and unsupported.  Doubted and divided.  Slapped and insulted.  Stifled and censored.  Ignored and injured.  Where am I going?  Where are you taking me?  What am I supposed to do now?  Who is leading me?  Where am I?

And I ran.  Toward acceptance of the negative sort.  From strangers who barely knew me and who I didn’t have to reveal myself. I didn’t have to hold back my passion.  And I flew.  Into trouble and insecurity of the adolescent kind.  The trouble of who do I like and how do I deal and what if I’m rejected?  Trouble of trying to ignore my home life long enough to feel like I could be happy otherwise.  Pretend to like yourself or don’t and pretend others do.  Release and reject.  Revive sanity temporarily.  Act two roles.  Isn’t that what I was taught?  Be someone you’re not in order to survive?  Be what they want you to be in order to be accepted?  In order not to get hit or hurt or doubt yourself more?  
Don’t ask questions. Don’t lead with ideas.  

 
August 8, 2011  (10 months later)

Full circle.  Right back where I started.  I’m at it again.  The last paragraph is my story.  The only one.  The missing link in my lifetime of sorrow.  No rusted links, only shiny like new, strong as ever sharp, cold metal connections, from my ten year old happy-go-lucky fourth grader to my presently fucked up self.  Breaking hearts and taking names by accident.  The accidental tourist of my own life.  45 years take away ten real good ones and 35 links later, I’m the expert avoider.  Just call me super sucka!

Therapist on board.  Not holding back from the fears thrown at me.  I’m taking strikes until my bat makes contact, until I feel the spark of energy, the mass of force pushing me through the motion by the release of weight off my shoulders.  When I watch the homerun ball soar above us all, it’s arch predetermined by my positioning, and see the open sky smiling, I will know. I will know.

And since I have no idea how that Babe Ruth-esque moment will feel, or when clarification will arrive, I’m grounded in my garden dugout, watching weeds pop up out of nowhere and wishing a giant hand will reach down to pull me up too.  

scream of consciousness

so many words to write and one wrong move by my right hand sends them packing.  feelings and needs and rants wrapped up in that stream before it left the building with Elvis.  it screamed with everything stored inside, held the fog ransom while my fingers vomited the irrationality of my reality onto the keys and into cyberspace.  tears followed suit.  rose colored glasses inaccessible.  

I love you.

peace.

~L

part of the story

(originally written to French class friend prior to the birth of this blog 10/2009)

Forty three years ago…my day is approaching. Unconscious reflection consistently appears this time of year. I remember some horrible horrible birthdays. Sad, cautious, mean birthdays. In my adulthood. The best b-days were the ones in Wheeling. Mom combined brother's with mine cause his is November, and we themed it Halloween. All the kids wearing costumes and bobbing for apples in our basement and a long picnic table inside with party hats, cake and balloons. A world ago. Another lifetime…my first lifetime.

My lifetime before the move and divorce a couple years later. Before I was forced to stand under dad’s umbrella of confusion and guilt. When Mom asked us who we wanted to live with and she gave us to Dad anyway.

…Before we visited Mom at her little condo apartment down the road and had sleep overs with the strange furniture and strange expectations. Before Mom moved in with that guy with a long ponytail, at his house. Where did he come from? And where’s Morton Grove? Too far apparently to see Mom often. Good thing I was almost outta there…5 hour drive away to the next lifetime.

1976: Step right up folks, see the brand new home built in the sticks, away from everything familiar and everyone I know in my whole life of ten years old. Bigger house, better home? Mom works sporadically, Dad develops his home office. Why is he staying overnight so often at his apartment in Chicago? Doesn’t he work here? Oh the weather and the games and the nightlife…disco lessons and foreign friends. Huh??

Then the long secret, closed-door discussions Mom and Dad would have in the basement office. We’d sit upstairs watching TV and listening for arguing…none heard. Don’t think it’s bad, cause they’re not hurting each other as far as we can tell. No explanation for a year or so. Then mom takes me into her room to fold laundry with her, one quiet evening. Dad’s in the city, bro and sis somewhere else in the house…The laundry folding talk will always be remembered.

The main points: Your Dad and I are divorcing. Who would you like to live with, if you could choose? Well, sorry, Dad said he would take us all to court and fight for custody so I’m letting him have you. I don’t want that court experience to hurt you. He’ll keep you here, same house, same routine, same friends. You can stay home from school tomorrow and Dad’s coming home so we can talk as a family.

My thoughts: Where did this come from? I didn’t even see you argue or hear yelling from the basement. Why would I want to live with Dad, he’s never around, he and I don’t do anything together, and he’s no fun. Are you joking? I need my mother. So dad’s got more money and knows people who can screw you? I get it, dad’s in the mafia or something and he wants our life to suck. See why I don’t want to live with him? Are you joking? When is this happening to me? What do I tell my friends? Nothing’s the same. Where’s my Mom gonna be when I need her? When will I wake up from this dream? What is happening????

The new lifetime begins. How many is that now?

And the journaling begins. And so does the lifetime of depression. The lifetime began is replaced with the unknown eggshell walk of teen angst and risky behavior and self disrespect and craving love and wishing for change and fighting the forces of unreasonable expectations. Bye bye childhood lifetime. I’ll remember you fondly and pretend I’m still there with you. You, me, child innocence, growth began, wonderment explored, hopes raised, comfort creepin in…I mourn you all. And never see you again.

Finality hurts, no matter the reason.

Loss is mourned, no matter the subject.

No matter who you are

Who you want to be

Losing lifetime is unfair…

For a child.

Find the cost of Freedom…CSNY sings to me now. The costs are high and I’m not done paying. Mother Earth will swallow you, lay your body down. Wish it was that simple. Not my choice to end God’s lifetime. Must live on until He says I’m done. My lifetimes may be molded though.

they're just spies

I stole the title from Coldplay. They must know why I'm boarded up and behind closed doors.

If you ever feel neglected, if you think that all is lost, I'll be counting out my demons, hoping everything's not lost. (more Coldplay)

So tired of silence. Silence rocks my world right now. Noise is missing. Noise is necessary. My fuzzy, grey noise, buzzing inside my brain, humming louder with each revolution, gaining speed of sound and velocity of violence, garnering tidbits of answers from behind now and pressing into questions about now. NOW. THEN. WTF? My annoyance with simplicity grows with each hour of silent treatment and unanswered response. I wrote it up. The thesis of my NOW. I gave it out. I shared honesty and truth and growth and soul...simply. Smartly. Sincerely. Privately. printed out, not on a screen or cc'ed or drafted by blogger. It's physically and literally in his hands. or in his garbage or in his desk drawer or in his memory. I dunno cause he hasn't responded. Today is day 6.

What did God do on day 6? I know 7 was the restful one. Maybe he'll be ironically timely and tomorrow my heart will beat slower and my neck muscles will loosen and the salty liquid pushing at my eyelids will retreat. Maybe I'll hear what he thinks or feels or wants tomorrow. At this point I've gone through a few possible responses. Shit, we're experts at looking at what's wrong with our union. Experts at listing what doesn't work and what we've tried and retried and talked to death about trying. Experts at let's hang in there for a little while. Experts at feeling great about our strides and then falling through the floor in an instant.

That's what really bugs me now...the immediate change from laughter to anger in the same conversation. The transition into total chaos and doubt. I wrote one of you recently how my marriage is the best it's ever been...and here we stand in the mud up to our knees. I can't say I know how this will turn around. I can say that I know where my head and heart sit and I will be true to myself. The truth will set me free, right? The truth about life and love is one tricky son0fabitch to learn.

Healthy me wants to meet healthy him. I don't now when that will happen. Honest me introduced myself to honest him six days ago and here we are. Waiting for the shakedown, the shakeup, the line to be drawn or jumped over or raised with the bar. More of the same or more? Begin again or end up? Share or shut out?

I'll shut up now.

the more things change, the more they....well, you know.

Here's an older post, from january, a few months ago. My words are rough and my emotion is raw...that's me at my best and my worst. I put this one on the back burner, hidden from readers, saved for future use...apparently my family can't absorb the strength of my soul and when some read of my trouble, I received phone calls and "talks" about my sanity. Didn't y'all know I was crazy? I thought that was a given!
Today I require a revisit and review of this scene. Introspection running rampant in my mind begs for answers to similar questions. I'll fill you in later. Life is calling.
~L

Honesty is the best policy.

So here's the truth. I wanted to run away last night. I drove two hours, stopped to look for a hotel to sleep overnight, and turned around toward home. I'm glad I changed my mind. All I needed was time to think, and sleep. Which I did when I arrived home at 2:30 am.

No one knew I had escaped. My son called me to tell me he was home at curfew and we exchanged I love you's. My husband was in the basement when I left, and when I returned. They still have no clue. Irrational? A little. Necessary? You betcha'.

It's not my first attempt at escaping my reality by automobile. I can drive the four hours to my extended family in my sleep, been traveling that road for over 20 years. Usually I head in their direction. Usually I am guaranteed a soft place to land with one of my clan. This time I wanted to avoid them at all costs. Really, I needed to avoid confrontation. Confrontation put me in my car and pushed me out of town. No, I needed and wanted a reprieve. A respite. I was looking for peace.

Here I sit, 24 hours after my great escape, wondering where I am. I cannot see the forest from the trees. I'm squinting through leaves, standing on my tip toes, craning my neck to look around twisted branches. Too bad the sun isn't shining, I could use more light. Here I sit, 24 hours later, sorting through the underbrush. Shall I gather sticks and start a fire? I may have to stay here for a while. What will I use for cover if it begins to snow? I'm on my own, so I best begin. Begin again. Again.

Lay me down in the cool grass and let me do my stuff (Fleetwood Mac).

My husband and I have been married for 20 years. Well, officially shy by two months, which in the grand scheme of two decades of matrimony, means nothing. My husband and I confronted our demons last night...again. The unwelcome demons that linger here. I hate these demons. I hate them. Hate them. Hate. These fears that paralyze us. The feelings that haunt us. The misunderstandings and miss-communications that fuel our fire. The past precedents of confrontation eat at us, even after we promise them away for good. They tear at our hearts and reveal our weaknesses to each other. The ugly truth rears its head and we talk and emote and engage and stop listening. My husband and I own a pattern and cycle of dysfunctional cooperation. We are not partners. We know this.

We struggle to get along. To like each other. To expect less and receive more. To be content with each other and comfortable together. For twenty years we try. Our history is colorful and checkered. Checkered with choices of circumstance and change. Checkered with unexpected tragedy and unfinished trials. Checkered by the dissimilar expectations we brought with us. Last night I saw, heard, and felt my husband's pent up frustration and anger. Last night was another reminder of our separate lives desperately trying to fit together. I told him my truth and he told me his.

We have all been here before...(CSNY)

Each day I keep my depression in check and my life takes on meaning which he does not understand. I am misunderstood by my life partner and I feel sad. I feel sad because he tells me that I misunderstand him. I feel hollow inside when I see his eyes tear and his voice crack when he tells me that he doesn't know how much more he can take, or give. I empathize. I do. I feel exactly the same honey.

Still we live on. Forging what must be the shape of a married couple's life. Following the bread crumbs we find and praying we found the ones that lead us somewhere...and not back where we started. Last night we came back around, again. We walked onto the path of destruction and started running toward our familiar. Histrionic emotions exited by mouth and entered our storm. Hurt thundered around our heads. Regret gained velocity and pushed the demons closer. And I ran.

hiding

can barely see through the tears

must write to feel

must write to sort and think and see through

reality tears

acceptance of what i declared

and what responses followed

will follow

more to come

sure thing

reality

admitting purpose has price

to pay

in real time

with real people

real feelings to hurt

real intentions make real consequences

rather throw this keyboard through that window

rather hide

i'm good at it

hiding from reality

and bites

incompatibility of self with you

fit into one and not the other

help and hurt together

wishing i learned this already

might be easier

might not

reality bites

hard

my heart can't wait to meet you on the other side~mmj

mellow music repeated

one song

one sound

one circle closing

all things comin back round

upside down

beginning to ending

end to begin

possible?

ready?

really?

supporters in place?

very needy

very moody

very scary

help please.

Sunday

I went to church today.  I haven't been going for the last month or two.  Started out because I'd be working or I would get called into work at the last minute or I was the on call nurse and had to right a wrong or fix a problem asap.  Then my funk was a better place for me to stay on a Sunday morning.  Alone with my cloudy, funky, sleepy self.  And coffee, of course.

So today I go to church and sing my heart to the Lord and confess my sins before receiving communion and create fellowship over doughnuts and coffee and hug a great friend who I don't see often enough and get hugged by two women who have missed me.  Church was a good place to park my non-funky self this morning.  Sunday, sunny Sunday.

My sunny attitude lasted well into the afternoon.  I cropped photos of yesterday's walk (sunny Saturday), called Mom and sis, and started filling out tax forms.  Then he happened.  My husband.  We pleasantly cohabited in the family/kitchen space for a couple hours, me at the kitchen table calculating or at the computer printing forms and pubs, and he on the couch surfing pregame stuff and old movies in between trips to the basement laundry.

He's going out of town tomorrow morning. Gone for two days, business trip.  I understand the need for him to run last minute errands and do laundry and pack and get to bed early.  But do you have to be a bitch to me?  Yeah, I called him a bitch.  This is how it went:

Me: (at the computer, perusing college tax info, sees Jeff with vacuum)  "Hun, why don't you let me do that?  I'm almost done."

J:  "I'm doing it now."

Me:  "Well, could you please wait 10 minutes? I'm finishing up."

J: (unwinding the cord and plugging it in)  "No."

Me:  "No?  Please wait 10 minutes, I need to concentrate on this."

J:  "This won't bother you."

Me:  "Yes it will bother me.  That is why I'm asking you to wait please."

J:  "I'm sure you can find a way to get done what you need to."

Me: (gathering my stuff and leaving the room)  "I will get it done.  That is not the issue!"

This is an example of Jeff acting like Jeff.  The king of his castle.  The director of his domain.  The producer of his play.  A bitch to his wife.  And inconsiderate, I may add.  All his talk of how we don't or can't have a partnership and he treats me like an insect sometimes.  This is not new territory for me.  I've faced this bitchy, better than you, you don't matter act for years.  I've analyzed and rearranged my approaches.  I've failed and succeeded.  I've voiced my disgust and suggested compromises.  I've avoided and bit my tongue.  I've left rooms and left the house and left the state.  I've grown braver and more assertive with each conversation and confrontation.  I've felt, learned, observed, listened, screamed, cried, pushed, pulled.  Marriage.  Partnership.  Not here.  Not now.

Don't get me wrong, he's not a monster.  He's very kind when he wants to be.  And he has a temper when appropriate.  Doesn't everyone?  So what brought on today's bitterness?  Did I wrong him earlier in the day and he's acting out instead of talking to me?  Is this another way of telling me that I should get off my ass and clean the house?  Are you nervous about your presentation in front of the corporate bigwigs?  What makes a person deliberately be rude to the woman he claims to want a partnership of marriage with?

I'm not the perfect partner, I know this.  You may know this also, if you've been reading my blog.  He doesn't.  He refuses to read my words here, even after I politely asked him to.  I suggested that these pages may be a way to better understand me.  You know what he said?  "I know all I need to know about you."  Thanks.  Can I cry now?

After I left the vacuuming and the volatility, I found solace in my bedroom where I read my book and sipped on my first jb and ginger.  I gave myself a time out.  I avoided confrontation without dismissing my pride.  I  reminded myself to steady instead of stir up emotion.  Jeff was wound tight and I chose not to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

kids are still cruel

I am a nurse.  Been one officially for 16 months.  I don't know if I can do this anymore.

Nothing beside my family means more to me.  I may not be cut out to do this.

I know this might sound sad.  I know this feels sad.  I love learning.  I love helping.  I don't think I can be taught anymore of this stuff.  

I've given this up to God.  I let it be.  And it still hurts.  I don't know if this feeling will fade.

Helping others and feeling helpless.
Hoping to heal and assuming assistance.
Giving and tending to someone else's garden as if it were mine...I don't think that's all.

Praying and pleading for a heart to step up.  Where is the support group?  Where is the camaraderie of healers?  Where do I look for other nurses to tend with me?  To pull me out of this mud so I can grow too?  I think cutting off my nose to spite my face is easier.  

The world of sacrifice and  unconditional giving is foreign to the other kids.  Like they think I'm threatening their confidence by wanting to succeed.  Changing to fit in is not doing it for me.  I don't think I belong on this playground anymore.

This isn't the first time I've been kicked out of the club.  It's becoming an unwelcome occurrence and a pitiful sight for my family to bear.  I realize some strengths in writing and photography and hugging.  None of that creates sustainable income or equates to a reason for six years of community college.  I don't think I can survive another confession to my husband and kids.  Mommy fell again.  Mommy fell to square one again and needs a vacation from reality. Mom's leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again.

Where do I hide from my naivety?  Where do I hide my ego?  Where do I find a way-back machine to travel to my mother's womb?  I don't know where the rest of my strength will come from.  I don't know if crying and writing and pow wows about pulling up boot straps is meant for me anymore.  I want it to go away.  I don't like dredging the bottom of my lake anymore.  Let the sandbars pile up, no ships of opportunity await in my harbor to pass through.

The beach and I have bonded.  I spend time with the open sky, the screaming seagulls, the welcoming waves, the ice bogs and the sand prints...all beach asks in return is respect.  Respect of environment and beauty and peacefulness and calm and solace and protection and security and wonder.  I'm calming now, thinking about my beach.  I visited the unexpected colors of our sunset last week.  Shot over one hundred photos with my new telephoto lens.  Felt grateful to be alive and standing next to Lake Michigan's enormity and grace.  Even our winter is tolerable standing on her shores.

Lots to think about in the next week.  Lots to decide.  I'd rather be volunteering in Haiti.  And someday I will.  Today I don't have the appropriate skills to step foot onto that hallowed ground...to add one more mouth to feed or one more spot of grass to sleep upon.  Someday my talents will serve their purpose.  Someday...

Until then I write, shoot photos, read good books, do taxes, reorganize my closets, email friends, walk the dog, go to the beach, listen to good music, bake, dance, travel.  Until then I live.  And get along with the other kids.

Peace be with us.

running

My friend hurts and I do too.
My hands are tied and useless
My heart is open
My home is open
He is closing.

Friend, please be well today.
find peace
follow your heart
fix your mind on the SUN and let the warmth blanket your soul.

Your soul speaks,
I hear the waves lapping with every heartbeat
I hear the wind whistling with every breath
I hear the trees rustling with every footstep
I hear movement inside you
do you hear?

move a little closer
take another look around
Your colors are shining,
like the flowers you found
and the sky you snapped
and the smile you gave me.

Time between then and now matters less
than time today.
Today my friend feels and longs and needs,
feels alive and angry
feels stung
feels strong
feels sorry
feels.

My arms open
my hands reach
my eyes open wider
my heart breaks a little
my need is your need
my heart is your heart
my hurt is your hurt.

Friend, be well today.

morning ambush

Screaming at the top of her lungs at me, through the phone, over 250 miles.  All I can make out are a few goddams.  Minutes before she called to tell me that they postponed the procedure again for the same reason as yesterday.  Third time the charm?  I hope so because this train is off the track now, heading toward destruction. 

When I call her back a half hour later to inform her that I didn't understand what she was saying, I also mentioned that I would like to help her and to please tell me how.  In summary, I am the problem and I was told to fuck off. Well, that's the condensed version.  I've heard this all before from her, and him, and lived with the irrationality of their judgment for decades.  Still produces tears. When I'm alone.

Objectively, he is stable and she is not.  I cannot fuel her fire and I cannot ignore her cry for help.  250 miles and many years of misunderstanding separates sisters.  I will travel the miles, but the understanding must wait.

another one bites the dust OR being alone on my birthday really sucks!

Not feeling forward momentum today.  Sliding backwards, sliding away.  Feeling the old creeping in and encompassing the good vibes.  This is a recurring pattern, not as often as years ago, but does occur.  so maybe it's the seasonal effectiveness of grey skies and torrential rains for 12 hours of awakeness.  Remember every fall and winter years ago?  Black tunnels of Hell.  Not anywhere near that now.  Thank you God.

So why the mood?  Why the pout? Why the negativity?  Good question.  Be thankful for what you've overcome...

Emotional abuse from two men, well, one man and one wanna be man.  Back to back blunders for me.  Not realizing the pattern for many years...see how you get caught up?  When someone says they love you and you believe them and you expect certain ways for their love to be expressed to you, you can get caught up. Caught up in looking for those expressions and expecting your expectations and needing more than you are receiving.  Becoming vulnerable by the minute because you believe what they tell you and then they don't produce what they promise.  Believe that you are the reason for their unhappiness...when you haven't done anything differently than the first day.  The day you were born, the day you met, the day you agreed to give yourself entirely.  Dad or boyfriend, doesn't matter, both are who I wanted to please and wanted for them to please me. 

Trusting a father is something a child is born with.  Trust that you get taken care of no matter what.  Trust that you will be comforted and protected and listened too, eventually.  When that day doesn't come, and that day turns into fear and uncertainty and confusion...that's when you turn to someone else who may be able to fulfill your wants and needs.  Friends who use you and talk shit to others about you.  People who assume you are someone other than you are and take what they can.  You let them because you need to feel needed.  You let yourself be someone else, be somewhere other than where you are because that doesn't work anymore.  You strive to change into a foreigner, someone you don't even recognize.  Fuck your self respect, he tells me it's wrong anyway.

Smoke up, forget.  Drink up, forget.  Drive a carload full of drugged up kids, forget.  Lie about everything, forget.  Forget how to be yourself.  Forget what loving yourself means.  Wait, I never learned how that feels.  What does that mean anyway?  You are supposed to agree with your thoughts and like what you say to people and know that you may make mistakes but you will survive after that?  What the hell does all that have to do with feeling loved and wanted and included and listened too?  I'll go on following the other high kids and see how much comfort that brings me. And if that doesn't work, I'll find someone else who can provide my instant gratification...to forget and feel good.  No matter the cost.  I never developed morals and values and opinions of my self behavior, so there's nothing to act out against or feel guilty about.  Fuck it!

See Dad, see world, see how I can make my own decisions and survive my way?  Barely...survive right into the arms of another abuser.

Well he didn't start out that way.  Actually I introduced him to drugs and he turned ugly soon after.  I started using him and he turned it around on me...who'da thunk?  By the time I was left ragged, wrung out, and broken, he was in rehab and I found my way out.  I didn't plan on breaking up with him over the phone, when he called me from the hospital...but he got mad and I got mad and I did it.  I planned on telling him the next day when I visited him.  His parents already knew I would.  His therapist knew too.  I met with his therapist.  Why?  Because for the last 2 years he threatened to kill himself if I left him...and I didn't know what to do about that burden.  He was in a safe place and the supporters were ready for the worst, so I cut myself free and haven't spoken with him since.  Done.  Finality. Freedom...for three weeks exactly.

Then the next, unexpected lifetime begins.  Boyfriend, daughter, husband, move, son, move again.  On our own.  Here we are.

can't find my way home

I am good at pool because I grew up with a pool table in my basement.  And ping pong because the table fit on top of the pool table and my brother and I would play matches.  Haven't played in a while but it usually comes right back to me.  The blue chalk, the bridge cue, the break triangle, all the tools of the trade.  Oh, the green felt and the way my hands formed around the stick...like riding a bike.


Listening to the guitar chords of Eric Clapton. Singing the blues through those rich guitar chords, feels like private conversations between two other people, maybe I shouldn't be listening...but now he's live and the entire audience hears him...


Plant your love and let it grow...let it grow, let it grow, let it blossom let it grow...


Remember listening to this album while my sister and I drove to visit our bro in college, the same college I graduated from the year before.


when I was in college I had no college life.  maybe freshman year, before I started believing what he was saying about me.  before I decided to give up my friends, roomie, and study habits because of what he said to me.  Pretty pathetic when a college student isn't smart enough to make her own decisions.  I missed everything.  I look through my one yearbook from those four years and I see photos of people, students, having fun.  My fun was ordering a Garcia's stuffed crust with sausage and extra sauce and buying a pint of chocolate chocolate chip Haagen Daz from the Piggly Wiggly for desert.  And eating all of it by myself after smoking a one hit or two.  Pathetic.


I used to glob onto my neighbors.  They lived in a big house, 2 guys and a girl from Sweden...they smoked too and listened to great music, so I sat in their house and helped myself while they studied.  Pathetic.  That was after he dropped out and I was totally alone.  Thank God for people's sympathy. 


Freshman year I had fun.  I hung out with a high school buddy and we checked out the parties and partied hard.  i hid booze in my dorm room fridge and tempted my RA to open it to see if I wasn't lying...she didn't.  I safety pinned the calves of my jeans to make them super straight, like my friend across the hall did.  she was from Chicago and much wiser than a girl from the burbs.  We went to football games late and drunk. We sang Beatles songs in our dorm while eating the cookies my Grandma sent.  We bought posters at the union to decorate our walls and ate bags of flavored popcorn while we studied in the common room on our floor.  I always wore this bulky knitted sweater that tied closed...a gift from my dad from some carribean island or Las Vegas...and knitted bootie slippers from Canada.  We were comfy and content and carefree.  One year.


Then he started telling lies about me...to me.  What an ass.  Me, I'm the ass, for believing what he told me.  For believing that I was wrong and believing that I had to follow his ideas.  do his homework and laundry.  WTF?  lame and pathetic.  Abuse? possibly.  for 3 years and one after graduation.  No good times at college for me to savor...sad, very sad.


So when I look at myself in the mirror today, I try not to blame myself.  I try to say it's OK because you made it out of that.  You are OK now.  Am I?  Am I telling myself what I should?  what I need to hear?  It's easy to abuse yourself, to talk negatively like you have been for decades, to listen to the doubt and remember the shame.  Reaching for the light of positivity and compassion is difficult for an abuse victim.  Time moves slowly and every step taken may end up being negated by one back.  Frustrating to say the least.  Necessary to stay alive.

You don't believe the compliments at first, or after ten times heard.  You avoid situations that remind you of your weaknesses.  You cry because other people are happy and you know you can't be.  The negative talk.  The doubting yourself and wishing you were someone else. it's trying and tiring to live this way.  but you don't have enough energy to figure out the other way to live.  Decades of tired.


Even after I shed the old and begin the new, I am broken.  The healing is not quick.  The help is sparse and undefined.  The little things are disastrous and the big things are neglected.  He is kind and just as young and doing his best.  I am not trained to be a partner.  I barely know how to be me alone.