Strength

Sometimes I think strength is misconstrued

Some ascribe it to one’s attitude

Some would say get over it

Others would say, take time…heal

I battle inside

Wondering what strength is

They say ‘you’ve already conquered’

‘you’ve made it through,’ they say

“The battle is already won”

But it’s not because, for me,

The battle’s just begun

The repercussions of a supposed win

Eat me alive, from within

So which way does one go?

Eaten alive, just to survive?

Appease the ones who’ve “been through worse?”

Apply salve to the wounds

Through the need to cry, heal, move forward?

Go to work, get a job, be productive?

Sit alone, cry and be self-destructive?

Nobody knows, but many think they do.

Walk in others' shoes.

Truth is nobody knows strength

Only their own strength

their perceptions of others' strengths

Nobody really knows.

Ponies, butterflies...and shit.

Life is shit.

That's it, and it's true.

Sometimes I want to feel (what I suppose would be) the satisfaction of stabbing an idiot with an ink pen or have the guts to walk straight across traffic, into the median of an at-least-four-lane highway and scream obscenities at no one in particular, yet everyone all at once.

Life is shit.

"Teddy" isn't real and he does not talk to you. One day you'll learn neither is Santa real, any more than the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy who somehow stuck some spare change under your pillow without moving you, yet a slight thump in the night makes you scream because you swear there's a monster in the closet (speaking of which, don't worry about letting your feet hang off the edge of the bed there's no monsters or sharks or anything under there that'll eat or grab your feet).

If you're lucky, you'll have been a wanted baby, and by "wanted," what I really mean is, "desired and planned by two people madly in love who die together in a hospital bed like in that best-kiss-ever movie." If not, chances are you were either an "oops" baby or they truly meant well, and believed they'd spend eternity together or they were selfish assholes who gave birth to you. (There's another set of people who are extremely young and naive' and know they will be able to handle raising a baby. It's not that they're selfish; just that they have issues and need someone to love, who'll never leave them. They just don't know it and probably never will).

Life is shit.

By the age of five you'll probably have been to the hospital or doctor's office for jumping on the bed or some other thing created with children's safety in mind. You'll either bust your head or break and arm or sprain a wrist. This will happen throughout your childhood, though, as you grow into your awkward pree-teen and teenage years, it will become more common any time you're near or with the opposite sex (unless you're homosexual, then it's the same sex). Invariably, you'll hit your teeth with the edge of a drinking container; you'll trip over a crack in the sidewalk; you'll bump heads when you go to kiss; you'll get naked in front of others, perhaps streak through the street or go skinny dipping, and someone will take your clothes, leaving you helplessly embarrassed.

Life is shit.

Your first time having sex will suck (no pun intended). If your'e a guy, you will probably orgasm before it's ever out of your pants but you'll play along and probably do one of two things: (1). you'll make something up or (2). you'll continue "fooling around" (what adults call "foreplay") and eventually be able to perform after a few more minutes, only that will last less time than it takes to enter a girl's vagina. If you're a girl, it hurts whether he's gentle or not. It is absolutely not like the movies. If you're at an average age (preferably at least 16 but nowadays as young as 12), take my word for it: don't look at it. If you look at it, you'll scream because there's no way that thing can fit inside your thing.

Yes it can and yes it hurts and yes, you'll likely bleed - if just a little - even if you've had experience with the finger before.

Life is shit.

You'll get your period while wearing white shorts in gym class or on the bus in the summertime, way too long before your stop. The cramps will feel like a hydraulic jack inside you and more than once, you're guaranteed to bite someone's head off (a warm heating pad and a good book helps, fyi, and sometimes you just need to spend a day sleeping).

You'll get a boner when Ol' Mrs. [Insert ridiculous name here] mentions anything that reminds you of sex and (God forbid) anyone saw or knew, you'd be teased about having a hard-on for the ugliest teacher in the entire school for the rest of your life. It's a given.

If you're lucky, you will be among the few who do not contract at least one sexually transmitted disease because, let's face it, condoms aren't always feasible and there's really no "good time" to put one on, once the ball is rolling... so to speak.

Life is shit.

You're going to drop your cell phone in the water more than once because "the first time was an accident and you weren't paying attention" but the second (third, fourth and fifth) time(s), it'll be because you continually believed it was simply a matter of not paying attention. This is true but not paying attention is what we do, so save yourself (and parents) some headaches and simply don't drink that Red Bull anywhere near the laptop or other electrical items.

Life is shit.

There's always going to be some girl at the prom who has a better dress than you; one who's more popular than you; one who's skinnier and/or prettier than you; one who's got the best hair; one everyone loves. There's also the one everyone feels sorry for and hangs out with or buys birthday presents for, just because of that. Incidentally, this one is usually the one who's terrified of you (unless it's you. Then you know who I'm talking about).

There's always going to be the guy who has it all. The one with the perfect hair; the one with the bigger penis (you know, because you looked one day with a fake sneeze at the urinal in 9th grade and, [although you never told anyone I mean, how could you, right?] the image will haunt you for your entire young adult life). There will always be the guy who has the newest car, the best computer, the sickest tattoo and the prettiest girls. Also, the penis fear thing will grow worse (no pun intended) as you overhear girls discussing the importance of size.

Life is shit.

People you love will die unnaturally and unpredictably. You'll sometimes be tough when inside you're crumbling and sometimes you'll crumble when you watch a Disney film. You'll refuse to cry in front of any other guy, but the other guy feels the same way...he just can't stop it and you awkwardly can't blame him because in some way you're going to envy him, even if you'll never show it.

You're going to experience at least one moment you'll regret the rest of your life: The moment you followed the leaders and made fun of/humiliated/hurt someone or something else. There'll be many moments of regret, but this one really sticks with you as if you've maimed a fluffy kitten.

Life is shit.

Parents fight. Parents hurt. Parents abuse. Parents divorce. Parents die. Not all of them (and most of the time, not all at once), but it happens. And if/when it does, some part of you will blame yourself and nothing anyone can say will change that until you grow up and realize the idiocy of blaming yourself.

Life is shit.

You're going to resent (unless you're real hard core, then you'll despise) anyone who believes other than you. At the very least, you'll quietly dispute them with disdain. You'll be indoctrinated in some way or another - most likely by your parents, grandparents, neighborhood or church. Possibly all of these. There will be the opposite side and they feel the same about you. Neither of you will know how to debate or have intellectual conversations about welfare or the state of the nation/union/world and you may even end up in a fight or two over it. (Seriously....People have died for Yankees vs. Red Sox arguments when lager and a pool cue were involved).

You won't always know what to say to someone who confides in you they've been raped or are being abused. You won't know when to "tell" and when not to "tell" and it'll drive you crazy, no matter which one you do, so the best thing to do is the one that helps the other person the most.


 Life is shit.

You're going to miss at least one extremely important, monumental thing in yours or your friends' or your parents'/cousins'/siblings' lives. At least. Probably a dozen. I'm being generous. Truth is, you just can't remember to be everywhere and do everything all at once.

You'll probably see a school counselor or private therapist at some point in your life, whether voluntarily or not, who will tell you exactly what I just wrote in the last sentence of the last paragraph. Still, those later-in-life therapists are usually necessary, even if you don't go to one.

Just think about doing it.

Trust me.

Life is shit.

Some sicknesses are invisible and the greatest wounds are usually internal (and not of the bleeding kind). This is part of why we abuse each other: because we don't see the hole we're shoving our thumbs into like a skewer to the eye. We hurt each other because we choose to be ignorant and unlearned about other cultures, religions, races and creeds and, instead....well, refer to paragraph above. You're not right. I'm not right. Nobody's right. We all simply have our indoctrinations. The lucky ones have a more complex doctrine with more information and education, but really they're not right, either (trust me, I'm one of them, and I know there's not a single one of us who has it right nor will we ever as long as we live on this earth).

And, though life is shit, there is this:

The smell of fresh cut grass; butterflies of magnificent, vibrant colors; star-spattered skies, bigger than anything you'll ever see; breathlessness from beauty of all kinds; synchronicity; seasons; the ocean; human resiliency; nature; the vastness of our own ignorance, which makes for titillating experiences when we first see or experience any of these things; the tininess of our personal world.

Our memories.

Love.

I wish I knew who to credit but I don't remember where I read or heard it (life is shit: the memory begins to fade and your skin will begin to wrinkle so get that tan if you want. It doesn't matter in the end), but when in doubt, consult your death bed. What will you think when you look back on [whatever] moment and made [whatever] choice? Will you hold regret? Will you be glad you did what you did? Will you wish you'd done something entirely different? What does your death bed say to you?

Life is shit.

But really, Life is all we've got.

Sick and sweet

Sickly sweet
like poisonous sap
drinking your innocence
you sit on his lap

An explosive laugh
contageous to guests
as thunderous
as his angry fists

Smile so bright
music so pulling
his web of deceit
so soft, so lulling

trapped inside it
there is no escape
you love him
you hate him
despite the rapes

stay away little girls
you're of no consequence
Daddy doesn't care
about your innocence

Film

A film of self-defense
self-denial
Denial altogether
covering the lenses
of eyes that never cried
denial of the inside
the red heat of self
dark cataracts to reality
cauterizing release
blocking the view
of wounds that
never healed
blackened and charred
the chips fall away
like obsidian teardrops
tiny shadowed tears
This film covering my reality
a lifetime
of denial.
A lifetime of unknowing

Between knowing and accepting

I recently had a harsh reality slap my face. I am not sure what hurt most...that I fell for this incident or that I came to a solid conclusion as a result or that I ..........

I was so hurt; used by someone to hurt someone else.

The kicker was this: I was helping because I was asked to. Someone I've never really known as a mother, reached out to me. I felt like I had a chance to prove myself to her. That's the truth.

That's the truth.

Then I did what I was trained to do as a life coach. I asked the proper questions so she could find her own answers. I was honest with her and I felt proud that she was recognizing me - ME - of all people as some source of help when my entire life I've been nothing. Less than nothing to her (despite her claims otherwise. Actions speak louder than words and her actions have contradicted her words for my entire life).

I fell for it.

Being used to hurt someone else I love, made me very, very angry.

It also fortified the disdain I've felt for this stranger I'm supposed to call "mom" or "mother."

But in the end, the worst part of it was the realization of my desperate need to have been loved and nurtured and worth something to her. I didn't know that need was there and had dismissed her entirely as a broken, manipulative user - someone I would never be.

I did not like her. I definitely didn't love her.

But I guess deep inside somewhere I never touched, I needed her to love me and I needed to matter but when I was two years old she left and we (my brother and I) were in foster care. Didn't know where she'd gone. My father was in prison. Family tried to locate her but she was nowhere to be found.

To hear her tell it, completely different story in which (of course) she's the victim but I know she was on drugs. I've heard many things about that time but I do know my brother and I did not experience the nurturing and love we should have. A lot of drugs. A lot of sex as infants.

The truth is out and has been, but I've not been surprised.

What surprised me most was the realization I needed her acceptance.

Now I am confused and floating in this space of uncertainty.

"When all that I've known is lost, and found..."

That's it. Limbo. Or, according to my therapist, "liminal space"

When I was little, I revered Florence Nightingale. I wanted to be her. I spent hours in front of anatomy charts and I remembered every bone in the body. I started learning every muscle, too.

I read her books. I wrote. I got published. "Mom" missed all that.

I had little to no encouragement for my passions. I was a walking zombie. Devoid of any direction except to be good. "Be good."

I wasn't "good."

I never was good.

Nor was I ever good enough.

This is called a "breakthrough."

And it hurts like a javelin shoved through my skull, from head to toe, split in half.

It also makes me afraid to move forward, but I know I will.

This was the least of my pains. The other stuff....I am afraid what "breakthroughs" will be there.

Bloody Salt

Unheard and unheeded
Lonely drops of salt
Turn inward
To tears of fault
Turning to blood
Infused with toxicity
Self-loathing
For unknown
Reasons, beyond understanding
The unspoken need
For love
Never received
Constant need
For worth
Proof of worth
Beaten and swallowed
In salty blood tears
Never revealed
Unseen...
By the very one who cries them

Tenderness

I suppose you could say I'm kind of writing to write. Sort of stream-of-conscience. But not really.

Through most of my life, a tender touch always made me cry. Always, without question and often to the point of shoving the tenderness away, until my later years. I suppose I calloused myself to it, though I still hold a weakness for certain touches (the face, particularly).

I've always maintained my favorite English word is "whisper."

Today I sit and listen to Rain by Patti Griffith.

Rain is a silent, private tenderness. Delicate. I've never done "delicate" very well. A tough girl. A tomboy. Dresses make me feel like an alien (except during my promiscuous period, during which time the higher the heels and the tighter & shorter the dress/skirt, the better). Still even then I was seeking that tenderness that I almost always rejected. Strange oxymoron, I know.

Whisper....whisper is soft, like the breeze...I always envision it riding on the wind, sailing across the world, over oceans. Whispers of wishes and dreams and broken hearts.

Tears....tender.

So hard to cry...can't stand that tender part of me, that cries from some place of deep wounds and darkness. I can cry angry tears because anger is not tender, but tender tears are.

Tenderness is so hard to take...to accept. To be understood and validated hurts more than anything else because it's so foreign. To be accepted hurts because it's not believable.

To trust......all the years I've spent thinking I was trusting when, in truth, I've never trusted anyone completely. There are still secrets, dark ones where I can't let tenderness invade. Places of my own torment that - ironically, out of tenderness - I don't want others to see or experience.

Tears, rain, whispers, winds. Things that fade, but hurt so much because they touch something I avoid and always have.

That's why tenderness hurts.

Completely Off-Topic: Warning Downingtown Renters

I'm writing this blog which is completely off-topic and not involved with my usual "Journey" weblog.

I'm writing because there is no place I can find online to list "bad landlords" but there are plenty of places to list "bad tenants"...databases in almost every state to list "bad tenants" but no place to warn potential renters/tenants of a bad landlord.

So that is what I'm doing here. I hope someone can pick up the ball and start some kind of database for the good tenants and the bad landlords.

I have rented several times and ended all rentals as per the lease and always received my refund back, oftentimes leaving the property in better condition than it was when I rented it (ie, painting the walls with Killz and sanding old, bubbly paint on the baseboards, re-caulking old windows with cracked former caulk, etc.) These are things I know how to do almost professionally after years of working on refurbishing and upholstering.

Unfortunately, I "fell" for my current landlord (Amerigo Buonanno) despite the tiny 900 square foot apartment he had available. Downstairs unit. Oil, water, sewage and garbage to be split between myself and upstairs tenants. He was very kind, an older gentleman with a very strong accent which he swears is Mexican, though most believe he's Italian (as I do). But that's neither here nor there.

This landlord was gracious enough to let us move in, in Mid to late November but the actual lease was dated Dec. 1 which was when he would receive the money: 1st, last and security ($1,050 each). A lot of money but I had a friend who'd needed a place and he put up most of the money.

And....although he did not allow animals, he did include our cat - Snowball - to be included in the lease, after checking our references and credit checks.

Lease signed, we moved from CT to PA with little problems but we did not do all of our due diligence. We took some photos and videos prior to moving in and we made sure to photographically document peeling wallpaper, unfinished sheetrock repair (unsanded and unpainted), scratches and dents in the doors plus a missing door from my son's bedroom (illegal in this state...finally got one but not until months later).

During the first winter, we froze. In our apartment, the heat did not keep our apartment warm and we spent most of it explaining the problem and - without any resolution - simply had to bundle up in layers (most of the heaters were sold out by this time).

This fall, we acted preemptively and purchased two quality heaters since Mr. Buonanno had not done anything to rectify the heating situation and with a $350+ oil bill every month, we were going to rely mostly on our electric heaters because of the cost and to keep warm.

The thermostat that controlled both apartment units was located in our apartment. Amerigo had it set to 68 at all times and it could not be changed. (I've since found out it is illegal in Downingtown Borough for a tenant to not be able to control their own heat). Mr. Buonanno moved the thermostat control upstairs which is also freezing. (I tried as hard as I could to warn them but Mr. Buonanno was there and I couldn't).

We lent them one of our energy efficient new heaters because their apartment was so cold and they had a toddler. They use this heater to this day, even though they're able to adjust the temperature of the thermostat.

Mr. Buonanno is an older man who came to help with a pipe under our kitchen sink. Following this tedious process, Mr. Buonanno suffered a stroke and subsequent medical conditions attributed to the task of laying on his back in an awkward position to fix this pipe.

After this, we did not want to ask him for help and we mostly fixed everything ourselves. We did not bother him with problems we could take care of ourselves because we knew his health was frail, as was his wife's. I was terrified to be alone with him as he would take it upon himself to climb ladders (despite his vertigo) and I would not be able to catch him if he fell.

After more than a year now (My son is in a great school so moving was out of the question because he is on the autism spectrum and needs to finish high school), we've discovered Mr. Buonanno to be - at times- utterly unreasonable, demanding, intrusive and sometimes unkind. We attribute this to his illnesses because despite the shoddy work that was done pre-renting, he was a nice man to us. It was after his stroke and "problems with [the previous] upstairs tenants" he has become far more aggressive and belligerent, even demanding we pay by money order or bank check, despite a consistent monthly rental payment by check, for our sakes so we could have clear and easily accessible evidence of rent paid on time.

We will - as with past rentals - repair some of the things we can. The holes in our kitchen ceiling will remain because we do not have the knowledge or ability to repair them. We will paint walls and shampoo the carpets as we always have. We will wipe everything down and make it better than it was when we moved in.

However, I wanted to warn anyone out there who is looking for a rental in Downingtown, Pennsylvania (PA), please reconsider and ask other tenants in the building, if looking at a property owned by Mr. Buonanno or his family. Ask him for tenant references.

(we even contacted the borough building code office about the heat and they said, "well you know it's an old building..." which, of course we could not have contemplated during our first month-and-a-half here because heat was not really necessary at those times). Mr. Buonanno clearly has "friends" in higher places.

I am sorry that he is older now and suffering. I have even hugged him and offered food to him...he was that charming. But now he's Mr. Hyde.

Be wary, potential tenants. We are now on our second "upstairs tenants" and they, too, are now having the same problems as the last upstairs tenants, as are we.

This is not written to be inflamatory, it is for information purposes only. If you wish to ask me any specific questions, please contact me via the comment section and I will provide more details, as asked and as well as I can.

Late Night Pain

The nicotine stained walls

Bear witness

But no one else.

The windows covered with sheer,

Silky curtains                   

Not intended

For the rough skin I wear

They soak in the yellow

Of the cigarette burning

In this ashtray by my elbow

Ashes drift carelessly

As I flick them mindlessly

Swimming in the words of a song

That says all that I can’t

My pills nearby

I hold a beer – it’s my third

I know it’s wrong

It’s also reactive.

It’s like a pitchfork

Jamming into me

I don’t bleed, no….

I simply compound this pain

That I feel entitled to.

With each beer,

That entitlement strengthens

Eventually the beer and the song

They’re not enough.

The smoke goes out.

It’s just me and the dark

And the lonely

And the entitlement

And a razor blade.