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.

Dreams

Can't see beyond myself
This chiseled vessel of mine
Turning to dreams
Small wormholes of the mind
Tiny snippets, seconds long
A dot on the fabric of time
I plead and pray and beg
Please, please this night
A whisper, a glimpse;
A secret, a sight
Tell me anything
Give me a clue
I can't seem to get it
So I count on you
My dreams....
My dark, distant dreams.

No Defense

I'm completely immobile. Nothing tastes right; nothing feels right; nothing smells right; nothing works right. I can't tell if I'm hungry or if I'm in pain.

It seems like I've been working so hard for so long- since 2011 - on an abusive history I still am unable to grasp as my own. I've done all this work....God...I've done all this work, I've seen things in myself, my behaviors, my coping mechanisms that are broken and self-sabotaging. I've gawked at the realizations, cried, beaten myself up in more ways than I can say; more often and longer than I can say.

And then I get to this point where I feel I can reach out and be honest and I can understand - at least in part - why I react so quickly and dramatically to the thought of losing someone I love. In particular, my kids.

I literally panic.

I will do anything, fight anyone. I won't lose my kids. The reason is because I consider them to be the only family I've ever had.

So now...now that I reach that point where I can (and have) literally reached out to them all and begged their forgiveness and asked them for something a child should never need to be asked - support, encouragement, understanding as I work through all his mess and try to be a better person - they're falling away like flies.

I shake my head. I cry. I am stunned. I don't understand. I beg. I even pray. I wish to God at least SHE would listen but she's become someone I would never raise. She's my daughter but I'm nothing to her. Everyone says "she'll come around." Yeah....but that's not enough for me. I don't care. I'm so tired. I've been there. I probably saved her life and am constantly persecuted for it, though I'd do it again.

It's so simple. So easy to understand, but she won't even listen.

And even worse, takes, yet, another family member away. My new granddaughter. I'm reticent to even use the words "my granddaughter" since I've not been privy to any photos or videos which she's apparently sharing widely and proudly on facebook.





I sit for hours and half-listen to shows or videos about people who've lost loved ones and how they wish they could have them back for just one moment, just to say I love you.

And then I think how cruel it is, that we have these moments, but I'm nothing...not even worth an "I love you."

I hear these stories of people who could have done something to stop the disappearance of someone or the death of someone, but didn't and I shake my head. 

Nobody says a thing. Nobody tells the truth.

Everyone's scared to get involved.

Jesus Christ.

Why even continue doing it?

Only One

I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.

Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.

But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...

Appeasement does not work for me.

All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.

But for naught.

I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.

I have therapy tomorrow.

I have almost nothing to say.

I am so numb. So, so numb.

Voiceless, wordless, needless.

Nothing. Obviously.

Like stone

1:30 in the morning;
Another bad dream
Arise you idiot
I silently scream

Shake it off--
My logical voice.
My God, how I try
too much noise

I sit visiting the dark
At my beat-up desk
Mentally wiping
The hurt from my chest

I try to read or breathe
Watch a film til it's done
Nothing works
And 4:30 comes

I take Nyquil
Just to quiet my head
But the dream remains
As I lay down in bed

The lump is there
The struggle is rough
The first sob escapes
Silent but tough

I will not cry
I think in my mind
Another sob
And another behind

Tears fall like pebbles
Tiny dings as they hit
Soaking my pillow
Making my hair stick

I beat myself up
Fool! Idiot! Baby! I hear
But they keep on,
More and more tears

Another bad dream
Same four nights in a row
Set on repeat
I cry to my pillow.

44

Today is my birthday. Here, at home, Bill & Trevor gave me cards and some gifts. I was so happy with the gifts and the cards (Bill's card made my eyes tear up a bit)

I don't think it's this way with everyone, but for me, after a certain age, they start to just kind of roll by so fast you don't pay much attention to them (I didn't even know how old I was going to be lol).

Today I got a text message from my mom - Cindy - and from my surrogate daughter - Hannah. It's not a card...no. And not a present... but it WAS a gift. A gift from them both.

And it's not that I don't appreciate the dozens of birthday wishes online on FB because I do but I also recognize FB tells folks when it's your birthday so many wished me a happy birthday....

Including my own daughter. No phone call. Not even a text.

That hurt.

The only consolation was the two texts I got from Cindy and Hannah for which I am grateful (Hannah even remembers our "anniversary" lol)

I have not heard from my oldest yet. I get choked up thinking about it because I've always believed (an have modeled) that birthdays should begin with a happy note in the morning so you can celebrate that special day, all day, knowing people DID remember (not reminded) your day of birth. Your existence in this world.

I'm also very close to my oldest and always have been. And I have made mega mistakes as a mom but I've also done some pretty great things and created happy memories for my children. I've done the best I can, with the little bit of guidance I had. Mostly from bits and pieces of different women (Aunt Neen).

My first worry about this day - today - started a week ago when I hoped to God my daughter, who I love and miss so much, wouldn't text me...least of all call me but would, instead, tell me happy birthday on FB the way I was invited to her baby shower. On FB. By a third party even (Though well intended) it hurt.

So I guess it feels like I am just FB friends with my daughter or even less. She wished me happy birthday in the same way that people I've neve even met did. People who don't even really know me but we're kind enough to post birthday wishes.

Thank you Cindy and Hannah. I love you both and I sit here crying now, knowing you thought of me enough and I mean enough to get a happy birthday text from you. <3

It's late

I am here swimming deep in emotions with the aid of appropriate music and, strangely, I don't want it to end. It's like the cutting or burning or hair - pulling or other (more embarrassing means) of self punishment. I don't want to go to bed. I want to feel the pain. Even if I don't really know what the pain is.

Anything

I will do anything
To get out of this skin
Change my voice
Make myself thin

Be sophisticated
Be untamed
A socialite
Or just unnamed

I'll curl my hair
Or leave it straight
Wear pearls and lace
Or cut my own bait

Cook like a chef
Or go out to eat
Rub your shoulders
Massage your feet

I would do anything
To get out of this skin
The possibilities, endless
Don't know wh where to begin

I'll beg forgiveness
Hide the secret resentment
Never cry before you
Bury my lament

Or cry if you want
Let you save me
You be the hero
If it's what you wanna be

I'll be successful
(Though it won't last)
I'll try again
And I'll hide my past

Leave you out
Or let you in
But only if I
Am out of my skin.

Three faces, making one.

My nightmares are juxtapositions of the only three serious relationships I have ever had: Terry, Gary and Bill. I loved them all.

I also loved Daddy.

In my dreams, one of these loves (except Daddy) will be doing something but it's not really them; it's one of the others, even if it seems like them.

Tonight I'm having enormous anxiety over G. I still can't handle the pictures and the lies and the betrayal and perversions. The abuse and the abandonment. The mixed messages.

I know it's him - it's him who was unable to commit.

I begged. Just as I have with the other two and especially the way I have in the past with Daddy. I threw myself at his feet, begging, crying.

He kicked me while I was down and laughed as he walked away, a new love already waiting.

I should have known.

If they'll do it with you, they'll do it to you.

I wish I could remove him from my mind. Erase him from my memory. I'd rather have a black space of five years, than memories of a five-year lie.

For H.S.

Been awhile, but I haven't disappeared - though there have been many times I wish I could.

There's a lot happening but it's happening so fast that I am exhausted...breathless... like a carnival ride that is spinning and doesn't stop spinning, just gets faster and doesn't stop.

The reigns in my life seem to have disappeared and here I am, at the mercy of ....whatever or whoever.

The wind is knocked out of me.

God I don't want to be alone, yet I am afraid of being alone. Or,at least, being abandoned.

The conundrum is a desperate, deep, painful churn in my stomach that I hide.

This journey is more than I could ever imagined it to be. Wrought with self-awareness and reflection; patterns; mistakes...

This blog - this particular one - I write for a friend who called me today in tears. I felt her pain.

Hang in there.

Nightmares

Tonight I feel sad. I've put everyone to bed and I am alone but it feels like more than alone. I cannot describe it. Half of me wants to cut, burn or somehow hurt myself but I feel beholden, believe it or not, to my therapist - Ellen.

So strange that I miss and love my children so much, yet she's the one I can't let down.

The nightmares are terrible. I have no appetite and no energy. Ellen and I agree this is from a lifetime of wearing necessary masks. I need control. Must have it. So many times as an infant, child, teenager and adult I have been molested, beaten, abused... I have learned the habit of controlling.

There's so much more to it...God, so much more.

But for now, I am sad.

Denial

Sitting in the seats
watching the show
half-hearted, half-listening
to things I want not to know

Stories and flashes
Flicker inside, too
"Yes, girl,"
"Yes this happened to you."

"NO IT DIDN'T!"
some part of me fights
yet from that same place
buried deep, a spark of light

Not of judgment nor fear
not of hatred or guilt
just a glimpse - a tiny scrape -
in a wall I have built.

"Impossible," I think
And I turn the movie off
Shut down the fight
Turn off the light

Still I ponder
And some part of me aches
"You'll know me one day,
Whatever it takes."

I shush it with distraction
Any will do,
Still I hear that whisper,
"Yes, honey, this happened to you."

Pain and Prison

I wish there were words to describe this. But there are not. I cannot even think of a metaphor...and I'm usually pretty good at that.

But this time I can't think of a single word besides pain and that word is so inadequate. It comes from the inside and the outside, like I'm being crushed.

I cry...I cry spontaneously and I gag and I take a clonazepam but none of it takes it away. I dream of it, and I feel it somewhere so deeply.

I do not like feeling. Anything.

But I do.

And that's why I don't like feeling.

It hurts. It hurts every time.

I won't let anyone in, and those I want in, won't come in (with one exception).

God I wish she knew... I wish he knew.

I miss her so desperately and now it's a compound fracture and there's no doctor.

I'll never forgive him...he knows who he is. To judge, when you're unknown by someone, is loathsome and immature and - in this case - disrespectful.

I hope my daughter sees the control all around her and frees herself.

Unlike me....who's just now learning - or trying to learn - to free myself.

That's why I can see her prison.

Because I've lived there my whole life.