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.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
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?
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?
Monday, December 15, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
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.
Monday, November 3, 2014
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
Friday, October 10, 2014
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
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.
Friday, September 12, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, July 28, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
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."
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."
Sunday, March 16, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Shadow
She stares at me
a stranger in the mirror
She is there
but I'm not here
A veil hangs
betwen who she is
and who I am
who I see
It's not me
not me that I see
some other person
some other story
Her pain isn't mine
her secrets, her own
I close my eyes
And she is gone.
-C
a stranger in the mirror
She is there
but I'm not here
A veil hangs
betwen who she is
and who I am
who I see
It's not me
not me that I see
some other person
some other story
Her pain isn't mine
her secrets, her own
I close my eyes
And she is gone.
-C
Monday, January 6, 2014
Third Rate
A lot of sex-related dreams. So many humiliations in my sleep, haunting me, waking me with tears.
An odd one: a man holding two large white boxes; behind him, a dark figure in the shape and with the gait of a lion, ferocious, vicious and I, with a choice: This box or that box. I had to choose which to open but I knew - in the darkness, there with that man and his two large white boxes standing between myself and this dark, savage, blood-thirsty...thing - that my choice did not matter. Whichever box I chose, this man would disappear, the box would not matter and I would be eaten alive.
This morning, again in tears, I awoke with the vivid memory of being subhuman. Of being third-rate, unimportant. Moments before awakening, I'd been in a dream, on a bus, perhaps a train. I had my laptop - an old Dell Inspiron. It was in my satchel but somehow, an ex - I don't know which one - was there with his new wife (girlfriend?) and the woman was sneering at me, leering, daring me to be jealous of the fact that she was "fucking my ex."
Together, they plotted with the person in charge of whatever commuter venue we were on and told her - a woman with auburn hair and a light blue dress suit - that I'd stolen their laptop and they wanted it back. The woman, condescending with her tightly wound french twist, occasionally turned and glared down at me as I tried desperately to hide one of my prized possessions. My laptop - dilapidated and out-dated as it may be - holds many secrets. Many photos. So much writing. Years of it - both personal and professional.
A stranger next to me who I cannot identify was seeing this exchange and heard what was happening. He was helping me to hide my laptop with it's taped space bar and missing "I" key.
"How does it feel to know I"m fucking your ex, bitch?"
The stranger next to me heard her vengeful, spiteful words, spoken through clenched teeth from a scowling, sneering face. The stranger knew what was happening.
My clothing was third-rate. My appearance third-rate. I was third-rate.
A third-rate citizen.
And that's why the blue-suited woman believed them over me.
I awoke crying because they were trying to take my laptop and my satchel. I was just beginning to quiz them - to ask them to describe the keyboard and the space bar and the I key. I know which keys work and which ones don't.
But I awoke as I struggled against them.
That's how I feel. Like a third-rate person.
A recent re-traumatization has brought on some horrific nightmares. Laughter at my nudity. Laughter and mocking of my body. Sexually grotesque nightmares.
I do not like being treated like a third-rate human being. It hurts and yet it's all I know. Everything else has always been an act. Beneath it all, I've always believed myself to be that third-rate person, mother, wife, human.
An odd one: a man holding two large white boxes; behind him, a dark figure in the shape and with the gait of a lion, ferocious, vicious and I, with a choice: This box or that box. I had to choose which to open but I knew - in the darkness, there with that man and his two large white boxes standing between myself and this dark, savage, blood-thirsty...thing - that my choice did not matter. Whichever box I chose, this man would disappear, the box would not matter and I would be eaten alive.
This morning, again in tears, I awoke with the vivid memory of being subhuman. Of being third-rate, unimportant. Moments before awakening, I'd been in a dream, on a bus, perhaps a train. I had my laptop - an old Dell Inspiron. It was in my satchel but somehow, an ex - I don't know which one - was there with his new wife (girlfriend?) and the woman was sneering at me, leering, daring me to be jealous of the fact that she was "fucking my ex."
Together, they plotted with the person in charge of whatever commuter venue we were on and told her - a woman with auburn hair and a light blue dress suit - that I'd stolen their laptop and they wanted it back. The woman, condescending with her tightly wound french twist, occasionally turned and glared down at me as I tried desperately to hide one of my prized possessions. My laptop - dilapidated and out-dated as it may be - holds many secrets. Many photos. So much writing. Years of it - both personal and professional.
A stranger next to me who I cannot identify was seeing this exchange and heard what was happening. He was helping me to hide my laptop with it's taped space bar and missing "I" key.
"How does it feel to know I"m fucking your ex, bitch?"
The stranger next to me heard her vengeful, spiteful words, spoken through clenched teeth from a scowling, sneering face. The stranger knew what was happening.
My clothing was third-rate. My appearance third-rate. I was third-rate.
A third-rate citizen.
And that's why the blue-suited woman believed them over me.
I awoke crying because they were trying to take my laptop and my satchel. I was just beginning to quiz them - to ask them to describe the keyboard and the space bar and the I key. I know which keys work and which ones don't.
But I awoke as I struggled against them.
That's how I feel. Like a third-rate person.
A recent re-traumatization has brought on some horrific nightmares. Laughter at my nudity. Laughter and mocking of my body. Sexually grotesque nightmares.
I do not like being treated like a third-rate human being. It hurts and yet it's all I know. Everything else has always been an act. Beneath it all, I've always believed myself to be that third-rate person, mother, wife, human.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Adjustment/change
Sad and hopeful all at once, along with all the in-between feelings.
I accidentally called Bill "Gary," today... Again.
Working hard to get through everything. Holidays don't help.
Those who know, understand; certain seasons, smells, movements, characteristics. So much.
I miss many, but have to believe my moving is a healthy step forward. I've spent numerous nights alone fighting the urge to cut.
Part of me wants to scream. But there's nothing but compliant silence and survival.
I am far, far away from myself... Whoever that is.
I accidentally called Bill "Gary," today... Again.
Working hard to get through everything. Holidays don't help.
Those who know, understand; certain seasons, smells, movements, characteristics. So much.
I miss many, but have to believe my moving is a healthy step forward. I've spent numerous nights alone fighting the urge to cut.
Part of me wants to scream. But there's nothing but compliant silence and survival.
I am far, far away from myself... Whoever that is.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Birthday
Dear daddy,
My birthday is coming up. It's this weekend.
It's the first one in my life that I've dreaded.
Like last Mother's Day I may or may not not receive a text message telling he happy birthday from my children. I don't blame you for that and yet some part of me I do.
This year I don't want to celebrate my birthday.
This year I don't want anyone to celebrate my birthday.
Because I wish I had never been born.
My birthday is coming up. It's this weekend.
It's the first one in my life that I've dreaded.
Like last Mother's Day I may or may not not receive a text message telling he happy birthday from my children. I don't blame you for that and yet some part of me I do.
This year I don't want to celebrate my birthday.
This year I don't want anyone to celebrate my birthday.
Because I wish I had never been born.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Tears
Tears fall without a sound, but scream so loud.
Today I cry for those who hang their heads. For those who cross the street, when they see people coming. For those whose voices are gone, replaced by what society demands of them.
Today I cry for the silent shame that weighs like an anvil on each shoulder of those who society pretends don't exist; the forgotten, unnamed, unlovable, unwanted. The faceless, the poor who "don't matter" and whose worlds simply do not and have not ever existed beyond the TV screen of 3,000 square foot homes with 84" screens.
Today I cry a deep, aching cry for the fear that is always felt, but never revealed and the anger that cannot be felt, but often comes out at the worst times - usually aimed at oneself.
I cry because I am so scared. So scared.
I cry for those who - like me - feel alone because we create our prisons. We have these prisons that both keep us captive, and keep us and everyone else safe.
I cry because it is a lonely, dark place. But it is our place.
Our only place.
I cry for those who - like me - have medical issues that go unattended because we cannot allow our bodies to be exposed. We'd rather bleed in pain, than be violated again.
Paralyzed by fear, I sit here in this room I've tried to make "home" and I know it is not - nor has it ever been - "home," and I try, with frustration, desperation and utter overwhelm to figure out what it is I am supposed to do now. What do I do next? I wish someone was here.
Today I cry for those who hang their heads. For those who cross the street, when they see people coming. For those whose voices are gone, replaced by what society demands of them.
Today I cry for the silent shame that weighs like an anvil on each shoulder of those who society pretends don't exist; the forgotten, unnamed, unlovable, unwanted. The faceless, the poor who "don't matter" and whose worlds simply do not and have not ever existed beyond the TV screen of 3,000 square foot homes with 84" screens.
Today I cry a deep, aching cry for the fear that is always felt, but never revealed and the anger that cannot be felt, but often comes out at the worst times - usually aimed at oneself.
I cry because I am so scared. So scared.
I cry for those who - like me - feel alone because we create our prisons. We have these prisons that both keep us captive, and keep us and everyone else safe.
I cry because it is a lonely, dark place. But it is our place.
Our only place.
I cry for those who - like me - have medical issues that go unattended because we cannot allow our bodies to be exposed. We'd rather bleed in pain, than be violated again.
Paralyzed by fear, I sit here in this room I've tried to make "home" and I know it is not - nor has it ever been - "home," and I try, with frustration, desperation and utter overwhelm to figure out what it is I am supposed to do now. What do I do next? I wish someone was here.
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