a journal page on my recent realization that i need to stop using anger as a shield.
clarity
mothra’s day massacre
here’s a funny story
some years back
i noticed my ex
burying something
in the dumpster
knowing he never took out the trash
my curiosity was piqued
so i went
dumpster diving
for mother’s day…
turned out
his stalker girlfriend
had left a mother’s day bouquet
of tulips
on our doorstep for me
unlike all the weird little notes
& gifts she left for him,
he saw fit to throw the tulips
in the trash…
that might be
the only time
i got flowers for mother’s day….
okay…not funny “haha”…more like funny in a really really painful way.
mother’s day & i have a terrible track record.
with a husband who said on the first mother’s day after my giving birth to his son, “why would i get her anything; she’s not my mother?”
with a mother who didn’t seem to know the first thing about mothering…but who was always happy to complain, criticize, & be cruel….
with my own conflicted feelings on being a mom….
it’s a fucked up day for me.
yet…i caught myself buying a necklace for myself…i think it was supposed to be a surprise, for mother’s day. so maybe i am starting to heal?
maybe.
a celtic trinity knot necklace. a protection symbol. with green amber ( my favorite.)
it’s nice to know that i remembered to get me something nice for mother’s day.
the image is a card i sent to my little sister last year for mother’s day…it was the closest i could get to saying “happy mother’s day.”
& for my next trick…
surviving myself
may be
the best trick
i have ever done
now you see me
now
you still
see me
i’m still here
manacles
straight jacket
cement shoes
submerged in a tank full of every tear
i have
ever
cried
&
i climbed back out
i
survived.
gorey laundry
my dad
he was
embarrassed to be
my dad
he thought
i was weird
different
abnormal
my dad
he was
embarrassed
of me
of the way
i dressed
of my being
outspoken
with opinions
contrary
to his own
my dad
he was
embarrassed
to be my dad
embarrassed
that i wanted to be
a writer
an artist
he tried to convince me
of the mistake
i was
making
he did not believe
i could possibly
succeed
i would be a failure
…how embarrassing
he was
embarrassed
of me
my dad
a man who did not
show his hand
a man
who kept so much
hidden
my dad
he could not bother
to hide
his
embarrassment.
i was to give a speech at my high school graduation because i was the salutatorian of my class.
my dad did not want to go to my graduation because he was sure i would embarrass him.
on my perfect little sister’s wedding day, i was put in the uncomfortable position of being her maid of honor. my dad’s words to me?
“don’t embarrass your sister on her day.”
he told me i would regret following my dreams. he told me that no one actually follows their dreams. he told me i had to be practical.
my dad.
spent so much time pushing me down.
when i eloped with a stranger (because i just wanted to believe that someone could really love me,) he said, “you’re not my problem anymore.”
i guess
now that he’s dead
i can say that right back to him.
thanks to edward gorey for this illustration inspiration
i could tell “worse” stories about my dad. about his alcoholism and his violent temper & how terrifying my childhood was…but the weird thing is, though that stuff was terrifying…it didn’t hurt nearly as much as living a life knowing what he thought of me.
invisible threads
maybe he still holds me
with
invisible threads
cords woven
into my heart
maybe he still keeps me
in a prison
with no bars
i think i am free
but somehow
i am not…
how many times
have i left him
but maybe
he still holds
me
after all
in his
refusing to let me
go
he pounds another nail
into my coffin
telling himself
he is keeping me
safe.
as i was driving, monday, to take the minions to meet their dad, i glimpsed another passenger in my car when i glanced to the rear view mirror.
shortly after, i drove past a cemetery with a fresh grave.
i wondered, will their father be there, at the meeting place?
or am i finally free?
i was sure that my ex-husband had died.
however, as we now know, it was my father who had died, not theirs.
i thought that if my ex-husband had died, i would be a little sad. i mean, my kids would lose their dad…but i would also feel…
free.
kinda the way i felt when i found out it was in fact my father who had died.
on retrospect, i guess i shouldn’t be surprised that i got the energy of my dead dad mixed up with the energy of my ex-husband…i mean, there is a reason i often choose charming narcissistic assholes to be with.
& what i wonder now is…can’t i be free without anyone else having to die? how do i break the binds that he keeps me tied with? because i truly believe that his not letting me go is stopping me from being truly free of him.
down to earth
i am not safe
i am not easy
however
i am down to earth
i am right down to the
molten rock
lava in my veins
i am the hurricanes
on the sea
i am the tornadoes
on the plains
i am the rain that falls
to create life
i am the moon
waxing & waning
& pulling the tides
to me
i am alive
so
no
i am not safe
i am not easy
& in my experience
i have found that nothing
nothing
worth having
ever is.
note to all you well-meaning men–if you aren’t interested, just say, “no thank you.” don’t make excuses. don’t prolong the inevitable. don’t rationalize & make nice. just fucking say, “no thank you.”
if there is need for further explanation, we will ask for it.
sigh.
i told guy to “be safe” after he pleaded “ptsd” and “not being that the kind of person to be sponateous” and “having too many responsibilities” to have a rendezvous with me.
first off, raise your hand if you don’t have ptsd.
fuck.
my ptsd has ptsd.
also, i have severe social anxiety.
yet i still reached out to him because i feel that the day i let my fears dictate how i live…i am no longer alive.
and who doesn’t have responsibilities? my whole life is responsibilities…which is exactly why i, for one, was dying to do something spontaneous.
i texted him that spontaneity is good for the soul.
he channeled somebody’s super fuddy-duddy father to text me back about not being able to do that for this & that reason.
why didn’t he just say, “no thank you” from the get-go? i am honestly wondering. this is not a rhetorical question of mine. i would ask him, but he shuts down communication with me pretty good with his fuddy-duddy father voice. i’m all like, “yes sir,” as i scamper away to look around for someone else to play with.
bleah.
so i told guy to “be safe.” i was being snarky, but thanks to text messaging ambiguity, he has no way of knowing that. (unless he reads my blog…but i don’t think he is that invested considering he turned down a booty call thinly veiled as an invite to a h.s. reunion….)
he said, “you too.”
and that inspired this page.
being present
it’s like
all of a sudden
(after 30 years of work)
i have found my way
to the present
i’m not waiting
for today to end
so tomorrow can be
a better day
i’m not tormenting myself
with the past
i’m here
noticing
letting go
living
i have spent so much
of my life
haunted
but my ghosts are leaving me now
i am no longer
a good habitat
for bad memories.
without a broken heart
i’m trying to figure out
how to live
with a heart
that is not broken
so much of my life
has been spent
ensnared
in my own pain
dancing to the beat
of my
perpetually broken
heart
all my days spent
first
trying to heal
& then
breaking my self
all over again
so much of my life
broken
i have no idea
how to live
without
wrapping myself up
in my own
misery.
i wrote down the thoughts on this page after commenting on someone’s post about broken hearts.
i liked the idea and this poem is my attempt at flushing out the idea of learning to live with a heart that is not broken.
i might play with it more.
the dodo bird is my spirit guide as i try to fly.
reminding me not to be too trusting.
reminding me to survive.
i have been thinking a lot about starting to do comics again. my latest posts are a bit cartoon-y…which i have to keep reminding myself that that is okay. it is okay to draw the way i draw. it is okay to not be michelangelo.
but maybe my subconscious is trying to steer me back to comics. i like to draw. i like to write stories…comics make sense. i just have to accept that, also, i am never going to be stan lee.
i am me. i have my own style. i have my own story to tell.
a smell of hope in the wind
today
i let the wind
blow
my anxiety away
today
i let myself
feel
the happiness that resides inside
me
today
i let myself know
hope.
a quick smattering of words. a quick sketch. i don’t even remember writing this one little page of hope amidst mine troubled pages. but i do remember the feeling.
or, rather, i know the feeling.
when i was in my early twenties, i was in therapy. i know, right–me? in therapy? anyhoo. i had this awesome therapist who wouldn’t let me cut corners. she was tough.
and one day, i had a breakthrough.
honestly, the stuff of movies & novels.
i went from being terrified of the dark, to not fearing anything. i went from never knowing happiness, to having a glowing spot of joy in my heart.
i could feel it.
i could feel it in my heart. and i was terrified of losing it. i told my therapist this. i said it would be like flowers for algernon and i would lose my joy & know i was losing it because i had gotten to feel what it felt like. after a childhood of fear & unhappiness. it would be cruel.
my therapist assured me i was crazy & that i had the happy now in my heart & forever in my heart.
she was right. i check sometimes when things seem darker than than anything a person could survive…and the little glowing spot in my heart is still there.
when i want to feel it strong & bold, all i have to do is stand in the sunshine, watch the fluff of the clouds, and feel the wind blow over me.
maybe that’s why i am still here today.
