attack of the buttheads

i started writing this post a couple of weeks ago.  unbeknownst to me, dusty started reading it over my shoulder & got all pissed off.  you know, instead of initiating a conversation about it, just got pissed off & hateful towards me.  so i stopped writing it & haven’t felt like trying to write ever since.  last friday, i made dusty leave again.  go back to wisconsin.  again.  & i realized i would rather be alone than to be put in a box.  i would rather be alone than to be told who i am.  i would rather be alone than to not be heard.  to not be understood.

i don’t know if he reads my blog or not….i guess i will find out.

what do you do
when the one person
you always want to tell your thoughts to
funny stories
what happened today
just now
what happens when you no longer
feel safe
talking to that person?
when you feel it might be a bad idea
to open up
to that person?
what happens when the person
you used to wait for to walk through the door
what happens when you start dreading
his walking into the room
when you feel like you have to guard yourself
your heart
your thoughts
for surely he will find something
to criticize
something
to attack
some flaw in you to burst wide open
and leave to spill onto the floor
as he walks away

the other day i was in tears. in the barn. yelling at the sheep. the other day i let my sheep get the best of me. i wondered–loudly and with a great many curse words–what i was even doing here, on this half-assed homestead, trying to get milk from meat sheep who clearly hate me, running from me, and in the case of tyler durden the ram, stalking me and ramming me in the thighs until i cry.

what am i doing?

the other day, i tried to talk to dusty.

stop. right there. that was my mistake. i tried to talk to dusty. i tried to talk to dusty. dusty. who on the day of my brother’s funeral (8 years ago) asked me what was wrong, and when i told him i was upset that he didn’t bother dressing up for my brother’s funeral, he responded, “well look at what you’re wearing.”

dusty.

he likes to ask me what is wrong, and then punish me for having feelings. lately he asks me why i don’t respond when he asks, “what’s wrong?” but the weird thing is, i don’t remember him asking me. i think i have learned to tune him out so that i do not even hear him ask because then, if i hear him, i want to answer…and then i get punched right in my emotions.

so i don’t even hear him anymore.
i don’t look forward to seeing him.
i don’t tell him anything.

or i try not to. i can be a bit of a blabbermouth, forgetting who i can & cannot trust with my feelings. i am like that. soft in the head.

so i tried to talk to dusty, about “us.” it was, of course, somehow interpreted as an assault on him…maybe it was an attack. i don’t know the fuck anymore. but i tried to talk to him. i used the wrong words. then it got ugly.
he accused me of being a facebook junkie (i’m not)
and i responded by slamming shut his video game
and possibly breaking his laptop?
and then
he murdered three of my potato plants.
and tried to knock the internet dish off of the roof
with a steel t-post.

this is where i stopped writing.
his laptop is fine. my potatoes are trying to recover, but look like my heart feels.  wilty & broken.  undernourished.  struggling to survive.

 

at least angst is an effective muse

he is the drink
that i shouldn’t take
the fall from grace
the downward spiral
to hopelessness
& a crippling
lack of faith
he is the drink
i shouldn’t take
the step towards
no control
my soul crumpled
on the floor
forgotten panties
stained & unwanted
he is the drink that i should say
no!
to.  the drink i should
feel strong enough to
avoid.

…why am i not strong enough?

i say, “i feel this way.” next time we fight he mirrors my words back to me. some fucked up mind game. some
fucked up
mind
game.
does he even know he is playing?
i wonder.
is it a reflex? a survival technique? does he want to hurt me?

or is he just protecting himself?

journal

you’re overthinking it, em. i tell myself. what do you want?
what do you feel?

journal2

i don’t want to share my life with him.
he is a big parasitical turd.
i don’t want to share my life with him.
we go for a walk in the woods where i grew up.
where i wandered & where i found myself
the first time i was lost.
my church.
i go into these woods with him, and i feel like it is sacrilege.
he shouldn’t be in my church.
i shouldn’t let him near my soul.
my being.
it isn’t safe.
i don’t want to share my life with him.
is this a want? or a warning? an instinct?

journal3

maybe he’s right
maybe he isn’t the problem
maybe i am the problem
but that does not change the fact that i do not want to share my life with him.

 

dusty doesnt like it when i compare him to a hookworm

he’s not a bad guy
really
just the wrong guy
really!
he’s here again
at my invitation
it seems
though i cannot tell you
exactly how that came to be.
how is it that i invited him back
into my life
when i knew for sure
that i had finally
finally
gotten rid of him.
i knew i had seen the last of him.
but somehow
i invited him back?

my hookworm.
my favorite parasite.
the father of my four
other
favorite
parasites.

i’m not getting any work done
on my art at least
i did put up beehives today…
and i am keeping house…
and reading a really good novel…
but my art is suffering

is it because of dusty?
is it because of the endless display of
rainy days?
cloudy days?
sunless days?
is it because i have used up the quota
allowed me
of creative genius?
is it because the minions are nuts?
is it because of dusty?

so this is like, what?
all of april’s artistic efforts…
this?
yes.
this is all i have to show for my ink
in april.

ode to being pissed off

hey. you know what?
if i’m depressed and thinking about how nice it would be to just be dead…
to just escape
this
all of this.
it is not going to do any good to say,
“shut up, don’t say that, you have kids.”
because
here is the thing
one of the reasons i think death would be nice
is because i wouldn’t have to be a mom anymore.
do you get that?
please, get that.
but it did work out.
you pissed me off.
what? am i an incubator? am i just a big nipple?
am i not a person?
do i not matter?
if i had no children, would it be okay then, if i wanted to die?
do you only care about me
because you hate to see motherless children?
there are plenty of suffereing children. go rescue one. if you want to help me
you listen
you don’t tell me what i should be thinking or doing or feeling
you fucking listen.
so now i’m pissed off
which is good
because it is hard to be sad when you are pissed off.
now i want to spite you for suggesting all i am is a vessel
only valued for my contributions as a mother
(and frankly
never really valued for that either)
so now i’m pissed off and i’m going to live to fight another day
take that
motherfuckers.

my big epiphany for the day is that women are taught to not get angry. to be nice & pretty & to smile and to not make a big deal out of it.
and so we stuff all that anger down…and it contributes or results in a state of depression. we can’t be mad. we can’t be sad either…but it is easier to hide sad.
and mothers suffer it the most. we have to be everything. strong, but not too strong. always there. able to fix any problem. no time to think about yourself–why would you want to think about yourself? what? you’re thinking about yourself?? we have to love being a mother. it has to define us.
but what if it doesn’t? what if we have doubts?
stuff that down, too.

so i was depressed. now i’m just pissed off. which is good. all that sad is turning to mad and i am letting it out to go where it needs to go. i told those fucking exes who i have been reaching out to–out of loneliness–i told them what i needed to tell them. basically, to fuck the fuck off. i don’t need them. i really really really don’t. in fact, i am way better off without them. but i had to find that out. and i had to get pissed off.i had to realize that they actually made me feel more alone, because they couldn’t give me what i needed. and they don’t want to give me what i want. and i just have to get over it.

and get pissed off about it.

so maybe depressed women (men too?) need a healthy and appropriate outlet for their anger. maybe? i know it’s not that simple, but, hey it couldn’t hurt.

are you depressed? let’s go burn something down!
(at least we can burn a bridge to that toxic person in  your life who you keep around because you haven’t gotten pissed off enough)

i am both, harold & maude….

no.
chances are
i won’t kill myself
because i have kids
& anxiety about death
but isn’t it enough
that i want to?
that i think about it?
a lot?
enough
for someone to take me seriously?
it was almost better when i didn’t
reach out & ask for help
when i didn’t try to create a supportive
community
it was almost better
because then i could only blame
myself
for not having anyone to
talk to.
and keep some hope
alive.

maybe i’m reaching out to the wrong people. problem is…there are only so many people i like. that i trust. that i feel safe or comfortable reaching out to. and none of them catch me when i fall.

maybe i should be a hermit. embrace my loneliness and dive into it. be my loneliness.

when i suggested to one “friend” that i felt like killing myself, he said, “shut up. i know you wouldn’t do that to your kids.”
another “friend” completely ignored my request for help, and i have not heard from him since.
another just treated it as business as usual and barely seemed to register my state of pain.

but, again, maybe i am reaching out to the wrong people.
maybe i purposely don’t reach out to the people who might be able to help.
maybe i want to be a mess.

or maybe i know it is easier to fail than to put in the work to save myself. or maybe i think i will fail and don’t want to know for sure…so i just don’t go there.

so i self-medicate with whiskey and netflix…and try to get through the day.

music helps.

lots of music.

cagey

as faux spring passes back into winter
i enjoy the brisk wind
as it pushes against me
and the fire of my brain calms
as my minions go off
to stay with their dad
i embrace my simple solitude
venturing out of the house
only to prove i can.
the anger has softened
the moon is new
i feel,
once again,
like i can handle life.

cagey3

i think it was really tearing me apart that i wanted to celebrate spring, but the spring i wanted to celebrate was actually a dangerous thing that could really fuck up the growing season (not to mention the world)…those beautiful warm days were a bitter reminder that we have an administration in power that wants to go backwards at a time where even going forward isn’t going to stop the damage that has been done. but it’s forward…not backward.

i mean, it’s hard to imagine people of this country, people of the world, embracing a carbon-free lifestyle…i mean, that was difficult enough…now knowing that there are people in power who want to fuck it all the fuck up….

it’s too much for me.

cagey2

warm days in winter spell death to me…not temporary spring…but death.

so as much as i wanted to enjoy those days of 60 & 70 degree weather. it was killing me.

so now that it is cold again, i feel like i can breathe again.
coincidentally, my minions went away to see their dad for a week just as the weather turned cold again.
and i feel like i can breathe again.

i love my minions…but often question whether i can be a mom or not. do i have it in me? was it a mistake? and why even wonder about this when i have four kids and it’s not like i can just say, “hey! do-over!”

but then they go away and i wonder how i would exist without them.

cagey1

garden city

i never wanted to do this
alone
but i am
alone
profoundly everlastingly
alone
there is no end in sight
i try to ask for help
no one listens
& i remain
alone
always
alone.

i never planned to have four kids by myself out in the country. i crave community & i crave contact. i crave a connection.
i am an introvert, and i enjoy my alone time. but this is different. this is ridiculous.
i am alone with four children.
and i’m not sure i should be a mom.
i’m so tired of being screamed at.
i’m so tired of being peed on.
i’m so tired of losing my mind.
who am i?
am i a monster?
why can’t i do this?

gardencity2

no one should be expected to do this. be alone. alone with children.
no one should be expected to do this.
but even when i lived in a housing co-op, with 30 other adults…i was alone. i would be struggling, right in front of them, my audience. i would be struggling–& they would turn away. often literally.

it’s not just me is it?
it’s us. as a culture. so cut off from one another.
i thought it was just because i never ask for help,
but they turn away even if i do.
and leave me.
alone.

gardencity1