every time i see you
how are you still able to break my heart?
how are you still able to make it beat faster?
so fucking hard
i still love you
i have let you go
so many times now
i have become a revolving door for you
another page inspired by seeing dusty and having to fight the desperate longing for him that i thought i had managed to kill.
i know another reason why i’m feeling warm & fuzzy towards dusty right now. when we were married, i surmised that if we were ever trapped somewhere, dependent on working together to get to safety, we would die.
my observation was true of every time i needed him to be there for me.
except one…misha’s birth.
misha is my third child. my first two were c-sectioned because my body likes to take more than 42 weeks to perfect a baby–& doctors do not like to let a woman go much past 40.
so, twice, i let them cut the baby out of me because they said that it was for the best.
when i got pregnant with misha, i could not bear the thought of another c-section.
so i fired all the doctors.
problem was, none of the midwives in madison would support my birth because i had been deemed too risky.
i had never had a vaginal birth. i was 40 years old & prone to long pregnancies. these were my crimes.
misha is the one who suffered for them.
i found an outlaw midwife who lived one state over & would travel to me when i went into labor.
second problem…i didn’t know what labor looked like because doctors had never let me get that far.
by the time i was certain i was in labor–& not wasting the midwife’s time–misha was on her way out.
she came out fast. relentlessly fast. none of the stages of labor i had read up on were observed by misha as she rocketed out of me.
there was one doula present and dusty.
we were in a kiddie tub on the fourth floor of a 30 person cooperative.
when misha was born, she was having trouble breathing. she probably just needed a few puffs of air to get her going, but none of us knew what to do. by the time the mom down the hall called her midwife to come help, misha was showing signs of seizure.
the paramedics took her away.
the NICU kept her for 12 days.
they told dusty & me, best case scenario: misha has coordination issues & learning disabilities.
worst case scenario: cerebral palsy or epilepsy
i cried so hard as they said that. my heart broke. it was all my fault. if i had just been unselfish enough to get the fucking surgery…to have another fucking c-section…misha would have been fine.
i waited for dusty to blame me. he blamed me for everything. it was always my fault.
this time he would be right.
he didn’t blame me. he told me it wasn’t my fault. he zoomed me around the hospital in my wheeled chair–being silly & sweet–as i was still too wrecked to walk much after the birth. he watched the boys while i kept vigil at her side. he came to be with her when i was forced to go home & sleep.
he took care of us.
he was there for me.
seven years later, just as i would remember & be traumatized by a bad event, the good things that happened feel as fresh as yesterday.
and i miss that version of dusty.
(in the NICU…& one year later when the neurologist said, “oh…nevermind.”)
please don’t be sweet
with your playful eyes
if you are sweet…
it is so much easier
to hate you
i only want to
i cannot afford to
to fall back into that
that close to
don’t be sweet
with your seductive eyes
so sweet that i
all the good times
the bad times
to touch you
if i do
i will be caught in a cascade…
i’m begging you
so i had an on-again/off-again relationship with the father of my children that lasted close to forever & almost killed me.
it took me so many times of trying to leave him…& so many years to recover from his influence on me.
he is emotionally abusive, manipulative, & narcissistic.
but, apparently, i love him?
what the fuck.
most days i would not admit that. most days i would have a clear & close hold on to all the bullshit he put me through in the years i have known him. a shield made of bad memories.
but i saw him on tuesday…
& he was all sweet & silly.
he was dressed so strangely. unorthodox. which, of course, caused me to find him attractive. i mean, he is attractive–physically. when i met him he was kind of awkward & goofy, but as he aged he became gorgeous. so when a gorgeous man dresses in an unorthodox way–it has kind of a stunning effect…at least on me.
so now i am trying to hold it together.
to not do anything
have i finally exorcised this fucking ghost?
i hope so. i am tired of holding a torch that just burns the fuck out of my fingers. i want to move on and stop wondering which thing that i did wrong was the thing that drove him away.
it needs editing & more substance, etc. but the rough draft is available entirely for reading over at medium.
let me know if you have any suggestions for work that needs to be done on it. i am still pretty close to the story–i was crying as i wrote this last page. but i think in writing it, i am working out a lot of the bullshit that i was holding onto and calling love.
the journal page is from 1995 when seymour & i lived in austin, tx with peacocks on our front lawn .
if i stop
to take inventory
i’m not doing
not so bad
if i stop
& take inventory
i see that
if i stop
to see who i am
i see that
i’m not so awful
not so awful
as i’d thought
if i stop
to see who i am
i see that
quite a good person
last night i kept myself from being drawn into a fight with dusty. a fight via texting. a fight we have had many times. furious messages flashing back & forth between his smart phone & my dumb one. (his messages flash a bit faster than mine.)
i did respond, with minimal engagement, to let him know i was getting his texts and that my feelings on the matter were indeed final. if i don’t respond, he will become more & more hysterical & paranoid. i can’t have him doing that while he is with our children.
but obvious ploys to evoke a response, i let them slip past me like keanu reeves in the matrix.
so i was actually quite proud of myself for that.
though i have an almost full bottle of whiskey, i chose instead to do yoga and have a cup of jasmine tea.
look at that, y’all. it’s like i’m growing up or something.
bonus for anyone who made it this far…i did a rough draft/sneak preview of moses jones page four. very rough…in fact, the final draft might not look anything like this….
he’s built the groundwork
for my psychotic break
just one word
& the grasp
i so desperately hold
on my reality
so many careful years
just building on
to damage done
by my parents
by other men
i even handed him
that he would not hurt me
though my ever-faithful tarot cards (as well as every other experience i have ever had with dusty) warned me there would be conflict and that it was best if i did not engage…just let it blow over…holy fuck, he knows how to get me to engage. i try so hard to walk away. i say over & over, “i don’t want to talk about it.” but dusty is relentless until there is nothing left of me. just a glimpse of who i used to be as i morph into something i never want to be.
one of my parents.
this was our last dance.
i asked for a sign, and i got it.
there is nothing left here.
i need to move forward.
like, nine years ago…but better late than never.
this journal page is dedicated to my friend nexus who has been very supportive & encouraging of my art…and who knows how it feels to burn at the stake ❤
are all torn
a bloody battlefield
that used to be
or is that too
the mess of me
because my voice cannot be heard by the one i have tried & tried to talk to, i have started a work of fiction writing–no pictures. it is still forming in my head, but i have written the first paragraph. loosely based on the abusive relationship i am recovering from. i want to share it with people who might understand. also, i need to get it out of my head…and like i said, the person who needs to hear it the most, just won’t listen to it.
also, friendly reminder, there is a link up over yonder (with my pretty face on it) to other fiction pieces i have written & posted on medium.