this hole in me

part of me is missing
maybe you know
where it is?
every morning
i wake up
knowing
it’s another day
feeling
lost
that it is
another day
another day
another night
i go to bed
knowing that my morning
my next day
will bring more of the same
& i want to scream
sometimes
i do scream
mostly
i cry
part of me is missing
maybe
you know where
it is?
maybe
it is you?
i read something
that said grief
is just
unused
love
trapped in the corners
of your eyes….
i don’t know what to do
with all this grief
part of me
is missing
& i’m oh so tired
of looking…
but if i stop…
if i stop
will i drown in
all this
grief?

i like this illustration. i’m not sure i captured in my words what i feel…but i think i captured it in my drawing.

i think i am still recovering from the visits of my mom & my ex-husband. two people who put the knife in and twist it. both are relationships that i desperately want to be different. i know i could be a more complete person…
if my mother had mothered me
if my ex-husband had been able to love me
if neither of them had emotionally abandoned me
& betrayed me….

i desperately long to heal that wound. that emptiness.

but maybe i have turned to stone.
to clay.
to something that barely resembles the person
i could have been.

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survival

i don’t want to hurt you
i just want to survive you

are words that i would say to him if i could. sometimes i feel it is impossible to talk to him. impossible for him to hear me?
so he & my mom were here at the same time. with my mom here, he was the lesser of two evils.
when she left, i realized just how much like her he really is.

neither one of them can hear me. even before my mom was deaf, she had very selective hearing–only hearing what she wanted to hear…only hearing what was valuable to her–what she could use to her advantage.
she never heard me.
i was never valuable to her.
was i ever valuable to him?
did he ever listen to me? or is he only paying attention when i’m giving him ammunition to use against me at a later time?

ex-husbands & mothers.

sigh.

worst

you can’t hurt me
i will hurt
myself
first
i will hurt myself
worst
you can’t degrade me
i will push myself
into the
mud
i will mock
myself
i will revel in my own
pain.

is it obvious i have been looking at the artwork of egon scheiele? wow. if you haven’t looked at his artwork…wow. lots of cocks & twats though, so don’t leave it laying out in mixed company.

i am trapped in the country with my parents.
the only way i made it out of the airport when i went to pick them up was to start wondering if i could use the experience in my artwork.
fuck a duck. i almost started crying. fuck a duck. does anyone else have parents like this? as soon as they came into view they were bitching about each other. and then at each other. and my mom kept telling the poor airport attendants about how awful my dad is. and the airport attendants were asking me if i needed help (both my parents were in wheel chairs) and i’m sure my eyes were begging them to help me–but, by god, i could not think of anything they could do other than wheeling my parents back onto the plane….

and crazy does as crazy needs–i immediately texted dusty for help.
i’m sure it is somehow his fault. so i asked for his help.
and, of course, he is coming….

but two negatives make a positive…right?

ps. i am not sure which is worse–when my mom is yelling at my dad…or when she is cuddling up to him.

i need therapy.

stat.

and so this is christmas

i used to joke
every year
“will this be the christmas
someone dies?”
dark jokes
somehow kept us alive
my dysfunctional family
…then
two years in a row
someone i loved
died
right around christmas time

my parents have
planned
to visit me
this christmas
unbidden
the thought
popped
right back into my head
again

so i drew my bottom half the way i always drew christmas trees when i was a kid. does anyone see that? i liked that idea.
my folks, whom i am estranged from–yet whose house i live in–are coming back to visit me? my kids? their house?
and i am terrified.
i think it triggered a lot of the darker stuff i have been posting in the last few days, their planned visit.
my parents…let me tell you about my parents….
(it’s a bladerunner reference…i’m not really going to tell you about my parents. that is a whole series of psychology books)

help…

i don’t like to ask
for help
i will spite myself
go hungry
risk injuries
slip deeper into my cozy pool of despair
rather than ask for help
i spent my childhood
in my parents’ blind spot
& instead of acting out
to grab their notice
i built my little throne of thorns
to sit quietly
glare & think to myself,
i won’t give you the satisfaction.
i spite myself
instead of asking
for the most human of things
help
why won’t anyone
help
i think
as i close that door.

watch in real time as i battle my demons. tonight, oy, the last week…longer?…my demons have been chewing on the cords of my self.
chewing…chewing…chewing

my hero

I am trying to learn
to heal
to not focus
on what kind of amazing
incredible
super
hero
i would have been
with the proper
normal
natural
parental love & nurturing
…it’s a new day
i am who i am
i have what i have
which is a shit-ton
of strength
& determination
wicked smart
funny in my own dark way
& chock full of imagination

 

my heart is a monkey baby

everything
i have done
anything
i have accomplished
i have done so
in a vacuum
so to speak
my life is that experiment
i am that monkey baby
clinging to a wire surrogate
left without nurturing
from the world around
& yet
despite the lack of praise
in spite of that lack of attention
i….
well
i can’t say i “thrive”
but i survive
i keep alive
the me
inside
of me

i am exploring the fact that i have never really received any encouragement in light of my recent frustration with not ever getting much or any encouragement. my parents gave me way more discouragement than encouragement. i was an honor student and won awards in art, writing, and speech…but they never seemed to notice. i did it because it was who i was…not for anyone’s accolades.

just like my current art & writings. i do it because it is part of me–not to some day have a blockbuster film adapted from one of my works.

i am calling this “my van gogh stage” because he created–in great volume–despite only selling one piece of art in his lifetime.
also, his use of the self-portrait to express himself.
however, as with my sylvia plath phase, i will be avoiding the ultimate outcome.