everyone’s invited

i can be strong
& also be gentle
i can be scary & intense
while being
loving & accepting
i can be ferocious
while i am
kind & generous
both
all
exist in me
all kinds of me
ready
to sign a truce
to throw a party
& everyone
is
invited.

more journaling on my recent epiphany where i realized i am not all that bad.
that i can find balance in who i am.

just the beginning

watch as my yin
tries to reconnect
with my yang
look
my masculine
& my feminine
are sending each other
love notes
& my angels
are dancing with
my demons…
this may seem to be
an ending
but it is just
the beginning.

the dark parts and the light parts of me are learning. they are finding each other after a very long game of hide & go seek.

my gentle heart

the demons
monsters
& sirens
were called forth
to protect
that soft & gentle
part of me
called forth
to keep my loving heart
safe
walls built
to keep said heart
safe
until a time came
when i forgot
all about
my gentle heart
& only saw
the thorny walls
& snapping beasts
who protected her.

those out grown defenses. one day i will write a comic about it. those dysfunctional super powers that we abused adult children are afraid to let go of.
watch me turn into a monster to keep my own heart safe.
yup.
time to find a new job for those monsters….

going down (& not in the fun way)

sometimes you have to
go down
(down down down)
in order to
come up
sometimes you have to
fall
backwards
to figure out the way
forward
falling is sometimes
just
another way to fly
maybe it’s time
for you to stop
& breathe
& trust that you are on
the right path
despite
all the detours.

more thoughts on my recent emotional face plant.
all triggered by my epic motherhood fails which in turn knocked over the domino of my feeling so very alone in my single mom adventure.
and all the dominoes fell
spectacularly
burying me in my own substantial remorse.

but…i am slowly digging my way back out.
maybe today i will have the headspace to do the work towards getting an editor (unlike yesterday where i spent the day doing a jigsaw puzzle.)

also! i am up & about. moving slowly, but doing yoga, taking walks (on crutches still), and weeding my many gardens that have gone unweeded under the care of my four feral minions.

soon at least my knee will be healed

i have no time
for anyone
who tells me
i am worthless
if i do not earn money.
an income
does not determine
my worth.

my ex called me “a privileged white woman” because my parents left me money when they died. i feel lucky to have gotten that money, but i do not feel privileged.
my mom scrimped & saved her entire life (and mine) because she was terrified of the poverty she grew up in.
my dad was privileged and never seemed grateful for what he had….
i don’t know.
all i know is i am tired of being told i don’t matter without an income.
am i privileged that i am skilled at going without? that i am skilled at living on next to nothing?
maybe.
anyhoo.
i will be back on my feet as of next week. i have finished a first draft of my novel & am shopping for an agent. i have five pages more to do of my children’s book.
meanwhile, here are some of my journal pages.

(up top: a commissioned artwork in trade for a couch)

all spread out…

he is my hidey hole
my whispering spot
where i can hide
my treasures
& scream out
all the despair
of my heart
he is
my path forward
my invisible friend
he is a sign
on the road
when i have forgotten
where i am going.


things to do with a broken knee….
1. fight with kids
2. stare at the wall
3. read
4. work on novel
5. work on children’s book
6. notice that the clouds are moving east to west rather than west to east
7. wait for mars in the night sky
8. write letters to an ex who won’t talk to you

i keep writing letters to the ex for whom i have a tattoo. my one who got away. though our relationship was flawed, he remains the only nice guy i ever loved. and boy did i love him. but that didn’t stop me from destroying the relationship. and boy did i destroy that relationship.
i have talked to him on & off over the years. i have only actually seen him in person once (though he does put up videos of himself on instagram pretty regularly)…somehow…not surprising…i did something to piss him off in the last handful of years & now he refuses to talk to me. or maybe he’s just given me up like a bad habit?
i try to leave him alone…give him his space…but then i go & break my knee and he becomes number 8 on my things to do list.
oh well…. at this point, with no response from him, he is just my hidey hole.

some “spreads” from my journal:

ps. september 6th is the day i am going to be allowed to walk again! so close…

attachment disorder

dear sir or ma’am
not that it is an excuse
but i have recently
learned
about
that pop term
mental illness
du jour
& you know
how i always joke
about being that baby monkey
in those
horrific
experiments
jokes
about being raised by wolves
well
i’m so sorry
i broke your heart
turns out
being rejected by mum
really does a number on one’s
ability
to…
well
to fucking form attachments
to trust
to have faith
of any kind
to believe that someone
could
actually
love me
i can tell you now
without a doubt
i ruined
your life
because i am
broken
so….

i have decided to advertise myself as “beautiful but broken.” hey, at least i’m seeing myself as beautiful…i mean, that’s new.
sigh
i have been struggling to get up in the morning. struggling to get through the day. i’m not sure if it’s father’s day, my dad’s birthday, my birthday (all happening in the next few weeks) plus the anti-versary of being molested on the same day my dog got hit by a car…the dog that i had just realized i did love after not being able to bond with any animal after my cat was murdered….
i feel like i am being “dramatic” by taking my life seriously. by acting as if i have any reason to hurt when other people survive much worse…. yet, i feel like maybe i need to give myself permission to mourn…to grieve…but then i’m all “snap out of it” and not letting that happen.
and it all just starts over again.

unappealing

the more they ignore me
the louder i tell myself
i never needed them
anyway
the more unpopular
i am
the more inspired
i am
to perfect being a pariah
the less they see me
the harder i try
to stay
invisible
what happens if…
what happens if i fight
that reflex
what happens if i try
to be appealing…
holy fuck
the mere thought of it
goes against
my very fiber
hmmm
maybe “self-sabotage”
maybe
not
giving
a
fuck
is just how i roll…
i’m too fucking angry
to be appealing
to be soft
to be inviting
is there a way
to seek my audience
without
compromising
who i am?

the violence we inherit

i wonder as i replant all of the basil babies
my son’s cat
dug up in the night
i wonder
was there a voice in my dad’s head that day
a voice that urged him to stop
or to at least take a beat
& think
about what he was doing
as he loaded his gun
or was he too loaded himself
sound voices unable to reach a brain fevered
with the excitement of an excuse
to do violence
what did he think about 
as he blew out my cat’s brains
& destroyed the last of my childhood dreams of love
dreams of feeling loved
of feeling safe
as much as i want to do violence
to my son’s cat
i will not
i know the feeling will pass
i know it is important not to hurt my son
know if is wrong to hurt an animal
who is just doing what animals do
i hope my son
feels loved
i hope he feels safe
i hope his cat appreciates that even though i am 
sometimes void
of the empathy that normally haunts me
i am able to recognize right
from wrong
however
even though i assure myself that i am not
my father
i am grateful to the cat
for having the sense to hide
before i found my damaged seedlings
so that belief
did not have to be
challenged.

i don’t remember how old i was when it happened. i’m pretty sure a lot of the details were told to me. but i don’t remember by whom. all i know…or all i was told…was that my sister had put nester the bunny, my baby brother’s pet, on the deck in a cardboard box. my sister did this so she could clean the living room. she cleaned in an obsessive-compulsive way. she cleaned because it was something she could control. she cleaned to survive. so nester was put in a cardboard box on our deck so my sister could do what she had to do.

my cat was a farm cat as my parent’s didn’t believe in house cats. my cat was a big tomcat covered in scars. i loved my cat like nothing else. 

my cat found the bunny and with his own set of survival skills, he broke nester’s neck. this is what i was told.

i remember that midnight then ran under the deck to hide. i am not sure how he knew to hide. but that is where my dad found him. telling the story for years after, my dad would say my cat was laughing at him while my dad pulled the trigger.

what about me?

where was i? was i screaming? was i crying? i remember knowing. i knew my cat was going to be shot. what did i do? was there anything i could have done?

i was already damaged by this point in my life. recent readings have me wondering if i suffer from attachment disorder due to emotional & then physical barriers that kept my mother from bonding with me as an infant & into my childhood.and the violence my father was capable of kept me in a pretty constant state of fear. i am pretty sure i was just hanging on by a thread at this point. my dad had already been responsible for at least one other instance of killing someone i loved when he put my pet mouse out in the rain. 

i think this was it.

the straw that broke the camel’s back and left me unable to love. to trust. to bond with another living creature.

…until i had children of my own and found a fierce love somehow…somehow…still burning inside me.

“foxy” 16X20 inking on canvas…$200

no, you’re emo….

my heart is cold
& smells 
of rotting flesh
the turkey vultures
circle
sensing
my surrender
my heart is cold
& black
with defeat
it feels like a stone
in my chest
pulling me 
down
as i 
fall.

how was your mother’s day? 
why the fuck can’t i not sink into a terrible place on this day of mothers?
let’s not think too hard about it. let’s just have a drink and wait for the day to end.
i know it’s a hallmark holiday. i know it’s petty…but i can’t help but want to set fire to the father of my children and watch the burnt flesh fall off of him when i think about all he had to do was help the kids make me something/buy me something…some token…some little fucking whisper to say i am valued.
but no. impossible. totally impossible. even in this day & age where he likes to pretend he was baptized by dr. phil.
i know that on father’s day i will buy a rosemary plant (because he loves rosemary plants & killed the last one he stole from me) & put a ribbon on it & have the kids make cards & give it to him as if it were their idea….
and i imagine again the warmth that would come off of his flaming body….

i really don’t know if my kids value me or not. i really don’t. and maybe that’s another one of my shortcomings. another one of my flaws. maybe i fucked it all up. i mean, the two oldest are sixteen & fourteen and they can’t even be bothered to bring me something to plant? even after i told them where to go for it?

but i do like to pretend one day they will grow me a pot of marigolds and maybe bake a chocolate cake and say, “hey, thanks for being a good mom. thanks for sacrificing everything for us. we value you.”

ps. my kids did go & get me flowers to plant on the day after mother’s day…of course by then my mental collapse was complete.
my poor children.

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