i was visited by an oft-invisible friend today. she may not have realized it- or maybe she did- but i needed to see her.
it's odd. i really haven't known her very long, nor do i know her especially well. but somehow, we know that the other one carries within her a knowledge, an intuition of how the other one suffers.
but i don't mean to be cryptic. the thing is, we are both fractured, cracked at the foundation. i often wonder if we would be friends if we weren't, if either of us were "normal."
but we're not, and here we are. and i wonder if i would have found the friends, my love, and my son, if i hadn't been mishandled, if i had had higher self-esteem and made less scarring mistakes.
it's difficult to explain the images that haunt my dreams, the fears that grip my body, the self-loathing that whispers in my mind while i'm trying to pretend to live a normal life. it follows me, stalks me, it is as relentless as i am determined, and it will not stop. it's in my blood.
and it's damn near impossible to explain it to someone who hasn't experienced this kind of betrayal, to begin your young life knowing the inside-out feeling of knowing too much, and of knowing something so foul there aren't words for it, and there is no accountability. no way to avenge, to make it right, to mend it or heal it. you just learn to live with it, and sometimes, it kicks your ass to the point that you are curled up and crying, vomiting, hiding from life as your kid calls out for your touch. and you go to him, and you die a little, and then rebuild a little, and you wonder how someone can embody the kind of evil that could harm something so helpless, how parental love could ever give way to betrayal, and crush a budding soul.
i probably will never stop fighting this demon. she likely won't either. and we will still hide sometimes, and loathe ourselves, but hopefully, on occasion, we'll still get together to root down and reach out, share a floor and share our stories.
(thanks, j.)
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
addiction
i can't stop. i'm talking to myself now, someone might hear, but it's ok, it's just me and me now. only we know what we need to do, no more asking for permission.
i lost count of how many times i did it, i'm just glad i did and i don't want to stop. but that's what happens when it starts, it stays in motion and just keeps going as long as you let it.
no one has to know. maybe they won't discover me until after i'm dead. it doesn't matter, i just have to keep doing it. it needs me, and i need it.
i write to love, i write to live.
i lost count of how many times i did it, i'm just glad i did and i don't want to stop. but that's what happens when it starts, it stays in motion and just keeps going as long as you let it.
no one has to know. maybe they won't discover me until after i'm dead. it doesn't matter, i just have to keep doing it. it needs me, and i need it.
i write to love, i write to live.
the stories
the stories, the stories, the stories.
they will become. the lonesome cowboy with the dark secret. the number of breaths a person takes in a lifetime. the hidden language of the natural imagination. the tortured couple who can't help but be together. the snark, the snitch, the fairy-tale witch. all things imaginative are alive, they are within here, in the head, inhabiting the heart.
the stories are there for a reason.
they will become. the lonesome cowboy with the dark secret. the number of breaths a person takes in a lifetime. the hidden language of the natural imagination. the tortured couple who can't help but be together. the snark, the snitch, the fairy-tale witch. all things imaginative are alive, they are within here, in the head, inhabiting the heart.
the stories are there for a reason.
just keep writing
just keep writing. someday it may all make sense.
just keep writing. it's all for you and no one will read it anyway.
just keep writing. your life depends on it.
just keep writing. you'll want the boy to know what you spent your time doing.
just keep writing. there's inspiration in there somewhere.
just keep writing. these stories won't tell themselves.
just keep writing. there's a song on the brink of being sung.
just keep writing. he's playing by himself and that doesn't happen often.
just keep writing. you have nothing better to do.
just keep writing. don't you want to leave a legacy in words?
just keep writing. you once wrote beautiful poetry.
just keep writing. you can find those words again.
just keep writing. there are characters dying to be realized, plots longing to thicken.
just keep writing. how else are you going to change the world?
just keep writing. it's not the first time he's been fussy.
just keep writing. a creative mama is a happy mama.
just keep writing. you never know when you'll get time again.
just keep writing. you've got vows to recite in 2 months.
just keep writing. your friends really want you to.
just keep writing. it'll all make sense eventually.
just keep writing. it's something you're sort of good at.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
just keep writing. it's all for you and no one will read it anyway.
just keep writing. your life depends on it.
just keep writing. you'll want the boy to know what you spent your time doing.
just keep writing. there's inspiration in there somewhere.
just keep writing. these stories won't tell themselves.
just keep writing. there's a song on the brink of being sung.
just keep writing. he's playing by himself and that doesn't happen often.
just keep writing. you have nothing better to do.
just keep writing. don't you want to leave a legacy in words?
just keep writing. you once wrote beautiful poetry.
just keep writing. you can find those words again.
just keep writing. there are characters dying to be realized, plots longing to thicken.
just keep writing. how else are you going to change the world?
just keep writing. it's not the first time he's been fussy.
just keep writing. a creative mama is a happy mama.
just keep writing. you never know when you'll get time again.
just keep writing. you've got vows to recite in 2 months.
just keep writing. your friends really want you to.
just keep writing. it'll all make sense eventually.
just keep writing. it's something you're sort of good at.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
letter to no one
to whomever would listen.
days of mothering, cleaning, bending, laundering, rocking, nursing, caring, nurturing... where were mine? i wonder what it would take for me to begrudge my precious son the love i feel overflowing in my heart, the hopes unrealized, the chance to be just very happily him?
i wonder what they did to make them hate life so. how can a mother leave her babies at home, send them to school with no lunches and cigarette-smelling clothes, ignore their cries of help me, he hurts us, he touches the bad places? how can a father drink himself to oblivion while driving his young son into the front porch, taking vacations passed out poolside while the kids eat cheez-its for dinner and pour out the beer? how could they look away, laugh at, pretend it never was, the pain and crying of two young children, begging, please, love us? and how do they feel now, now that one has grown into an addict and perpetually jobless nobody, the other is distant and healing, protecting her young son from the ill-love, the kind that leaves a scar? where are they, who would they wish they were, are they as empty inside as i imagine they deserve to be?
do they work at karma, or is the mantra 'deny, deny, deny?' do they scream inside, the way that i did, the ways that i have, reaching and wretching over the agony of not being loved? do they ever wonder, is she ok? do they hope for my peace, the way i do for them? do they forgive, do they pray for love, do they feed their souls?
i wish i didn't know the answer to this. days spent in a dark house with her depressed and oppressive partner, or busily humming a tune of nothing hurts as he retreats to a place where no one lives... describing for themselves a life of no-worry, of no-accountability. never wondering what will happen when they are old, and no one is left to care, or, rather sadly, the only one left is the one they did not care for, the one who tries to break free day after day of their shameful disgust, of their pretending life is tv. the only one left who could help is the very one they neglected to begin with.
and the other one. the one i wished things differently for, who now hurts and takes and cons and lies and lies and lies. the one tortured so long, no one is left to torture him but him, and he takes what he couldn't get from the abusers from those willing wanting wishing to help. he takes from us, from our child, from the third ones' kids, and an aunt and uncles' kids too. about-to this and fixing-to that. gonna throw ya'll some money as soon as this next job comes through, just need a little money for gas, and hey, what's one beer, and i'm in pain is why i take the pills, and i been driving this way forever, fuck you and can i borrow your car? you don't understand, don't know what the fuck you're talking about, somebody wronged me, so i'm screwing you, can you lend me twenty dollars til next friday? i'm in your neighborhood, just thought i'd stop by, i just want to help ya'll out of the goodness of my heart, hey want to get a six pack?
and he hides under his shame, never seeking, only scamming, just a little more to get by, until one day he's stealing a roommates truck and fucking a girl who doesn't know any better because she's got a job and is too dumb to question. and i feel sick inside each time he hugs me, or reaches for my son, and i pray for the presence i need to ensure my child never becomes like his uncle.
but, if only there wasn't more of them; they operate in packs of un-reasoning and deceit. the mother of all losses, the matriarch of un-truth, the master manipulator, the enabling grandmother of fear. she spins the tales they might want to hear, honey you know where the pills are, i've got the money if you need it, i'd rather you get it here than on the street. they been drugging me, stealing my money, look at me, i love you, why don't brandi ever come see me? i love her so much, doesn't she care that i'm dying, i have no money, i can't walk, won't you come see me and bring that baby? damn jigaboos trying to steal my jewelry, the doctors won't help, don't they know i can't? i'm gone sit back and wait for it to get easy, did you notice how fat she got, you know he's sleeping with his step-mom? just can't understand how my own family could turn their backs on a crippled old woman, don't ya'll see i'm in pain?
and i continue to retreat from their lies, and i fight my way back to love, muffling my ears from the cries of doubt, from the fears of self-realization, and onward into my own self, into the marvelous unknown, my child on my hip and my love by my side.
it's my life now. regards.
days of mothering, cleaning, bending, laundering, rocking, nursing, caring, nurturing... where were mine? i wonder what it would take for me to begrudge my precious son the love i feel overflowing in my heart, the hopes unrealized, the chance to be just very happily him?
i wonder what they did to make them hate life so. how can a mother leave her babies at home, send them to school with no lunches and cigarette-smelling clothes, ignore their cries of help me, he hurts us, he touches the bad places? how can a father drink himself to oblivion while driving his young son into the front porch, taking vacations passed out poolside while the kids eat cheez-its for dinner and pour out the beer? how could they look away, laugh at, pretend it never was, the pain and crying of two young children, begging, please, love us? and how do they feel now, now that one has grown into an addict and perpetually jobless nobody, the other is distant and healing, protecting her young son from the ill-love, the kind that leaves a scar? where are they, who would they wish they were, are they as empty inside as i imagine they deserve to be?
do they work at karma, or is the mantra 'deny, deny, deny?' do they scream inside, the way that i did, the ways that i have, reaching and wretching over the agony of not being loved? do they ever wonder, is she ok? do they hope for my peace, the way i do for them? do they forgive, do they pray for love, do they feed their souls?
i wish i didn't know the answer to this. days spent in a dark house with her depressed and oppressive partner, or busily humming a tune of nothing hurts as he retreats to a place where no one lives... describing for themselves a life of no-worry, of no-accountability. never wondering what will happen when they are old, and no one is left to care, or, rather sadly, the only one left is the one they did not care for, the one who tries to break free day after day of their shameful disgust, of their pretending life is tv. the only one left who could help is the very one they neglected to begin with.
and the other one. the one i wished things differently for, who now hurts and takes and cons and lies and lies and lies. the one tortured so long, no one is left to torture him but him, and he takes what he couldn't get from the abusers from those willing wanting wishing to help. he takes from us, from our child, from the third ones' kids, and an aunt and uncles' kids too. about-to this and fixing-to that. gonna throw ya'll some money as soon as this next job comes through, just need a little money for gas, and hey, what's one beer, and i'm in pain is why i take the pills, and i been driving this way forever, fuck you and can i borrow your car? you don't understand, don't know what the fuck you're talking about, somebody wronged me, so i'm screwing you, can you lend me twenty dollars til next friday? i'm in your neighborhood, just thought i'd stop by, i just want to help ya'll out of the goodness of my heart, hey want to get a six pack?
and he hides under his shame, never seeking, only scamming, just a little more to get by, until one day he's stealing a roommates truck and fucking a girl who doesn't know any better because she's got a job and is too dumb to question. and i feel sick inside each time he hugs me, or reaches for my son, and i pray for the presence i need to ensure my child never becomes like his uncle.
but, if only there wasn't more of them; they operate in packs of un-reasoning and deceit. the mother of all losses, the matriarch of un-truth, the master manipulator, the enabling grandmother of fear. she spins the tales they might want to hear, honey you know where the pills are, i've got the money if you need it, i'd rather you get it here than on the street. they been drugging me, stealing my money, look at me, i love you, why don't brandi ever come see me? i love her so much, doesn't she care that i'm dying, i have no money, i can't walk, won't you come see me and bring that baby? damn jigaboos trying to steal my jewelry, the doctors won't help, don't they know i can't? i'm gone sit back and wait for it to get easy, did you notice how fat she got, you know he's sleeping with his step-mom? just can't understand how my own family could turn their backs on a crippled old woman, don't ya'll see i'm in pain?
and i continue to retreat from their lies, and i fight my way back to love, muffling my ears from the cries of doubt, from the fears of self-realization, and onward into my own self, into the marvelous unknown, my child on my hip and my love by my side.
it's my life now. regards.
hoping he's still sleeping
this blog may have typos. maybe wont' make sense. cause i heard a noise, but i'm hoping he's still sleeping.
my lovely loverman says to me, you have time to be creative when he's sleeping, after i told him was jealowus of him for his creative time. i want' ted to strangel him. because he has no. freaking. idea.
but he's a great dad, and an even greater friend, lover, artist, supporter, teacher, etc, etc. he's awesome, weith an awlways great attitude. me, not so mucth.
iit's just different as a momma. it's relentless, and when the kid is sleeping (if you're one of the lucky few whose kid sleeps), you have anywhere from 5minutes to 2 hours to eat shower poop cry laundry dishes clean clean clean claen clean. just imagining making time to wirte or draw takes too much time.
yet here i am. i even had time to make a cup of coffee (a rare shred of my single self) before i sat down. i am focusing on blocvking out the pioles and pils of laundry screamaing my name, the fact that the dogs neesd a bath, the floor needing bvacuuming, the calls to the insureance compayn i need to make.
i read/heard that mamas have to just chalk up the first year to baby, especially thouse of yus who are nursign. i am learing to be ok with that. but yeastereday, i got to work an hour in t he backyard, and antoher almost hour at spreading some paint on a canvas. now, im' wirting, thought not very well, and am hoping if i just keep typing, ssomething magical will happen.
is it just me, or do the greatest thoughts/inspiration happen when we'er cleaning toilets or loating the dishwasher for the goddamned thouseanth time this week, and when i finally get down to typing, nothing but oatmeal semes to come out of my tired fingers?
i think i heard him again. nope, i know i heard him. thanks for the time. hope to see you next nap.
my lovely loverman says to me, you have time to be creative when he's sleeping, after i told him was jealowus of him for his creative time. i want' ted to strangel him. because he has no. freaking. idea.
but he's a great dad, and an even greater friend, lover, artist, supporter, teacher, etc, etc. he's awesome, weith an awlways great attitude. me, not so mucth.
iit's just different as a momma. it's relentless, and when the kid is sleeping (if you're one of the lucky few whose kid sleeps), you have anywhere from 5minutes to 2 hours to eat shower poop cry laundry dishes clean clean clean claen clean. just imagining making time to wirte or draw takes too much time.
yet here i am. i even had time to make a cup of coffee (a rare shred of my single self) before i sat down. i am focusing on blocvking out the pioles and pils of laundry screamaing my name, the fact that the dogs neesd a bath, the floor needing bvacuuming, the calls to the insureance compayn i need to make.
i read/heard that mamas have to just chalk up the first year to baby, especially thouse of yus who are nursign. i am learing to be ok with that. but yeastereday, i got to work an hour in t he backyard, and antoher almost hour at spreading some paint on a canvas. now, im' wirting, thought not very well, and am hoping if i just keep typing, ssomething magical will happen.
is it just me, or do the greatest thoughts/inspiration happen when we'er cleaning toilets or loating the dishwasher for the goddamned thouseanth time this week, and when i finally get down to typing, nothing but oatmeal semes to come out of my tired fingers?
i think i heard him again. nope, i know i heard him. thanks for the time. hope to see you next nap.
Monday, August 1, 2011
six months
wow. my son is six months old. there is nothing in that sentence that isn't still surreal.
really?! six months? really?! i have a son? really?! my life is not an illusion? really?!
really. i really am a mother. i think i always have been. but this, this is profound, not just imagining, babysitting, sistering, being the shoulder my brother-mother-father cry upon. not just bossing my baby sister (a seasoned mother of 4) around. now i'm in it. night. day. forever.
i am pretty sure i spend as many hours putting the boy to sleep as i spend actually sleeping. i clean so damn much i'm dizzy, yet it's never enough. i have had, and continue to have, all forms of baby bodily fluids on my skin, in my hair, on my clothes. there's not enough coffee, never enough time, and certainly no room for whining.
mothers are the original warriors.
i have to admit, i love every moment of it. it's what i'm good at. chaos is my rhythm, and my happy baby boy gleefully giggles with me as we dance, spin, swing, laugh, cry. and he constantly surprises and inspires me.
he had a tough start. breastfeeding wasn't going well, and my precious tiny baby boy began to lose weight. i was traumatized, exhausted. we began supplementing, which turned our feeding schedule into a round-the-clock ordeal. he was so small.
and yet, he remained calm. he rarely cried, and he seemed to see into my soul when he looked at me. we finally found our stride, and he began to fill out, and we weaned off of the formula and were nursing full-time. and then, it seemed, he just blossomed.
at six months, he's a long little fella with a small body. some of his 0-3 month clothes are still fitting. but, let me tell ya, he is the strongest and most dynamic kid i have ever met. at five months he began army-crawling, and now, at six months, is pulling himself up to standing. he loves to swing upside-down, and his favorite song is "do re mi." he's an engaging and charismatic little boy, and people tell us he seems like "a very mature baby." he laughs more than he cries, he loves his cousins, his favorite foods are avocadoes and bananas, and he's very interested in art (especially daddy's!). he makes our lives so rich, so lush, and we savor every lovely moment we have to hold, hug, kiss and cuddle him.
happy birthday, baby king. you are loved more than you will ever know.
really?! six months? really?! i have a son? really?! my life is not an illusion? really?!
really. i really am a mother. i think i always have been. but this, this is profound, not just imagining, babysitting, sistering, being the shoulder my brother-mother-father cry upon. not just bossing my baby sister (a seasoned mother of 4) around. now i'm in it. night. day. forever.
i am pretty sure i spend as many hours putting the boy to sleep as i spend actually sleeping. i clean so damn much i'm dizzy, yet it's never enough. i have had, and continue to have, all forms of baby bodily fluids on my skin, in my hair, on my clothes. there's not enough coffee, never enough time, and certainly no room for whining.
mothers are the original warriors.
i have to admit, i love every moment of it. it's what i'm good at. chaos is my rhythm, and my happy baby boy gleefully giggles with me as we dance, spin, swing, laugh, cry. and he constantly surprises and inspires me.
he had a tough start. breastfeeding wasn't going well, and my precious tiny baby boy began to lose weight. i was traumatized, exhausted. we began supplementing, which turned our feeding schedule into a round-the-clock ordeal. he was so small.
and yet, he remained calm. he rarely cried, and he seemed to see into my soul when he looked at me. we finally found our stride, and he began to fill out, and we weaned off of the formula and were nursing full-time. and then, it seemed, he just blossomed.
at six months, he's a long little fella with a small body. some of his 0-3 month clothes are still fitting. but, let me tell ya, he is the strongest and most dynamic kid i have ever met. at five months he began army-crawling, and now, at six months, is pulling himself up to standing. he loves to swing upside-down, and his favorite song is "do re mi." he's an engaging and charismatic little boy, and people tell us he seems like "a very mature baby." he laughs more than he cries, he loves his cousins, his favorite foods are avocadoes and bananas, and he's very interested in art (especially daddy's!). he makes our lives so rich, so lush, and we savor every lovely moment we have to hold, hug, kiss and cuddle him.
happy birthday, baby king. you are loved more than you will ever know.
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