i would be lying if i said i didn't think i was pretty. people tell me that, always have, and often i look into the mirror and i see a woman with nicely balanced features, decent skin, good hair, and not-too-fucked-up teeth. i see a slim figure, needing work in a few places, but pleasant and attractive nonetheless.
it's odd then, that when i see my self, i only see ugly.
it's not the looks, per se. and it's not the soul, either, as i think that aside from some pretty stupid choices in my 20's, i'm a fairly decent person. in fact, i ponder deeply matters of the heart, my own conflicted one especially, and i do my best to be kind and caring, even though i don't always do it right. i'm a good listener, i don't steal, and i truly appreciate folks from all walks of life.
still, there is a breakdown somewhere. i suspect it is in the foundation of me, the beginnings of life vandalized and spat upon. i can hear my mothers hateful voice telling me how plain and homely i am, ridiculing me in front of people, conflicting with my grandmothers insistence that i am pretty, pushing that competitive, hairsprayed, beauty queen brand of 'beauty'. but that's not what confuses me the most. it's the seedy eyes, the man in my house who salivated over my young body as a child, fondling me through my clothes right there in the middle of everything, my mother never noticing, never caring. the watching of my hips spreading with puberty, my tiny breasts forming under a training bra, and the moving me closer to him as he had an erection next to me on the living room couch. to this day, it makes me feel sick, nauseated, and knowing that it was the pretty that attracted him to me, his stepdaughter, that makes me wish to cast if off of me, as far as possible, throw it away in favor of breakouts and glasses and a shaved head. because pretty makes me a target, puts me in danger.
it used to be the zits on my face. oh, i covered them up with pounds of makeup alright, but i couldn't help but to pick, pick, pick, making the acne worsen and redden, puffing up my face until it hurt. and from there, it was the chest, the breast area especially, and then the neck and shoulders, admittedly my best physical features. now i've moved down to the legs, pregnancy hormones having cleared up my face and breast profoundly. and for this, i should be happy, but instead i continue to obsessively seek out all the ugly i can find on me.
perhaps i do it because it is a problem i can sort of control, little tiny purges i can attack anywhere, at anytime. perhaps it distracts me from the bigger problems, the ones out of my reach, the ones that if i sat with them long enough might destroy me, might suffocate me with their unresolvedness. perhaps it is to keep me ugly on a physical level, so that i might feel safer, secure in my repugnant body, certain no stranger would want to touch me.
intellectually, i can acknowledge this as a real issue, and the solution is to just stop doing it. to accept my self as i am, pretty or ugly, but to be uncompromisingly me. and the even bigger issue would be to give myself over to the beauty that is sublime, to give the most beautiful part of myself to the man i love, as he has loved me through it all, zitted and bald, scared and bitter. still i find ways to put a barrier between us, yet he remains ever faithful and committed to loving me, no matter what.
we'll marry soon. i hope i can let this go by then, so that i can vow to give him the best of me now, and to mean it and follow through. i hope i can learn to see me through his eyes, to love myself with tenderness and patience. it's the least i can do for the one who brings such beauty to my world, who has blessed me with not only his presence, his home, his art, and his soul, but now with the most precious gift, our son. i hope i can let go of the rest of my ugly, and learn to trust, and remember how to love, and to begin to live in beauty.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
untitled
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.)
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.)
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.
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