Thank You Rupi, For Reminding Me To Use My Words

In writing this,

I am aware of my privilege.

That seated in front of this keyboard, 

cursor blinking,

I should be full of joy and gratitude,

and don't think for a moment I am not.

I am the Yin and the Yang, 

(You are too).

the dark and the light.

I am human and there is a deep darkness and sadness I am also carrying.

I wanted to write about the people who bring me comfort:

the 8 second hug my daughter gave me when she returned from her dad's on Christmas Day,

the witty and endless banter I share with my partner,

the warmth of a child's hand in my own, snuggling into a book before bed.

I wanted to tell you about how our pup sleeps right next to me, and his love was something I didn't expect.

I wanted to tell you about the way the snow fell in the early o'clock of the morning and I stared at stars millions of miles from me, knowing I'm alone and not alone.

But I am human and there is a deep darkness and sadness I am carrying.

It is full and it is suffocating me.

It is a cup that needs to empty,

tears that need to be cried,

Silence needs to be broken.

Sit with me, sit and weep the words,

watch wounds open and close,

gore germinate, quicksand swallow,

and hope we emerge, 

(tip the scales)

back into light,

back into peace,

back into comfort.

Bitterness in Ink, Day 1.

Thank you, blank paper,

for allowing my pen to touch you in the places that  spill my shadows.

Thank you, blank paper,

for capturing my evil twin and compelling her voice to paper.

Thank you for giving me:

fire,

a dagger,

and hiding me under your white cloak.

Thank you for reminding me:

the mightiness of this pen is only an extension of the heaviness in my heart,

that I painfully set down in your ink.

*****************************************************

She defended you

even while she talked shit about you.

She loved your Facebook posts

and then texted me the gossip.

I ate away my feelings to not feel. 

But I still felt.

I told my daughters that we are allowed one great Hate in our lifetimes:

                   I can't decide.  

I can't decide which...

                   Living in this small town 

with so many who openly carry their two faces, one for each palm,

                   (my own hands extended),

                   or your black soul.

***************************************************

I can feel the darkness in me emerge when I see your face.

I push it down, like vomit, it comes back up.

It sits, your statue,  on my chest.

I don't want it. 

I don't want to feel this feeling.

Go away.  

Please go away revulsion, disgust, resentment.

You created pain, like a God,

when you let your Pandora's box open in a room with innocent babes.

I don't want this ugly darkness manifested inside of me.  

Even though I watch only from the crack in the wall, 

a small shatter in the lining of the womb, 

 I can see how my hatred for you,

matches yours for yourself.

*********************************************************************

I can choose

not to play these games or be nice.

I can choose to block the negative feelings when I see your fawning support, 

like syrups spilling,

of the evil Queen.

I can choose to look the monster in the eyes and stomp on the money that grew 

on the trees behind her home.

I can choose not to see you pant at the picked clean bones she tosses you.

I can choose.

*********************************************************************

Suppose I told you, my friend,

that she leaves her dogs out all day in the blistering cold.

The wind whips, the ice falls.

She sweet talks them and feeds them honey and lies

to bring them in to take photos to post on her Facebook.

She gets her adrenaline rush, 40 likes! 

Almost as many as the readjusted breasts in the too tight shirt.

You say, "She's such a terrible person.

How could she?" 

And you tell me about how you've heard the pups howl 

how they bark incessantly,

how they've dug holes into the snow because their chains restrict them.

Then, carrying your other face,

you shower your sugar on her with balloons and cakes and celebratory phrases.

You, my friend,

are not my friend.

But in this small town,

I carry my other face too.

*********************************************************************

Did my words sting?

Did you feel just a little bite out of your bourgeoisie jeans?

Turn around, turn around:

Smile again, 

Your row of Cheshire cat chaos needs rearranging.

If I could fist to face,

without a fight,

I wish I could,

I just might.

I have smashed bottles and been in fights 

in bars,

stitches in hospitals at 1 am.

I have done the crazy things I am no longer known for.

It's not just your sweet tits I'd like to see deflated.

************************************************************************

My Perfect Day, Day 2

I want to go back. It's December of 2013. 

Before surgeries. 

Before weird lumps growing in places they shouldn't.

Before cancer.

 I don't think about dying.

I don't think, this could be my last:

Soak it all in;  You never know.

            My daughters get into the car and drive away,

and I don't consider the possibility of them never coming back.

     I don't worry about whether I will wake up when I close my eyes.

I sleep soundly through the night, without waking up in a panic, unable to fall back asleep,

just to know my heart still pulses.

    I look at the wrinkles and think about the wisdom it shows,

not the grave.

     I feel the peace of the moment and not wander-mind where time will take me.

     There is no horror, no tension, no anguish.  

    My stomach isn't aching already, mourning the moments I will miss.

I'm not thinking about the memories made without me,

Not seeing the birthdays and graduations, or

Not meeting my grandchildren.

I imagine I live a long life and know I stopped to pick the roses, but the roses didn't haunt me.

My children will outlive me.

I don't think about hospital beds or endings.

I don't need to be reminded to live every day like it's my last.  

I have since June 10th, 2014.

****************************************************************

You don't know.  

You can't know, 

unless you know,

how soft the wind blows at 2 am,

the whisper of death.

****************************************************************

Chain smoking,

Tequila at 2 am, 

little hills of dust.

Why does God let you have your health?

I envy.

I envy.

Angry at God.

I eat.

I eat.

I look in the mirror at the girl who used to win the awards for being athletic.

She doesn't look back.

I weep.

I weep.

I roll out of bed. 

Plant my feet firmly.

Limp walk to the bathroom.

My back, a burning knot,

my hands numb,

my feet pins and needles.

My body betrays.

I'm angry.

I hate you God. Spirit. The Unknown. Is this my Karma, 

the trauma I am carrying in my DNA.

God, why have you  set a fire to my temple?

Even when I painted it, fixed the plumbing,

replaced the roof and windows.

I've planted flowers, trimmed the hedges.  

I watered the plants.

Why?

You, spirit creator, who lets the other pain-free play in the snow,

rolling in dust, wiping their noses,

while I wait,

wait,

waiting,

watching,

seeing the "good people" of Christ's Church wish them luck on Facebook,

share pleasantries,

even when the good people know about the mountain mounds of deadly desires they pile around their throne.

****************************************************************

Day 3: Coping

When I deactivated my Facebook,

it asked me, Why?

I chose "Other": and in the blank typed Mental Health.

My last great trial was many years ago.

Learning to curb my negative thoughts,

I searched for answers.

Like a Pavlovian response,

I wore a the old fashioned classic tan rubber band on my wrist.

Each time I experienced a negative thought,

I snapped it.

You may think this was desperate.

Maybe it was. 

But it worked.

I feel only serenity about the man who caused that pain.

Deepak Chopra also speaks to me,

I listen as I shower,

as I stare through a windshield,

As my soapy hands scrub the dishpan.

Sat Chit Ananda.

If you see my struggling,

if you see my rubber band snap,

If you hear me repeat the mantra,

please choose:

 nod in acknowledgment,

offer a kind word,

or mind your own business.

***************************************************************

     Day 4: Still Coping

I won't apologize for the way I feel.

I won't apologize for creating boundaries. 

I don't care what people say: They want to talk, they can talk.

I've always wanted to please people, make them happy.

I blame it on growing up the oldest in a dysfunctional family: Anything to sidestep the conflict.

But as I'm reaching away from the old me, I'm leaving that girl behind.

I won't stand for the people I love to hurt.

I won't act like it doesn't hurt me too.

I'm in a weird place, a space empty,

I emptied it because you held out a cup, 

then a bucket, and quickly I saw an ocean of my own tears.

I chose to compensate for your downfalls.

I chose to feel guilty because of your poor decisions.

I chose to nail my own self to a cross to be the person I wanted you to be.

I gave part of myself away because I loved the people you said you loved.

No child should be 24 before they're 14.

I believed wrongly that bad people were in places not close to me.  

Bad people were serial killers on tv.

Bad people were invading countries and bombing villages.

Bad people were terrorists, thieves, rapists.

But bad people are people we see every day.

They look us in the eye.

Bad people are self absorbed and self consumed and they wrap it up in a pretty package they call

"Self Care"

and I'm "Finding Myself"

and they sell it with lipstick and cleavage

slits in dresses and nipples peeking through lingerie.

I wish this could be different, but wishing won't change it.

I won't look away and I won't lie.

What I understand now more than ever is how Emily Dickenson became a recluse.

What I understand now more than ever is her question, "I'm nobody, who are you?"

(Dear Emily, I'm a nobody, too.)

 

The following story is a satire written from the point of view of a teacher and mother.  

"The Farmer and the Case of the Unhappy Cows"

Once upon a time there was a happy farmer who lived in a rural town not too far from the Village which was known as many names by those outside of the village.  He did not have a large herd of cattle and yet the cattle he had were satisfied.  He fed them and milked them on a strict routine, gave them plenty of air and sunshine during the warmer months, and was glad to clean their stalls, muck their shit, and work the old hard work without the aid of fancy machinery. He understood this way was the old way and although it did not ease the burden of his work, he felt inclined to honor the traditions of his fathers.

His cattle became a part of his family.  Of course they had names and even nicknames and he referred to them lovingly when he called them in from the fields.  He patted their noses and rubbed their flanks.  He sometimes told them stories as he milked, sitting on an old stool. This was his way and he cherished it, despite the days the cold broke through his knuckles, causing them to bleed, and the ax became so heavy he felt his arm like the weight of an anchor.  He cultivated his fields, sweating through his long sleeved  flannels even during the fall, hefting the hay into the loft one pitchfork at a time.  He woke at first light and he nurtured the relationship he had with this dairy farm, one that had been a part of his history.

While the farming community to which he belonged declined, those who remained respected him and he had established a name which was associated with perseverance and determination.

Now it came to be the farmer's crops suffered a terrible blight.  It was not the fault of the farmer.  It was simply an act of nature.  The farmer had never remembered a time such as this and felt quite lost. After conferring with some of his fellow farmers, he felt the only choice he has was to travel into the Village and purchase the food from a well known distributary of farming supplies. His hired hands knew well his routine so he left them and his beloved cattle to make the day's trip to the Village by horse.  

Once at the distributary, which also was known by many names, the foreman was delighted to see him, as he had attempted to recruit him as a customer many times.  The man showed the farmer a variety of feed, many of which he said was "fortified" with this or that. Ingredients the farmer cared not to remember as he had no inclination to be a continuing customer.  The man was quite pleased with himself and put on fancy words for the farmer and droned on about the abundance of milk his cattle would produce with this "fine food" that had been made in the Great City and delivered here to the Village. "You will work less and the cows... why they will be overjoyed at this enriched product." The transaction completed,  the foreman promised a delivery that day of the finest feed his cattle could ever want.  

Weeks went by with the farmer in his same routine, only disrupted by the "fine feed".  And by the end of the month, the farmer noticed some of the cows seemed.. almost fatigued. Not coming right away when he called them.  Others were restless, prancing the way a horse would.  And some unfazed, acting almost normal.  Yet the ones who were acting normally produced perhaps only the merest of additional supply and instead the cattle who now loafed produced less.  Another month went by and more of the cattle began to act strangely.  Consulting his fellow farmers yet again, it was decided he should travel into the city to see The Doctor and his Wife.

He dismounted his horse a day later at the finest home he had seen in all the Village.  The ornamentation of the home and the ostentatious nature of the grounds created a sense of weariness in the famer, and yet he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, so this was his choice.  He needed to get to the root of what was causing his cows so much distress.  Especially Mary, who often now lay down while being called in and began to moo without end.

The man was greeted by a servant who opened the door wide into a great hall gilded with gold.  This doctor had been learned in the Great City and so the farmer felt his ways to be ignorant.  He waited on a settee while the servant offered him tea poured in a cup so tiny, he could put no finger through the handle.  

"Doctor will see you now," and the farmer was swept through the hall into an office of mahogany, thick drapery, statues of bucking broncos adorning pedestals.  The desk consumed the room and opposite was great shelves of books.  The farmer felt his understanding of the world shaken and he cowered a bit in this presence.  The doctor turned in his seat, a man stuffed like a cabbage roll into his button down shirt.  He had spectacles perched delicately on his hawked nose and yet it was the pouches of his cheeks, sloping downward, that truly consumed his face.

"My man, I understand your cattle are depressed?" he bellowed.

the farmer shook his head in affirmation.  At that moment the Doctor's wife, his consultant in everything, swept in with her manicured nails, flowing and tumbling tresses.  Her large breasts burst from her heavy velvet garb and the farmer looked away. 

"Oh my fine farmer," she spoke in a voice eloquent, honeyed, her features of her face delicate, yet he could see the weight of her indulgences also like a heaviness in her cheeks and jaw.   She smiled and her teeth were misshapen, crowded in and out like a child who has slashed a smile into a jack-o-lantern.

She continued and the doctor nodded as she spoke. "We have been trained in th most recent medicines for your cattle.  I myself have the title of Chief of Medicines and my knowledge spans the Great City to the next even Greater City.  We can provide you with a pill which they should take daily, preferably twice a day for maximum effect.  You should also need to entertain your cattle.  Dance for them. Put on a show.  Shower them with gifts.  Do not let the slightest unhappiness weigh on them.  DO not expect them to come to you.  No, no.  these cattle need you to go to them.  If you must, hire troubadours or even a clown.  We must make them comfortable... Now, are you providing them with the grain from the distributary?" She glanced at the doctor who nodded at her, smiling in a way reflecting an almost bizarre relationship in which the wife was clearly dominant.  

The farmer nodded, feeling so uncomfortable that he would accept whatever they recommended, just so he could leave this place.

Then we shall provide you with the necessary medicines and you shall see a great turnabout in your possessions. As she completed her sentence, a small head poked through the door. Her face went red. "Child.  Have you had your medicine today?" The boy nodded. "Then go. Go! Have I not told you before? The company comes soon, so be dressed in your finery!" the child disappeared like the farmer wished he could. She turned and again smiled that wicked smile at him.

He left with the pills, feeling some way he had never felt before.  It was a shadow of a feeling just hesitating in the back of his mind.  he did not know the name for it and yet it made him feel slightly sick, anxious even.  

A month went by with the farmer giving his cattle the two pills a day.  He hired troubadours.  He himself sang for them.  he danced himself.  he let them loaf.  He attempted to milk them as they lay reclined.  He whispered kind words as he always had and yet, nothing seemed better.  He could not understand.  In fact, most of the cows now were fatigued and restless and a few were insubordinate.  What was he to do.  

He consulted his peers one last time, praying for a miracle.  They recommended he see the Chief of the Farming Department in the Great City, a 3 day trip.  Feeling he had no other options, the farmer left for the Great City.  The trip was long and tiring and he had little food now that he was spending a significant amount on pills and grain.

The Chief of the Farming Department was quite busy, and so he was given a pile of papers to complete about his farm, what he fed them, how much they slept, etc. etc. and then scheduled to see an assistant who smiled cheerfully, whistling as he walked the farmer back through a row of tiny rooms, all with darkened windows. The further they walked, the warmer it got until he felt that perhaps this man's office was right next to a great stove bursting with flames.

The assistant studied his application and narrowed his eyes at him.  "So you say that you have restless and fatigued cows?" 

The farmer nodded.

"And you say they are still producing milk, but much less?"

Again the farmer nodded.

"Then my recommendation is you are not milking them enough.  Milk them on the hour every hour. Even through the night."

"Sir?" the farmer said.

The man cleared his throat ignoring the former's objection.

"And you say you have one cow who is being particularly insubordinate and not producing milk?"

Again, the farmer nodded.

"Then you are not giving him enough attention.  You must refocus all your efforts on that one cow.  The others are clearly capable, albeit restless and lazy, but this cow, you must forget the others.  I recommend we complete this paperwork on that cow.  We will double down our efforts, together, to bring some semblance of normalcy to his life yet!"

The assistant was so full of zeal the farmer could do nothing but allow a half formed smile while simultaneously wondering if this man had ever stepped a foot on a farm.

It was 3 days drive back to the farm where, once he arrived, most of the cows were gone.  He began to search for them, frantic, calling them in the same way his father had called them and his father had before him.  He wandered out into the fields, through the trees until he became lost in his search.  He sat against the rock, put his head between his knees and wept.  The darkness came quickly and it began to rain. His tears and the rain were one.  He did not move. It was not that he didn't want to.  He wanted to fervently.  He wanted the old way back.  The structure, the routine, the glowing fields.  He wanted to muck the shit while he whistled and felt the cold sweat of his work trickling down his back and he wanted to speak again to his companions with the reverence he had once felt.

 But he could not.  And so he did not move from the rock nor did he speak.  Where was there to go?  Who was left to listen?  He kept his eyes closed a long time. So long, in fact, he could not be woke.

Shushlisten to your Sisters They sing Now

I am-have-been wearyboned.
The kind of weary-boned that feels like giving up.

Just now, the words came tumbling, and I ran to catch them and arrange them on paper.
I felt the heartsong.  It's the song of the woman who came before me (and before me).  The woman who tenderedcare to others and with grace, seemed to fade.  Who felt little and alone and unseen.  Who felt small and yet large at the same time.  That woman (and before-her woman) who is still with us and when we shushlisten, we can hear her sing.

I've been thinking about what it means to be a woman. A woman who  stands for other women, and feels the age old call to be a voice for the voiceless. Thinking about how my own expectations and sacrifices aren't the same as others. Thinking about the pain of knowing more than my heart wants to know and holding more than my heart seems capable of holding.

But I'm feeling more myself today. (Thank you Jenny for the hug).  After hearing Laurie Halse Anderson speak yesterday about being broken open, about needing to shout the truth, it reminded me of Wordsworth: "The world is too much with us."  The world's pain has been with me too much, too close, almost smothering me.   I'm doing the only thing I know how to do when I break:  I'm releasing the words.

If you have felt the world is too much with you, then this letter is also you.

A letter to myself and you, GirlWoman:
You, soft-scared, despair-destroyed, and heart-sad.
Walk with me (with me).

Dear girl.

You are soft.

The places where others
razors bite and you bleed,
You sidestep,
swipe,
move to the right.
Afraid.
You drop the light to hide.

Light subsides, slow,
like slurred words to ended speech.

Dear girl,
I (outside-in)
See-you: See-me

Where you
Hide in the dark.
Cornercrouched.
Beyondcloset.
Underbed.


Where you bury your uglycryface
away
from a world that
snarls
and hisses-
a world that is
Scratchfist and
poundloud with misplaced desires.

So you judgeblame,
expecting it to mimic the
silentlong sojournsacrifice
that resides in you.

Shushlisten.
You will not hide, now, child.

Up.

Get up.
Standshaky on those two feet.
Be willing.
Bewillingtoletlove
                               b r e a k you inward.
                                            Throw you oPEn.
                                                       s t  r  e   t ch you together.

Bend.
Bend and bend,
like the birch in your yard you swung on at 6,
at 8, at 10,

until at 12
It moment-sways,
supporting your weight,
you scratchknees,
you scrapetoes,
your inner thighs hugging trunk so tight,

Squeezedeyes shut,
waiting for butterfly belly flutters,
as you had once been lofted into the air and
catapulted.


But my girlchild,
you are growing.

That tree is no longer yours to climb.
It can no longer offer, under your weight, the joy of a younger you.
It bends and bends and breaks.

Snaps, cracks,
open boned,
bearing blood and you,
knucklewhite,

groundtossed,
where gravity sucks you
down and down.

And down.
You, headjarred,
you, heartjarred.

Up.

Damn you.
Girl,
get

UP.

Babywalk,
step.
StEp.
s t e p.

Let the tearfall
Let the ragefall
Let the bitterapple d i e.

S  t  e  P.

You,
follower of moons
whose waters have surged and withdrawn,
follower of feetpounds and fleshsliced.

Girl,
You,
Woman.

The tree and
the forest, inyou
the sisters before
(and before) (and before)
Sang
handjoined,
heartwoven,

Shushlisten to your Sisters They sing Now,
proudloud,
beatheart,
You, sharedblood,

Girl, Shushlisten,
Your sisters proclaim:

Woman:
You
Will
RISE.

You Have My Permission: An open Letter to Step-Moms Everywhere

A Letter to the Other Mother of my daughters.


Dear D------,

Your blood, guts, face.  I testified daily so many years ago that those things I hated.  More dangerous  than any poison, I was a sullen, bitter and hardened woman, desperate to lay blame.  I hated you for a hundred different reasons, none of which now matter. I couldn't see beyond the pain that a mother knows who feels that she has lost her most important full time job. For too long I hated.  I wanted you to die, melt, become a puddle of whatever mush a body becomes when seething invisible-mama daggers gouge out eyes and teeth and all soft spots then watch them liquefy as volcanoes erupt into the hell fire I would send.  

I used to think:
How could you be anything like me?  I am their mother. The one that gave them life?  The one that carried them and birthed them through screams and terror of my own near death?  How could you replace me? How could you read them bed time stories, know their favorites to put into their lunches, teach them to measure when baking cookies, play Chutes and Ladders?  How dare you rub their cheeks and back when they were sick, color, make play-dough animals, sing at the top of your voice and play dance party?  

Too many holidays I sat alone, lonely, watching leaves fall or snowflakes whirl while my girls sat on your lap eating apple pie or unwrapping gifts.  You heard their sweet tot voices as they squealed with delights I desired to witness.  I cried into empty pillows and cradled bottles of wine, instead of my darling girls.

But now:
I thank God every day that nearly five years ago I became a step-mom, myself.  For one, I have three beautiful children to love.  But that's not the only why. 

When I became a step-mom, I began to understand how blame can be erased.  How mistakes can be forgiven, and how deep wounds can heal.

As I lay at night, singing, "I'll give you a daisy a day, dear" to my darling step-daughter, and then tell her "Good-night" with a kiss to the forehead, I think of you.  When she begs me back for one more song, or one more story, I think of you.  When we hold hands in the grocery store, or she falls and I bandage a not so terrible boo-boo, I think of you.  When she cuddles into my lap and tells me that I'm not going anywhere because we are "cuddlin'" I think of you.  When I go to her Halloween parades, thanksgiving celebrations, shop for her Christmas gifts.... When I braid her hair, curl it, let her put make-up on me.... When she asks me to put love into the cookies before she mixes them... I think of you.

I think of all the times you have been there for my daughters.  All the tears you've soothed, all the whispered, "I love yous."  I think of the worries, fears, joys, sadness, pride you have for my girls.  I think of how lucky they are to have you in their lives.  Someone that holds them to a standard as high as I do, wants their happiness and success as much as I do.  

And, so today,  I want you to know, you have my permission.  You have my permission to be their mother just as much as I am their mother.  You didn't give birth to them, but that doesn't make your love for them or your hopes for them less than my own.  

You have my permission to have an opinion about whether or not they should get that shot, should attend the event, college, or buy that certain car.  You have my permission to stand beside me someday when they go to prom, get married, have their own children.  You have my permission to continue loving them with the depths of the love a mother has for a child, because since I became a step-mom, I know that you do.

This Thanksgiving I want you to know I am thankful for you.  Because without you, my girls would not be who they are. And for that, I am so very thankful.