Pages

Monday, January 27, 2014

Poppin' Pills

Poppin' Pills they hit my teeth they don't hurt
Not anymore, half the bottle gone
I rest my heavy head for support
On my heavy hands. I have done
The easiest thing to keep from
Feeling your goodbye again
The unsaid words swarm
Like a storm and rain
In my overflowing heart
The flood of your unsaid
Words has ripped my calm apart
And I am drowning in a sea of dead.

Poppin' Pills how many was that?
What's it matter, don't wanna come back
To your world where I patiently sat
And waited for you to contact
Me. I knew I wasn't good, pretty, smart
Enough for you. I never was.
But you swore you loved me from the start,
Up until that day. Applause
For your performance for breaking walls
Set there to protect me from you.
And you broke them,  I fall
In love with you again, you do what you do.

So I'm Poppin' Pills. A few more left in the bottle.
I'm gonna throw it away and continue to swallow
The pain that I feel at the thought of your face
At the time spent together, how my heart raced.
When you kissed my lips for the very first time
When you held me and swore you wanted to be mine.
Lies and pretty words, wrapped in ribbons and lace.
I shouldn't have listened I should have watched your face.
Those eyes would have told me the truth I didn't want to believe
That you are a liar, a cheat, that you deceive
I don't know why, I don't know what you want
But I'm at the bottom of the bottle, I win you don't.


Red

Red, red, the knife cuts deep
The slit flows blood red and
Drip, drip, drip your words keep
Flowing out of me onto the sand
Predators, you, your kind, prey
On the vulnerable, the weak
Sucking us dry, Wanted to say
I love you, Can't speak.

Poppin' Pills, how many was that
A river of red races down my
Leaden arm. It is big and fat
I trace it with my eye
To the lake on the table, floor
Up again. Poppin Pills don't feel
a thing. I wait, watch the door.
No one comes. You seal
My fate, just by coming back.
I am crazy, lost, manic desperate
And you make me feel everything I lack
From being perfect. I am desperate.

Poppin' Pills very tired now.
Is it the river of red
Or the numbing power
I lay down my head
In a puddle of blood
You made me you took me
This red, bloody flood
These pills that you see
That's you not me
I was fine you made me crazy.

Drip,drip, drip
Pop, pop, pop
Drip, drip
Pop, pop
Drip
Pop
.

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Fucked

That is how I feel. It isn't what I wanted.
I wanted to be loved and touched
Softly with fingers that caressed my skin.
I wanted whispers of how much I was loved
How beautiful I was in his eyes.
I got fucked.

I wanted to be made love to.
Sweet gentle lips on my body.
Warm, strong hands to hold me.
His eyes to look into mine and shine.
To feel like I was the only thing that mattered.
I got fucked.

I wanted to be loved
Cherished
Adored
Worshiped
Treasured.
He fucked me.

Now, I don't want him to touch me.
I don't want to be alone with him.
I don't want his hands or lips.
I don't believe his words.
I no longer trust him.
Him
Him
Him
You
You...
You fucked up so
Now, you're fucked, too.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

Memories

Memory


Man is she a bitch. Or maybe he is. My memories. Or my nightmares. This one, I keep thinking I've lassoed it, tied it up good and tight, in the corral, no in the barn locked up tight. And dammit if someone doesn't open that barn door. Usually me. But prompted by someone else. Someone like a therapist. Someone that knows what they are doing but unfortunately, can't get that nightmare back in the barn in those 15 minutes left of your session when you finally admitted what happened. 

"Oh but I've dealt with it. Forgiven and gone on. He's dead. I've moved on. I'm over it." Except I'm not. Or I would have told her about it the first time I saw her. I told myself I was just testing the waters to see if we were a fit. No need to drag all that out if we weren't going to mesh. Truth is, I wanted to hide it from her. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. I wanted to be "normal."

We talked about how often it happens. One in four. One, two, three, four. I can be volunteering at school and know that if there are five of us there, it's very likely that one other woman has had this happen to her. She has my nightmare or something similar. And once you say it happened to you...women come out of the woodwork admitting it happened to them. Or at least that has been my experience. Or they don't. But I know, I can tell by the way they drink too much, or keep their arms around themselves make themselves small or big, it happened to them too.

Memory. Yeah, it's a bitch. Let's not give it a gender. It sneaks up on you in the most inopportune moments. Makes you feel small, insignificant and helpless, all over again. You get stuck in that place of memory. And getting back out, it takes some strength. Some people stay locked in their nightmares, never escaping. But that isn't where I want to be. I did not survive my childhood to be paralyzed by it. So ugly dirty thoughts come to me again. The self loathing and despising my body comes again. But I will pass through on the other side. My nightmares will not hold me back. Time to open the barn door. Let them run at me. I have hands to hold to help me through their ugliness. 

And then I'll pick myself up. I'll start over. I wasn't beaten as a child. I certainly won't be beaten as an adult.
I just can't quite announce that label yet. Not yet. But one day, I will proudly wear that badge. Until then, I'll battle the nightmares 55 minutes at a time once every other week. And hope to keep the barn door closed til then.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Real life- in pieces

I missed you today. I read what you wrote and I wanted to talk to you and tell you how good it made me feel, but you weren't here. I know where you are and where you will always be. But for just a minute, I wanted to pretend you were here and wrap my arms around you. I wanted to smell your smell and bury my face in your neck. I wanted to feel your arms wrap around me, too. I wanted to feel you squeeze me tight against you. Feel you smell my hair, my skin. I wanted to pretend we were still. That nothing had ever happened to bring this sadness, this separation.

I wrap my own arms around myself and try to warm myself in the chilly air of the day. I try not to remember. I pretend. My life is one big theatrical production. Hiding, pretending, numbing the pain, pretending. It is a half life. And behind the scenes...that is where the real life happens, only in pieces. Maybe that is all I can stand to have- real life in pieces. I can't handle a whole real life. Or maybe I don't deserve one for pretending so long. Even now, I keep the secrets of one so others can keep their saint on his pedestal. I try to stay whole. But how many secrets do I have to keep before I crack into pieces. Will they be the pieces of a real life or the pretend life? I hardly know which is which anymore.

I turn inward. I am in here somewhere. My heart beats strong. I have born many things. In some small corner in this body I exist. There is a true me here. I am real. I may be small. Infinite. But I am not pretend. And I can grow from that small piece. I can fill this space, this body with real pieces that connect to make a whole me. I can have a real life. One away from here where I don't have to pretend. I can be new. Whole. Strong. Fearless. I can be Me. I only have to find that infinite piece. Til then, the play goes on....


Walls

Walls, four make a box or a rectangle. They can also make a room.
A safe place to stay. Or a prison filled with nightmares.

Walls can be movable. Wrapped around us reaching out
infinite or small. Protection from them.

Walls can be made of stone, glass, flesh.
Their purpose remains constant.

Keep out. No trespassing.
I don't want you here.
Go away. please....

Walls don't stay. They leave when you need them.
They come up when you don't. You can't control the
walls in your world.

In my world. Walls used to mean safety.
Walls meant loneliness. Walls meant days of sorrow.
Walls meant reliving the pain of childhood.
Walls meant never getting hurt again.
Walls meant never living again.

I've tested my walls. They are shaky.
If they fail, who will be there? Can I stand
without my walls? They have held me up
so, so long. I feel like a baby on new legs.
Where to look, who to trust, what to do?

Maybe just one wall down at a time.
I lean back against the other three.
You may come in. But wipe your feet.
This is my home. For now.
Me and my three shaky walls.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

My Story

*****Picture credit Bits of Truth

Recently, an old friend from college days emailed me and suggested that maybe I didn't appreciate what I had in my life. This wasn't a random email. We have been emailing back and forth and this is completely out of context. But it got me thinking. I have just finished reading I Am Malala. Certainly, I don't appreciate being able to turn on the faucet and get fresh water. I don't appreciate medical care available to me, or grocery stores or cars or schools. I take them all for granted. But my friend came down a little hard on me.
We've been out of touch for 22 years and he has no idea what has transpired in those years. Most people that know me don't know. In fact, there are only 4 people that know. Five if you count the one that's dead. But I don't.

It did get me thinking though about how judgmental we are of each other when we think our own stories are so much worse than the other person's. How do we know. And why is any one person's story worse than another's. Is it a competition? "Hey my childhood was worse than yours so I get to ...." What? Be more judgmental as an adult? Have a worse life as an adult? Fail as an adult? The truth is, we all experience things differently and one person's worst day might be mild to another. A bad day is a bad day, it doesn't matter what happened or to what degree. When someone shares, "I had a crap day," listen to them.

It's like pain. We don't all react to physical pain in the same way. I have one son that would want to go to the hospital for a splinter when he was young. The other son could have a toe nail hanging off and be bleeding through the house and not even know he was hurt. It's the same with trauma, painful things we have endured, trials by fire. We need to have more compassion for each other. What do we get out of judging each other?
Does it make you feel good? Not me. The next time you want to tell someone your story when they are sharing theirs, STOP. Listen to them. Just listen to what they are saying. They don't want you to solve their story. They just want to be heard. Don't judge. Don't share. Just listen. And when they are done with their story, if you can think of nothing else to say, tell them, "I hear what you're saying." Be a listener for a while and you'll be amazed at what you learn.

So my story? Stop. Listen. I'm sure you can hear it in the words I don't say.

Practice listening and compassion. I hear you. I care. It's what we all want to know. That we are not alone.