CRUSHING BOXES

 Waking up today, trying to channel Clawdia, one thing runs through my head, the old adage, otherwise known as the GOLDEN RULE :  

 "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." , it simply means you should treat others as you'd like to be treated.

I have always tried to live within this scope of being.  Today, I struggle with the simply put aspect of it as I ponder the reality that hides around the corner.  If I treated others the way that they treat me, in the larger scope of things then I would have to go against my core self. 

I bet it would feel great to snub and become unavailable in every circumstance, to tell people that my life is none of your business and to make them feel like they can't even ask "how are you?" "What are you up to?" to know that they are struggling to manage physically and only care about myself when and if I do bother to call, and then when I call only ask for a favor and as an aside ask but not listen to how you are actually feeling. To say I am sleeping all day tomorrow only to leave at first light and come back after dark, not answer the phone and then call someone in your house to let them know you are alive and well....burn in hell. 

I wonder, as I sit in thought, emotions aside, through a lifetime of memories I glide. I wonder, if it comes with such ease like an invasive disease in those others, to hurt and then blame it all on  you? how safe am I from the disease? If I did unto you as you do unto me will that set me free? If I do, won't that make me sick like  you?

I try to find a loophole, like I did when I was younger, to help me accept and write off your behavior like it isn't against me, hadn't hurt me, infected me, driven me into choices that I might not have made otherwise. I am just a buffer for the guilt you never feel.  I will never heal.

Just THINKING about the past doesn't mean I live there.  Just connecting the dots in the whole picture, the full piece doesn't give me PEACE. It just confuses a brain that lives in the original fairy tale that is really, as all fairy tales are, a NIGHTMARE hellscape.

My self is connected so deeply in the original lie, the pie in the sky and the cow jumped over the moon made of cheese. Dear lord, please cure me of this disease. I have to put it aside, take it in stride. A change needs to come before I am undone.  I have seen all I need to see and don't care to hear any more.  It appears to be time to close that door and accept the unacceptable. 

EMPTY BOXES

 Clawdia, Clawdia, where forth art thou, Clawdia?  

All I see is Jennifer. 

You know HER, that weird girl who forgets that expectations lead to disappointment. That girl that forgets the mask and one look at her face will tell you more than you can get in words.  Silence and quiet responses when spoken to, so as not to be rude, or crude.  She is neither.  She is meek  and silent.  

Stuck in between.  In between being able to laugh off the latest non verbal slap in the face and facing the reality she has been laughing off for most of HER life. The fairy tale.  Always the fairy tale. Accepting it for the story that it is, instead of the magical hope that walked by her side when she was ALONE, always alone.

That pretty little thing with the long dark hair and the sparkly blue eyes, unless they were green or god forbid silver...those eyes. She couldn't bear to look into those eyes. She saw deep inside.  She refuses to look, knowing that if she looked too close she wouldn't be able to believe the lie, to face the reality.

It has been harder for her to not see the reality. She is not ready to accept that reality.  She is angry in the reality. Angry and Jennifer are not good companions.  That is why she holds off accepting the reality. Some might say it is bad to not face what is there but in the shadows, no longer in the box, but still, remaining just there...can you, wait, nope...nope. For a second I thought there was hope.

Clawdia, Clawdia...

you who are me, but thee, you who do not give two figs about the hidden digs, the asshole pigs.  She, me, the girl who can take it all in stride.  She never has to hide, she laughs freely and dances in the streets.  The girl who walks always in style with a smile; where forth art thou, Clawdia???

Clawdia knows that the silver lining requires a peek.  Claudia knows that the evil that lurks in the shadow is the speaker of all of the lies. He smiles and wears no disguise.  Just the lies. Claudia knows that it is true, but never knows what to do because Jennifer cares despite the despair that goes nowhere and never has. Nothing ever changes. 

Where is Clawdia?  Where is the faith and hope?  The view from a different scope? Where is the mask? The smile? Where is my magical little bit of silver lining?  Is it the cake that is not as it should have been a birthday cake which is now just cake? If only it were that simple....

RANDOM

WHO    KNOWS?

                I DUNNO                                

                   WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? 

WHO CARES?

WHATEVER!!!!

                  HOWEVER....

  THE SUN  

                                               IS SHINING

                                         

DEEPER INTO THE BOX

 Is it better to live with your head in the clouds or your feet firmly planted on the ground? I myself need a balance of the two. 

Lately I feel like I have had too much ground and not enough clouds.  In fact, in the span of 24 hours I feel like I have hit the ground from a very high altitude. Yesterday I woke up in a mixed state and on general assessment thought I was good.  On second assessment I reached out to a friend. I expressed myself, got feedback and  pep talk and felt really positive. 

I had a plan. I was going to do what I had been doing for the past month and wait until the overall assessment on the 13th and go from there. Easy peasy, right? wrong. 16 hours in I made the wrong move, said the wrong thing and triggered an avalanche.

It took some cool down time, but 20 hours in I had dug out two of the three of my cohorts out of the snow and was able to not be buried under the weight of that metaphorical snow. In the light of day I really don't know how to do recovery on the third party. 

The elephant in the room is the third party which is the issue. It is my issue but touches all of us from our own places.  Place anyone other than the elephant in the situation (any situation) and the response from my mates would be different, but because the elephant is the elephant the elephant is being brutalized and I am the one doing it, which is in fact only a smidgen true. 

My 50 years of experience with this elephant means nothing comparatively. Mother doesn't know best in the eyes of the lambs.  Mother is just being a hater.  Forget that Mother is concerned that the elephants behaviour is borderline and the wolves, dressed in sheep clothing as they graze around the elephant, lie in wait for their moment to swoop in and bleed him dry. 

For me it is hard to watch the elephant being set up. The elephant and the lambs are all important to me. The elephant expects nothing until he has an itch on the back  and cant find a branch.  He hold those wolves up on a pedestal. He gives his time and energy to those wolves and I have seen the outcome of this before. I don't have to divert my eyes because the kill won't be in front of me, but in the end the elephant will be blindsided and call on me to be sympathetic and fill the void.

I could behave as the elephant has taught me. To walk away from those things which are not easy or which require time and attention, love and nurturing. Afterall, you live what you learn, although the elephant was not taught that from his own parents, but that is what he taught his children. His children in turn thought that behaviour was normal, as it was also reinforced by the elephants wife, who also selectively picked and chose her obligations to suit herself and not that of the whole unit. 

Life was always fun when the circus came to town.  The tent went up, the stage set, bells, whistles, clowns and theater. I was fooled and thought the circus was the life and didn't realize that it was all just one giant show and you two can step right up, get your ticket and have a ball. Life is just one big game right?

Not to me, anymore, as my feet have been planted on the ground. When the lambs were little and the circus came to town I had to review the contract and set rules and limits on the content of the show. My lambs could go to the circus for the experience but the performances needed to be scaled back because I didn't want them exposed to the dark side of the circus, metaphorically, as I was. 

Maybe I should have let them buy the ticket and take the ride when they were younger. Now the lambs are grown and the elephant ages and I do too. The lambs look at the elephant as cute and nice and able. I see the whole elephant. Well, the parts that he lets me see on occasion, but not too often because the elephant knows that I will see him how he is. I think he fears that.  The elephant likes it when I have my head in the clouds way better than when my feet are on the ground. 

The elephant also likes the company of the lambs.  They don't see the whole picture.  They see what he shows them.  He shows them a different picture than the one he shows me.  They hear complete sentences, detailed conversations.  They don't get none of your business when you ask how their day was.

It is difficult for me in this role and no matter what I do I see the whole elephant.  The more I see what that elephant is doing the less I care (?) or rather the less I WANT to care.  It is a battle within myself.  It is not a thing I take lightly.  Whether I am biting my tongue until it bleeds or sitting on the end of a phone listening to empty air instead of words their is no middle ground. 

I know I am different from the elephant and his wife. They had the ability to not care about not caring. I care too much.  I have caring children who also care enough, not too much, but just the right amount, except when it comes to their understanding about the new and unwelcome dynamics between me and the elephant (and his long departed wife; not dead, just in the wind).

Regardless of how the elephant or his long gone wife behaved in the past to me or to them, now that the elephants are aging it seems as if age gives a pass for past indiscretions, I am not old enough to get such considerations, and while they do, it is always pointed out that one day I will also have odder behaviours than I do now. I say possibly, but not probably....probably will if they continue to wear me down with the inability to try to be concerned about the elephants behaviour (even though he is an adult and it is none of my business).  No doubt, when they look at me they already think I am demented.  The elephant has been demented all my life, so the odder behaviour should be overlooked instead of examined? Sure thing boss. I am sure these lambs will send me to slaughter the first signs I may display as I am also a female which is a shot against me also. Makes me sound crazy and feel crazy when it is crazy, straight up. 

Last year I went to an event and sat with a stranger and had my tarot cards read.  Two takeaways from that were that I was surrounded by the beat of a drum.  At that time we were in a death watch time, just days away as it turned out and I stated that they were death drums, and the second was about yelling. Yelling is an interesting subject for me, as I used to have sudden emotional outbursts, kinda like I do a facebook rant when I am LIVE and out of control. (or feeling very strongly about something as passion has two sides like everything else). 

I have always been pretty quiet and mellow in general.  A listener. An Advisor.  A comforter. I have not always had it easy growing up, but I had all the comforts of a home and food and clothes until 7th grade, a couple of presents at Christmas until a teenager and a cake and dinner on my birthday until I was 16. As long as you were walking the path of the rules you were good. Step out of line and the elephant mom gets involved and trouble with a capital T. 

I only got vocal or riled when I got overloaded with bullshit that I would take until I couldn't and then explode and then everything was all good once again. Not very healthy I know. I can recommend D.B.T. and mindfulness, both great tools. So I had periods of time when yelling seemed like a regular,but only to shed that excess emotion. By the point I had gotten the reading I was not a yeller. Not externally. Inside my head I was and I think that is what he picked up on. It was from two years of not responding to that elephant and the ridiculous things that came out of his mouth and the obvious misleading information to me as confirmed randomly from conversations with one of the lambs. 

Or maybe he was just having a premonition of what was to come the next evening, I don't know. That is another story which I am not going to share right here and now, as that is down another rabbit hole and this Alice is too tired for that trip today despite it being 9:30 in the morning. 

I just want to live my days with the lambs and the elephant in calmness and drama free and not be the cause of drama without having to ignore the elephant in order not to be reactive to the elephant or cause the lambs to crucify me and feed me to the wolves.  I am tired of those wolves and tired of the drama the elephant causes by his behaviour. I struggle to not care. If that is a crime I am guilty but I do wish at times I could just hit the highway and run away from the elephant but that is using the taught behaviour which is what is also conflicting. Good old do as I say not as I do. That doesn't work for me. I have always taught by example and what kind of example would I be then???

REALITY IS....WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE TO FOCUS ON

 What is this nonsense?, I wondered as I lay wide awake n the early morning sunlight.  I lay in bed thinking about the course of the past month and down that slippery slope of years gone past.  Where, when, how? Experiences and happenings of the past eleven years, scanning back 15 even 20 years to see where the original glitch blipped in and past without a flicker of recognition. Or, was it on the radar and fell off when more serious and life threatening in their own way, non medical survival, pushing the medical thing onto the very back burner and then ignored, explained away, a concern no longer a concern, just melted away back into the wonderful machine of my body? 

My thoughts race to the next month ahead.  How? What? Who? What? Single word questions which go deeper in my thoughts flicker back into the yesterday.  A day of days.  Ordinary by the past months standards, but not ordinary for me on the regular. My second opinion appointment. My first opinion appointment led to questions and tests and the need for fresh eyes or someone to tell me what all of the tests and things equaled with the assurance that we don't want to step on the toes of this other doctor in case their plan is more than the first opinion guy.

It got weird firstly when I was asked repeatedly if I would like them to call someone. I didn't have ghostbusters on speed dial so the question became Who you gonna call?  The answer - no one.  Who would I call and more importantly why do I need to call someone? Why do  I need to call someone? There is nothing you can tell me from the results of any of the massive tests and blood works that are going to be conclusive enough for me to panic any of my loved ones. I had been leaving them with minimal info, as I only had minimal information until I had diagnosis and game plan and we were only on that unless someone isn't telling me something.

The fact that Oncology was in this doctors title didn't really bother me, the first opinion guy and the second opinion gals office made light of it, saying it was a part of what she does.  She in person again, asking if I had someone to call, and me again like no, why? even with, you know you are in a Oncology office, yeah, in my head that part was nicely glossed over, but my  question was, did any of those tests say I have cancer? of course I knew that none did.  They didn't take samples and without a biopsy you are just speculating. So of course, the answer was NO. So then why are you trying to scare the living shit out of me??? (Unasked)

So then I begin to question myself.  No, I walk alone, no I do not have a girlfriend to discuss girl issues with, no partner to discuss life issues with, no, no and no.  I have adult children, male adult children and a elderly father and a brother. My female relatives are in the ether. My mother doesn't even answer the phone on Mothers Day or the door for homemade chicken soup. The last time I was around her she was in the hospital out of it and didn't even know I was there, something I would not have dared do if she wasn't unconscious. 

Two hours after walking in, or was it longer?, pre-op surgery blood work drawn in a lab downstairs, a walk to the car, gps on and back on the road.  If I ever needed a back road ride it was then and there. The GPS had different ideas and kept trying to get me on the Pike. I defied it's order to take exit 11 and took the next exit to Lower Westfield Road to connect to my now familiar mostly without GPS (sortof) enough that even when I accidentally took a scenic route through the small town with 150 residents, I didn't panic, I just thought, wow, this town has little but they have some really nice houses and intersected at a familiar spot on the road I normally take. 

(I chuckle at the use of the word normally in the above paragraph, normally I am in my small city, on my little street in my apartment. There is some irony in that word. )

So, again I return back to my question...what am I doing up? Too many of these recent days have been up with the sun days. Is there a thread of a whisper in my head saying hurry, hurry, time is short, hurry, hurry, time is short and I just don't hear it yet.  Did I hear it in that dream? Was that premonition a foreshadowing? Is it better to be safe than sorry?  Do I need to hurry? how short is time?

Questions, and more questions. Of course I have no clue, as do any of you. I know that there isn't time to do all that I would hope to do in case this goes tits up on me. For right now in the moment there is time for me to purge these thoughts and think about the decisions I need to make in the now like who the hell is going to drive me home from the hospital?  Why change what has so obviously worked so well for me in the past? (Sarcasm) So, for now I think I write, I make a tea, I pull up a chair in the sun and enjoy the beautiful morning.  It seems so much nicer than feeding the demon that feeds on the fear of the unknown.  That is about the best for a silver lining that I can do for now. Tea is ready and I am as ready as I can be for that tea. 

Blessings on your day 

                                                             photo JMG 2021
 

A BOX WITHIN A BOX

 

Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels.com

Beatrix looked back over the journal entry of the previous day. Anyone reading her words would think she hated her father, which was so far from reality. It's what she didn't write down that was so frustrating and connected more dots than she would have liked.

She was angry, wasn't she always? Beatrix got accused of being angry even when she wasn't which led to actual anger when she tried to defend the fact that she wasn't angry to begin with. Was she just a toy to be played with? Sometimes I wonder, she thought.

One thing from the previous conversation that stood out in her head was her dear old Dad telling her " I never said that". Was the lack of comprehension in her head? Words are not the only way we express ourselves. Body language, actions, lack of actions....they all factor in.

The daily phone calls had gotten rough over the past few years. It was fine if he called and wanted to chat. She spent over an hour a day on those days listening to things that really didn't interest her...sports mostly, but listened with a yup, and an oh yeah here and there.

When she called him, he would listen, if he answered his phone at all. Some people should just stick to a landline. His inability to answer his phone all but drove her crazy and those times when he finally finds his phone log and all those missed calls and doesn't notice they were over a period of weeks are not pointing out his inability to use a simple phone, rather an indication of a nagging daughter.

She could see his eyes glaze over through his voice, distant in the phone as she checked to make sure he had everything he needed or to tell him about the covid numbers or covid safety trying to feel out if he was actually protecting himself.

Beatrix thought about all the hours in therapy trying to work out new ways to communicate which would not set him off. The two years she had literally bitten her tongue when he said outlandish things so he wouldn't misconstrue her response. ..

The words cutting like a knife through her heart..."are we friends or enemies." Daughter I am, daughter I have always been and daughter I will always be. Sometimes I feel like his answer would be different than mine.



A BOX WITHIN A BOX

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I find myself changed. It is more than the grayer hair, the wrinkles on my forehead or etched under my eyes, especially on days like today, awake now at 10:30, longer than I actually slept.

It wasn't my intention to be awake before the day had come to light, but that is where I found myself. Something I regret today, more than most days that I am up early against my will and not just because of the exhaustion I feel.

Would I have been able to crawl back to bed and fall into deep sleep if I hadn't looked out the window? If my brain hadn't connected dots from last nights conversation? If that conversation hadn't revealed the box inside the box?

Did you ever just have a general conversation regarding something as benign as one's day, what they did, how it was? Of course, you have, we all have. Then have that same conversation in the conversation where the story has changed, although the event didn't, you were just given more details of the actual event.

Expand it a little further to be told that the details, which were omitted in this still benign conversation, of a trip to the eye doctors, benign because you, the listener, do not like a person in the story, who was omitted and as such, so were the details of the actual day.

Imagine being the listener, daughter of subject, neighbor as well and after the revelation be told, you know my comings and goings, as if said daughter was the guard at the gate. As if!!!!

Then a random inquiry - what are you doing tomorrow? Making conversation... have to be somewhere at 6 - I mean 8 (with said he whose name is not spoken).

No biggie to me. Like I said, until I looked out the damn window. 6 a.m. the car is gone. No biggie, except for the box within the box, or is it a box within the box, within the box and so on and so forth?

Rewind the past 4/5 10/20/45 years. Okay, stop at the 4/5 year mark, but you get my point (boxes within boxes) A total breakdown of ability to communicate to the revelation of last night/this a.m. why? because keeping track of lies is a bitch and it is easier to avoid a person and talking to them because you are involved in some ridiculous subterfuge.

The best part...being made out to be the problem and casting shade on your daughter because you choose to lie about stuff that doesn't matter to begin with.

And that, boys and girls is why truth matters.







 

This is my second week in the

#SixSentenceStory; Service





Photo by Maria Orlova on Pexels.com

I was both full of eager anticipation, and extreme trepidation as it was the first time I was relinquishing the cooking of the Easter Ham.

My son had practically begged me, but let me have the fun of the mashed potatoes, other vegetables and dessert. He is a novice at cooking but I had absolute faith that he could pull it off.

We arrived home to the delicious aroma of baked ham and the table was set and ready to go. I sat and had the best service ever from dinner to dessert. It would be a disservice not to acknowledge what a great job he had done.









FILTER

hello, it has been a while,  my fingers are rusty on the keyboard.  I am writing this prompt from https://girlieontheedge1.wordpress.com /six Sentence story word prompt.

FILTER

When I was little I learned to read early.  My Mom got me into kindergarten early because of it.  I was younger than everyone else.  Looking back now, I realize it wasn't my classmates fault that they picked on me like they would a little sister, all I know is that I didn't take it lightly and I would chase down the offender and kick them for picking on me.  I don't remember if it always was that way.  Now I realize that my brain filtered my memories, good and bad, in that way it enabled me to continue on the path of life.

IF I COULD, WOULD I?

if I could, would I?
If I could be a hoarder of necessary items in a pandemic, would I?
If I could afford to gamble, would I?
If I could afford to be extravagant, would I? If I could profit over the expense of other people losing, would I?
If I could hurt you just because I know your weakness, would I?
The answer to all of the above is NO

If I could make your day better, would I?
If I could spare your pain and take it on myself, would I?
If I could give my tears for yours, would I?
If I could lighten your load, would I?
If I could remove the clouds from your sky, would I?

Yes, yes I would, If I could.

THE JOURNEY 2020

It has been a few my friends.  The last pages I wrote were just a trickle and a tease.  I can't force the words when they stop flowing, that is for sure.  At first it didn't bother me too much.  I couldn't really do too much sitting at the computer and forget typing more than a couple of sentences. 39 unpublished things sit in wait.

Two more surgeries and the readaptation to life with new issues, one of them being the inability to sleep for more than a year, except for naps on the couch. Good times.  (Sarcasm, for those of you who don't instantly recognize it, or know me very well yet.) Arms that stop working whenever they feel like, sometimes both at once and lets not even talk about that lovely thing I used to do - walking endless steps everywhere.

Today, in the shower, where I do most of my best thinking and problem solving, my brain opened up some new, old doors and gave me a gander of some of the reality it put away from my child brain so long ago. Stepping through that door of memories reminded me of some wonderful and awesome memories and some reminders of my wee little self and those other little selfs around me.  Then and now. 

It also started this dialogue that didn't shut off with the water.  I am happy that the flow of my fingers on the keyboard is smooth and easy.  Almost normal, like riding a bike.  So my writing isn't a short story.  My story is the whole and total (within limits) picture of myself.  I got stumped when someone suggested I write from a fictional standpoint, but I really only like to read fiction and reality is where I live and work best.

Writing the blog began as a challenge for myself to open up and document times as I learned how to be open and engaged in social settings.  Over the past 4 years writing and life both had gotten challenging.  I felt vulnerable and naked and not at all comfortable with where I was when I stopped writing.  I had a vouyer who had invaded my life, broken into the castle walls and did some damage.  I didn't feel safe continuing to feed his desires with my writing, allowing him to still know me in any manner.  I was also threatened but that is just words on paper and in my ear.  No big deal.  Life goes on.

I stepped out of the embers of the glow that I had bravely stepped into.  Then I stepped back through into the darkness. I am more comfortable in the darkness.  It takes less work and I needed some healing, spiritually and physically. 

I have missed the narrative of endless thoughts and words filling my head, composing musical symphonies as I walked down the street, traded in for walking in the supermarket). Although I never did learn how to play more than Mary Had a little lamb on two instruments, walking down the streets as I beebopped through my days.  I am adapting to this new set of realities.  I am comfortable with myself enough and realized today that I just don't give a fuck what anyone on the entire planet thinks. 

Judge me if you must.  You can't be a harder judge than the lady that raised me, or myself for that matter. I am who I am and I think that is in part because those darn Nuns in the hospital where I was born too early prayed too good and too hard, for what do dedicated Nuns do?  I know they would not be happy to know all the times throughout the  years that I wished that I had just died instead of having to fake strength, stupidness and a handful of bad decisions when I couldn't think straight and didn't have guidance from anyone but children and people I paid to listen in order to keep my sanity.  In reality, I know the Nuns wouldn't hate me.  I know they would pray even harder for me. 

So, five minutes til dinner and a bit of fresh and easy words on the page.  Read, edited and re read as my lovely Marguerite has left this plane and cannot point out my strengths or weaknesses.  For you my dear cousin, I will try to find that book.  I hope you are happy with the page...every journey begins with one step or in my case a page at a time.

To be, or not to be....isn't that always the question???!!!????

I have been pretty angry lately. Surprise, Surprise! (as my mother would say).  I blame myself, but it is not all my fault.  Now that my walls are down, I can see the pattern and begin to remember why things went down the way they did.

The smartest thing I ever did was accept reality in the early 2000.  I had forgotten for a while at that time, that when you are forgiven and accepted you really are not and the game begins all over again.  Needless to say, when one important relationship ended and I needed my family, they let me back in.

Being outside of acceptance of one's family, formerly known as being disowned has its ups and downs.  In reality, it is a lose/lose if there are children or grandchildren involved, unless you are the beloved grandchild.  The rest of the discarded are just that.  Invisible, do not exist, outsiders.

So, I got sucked into daring to believe that things could be different.  I live in a special kind of hell.  I believe in the impossible.  I believe in happily ever after and riding off into a perfect sunset on a beautiful white horse into a starry night.  I live in reality, but believe in fairy tales.

I believe in family.  Not the one I was born into.  I knew that I was fucked when my dad departed, or shortly thereafter.  I have always been an outsider.  My Dad fed me a fairy tale that everything would be okay and we would be together someday.  The first time I ran away to him I found out that was never going to happen.  He bought me a cherry coke and called my Mom and sent me back to my real life.

I have repeatedly been disappointed by his actions as this hope and loss is a pattern with us. It sucks, especially as I grow older and he grows older.  He feels guilty, thinks a trip to Florida, spend time together, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, car, none make his guilt go away. I reluctantly accept these gestures, knowing that the intentions are not good.  When confirmation comes, I am not allowed to name it, and when I inevitably do, me being me, turn into the enemy, yet again, always.

I decided at a young age that the only way I was going to be a part of a family is to make my own family and treat them like human beings and love them and teach them and I was happy to wait and live on that dream.  It was a nice dream.  I never dreamed about a wedding, or my Dad walking me down a church filled with flowers, family and friends.  I was not a typical little girl.  I would have loved to have had that dream, or any dream at all.  I live in the land of broken dreams, stomped down, smashed hopeless.

I wonder if I am on the brink of madness.  I walked up to that line once.  It was not pretty.  Somehow, I didn't fall in. Losing faith in mankind has that effect on some people.  I am lucky, I guess to be one of them a person who cares so much that events can (or did, or is once again in the process of) totally shatter my psyche.

This comes at a bad time.  I have been weakened by my physical trauma on my body and am still coming to terms with that on a daily basis. One day at a time, hell, one second at a time at times. My ability to keep my status quo within my personal comfort range has been a myth for quite sometime now.  I was trying to pinpoint just when the walls totally collapsed.

The wall always lands on me.  I never see its toppeling until it is too late, and I am under the rubble. No one digs me out of this shattered mess. Everyone expects that once I dig all the bricks, mortar and rubble off of myself that I will be bright and eager and have dinner on the table, no complaints, complaints mean that you are not being nice, and why are you not being nice, I am nice you should be nice says the voice sitting next to me at the table.  Good meal, nice job, thanks; as long as there are others around the table. 

Perhaps it is just grief, I think to myself.  Knowing, that it could be part of it.  The repeated loss is like death, a revolving door of my soul dying. Sadly, my heart has stopped breaking.  It didn't hurt like usual this time, instead it just broke apart in a flash of light within my chest.  I remember walking into a rest area bathroom in some state somewhere and phoned someone who has a heart at 4:30 in the morning and cried like a baby for a few minutes before walking back to continue the next  stretch of the endless drive.

I drove for hours, the night in front of me, the music blaring and the wind blasting in the window to aid in my journey.  When I needed to rest I got yelled at so I just continued on.  A faker and a liar pretending to sleep in the seat next to me.  Co Pilot  my ass. His guiding light - his stomach finally needed sustenance at 8 hours later so an icy meal in a cold restaurant was had..  The next 10 hours was a delight. An apology came, but really, what are words compared to the repeated behavior.  Words are hollow and empty and meaningless when you have heard it, lived it all before.  A lifetime of it.  The rule is you are good if you accept and believe in my bullshit, the second you think for yourself, do for yourself or question me you are toast.  The one thing my parents have in common it appears, aside from two adult children.

I watch a repeat of history past.  My father adopting my mothers playbook, but different.  I watch him target one of my children who is vulnerable.  I do not like it.  I cannot say a word or do anything.  Liars always lie. My stomach turns in an uncomfortable way.  Accusations fly.  I do not question why.  I know.  I have lived through this once or twice or ten times now, but not in this way.

I can't seem to blame myself, or accept responsibility this time.  Nor can I block it out and pretend it isn't happening as I have in the past.  My defenses are down.  No drama here, only slight panic at the situation.  It is not my fault, but it is. It is in by the fact that I have made bad behavior acceptable.  I have subconsciously allowed myself to be complicit with those involved.

Only myself, and the guy I pay to keep me sane understands what I am experiencing and why I am feeling the way I am.  Anyone else involved wouldn't have the understanding or compassion or ability to accept responsibility (other than to know they are guilty deep in their hearts, hence the purchase of love and loyalty).

I can't be bought, love can't be bought.  I can be tricked, I am gullible. I think gullibility comes from believing in people who tell you lies. I know none of those little tidbits like a passport, a trip to Italy, or an Art Show that was dangled in front of me will never materialize, unless I do it myself.  That I let myself believe even for the short time that I did really believe, is a miracle.  Just like I believed that what was a gift doesn't belong to me.  Ask the guy who gave it.

Breaking my own rules.  Damn it.  I believed, I accepted, I had faith and hope and now I have only the reality and truth as it always has  been.  I was a smart girl once.  I made rules to protect myself.  I learned not to want, I learned to accept, I accepted my 'place' until I didn't/don't. Rules became structure, structure became balance, balance became order, order became calmness and peace. 

My peace is gone, I am not calm, chaos rules?  Unacceptable to me.  So I condemn the behavior, say it outloud and I am the enemy.  There is no war.  But the troops rally on, hyping my response as dramatic and out of control.  I try to laugh in the face of it.  I tried to laugh in the face of it.  I broke down and cried for the loss of that belief in false hope and empty words.

My girlfriend told me insanity was doing the same thing over and over hoping for a different result.  I must be insane.  My shrink assures me I am not.  Daily reminders  and recurrence of a lifetime of neglect and abuse has a tendency to trigger shit. My weakass self has or has not the ability to accept reality once and for all and figure out how to find my peace and restore my balance without the side effects, that is the goal. 

I just hope I can not publicly melt down and make it out with what is left of my little family intact without being the villain, but I fear that ship has sailed. 

Think I need some inspiration from my man, Bob Marley
https://youtu.be/zaGUr6wzyT8

Wish me luck!

A REFLECTION OF LIFE

LIfe - what a trip right?  When we are small children we have no idea what is in store.  If we are lucky we grow in love and security.  If we are unlucky we shrivel in the shade of worry and fear.  We are not born knowing the difference between the two and what we get becomes our normal, our basis for all of our actions and beliefs.

The love and security is supposed to prepare us for that day when we venture out into the world ,via school and begin our journey.  I remember my first day of school walking in those large front doors, into the mouth of the beast, up the stairs like a tongue ready to chew you up and spit you out.  Not a thought I had on that day - cloaked in purple for strength and holding my Mom's had for security - I thought I was prepared.  I was eager, I was young, was I stupid? 

Looking back now, I was smart which was how my Mom got me into kindergarten early.  I was not socially ready for school, however.  That seems to be a burden throughout my life.  I adapted, but never excelled.  In truth, because I made stupid decisions to make other people angry which ultimately was my undoing academically.

Socially, I have never felt prepared.  I have never found my niche.  Don't get me wrong, I am a social creature and thrive in the energy of crowds -- of strangers.   I have hundreds of acquaintances who are dear to me, and, as I was reminded at my 35th reunion last night, I am dear to many.  It warms my heart.  It rejuvenates me a bit and knocks me on my ass a bit more.  Always the sharp blade of the double edged sword.

I am sad to say that I do not have clear recollections of specific people and details of my early years, or for that matter, years beyond that.  My brain built a wall and stored those away.  Seeing myself in a photo of 3rd grade, I was curious to see who my teacher was...sad to say, I don't remember from those days the boy/man who shared this reminder with me from then or throughout high school.  It did bring tears to my eyes in real time, which is slightly embarrassing, but not - I am not ashamed to feel what I feel.

My best friend was a boy and my mantra, as I got teased was that 'just because he was a boy, and a friend doesn't mean he is my boyfriend".  So many shins kicked and so much anger.  I obviously didn't learn how to understand emotions.  After an upheaval of my love and security as my family disintegrated emotions became a new participant in my life.  Confusion and insecurity are not comfortable experiences in my humble opinion.

I did my best.  I put on a brave face and a smile and pretended that I was invincible and nothing could knock me down. I became a latch key kid and ran the streets of my neighborhood with my best friend.  We had a round of places and activities.  I can't say for sure, but I do believe that I probably talked his ear off, and he let me and he didn't judge my expanse of thoughts and probably random information.

I spent weekends, summers and winter vacations at my grandparents, both sets lived in the same small town.  My great gram had a cottage she and her sister summered at down the street and I spent a great deal of my time riding my bike and in the waters of that lake.  I played girls softball and baked with my other grandmother for every event going on in town.

I spent time with my great aunts and uncles on our massive farm which was down to a big fat pig called Moe and some chickens and bees which my cousin tended.  My great uncle Sonny had a horse which he let me ride once, but which I fed grass and petted.  There wasn't a horse in that town that I didn't pet if I could get close enough to it.  My dear cousin June and her husband had an array of animals at times, as he was a game warden so I was blessed to interact with baby deer's and raccoons. 

Nature was my security and my peace.  It is also how I established a sense of love and beauty.  Living in the Berkshires there is no shortage, close up or from a distance of beauty be it mountains, lakes, fields, fowl or flowers.  People were complicated and unpredictable who changed the rules and the game on a dime.  Nature, with its own dangers, has rules and boundaries which can be prepared for, as long as you had an awareness and used your head and were prepared.  I mean, hail balls are kind of fun and interesting on a 80 degree summer day, and snow in April melts quickly and it always rains in spring and the snow and cold always comes in winter - consistent and predictable.

Consistency, everything was just so and then one day we met our future. To say things drastically changed would be an understatement.  The more things change, the more they stay the same, however and at 8 years old I entered a new school, new battleground, new kids teasing, chasing and kicking in the shins. Why do these memories stand out?  I am sure that it was just a release for the anxiety.  It didn't have a name in my brain yet, but I can tell you, as I advanced in ages, my access in the library became greater and I searched through massive amounts of books trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

Reading had always been my anchor.  Knowledge is key and books hold that key.  Pre internet you had to do the work and read all the words.  None of this search keyword crap. Now days there is so much information at hand and too much of it is erroneous. Too many 'experts'.  Everyone thinks they know everything, you have to source and check.  I was reading case studies in elementary school. Such extreme cases of children so far gone by abuse at the hands of their loved ones.  Awful, but interesting.

My new life included a house on three acres of land with a river and more land behind it.  A little Cape down a long driveway shrouded from the road by a line of trees, but once spotted had a big yellow smiley face on it.  It also had an adult in the house to call during the off season, a novelty and one I used often.  I had stomach aches and wanted to vomit all of the time.  My fight or flight was on flee regularly.  You can only fight so much.

My new adult was older than my mother and very paternal.  He didn't talk down to kids, he talked like he talked and discouraged, on our first meeting, my friendship with my friend, which I debated wholeheartedly for - a debate neither of us one, I would call it a tie.  It was the beginning of a long and cherished relationship.  He encouraged me to be my own person and not follow the herd.  He was Italian and I was a prima donna in that house. I was not afraid to speak my mind and enjoyed family dinners every night which he laboured over all day off season or I cooked when he worked so that dinner would be on time.

Life was routine and we enjoyed a different sense of freedom.  We could ride our bikes all of the way to Lanesboro if we wanted, as long as we were home for dinner - it was insane the amount of freedom we had.  It was a nice place to grow up.

I got burned by my best friend, which changed my status in my household just before 7th grade.  When you get lied on and your family alters their opinion of you it in a dirty and cheap way it is not a good experience to say the least.  I went through the stages of grief and got stuck on anger.  Anger which had nowhere to go.  I had previously carried a form of hope which led me to believe that everything would be okay - this period of change made that a bit more difficult.

The realization came to the forefront of my life last month when my 'best friends' brother passed away suddenly with a horrible disease.  A friends mother told me of a memorial where everyone from the neighborhood was going to be there and remember and support the family and as a community.  There was a strong core of friends in our neighborhood and that is how we roll.  I was thankful to be told and had every intention of going, until the day of when the reality of life and actions and dirty deeds came to the forefront of my brain and I asked myself what the fuck was I thinking?  Why on earth would I possibly? I may be a bad person, but what is worse - respect or disrespect? I had to respect myself for a change.

Can I just interject at this moment that in this moment in time of my life that my wonderful defense mechanism from my childhood has finally (over the past 5 years) released me from it's clutches.  Hence, while I cannot recall a clear timeline, it is the clearest it has been in 45 years.  I cannot decide if I like remembering better than to have no recall for safety's sake.  I do take comfort in the fact that I must be evolving and stronger than ever or else my brain wouldn't play this cruel trick on me.

I guess I like it when it is positive.  For example, I like that people share images of me happy, smiling, fun, social.  My memories are darker and anti social.  I had a total double life.  I like that my perception is twisted and I instead left a positive footprint.

Recently I have been facing the challenges of extreme truths and was ready to accept, as I have been trained my whole life, to accept responsibility for things that were not mine to own, a recurring theme.  In the past I did and with that the negative connotations which came with these things. I am proud to say that I was able to stand up for myself and hand it back where it belongs, whether those who own it want it or not.

It makes me sad that some parts of life are so shitty and  tries to choke the life out of me.  Sometimes you have to cut those strangling vines and kill the plant they come from before it kills you.  I wish I could say that I have begun to learn how to squash my anger, but I don't want my anger squashed, I want to get to the core of my anger and sprinkle it with love and cut out the cancer that other people's hatred, jealousy, fears, shortcomings of their own have grown and, while I cannot help those who can't accept their own things, there is much I can do to encapsulate myself from that poison.

I thought I had taken off those rose coloured glasses, but I realize now that they were still slightly tinted.  I am hopeful that in the third quarter of my life I may rid myself of the rest of those constraints.

A friend last night asked me about a special someone - which in my mind is a joke.  I replied, that is next life stuff - the Chinese think they can ban reincarnation but I don't think they have control over that.  I believe and I hope that I can work through the lessons from my past life to endure a different future life.  I feel closer and further both at the same time - at least I feel!

Peaches

Once I went to Maine and stayed at a lovely house. Next to the pool in the backyard was a cute little tree full of delicious ripe peaches. I had never seen a peach tree, nor had I ever eaten a fresh peach. 

One morning I woke up and picked some peaches. I decided to make my friend a Peach Cobbler from his mother's recipe. He located the recipe, I gathered the ingredients and set to work.

As I cut into the fresh peach to remove the pit, the juices freely and abundantly ran down my fingers into a bowl. 

The aroma was amazing as I cut into the peach. It was all I could do not to abandon my project and just eat the peaches as they were.

Needless to say, that was not the goal. In the end I made my first Peach Cobbler for my dear friend and his Dad and we all were happy.

The Beginning - Part 3

Time moves, regardless of what is happening.  Sometimes it moves fast, sometimes slow.  Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, seasons change and so does the year.  Slowly the abnormal becomes normal, what was lost remains lost.  I walked through those years in a fog, but always trying to have a smile on my face no matter what feelings ripped through me.

Then I woke up and I was out of third grade, 8 years old, getting ready for another year of school.  A new change occurred.  Meeting Joe was very interesting.  Joe was the future.  I will never forget our first meeting.  I was 8 and still best friends with the boy next door, still as unsupervised as ever Monday through Friday.

When he began the debate, and it was a real debate about a young white girl having a friend that was black and a boy - to this Italian it just wasn't proper. Neither one of us won that debate.  He conceded that he had a best friend in the Navy who was black, but that was as far as it ever went.  I think I lost part of the battle, because soon we were moving across town - worlds away from my known and into the unknown world of West Pittsfield with the cute little brown cape set down behind a bunch of trees with a yellow smiley face on it which you could see when you were on Route 20 coming from New York State.

Life couldn't be bad in a little house on three acres with a river running through it and a HUGE pine tree in the yard next to the house.  Turns out the neighborhood kids were all afraid of the man that lived down that long driveway, but most of my experiences were good.

It was nice that we had dinner on the table, ate together and conversations at the table were always interesting, Sunday drives, Chatham Fair, Lebanon Flea Markets, dinners out - splitting Pu Pu platters with my brother, seeing who could eat the most pizza at the Pizza Hut all you can eat night, Sunday cookouts at the cottage, Misquamicut Beach for a week in the Summer with Mom's family.  My Mom had a job in a factory now, so she was home in the afternoon and went right to her room until dinner.  My Mom only cooks two or three things so Joe was the cook, unless it was during his working season and then I started dinner after I did my homework.

School still was a challenge socially more than academically, but now in the winter, as Joe was a seasonal truck driver and got laid off, I did learn the trick of pretending to be sick, going to the nurse, or the school secretary and calling home and getting dismissed.  I don't know how many times in a week for two years that I got away with that one!

I was sick with stress and anxiety. I tried my best, but this school was the exact opposite of my last school, it wasn't a poor neighborhood school.  The teachers were good and there was an actual cafeteria and a gym. I was still chasing the boys who picked on me and kicking them in the shins, but now I had wooden clogs which I am sure were much more painful than soft sneakers.  Nobody really noticed my stress or anxiety and at least I had an adult to talk to in Joe, who always listened and shared wisdom with me when I was younger.

It is funny what we remember.  I had to stop in between writing this piece and taking a brief intermission, as it were.  After a very bad day in which nothing bad happened other than my memories coming back to haunt me.

The day to day details of my life are unimportant.  I was a loner with a ton of woods right in my backyard.  Nature was my best friend, aside from our dog who licked my tears when I was sad and alone. He had the softest fur to bury all of my pain and sorrow and a sturdy shoulder to cry on.  He never bit me like the humans in my life.  He was consistently a good fellow.

One thing that didn't change was the desire to remain my father's daughter and I spent many a weekend at his parents house hoping that he would show up.  My Gramma loved to bake and when we knew my Dad was coming we would make his favorite desserts, and on his birthday my Gram would bake him an Angel Food Cake - which if you have ever made one, you know it is difficult.  I have tried and failed many times to succeed but my efforts remain futile.

We, my brother and I were not allowed to 'see' our father.  My mother hated him.  I didn't hate him and my brother was not too young to remember him, but too young to fight for his right to see our Dad.  When my Dad called at our house to talk it always made me happy and sad.  I was happy to hear his voice and sad that he wasn't in our life.  Then the fun came - the meanness from everyone in my family from my mother to my brother and Joe jumping in as well putting my father down.  It was depressing and it made me angry.  It would also leave me speechless and with tears welling in my eyes no matter how I tried not to - tears just made everything worse.  My mother and Joan Crawford  could have been related.  When "Mommie Dearest" came out and I was reading it my mother had a little fit, I only wish I was joking!

Life became more structured and routine.  If you think it is easy adjusting to being a part of a happy and loving family unit, having that disappear, along with seemingly, both of your parents at once, getting 'used" to that situation only to be dragged through a rabbit hole into a whole new universe along with renewed family unit, only your real parents are still absent, and instead you have a stranger who makes your decisions, cooks your meals and provides a roof over your head in a whole house with a bunch of land - you would be mistaken.

It might not have been that bad if my new Dad hadn't encouraged me to march to the beat of my own drum and be an individual - which I always have been I think.  But to encourage someone to be unique and punish them for it is a real kick in the pants to say the least, especially as I became a teenager and entered junior high and as it happens - beyond.