21 02 2014

This is a poem that I wrote for an online intensive that I did Called Digging Deeper Facing Self.  That was probably one of the best ways I could have started the new year, so now today I am trying to keep up with the good habits that I formed, even if it took a few weeks to get back at it.



Tall Piney woods
Sway full-bodied in the wind.
The shadow of steeples always near
The dull, low, murmur of the prison count siren.
A giant blowing into an old glass bottle


Day in, day out surrounded by walls
The forest
The church
And prisons.


Preachers and Teachers are my people
Baptists as far back as I know
Proud people
Godly folk
Not ashamed of the twang in their voice,
Or the Bible that nuzzles up with the gun in the glove compartment.


Poor wandering preacher
A young wife who left school to fulfill her duty
Two small kids: boy, girl
Three hostages bound by holy matrimony. 


How often was my father told to be a man,
As tears from pain welled in his eyes?


A small boy
Beaten, switched, belted, and probably worse.
Did Grandad quote scripture,
While he whipped?
Or did the demons of his past take hold
And his eyes glaze over
The way my father’s later would?

Did the churches know?
Were there whispers at potluck?
Is that why he fled?
Church to church,
Was help ever offered to the poor wife?
Or did she have to make the bed,
She chose to lie in?


Only the boy was beaten
But all were terrorized.


I wonder what advent was like in that house
What did the Christmas tree look like?
Did my grandma play piano and warble Oh Holy Night,
While my dad and aunt hung the ornaments?


Father was always warm on Christmas morn.
We’d eat the sticky buns my mom had prepared
Sometimes though I’d see sadness in his eye


He did his best to break the cycle,
I think.
Sometimes it’s hard to say that:
My sister, screaming, beneath his bare back
Him holding her with one arm,
And the ping-pong paddle
Breaking across her back.
Not all his demons were mastered. 


I was so young;
My fear was born that day.


But Baptists are if nothing else,
One’s to forgive (on the surface at least)
Recommit to God
Atone, atone, atone for their sins
For all have sinned
Fallen short
Wanting, glory.


You don’t have to be re-baptized
That’s not strictly allowed
Once saved always saved
Whether you like it or not


So one day in Paradise
I guess I’m doomed to walk
Side, by side,
The miserable manipulative Abuser
That created my father. 

Why I hate Paul

30 01 2014

I hate Paul. Paul is in many ways one of the first Christian theologians. I know that he’s considered scripture and all, cannon what not. But, let’s be honest here, a hallucination is not walking around with the guy you claim is god. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not back on the Christian band wagon, I’m merely stating that other people that are in the christian canon have a better claim to the words of christ, and god’s will and what not. 


I hate paul. I said that already, oh I’m sorry, but I’m going to make myself clear. I. HATE. PAUL. 

There are many, many reasons I hate Paul, but it wasn’t until recently that I had an epiphany as to why. 

It’s pretty simple really. That verse Philippians 2:3 “Do not act out of selfish ambition or conceit, but with humility think of others as being better than yourselves. ” NIV, not that any of the other versions are better, they’re all a pretty shitty concept, really. 

Here’s the thing. That verse, was POUNDED into my head, it was in the very core of my being. And I do not doubt that there was some infinitesimal amount that did have a positive effect, maybe. BUT. Consider this: if one grows up in an abusive environment, and is told by the one who is the source of terror, that you should consider other’s better than yourself. Others would include the one who causes terror. The abuser. 

So, my dear friends, imagine then, how it is that you feel about yourself, when you realize logically (considering the situation) you are therefore, worse than those who cause you fear. You are worse than the ones who make you afraid that they might harm you, your pets, or others out of blinded rage, a rage which you have no idea what will set it off. 

So if that person is better than you. What does that make you?  

And I wondered why for so long I had no self worth. 

Journey in Self Acceptance

21 11 2012

I know that other people find me attractive.  But I’m not entirely sure that I do. At least, not really until recently have I begun to truly look at myself, and say, “You know what, I think I might just be pretty.”

I mean I have for a great deal of my life found parts of me attractive, but never really the whole thing. But you know I watched this:

I recently also bleached my hair, started growing my unibrow back, and wearing my glasses more. And it was a shock, my hair I mean, but now I look at myself in the mirror, and I see, I remember myself. Like before all this crazy shit happened. When I was 10 fucking years old. And I had glasses, a unibrow, and was a toe head. I loved myself. I was weird, and I owned it. I was a tomboy, and didn’t care, I didn’t shower that often and while I smelled bad I was okay with it.

And then around the same time, I started going through puberty. And people took notice, to my hairy arm pits, the fact that I needed a bra but didn’t wear one, the way the hair on my lower legs changed, how I smelled. How big my glasses were. And they started making fun of me. Not my friends, not the people that mattered. But I thought that every one mattered. And that every one mattered more than me. And I started to loose myself.

Slowly at first, but surely, I started to play less with my beanie babies, and other animal toys, I started to stop pretending to be animals, real and ones that I had made up. I stopped having my barbies have sex, and other activities, but really I think they mostly had sex and arguments. It was very Melrose Place in my Barbie House, which I made out of other toys I had (mostly an old homemade wooden cabbage patch high chair). And I even stopped pretending, which this senario was only ever played by myself, that I was the female Indiana Jones I went by Indi, and my boyfriend was Batman, and I had a very tawdry affair with Robin. Like I never shared that game with anyone… and I stopped playing it even with myself.

I stopped doing a lot of things that I liked, that I enjoyed, because I got made fun of. I lost myself, to the desire of being accepted by everyone. But ended up a shell bitch with no friends for at least a year, probably a bit more, by the end of junior high.

All because I wanted to be normal, and not myself.

Well fuck that! No more!

First Memory

25 10 2012

I was in my mother’s arms, and the light was dim and yellow as the box grew closer. Looking down there was  a shape, pale, olive skin poked out of a loved 3 piece, brown tweed suit with a simple white shirt to compliment, and a red tie, possibly silk. I don’t remember the smell. But I was given an old Avon bottle in the shape of a Gatsby era car, its a bright canary yellow, that is what he wore.

His cheeks were slightly sunken in and had a tiny bit of white hair a top his dome. His nose was pointy. His hands were long and boney, used, useful hands at one point. Did they betray him in the end? Or was he able bodied until he quit? The way the elegant things laid there was as if they had succumbed to exhaustion due to excessive twiddling.

And his mouth seemed to have some strange smile, as if it were all a joke.

I don’t know  how old I was, I am told that I was two. Its the only time I really remember being carried and held that way by my mother. I know I was much more, because that’s the kind of person she is, but I don’t remember any other moments outside of peering into death.

I want to say I remember wearing mary jane shoes, but I can’t remember if they were the white ones or black.

I know I’ve written about my first memory several times, perhaps not on here, but I have all the same. In high school we watched The Three Faces of Eve as a way of sorta kinda learning what people used to think of dissociative identity disorder, or multiple personalities. And that was her trigger, that she had been made to kiss a dead person. In that terrible Mary Higgins Clark book it was because the girl had been molested. Which I remember thinking that, that seemed way more feasible  even though apparently the movie was, “based on a true story”. I remember thinking how silly it was for some one to be triggered by kissing a dead relative and that essentially being the “reason” for their undoing.

But my first memory is not too unlike the one presented in Three Faces of Eve, I don’t remember if I was made to kiss him or not, but I do think it has impacted me more than I’m willing to admit.

Sometimes I think that, that’s why I’m not afraid of dying and why, for me, death is just another part of life.  Other times I wonder if  that memory is the reason for my melancholy. But life isn’t that simple as being just one thing.


26 09 2012

When I think of home I think of prisons, pine trees, and Jesus.

The only one of those that I have a fondness for, is pine trees.

Dear Therapist,

16 03 2012

I’m sorry if I was unpleasant last session. You see I’m just terribly unhappy and upset. You know why. Or I’m guessing you do, since you seem to pay pretty good attention.

When I was talking about language… you asked me, “Where did you get the idea that you have this kind of power?”

I think I miss spoke, because its not so much that I think I have power to truly hurt people, its that I find that words have weight, words have power. And I guess I have said some things that are powerful. Sometimes mean things, and mean things hurt.

But maybe they weren’t really mean per-say, since they were how I felt, and I wasn’t really trying to destroy, more relieve the pain that was inside of me. But seeing people’s faces fall is something I a well familiar with. I watched it in school how a prof would show a student how their world view was illogical, or wasn’t quite the thing that maybe they thought. The expression that would come over their faces. So beautiful, seeing an epiphany happen.

I know the power of words. I’ve seen them, felt them.

I continually feel their weight.

The word abuse.


Being used to describe my family.

Gotta be careful with that shit.

With the Weight of My Hand

10 08 2011

Here I am in Boston. Rain has been common this past week. And with it my mood and restlessness have shifted to reflect the storms.

When I was a kid I was mostly fearless. I think the only thing that really frightened me was my father, and ladders. My imagination ran wild freely, with out a care of who was laughing as I traipsed about acting out some glorious epic that not even I really knew of its end. I climbed trees and vines, raced through woods, stomped through silty creek beds, and caught a variety of insects and wild life.

I would pretend some times that I had found an ancient artifact, or an old Native American encampment. I remember the way the sunlight fell through the tree canopies and created a kind of natural kaleidoscope of the sky.

Ever so often I would have the urge to run away and I would get on my bike and ride out side of the neighborhood, something forbidden by my mother, at least in by myself. I would ride and ride, feeling my breath hasten and become short, feel that piercing stick of what some call a “stitch” in my side. It was always in my right lung that it would happen. At some point I would reach a relative dead end and turn around and go home.  I thought of living out in the half assed fort that some of the neighbor kids built in a clearing in the woods. But I would eventually enter the house go to my room, and climb up into the upper part of my bed, my own personal sanctuary.

I used to beat my cabbage patch doll. I don’t know why. I would be playing and I would pretend that it got into trouble and I would spank it, but then go ape shit and take it by the legs and slam it against my loft’s floor. I would grab its shirt, grit my teeth, and like in slow motion this rage would take over and I think the only thing I ever said, was “bad” over and over and over. Its blue eyed, blonde haired, blank staring face would never change, its head always remained intact even as it bounced off the post of my bed, the wall, the railing, but especially the floor. The way the face stayed the same only made my anger grow. Eventually I would always stop. My breathing would be heavy, tears often having formed with out my knowing.

I have no idea where this rage came from. But its still inside me. Only now I don’t have the doll to take it out on. I do know that it scares me that I have this amount of anger inside of me. So much angers me. Most of it isn’t even in my control, or I’ve had very little to do with.  I feel like I have been suppressing it for so long, I don’t know how much longer I can really handle doing that. But then I’m not really sure I have a healthy outlet to release it. Sure art helps, but I’m not sure that its enough.

Maybe I just need to keep up the stream of consciousness writing, even if it does always end up in illegible swearing with the paper tearing from the weight of my hand.