What She Wasn't

There were days that itemizing the lists of things surrounding her existence, came as a priority to other actions; possibly breathing.  She wasn't rich. She didn't own the best of anything outside her husband and children, and she wasn't sure of where to go when she thought she was lost.  She knew that she could pray, but sometimes praying didn't seem enough.  She prayed anyway.
She didn't own much of anything that was new, and she deliberately shopped for things that were not new. She believed that "new"meant little more than "more cheaply made".  She kept breathing when it got too hard to draw a deep breath and she kept thinking when her brain did little more than hum like a static-filled radio station.  Think, think, think. She hasn't had time to herself in more than half a decade and even that's okay. She would gladly give away all that she owns for the smile it might bring to someone else, or the warmth, or the comfort, the understanding, the enjoyment, the belief.
She fiddled with her new ring; spinning it 'round and 'round her finger until it stopped like a spun bottle on the clock striking twelve - the glass slipper left on the front step, the disbelief, the confusion...what happened? Where did she go?

She was on a mission. One that was known only to her and those select few that shared her thoughts, her whispers and who actually listened.  She had calculated and planned and yet, there was so very much room left that did not make sense.

She prayed again.  Spinning the ring again, spinning the thoughts. It had to lead to some form of materialized event. There had to be a reason.  Where the hell did the slipper go?! What was "she" - as all that embodies "she" missing?  Where did she go wrong? What was so big, or small, or huge, or insignificant - that she missed it?  Mission. Reckless endangerment of self - she had belief. She knew that. She had faith. She fully and wholeheartedly understood that.

With one shoe on and one off, she marched on with a smile.

Her eyes spoke louder than the smile on her face, but she marched.  Consequences be had, she marched.

Burden

Burden comes in such depths of weight. Today, as if all other days were semi-significant - was elemental in change.  A step toward difference. A leap toward manifestation.  I sat patiently awaiting my turn; scraping random food parts from my pants and tapping the toes of my boots to a wall-to-wall carpet that begged for a vacuum.

"Trish, you can go in now," came a voice from behind the half-wall of justice.  I stood, and ran my hands over my pleats, wrestled all handles into a convenient grouping and threw shoulders back before walking. My mother always told me to stand up straight - that point resonated on this day.  The solemn march to a back office where I might find a plush, leather chair and an all-to-anxious legal representative, salivating over my arrival.

"Have a seat".

Thank you, I'll stand...I used the next three and a half minutes to lay out before him, my myriad of jargon and attempted justification.

"The problem...is that you're giving me numbers that don't match. There must be something that I am missing.  What am I missing Trish?"

"Mmmm - well, how much time do you have?"(On the inside).

On the outside, I drew attention to the process that has aided and abedded such a criminal - the thundering march of drums growing louder within - "there is a process," I chant.
Elements of change came in the form of understanding. I detailed and derailed, drifted and scaffolded what would otherwise be a migraine-at-will.  And finally, the look of  ah. ha. came to surface. I think he gets it. My point, my reasons, my challenge toward being a better human.

I cried this morning as I cry at night. No more a bleeding-heart than the next occupied citizen, I want out of this sickness. In the slap of a pen to yellow legal pad and a smirk which signified comprehension, I was suddenly lighter. In as many years and equal sleepless nights, I have worried. If only....

There is no answer yet, but I remain vigilant. In so much as I can understand the elements that cause growth, change, ...becoming, I can understand this.  Oh, to be something other than the targeted. It is happening though. An evolution. Still, I stand. I teeter to the right - sway back to the left - there is balance here in this movement.  I miss them. I miss being looked upon as if I had all the answers. I am good at this even though you question my motivations. I am good at taking care - at care-taking. I am meant for this - justifier to the unjust; advocate for the forgotten.

Remind me when those drums chant louder. Recall the pounding reinforcements of sacrifice and the deafening pounds of vision; of fortitude. They march.

They need care too.

Mediocre Minds

Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.
- Albert Einstein

To the Attention of Ms. Valerie Wacks

Ms. Wacks,
This is your client. His name is Garrett. The recent photo is from August, 2011 though you may not recognize this little lad since it has been several months since you have visited him at his father's house. The last recount of you having visited Garrett in my home was ...well, you never have.  Pictured next to this dear boy is me, his mother and the one which you proclaim in a closed-door conference amongst attorneys, that you believe to be "too pretty that (she) thinks she can do whatever she wants".  A most-unprofessional accusation to make, I would have thought you to be of higher moral character than taking cheap and immature shots which can be interpreted (and rightly so) as partisan and subjective.  Though for some time I have thought you to be a impish person with a large, albeit  nonsensical opinion for the disdain of me without due cause - I am again saddened to "need" (use of the word need is being weened from this situation) your loud and obnoxious position within our situation. Why?

Because once again Garrett has climbed into my vehicle at the ending of a ridiculous visitation with Dad, with tears in his eyes. Stifling back his innate reaction to cry, he relays that he has had his things taken from him by Dad and told that they would either be "given to a poor family or burned". Most likely, they have already been destroyed. In addition to this, he holds his chest in the spot where he was punched by Dad after being told not to cry, less he gets "something to cry about". There was little to no warning in that situation from referenced "Dad". Beyond the chest pounding and the illegal seizure of my son's things (Please reference Order on Motion, dated April 9, 2009, page 4, which reads: "ORDERED  that Garrett shall be permitted by both parents to bring his belongings back and forth between households and shall be encouraged to bring items upon his expressing a desire to do so".  This allowance would be found directly above the notice to Dad to "not, under any circumstances, ride a motorcycle on a public highway with Garrett on the motorcycle or permit anyoen else to do so while Garrett is in his care...". The only reason I again refer to the motorcycle incident is due to the in his care clause. Sadly, Dad is unable, incapable, or completely unwilling to provide care for his son. I have witnessed this time and again. You, if you were any kind of decent, capable, and adept law guardian would too. For whatever the reason, you appear to be enamored with Dad and therefore, disregard and blatantly ill-advise (i.e. LIE) to the court of law which you are bound to uphold the mission of. This does not surprise me either because for six years and counting, you have failed your client to such a fault that he can verbalize your alliance to Dad with clarity. 

I have attempted to call you tonight and held my breath while doing so. You live not two miles from my own home and yet, have never stopped. I stopped counting the number of phone calls placed over six years when I got to 77.  I stopped thinking about how sickening your acting position is when you attempted to weasel your way into a situation which you knew/know nothing of outside of Dad's rantings. And yet still, after watching my child relay what could be into the triple digits of a story count for tales befallen him by his Dad, I called you.  Because YOUR JOB is to act as the voice for children that do not contain the vocabulary or comprehension of the unfortunate domestic situation(s) that their parents are in. Because you have taken (supposedly) an oath to Do No Harm to those same children and to speak with ease and comfort, to hear their limited vocabularies describe situations that a decent parent never wishes upon their child - and to then take that sullen story to a Judge who will make a conscious and clear-headed decision for the well-being of the child.

Yet, you fail. You have failed my child many times over and you continue still. You seek the admiration of a crowd you are not fit to stand before. Your lame attempts at vengeance and ill will toward me come as nothing other than a transference of hatred you must hold toward someone else. I can take it. Raised with accountability and responsibility; I can take it. My child; your client should not have to.
Your phone beeped without connection. You must not have power on the other side of the hill - so I stood there thinking of a way that I could get out the information that you absolutely need to heed.  Which brings me to the present: Life does not operate on a nine to five schedule. Most situations which you are charged to recount for the sake of any court of law occur either before or after such luxuries.  I do not expect you to suddenly decide to do the right thing because at half a decade's worth of time, you have neglected to do the right thing. What I do expect is for you to see that you are harming those same persons - children -  because of your obstinate comprehension of your duty and to therefore, remove yourself.  For a child of eight years old to accurately recount the whereabouts of your timely visits with his Dad...for him to be so discouraged at realizing what he told you in confidence, what you swore was between you and he - to watch you march directly to Dad and relay only the pertinent details keeping Dad in your favor - it is grotesque.  You are not there when the reactions hit. You are not there when he is pummeled for crying, hit for speaking, or mocked for knowing. And the most repulsive part? You do not seem to care. So please, do my son as well as any other child entrusted to your position as Law Guardian a huge favor: RESIGN.

You know my number,
Patricia

Shameful

Shameful that your personal growth was stymied long before you reached adulthood.  Consequently you have remained in a position of virtual childhood, owing only to immature antics.  Shameful that you think even with your entrance upon more than three decades of life, you are somewhat entitled to speak as condescending; act as ego-maniacal as you sound, and most-disappointingly - use our child as your scapegoating pawn in order to get to me.

Do your worst I say. But do your worst to me. Leave out the innocent that you could once identify with.  I thought that it was known. You do not manipulate your child. You do not elevate your own agenda by the damage to your son.  You were unfortunately showered with these same sad and sick behaviors through your quote un-quote youth. You learned first-hand how to hurt, despite allegiance to family.  I seriously question at times, whether allegiance of any kind has a place in your life.  It certainly does not in relationships, nor in fatherhood. I can speak to its absence in marriage and now our child can attest to its awakening in his own life, led by none other than his own father. 

The damaging and hurtful dialogue to your child - by both you and your newly espoused, will affect his psyche for years. It already is. He exchanges doubt with the care that he feels for you and that you squander on a target toward martyring yourself and bringing pain to me. Yet,  you are not bringing pain to me except that through our child. He is the one that suffers and questions if you are anything other than empty and mean. I listen intently and give hugs whenever I can. I answer what voids I can account for yet many remain as just that -- a void.  And mostly, I pray for you.  Stymied. That is what you inhabit.  A stale, non-expressive existence that  must lead you to believe you were forgotten. Your own emptiness is quartered and delivered to those closest to you so that they might do your bidding which you are too cowardice to complete. 

I answered tonight with a reply that would make you blush, had you a conscience.  He asked me why you hate me so ...why you hate where I came from with such disdain?  I answered: because there...there, he (as in you) had to be a man ...and he could not.  There - he had to be accountable, and he failed. And there - he had to be responsible and he did not know how.  Here - where he is now requires none of that. It is easy for him (you again) to be spiteful, vengeful and manipulative.  It is effortless to be irresponsible, unaccountable and fueled by your self-serving agenda toward defeat.

And what was the worst part?

After all that...after the listening and the explaining...our child gave a half-cocked smirk, closed his eyes and said: "I'm sorry Mommy".

As if he has anything to be blamed for. Yet my pride in seeing a child of a mere eight-years-old taking more responsibility and insight than the man that so candidly hands out psychological warfare -- it made me happy and sad.  He is going to be far greater, far bigger a man than your greatest desires for a meager existence.  There will come a day when you wish you could measure up to the boy that you portrayed as being led astray. And you will not. Your poor presentation as a caring, doting father, will be massively over-shadowed by the child that you irreverently dismissed. 

And at that point, that half-smirked grin of his will grow in accordance with my own.  I will be the one to apologize for your lacking, shameful solitude, with a hug and an: "I'm sorry son".

Gray Matter

It's the struggle. The personal, internal struggle that keeps my mind buying back into what I already know. 

It's wanting to know what he thinks, and answers as to why what happened, happened.  What I really seek is an apology.  He always fought dirty though, it didn't matter when we were pledged to each other - rather, me to him, him to whomever he wanted, when he wanted - why then would it matter when we split?  Every component of life and self-assured strides that I held near and dear was viciously, publicly and cruelly attached to language that would deal out the ramifications for my life. 

My ability to be a mother, to provide for my child, myself, my aptitude at work, choice of career, place of residence, my family and mostly, the way he would speak to me...over me, through me, as if I had no significance in his life;  I had made no impact at all less being a bother, a bad decision.  When I stopped responding (outwardly) he changed his tactics focusing instead on scape-goating our son in order that I might fall.  Manipulation didn't work and so, deceit came in daily doses, cruelty established roots and honesty was absolutely out of the question.  That still wasn't enough so upping his game, he moved to violence.  I restate: more violence, and threats.  Direct and indirect they were both present.  Harassment showed up hand-in-hand with abuse: 100-proof.

Brought up with a strong sense of pride and responsibility, I asked for help though I may have asked with too much independence - too much accountability, because it seems as though the powers that be, well they just sent me home. 

Home to what?  What home?! 

I wanted, really, truly want(ed) to go home.  Home to my family - home to some place safe where I wouldn't be stalked, threatened, thrown around or mistreated.  I pleaded for my son's safety, took pictures every time another hand print showed up on his face, or arm, or backside.  They always showed up.  I listened intently to each horrible story about fighting, bleeding and words that cut deeper than bruises that had just started to heal. Between tissues and my blanketing sweaters, I dried every tear that fell, matching each with my own and rose to my feet to answer an interrupting phone call only to find that his father had joined his cause and now slung the same cruel, name-calling, heart-breaking statements in my direction. 

Still, I tried.  When he learned the word martyr, claiming he was not eating, not sleeping, that he had no food, I split my food into portions and filled a paper sack.  "I'll be right up," I said.  "I'll leave it on your porch".

He met me at the door that night, gave a sniff in the air and with the phone already in his hand, dialed the police.

Frozen in shock, I watched him eagerly express how scared he was for his safety / the safety of his child in my car since I had just showed up drunk and how I must be driving while intoxicated.

I left.

He got to keep the food.

And now...what is it? Five, almost six years later...I remember that feeling distinctly. THAT is what I couldn't for the life of me, figure out how to let go of. Today I had a little victory.  Yesterday - I had one too. And tomorrow is promising in a wonderous way.  My letting go comes from the way I define "holding on" and my victory resonates from understanding that I'm not in charge of much outside my walking, talking latitude to spiritualism. And from that I can say with all honesty that I tried every. single. time. 

That I try still.

And each day is a promise to compassion and the unfolding of the blessed road before me. 

Character Completion

I met Emily on a black Friday. Her last name ‘Chesterfield’, she was the sole heiress to Chesterfield Arms, her father’s pride and joy though Emily was assured she would see not a dime since resuming her mother’s lineage via last name. This whole scenario came about as Daddy dearest held taught to greed over the responsibility of a father. No worry though, she was old enough to begin discerning truth for herself and made that bold move in a poignant effort to have Daddy realize what he was missing.

He didn’t.


Emily, or ‘Em’ as we called her, had a way of stopping time long enough to have you consider your stance on an issue and defend it until you made her believe what you now questioned. I am pretty certain she got that trait from her mother, one of my dearest friends, but up to that Friday, had not quite mastered implementing it as casual conversation.

Being a Chesterfield gave her prominence in arms dealing that her mother discovered, really meant nothing if even the signing of such a name was vacant. There was no substance - part of the reason why Em only wrote her name in erasable pen throughout her high school years.  This way, she could erase it and script in P-A-R-I-S after showing her father that she'd completed her work.  Paris had significance, it had a robustness and a commanding presence. It rolled off the tongue with delightful pronunciation and depending on how much of a pause she put between Em  and Paris, which she kept deliberately quip, Em could rattle off her presence 'EmParis' while the corners of her mouth raised in satisfaction with how clever she was becoming in her dawning womanhood. 

Gemma on the other hand, Em's mother, had long commanded her own being and gave only as much of herself that she deemed essential for the introduction to continue.  If she didn't like you - you were well aware and could somehow deduct that to continue speaking would be an ill investment, not to mention a risk.  She meant well. Gemma was strong, intelligent, and had experienced enough vacuous relationships to glean significance from a meeting within a first encounter; a trick that served her well.  She appropriately handed down some vice to her daughter and kept enough in her back pocket for when she would inevitably need it. 

Eleanor Rootes: Part Deuce

On the eve of a total lunar eclipse that promised change, she graced the cracked linoleum floors of the county court. The smell of some state-issued bio-cleanser hung in the air with stale coffee and the beeping sound of a metal detector working too hard. While fumbling with the id-tag hanging ‘round her neck on a dingy lanyard, she threw back her tresses that were stuck between collar folds and identification that should have read: “Eleanor Rootes, Law Guardian Sans Litem”.


Having the slighted attention of some passing legal commuters, she made what she thought was a clever comment and then turned to find my stare burning holes through her lacking humanity and tanned leather body hide void of intelligent thought. Quickly, she turned away and pretended to be interested in a wall hanging that did not exist.

My name was called among the masses. 9:00 am and I was already being directed to a stagnate eight by five foot cell... er,  briefing room. At a stumbling consult with an attorney, rather, “Associate” who has been nonexistent for the two months between adjournments - he questioned what I would like accomplished. I explained that “because I’m pretty, I can do whatever I want”. He chuckled without thinking it funny.  I had to explain the comprehension with a  reminder that the logic of the statement originated with Eleanor. This was her mighty defense at our last go-'round. His eyes bent the way that plastic does when it's heated but still, with no real processing energy available.

How pointless is she?


Very.

They’re actually attorneys you know. In the state of New York, law guardians must pass the bar before they aspire to apply to the law guardian panel and be assigned counsel for children through some over-burdened family court. To my knowledge, this particular court has ceased the assignment of cases to her because Eleanor's track record holds too many complaints. And there are the accusations of her dancing beneath the full moon without clothes. 


Yes, that happens.


But she’s a law guardian charged with proper interpretation of my son’s wants, wishes, and desires; proper being the action word.


Eleanor has never set a scraggly foot into our house.


Yet she maintains that our house is “cramped and unsuitable for children”. Outside of her, that house has been a foundation and roof over five childrens’ heads and stands as twice the size of the bungalow Eleanor resides in. Still, she banters with her tousled hair-do that well, in blatant disregard for her position as advocate...I must somehow take the heat for her obvious transference issues. I don't know. Maybe I remind her of a mother whom she despises...a sister that reigned in all the attention she never received as a child...or possibly a friend that put a finger on the manipulation and deceitfulness of one such Eleanor; post-BFF.

Grace

Grace being a scarce commodity, I knocked on the door.

The moments in-between fluttering eyelids left a semblance of balance but no real footing.

Not outside the boundaries of faith anyway.

She visited again. Some three or four years have passed since our last face-to-face and she visited again. Not me -but the lone youth of what it means to have vitality for life, to question and seek understanding. She asked him what he felt, thought, wanted and (of all things) how his Mother was doing. Like she really cares. She doesn't. Incapable probably, but one should not assume.

I would have no difficulty expressing how I truly feel if she were brazen enough to ask me, though I doubt she will.

On certain days I sometimes wonder if I have displaced judgment on her. In fairness, I think there is a steaming heap promised her direction but it is not for me to dole. The meantime brings a little boy once again confused by the cluster of idiocy the adults in his life bring. As if they know; as if they understand what they're talking about. My motherly perspective offers a young lad taking the time to line his bottom bunk with all thirty-seven stuffed animals before bedtime - or what he calls "his babies". He says they "want to take care of their Pappa", and with a labor of love lines them along his pillow -  favorites by his shoulders and the bigger, tougher ones at his feet because they're closest to the door.

And there is no problem, right? There is no cause for concern. There must be no issues, no unresolved questions, nothing to warrant an official ad litem doing a job that the quote-unquote ad litem's are supposed to do.  I justify his concerns with a soft spoken promise that I do believe him. I verify that he has done nothing wrong and promise that tomorrow will be better for the sake of promise and because Mommies, like Daddies, are supposed to protect.

Not be the danger.

In solitude I comprehend that he is growing with stability, with his own understanding and with a heart that mirrors my own. I can give him a sense of faith, belief, and promise that are not purchased but rather, fostered. I can explain to the best of my ability that there are few things in this world that will hurt more than that of a broken heart and promise never to be the one to do that to him. I cannot promise the same for others too close for comfort. 

And after he has drifted off to sleep, I can make sure those thirty-seven babies are lined in their fullest, upright position to protect and love the little boy that means to world to his Mom.

The Blue-Eyed Portals

...they left no room for the rising waters that were an emotional rip-tide of a volcanic eruption. Playing host to all that I had stuffed and squandered on the act of being strong; the white elephant in the room appeared much too fast for my beleaguered response.

She said this would happen. She said that it would be stuffed for a while, and that depending on the presenting pride, that "while" could take far longer than what the psychological community would consider as "normal".

Apparently, my presenting pride did its very best of a job and stuffed for a good, long time.

Until the weekend approached.

An unexacting time frame and there I was: rendered somewhat helpless and as unsuspecting as the rest of the mini subculture that watched in awe. And this was no awe like, "wow, what a cute kitten" awe, but rather -- "holy crap, what's her deal?" awe.

Train. Wreck. Awe.

Damn.

But...five hours and the company of the very best of friends later, and I composed myself enough to walk. At least enough to speak coherently. She said that it was "a breakthrough". I swore it was akin to "lame".
She swore this would be helpful.

I thought it a "moment" and one that I did not wish to replicate any time soon.

She said that it would get better from here on out. That all I need do is talk.

And you know..for as much as I do talk, for as much as I speak but don't say. I think that I can do this. Talk, I mean. Say what it is that I feel building. Maybe if I start small and unsuspecting it will present in more manageable portions that I can categorize.

...in bite-size pieces that won't choke me when I purge.

What I Cannot Do

I fail to understand on many days.

As for my responsibilities; what I am charged with supplying…I can do that. I can do the accounting for the entire county because the supporting agencies have employed a population of citizens that struggle with a calculator on a good day. I can also do all the driving to and from Dad’s house every single day because Dad cannot, will not, outright refuses to put our child in a safety seat. (Course, this one’s almost outdone itself since the NYS child seat laws extend up to age 8 and July marks that birthday. Five years of non-obligatory conduct and the justifiable answer is: “Mom, you can do this since Dad can’t”)


I can sit and suck up my $4.11 / gallon gasoline at the rate of my truck idling for fifteen minutes at each of those pick ups/drop offs because Dad decides in his controlling demeanor that either (a) he won’t interrupt his television show to assist our son with gathering his things, or the more likely candidate of (b) he decides that I can wait until he’s ready to let my son out the door. I can continue juggling hours of second grade homework each night with making dinner, starting laundry, doing dishes, putting clothes away, weeding in the garden and completing my own graduate work, because once again – dad was playing in the ding-weeds, or scheming his next move at alienation. I can write letters to verify that what I have said, I mean and what I mean, I will write to each agency that “forgot” to make updates or changes. I can even and do, pray every waking moment that this is all meant for something. That the language I pass along to my son to make sense of this chaos is all worth it. That good does win out in the end and that there are reasons for everything we encounter. I can dry tears and pretend to be strong a hell of a lot more than I actually am, and wake up the next day to do it again.


What I cannot do – is feed this animal any more. It baffles me to the core, to think that if what I think…what I do, and what I’ve experienced in the field of seeking justice through and unjustified system is but a trickle in the bucket of it all. I am one case - sitting on the bell-curve of insanity with hope, luck and a touch of “well maybe” in my hands. There needs to be change in a big way and it has to start somewhere solid enough to support the waking moment. I do not feel as though I have that; the change. I do think I am coming to the point of understanding how to start it, but I struggle with the formalities of all the pointless processes that are supposed to give substance to the “we’re here to help you” slogans slathered on billboards, court room cork boards and county offices.


They are a lie.


What they should read is: “We are dependent on you being dependent on us. Without you – we would not exist. So thank you for seeking help and assistance; we’re counting on you!”

To Query

In many ways my mind is on pause and refuses to seek sunshine over inquiry. I coax and offer assistance - somewhat elusive to the quest I am on. Still, it is query that my cognition always filters through all the netting. Webbing really, it is webbing - not netting. Webs that have become so tangled in and amongst themselves that the clarity has long since gone and what remains is like a nest for anger, ego, control, ...the like.

The test, as it seems - is to continue on without the significance of knowing how I will get to my destination.

My broken dream needs mending once again.

The day began in a "sun's coming up later" kinda way. Sick little boy in the house who I had counted the minutes between coughs for the duration of eight and a half hours that he slept. By 9:22pm the night before, we were at every minute to minute and a half. 9:22pm was the last cough for quite a while. I guess the medicine had set in by that time.  Poor little one.  I tucked the blanket in around his neck and covered those little feet that hung out from below - hoping that he would be able to glean some rest from a very restless evening. The day following would be hard and we both knew that, though no one spoke it outloud.

The idea is to keep it from being spoken as long as we possibly can. So as to not invest any power or authority into the rantings of a lunatic that some of us (him) need to call "Dad". It doesn't always work out that way though. Often, I am as aware as he of the impending ridiculousness that seems to encompass our days, nights, evenings...every waking hour.

The elements that are most disconcerting are that the other side. The side that is passively protected, irritatingly enabled and ignorantly paraded through the motions of a legal forum. I have been heard to rant the "If I was Secretary of the Press, I would..." and "When I am President, I shall..." insights to personal inspirations - all with a  commonality that sends the marauder packing with silence as his only friend. No baggage. No pillaging. And certainly, no speaking to further the propensity of ...just plain stupidity.

Why?

Inquiry begs an answer.

Hope

You step a little lighter when you have hope.

I am fondly rekindling elements that made great sense, had strength of faith and the fortitude to outlast the dregs of fog I feel we are finally wiping from our view; siphoning from our heads. I watch my son, my children. Their eyes are light, their hearts, though sometimes debilitated by an angry web of anger and confusion, are open.  My son walks with such pride and comfort when he is sure of himself, when he has been reassured that he is doing the right thing. Passing through pictures, I am again taken aback by how quickly time passes when you are not looking; how slowly it goes when you are.

For such a long time, which left as if only a breath, we waited.  We have prayed through many a long night and worried lines onto our faces. Even so - the one answer that we longed for never seemed to come.  In stages, it appeared - wildly rearing its head only long enough to be a reminder to stay the course.  And maybe this road does not end abruptly either, but the efforts of faith have been renewed because we have hope once again.

Grandeur. That is where my contemplating mind circles.  That this story is by no means, over. And just when we thought we had figured out its mastery, we have been humbled to understanding once again, that we are not in charge.

In my eyes of hopeful merriment, I am ever grateful for having been the recipient of a person who partners every hope, prayer and dream that I have.  He, as I, are not presuming to be anything more than our humanity allows, but for this lifetime with me, he is perfect.

The Ties That Bind

It originated as a thought; without plan, without procedure or precedence. In form it made sense, but in function it was quite lacking. Effortlessly really -- she approached it effortlessly because that is what love demands.

In no less than a few years, she began to see there was a large, overflowing capacity for him to act outside what normal realms were and do all that he wished without worry for what pain or heartache it might cause another. In many ways, that is what drove her to do the things she did.  Deciding that no longer would she accept pain, heartache, abuse or atrocities of another put upon her or her child.  Somehow that was a problem. People, in general do not long for resolution when they are enamored with fighting.

How ignorant.

He was ignorant. Still is.  Every effort of resolution, of finding a common ground in the middle is put out the door as if a dog who has messed the rug.  And not even with that much foreknowledge. He just fights to fight. I think it is because there is a shred of hatred among a serious void of humanity.  Either way, it is directed at me. I don't care so much as I worry.

I hate that I talk and it is discounted. I disdain the thoughts of this horrible, rotten, no good, very bad cycle. It makes no difference to those that abuse precisely because they lack the emotion to care. All is said and done and I look like the problem when all I have ever done, ever...is to protect and support my child.  Can they say the same?
No.

But not because they don't try to say they are caring - rather, because they're incapable of applying any feeling toward the same cause.  Posers of the grandest order. One shred, one element of deceptiveness five years ago, took precedence over truth because some judge in some county might have been having a bad day.  I remember that day -- I begged and pleaded for resolution; for acknowledgment. They smiled back with that faux pas that shouted: "Shut up you mimicry of a mother because we know you're going to make our job harder".  Then passed the gavel to the left for the sake of easing their work load.

What a joke.

Irritating and debilitating joke.

Has me seriously considering the alternative. What is the alternative?  To shout louder, to speak more directly and not care of the responsiveness, no matter how ignorantly it is displayed. 
Should take pictures.
And record the event.

Except they took my recorder.

Part I

Eleanor Rootes had a way of speaking to me that made me want to vomit. A dark and callous cloud followed her into a room and left the air lifeless, cold, and depressed. It left me depressed.

It is my professional human opinion that she disgraces the field of law and that of humanity, while we're on the subject. Loose, shriveled folds of skin hang around a leathery neck that hacks a hair ball every thirteenth word or so. Her Pomeranian counterpart, the only dreaded beast that would keep company with such a void, had an ironically similar hair-do and touted it in a likeness to its owner.  I believe that it is the arrogance; the talking-down to you that she does even though her Esq. has not filled much beyond three, typically size-12 font spaces at the end of her name. Certainly, it has not assisted her clients.

See Eleanor Rootes was the unfortunate assignment of a law-guardian for my son at a time he was barely off of breast milk. given the status of what qualifies as "normal" these days, that could be quite disconcerting. For the record: my son was one year old.  At our first introduction, she graced my downstairs apartment kitchen with her yellow pad, shaking off the outside and not closing the door behind her. Never the mind, I introduced her to my son, who sat with a full hamburger - all the fixin's, a side of broccoli florets,  and a sippy cup spread across his high-chair tray.

Bound and Re-Bound

The day could be described as a metacognitive hostage situation which would not allow her to loosen the bindings around the mental record repeating track 07: "what if...what if...what if...what if...what if..." . 

Intervention stepped in somewhere 'round midday and suggested she turn it off. However, that was violently interrupted by immaturity from the audience and jiminy-cricket hanging out on her left shoulder.

Besides, the last diagnosis she had received was something residing somewhere between: "No" and "That's Impossible"...so she wasn't listening much anyway.

You'll have that.

As If

As if you might understand the dire need to grow beyond your obviously, very small-minded and self-inflicted painful experience as a human, I implore you to speak in a manner more becoming to a woman.

I beseech you to conduct yourself, not as a child like your own...but as an adult. If you want for better, if you wish for greater and dream for more - than pursue it. Don't drown it. Don't let it be drowned. If I offer anything, I present myself as an example of what you will undoubtedly have to contend with in your very near future. It will not get better. It will not get easier. It will only become all consuming, all encompassing and before you realize what has happened, you'll find yourself standing at a broken mirror, wondering why that childhood ideology of yourself as Cinderella has become so tortured and twisted when all you sought at the onset of this relationship you find yourself in, was love and understanding.

Your hair will be thinned and your eyes darkened with drags of skin that hang beneath them. If you have not committed yourself before this point, you will most-likely be so confused with the The life and vitality you once had will be all but depleted and your children will sigh heavily with the anxiousness that you spread throughout your house daily. There will be no one who listens any longer, no one who fully understands and no one that cares to join you on your umpteenth episode of martyrdom. If I had to guess, I would put money down that there will come a day (in your situation, I will hope that be sooner, rather than later) that your realization will slam into your consciousness like contact between a freight train and a concrete wall.

Be that as it may, I would advise you save your energies.

And now that I have allowed an ample amount of time for my previous words to sink in; I agree with my notion. I am sorry for you only to the point that this will be more difficult than you now believe and having lived the torturous relationship between idealism and realism - I can expunge your actions only when you begin showing signs of growth and a want for better.

Until that point - I suppose only time will tell.

Muy Importante

I feel the need to say that because there is a large part of your humanity lacking, and because our son has been filled to the brim with the fear placed upon him should he actually express his true wishes in your general direction...and because, well, honestly, I'm sick to death of your ignorant games - you should seriously consider a new hobby. One that consists of yourself in a small room, no windows, many sharp objects and ... I'll stop.


Okay, blessings in your direction.

Honestly though, you need to stop~!

Our child has been through enough. So much so that he is beginning to decipher this ridiculousness for himself and for your sake, I don't like what I see. I try my hardest to convince him that the end is worth the effort where it concerns you, but more times than not -- it's hard for me to see as well. After five years of litigation, and an additional five years of martial what's-it-called, I am tired of covering tracks. Basically, a decade of learning has produced one such woman not willing to produce bullshit for an arrogant, egotistical, and belly-aching belligerent fool that shows no thankfulness any. more.

As it stands, our child expresses (with the full use of his extensive vocabulary) that he does not wish to see you on this coming Monday because of the disgracing menagerie of antics you will put him through.  I will call on Saturday. I will call on Sunday. Each day a day unto itself, I pray will produce some reaction from our child that enables me to believe you have not coerced him and I will take appropriate action at that time.

Sadly, your irresponsibility makes me ill.

Nothing new. But something in dire need of alteration.

Regards,
The Mother

Thank You (Originally Published August 2007)

You know when you reach a point that all the thinking in the world won't undo itself.  It's created a place in your mind that nearly reaches form and function.  They're just thoughts though, how does that happen?  Either way, these "formed" thoughts are like a little ball-bearing that rolls itself, independantly powered, from side to side in that head of yours.
With the process of thinking such thoughts, I actually made some head-way this time and figured it out.  Here I've been asking the universe for things, crying out to the night with wonder of why I had not been blessed with atleast a sampling of the dreams that were torn down some time ago? Never reaching the end of that thought process to realize that I had, indeed, been blessed with more than I could imagine. 
Teaching; an aspiration of mine that was placed on the back burner.
Family; that's a big one...full and rounded this idea of family, children, spouse, and any other individual that may need a spot of soup and pat on the back - that's what would complete my idea of family.  I wanted it for myself - to love and care for and create a "home" with, residing on the other burner in the back.
A house; this one not so much the actual style and design of a house, but rather, this was more highly concentrated on the functionality of a house.  It needs to be grand - light pouring in from all the windows, scrolled metal works on the walls, art hanging in the entry-way to welcome any and all inside the beautifully crafted doors.  It needs to be open - the energy of the rooms, the floor plans crafted in such a way as to create a natural path for little feet in the night, creeping to my bedroom for snuggies.  It needs to be strong - sometimes a necessity to compensate for my lack in strength, but more for the solidarity of the ages that it shall experience.  A vase, yes...that's it.  It's function would be most like that of a vase, capturing the stories, the warmth, the laughter and the legends of a thousand tales. 

Anyway, here I thought that I allowed someone to destroy all of that for me. I was sulking; really, I was.  I've been somewhat of a hermit, rationalizing my actions and wondering of the rest that I see.  If the universe had the potential to smack me upside the head, I believe it would have happened several times already.  Regardless, I reached my "Aha!"
The teacher: I have five children in my home to teach.  Their ages, their experiences and their history - all perfect tools for a teacher because they are so eager to learn.  Ready to learn the best of what there is to learn - about people, relationships, family, loving others, optimism, being strong, standing firm...on and on the list goes.

The Family: I was gifted an instant family by loving their father. This man, I don't speak of often enough because I've been so wrapped around and tormented by the idea of a psychotic-episodic marriage. 

Really though, Chris, you're worth more than the words can relay.  As a father, friend, lover, spouse, confidant, partner, mate, teacher...you've done a fantastic job at all of these. Because of your faithfulness, I believe I'm seeing the forest from the trees this time. We really do have a wonderful family.

And the home: that's just another piece of the puzzle.  It's created wherever we are - where we are together.  The friends, they come and go - and I would hope that they know they are welcome, always. It's there, all these things that I thought I'd lost - I have, in fact, found them and they were right in front of me all along.
So to you, Chris, thank you.  Thank you for your patience and understanding.  Thank you for being in control - for never harming us, me, the kids. Thank you for not running away even if I said I wanted to. For being compassionate, even when I was in uber-witch mode - for trying, always trying.  Thank you most for being a real father to your children.  It's an achievement in and of itself, as the persons that step up to the plate to take care of one child, much less more than one child, are few and far between.  And with that - thank you for showing a little boy what it really means to be a dad. You've done it and you've done a superb job.  Thank you for loving us; me and the kids. Thank you.

Rising the Phoenix (September 2007)

Rising the Phoenix

A breath was drawn 
    chest inflated
Defenses had been seized long ago
A lonely warrior stood atop a fortress
    With a pulse to echo through the senses
Eyes were clear now, the fog had drifted in 
     Hovering among the lines

Cracked skin brought longing for moisture
    That pulse - it beat as thoughts forlorned
ALL
had been contemplated
A move must be made
    Weery bones, lengthy strides 
  -Grabbed the hand
Little fingers traced 'round by promise
A seascape within the eyes

"Come along, for there is something I must show"
    
'Tis my heart, a pulse
     Those eyes responded
Yet, there are wings
Softly, like notes of laughter on dew
The wings,  their ominence unfolded

It must be so
    None receives such a gift and does not let it go
Rocking in embrace, we strengthened our plee
   Not standing as low, from this sight
Rid of a man
    He was never to Be

Blimy (Originally Published April 2008)

Blimy

And so, I’m waiting.
Don’t know how this has all contorted itself to a HUGE snake-like masquerader, but it most-certainly has become such.
I wish for the life of me that I could return to a time when things weren’t troublesome and life-sucking.
What is that, a succubus?  I know by definition it’s the form of a woman - well, in this case it would be that of a man. No, boy...no...testosterone-induced being.  Rage and conspiracy have taken the seat of what used to be a vile attempt at truth.  That poser!
(*This is your mind speaking*) "Move along; move along already."
I’m trying to!  What is it that keeps the bindings so damn tight?  There’s no blood coursing through my veins anymore - more like sewer sludge. Urgh.
Point?
Don’t have any other way to say it: "Stop using my little boy as fodder for your games!"  I didn’t place possessive terms on him before, but dammit - this time around it’s a new ball game. 
You don’t give a shit, so be it...go pollute someone else.  I’m tired of playing.

The Phone Rings (Originally Published June 2008)

..it's 9am on a Saturday, and I'm in desperate need of sleep, but I miss my boy - and so I pull myself to the receiver.  It's him!  He's quiet, submissive and (in my Motherly opinion) in duress.  It's only a matter of minutes for our conversation to come to a halt by the atmosphere he must be in.  I ask him what's for breakfast and the reply has to be reiterated to me in German - why?  Because every facet of life there is controlled.  It's like a substance that was never approved by the FDA - The Atmosphere. 
Soon enough, it's too much to handle and Garrett says his "good byes" - at which time the phone is handed off to the most-offensive of all conversationalists.  "What's going ..s the conversation (if you can call it that, I prefer to reference such meetings of the mind as a kind of Pavlovian conquering mission.

I don't reply because I have nothing to reply with - and he really wouldn't want my answer anyway.  Needless to say, there is no conversation with the Pavlovian Prodigy himself - it's direct order in the form of conditionaling and I'm not falling for it. Eight years of this banter; you'd think he'd redirect his attention elsewhere, but no - I must be his favoritist contestant. Anyway, it's thirty minutes of him telling me that "due to what Garrett's been reporting is happening when Garrett's at his house" that it has occurred to him that the problem must  be because it's been such a long time since I've seen him and Garrett interact and that I must not remember the way he used to act around Garrett as a baby.

Also, that there must be a tumultuous situation of abuse that has occurred to skew my reality and that I should seek therapy for the many plaguing issues that I obviously have so as to not confuse our son any longer - "It's that you're just like your father, don't you see that?  You're incapable of accepting the reality of it all and you're making this stuff up..."
The then suggestion was to "allow" me to come to his house to "observe" he and Garrett's interaction so that I might "reaffirm my thought pattern " and re-examine my perspectives. 
If I would be so kind as to do these things, than he would further assist me in correcting my ways and I would no longer be confused and making up the scenarios that have, for so long been plaguing the lives of me and my son.  It was quite obvious to him that it was only  he  that could take care of my woes and distinguish my thoughts to clear him of any injustice - but would have to be at the mercy of a PSYCHOPATH!

That's intelligent - let's just throw caution to the wind, shall we?  Assume for a moment that years of physical, verbal, emotional and psychological abuse didn't happen and that I must have it all wrong.  Assume that he wouldn't off me in a heartbeat if he had a chance and that he wouldn't take it out on Garrett (afterall, he's only done it too many times in the past to keep track of) - and assume that he's telling the truth and that in my allotted hour of "observational" time at his house (where I was told that I'd have to show up alone and the "observe only" was specified) -  that I could then rest in peace (If I'm not assuming that I'm already dead at this point) knowing that he's just as fucked up as I'd ASSUMED from the start. 
What would that amount to in the book of accomplishments?  (Assuming again, that I'm not already a goner)....Answers anyone?

To quote Ayn Rand: "Evil is impotent and has no power but that which we let it extort from us".
So, my answer (given the scenario of Garrett being held captive in the atrocitous household for the weekend) was "No".  And even then - No doesn't mean "No" to an abuser - it means that you're mentally weak.  Too mentally incapacitated to speak further and say what you actually mean - which to an abusive psychopath means, "Yes".

I expect that he's awaiting my phone call or arrival.

This truly is an extortion of the soul.

The Act of Being a Bieber (July 2008)

The Act of Being a Bieber

They catch a lot of slack, those Bieber's.


I'm one of them and not until recent, have I realized the full extent of what it actually means to be of such blood.  I've held tight to the reigns of spiritual rationalization and the effects of good karma, but being of the Bieber lineage really adds a touch of class to the situation, and my growing comprehension of it makes for a new perspective.
Eight children into the world of family allowed for my Mother and Father to prime the small town of Prattsburgh for what would become the largest onslought of truth and morals this side of the Canadian border. It was wondrous - having the responsibility of walking a fine line of truth while the remainder of those you met, fell by the wayside of pressures and deceat. I'm no Mother Mary, and Lord knows I've made my fair share of wrong decisions (for which I'm indebted to) but the realization that eventually makes it's way into adulthood, adds another twist. You see, being a Bieber isn't just another notch in the totem pole, it's a history. You're born into morale, family, understanding, hard-core heritage and ethics. You can sway from side to side while prancing through the teenage/young adult years, but inevitably, you return to the foundation of those morals and build (again, if necessary) from there. You have the foundation, and so, it cannot be trampled upon. 
Review the past six years or so and you'll find (atleast in my scenario) that the Bieber name has been spat on, squatted over and looked down upon, but it remains steadfast against the mouths of those treacherous liars - and all with a smile.  For there is truth in a smile - and that's the ingredient that can't (in most situations) be handled. 
We entered this week with the knowledge that my little boy's going to be five soon. He's skipping around his childhood with all too much responsibility on him already, but he does it with a humbleness that only God can grant. I check the calendar and because we dance with every-other weekend through our year, I figure that the weekend of his birthday, he won't be here so what better to do than have an early birthday party?  One that's really special - one that's family. Afterall, he's part of the Bieber family and what better to offer than that?  So we pack our bags, our new bike for G. and head West.  Walking in the door late at night, was when it hit me.  The light was left on for our arrival as my Mother always said that it's "so unwelcoming to come home to a dark house", so the light above the countertop flickers with content waiting for the birthday boy. 
The room is ready - beds for the kids, the smell of being home circulating around the house and just enough of a breeze to remember that it's Summer time and oh, so beautiful.  I hear the laughter from my brother and sister, who've waited up all night for us to visit, as they're sitting in the room watching reruns of Daffy Duck.  Just as I'm signing out for the night, the rest of my family says their "hello's" and their "goodnights" and diverge to bedrooms that have the quilts of generations-past on the beds and hugs for the promise of tomorrow in the evening.  They're tired - tired from the hard work that makes up each day - but it's a good tired.  A "thank God I'm alive" tired and you see that in every smile.  It's a "we wish we could help more" tired and a "I have something wonderful to show you in the morning" tired, and I miss it! 

The following two days were glorious with my newly polished love - it's watching my children take part in what is the most amazing part of my life; being a Bieber. They long for it, just as I do - they see that it takes hard work, sweat and tears to build a family such as mine and they want in.  I want to give them an in - well, really they're already there.  I guess it's the outside pressures - those termites of family values that are trying to eat their way through the structure. Damn things don't realize that we're all immune.  Immunity because of Faith, and Belief, and Trust.  The termite infestation is like being bitten by a mosquito after you've sprayed on the Spring Fresh Bug spray, wondering "how do they know to bite me?" Faith, belief and trust give you Truth - which is precisely the ingredient that will be the downfall.  Like the pillars of salt - they'll erode. I suppose I'm wishing that they'd erode at a bit faster pace and at the same time, knowing that I shouldn't wish such things. Initiate Faith. 

It all comes back around, that's what I keep telling myself. Just as my understanding for my wonderful family has highlighted the toils and tribulations - it's the essence of being part of something truly extraordinary and waking up to find yourself smack, dab in the middle of it all.  It'll come back around. For now, I'm thinking that there must be some way to sell tickets or give out "family favors" or something - maybe a billboard...

Breakfast on Sunday summed up the entire weekend.  We sit around the family dinner table - all totaling sixteen and out of the mouths of babes, comes, "I'm a Bieber!"  The smiles from fifteen other faces made my heart glad.

My Exercise in Futility (Originally published August 27, 2008)

My Exercise in Futility

I'm realizing that it's okay to be a little broken as I find myself very worried about the state of such a  young one's mind - and may be more so, of the condition of his heart.  Last night he uttered the words "hate" in a description of one whom should be considered a young boy's "hero"...trying to make sense of it all, just as I am.  Some telling me to see it in another light, that some kids don't have anyone to talk to.  He has me, and oodles of people that love him and care for him - that with enough love, it will transform and that "every hurt becomes a muscle".  Still, the dust is kicked up whenever I hear another tale that somehow eluded me for these past few years - supposing it was my then, naivete.  The more time that passes, the less I even care to try and make sense of it.  The less I identify - even that word, Identity - it is encompassing of he, the catalyst for Patricia.  It seems, in my moments of confusion, that I"m torn between what my role may have been as "wife" and what I neglected to realize for my role as Independent.

I never saw myself, prior to materializing a "separation", as anything but a part of a marriage.  This necessary by definition and the need for two parts to complete a marriage, though if attempting to institute the morals of what makes a marriage (with two equal parts) than all efforts were futile.  And to think that's what I was offered as insight on the day that I wed - "In order for this to work, each of you must be willing to give 100% of yourselves to each other".
Confident that I gave my 100%, I effortlessly loved.  It was no more difficult than that, as I seemed to have been injected with a "love conquers all" inoculation at my early immunizations.  What he failed to say was that if only one side gives their 100%, with no emotional income from the opposing side, than "ye shall be rendered as void". 

All things become clear in time.

Return now to the mental state of a child with but 5 years of experience in this cyclical torment and you might understand my aggravation.  That muscle growing from a field of pain, in concept, may have been applied prematurely.  The heart's a muscle. 
Enter irony and find that indeed by tending to my heartache and his five-year-old heartache, we are in fact preparing for a bounty of love to be timely harvested before the growing season is over.

Monark Files: I (Originally published September 2008)

The Monark Files - I:

We step lightly into a classroom painted to the ceilings with characters from the well-known Sponge-Bob cartoon.  Hefty mothers, all toting large egos, condescending questions and dragging their frightened children behind them, step on my toes with eagerness to be the first in line, the first with a question and the first of recognized mothers in this liberal setting East of Home. Granting them to pass before me and my son, they quickly find their child's seat and plop them in it with a fierceness; moving on to ask Ms. Teacher stupid questions about reminding little Johnny that he has to go 2 and can ask for assistance in wiping his behind. My eyes scan the room as I hold firmly to the belief that this is somewhat backwards, irritable and nothing less than wrong.  I feel  G's little grip on my hand and as it tightens, look down to see his knuckles turning white. He looks up at me with a question of what to do next?  I look around the room for the little miniature of a school scenario that might behold the name of my dear child – and my eyes fall upon the display for butterflies that is no doubt posted with pride.  Four inch letters spanning the top of this monstrous, artistic display shows clearly, the aptitude for our new venture – there it is: M-O-N-A-R-K Butterflies.  MONARK?  Really?  

Of all that is semi-precious and eluding – you can't get the name right? The English right? The grammar?  The First Impression?   Oh Heavenly days, what has happened to the trademark of profession? Of pride in leadership,  and of recognizing your faults and CORRECTING them?  I suppose it goes hand in hand with the fact that Ms. Teacher kept referring to my son as "Colin" – and on correction, she told me "That's your son!" I allowed her to be enlightened as to the fact that seeing as how I participated in the naming of such a child, I would know his name and it was. Not. Colin.   Anyway, it has brought new light to the case-scenario of being assigned this grab-bag of a school system.  All things come to light with enough patience – in the meantime, I think that I'll join the PTA.  Take a controlling stance on what's circling the school about me.

A Portfolio of Sorts

 A running portfolio of my work and not posted in any particular order. Some are duplicate uploads and some are near-misses of what I intended the canvas to show. I don't believe that I am finished by any stretch of the imagination - which presents as a delightful mental note to savor.  At a time in the near future, I hope to add these images to a published work...a story of the unfolding of justice.  The title of that work sometimes cycles 'round in mental lyrics as well, but I have yet to nail down a precise title. 
I welcome comments and hope you enjoy!