The Hardest Wall

 A hair's breath from Christmas and the air is still. There is something that lingers, untold truths, begotten lies that fill the space between right and wrong.  It never comes easy to stand on faith alone but that is where we reside.  The effort at mental creation of black and white has long since dissipated in this stale and stagnate environment.  Try as we may -- it feels harder to gather the energy to remain calm and present the facts as they stand, hoping someone will listen. 

I wonder why?  Why is it that what presents as evil, manipulative and coercive is more easily accepted, welcomed almost, than the truth?  What has brought us to the brink of extinction among ourselves? I know I didn't start out this way, but yet, here I am. Wondering...

Unsettled with what my mind returns to me as an answer.

Attempts to reason with the unreasonable fumble the hope and I watch it wobble across a field that a growing part of me doesn't believe in.  To justify this feeling would be to suggest that once again, the essence of life must be fortified in faith.  That one small and tender offshoot of a larger, and dying mainstay.

 Faith don't fail us now.

Why is precisely the reason.

Why? Because it is fun. Because it brings laughter, enjoyment and wedge of memory that will not dislodge.

Why?

Because there are too many reasons why not. That is why.

There was a time when I thought that in order to perfect the art of planning, one had to immerse themselves in some delicate field of professionalism that gave enough weight to their purpose to justify the end result.

Not so.

After boiling down the crude ingredients of what it means to be human; to learn and live and wonder...and wander, there is so much more able to be said about the unanswerable "why?" than there is to be explained by the "because".

Just live.


Let it be.

Enjoy. And dammit, hold on for the ride with the most zealous hairspray in your bouffant and the zestiest of nail polish colors on your digits. Do not fear the answering of "why?" -- live it. And when you do decide to unbuckle to let the next rider board, smile a smile that says "Brotha, it's worth it -- but I give you no more than that" and make sure that smile spreads ear to ear.

When all is said and done, it is for mere pleasure of the ride, not the safety restraints or the approval received beforehand.

Breaking out the rule book, solely for the intention of burning it as soon as the burn-ban is lifted.Or before...before would be alright too.

Wham! Bam!

Absolutely; Positively

I am currently finding myself absolutely, positively irritated to the maximum of my being over the issue of absentee-parenting and ignorant-fueled "guidance" (if you can call it that).

It's late.

My little one - the essence of childhood, heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sibling-trickery is the name of the game as he goes about explaining to his older sister why he spread hand soap across the bristles of her toothbrush. There's a hint of laughter in the air as the reasoning makes its way to the excuse.

He says that he always has to deal with soap in his mouth. That he's always being directed to consume a sudsy matter when the step-mother of the West comes into play with her dictatorship antics and lack of good parenting style.

What?!

As he's being reprimanded for the sake of health over concerns that soap will cause sickness to someone he cares about, he's duly-explaining that this kind of thing happens constantly when he's at his dad's house.

Since when is that kind of guardianship allowed to run freely over the land? It's not.

He says he has to do it when he's forgetful. Or when he mistakenly trips down the stairs because, (as she believes) he's not paying attention.

And this woman runs a daycare center?

Oh, to get my common sense in an injection form and inoculate the charge-parties of the county government seat.

In an honest token of biology, it doesn't take more than a misguided effort to create a child -- and though that might make one lost soul a "parent", it by no means, makes you a father...or mother.



Take head dear stand-in placement of guardian-over-my-child: your concurrent acts of embarrassment and degradation, while your husband remains inattentive, shall be construed as direct and intentional efforts of abuse; not "guidance" as you may conceive them to be.

Likewise, the same establishments which have naively supported your daycare establishment will be noticed of your poor judgment and inadequate, lacking, and immature parenting. And though I understand this may mean nothing to a county which oozes corrupted policy, you surely comprehend that it means worldly-measures to a woman that simply does. not. give. up.

Absolutely, positively,
Me

Memento

There is a delicately planted lipstick kiss mark on the rearview mirror of my truck. It arrived a few weeks ago from a dear friend of mine, who I can just picture as she smacked her kisser together with a nice shade of Burt’s Bee Balm and was perfectly poised before planting a reminder for me on what I would have thought was entirely too dirty a surface. In her defense, love knows no boundaries, which applies even to muddy mirrors and parked vehicles.

At this point, the balmy reminder is slightly coagulated and speckled with the remnants of brazen little bugs that dove head on at 65 mph into my memorabilia, only to discover the sticky surface too late. I'm going to leave it there – and what a great token it is.

I’d contemplated a visit to the car wash because the postal delivery lady was kind enough to put on e of those nifty 50% off coupons in my mailbox. However, after I did the calculations on my would-be savings, I’ve decided that my smooch is worth more than the $4.28 credit that I’d have in my bag.

I laughed this morning to the idea of this little muse of mine, jaunting through the side yard and curiously contemplating how she’s leave her mark on my world while I was away. These moments; those actions – come at precisely the right time in a life that sometimes is too rushed to gather your breath from. So little red-headed muse – THANK YOU!

You mean the world to me.

The Hourglass

February of 2006 delivered a lyrical blow with the release of Cowboy Mouth’s Voodoo Shoppe CD. Every note, each word, I swear was targeted at me and if ever I dreamed to purge my emotions of the black-hole voids, it was then. And purge I did! The love of my life (who, I might add is not crazy) stood beside me as I landed stage side, rocking the stones right out of my costume jewelry rings and mutilating the semi-precious metals because of all my beat, beat, beating on the sub-woofers. That concert rocked my soul in early 2006; I was alive!

And now, September 2010 as the summer draws to an end, this surging desire rears again. This time though, with Zac Brown Band’s fall release of “You Get What you Give,” CD and particularly, the “Let it Go” track. Repeating over and again in my environment, the “let it go” phrase and ideology reverberates through every waking moment and interrupts my subconscious while I sleep. Tonight marking the Autumnal Equinox and a very full moon, I'm prefacing all thought patterns and emotive reactions with the tide receding; finally. It’s clear skies ahead and full intention of loosening my grip.

I do feel however, that with the heavy-handed suggestion of “just let go”, there should come a warning. Something akin to: “Not as easy as it sounds”; or “Expect a ration of retaliation”, or “internal combustion may occur if occupant happens to be a Type-A personality”. Something.

Mid-month September marked the New Moon, a phase that I was sure would linger longer with the coming of dreams, the going of nightmares. It seems to have been short-lived given the knock-about I’ve endured these last two weeks. Though it is suggestible there may be a reasoning there too. I don’t know. I was pretty certain that a weekend at a cabin in Vermont with the leaves changing, the smell of apple cider in the air and my best lovey, would cure my heartache, but…

I'm processing.

That’s what it is. Processing.

Similar to that little hourglass symbol that comes up on your screen when you’re waiting for the next function to take.

Processing.

I did purge again recently, actually am in the process of purging to take it a step further. This here and now involves a conundrum of empathy, memories, intentions and a boat-load of “Yes, but why…” questions. That. Needs to stop. Let it go! Then I recollect – thinking of the times spent in sessions, sitting, waiting, wishing (again, to quote a musician with lyrical mysticism). Sitting, waiting, wishing. And all that time spent in an oversized, stuffed chair with a delicate golden-weave and a fifteen dollar co-pay – well, I thought it counted. Maybe in some sense of the “process” it does count – but right here and now it doesn’t feel like that.

I think of the purging as if a vomitorium; in layers. Or a timeline. Peeling back the layers of stuffed baggage, and damage, and …crud, is no easy feat. And I actually enjoy picking through what others might consider “garbage” – that whole trash/treasure idea you know. This one though, aye. This purging situation leaves much to be desired and actually, I think it’s given me an ulcer, a headache, and has most-definitely affected my sleep patterns.

So, as long as we’re on this musical road to recovery, I’ll leave you with the mental picture of Ray Lamontagne’s verbiage: “I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest and said ‘Do your best’”.

I don’t think they have the moxy, to tell the truth.

Casper Was A Punk

He (why was Casper a "he" anyway? It's not as if he had any organs to differentiate his sex, right?) had no cause to existing as a fathom of one's imagination, he just hovers around, poking at whatever insecurities might exist when the lights are all turned out. Some thread of our existence quests for identifying the ghosts, I think. To have a tangible thought to assign our fears to maybe. Or that we can generate hypertension in lieu of contending with the real change agents of character.
Change agents are really the masquerading "Casper's" - the chubby, rounded, smiling and floating fear-driven punk that's invading individual progress. The flip side of this though is that the little apparition is as transparent as breath in wintertime.

Take the change agents, the ghosts, the fears as a tool, ... and there in lies real growth. Too afraid of being presented with what's on the other side of Door Number 1...or 2...or...it is typical; comfortable to stay with what we know. In that however, everything else additionally stays the same. A comfortable numbness might show face at this stage, often accompanied by depression, psychotropic medication and eventually, the withering of our core, until we're so mechanical that we don't challenge any longer. The Casper's of the psyche won't give any indication that blunt survival (if you can title it that..."survival") is the end goal of initiating fear, but it is. Those who don't challenge, don't pose a problem. Or as an attorney once presented to me, "just take your sour grapes and go home"; a "don't question my authority!" expected of the masses.
Getting back to the immensity of change agents, or as I like to see them, the would-be life altering accelerant to potential power. We each have several opportunities throughout life to acknowledge and accept our challenges and venture on into the unknown, flashlight or not. With each step of intention into that unknown we gain strength and a clearer perspective. Not to be paralyzed by those little storm troopers of ignorance, we should recognize those threads of opportunity, rise to the occasion and swallow hard the idea that your life will never, ever be the same. But you must, must...must, be willing to do the work, put in the time, make the changes that unfold to you, wake up...and breathe. Recognize that the only thing that will stall the process, the awakening, the movement; the only thing that will inhibit growth, or halt awareness is fear. Fear that the recipe might not produce a delicacy, or fear that the end product will render us with less than our start. Fright of a hundred cognitive "what if" scenarios for every small percentage of change we're called to do. And why?

Because Casper is a punk!

Mental

She came to suggest it was a manifestation of the mind.

That's the only way she would be able to validate everything that had gone down over five years. How uniformly the pieces lined up too, when she uttered the words: "only in my head". To herself of course, there were very tangible issues occurring succinctly with those that played in her psyche. They were different though; the tangible ones. They were the ones that had places, times, patterns and cut far deeper than the reasoning assigned by apologies. They scarred over but were picked at by the mental pick-lock kit and they'd even heal if only she'd stop tonguing the thoughts; the blame.


Between what she could see and feel and that w3hich she could not, she hovered. Determined not to role play the victim any longer gave a fierce blow of freedom and power, but also engaged the mental minions of doubt and fear to engage the wheels of uncertainty. And yet - she recalled how determination had led her to this very place where she now beckoned it to taker her from. Faulty wiring, maybe. She did allow for enough time to pass until deciding upon the cognitive reproach after all. If there was something else that might explain all this, then maybe it would venture to be heard before running off. Yes? Yes? No.

In her mind's eye she could see that charred treasure map that was the layout of her life. The destination always being happiness was fraught with heartache and hardship when she backed up her game piece from the space it resided. She'd gone too far ahead on the board before paying the jailer or having that audit done. And quite simply; that was not allowed.

Mental; it was all mental.

You Don't Know What You're Doing

Language:

That illusive pet that we each engage in the morning; that irritating reminder that we sometimes don’t measure up, language is the vehicle for all thought, action and intention.
I often wear my heart on my sleeve, I'm entirely too sensitive at times and succumb to bouts of depression when I'm not cognizant of where my head is at. I take more than my share of things personally and as if they’re at attack on my heart. I often can’t explain what I'm thinking because there simply seems to be too many words and one, in particular…that I’m thinking of as the main descriptor.

On many occasions this is a “flaw” so-to-speak of the Type-A personalities and often, one of the most difficult issues to compete with. I’ve sat countless hours in therapeutic seminars and stress-relief classes where I’ve felt the need to correct the speaker or have inserted my own set of verbiage in order to clear the air for the way I could feel my mind processing what I was hearing. This…Is not a good thing.

This morning, the thought occurred to me that there is a power given to language depending on the context, form and tone of the message; mostly tone. When handed an insult say, it becomes insulting depending on the way that we perceive our own self image. If someone were to call a name that has no meaning in our mental dictionary that word would then cease to have any power. On the other hand if someone insulted our ability to be a “good” person, a “great mom”, or the way that we look – reacting as if an insult is in a sense, to say that we have agreed with enough of the statement to feel powerless against it. That we additionally think we’re not “as good” a person as we should be/could be, that we’re not a “great” mom, that we are: ‘ugly, stupid, ignorant, etc.’ enough so, that hearing the statement from someone else is as if they’re exposing our vulnerabilities to everyone…and how dare they!

It’s probably the reasoning behind why I have such a difficult time developing a resume. Whomever played with the chemistry set for making a ME must have eye-balled the recipe and put in way too much idealism because I find it very difficult to fib about having the ability to do things or be something that I don’t feel 100% about doing or being. You know, cutting and pasting in all those action words and power phrases for grabbing the attention of a perspective employer: managed, detailed, organized, lead, prioritized, supervised, and so forth. It never seems to measure up to enough of a description for my real abilities and always lacks in what I'm intending to present as a one-page descriptor of my self. And while we’re on the subject, who ever said that resumes should only be one page? I’ve read enough of the self-help resume starter kits for creating something fabulous to know that it should be original and spectacular like an action thriller movie trailer, but yet be in compliance with margin settings, highlighted name and contact information, font size and be in Times New Roman style. Dumb. Whenever I get to step 4 of the “create your own masterpiece resume”, I indefinitely quit because my urge is rather to scrap steps 1 through 4 and start over with a poster board, some finger paints and a medley of candid pictures, a sharpie marker, those shape-cutting scissors and a glue stick. I’d fill little comic bubbles with quotations from past employers and coworkers and then sum it all up with a highlighted statement (in much larger font) from someone prestigious that I’d cunningly convinced to speak as to my abilities and standards. None of it would be a lie, so I wouldn’t be stumbling over what to write where and how to phrase the statements, yet stay in the lines of what constitutes a proper representation of me. And it would be catchy, brightly colored and give the reader a face to identify with a quirky, glittery past because of all my candid shots.

Back to the original message however, language is the problem. It’s the drive and the road block – and how much of a conundrum that something can exist two-fold like that. The root cause of all internal battling, at least on my count it is.

“You don’t know what you’re doing…”

“Yes I do! No, actually I don’t. Wait. What did you say? What am I doing? I know! I know what to do!”

From the perspective that language is a mirror being held to our faces, or more appropriately, that insulting language is a mirror – that it can enable us to identify our problem areas…well, that’s much more pleasing that it being a constraint restraint to our delicate psyche. It’s like being a student rather than everyone else always being our jailor. So the next time I catch a phrase of “you don’t know what you’re doing…” I can mentally respond with the: “You know what? No. I don’t. Gotta work on that.” And then go about whatever it was that I didn’t know I was doing. Inevitably, it all works out in the end anyway, so vehicle or not, language is the voice-over for life. Heh. And to think that all I wanted to know what why resumes have to be limited to one page?

Breathing: The Temporary Depletion of Oxygen

It really came as no surprise that my mind once again tricked me into thinking the idealism I harbor was capable of overcompensating for the realism that exists. 

There are times when I feel as if I am a spectator to my own life, and how odd a feeling to be routing from the bleachers…for myself.  The parameters of human magnificence again I suppose.  I'm that rat in the maze of legal blunders. Right turn; left turn then a circle-‘round, then *Bam*…I run smack-dab into a petition, or a summons, continuing litigation and most certainly, notice of charge for a $50 phone conversation that I don’t recall having. 

When I read, I come across the bravest of statements to take charge, take control and become accustomed to the good things happening when you’re able to drop the negativity at the door and welcome the breadth of change with open arms.  On certain days, this rainbow outlook is more difficult to maintain than others.  Today = certain day.  Why is that?  The circle evolution of everything; it’s everywhere.  It’s like the quote: “The more things change, the more they stay the same” we somehow become accustomed to change that’s really not. The flipside of this, of course is that we could choose to be the change.  Where in essence, we’re the ones making the change.  I question if this is always a safe thing to do; probably not.  I remember pushing pretty hard a number of years ago in order to make something happen – something that I thought I was in desperate need of having happen and when all was said and done  -- well, here  I am, longing to get out.

Deep breath.  (Did you know that there's an actual technique to proper breathing?  Yeah, who knew? )  Apparently, I've been screwing up the breathing pattern and thereby, losing vital amounts of oxygen in the process.  Guess that explains why some days go bye in a zinger and others are mellow atonement's of the exercise of inhale/exhale.   Either way, there's purpose in them there walls and here I've been with my pick-ax, fumigating mask and galoshes, hoping that it'll all collapse before I do.  Take another step toward the purpose of creating the life I see and have faith.   That's where the context of it all lies.  


Okay -- for the sake of life as I know it,  I'll work on my breathing patterns and this exhausting exercise in futility.  I'll be certain to say my prayers at the dinner table and before bed....and when I brush my teeth in the morning and at work....oh, and during my breaks, and when I'm weeding the garden and when I'm in the bathroom....


You get the point. 

The Evolution of Fireworks

My thoughts remain somewhat obtuse this morning. They’re circling a vast theme of characters, references and time frames in the process of marrying young and divorcing early – of beginning a family and dropping dreams – somewhere among the process of becoming I’ve concluded that this really needs to materialize to a book. The raw materials are mined and lying atop the mine field, wanting for harvest. I'm just not sure how to place them all into a congruent timeline of events.




I return to the whole “If I were to paint a picture of my mind’s eye” explanation where that picture would be something of a woman jumping through the universe, attempting to collect the sparkly remnants of a firecracker; a big one! Drawn to the colors and the glittery essence of the big *Ka-boom!*, that woman would be spastically grasping at the air and pulling in the memories of such an explosion, never before seen by her and hopefully, never to be seen again. She would know that it holds relevance and meaning, but how does one encapsulate meaning into an interesting tale of deliverance? It has to have enough substance to engage the reader and keep them interested. It would have to pack a punch, yet not offend too entirely much. It would have to consist of just the right amount of tenderness, affection, loss and dismay – but with enough understanding to make a play for the heart strings of everyone who could identify and God knows there’s a bunch of them.

(Photo courtesy of W. Post: 2010)

And then there’s the timeline. Do I take it back to the early-birth-quack-social-worker-from-Stone-Ridge timeline that she thought she was professional enough to give an opinion on, but which she failed miserably? Or just start at day one of “Once Upon a Time: The Uncut Version”? Heh. The uncut version could sometimes be recalled as more of a mini-series or marital encyclopedia of what not to do when betrothed. Purposeful though; I do believe that it was all purposeful.

Well, until my firework thoughts calm enough to rub the particles out of my eyes and tackle this project head-on, I’ll put out there to ask that you stay-tuned. This is going to evolve, I can tell!

Be Not...

There is a bit of simple serenity when jaunting through the woods after a summer rain.  Behind me, trails the dog; nose feverishly smelling for a trail that may lead to some grand find...and my son.  He's seven and as such, has a capacity for language that I don't quite recall having at such an age.  It may be that the synapses are firing much more quickly than his gum-filled mouth has time to speak, or that he's simply a spontaneous conversationalist.  As it was, we trod in our flip-flops with but one, small hand trowel and the want to find a native plant that might suit our myriad of gardens in the manicured landscape of a back yard. 
The hound happened to sniff out a plethora of deer droppings and skittered away whenever a branch would snap, or a leaf would rustle and my son only seemed to find every poison ivy plant that exists this side of the reservoir.  Nevertheless, it was serene.  Imagining a time when the worries of parenthood and adulthood might be behind me, I figured that there is cause to stop and take in the space around.  As much as the days take up the time for working, the evenings following supper time are somewhat of a lost art form.  Although it did work to our advantage that dinner came earlier tonight, rather than the usual 8pm time frame that we have to work with.
Lovey and I spoke of instituting the much-sought-after summer delight of "Sunday Sundaes" again.  A wonderful idea brought on by none other than Grandma -- Sunday sundaes are just that...a call to all family members to Grandma and Grandpas on Sunday afternoon, armed with a sundae topping of choice.  Grandma supplies the ice cream and among eight siblings and significant others, we cover the gooey, chocolatey, nutty goodness (whipped cream too!).  So, after the search for greenery I'm thinking that there must be the priority of making up for lack of Sunday sundaes and make the times for jaunting ~ flip flops, or not.

There was Him and There was Her

He did ask.
In all fairness, he asked before too.
"What's the matter?" or "What's wrong?"

Her answer always seemed vague and obtuse and for this, he'd get irritated.  It seemed as if she wasn't sharing, or that she didn't know.  And really, that was it - she didn't know.  No one word could embody the helplessness and judment she experienced.  Not only did it seep from her pores, the trepidation would drip from her fingertips or tear from the corners of her eyes with the slightest of cause.

He'd think that he'd neglected something, forgotten or entangled some problem - but it wasn't him.  She loved him so much that it hurt.  And there were days that came and spoke to her: the feeling of freedom in one person, of finally finding what had for so long been sought - her Love.  Mentally though, the words to explain to him... they were caught. They were jumbled.  And for all the worry; he knew this.  He wanted with his every effort to make it all better for her.

But he couldn't.

Sitting in her garden she could tell that he tried.  She watched him come to her in sweetness and just smile.  He'd given up asking what was wrong since the last time her explanation came out sideways. Shame.  For she certainly loved to hear the care in his voice when he'd speak to her.  Shame that experience conditions the heart.

She pulled the weeds that choked out the brightest greenery in her garden and thought that one day soon, she would be able to hand him an invitation with all the right words. It would be perfect with gold lettering and flowing design.  It would have space and comfortability - it would be welcoming, promising and undoubtedly ideal. 

She would invite him to be her husband, to take her heart and protect it well. 
She would promise the same for him.

For as much as she didn't know, the one thing that she could count on as sure as rain was that for her, he was perfection.

Invested Energy of Focus

The way that I see it with my “mind’s eye” is that my brain is compartmentalized into many, colorful, and oddly-shaped boxes.  Some have trinkets of memorabilia; some have Swarovski crystals, while others are ink drawings, covered in dried flowers and decoupaged to the hilt.  They’re all representative of some mode of thought-process and are often called upon when the subject matter fits.  There is no “round peg; round hole” synapse here…it’s strictly dependent on will, emotion, energy and incredibly accurate.  The placement of each thought or engagement of activity has a reference point of subject matter in those colorful little boxes; similar to that of a cognitive card catalog.   And the point of all of this is that when something occurs and needs to be referenced, responded to, reacted on or have mental reflection, I go to what I know.  The problem exists therein.  If you’re made aware that what you know is dysfunctional - if you’re reference table is devoid of purpose any longer and if you’re effectively responded, reacted or reflected on something that has served no good purpose, how does one eliminate that strain from the brain?

             At first glance, I would assume that you would simply stop referencing that same old way of behaving and reacting.  But it’s proven that our little computerized brains create synapses of connectivity for thought by the history that we’ve engaged it to; a self-conditioning, if you will. So, then the question becomes “how does one un-condition?”  Maybe it’s like a computer disk and formatting it to erase all the old data and would-be information.  I’ve got to figure that one out – how to format my brain waves.  Not return to the same course of thought, action or process that I’ve done in the past – the ones that simply do not work.  

               I suppose that as I contemplate a new way of approaching the old and of creating new, I am engaging the new as we speak.  Don't wonder so much how to do it since you're already doing it.

The Web

I don’t recall it having started this way. You know, me: being pummeled through the universe with a milkshake in one hand, pen and paper in the other and all the while, attempting to maintain my sanity. I believe the purpose was to experience growth as it would be similar to the flowery expressions you find on bus stop posters or bill boards lining the highway of life. This though; this is for the birds.


In one aspect, I feel a pressure on the seams of my garments – pressure from elatedness, being happy and having faith that everything’s working out as it should. On the other side of those same garments, I feel the prickly sense of: anger, hurt, futility and an arm-load of that wrinkly face you get when you’re biting your tongue and cursing under your breath. That part usually comes out in a sarcastic sense of wit and charm.

The time span of this chaotic sensibility began years ago and somewhere in there I recall having the thought that the huff and puff of getting things done always seemed to land squarely in my lap. I didn’t mind so much at an earlier age because I could handle it, I welcomed it. I wanted to have the opportunity to prove I could do most anything. Now though, now I feel as though I’ve documented the pleadings of a sycophant and have to somehow remain on course while making efforts to get off the bus! I went to the doctor at one point – finally accepting that I was upset and depressed... that I’d cornered the market on not being able to sustain my innate sense of happy-go-lucky and somewhere deep inside, I was dying a slow, horrible, stinking, rotting death. I remember that day too: the day I walked in to the doctor’s office and hung my head to save the receptionist from seeing the dark circles under my eyes, or that she might assume (correctly) that I’d been crying for a good, long month’s worth of time. Either way, the doctor appeared – listened to my story, (P.S.: I initiated my consult with a “I think I’m depressed”) she made some medical hieroglyphs on my chart and then suggested that “I think you’re depressed…have you tried a calming bath? Do you get enough sleep? Maybe you’re not eating properly, etc.”. It was more debilitating if anything. At one point in time, the doctor did recommend that I get on some heavy medication, but I could just imagine that one coming to surface in the realms of the court. Lovely.

I did contemplate eating the “calming bath salts” at one point just to overdo it on sodium, but I believe I ran out of energy there again. Then there was the idea that sprung to life – I had decided that just to get someone to listen, I would pack my trail-blazing back pack and camp out on the steps of the county legislature building until someone had me removed, or pulled up a cot. Either way, I figured, they’d have to listen. They didn’t.

I conjured that I would begin painting billboards to place in my own yard – things that would read “Abusive Man Gets Away with Not Paying Child Support for Years”, and “How to Escape Accountability: Live Here!”, a “Can’t Keep Your Hands Off Your Kid? Get on the ‘Fathers’ Rights Train!”, or “Do-it-Yourself Widowing Company. Inquire Within”…but decided against my better judgment on that one too. Really, the whole point was (and is) to get someone to listen….someone, anyone, somewhere please just listen!

‘Round about that time, I landed on one of my best analogies for the tumultuous state of affairs that is being married to a madman and the subsequent child-rearing and divorce that follows: The Web. The Web, is the idea that I'm walking through this fiasco and like would be when you’ve stepped into a spider-web hanging almost iridescently in the trees…where it spans across your face and you feel the snagging tentacles of it between your eyelashes and around your mouth…that you pull at it. You make grand gestures of swinging hands and fingers to try and remove it from your head, but you miss. You keep waving arms and hands, wanting that eerie feeling to be removed from your life, from your person. You can feel it, you’re living it, and it’s there right in front of you…but to everyone else - everyone that sits on the side lines or can view you from afar…or can hear you, see you, know you – all they see is you waving like a lunatic. And because the mass populous really doesn’t enjoy spending much time investing in prosperous cognitive energy (i.e. to think) … you are nuts.

With that in mind, I'm investing in that awesome spray that they use in the movies. The stuff that hangs on the invisible rays of an infrared sensor so you can see where the lines are as you’re pulling off a jewel heist. That’s what I need…spray it on my face and *BAMMO*!

Proof.

That what I’ve been saying, doing and relaying all along: THE TRUTH!

Boy; Unhinged

“…and suddenly I was exhausted by all the years I spent doggedly chasing the carrot of self-improvement, while dragging behind me a heavy cart of self-criticism” (Bremer, K., 2010, Excerpt from Cover Girl).


Ample enough to be a maverick rather than gauged by the illusions of society, to which one can never fully measure to, I’ve gathered a resounding quantity of stillness in this day. It wasn’t more than a week ago that the pangs of doubt were sucking the life-force from me and but 12 hours since I last breathed that heavy-handed sign of desperation. Criticism and self-improvement are oddly paired in what trails through my day and somehow, self-improvement wins by a hair’s breath of distance generally leaving me to slump into a mass among twisted sheets and the ceiling fan whirring its meditative noise for me.

Rett was but one when we began this flight of fancy. Bitterness and rationalization soon came to the surface, followed soon by a mix of fright, pain and anguish. When I can project the timeline in my own head of what he’s had to endure through what constitutes 90% of his life, the results are debilitating. I can only imagine what his adult therapy sessions are going to sound like should he ever muster the courage to delve back into his childhood once we finally get through it. 

Where do you start something like that? “Once upon a time in a state of confusion and mistaken identity, I was born…” that’s how I’d begin that phase of treatment.

See what comes of it from there. Posh.

It does lead me to thinking though…what exactly does self-improvement consist of? What do you temper it against? Yourself? Your self? (I always preferred to reference the self in that manner. Don’t really think it’s appropriate in a grammatical sense, but for the sake of the psychoanalysis behind it, I feel it’s much better to separate the two – you know: my self, her self, your self, etc. The self as it would be, is a separate and highly important position.). Little perennial that he is, Rett has this amazing ability to switch modes from one to the other depending on his surroundings. It’s becoming more and more prevalent - either he’s happy, young, curious and free when he’s home, or he’s returned from a visitation in a state of fright, fear, angst, anger and self-protective. Now and again there’s the marking that indicates Dad wasn’t able to control his himself (this “self” stays with the “him”) but as my little perennial builds his vocabulary and personal identity, the actions of Daddy dearest are more and more psychologically twisted.

Really twisted.

Yesterday, for instance was a good day for him. He was home. He was safe, unburdened with what he had to process and how much it wouldn’t make sense to him. He was free to tie up his shoes and run through the fresh-cut grass with his dog. He sat for dinner and said grace without peering out through interlaced fingers to see make sure he was in good company while doing so (Saying a blessing is forbidden at Dad’s). He was a boy, unhinged.

Today, and at the notice that he’s scheduled to spend the long holiday weekend with Dad, like a light-switch he transformed. All that aggression, those questions, the worry…it’s been building since I gave the news. My correspondence with his teacher through the day has already revealed two emails that speak to him “being unkind to a classmate” and so full of energy that he can’t “sit still”. He KNOWS!

“Give him credence!” I think to myself. “He’s not just six, he’s six and intelligent! He’s confused and receiving empty promises. He’s scared and not getting safety. He’s voicing the injustices and not being heard!”

That. Is self-improvement. It’s self-improvement being cut off at the knees, but self-improvement nonetheless. The catch will be if he can continue to improve him self and make the changes to not pull a wagon of guilt behind, or criticism, … or anger. Already, he’s farther ahead than most. Somewhere though, in the midst of learning your voice and learning your self (while learning to live in your circumstances) I believe you are more-likely to be recognized by your age than you are your intelligence, particularly if you’re “too young”. Bah.

Hinging this child is the necessity he faces to swing between the highs of “normalcy” at home and the enfeebling lows that come from time spent with dad. From that I sit in a state of stillness today; figuring that when the time is right to movement, I can be reassured that there is more faith than fear. Or as T.S. Eliot said, “Still and still moving”…there is movement though in the physical sense all is still. There is movement. Enough so that when this cycle finally spins out, my little Rett will once again run as a boy; unhinged.

Polish Up Those Shoulders

Today I was asked when I'd be taking "that trip down the aisle"?  At this same time I was reminded of the ways in which we process relationships and how, for whatever the reason, things have taken their sweet time in coming to fruition.  Relationship-wise, you're either the "point-and-shoot" type where very little nuance, every bothersome issue or habit is because of something that someone else did. Or, it's a role-responsibility relationship.

In many painful reminders I believe I've succumbed to the ever easy point-and-shoot and I would imagine that's because the alternative is hard.  If you accept the responsibility of your role, rather than pointing a finger whenever you're displeased, it becomes fairly evident that it is you who must do the work.

Not afraid of work, I put my gloves on preparing to identify the problem and drag it out by its toenails if it didn't voluntarily go.  Ask Lovey - that poor man's been through what might suffice for a modern day war of the roses where it concerns my stubborn streak and cleaning-frenzy-when-agitated therapeutic regimen.  And though even that can have its good side (streak-free living quarters) I begin to feel pressure when its all the time my problems, my issues, my therapy, my mental health, what I'm working on fixing, etc.  I begin to feel as though I cornered the market on tumultuous relationships and anecdotal self-help.

Rationally speaking, I know I'm not the only person that has issues they need to work on, and I'm certainly not the last, yet depending on my focus, remembering that rationale can become very blurred.  Resolved to stop pitying myself, I take a deep breath in and conjure up the energy to step forward again.

"Alright"  I tell myself, "you're going to have to accept this one too.  Polish up those shoulders...".  There were times when the little things that played out in our lives as children implanted themselves so deeply that they became seeds for our adult actions.  Only at this stage does one realize that by correcting the faults of those before us, we must also acknowledge taking the blame for it as well.  And isn't there some adage about "with great responsibility comes great...?"  I think Spider-man said it.  "Power".  So power it is.

Ultimately, I am responsible for how I feel and to what degree.  I know that I feel happy when I have the love and attention of my partner.  I know that I feel gracious when I have the health and togetherness of my family and children, or when my son sleeps in my bed because he's "not scared there," (even if it has become a last resort for convincing him of an early bedtime)...or when my photo albums reflect the years of memories in all stages of life. That entails a role-responsibility relationship; therapy being an added bonus for years to come.  Being careful of the pressure that I exert on someone else making me happy, I'm going to have to keep my role(s) in mind.

And in this same pattern of thought, I'll dream forward to the day when I actually am walking down that aisle.

Be the Drip

Because parenting was never described as “easy” and because the added element of divorce, makes nearly any nuclear family with children become mismanaged, I am having a difficult time with being Mom.


I don’t believe it’s the adage of “Because I said so” 100%, nor do I think that children should be handed the reigns of their childhood to run amok as they choose. I don’t know that there’s any one ideal that I subscribe to with parenting, and I have yet to meet someone who has raised the perfect child. As a matter of fact, there appear to be more parents that are still searching for clues to living as an excellent human-being, than there are children (me being one of those).

I don’t mind the every day cycle, the running, the gathering, the shopping and the structure; what I mind is the incessant evil and manipulating nature of “the other” parent that appears to act only out of spite and vindictiveness. Isn’t there somewhere he can go? Like…the tar pits? Or Iceland?

It was about a year ago that I had an inordinate amount of tension pent-up and decided to take it out on a dried out log that had been sitting by the fire pit in the back yard. With a splitting maul and an ax, I marched right over to it, read it it’s last rights and then commenced the pendulum swinging; hell-bent on finally splitting it to handy little pieces for the next get-together. As I'm sweating into my swing, I hear a *tink, tink, tink* from the side. And any wood-chopping person knows that you keep an eye and an ear out for what might be around you as you’re lunging blade into wood, so as it would be, the noise was slightly disconcerting. At the turn of a head, I see my bestest girly – she’s in her strapless sundress, hiking up one side with her left hand, barefooted and *tink, tink, tinking* at the other log nearby…with a bitty, little ax. The wood slivers flew into the breeze as she held her dress up and out of her way – you have to plan your trajectory, you know. I made a comment to her that day being as frustrated as I was … “We’re all about futile efforts here!” We laugh about it still. The picture though – of taking measures to just keep chipping away at the problem, the goal or whatever other name you give it…I suppose that does have an effect; futile as it may seem.

Like Peg told me over a year ago – “Be the drip, Trish!” She used it as a metaphor for how the tiniest amount of water can create a cavernous ridge in solid stone just by dripping, continuously and without diverting from the drip…drip…drip. It’s back to the making of life, as compared to the drudging of life. I'm tired of drudging. Time to kick things up a bit (or at least get my *Tink* on!).

Dearest Child of Mine

I am sorry that you have to contend with these issues that exceed your cognition right now. I'm sorry that I married a man who has not produced a good role model for your fragile state of mind. I'm sorry to see you weighing the good against the bad and not knowing where to turn or what to do. I'm sorry that you feel like no one’s listening. I'm sorry that there isn’t change coming faster and most of all, I'm sorry for the times when I don’t know what else to do or say.  I'm sorry that he’s broken.

I'm glad that you feel safe enough to act out around me because you know you’ll not be hurt. I'm glad that you’re blessed to be as intelligent as you are. I'm happy to see your face shining on the good days and humbled at your smile. I'm saddened to see so much hurt put in your direction by someone outside my control, but delighted to see you growing into a wonderful person who is more compassionate than you are resentful. 

I pray more than I answer and try to be thankful more than I worry.  I do have absolute faith that this will not last forever and that every dream is worth following. I recognize that this will not be the last time you have to come up against forces outside your control or understanding and that the head-on meetings with the man who fathered you, will certainly occur again.  It is my job to prepare you to work through these inevitabilities to the best and healthiest ways possible for the tools you’re equipped with and the age that you are.
It is of what we fear that we are gauged emotionally. Or, in reference to the Piscean me…I've gauged everything emotionally, fear or not.  Bugger.  With that in mind, there is a path that unfolds before me, it’s been a tad rocky and overgrown, but a path nonetheless. I'm referencing this path because it encompasses the dear message, the continuous worries and the frights of childhood that I allude to with nearly everything I speak of.  Bah. 
Tomorrow…maybe tomorrow we’ll speak of confusion and what that means.

Manners & Comprehension

One thing that I fail to understand is how I spend inordinate amounts of time to consider what I feel are the various avenues of possibility and yet, my expectations are often rendered a dry well. What is it that I'm not seeing? Did I miss something? Am I still supposed to be hibernating? Can I please get an answer? Someone…anyone…


This cycle of communication mishap, the one between me and the “system” seems so hindered that I retreat. I draw back the reigns and pull under my shell to contemplate the pieces that I may have overlooked…how I might be further persecuted and what that would mean to accomplishing a dear goal of mine. When I feel that air has cleared and the smoke has dissipated I venture out again.

**BAM** Miscommunication in my face!

Posh.

Bah.

Voltaire said that “True greatness consists in the use of a powerful understanding to enlighten oneself and others”, and though I perfectly understand that, I feel that my comprehension is belabored by the others. And how is that right? What I understand is that there is a large populous that remains blissfully ignorant, that as much as I attempt to follow rhythm, my step is heavy and that language is key to communication and is highly gauged by the manners that are instilled in that language…or else tone.

Maybe we can start there – with communication. “Please” and “Thank you” are both, incredibly powerful and when you couple the basics of language with priorities, well…then you’re on to something good.

I figure it can’t always be like this, not forever anyway. “This too shall pass” was a common phrase as I recall my teenage years, spoken often by my mother. And yet now I sit with the hope that “This too shall pass soon” - as my patience is wearing thin; my comprehension even thinner. Oh, and “please”.

A Chance at Redemption

It came to me today as I followed a little red-winged blackbird that’s been flitting around the nearly-empty parking lot in the back.  It flew among the branches of the trees in the back; the poplar trees all shedding their fluffy seed pods left the bird scampering through what looked like snow falling mid-Spring.  I'm searching, longingly questing every time I get to thinking – always thinking that there must be something I'm missing or an element of this picture that’s escaped me.
Like the bird however, the one that skipped branch to branch – I'm reminded that much of what I'm aspiring to be, I already am.  I fail at giving myself credit because I don’t want to be boastful and then the second-guessing starts. And well, that’s a never-ending cycle.  I keep assuming that I'm going to end up at *that* spot where I’ll be happy and the efforts that I’ve put in will render a beautiful result of life as I see it in my dreams.  In essence however, it’s already arrived – just that the thoughts I'm having are overwhelming (and ultimately creating) the vision that I'm seeing.