I have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigated pain. It is important to share how I know survival is survival and not just a walk through the rain.—–Audre Lorde
Anger. Yesterday, that was my truth. When I tried to write, anger kept glaring back at me. I could see it peeking out from the middle of the “O’s”. It was hurling cannonballs . . . the dots on the “i’s”, periods, pieces of semi-colons. Soon, every lower case “l” became a spear. Oh, the horror, the horror.
I gave up trying to write. I walked away from this bloody battlefield to try again another day. There are times when all one can do is surrender. My anger was too strong, too raw. Words would have contained it. Anger was a wild beast that hated the cage.
My personal relationship with God and my faith is something I usually keep secret. I’m not comfortable discussing my lifeline to the Divine. Spiritual abuse victims often act this way. I am one.
Yet, the truth remains. God matters to me. Faith matters. Some days it is all I have. And, despite all that has happened to me, to victims of religion everywhere, to the vulnerable, to the weak, I can’t deny that I believe.
I am Rapunzel. Trapped in a tower of my own making. This was the reality that met me this morning upon waking. I walked into a day pregnant with thought.
I’ll bet the original Rapunzel story by the Brothers Grimm is full of sexual undertones: the virgin Rapunzel, the symbolism of the amazing hair, the rescue by a prince, Rapunzel’s fear of the world and simultaneous longing to explore it. I’m not going to go to any of these places.
It doesn’t matter how the ideas were originally conceived. What matters is what am I going to do with them now.
It’s 10:16 before I crawl out of bed the second time. Once the kids were off to school my enthusiasm to begin the day left with them. I crawled back under the warm covers and slept again until 10:16. This is not the morning of a go-getter.
I wake up and chide myself for this dangerous self-indulgence. This type of self-indulgence sings a siren song that calls me to itself. It is not productive or helpful. It leaves me feeling empty, used and useless. I should know better than to answer its call but this morning the comfort of a soft, warm bed was all that mattered.
I cried today. There are things in my life worthy of tears. I usually don’t go there. Avoiding the tears makes getting through a day much easier. Underneath it all, those sad pieces poke at me and make me uncomfortable. It’s like my own psychic hair shirt. Just thinking about a hair shirt makes me itch. Hair shirts always seem worse than sack cloth and ashes. But, I digress and on purpose. . . to avoid feeling. Continue reading →
An interlude is the space in between. Yesterday, I fell into one. It was the happiest of accidents. I lay in this mental space between all the “I wants” and “I don’t haves” and realized that just laying in the interlude was enough.
I hadn’t seen this interlude before I fell in it. I’d been thinking about all I didn’t get done during the day. I’d started to scold myself for not doing more, for not being more organized, for not fully seizing the day. Then, I suddenly realized that listing all I didn’t do hid all that I did. I decided to look at what I had accomplished. I decided it was okay to feel satisfied. It didn’t mean that there weren’t other things that I could have done. It didn’t mean that I utilized all the minutes of the day at maximum efficiency. It just meant that I could enjoy the feeling of satisfaction based on what I had accomplished.
Lately, I haven’t felt like a winner. I’ve been trying to fake it. I’m afraid I’ve been too obvious. I’m tired a lot of the time.
“Get up and walk!”
That’s the voice I heard in my head this morning. It was biblical. I’d just shortened John 5:8. Given its potential I wasn’t going to ignore this command.
It has been almost three months since bronchitis moved into my lungs and set up housekeeping. It soon invited its buddy, sinus infection, to take up residence in my head. These two are horrible tenants. I’ve started the eviction process. It’s time for them to get up and walk as well. They are not going quietly or easily.
Homework. How I’ve come to hate that word. I want to be a flower in the field, blooming my little heart out. I do not want to be the grim reaper of the missing homework assignment but that’s been my job today.
If my son has homework, then I have homework. My task is twice as hard. First, I have to mentally prepare the boy for the assignment. I have to make its completion contingent upon something he wants. Then I have to listen to the mournful wailing that is sure to ensure.
I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.