The Return of the Prodigal

I’m Baaaack…..

Well, not really.

I am quitting the blog (oh no, not AGAIN!??!?!)

Life has become rather unmanageable, I have no desire to blog and I just want to hunker down and hibernate.

I am in limbo, trying to sort myself out, maybe it is just a mid-life crisis…Or maybe it is just me 😦

The hubby and kiddos are all well, Dr. K is still scheduling appointments with me twice a week and I am sifting through the rubble of my implosion.

Much love to all of you, especially my cyber clan of supporters, I so appreciate each one of you and I am proud of how well everyone is doing on their journeys.

If you are new here, please check out my blog roll and follow some of these incredible folks, you won’t be sorry.

Love and Ashes,

Me

Father’s Day

Tags

abandonment, anger, angst, anxiety, blame, child abuse, child rearing, childhood, crazy mother, denial, disappointment, dissociation, family, Father's day, grandfather, grief, guilt, people pleasing, PTSD, rage, repressed memories, shame, stepfather, tears, Therapy, transference

“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.” — Sigmund Freud

What does Father mean to me, what image comes to mind?

Historically, for me a father was someone that you did not see often.  He popped in every so many months.  He took you to a playground, a movie, or a fair.  He thumped you in the forehead with a finger when you were too fidgety at the Kingdom Hall.  He looked at you with approval if you read a scripture during service without stammering, or when introduced to people, they found you charming and adorable.  When he got married and had his second daughter, he would let you know that the only reason he came to pick you up today is because the Chosen Child had begged him, pestering him incessantly that she wanted to see her big sister.  You got dressed up for these visits; your mother prepared you as if for a date.  Perhaps you wore her earrings or her cloisonné necklace.  She put perfume on you and once even put mascara on you even though you were only nine years old.  When you worked up the courage to tell him about the physical abuse, verbal abuse, and substance abuse he told you to pray and that when you turned eighteen you could leave.  He let you know that it was your problem to endure or figure out. Then abruptly during your young adulthood, struggling as a young, single parent, he gets divorced and goes through a mid-life crisis.  He ditches his religion and starts hanging out in bars, cursing, and carousing with women your age some of them are HIV + prostitutes. You become the confidante, you worry incessantly about him, and the roles reverse entirely.  He constantly praises you and then discounts or disparages your dreams and aspirations.  This is my biological father in a nutshell.

A father is also someone that provides for you.  He buys you school clothes, birthday, and Christmas presents.  He is dedicated to his job. He is dedicated to the kids even the one that is not his.  He gets drunk, makes stupid remarks to the crazy mother, and sets her off thus putting everyone in danger.  He takes a lot of physical and verbal abuse from the crazy mother until he cannot take it anymore and he snaps.  Then he beats the crap out of her, while all of the children intervene partially out of concern but mostly for appearances so she does not attack later for your lack of action.  He is removed from the apartment a lot by the cops for domestic violence even when it was in self-defense.  He comes by every day even when he is thrown out and living at the YMCA.  He brings loads of groceries in paper bags and lines them up in the hallway outside of the door so we do not starve.  He replaces Tweeter speakers and stereo systems, VCRs and televisions that have been bludgeoned with hammers and thrown out of the second floor window.  He patches and replaces a queen-sized waterbed stabbed by a butcher knife.  He picks up all of his clothes off the front lawn that have been methodically torn to shreds.  It takes almost two decades to break free of the crazy mother, establish himself, and take custody of his two bio children.  Every now and then, he will admit to you that your mother is fucking crazy and you both are better off without her.  He confesses that he actually pays her to leave him alone when necessary.  He is still convinced that your mother is brilliant and there really is not anything wrong with her except she is spoiled.  This is my stepfather.

A grandfather is a father once removed.  He puts a roof over your head by buying a two family house and moving your mother into an apartment for which he will eventually no longer receive rent.  He is also convinced that your mother is a misunderstood genius and once she gets herself together she will be just fine.  He loves his grandchildren and pays for field trips, little league, and music lessons.  Yet he ignores the concerns of his colleagues in the public school system that find his grandchildren’s truancy alarming and uses his influence with them to prevent any intervention from taking place.  He sings silly songs and tells jokes.  He brings groceries also; unfortunately he is the main supporter of the crazy mother’s prescription drug habit and pays for dozens of prescriptions a month.  He also shares his Hydrochlorothiazide with her, a blood pressure medication that she forces us to take.  He values education, eloquence, and wisdom.  He will praise these attributes unless they differ from his opinion on things then he can become snide, condescending, and belittling.  He walks around his house in saggy briefs with his penis hanging out the side. He will not entertain any pleas to maintain decency around his grandchildren or their friends. He becomes combative and belligerent whenever this is brought up. It is not unusual to knock on his door, be told to enter and find him fondling himself. Eventually you convince yourself there is nothing unusual about this. He treats his wife with disdain and disrespect.  He will not support her desire to rescue you from the crazy mother and he does not change his stance until you are removed from the state and all parental rights are terminated.  He hates white people, the fact you are half-white, and your tendency to befriend and even date white people.  He vacillates between affection and disgust for you and your son with the white father.  He is an adulterer and carries on a very public long-term affair that spans decades.

My husband is the first good father I have ever known. We started out polar opposites in our viewpoints and approach to life and crisis.  Over the past eighteen years, we have become more apt to compromise and even able to understand each other’s thought processes and responses.  In the beginning, I witnessed my husband displaying some of the traits that my other father’s figures had/have.  These things would often drive me to despair and I would wonder what kind of example this was setting for my children.  In the midst of this, he always righted himself.  He would turn it around.  He stopped being a bully and started affirming me.  He began to value the vulnerable secrets I shared instead of using them against me.  Once we married, he dedicated himself to monogamy.  No matter how many dead-end, grueling, or demoralizing jobs he had to take he always made sure we were provided for.  Even in the midst of a raging drug habit, that I had no knowledge of he worked 100 hours a week to pay the bills, feed us and clothe the kids as well as do the cocaine he could not leave alone.  He went from leaving the entire burden of child rearing to me to taking our children and even the foster children to appointments, helping with homework, chauffeuring them around, cooking and doing household chores.

He apologized on his knees to my son for the dark years of alcohol and drug abuse when he was harsh, intimidating, and downright scary.  He admitted he did not know how to be a father but he wanted to be a good one.  He has been the sole provider (besides me) for my son.  He has two daughters that know they are loved, worried about, and taken pride in.  He tells them that they are beautiful, valuable, and worthy of respect.  I would never trade him for another and I think I made a good choice.  Happy Father’s Day to my husband, also known as Poppa Bear or just plain Dad.  I love you and even though you do not fill that daddy void for me (which would be downright creepy), I thank you for not letting me down when it came to our kids.  Thank you for becoming what they needed and being willing to grow and change.

You can’t handle the truth…

Tags

abandonment, anger, cerclage, child abuse, childhood, crazy mother, denial, diethylstilbestrol, disappointment, dissociation, Memories, miscarriage, mother issues, PTSD, rage, repressed memories, shame, tears, Therapy, transference

Well, it’s really more like I can’t handle the truth.

During a particularly meandering point in my session last week I remembered a family legend/myth that seemed pertinent but for a reason I couldn’t really pinpoint.

My mother miscarried several times before giving birth to me. The baby right before me was born alive and lived for several minutes, and was later buried with my grandfather’s mother. My mother was diagnosed with an “incompetent cervix”. She became pregnant with me. They gave her Diethylstilbestrol and a cerclage. When the pre-term labor continued they gave her alcohol IV’s for about four weeks. They said I had hiccups the whole time.

Anyway, somehow I survived all of this foolishness and after staying in the hospital for a few weeks for jaundice and an inability to regulate my body temperature I was allowed to go home with my mother (my grandparent’s house).

Well the story I’ve heard since forever is that it was like 11:00 am or noon and my grandmother being a nurse and all got anxious because my mother had not gotten up yet. She went into the bedroom and looked into the white, faux wicker bassinet. No baby. She shook my mom calling her repeatedly and pulled back the covers. No baby. Now frantic and crawling around on all fours looking for a new grandbaby under the bed. No baby. My mother finally roused herself with a disdainful tone and demanded to know why she was being woken up so rudely. “She is here in the bed with me!” she barked. My grandmother responded in a furious West Indian diatribe. My mother finally gets our of the bed and helps my grandmother rip all of the sheets and blankets off of the bed.

I was wedged at the foot of the bed in the very tightly tucked in corner. I was told all these years I had worked my way down there. In my mind I secretly held the belief that I’ve been trying to get away from my mother since shortly after birth. I tell Dr.K this with a rueful grin/grimace.

Dr. K looks doubtful. He finally says, “I find it interesting that you take responsibility for everything that happened to you, for instance you must have been trying to get away from your mother not maybe she kicked you to the bottom of the bed.” The statement just hung in the air as most of his statements do. I attempted to laugh it off even as I admitted it was a viable possibility.

When I relayed the story later to my husband I paused and he said “Well a baby that young can’t crawl she must have kicked you down.” Before I could even finish the story and I blurted out “That’s exactly what Dr.K said.” Suffice it to say I was fucked up for days. I come in several days later for another visit and I tell him about the miscarriages, the still birth, and how I kicked the stitches out of the cerclage so my mother had to stay on bed rest. Dr. K has an incredulous expression. “You mean to say, you were a fetus and you kicked out the stitches?!?” I have to sit there for a moment and think. I had TWO cerclages, perhaps they could be undone by very determined and unstoppable contractions, but a fetus could not kick them out. I had THREE children and none of them were ambulatory in any way, shape, or form at 5-8 weeks old.

The truth hurts, terribly and continually.

Anyway, I thought I had to skip a visit to get around my daughter’s graduation from Junior High and I was laying in bed with Pippo ( my stuffed hippo transitional object) I was listening to Sade and feeling sorry for myself and the phone rang. It was Dr. K and he said he had a cancellation and made a new appointment for me.

Sade was singing “Your daddy love come with a lifetime guarantee.” and I felt like I had a daddy that cared about me for that moment and it was wondrous.

Babyfather by Sade

We were waiting for the bus
No-one much around but us
Then I see this young boy cut a look at me
I’m stunned
In a daze
He had the whole street set ablaze
It’s only love they say
Makes you feel this way

She liked his eyes she wanted more
The baby gonna have your smile for sure
He saw a lovely girl
Smelling sweet and soapy like fresh air
She saw him looking acted like she didn’t care
That’s how we knew
And so love grew a flower
A flower that is you

Your daddy knows you’re a flame (x4)

Even to the angels it may sound like a lie
For you child
He was the troops and extra backup standing by
For you child
For you he’s the best he can be
For you child
For you he’s the best he can be
Oh child don’t you know
Your daddy love come with a lifetime guarantee

Your daddy knows you’re a flame (x2)
Yeah daddy love you child
Your daddy knows you’re a flame (x2)
Daddy love you yeah

It’s only you he’ll say
Made the young boy hungry for the man he is today
It’s only love, love, love, love
Can make you feel this way

Your daddy knows you’re a flame

Can I get a window seat?

Tags

abandonment, anger, blog-neglect, child abuse, compassion, D.S.S, DCF, denial, disappointment, Erykah Badu, family, foster care, goals, homelessness, hope, introspection, middle age, mindfulness, parenting, Poetry, PTSD, tears, teen pregnancy, Therapy, transference, Window Seat

Hmmmm, I just realized I am avoiding blogging and I really don’t know why.

I haven’t taken any Trazadone and yet I still feel like I have nothing to say.

Loads of things have happened that would have made great posts and yet I kept them to myself and now doubt I could do them justice. I have no idea what has gotten into me and I don’t like it.

The most important thing that happened is the 51A form that was filed against us came back “unsupported” which means the allegations were found to be unreliable and we were innocent within a reasonable doubt I guess.

Maybe it is just me but mounting a counter-case against someone that you called your daughter, hugged, kissed, and brushed away tears from is just an awful experience. Pulling together evidence to prove someone is mentally ill, mendacious, and peculiar after you fought for the person to be viewed as unique, traumatized, and misunderstood is soul-scorching work and I still have not processed it all.

I have bricked off the portion of my heart that was apportioned as her mommy’s heart. I did not kill it off, but I refuse to keep functioning with it, and so it stands alone and inaccessible until I can figure out how I feel. I am still not angry with her. I am no longer her friend on any social networks, and neither are my children. I crave information about how she is doing but I ignore these urges as a dutiful recovering addict would. I have yet to delete her photos from my iPod or Facebook account….It is the worst type of foster care purgatory imaginable.

Dr. K was really beside himself about this whole ordeal, he really tried his best to get me to access some anger but there wasn’t any. He is really pulling for me to not do foster care anymore. I don’t care to do it anymore, even though it made me feel good to love a child back to wholeness it came at a great cost to my as an individual and to my birth children.

I can finally admit the cost was too high even though internally that tells me I cannot blame any of the adults that were in my life for not rescuing me thereby making me a neglectful asshole just like them. I am willing to view myself as a neglectful asshole in exchange for finding myself.

I love college, I love learning, I love defining myself and establishing my own world view. I love going to the gym and especially doing yoga. I love feeling my body accomplish something strenuous and seeing the results. I love analysis, I love Dr. K, I love this amazing journey of excavation/renovation/restoration that we are on, I love my self-awareness that allows me to speak freely during therapy enabling me to address my fears, hopes, memories, transference, I love this improbable relationship that has developed that allows us to do normal healing work or plan my educational path for my career, a place where I can cry freely and so can Dr. K! (must blog about that eventually) I love writing, I love standing in front of people in a crowded, buzzing lounge and reciting my verses, verses that come from my very core. I love walking back to my my seat as they clap or nod and feeling HEARD, feeling UNDERSTOOD. I love working with the young ladies and their children at the Teen Living Program. I love advising them, hugging them,  correcting them, listening to them, hearing them, understanding them, watching them, holding their babies, I love my children and I am excited about clearing the runway for their launch, I love my husband, I love dreaming about our new chapter as the nest empties…………………….

I love me, whats left of me that survived my attempt at annihilation. I am reclaiming myself one course, one session, one sentence, one asana, one theory, one post, one conversation, one confession, one goal at a time….

Today I took 6 ladies ages 14-20 and their 5 children ages 2 months- 5 years to a Church picnic thrown in their honor. The Church set up arts and crafts. One table had beads for making bracelets or necklaces and such. I made a bracelet that says “mindfulness”. I need to remember the purpose of my journey at all times, I am headed somewhere regardless of what the circumstances around me seem to indicate.  I do have hope even though I am often awash in anxiety and worry. I really think I see the brass ring on the horizon, my brass ring. I think I might be able to make it if I don’t get too tuckered out.

Window Seat

Erykah Badu

so, presently I’m standing
here right now
you’re so demanding
tell me what you want from me
concluding
concentrating on my music, lover and my babies
makes me wanna ask the lady for a ticket outta town…

so can I get a window seat
don’t want nobody next to me
I just want a ticket outta town
a look around
and a safe touch down
can I get a window seat
don’t want nobody next to me
I just want a chance to fly
a chance to cry
and a long bye bye..

but I need you to want me
I need you to miss me
I need your attention, yes
I need you next me
I need someone to clap for me
I need your direction
somebody say come back
come back baby come back
I want you to need me
come back come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back

so, in my mind I’m tusslin’
back and forth ‘tween here and hustlin’
I don’t wanna time travel no mo
I wanna be here
I’m thinking
on this porch I’m rockin’
back and forth light lightning hopkins
if anybody speak to scotty
tell him beam me up..

so can I get a window seat
don’t want nobody next to me
I just want a ticket outta town
a look around
and a safe touch down
can I get a window seat
don’t want nobody next to me
I just want a chance to fly
a chance to cry
and a long bye bye..

but I need you to miss me
I need somebody come get me
I need your attention
I need your energy
I need someone to clap me
I need your direction

somebody say come back
come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back

but can I get a window seat
don’t want nobody next to me
I just want a ticket outta town
a look around
and a safe touch down…

I just wanna chance to fly
a chance to cry
and a long bye bye…

[Erykah Badu – Commentator]
They play it safe, and are quick to assassinate, what they do not understand, they move in packs, ingesting more and more fear in every act of fear on one another, they feel most comfortable in groups, less guilt to swallow, they are us, this is what we have become, afraid to respect the individual. A single person with inner circumstance can move one to change to love our-self and evolve.

Falling from Grace

Tags

Creative writing, faith, people pleasing, religion, shame, transference

Another writing assignment, I have my last final for this semester on the 18th, I promise to update and get back on the ball….(is that the right phrase? wtf?)

A place to which I cannot return

State of Grace – Christian theology. A state of sanctification by God; the state of one who is under such divine influence

For just about ten years I lived in a state of complete surrender to my higher power. This in and of itself is not a truly regrettable state. Everyday millions of people exercise faith in things that they do not comprehend and willingly entrust their physical safety to airplanes, automobiles, and elevators without a twinge of anxiety. The aspect of my surrender that was indeed regrettable was my submission to a religious organization’s code of behaviors both written, spoken, and implied that resulted in an almost  Borg-like of dissolution of self. To model your behavior after that of the messengers instead of what was taught in the message became de rigeur. Every time my reason balked at the inherent bigotry, prejudice and intolerance I was told that was worldly thinking, carnality, and incredible as it may seem demonically inspired.

I lived in a word where I had all of the answers, the moral high ground, the victory, and divine protection. No harm could befall me or my children, and even if it did it was all in God’s plan and the hardship would be the breeding ground of our “ministries”. I poured my money, time, and attention into the “vision”. I recently realized I did not write a single poem or short story in those ten years. I’ve written since I was able to read. I gave up rock-n-roll, Stephen King, alcoholic beverages, foreign art, and dancing in clubs. I seceded from the world around me and created my own world with hand-selected friends, politics, literature, and film of “precious like faith”.

I can now admit this was an effort at running from past mistakes, an attempt to “undo” the dysfunctional “sins” of my family of origin. I wanted a guarantee that my children would know no pain, terror, or trauma. In hindsight, this was a preposterous concept, a juvenile fantasy. In twelve short months there was a crack in the Pink Floydian wall I erected to separate my former self from my “redeemed” self. The crack turned into a fissure and then eventually whole bricks were missing.

Initially, I tried to repair the breach. Later I tried to redirect traffic around the most dilapidated sections so as not to inspire suspicion. Finally I rejoiced in the collapse of the wall and stepped back into the land of the living, or at the very least the land of reason and logic.    For many months, I mourned my defection from the “Truth”. I comforted myself with the notion that I could return when I was finished with my selfish, heathen ways. Now I know better. There is no way back to that mindset.

I can squint my eyes or put on rose-colored glasses. I can click my heels or fall on my knees. I can turn off the television and pray for half of a century. I will always have the knowledge that I voluntarily suppressed and deluded myself for a decade. I can never return to blind faith and fervent desperation again. As for my higher power, I hope all that talk of unconditional love is true because I know who I am now and I know what I want and all I can offer the Divine is myself, as is, no refunds, returns, or exchanges.

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more about “Sneaker Pimps 6 Underground“, posted with vodpod

6 Underground

Sneaker Pimps

Take me down, 6 underground,
The ground beneath your feet,
Laid out low, nothing to go
Nowhere a way to meet
I’ve got a head full of drought,
Down here, so faroff losing out
Round here,

Overground, watch this space,
I’m open to falling from grace

Calm me down, bring it round
Too way high off your street
I can see like nothing else
In me you’re better than I wannabe
Don’t think ‘cos I understand,
I care, don’t think ‘cos I’m talking we’re friends,

Overground, watch this space,
I’m open to falling from grace

Talk me down, safe and sound
Too strung up to sleep
Wear me out, scream and shout
Swear my time’s never cheap
I fake my life like I’ve lived
Too much, I take whatever you’re given
Not enough,

Overground, watch this space,
I’m open to falling from grace

Update from the 7th circle of hades

Tags

anger, angst, anxiety, blog-neglect, Creative writing, D.S.S, DCF, disappointment, family, foster care, tears, Therapy

Hi to whomever is still even popping in to see what is going on…….hmmm, what isn’t going on?

I wish I had good things to report, good things to say, but I don’t.

This is hard to post because most of you all are abuse survivors and stuff and I am always one for believing the child, but….

Our foster daughter Y.G that has lived with us for the past 15 months made an allegation against my family and left our home. She is settled into a new foster family and she is already blithely calling them Mommy, Daddy, Sister and Baby Brother in less than 7 days. She is posting merry inanities on Facebook, and we are dying.

We are under investigation. We can’t sleep and we are waiting for the other shoe to drop or the next boot to kick us in the teeth. They are letting J.A stay because his DCF office has faith in us. We are relieved for J.A, he is very happy and thriving. Y.G is now free to hang out with her boyfriend that has his own car, and apartment. We found a picture of the inside of his apartment on her phone, as well as pictures of him holding a disconcertingly large wad of $50 dollar bills all fanned out with a big fat grin. I hope she will be ok and safe. I hope we will be too.

New poem here, it isn’t so much about Y.G as it is about many family members, friends, etc. that just expect too damn much from me.

Love you all, keep fighting the good fight of wholeness and send happy thoughts our way, we need them.

Week 9 Writing Assignment

Tags

angst, anxiety, child abuse, crazy mother, Creative writing, dissociation, sexual abuse, shame, tears, Therapy, transference

Try this 8.1 List all the events of the story in chronological order.  Find the item halfway down the list and start the story there.  Find the last item and start the story there.

• Aaron’s mom lets her boyfriend Craig move in.
• Craig stops looking for work and Aaron’s mom starts working more.
• Aaron is often in the care of an increasingly irresponsible and intoxicated/high Craig.
• Craig exposes Aaron to porn and masturbates in front of him.  He is verbally abusive and threatening towards Aaron, he is violent.
• Aaron’s personality starts to change.
• Aaron’s mom throws Craig out.
• Aaron’s mom finds him a mentor.
• The mentor sexually abuses Aaron.
• The mentor/abuser dies in a car accident.
• Aaron begins having a recurrent nightmare.
• He decompensates to the point that his mother sends him down South with his grandparents.
• While with his grandparents some measure of healing takes place and he ends up staying with them.

Aaron’s personality starts to change

Things just were not that funny anymore.  He watched cartoons with his chin in his hand or sometimes with his cheek laid against the armrest as if Pokémon were running a reenactment of Tiananmen Square.  The two-dimensional images reflected in the darkened pools of his eyes but nothing registered on his face.  He sat in that same spot, the same way, everyday as if he were posing for an oil painting.  Even though he was the image of placidity, every muscle in his body was tense.

Occasionally he found himself laughing in class.  When this happened, he felt odd.  As soon as the sound of his own laughter reached his ears his smile would immediately disappear, his features slackened and his face felt funny afterwards too.  Sometimes he would rub his cheek afterwards as if he’d been slapped there.  It was uncomfortable to know that the old, smiling Aaron and the new, lost Aaron could share the same space, even the same face.

While with his grandparents, some measure of healing takes place

and he ends up staying with them.

He never thought his mother would let him go so easily.  All of the queasy butterflies and fidgeting had been in vain.  A simple phone call was all it took.  No raised voices or ugly words.

“Well your Daddy and I have been talking it over for the longest time and we’d hate to see him go.  I know you must miss him dearly but he’s been such a peach, so helpful around this place…”  He could feel cheeks redden when Grandma called him a peach.  He stroked the fuzz on his cheek with his forefinger and grinned.

“Well he seems to have come into his own Belinda.  He has his color back and his appetite.  Maybe it’s the air or something.  Daddy and I thought that maybe he could try out a school year with us.  It will give you a chance to sort things out and help him get his confidence back.  You know I think he is just a country boy at heart, Bebe.”  Grandma said with a knowing tone.

He could hear the faint buzz of his mother on the other end of the phone.  He held his breath and waited.  He waited to hear the buzzing get angrier and more insistent.  He waited to hear his Grandma apologize.  While he waited, he thought to himself, “I’m a country boy at heart” repeatedly.  “Well, it’s settled then.  DO you want to speak to him?  Oh, okay, well you just call him after you run your errands honey.”  Grandma said soothingly.

Aaron gasped for air.  When Grandpa caught trout that were too small, he would remove the hook and throw them back.  Removing the hook was tricky though, because the trout were so busy wriggling and gasping, but that did not stop Grandpa.  He leaned over with his hands on his knees and tried to stop hyperventilating.  His mother had thrown him back.  Back to her parents, back to her childhood home, back to her actual bedroom that she laid in when she was nine years old.  She did it as quickly and effortlessly as Grandpa did.

He did not know why he was thrown back; maybe he was too much trouble, too dumb, or just too strange.  She had prepared him for this release over the past two years.  She had drifted further and further away like a rowboat with no oars. Somewhere inside he knew he would be all right, even if it hurt right now.  He knew he could be just like the too small trout that darted away from the rowboat, already recovering from their wounds, and going on with the business of living.

Try this 8.4 Identify the crisis of the story you are working on.  Describe that moment with details involving at least three senses.

• The crisis is the fatal car accident that causes Robbie’s death and releases Aaron from the abuse.

He almost didn’t notice that anything was different.  His mother was waiting in the same spot as usual, the engine of the Camry sputtering away.  He shuffled towards the car and made a visor with his hand across his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun.  When he got into the car, it took a moment to readjust his eyes.  Little, fuzzy black spots floated around him; he resisted the urge to try to grab them.  He was so busy looking at the dots that he did not look at his mom right away.  He heard her sniffle and he waited for her to pull away from the curb but she didn’t.  If she didn’t hurry, they would be boxed in by the school buses.

She sniffled again and he turned towards her.  She was looking at him with a tired expression.  Tears dotted the ends of her eyelashes like clear buds on short stalks.  The rims of her eyelids were reddened.  The grief had softened her face.  She looked younger and nicer, kind of, like how she used to look before everything happened.  She had his attention now, slowly the words “What’s wrong?” materialized in his mind.  He tried to say them but he just kept blinking, opening, and closing his mouth.  He waited for her to say, “Stop puckering like a damn fish!” but she didn’t.  This made him nervous.  “Aaron, honey, mommy has something bad to tell you.” She said in a tone he never heard before.  “Umm, Robbie had an accident, a very bad car accident.”  She kept sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled up MacDonald’s napkin.

Aaron could see Robbie getting into his red mustang with that smirk on his face.  He could hear the purr of the engine as it started up.  Robbie leans over, turns on the radio, smirks again as he cranks it up, and pushes a button to lower his window.  Then he bends his arm and lays it on the door with his elbow sticking out, his other forearm draped over the steering wheel.  He turns out into the street and a huge sixteen wheeler blasts its horn and smashes into the driver’s side.  Robbie does not have a smirk anymore; his mouth is agape as the car spins in circles all the way down the street.

“Aaron, Aaron, did you hear what I said?  Robbie is gone, honey, he is dead.”  Belinda has her hand on Aaron’s shoulder and she is shaking it as gently as the sweet singsong of her voice.  “Oh God Aaron I am so sorry.  Are you going to be alright?” she asks plaintively.  Aaron feels bad for imagining Robbie spinning ‘round and ‘round in his red mustang.  He feels bad that part of him is delighted that Robbie is gone, is DEAD.  “He is really dead?”  Aaron asks, his voice rising slightly at the end.  “Yes honey, yes he is, I am so, so sorry.”

Now she is holding Aaron tightly in her arms.  She is rocking back and forth in a stilted motion, the driver’s seat, and the steering wheel restricting her movement.  She smells like Bounce drier sheets and Marlboros.  She just called him honey, twice.  She is holding him, squeezing his shoulders while resting her cheek on top of his head.  He should feel so happy right now, everything is all better now, isn’t it.  He remembers all of the mean things he said to Robbie last week, he remembers all of the dirty things Robbie did to him, and he remembers Sunday school and the trips to the park.  He tries to stay in his mother’s arms for a moment longer, his face buried in the safety of her blue Champion hoodie, his cheek resting upon her paltry bosom.

Suddenly he pushes away as the gorge quickly rises in his throat, “My fault.” He mumbles as tears spring to his eyes.  He fumbles with the door handle and leans over just in time to vomit on the curb.  He heaves and tries to avoid looking at what is left of the chocolate milk and tater tots from lunch.  He can hear his mother fumbling in her bag for her cigarettes and then the click of her lighter.  She takes a drag and exhales slowly.  “Of course it isn’t your fault Aaron, how could it be?  He always drove that thing like a frigging jackass anyway.  I just thank God you were not in the car.  I’d have to dig him up and kick his ass, right kiddo?”

Mom has her old voice back again, the tough voice that is full of digging fingers, harsh words and short, barking laughs. He sits up and puts on his seat belt. He nods his head dumbly and closes the door.  “You okay now?” she asks and he nods again.  “Good let’s get the hell out of here.”  She says as she flicks the turning single and takes another long drag on her cigarette.

Week 8 Writing Assignment

Tags

child rearing, childhood, Creative writing, family, Hair, introspection, Therapy

Try this 7.3 Tell your life story in three incidents involving hair.

“Hair brings one’s self-image into focus; it is vanity’s proving ground.

Hair is terribly personal, a tangle of mysterious prejudices.”

(Shana Alexander)

I can honestly say that my bi-racial origin is the defining factor in my life. I would have preferred for the essence of my racial identity to be a message of reconciliation between Black and White and proof that ethnic hybrids are the next evolutional step for society. Sadly enough, it all came down to my hair. My pale, slightly sallow skin was a tip off that I was not “fully” black and that drew ire during the tempestuous ‘70’s, but it was my hair that was the lightening rod for endless displays of admiration, envy, and disdain.

Two, thick, waist length, chestnut brown plaits lay against my ribcage in the style of an Indian squaw. Deep, finger thick, waves lay across my scalp. In my family, this was not touted as an attribute. It was an imposition upon whoever had to care for my hair. I was not told that it was beautiful, or my crowning glory. I was scolded for having a “tender head”, I cried incessantly over every tangle. Secretly I hated my hair. I hated having it combed. I hated listening to my mother’s threats and curses as I flinched and sobbed. It was so strange to leave my home with this unappreciated pelt and go out into a neighborhood where it became a status symbol not unlike a full-length mink coat!

Lovely, cocoa brown-skinned girls, their heads adorned with intricately beaded cornrows would stare at me until I felt alienated, an outsider, and an outcast. I longed for their shorter, chemically relaxed or oil pressed tresses that did not burst into a frizzy, halo when exposed to rain. I longed to be like them, beads clicking rhythmically during double-dutch.

At the age of 20, I finally stopped hiding behind tightly braided buns in an attempt to escape the unwanted attention. I went to a hairdresser bi-weekly and had my haircut, styled, and colored. I held my head high and made bold eye contact with whoever attempted to stare me down. I coolly answered questions about my hairdresser with feigned nonchalance. I had a right to enjoy my hair for once didn’t I? Shouldn’t I be able to embrace this aspect of my beauty?

I met my husband during this time. Although I always resisted being cast into the role of the desirable, European “alternative”, my heart leapt when he complimented and stroked my hair. I was beginning the journey of making peace with my hair. When my first daughter was born, I determined to imbue her with a balanced sense of worth. I wanted her to know that she had intrinsic spiritual, intellectual, and aesthetic beauty.

Her sandy colored hair was coarse, curly, and prone to dryness. I made every effort to take the painless route in detangling and styling her hair. I spent countless hours parting her hair into dizzying geometric patterns. I bought countless ribbons, baubles, and beads of every imaginable shape, color, and material. I celebrated her hair without idolizing it. She grew up without the burden of her hair; it was just a part of who she was.

She has grown it to waist length and chopped it to the nape of her neck. She has died it bright red, and streaked it with blonde highlights. Although her hair draws attention, she takes it in stride, effortlessly. I am so happy that I could be a part of this rite of passage for her. The role of hairdresser, confessor, and cheerleader has brought me much needed closure.

With the birth of my second daughter, I inadvertently created my own small tribe of bushy females; we share hair products and ideas. We giggle and kvetch, brush and comb…

“Let it fly in the breeze and get caught in the trees/Give a home to the fleas, in my hair/A home for fleas, a hive for the buzzing bees/A nest for birds, there ain’t no words/For the beauty, splendor, the wonder of my hair” (Lyrics from the musical Hair)

Update

Tags

blog-neglect, child abuse, Creative writing, dreams, Poetry, PTSD, Therapy

Miss you guys and plenty of tales to tell but I think it will have to wait until the end of the semester 😦

* The bankruptcy is discharged and kaput.

* The 3 family foreclosed (we were protected from that) and somebody bought it so we won’t be responsible for upkeep.

*  I now work 32 hours a week at Teen Living Program for young women with children.

* I am still slogging through this semester I am taking Principles of Biology II, Intro to Philosophy, those classes are going fine. I am taking 2 online classes and they are KILLING me! American Literature II and Creative Writing…It is twice as much work as the other classes…

* I am a twice a weeker with Dr. K now! And I pay for my extra,half-price session with the money from my job.

I love you guys soooo much! Please, please, please bear with me!

new poem here….

I plan to recite this at a poetry slam next month, I will videotape it and post it on Youtube and I will provide a link.

Week 7 writing assignment

Tags

child abuse, Creative writing, dissociation, PTSD, sexual abuse, shame, tears, Therapy

sshhhhh, I got my tooth pulled during week 6 and didn’t do any assignments at all………

———————————————————————————–

Make a list of things a character or person in your piece might fear.

Add a scene, line, or image in which a character or person is in great fear.

Aaron Smith of Week 5

• Snakes
• His mother’s boyfriend
• Bedtime
• Loud noises
• His mom finding out his secret
• Being different from everyone else
• His mom leaving him/rejecting him
• Dying
• Disappearing

It always happens the same way; he awakes abruptly and terribly disoriented.  The ceiling fan is spinning. It makes a strange click, squeak, tinkle sound because it is lop-sided.  The overhead light makes his eyes hurt as they try to quickly adjust to the glare.  His mother kneels by the side of the bed, her fingers dig painfully into his arms as she shakes him with a rough, tugging motion.  He hears her barking his name, “Aaron!  Aaron!  Ferchrissakes would you cut it out!  Wake the hell up!  What’s wrong with you?”

The tears in his eyes make the whole room a multi-colored smear, his mother’s face veers in and out of focus.  His tears are everywhere.  His neck is slick with them, his ears filled with pooled tears, and everything sounds distorted as they trickle out and drop off his earlobes.  “SSssssss, SSssssss, snake, the ssssnake.” He can hear himself moaning in between great, hiccoughing sobs.  His entire body heaves and shivers involuntarily, he feels weak and helpless as she jerks and tugs his shoulder with one hand and puffs her cigarette with the other.  “For the last time there is no frigging snake, Aaron!” she exhales a pale gray cloud into his face.  Her narrowed eyes disappear for a moment in the smoke and he breaths in deeply allowing the scent to center him firmly in his room, until he can feel his limbs tangled up in his tousled sheets and finally be awake.

“Go get a glass of water and put a cool rag on your face.” She commands, then she sighs and smudges the sodden hair on his forehead off to the side. “Aaron, you’ve got to get it together, this is wearing me out.” She says softly. He swings his legs over the side of the captains bed, trying to avoid the wooden sides that dig into the tender backs of his knees. “Ok mom.” He agrees with a nasal tone as he pads off to the bathroom. He looks into the mirror at his splotchy cheeks and red rimmed eyes and he feels grateful for a mother that would bother to wake him yet again, after almost a year’s worth of these nightmares she will not leave him at the mercy of that menacing python. She still rescues him, every time.

The dream always begins the same way, in the parking lot at school. The Maryland Zoo of Baltimore’s Zoomobile  pulls up in the parking lot but he is the only kid outside. No teachers, no principal, just him standing outside like a sitting duck. For some reason his mother’s boyfriend Craig is driving the Zoomobile. Aaron always finds this annoying because in real life Craig doesn’t even work. Craig is wearing a khaki colored Maryland Zoo of Baltimore uniform. He has on an Edzoocation nametag that says “Hi, my name is Craig.”  There are tree frogs and turtles and salamanders on the nametag and they are all smiling.

Craig opens up the back of the Zoomobile and brings out a small green garter snake. Craig hands it to Aaron without a word. He never speaks in the dream, he just hands him the greenest, shiniest, cutest little garter snake you ever did see. Aaron is always delighted as he tries to keep the garter snake from darting out of his hands onto the pavement. To hold onto the wriggly little guy he develops a system of cupping, re-catching, and cupping the snake over and over again with fierce concentration. Then Craig re-emerges from the back of the van again. Draped across his shoulders is a mammoth, albino, ball python. It is milky white and pale orange, like a Creamsicle. Its eyes were pale pink and so is its tongue that darts out rhythmically as it tenses, bulges and relaxes around Craig’s neck.

This is the part where Aaron’s stomach starts to hurt, when he becomes aware he wants to wake up. Right now. Craig motions for Aaron to hand him the garter snake and he does, he always does. Craig lays the garter snake gently on the pavement. The he lifts the python up over his head and lays it down as well. He crouches down on his haunches and points to the spot where the two snakes are and grins. Aaron crouchs down too, and watches as his heart begans to lightly palpitate. The python looks at him and speaks in a deep, seductive tone. “Aaron ith your name boy?” he asks Aaron nods and realizes he cannot speak. “Do you know the story of Motheth and hith brother Aaron and the Pharoath of Egypt?” he asks with a serpentine lisp. Aaron nods and mouthes yes at the same time. Why doesnt he ever just run? Why does he have to stay there crouching, and listening and nodding? Every. Single. Time.  “Thnakth and thtaffth, ith what ith all about boy.” Thy python intones. The python turns his attention away  from Aaron and looks at the garter snake. He slithers closer and then slowly swallows him up. Aaron cannot move, he cannot save the poor, little garter snake. He tries to shout “no” but he is mute, frozen in place as he watches the end of the garter snake disappear behind the thin pale lips of the python. The worst part is being unable to scream, only making a thin whistle when every muscle in your throat and neck is straining and then nothing is coming out.

Craig lifts the python and stands up, cradling the snake in his arms like a monstrous infant. He reaches out his hand and helps Aaron to his feet. He is grinning that goofy, craptastic grin, it never leaves his face the whole time. It stretches impossibly wider as he drapes the snake across Aaron’s narrow shoulders. Aaron can feel the warm, smooth scales across the back of his neck. “It doesn’t feel cold-blooded at all.” he thinks to himself. He can feel the muscles and sinew pulsating sickeningly as it digests the defenseless garter snake. The smooth, rounded face of the python pushes insistently against his cheek. “Open wide boy, ith your turn to thwallow me.” the snake chuckles as it forces his way inside of Aaron’s mouth. He can feel his lips stretch and the corners of his mouth tear and he is choking and trying to push the snake away as tears spring to his eyes and he is suffocating, smothering, dying again for the three hundred and thirtieth night in a row.