Alas, yet thankfully, the hussle and bussle of Christmas is over. Seems everything goes so fast, that it is only later within one's memory, the event can be either appreciated or mourned. It was a difficult with one friend recently having lost her husband, and my sister's husband in the process of dying. Yet, seeing the grandchildren brougth smiles which touch the heart. Also, new friends to join with during the holiday this year, brought lots of excitement and connectedness. So, overall, the Christmas holiday, even with its sorrow, was better than usual, of which I never thought I could say.

I look forward to the New Years holiday Eve, as we are going to share it with friends I truly connect with - a sense of real family encouraging the heart to smile. New Years Day, I will probably spend a short time with the friend who lost her husband, as it would have been their 18th wedding anniversary, and the day after would have been Clyde's birthday, and then the fourth is Betty's birthday, so a difficult season of life to get through.

I wish anyone who reads this a safe and healthy new year.
Peace to you all.

Holidays - I wonder how many, I like, find this season to be the most challenging time of year, of life. Seems to have a happy connotations, but somehow within my heart, I think the majority suffer depression of some sort, whether it be related to a loss or memories which haunt the corridors of one’s mind. The problem then exacerbates itself, as every little thing that happens drives the depression to new depths, until one thinks lower is impossible, only to find how wrong that contemplation was.

When I was a child, I had mixed feeling about Christmas. I knew it was supposed to be wonderful, and like most children, I would window-shop my dreams, with a nose pressed tightly to a window store display. Then one year, Santa finally realized how bad I was, and I got nothing for Christmas, just the opportunity to see how many things my siblings received from being good. I learned then Christmas had to have a different value, for presents surely did not make the season for me. I pretend I was like Jesus, no place to belong, born with nothing. I felt what it must be like for no one to know how special her really was, just like I was sure Santa missed the nice things I had to have done - could I really have been that bad?

As an adult, I got through Christmas and tried to erase my sadness, by making it fun and happy for my children. I never let them forget, though, the real value - the child I bonded with, never forget what it was all about, because presents were never a guarantee. I sufficed and survived until 1991, when a foster child, one I was legal guardian for, raise from infancy to 13 years of age, had a heart attack on a school bus, died without warning, without ever sparing me a moment to say good-bye. I had just shopped for Christmas for him - all his presents just waiting for glittery wrappings, waiting to see his face, to find joy in the eyes of a child. Yes, this time I had presents, but as so long ago, presents were worthless, for I would have given my life, any present I had ever received, for his life to have been spared.

I have since tried desperately not to suffer depression during the holiday season. I put my heart into finding other focuses. I had a great friend who did everything to make me smile, even coming and putting up a tree and decorating it, desperate to help me find a light through the dark holiday tunnel. This year, my sister, who has lived in Texas for 35 years, was coming back to New England. I thought, this holiday season will be a time of family renewal. I put up a tiny ceramic tree, bought her gifts (would do anyway and send them to her), and was putting together a Christmas stocking. However, things have fallen through and now all is in limbo. Life and its roadblocks - happiness always elusive, a butterfly born without wings to freedom. Again presents, again, worthless, again dark corridors closing in.

Yes, there is magic in the birth of the Christ child, but I think it needs to be removed from a “holiday” highlight, and just be allowed its moment, for what it is - a time to reflect, a time to discover what is really important - there is no present in any box that will help me with that...

Tis another bout of sleeplessness. Funny how I cycle - some night I can sleep like a snuggles rug and other time I can not buy sleep. I think to myself, how selfish to pity myself with loneliness and fatigue, when others do not even have a pillow and warmth to even try to sleep. That humles my mumblings real fast. I would really like to just do a bitch session, but the mind torrments me, like a mirror trying to decide if I am fairest in the land - NOT!

I went to a speech contest tonight, with the topic being "what family means to me." The four ladies were good, but two stood heads and tails over all others. The winner talked about the world as a family - she was very profound, and another of how her dad had battled with cancer, and at a young age she learned that family does not come with guarantees. I tettered between these two. I think the judges made the right decision, but still...I am haunted by the other yound lady whose work was also top quality. I am going to another one at Holyoke Catholic next Monday - same topic. Just a curiousity on different perspectives - this group was four ladies (10th and 11th grade), and next Monday is two young men. I wonder how the guys view the topic for contrast.

Today I subbed for kindergarten - WHEW, with a big swipe of sweat. I have gained great admiration for the kindergarten teachers - actually, I think medals and pay raises are in order!!! Yes, I had fun, but this body was not thrilled with floor activities or getting so many children to write their numbers properly. However, I was shocked by the maturity level of girls over boys, and how boys seemed to struggle more with fine motor writing skills and backward printing. Anyway, I am taking tomorrow off, as this body is beat...or maybe just lazy!

Well, hands are cold from the evenings chill, so thingk I will hunt for a blankey and just cuddle with a book for a bit - night world and peace to all! Here is a white iris in offering of the joy

of innocence.

I could not resist sharing a couple of more dreams for spring. If any have made you smile, then they shall rest with hope.

During this pre-winter season, when gardens are being prepped for a long slumber, from which to rejuvinate, I thought it might be fun to share the dreams of what spring holds. I hope you enjoy

It is 12:11 AM. I have to be out of here by 8:15. I do hope sleep saves me from a long and lonely night. Nights like these snack on my soul, and take me to the dark depths of stomach acid. I remember nights right after Jose died, when I would sit in the window, frosted with cold, a candle lit, with the hopes he would find his way through the darkness. Night after lonely, lonely, heartbroken night I would sit, buring candle after candle - I should have bought stock in the candle factory. I remember when Kerryl died, sitting, watching for her to come, lonely, a heart so empty, even the roaches moved out. I remember a lifetime of nights, scared of hearing footsteps which might come in my direction, hiding in closets, under beds, under blankets, eyes wide as saucers, as if it would help my hearing, terrified of sleeping, for fear...and, in fear. Long, lonely nights, nothing new for me, no stranger, once foe, now accepted friend. I no longer fear the night or look for a love lost, but there is a loneliness time can not erase. It is the time when my mind and I come too close for comfort. I always wonder what still lies there - it is usually memories I can forget during the day, when busyness buys space from roaming past realities which still still haunt my sleepless nights.

The coming time is going to carry truckloads of stress for me, as well as memory lanes I would rather forget. Holidays always take a toll on my spirit. For me, holidays are full of memory lanes of pot-holes, the kinds which leave permanent scars the brain will forever stumble over. I've tried avenues of detours, but seems they always end up going in circles. I have a few new roads I will be taking soon, but they are pre-loaded with pot-hole memories, even a tune-up may not be able to keep smooth the travels. I've tried the positive thinking route, and let me tell you...usually just sets up for greater frost heaves promising deeper holes.

Time, time, time - seems I just age more and less gracefully - like giving an old car a new paint job - still just an old car underneath. Why is it cars get more valueable with age, and people just get older - there is definitely something wrong with this picture. I love the stories the elderly have, and to me, the older, the more treasured their stories. I see love which has matured into richer understandings, even when relating to love lost. Wrinkles become treasure maps of life, and white hair the snow angels of winter-crystals of which awe erupts. But for some reason, I can not find that in myself as time moves through me. Instead, I still see the ghosts that seem determined to follow me to the grave in my white hair and in my wrinkles I feel the weight of my fatigue. But every now and then, in the depth of my eyes, I see the glitter of an upturned smile that refuses to lay down and play dead.

I decided it was time to truly make this blog mine. I have tried to protect myself and only post pretty or safe material. It is time to allow and accept all of my life - to stop the running, the hiding. So, what I am publishing next, is a short (yeah, right) sneak-peak at my life from memory to around 5ish. This is a risk, for it will no longer be secret. However, a friend told me it was time to share. So, I will try not to put my running shoes on, and see what begins to happen in this garden of life I need to ponder and determine what its future will be. Deep breath, here goes... I began this story four years ago -


When does the "Age of Understanding" come - twenty-one, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty? Is it possible the understanding of life's whys doesn't exist? My body is fifty now, and I still don't understand the why's of living life or the experiences which happened to it. I wonder if I am the only one in life who ponders the silent worlds, the ones no one should know and if they do, are not allowed to tell. I thought I'd understand these things a long time ago, and yet, no matter how hard I try, I can't. The only thing I have learned is the unspeakable and the "no one should do" still exists. It is a far wilder picture than myself and that scares the hell out of me, far more than my own thoughts on telling do at this moment.

I wonder about life experiences - their values. Do they really make us better people if they are hard? Or is misery for some the way life is designed? Are some people born to suffer so others can measure themselves? And what about a contradictory god head who states commandments and then makes they impossible to obey; yet, without obedience, one will continue to suffer for eternity. I am driven crazy by the cardinal laws which cover most of society: "God is great, God is good" and "Honor thy Mother and Father." It appears damnation is my only eternal option, as I have laid violation to all the laws over the course of my life. But then, I must be in good company, with all the allegations and documentation's, and guilty verdicts of priest playing with there male charges sexually and Jewish Rabbis admitting to how prevalent there knowledge of child abuse is within there own. But then, I don't see any mention of honoring children, except for making sure the little children were brought to Him, and in that case, golly gee!!! it must be excusable.

Ba, ba black sheep, I know it, cause it is me.

Oh, and then there is always the religious aspect to keep me united to these believes "It is a mortal sin to commit suicide, and you shall go to hell." Wow, nothing else matters, one MUST SURVIVE, even if one already lives in hell!!! I must chuckle when suicide is considered a sin, parodying the reasons for doing so. Sometimes suicide can seem a winning situation, but then some priestly heads say "NO, it is a sin." Heck, in long ago days, those that took their own lives weren't allowed to be buried on holy ground. Who cares, how many soldiers are buried under piles of blown up earth? Are they evil? They aren't buried on holy ground. Or, do we consider holy ground that area where humans decide to fight and commit murder against one another all in the name of freedom, God, or the "it belongs to me" syndrome?

If you have dared read this far, you know you aren't dealing with an ordinary mind, rather a mind suffering from some form of mental illness, creating chaos. Either that, or you are listening to the words of a raving manic. The tangents it rides trying to discover life's mysteries which seem so simple to the majority of people and just simply don't exist for me. I giggle as I ponder my delusions - the insane halls of a mind never at rest, and never at peace. If you read further, you will begin to agree with me in this belief of myself. My therapist, who has suffered with the presence of this mind the past 12 years and is probably is self therapy as a result, will undoubtedly disagree with my self diagnose. She is always hoping my reality can be reconvinced into believing I am normal, just having gone through some extraordinary experiences which impede my self esteem and self reality. Anyway, as you read I am totally convinced you will agree with me over my therapist. No one has experiences like I will talk about. Only those who have incredible imaginations invent these scenarios. They just don't happen in real life. And you are probably very right, and that's why I'm always looking for the fairy tale ending, as what was just can't be true - it goes against every heart and mind and soul's ability to believe.

You know, I don't even know where to begin this story. I could tell you when I was born, but who would care? Who would remember? And, is the date even material? I don't think so, after all, to whom is being born, is that date memorable. Certainly not the child, until the child learns presents, cake, and friends make it special. But to a child who that never happens, then the day can be quite memorable-less. My own may not be memorable, accept to the female body birthing me. I was made memorable to her only because I didn't have a penis. Boy, if only for a penis my whole life could have been "memorable," in a sense of positivity. However, for lack of a penis, my life became memorable in its negativity, therefore "memorable-less." I told you this would be the ranting of a imbecile.

So, you might guess the beginning of this story - a child was born without a penis and that really pissed off the female birther, who I will call "The Mother." It is hard when a child comes into the world in all its innocence and vulnerability to be welcomed by overwhelming disappointment - in essence, this mother would have preferred to leave this child behind physically and mentally. However, begin a "good" citizen, this Mother took this child home, to a place I will refer to as "hell." Oh, hell had it's good moments. The father did love the child, but shortly after the birth of the child, the loving father took ill, and eventually went on to die shortly after the child turned three. Since the father was in the hospital most of the last year and a half of his life, the "good" part of hell was very short lived. This is not to say I clearly remember every moment of my life or of my toddling years, but The Mother never let me forget her feelings, as she repeated them throughout the years, making sure I did not doubt or have a memory problem in regards to her reality of me.

Red, white and also blue; these are the colors mommy likes on you.

So, where am I now? I was doing pretty good for a while, and now I am struggling again. According to a timeline of living, one would call this body 50 and three months short of another year. I was taking an antidepressant for a few years and over time, life was changing. One might say HOPE was being born. I was learning how to smile for real, instead of painting a face for the external world. I felt something I believe was happiness. I was even becoming sloppy and relaxed. Poop, how things do change. The medication appears to have been partly the cause of acid reflux, causing me burning pain. It did not cause the reflux, just the acidity, the painful part. So now I find myself failing into a hole of looming darkness again - a place I know so well - a place where hurts are harbored and wait with their wicked snickers, ready to eat up any relief. Of course, with all the therapy this mind has been through, one should be able to begin changing those black, slimy, burning snickers. But as we well know, life is never easy - that rolls for every living being.

"Children behave." That's what we have always told ourselves. Regardless of anything, trying to behave in relationship to the external mother figure was the ultimate goal. If She was beating the body and said "STOP THAT CRYING," then the external body stopped crying. If food was withheld as a punishment for failing to obey, then we successfully stopped being hungry. However, we learned when food was put for us to eat, to eat it fast, for it had a way of being removed for ill behavior very fast. Too bad the body was unable to stop needing to urinate at times not allowed. That would almost spell death for us one night.

As I read the Sunday Republican today, I have to giggle. I feel shame in my giggling, as it is totally inappropiate. A priest trying to face the shame and suppressed memories he experienced at the violation of his "selfness" by a priest, when he was a child. The world Catholics seem shocked and angered this violation of child - molestion of children - could go on in the world. That people "supposedly" entrusted to act as "godly" figures on earth, trusted to nurture the spirit, people "supposedly" trusted with human souls, could violate the sanctity of their position. This individual talks about "' felt so guilty....And I was experiencing anger and shame. There are all sorts of effects. It affected every single relationship I had"" in his relationship to his abuse. I still laugh. I am ashamed again. I fear punishment for my laughter. Why is everyone so shocked and up in arms, so to speak. This shit of sexual molestation has been going on in all other areas of life, why does it shock them to things the church is special???? I don't get it. Hell, aren't mothers entrusted by God to give birth and nurture the whole life of a child? But mothers abuse their children, and not just sexually, all the time, and so, like the church, many people who know and are in the position to stop it, sweep it away everyday, to keep their friendships or other personal relationships with the abuser nice and neat - the "don't rock the boat" syndrome. Again, I laugh, when I think that early in the 1900's it was "sweep under the carpet" when babies just suddenly disappeared and no one knew a thing or babies were found in dumpsters. I also laugh as this priest refers to "suppressed memories" - aren't those imaginary inventions of sick minds trying to hurt "innocent and sweet" people. What a Sunday morning of painful humor. Too bad it wasn't so easy to out abusive parents. (Sunday Republican, April 21, 2002, pg. A12)

I've been told my mother was a beautiful singer. She even performed Ave Maria in front of a crowd. She was also a straight A student, headed to be Valedictorian of her graduating class. But then something happened. I don't know what, but it all came to a crashing halt. Something forced her to drop out of school in her senior year. There is silence after that. It seems time became lost. Eventually she met my dad and they were married and started a family. There were two daughters before me and, at least, two miscarriages which would have been my older brothers. Then one warm July night, right after my parents came back from an evening of fun at an amusement park, my mother felt funny. Within forty-five minutes, I slid into the world, without any pain or pushing - just suddenly, there I was, one month early and an horrible disappointment - I was not a boy. No one knew what to call me. No one, absolutely no one had considered I might be a girl. There was only one name chosen, the name many men pray for, their own named, previously passed down to a son. I certainly presented a dilemma greater than my four pounds five ounces. There was talk of naming this child Tiny. Ouch!!!!! Thank goodness someone had a bit of common sense. When the nurse came with the birth certificate, no name had yet been chosen, so out of desperation, one letter was dropped from my father's name and I was left with the other four. It should have been a warning, that I would always be "less than" but heck, I just wanted to be fed. Since my mother could not nurse, a bottle came my way and I drank my heart out. Turned out, all that drinking wasn't so good, as I was allergic to it. Everything was tried, and finally Goat's milk became my sustenance.

I remember, we lived in a two story house with five or six room. It was sided with gray shakes. A neat house with a small yard. Don't know if my parents owned or rented it and it doesn't even matter. There was a church across the church (Catholic). My oldest sister went there. She was so smart, they started her at four years old. She eventually went on to skip a grade, graduating at 16 from high school and at the age of 19 from nursing school. She had trouble getting a job, as she was so young. Anyway, I guess overall, in the beginning, times were okay. I really don't know, just being a suckling. The one thing I always knew was, I wasn't wanted by my mother. She wanted a boy, not a third girl.

The only thing I really remember about my father is his hanging and smiling face over a crib. He would tickle the belly and waited for the laughter which followed. Or he would pick me up high, looking up with a smile. I do not have any memories of mother doing anything, but I guess the routine, necessary work of me was accomplished. Father eventually took sick with headaches; a malignant tumor was growing in his brain. Unfortunately this accrued at a time in history when the knowledge we enjoy today was missing. By the time it was discovered, nothing could be done and father became a full time patient at the Holyoke Soldiers Home. However, he was feeling good enough to have sex with mother around the beginning of May, during the year 1954. By October, it was clear Father would die and it was just a matter of time. Mother also had been having trouble with carrying her baby. In late September, mother was admitted to the hospital, struggling to hold onto the fetal child. Mother was dying, hemorrhaging. The hospital was a Catholic hospital. The only way mother could live would be to abort the baby. It was clear, Father was only a short time from death. The doctor went to the board of the hospital to ask permission to abort mother's child, as three living children would lose both their parents if nothing was done. The hospital refused, saying it was in the hands of God. The doctor gave mother something anyway to abort the baby. Knowing Father was dying, the fetal child's body was placed in cold storage, to be buried with the baby. Father died the beginning of October. Father and child were buried together. The baby was a boy and would have carried the father's name of which my name was one letter short, and for which I would never be forgiven.

Toddlers need to be nurtured. Seems my nurturance was loss, hate, tolerance, and death. Life was already out of wack for me. I was being a "brat" - well, I assume I was as that's a common remembered name. Once my father was gone, any chance at love was buried with him. My mother wanted desperately the baby in the grave to be alive - he was referred to as baby Louie. I was remined of this at such a tender age, and for a lifetime after, by the commonly spoken words, "I hate you!!!!! Why couldn't it be YOU buried at the foot of your father's casket!" These words invaded the soul of the living child's body, a body which would eventually become just a front keeping the child in the world of external others, but aided in creating a whole other world of living being who lived inside and saw the body in many different ways.
Two weeks before Father died, the Mother lost a 6 month fetus, which was a boy and named Little Louie. The mother always wanted a boy, so this did not bode well for the girl who did lived, but forgot to grow a penis. When the father died, the Mother fell apart, and I don't think was ever able to put the pieces back together again, sort of like Humpty Dumpty when he fell off the wall, cracked forever. If anything was ever going to decide my childhood fate, the time had arrived. The Mother hated me with a rage. When my father was buried, the infant Louie (Father's name sake) was buried in the foot of his casket. Mother blamed me for my father's death and would constantly repeat "Why wasn't it you buried in the foot of your father's casket. Why did my baby Louie die and you live/!!! I hate you you bastard." I missed my father so much, and I didn't or couldn't understand why someone named God had kept me alive and had let die this baby Louie who could have made Mother's life happy. I prayed for a penis, bit sadly, for my sake, one never grew. I try to understand why this God person gives girls to people who want boys. Doesn't he know it causes trouble? Doesn't he love little children? So confusing and very sad.

Little girls should be seen not heard and loisjean is a bad bad word.

After my father died, we had to move in with my grandmother and grandfather. They had a very large, old-fashion style house. Though my memories there are not happy one, or most of them, I remember loving the house and finding a source of safe in niches where tiny bodies can hide for momentary reprieves. My mother had almost died, just before my father. However, the doctors aborted the baby Louie to safe The Mother, because she had three children at home and the doctors knew my father was going to die in a matter of days and they did not want to leave the children without any parents. Because my mother had been so ill, I was put in a Christian Study Home for six months. The other two girls, older than me, stayed with the Mother and grandparents. I guess because they were in school and I wasn't. A reason given me was I was hard to handle. Well, if the Mother hated you and the only one who loved you didn't come around anymore and a baby you don't quite understand where it came from and where it went but you should have died and not it and you killed your father, again the only one who loved you and you were is a big strange house, wouldn't you have been a bit bugged out and acting out because you didn't understand anything?

One thing I learned early was that I was bad and I could never be good. I had developed a bed wetting problem while at the Study Home. The nuns would make me strip the bed, wash the sheets in a big basin and hang them outside on the lines. I had to stay there with them until they dried, so everyone could see me. Obviously that was no way to make friends. The other children laughed at me and called me names. No problem, I occupied myself within myself. Unfortunately, when I was returned to my family, the bed wetting continued. Mother would come into my room, pull me out of bed, punch my body everywhere screaming "I hate you; I wish you just die!!!" I would then have my face washed with the sheet, had to wash the sheet, and then remake the bed. I do not remember how the sheet was dried. It is a blank in my mind.
I hear songs in my head when I think I'm dead, and bo0bos hurt when I'm in bed.

No one ever stopped to think maybe I was messed up with everything going on in my life. I felt abandoned by my father and family. The Mother may have been no prize, but I knew her and her ways. I missed my sisters. All being at the Study Home did for me was to reinforce the philosophy that I was indeed bad and did not deserve to be wanted. Even once I was returned to our new home, my grandparents house, there was no welcome. I felt unwanted. I wanted to go with my daddy. How did one get dead. I wanted to be dead so my daddy could love me and so my mother wouldn't hate me so much cause she just wanted me to be dead too. I also thought if I died, this baby could come back and Mother would be happy again. Maybe she would love me then.

Hush little baby don't you cry
I will sing you a lullaby
hush little baby don't you cry
if mommy hears you're gonna die

The time to come is filled with gaps in my mind. I remember scalding hot water baths when I wet the bed to wash the pissyness from my body. If I wet my bed I wasn't allowed sheets or blankets. I remember curling up my body to be small, to be warm and to be harder to find. If my mattress was still wet, I had to lay on the floor. I remember one day after a night when I had peed my bed, I was in my room just being tiny. Mother came charging in and picked me up - I just had on underpants, because I didn't deserve clothes - and dumped me into a very hot tub, screaming words I couldn't comprehend - more like a mindless gibberish. The parts I hear were, "I hate you...I'll kill you...you bastard...I wish you were dead." I think I was screaming, but then shut up, just went away. I remember being dragged down the stairs from the 2nd floor bathroom down the cellar stairs with The Mother mumbling. Then there was blackness, except for intense heat, bright fire, then orange, bluish eyes and halo blonde hair, and pain on my hands, then falling and running and running in darkness, then someone calling the Mother. Then blackness, waking up in my bed with my grandmother running her fingers through my hair saying "your okay...everything's all right now." Then darkness. I guess Mother couldn't find a way to stop the peeing, as she had the bowels. You can not use a red rubber bottle filled with water that hurt inside, like you were going to explode and then you did in the toilet.

Fire, fire flying high
you get too close you're gonna die;
mommy will burn you if she can
so run and be smart
like the Gingerbread Man.

It is ironic, in that I have a fondness for the "orange house" as I've always referred to it, when such hurts occurred there. Mother would come in the night and stand by my bed whispering "I hate you, why didn't you die." I would pretend to be asleep, for fear if she knew I was awake, she'd kill me. I didn't sleep well then and never have. Mother was the monster of my day and my night. Anything could set her off, heck, nothing could set her off and her anger was always centered on me. While living in the orange house, I learned to not feel horrendously hot baths or ice cold punishments. My grandparents would argue with Mother about her treatment of me, but they never won, as she would threaten them with moving out. Those words had power. It is only now I might guess why, but that doesn't belong here. The fact was my grandparents were powerless to protect me and the Mother knew it.

While at the Orange House, my mother took a job, and I was sent to a day school - too young to go to kindergarten with my other siblings. It appears I did not have good listening or social skills. When it came time for naps, I refused to nap. I would keep the other children awake. Not intentionally, but I could not lay down, so I kept moving and wanting to play with the toys. I certainly didn't have stuff like this at home, so I didn't want to lose play opportunities. This did not make the staff happy. They called the Mother at her job and had her come in. This did not bode well for me, as when Mother returned to the house, I was beaten and put in my room for the night and without supper. It also meant I had to sneak quietly to go to the bathroom, as I wasn't allowed to go to the bathroom once I was in my room for the night. I usually had to wear pants and long shirts too when the other children had shorts and cooler shirts. Did not thin much of it then, and, I guess, no one else thought much of it either. The final countdown for my going to daycare came because I would not share one of the bikes. It was a wonderful orange 3-wheel bike. Not a tricycle, but a smaller version of the adult 3-wheel bike. I totally loved it and that was all I ever wanted to play with. The staff tried to get me off it, to share. I wouldn't. I kicked and cursed at the staff - they called The Mother. No matter how the Mother begged, the school refused to allow me to stay. I was beaten so bad that night, I never wanted to leave my room again. I wanted to die and be with my dad. I said prayers of the same nature. Morning came and I was still there. I shivered and wondered what was going to happen next.
Mother got the neighbor to agree to watch me. A sweet lady and I remember her with much affection. However, she was older and not up to the pranks of a 4, almost 5, year old. By not, my behaviors were quite irrational. I would hide and not come when she called. I was afraid to eat my food or gobbled everything always wanting more. The final break came on a Monday morning. I really wanted to go to school with my siblings, especially now that I didn't go to preschool. I missed play with children. This particular morning I decided to follow my two sisters to school. I was just about at the school cross walk when I heard a lady screaming, "That's her!!! There she is!!!!." A police car pulled to the curb and the neighbor who was supposed to be watching me jumped out, tears screaming down her face, hugging me and yelling at me all at once. I was speechless. Whatever had I done. All I did was follow the others to school. I couldn't comprehend why everyone was upset. When asked where I was going, I simply responded "To school." Well. the police officers put me in the car with my neighbor who was shaking like a leaf and returned us to her house. By this time, the Mother was at the house waiting and I knew going to school had not been a great idea. The neighbor was so shaken, she told The Mother she would no longer watch me as I was too much for her to handle. Again, my evening fate was sealed. Mother had to quit her job to watch me herself. Beating became a way of life for me, though there was some mercy when my grandparents were at home in the evenings. Heck, Mother had all day to perform her atrocities. Mother would put blocks of ice in a trunk in the attic and make me stay there. She would run hot baths and make me stay in them. She would refuse to feed me. At night, if Mother decided I couldn't eat, she would tell them I was sick or I was a bad girl again. I was not allowed to cry or she promised to kill me; however, she would throughout my life beat me, saying that "if you'd only cry I would have stop." I learned there was no right or wrong. I was bad and this was my punishment for my badness. I would try to be good, but it was not good enough. Eventually I would fail to feel or think. I was somewhere else. Somewhere deep inside where no one could ever hurt me. This hurt me as an older child, as I suffered memory lapses which only brought more beatings to my life.

It bothers me, this affection for the Orange House. I have no loathing for it. I think of it as a magnificent house, fondly remembering it's old-style, wrap-around porch, the roses bordering the driveway which remind me of my grandmother, the many rooms, the fireplace in the room right off the entry forum. The pantry always full with food. The shiny stainless steel counter and sink was like a crystal mirror. There was a back porch and a wonderful yard. In the back of the yard was a kennel, housing two beagles, King and Jack (not sure of the second name. I loved them so much, and I know they loved me too, as I spent time in that kennel with them, but there was never fear there. In the attic, there was a tiny cubbie, with a board which stretched out over the second floor. It was a dandy place to hide. Sometimes my next older sister would hide there with me, but we have to be very careful, as it was just a narrow board. If I had a chance to own that house today, I would buy it. For better or for worse, it will always be the home which comes most to my mind - there would be another, but not one as powerful as the Orange House.

It was in the Orange House, I became addicted to drugs and masturbation. I know, sort of hard to believe by "normal" standards. See, Mother was having a hard time keeping herself together. The doctor gave her valium to take as needed. As needed took on a whole new meaning. Since there were no set prescribed amount, Mother could get more "as needed." What was more needed than to make a beaten child sleep - in affect, to create an "illness" which would cover her beatings. If one was sleeping when on should be eating, then obviously one was sick. If one was hurt, but was sleeping, then no one would know the difference there either. I learned to adore those little pink, sometimes blue pills, and took them without hesitation. Sometimes though, I wished Mother would take a bunch of them herself and just sleep and sleep and sleep. Sometimes I wished the pills would make me sleep and sleep for ever and ever too.
For a period of time, while at the Orange House, Mother dated a man named Joe. He was a big man, not fat, with dark hair and dark eyes. I remember he took us to the beach one day. Mother, her best friend were in the front seat. Mother saw a black snake in the road and totally went bezerk - they were all surprised at this side of Mother, but I had seen it before. Joe got out and picked up the snake, snapped its neck, and threw it away - shudders in a tiny spine. But Joe had another side which was not so family linked. Joe and Mother drank. My grandfather drank too, so this was not unusual. Mother really liked Joe and did not want him to go away. She did everything he wanted. They shared a bedroom. Some nights when mother had given me a pill I was taken into that room. It was hazy-like, soft. I was given a liquid to sip. It was nice and I felt warm. Warm stuff was on my body and hands moving it around. It felt tingly and warm. I liked it. Then hands moved and played with funny parts and it made me shake and shiver. It was not bad; it was good, pretty-like. I felt warm and happy most times. Sometimes it hurt and there was heavy on me. But most times I drifted here and there in a good feeling. When I felt bad in my room by myself, I would try to create the feeling by playing with my body. Sometimes it worked and I felt good and went away where nothing made me feel bad in that moment. I because very good at the art of masturbation and could have taught classes on it. Something happened. Maybe a fight. Joe was gone, but I had grown scared of him, especially his eyes which seemed to be everywhere.

When I was close to 5 and a half, my mother remarried. Everyone was focused around my oldest sister, as she hated the man and refused to talk. Myself, I was happy that a thing called "honeymoon" was happening cause Mother would be away for a while. However, when they returned Mother and man announced we were moving into a house of our own. Deep inside I was cared because grandma and grandpa weren't coming. However, I was filled with excitement too. Maybe a new place would be good. Mother was excited and seemed happy and that was very, very important! So we moved; thus a new part of life was opening to me.
This new place was a ranch. It had a master bedroom, livingroom, kitchen, a bathroom where my two sisters slept, and a room where me and my new baby would sleep. Yes, baby. Mother was going to have a new baby and everything was going to be all right. Mother had a hard time carrying my baby. The doctor figured out she must be carrying a boy, because she never had trouble with girls and had already lost 3 or 4 boys, just can't remember. Mother had to stay in bed a lot. But that was okay because I was not allowed to go to kindergarten because I had been so bad in preschool. So I could help Mother. Mother kept going in and out of the hospital to have my baby. Every time she came home without my baby. When I asked why, everyone told me "because she didn't have enough "green stamps." I went all around the neighborhood and collected lots of green stamps. Everyone laughed when I told them why I needed them. I didn't know why then, but they gave me some and that's all I cared about. I then gave the green stamps to Mother so she could have my baby. The new time she went in the hospital she had my baby. I was so proud that I had collected so many and now our baby boy was coming home. I was so excited...

For most of the time in this house, I did not get to sleep in my own room. The new daddy worked nights, and I think mommy was afraid. So on the night's daddy worked Mother made me sleep with her. I hated this. Mother would scream at me for moving around. I tried so hard to stay real real still but it hurt to stay so still. Most times I did okay, but many times I did not and the Mother would beat me for keeping her awake or waking her up. I was, also, still wetting the bed, so I was afraid to sleep for fear I would really get killed. The real problem time came when I had to go potty. Mother would scream that I was moving. If I tried to tell her I had to go potty, she'd punch me and tell me to go to sleep and stop moving. It would take long long time to slowly edge the body out of the bed, and I would be hurting sooo bad inside. Many nights I just had to hurt. One night I wiggled a lot and mother got up and grabbed the gun under the bed and threatened to shot me if I moved again. I was afraid more to sleep then because Mother might shot me, especially if I wet the bed. I did not get much time to spend with my baby because Mother had him during the day and I was in my room being punished.
One night when Mother and daddyman went out, my oldest sister was assigned to baby-sit. I guess I was a handful. Finally my sister said she was going to tell Mother I was being bad. I went and packed my bags and told her I was running away. I walked out the door and up the street. Then I figured I better go back, because Mother would beat me if she found me. I guess my actions really frightened my sister, plus she wasn't happy to have to baby-sit. She told mother what I had done. Mother came into my room and pulled me by my hair out of bed, while swinging wildly with her fists at my head and body. She made me repack my clothes, as she continued to punch me. Then Daddyman and Mother got into the car and began driving me to a place called Brightside. Mother said it was a place for bad children. Mother said they beat you all day and all night and did not feed you, and that they would lock you in your room. The way they said it, I was scared. Guess knowing was better than the unknown. I cried and promised to try harder to be good. In order to be allowed back home, I had to promise to apologize to my sister and allow the new daddyman to spank me. I agreed and was returned home. I told my sister I was sorry and the new daddy spanked me. Mother was not happy with that spanking and took me into the bathroom and beat me all over the body. Funny, nothing really hurt that bad anymore. Most times I didn't even feel it.
I started first grade at this house.

In the early dawn of a late autumn morn,
I watch the sun shiver low, in the eastern horizon,
as if it is shaking itself awake.
I huddle in the picture frame window,
pondering what this day will bring,
to some deep sorrow, to others the bells of bliss -
as the ice crystals vanish on my photograph,
I take a sip of day and decide on no sugar.

Sleep, the wonder medicine for fatigue. Ever since my trip to the hospital, sleep has been difficult. However, I am not dragging with fatigue. Trying to understand the behavior of the human body is best left for those with nothing better to do :)

My week has had its ups and down. Monday began with the wake and service for Clyde. Gory though it may sound, elegant Clyde was in death. The suffering was erased from his life, and the health he dream of was all that was left. He was dressed in the clothes he loved most, especially his suspenders - Clyde was not a suit kind of guy, and I loved that part of him. I will miss him very much, but I rejoice in his new-found health and rest.

I spent much of the week fixing up my livingroom. My husband and Clyde put a new window in a wall for me, as I believe I suffer from SAD (light deprivation) in the winter. Though the room is not complete and much to my husband's disappointment, I move furniture in. Oh well, when Ron beginning finishing the room, I will move it again. But for now, it is a totally delight, and it is nice to have a place where my friends and I can sit to visit.

My grandson Kyle, who is going to be 16, discovered the delight in the smile on Buddas. So, today, at the Christmas Tree Shop, I bought him a Buddha which stands about 2 foot tall. He is coming over tomorrow, and I know he is going to go ape when he sees it. Just thinking of his reaction makes me smile in the moment. My daughter and her family are coming over to go to what is called a Rag Shag Parade, sponsored by the local Lions Club - a Halloween event. My granddaughter Nayomi (9) will have a good time, and I can see both the children giggling. I love to see them smile. They live in and below the poverty line. They receive no financial aid. The children lose out on so much, therefore, if something fun and simple comes along, I try to get them participating. Poverty is difficult for us all, but it is such a crime against children, the innocent of a society which has lost itself. I know Christ said there will always be financially poor, but it is still a sad reflection of the world, a world which does not care too much about those with the least voice. Well, I will set off that tangent. Hopefully we will also go pumpkin shopping - must see if the weather holds. Peace to all who stopped to read and to those who are not able...

Below are two clips of work I had been writing. Both are incomplete, but both below. The first clip was written during the time Clyde lay waiting to die, and the second is the opening statement of a eulogy for Clyde who is now in a much better world.

Clip One
I was thinking today about the loss of my friend and soul mate, Kerryl. We had known each other for 35 years, meeting in high school during out sophomore year. Kerryl was an exceptional alto, and was selected for the elite acapella choir at our school. She was also intellectually a genius - yes, she scored off the charts. I was part of the regular choir, and for some reason, Kerryl, so absolutely popular, took a liking to me, the school nobody. It was not a planned thing, and neither of us could explain it, rather, it just happened, as if it was something preordained by a higher power. Whatever the reason it worked. Kerryl made me try out for the vocal group and I made it. That sealed whatever God’s will was for us, as we were together a couple of days most every week of our lives until April, 4th 2002, when she suffered a severe heart attack, while dancing at a friend’s birthday party. Not a moment’s suffering - she fell and was gone, and my suffering began.
Any way, of course, Clyde’s pending death, brings Kerry’s death to the forefront of my heart and mind. Not that it causes me to mourn Kerryl more. I will mourn Kerryl forever, just as will I celebrate her life forever. However, it brings to thought the changes in my life since then. Other than Kerryl and my immediate family - husband, children - I had no real friends. In most ways, neither did Kerryl. Our lives were interwoven so deep, it is as if we were Siamese twins in both spirit and body. I guess, psychologically, our relationship was so interdependent, it was mentally unsound. But how would we know? How could we, until the loss of one almost took the loss of the life of the other. It took a very caring therapist, passionate and dedicated work, to walk one so lonely through that desperate, friendless, frightening, grieving time, and still holds the hand, for one nevertheless sadly limps along.

Clip Two - the beginning of the eulogy spoken for Clyde:
I asked God last night what he would want me to say in behalf of Clyde. I think He told me I had to find that in myself. Here is what I found, and I hope these words find meaning for you as well. I would like to start with the words, “Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me Your paths.” Psalm 25:4
Loving someone is never easy, whether it be siblings, marriage, or friendship. Though we all take that journey of love, for each of us, it is the road less traveled, as it is our individual journey. Clyde was no ordinary man. Clyde’s road with myself and my husband was of friendship - laughter, intellectually stimulating and politically rowdy conversations, being silly at picnics, in the pool, doing favors for each other, laughing at snowflakes, because they were piling up so fast, if you didn’t laugh, you’d have to cry. We shared and embraced all the pathways friendship could take us. But the hikes I loved the most were the unique ones only Clyde could guide you on, as Clyde was about the natural love of nature and the wonder of all God’s creations. Yes, ALL God’s creations, especially the natural underdogs.

Well, tonight has been a difficult evening for me. One problem which really blew me away was that when I picked up my hospitalization record, I found that much which happened was unlogged. Thus, the results would appear I went to the hospital with stress or anxiety. This send me tumbling over my mind, like tripping over a rock one never saw - out of control. I was angry, I was hurt, and I felt violated. I have an appointment with another doctor on Friday and he was to review my chart and help me perhaps set a path for some treatments. But now, I just feel the sanerio I have been through time times time before will jump to the forefront again - must be mental health issues. Now I was no mathematical wiz, but I knew my times table inside out, and that would mean getting some help for possible physical problems is going to become astronomically difficult in a world blinded by time divided by time. Yes, some of my MH issues triggered me to react badly tonight, after I had read the paperwork. I was hurt and angry and acted less than mature. I am saddened by that reality, saddened that handling things in a dignified manner is still something I must find a way to grasp. Well, maybe I will grow up tomorrow or the next day and not let these things get to me, or maybe I just won't.

I just returned from 5 days in the hospital. When I went in, I asked a friend of mine to notify my friends that I won an all expense prize vacation. What follows is the e-letter she sent out that day, and the e-letter I sent out today to notify I was back from vacation.

Hi all,

Lois asked me to let you know that she got a surprise visit from Ed McMahon at her door yesterday > morning. Lucky her....she received the prize! A fully paid vacation for an undetermined number of days and nights...including food and lodging at the > beautiful spa and resort.... otherwise known as the Holyoke Hospital. She went in with some chest pains and other symptoms and they are keeping her for testing as they have not yet been able to discover the problem.

Hi all,

NOT all too soon, my prize vacation has ended. The prizes included a twenty-four hour heart monitor, all the pills one could fit into a small cup, salt free-diet, of which I lost nine pounds, 4 sleepless nights filled with buzzers, bells, and the sounds of distant vomiting. If I see the prize patrol coming down the street, I will take an immediate vacation of which I will pay all my own expenses on a cruise of my own choice!!!!

I hope this makes someout out there smile :)

Tonight I am lonely. I have been busy all day - worked teaching fifth grade, ran to grocery shop, returned to house to make food for 11 other women (bunco night), hosted bunco, and now I need to clean up the mess. How can one be so busy, yet, so lonely - seems story of this life. Right now I want to scream at life, make it just go away. I want time to breathe. I want time to digest the reality being thrown at me. I want to hide so I do not have to face another loss.

Clyde The Pirate 

Underestimated the Enemy

Eyes, gentle giants,
like sunken ships,
the shell of a robust
pirate, whose flags
lying at half-mask,
glittering, worthless jewels,
the lusting for material wealth
buried under counted days -
last deep breaths, the newest
passion, tired of vomiting
life's rot, tired of cancerous pain -
a pirate without a sword,
victim of surgeon general's curse.

I am at my friend's house now. Been here for about 3 hours. Definiely there is a sadness, but I can not believe how accepting he is. Yes, he has anger at the doctors who have been treating him for the pain he has had so long, wondering why all they ever blamed it on was his drinking - sorry, I do not buy that. But now, his thoughts are on wanting the pain to end and how his wife will do - most dying people think of those who will be left, and not themselves - perhaps that is a survival mode. I have cd's he wanted to hear playing for him. What a dear friend he has been, but I know I must lose him...damn

People die - I know, been there, watched it, felt its deafening sorrow. It is time again for another friend to die - I do not want to go through it again - no choice and that just bloody sucks! It is another cancer victim. A body loaded from top to bottom with cancer and no one knew and that pisses me off - I want to know why. My friend has suffered from unknown pain of varying degrees since I have known him. Why did doctors not pick it up - I mean, he is loaded - there must have been something missed. Yes, I know it creeps up, and pain is not a first stage, but at the stage he is at (9 weeks at most) someone was not doing their job for it not to be picked up - they just gave him pain meds after pain meds. Makes me crazy! Anyway, this time it could not be missed, so they sent him home to die *deep sigh.*

Tomorrow I am going to sit with him for a few hours, so his wife can go to work and get things organized, so she can be out of work for a while. My stomach feels like killer ants on the march eating their way to my heart and soul.

time implores us - end,
no more, time
injures us, die you
bastards who refuse
to play the game
my way, time is the answer
and you lost the question -
time implores us - end,
my game, my way,
I call it - you lose
Simon said and you
didn’t follow - game over
time implores us - end

Just a bit of anger I feel right now, just one of the many steps of grieving. I feel familiar with them all and right now I am angry, step number two, first being denial/shock. In a blink of a human eye, his breath will no longer flow - he will no longer smile, tell his jokes, cook his wonderful meals, be there - such a gentle being, just gone - how long can I not blink - not that long I guess. I wonder what the next nine weeks, if he makes it that long, will be for him? How will he feel - angry? relieved? lost? He can not eat, so I guess at some point he will not feel the hunger, but will he miss it? Will he be frightened? Will he be afraid of sleep, for fear he will never open his eyes again? He is too sick to try and fill any dreams. I wonder if he will hate the living. I wonder if he will be so angry with dying, he will lose anything good which may come between now and the short, ever shorter time he has. I wonder what life will be like without him? Enough questions....

My Special Friend 

Life is never easy, and seems of late, I certainly am not walking a yellow brick road. But sometimes that is just the way life is. My personality is pretty easy going, in that life just does not offend me for too long. I get hung up when I try to control life - how simple life would be. But sometimes there is just nothing I can do except go for the ride. Right now the ride is filled with every pothole known to exist - two friends maybe dying, a sister with more problems than I bargained for, and a feeling that anything I try and do at this moment in life is going to explode in my face. But, life could be worse - right? Anyway, it is autumn, which is usually my most appealing time of year. I love putting the gardens to bed, enjoy a fire, and sucking in crisp, fresh air. It should be my delight, and will be. I just need to let my mind rest and go with life's flow. I guess that is what my agenda should read - let life flow with eternities breeze.

Tonight I had a momentary, emotional meltdown - so bloody embarrassing! I pride myself on emotional strength - I am not one to express emotions openly, well...not the “watery-eye syndrome” anyway. Time is catching up with me, and new life experiences as well. So much to learn, so dumb a brain. I am on the council on my church - everyone is so knowledgeable about things, and then there is me - lost in a maze, with thoughts that seem so unspiritual when statued next to others. And yet, my heart is spiritual, I think. But why then do I seem so ungiving, almost selfish in comparison. Perhaps I went the road less traveled and it is going to take far too many lifetimes to find my way to the light, and then it will end up being a train at the end of the tunnel instead of the light for which I desperately yearn.

Tonight I find myself thinking of the father I had for three short years. I wonder if he would love me? This thought comes to mind, as I have a friend so loved by her parents - so loved, the tears come to me just thinking of how incredible that must be, no words were ever created that could illustrate that kind of loving sensation. I realized years ago that I suffered from something called skin hunger. When someone touches you in a positive way, your body emits endorphins that soothes the mind, creating peace within the body’s spirit. Once my father died, the only loving hands I would ever really know also departed. From that time on, the only touch I would know were related to pain and suffering - that was my life. I would eventually shut this body off to feelings, and actually not really feel the pain - however, pain became recognition - pain meant I was still alive. Emotions just did not exist - no joy, no sadness, just nothing. But things are changing and I am not sure how to handle anything anymore. The room I have always known has let down it parts of its walls and I just do not know what to do, how to react. This is a poem I wrote about the loss of my father.

Death permeates the room,
and a child stands barren
before the casket. Her eyes -
deep wells of darkness,
where only a short time prior
dwelled the pretty sunshine of life.
A little heart rests dormant
in her chest, as the blood of life
has been siphoned from her arteries.
In her brain, the tissues have
withered, crispy - dried.
Life’s cerebral symphony of motion -
no longer active - void
of thought or feeling.
A child - undergoing
the effects of death -
her father has died
and death has enshrouded her life.

Ever since I understood how unwell my sister is mentally, I have little oomph or humor. I feel as if I am a stagnant pond - emotionally going nowhere and physically drained. I just do not know how to feel. It has nothing to do with my sister - I love her; always have and always will without condition. Part of it belongs to the veracity that I am one of a family and I did not know, nor, did they - well, her mother may have - how psychologically ill she is/was - all these years, not knowing, not being there; I find it hard to accept being part of that actuality. I talked to my therapist and she said I need to stay with the present and take one day at a time - that her illness would not have changed, even if I had known. But still, not knowing, yet calling myself “sister” - well, it just depletes my heart!

Life is an adjustment in itself, even without Carlene coming. All my life, I have had one personal friend, Kerryl (this is not counting my internet friends, which are few, but precious). Now I suddenly have many, I think... Anyway, it is nerve-racking, as I fear I will wake up one day and find I have offended them all, or failed in some way and then, like the “poof” of a fairy god-mother, they will all be gone. It is tempting to go back into hiding - if I run away first, then if they all dump me (would not blame them) I would not be hurt (yeah, right!).

Sitting, reflecting on the windows of my life
I notice many now darkened,
they match the wounds of my heart,
father, son, and sister-friend,
yesterdays left only longing
in the vessels of the mind
the created memory slots
where joy and deep sorrow
meld; windows, shades forever
pulled down, yet darkness never
exists in the corridors of a loving
cerebral impression called home.

Tonight I am dogged tired. I would like to shut life off for a week or so. Oh well... The church has hired a new pastor, one I am not sure is best for our congregation. Maybe I am just too critical and wanting too much...sure hope so. Today I worked trying to establish some order for a tag sale the church is hosting to build more money to support the fuel fund for the elderly. Then I had to work for the elderly lady down the street - came home, made dinner, mowed, and went for a walk. Now I am showered and in soft, cuddly jamies. I am hoping I can shut the mind off tonight. I refuse to deal with anything relating to my sister until after Monday and then I will have to put my brain to the grindstone or get run over by a train very soon. Oh well...good nite world

Life makes me crazy - I do not know why. Outwardly, I have a great life, I guess. But, inwardly, many times I suffer. I am totmented with how to care for my sister - I never expected to have to be a care provider - thought I'd finally have a sister to goof with, but it is not going to work out that way. I thought my medication would erase all inner depressions, but guess that is not working out that way either. I have demands I want and demands I don't, but my inability to say no, to the ones I don't are depressing me. I love doing all I do with the church, and I love dearly the friends I have there, and on the computer. However, others impose upon my good nature, knowing that saying no is an issue with me. This woman on my cicrle has a mother 91. She has figured out that I am ggod with elderly. She asked me a while back if I would become a companion and aid to her mother and I said that I did not think so, as I had a full plate already. Over time she has been pressing me. She tells me her mother met me "just" once, but fell in love with me and will only have me. I said I need to think. The other day, she said, when are you going with me to learn what my mother needs? I said, "oh, I'm tired tonight and just can not think about it." Now, I am going to discuss things with her mother in the morning. Lord have mercy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She Daughter wants to go to Florida for 10 weeks and needs someone to take care of mom. No one cares about me...arg. I must be brain stupid, as at 9:30 tomorrow morning, if I don't get call into sub, I will be sitting down with this woman, whose name I don't even know, and planning out a care provider schedule. They leave October 15th. Would not be so bad, but my sister is coming to live the end of October, and I think I need a rest somewhere here, or maybe I am just lazy and making lame excuses. I don't know. Tonight I am going to my sister's house who needs me, as her husband is dying. My brain feels swamped, but then, maybe that is what life is about - certainly Jesus swamped his mind for the good of others...

Growing up, there was a certain atmosphere just for me, becoming my prison, eventaully becoming my survival. This is an excerpt of my life...

"You'll never see outside again. It should have been you in that casket," she yells through the door. "You'll live to regret the day you were born, just like I do you son-of-a-bitch!"

Punished to my room again. I'm getting used to the four, green walls, the window that faces the brick building two inches away, the bed without blankets or sheets, the dresser which has been gouged by my praying fingers and has no mirror, and the locked door. I am a prisioner and my mother is the warden of my prison.

I worry that I will die here someday and no one will ever know. My feelings of escape and finding someone to love me ebb away, like the ocean at low tide. I know I am only seven, but it seems as if I have lived forever in this room. Every crack in the walls and ceiling have been known to me. I like to dream that they are my friends, whom I have watched grow over the years. I like to believe they sympathize with me, and grow bigger and wider, hoping over time they will be large enough to help me escape.

"This must be what death feels like," I think to myself. No one to hold you, nothing to do, and nothing to see, except the four sides of my casket. Sometimes though, I envy the dead people who lie in satin beds with pretty clothes, and they never feel hungry. I lie down on the bed and try to be dead. -

Life can hit hard when it chooses. I have a sister who lives in Texas. We have seen each other 5 times in the past 30 years. We did not converse much either. I am not a phone person and our upbringing was not conducive to developing a close knit family structure. Yes, I was aware my sister had some mental health issues, but nothing that would hinder her having a semi-normal life. My sister’s son just went into the Navy and he was hoping his mother would move back to New England, so she could be closer to her siblings. When broached about her coming to live up north (she is presently living in Texas), I agreed she could come here to live for a while, until we could find her some decent low income housing - she is on disability, as she was infected with hepatitis C via a blood transfusion some 30 years ago, and her liver is in bad shape. I was also aware she was having seizures, but did not know they were spontaneous drop seizures. Well, I received a call Thursday night from a case worker assigned to help her with transportation to doctors and whatever needs she might have. The case worker informed me that my sister needed to move up here soon. I asked why?, as the room she will have is not yet presentable for habitation. I was told she was being thrown out because she does not have any money to pay bills, and that her cable and phone had been cut off and her electricity would be next. I asked what was going on and why she was having problems paying her bills. Well, here comes the punch to the gut - basically, I was told she was incapable of managing her money. I said, “WHAT!!!???” I was then informed of her financial nightmares. I then asked if she was capable of living on her own and was told no, that she actually could use a residential setting. My brain became scorched by the intensity of what I was being told. My sister not only had mental health issues, she is obviously VERY mentally ill. I am still trying to digest this information. No one ever told us this reality. I guess I was just too blind to see the many hospitalizations for what they were. Many people become hospitalized with mental health issues, but it does not mean they can not live on their own - but in this case, it does. I am not sure I am ready for this. My sister is 56 years old. My memories are of childhood, not of a mentally ill adult. How am I to take care of her? I have to find a case manager really quick. I have to make sure I can access a psychiatrist immediately to see her and hopefully a therapist, as this assessment needs to happen ASAP. I need to find a medical doctor to monitor her liver and medications. I..I..I. Scary word “I”. She is my older sister and it is going to be difficult to have to become a parent figure. I feel anger. I am angry, because part of her diagnosis is human induced - a mother who failed to love her children, she loved two and tremendously disliked one, and hated another. However, I figure the mother was sick too, so it leaves little room to be angry with her, so what does one do with the anger??? No, not looking for an answer... I hate below the belt punches.

The following poem is one I wrote as a result of the death of my son. When my son died, I blamed myself - why wouldn't I, his mother. Mothers don't let their children die, do they? In my head, I had committed the unforgiveable sin, that which is an evil beyond the boundaries of hell. I know now that I could have done nothing - he died at 13 of a massive heart attack on a school bus. I could not have known, but it ripped my mind beyond being able to deal with logic - it was my fault and that was that. Time has a way of healing and logic regrows. It has been 14 years and lots and lots of therapy and prayers. This poem now reminds me of what it must be like for survivors of Hurricane Katrina, whose children did not make it and they are facing hearing the words "your child is dead." How many will blame themselves, many who could never have know the results of loss of this hurricane. No matter how hard people try, sometimes dying is not in our hands, but...still we initially blame ourselves.

An Unforgivable Sin

She kisses the fading temple
of his too young head,
her heart torn open,
her liquid falling face
as her child's prognosis is read.

Pain deprives her of reality
and she consults a mirror for proof
of her continued existence.
Isolated in sorrow, she cradles
herself like a spider clings to its web.

Passing time, the world moves
outside the mirror of her life -
traffic flowing as usual, day
and night pass to another day.

Her life hushed by the unforgivable sin,
she hears every syllable of the rain. @1998

I sometimes wonder to what limits I want to push what I say here. Seems like I should not care, but I always care, even about the nonsense things of life. I was taught to worry about everything - survival depended on it. With this in mind, I think I will divulge bits and pieces of yesterdays of my life.


Oh mother what must I do
to survive a relationship with you -
one who hurt without memories
living happily on her journey,
while one cringes in fear
struggling to hold back the years.

Though pieces I may show, nothing negates the strides I have made in my life. Many times I have tried to lay down and die, but a few speical people in my life have taken notice and been there, holding me, until I could hang on for myself. My life is truly their story, for without them, my life would have ceased a lifetime ago.

Sorrowing for a Friend

How sad it is to know a friend, dear in heart, who is so sad. Her life is tipped upside down with a partner who can not seem to get a job and just is not making her happy. I feel such pain for her - how wrong the world is that such a good person is so sad, has to hurt so in her heart. I like to make things better for the people I love, but I know not how and it frustrates me so. I know what it is like to try so hard to make life work - but sometimes it just is not meant to be and one must find ones way back to the sunshine. I hope my friend finds the sun again - she deserves the sun.

Tonight is a dreamy time for me. This feeling seems so out of place. Perhaps it is really fatigue - if so, it is a pleasant place to be.

Tonight I did a home visit with another church member. We went to visit an elderly gentleman from our congregation. I sort of went thinking maybe this visit would help him, but instead, I came away helped. He told us his story, shared his life's joys (his wife) and his sorrows (her death eight years ago). When he spoke of her, his eyes lit up - eyes I have never met before. This wonderful man was becoming more than some elderly individual "I could help." He became a person, with a story, a life (a beautiful life), whose heart was broken when the love of his life went to join God. I left this visit with tears in my heart. However, not the tears of pity, not sorrowing for this gentleman, rather, tears of life, of the stories we each hold, which make us unique, which make us real. My heart has been richened, a gift given to me. I will never look at this individual the same, as now I will smile for his life, as life which made him special.

Yes, it is a dreamy night. How rich I am - husband, children, grandchildren, awesome friends, and now a new friend, one who in one hour taught me strength and a love which surpasses all time. Good night.

The kingdom of God is like a wonderful garden. Full of flowers of every color and every kind. Each flower on its own is special and beautiful. But one flower in a garden of many is not dimished. Instead, its own beauty adds to the greater beauty of the garden....fed and nourished by the creator, that little flower becomes stronger and more beautiful. When the flower is gone...it is greatly missed!

So many things to think about in life - the war, the gulf coast disaster, business of my own life, being part of friendships, and my relationship with Christ. Whew! When I think of the war, I think of my son and other mother's children. I guess I feel fear, more than think. A woman down the street, her son, who just turned 21, leaves for Iraq the end of the month. Her fear reflects like sweat, casting itself all around her. My heart goes out to her. My son was in dessert storm, so, I know.

Then the gulf coast disaster. I can not even claim to know what the people directly affected are feeling. To lose everything and then not even knowing if their children are okay or their mothers, fathers, friends, etc...a lonely emptiness those not affect could ever understand. I want to help and do what I can, but seems so little...a helplessness I dispise.

My own life - a good life, full of riches money can not buy - friends. I have my garden and overall, my family is healthy. I really have little cares, which brings much guilt, when I put that in prospective of so many in the world. How does the heart find comfort from such inner unrest. I am blessed, yet know not the inner rest.

During these times, when the live's of many are boiled down to hoping for a bite to eat, I wonder about the stresses in my own life - do they have any worth in comparison? Of course, my first nature is to think - NO! How could they possibly have any value when measured with the type of human suffering found around the world, as well as in our own backyard (the gulf states). But if I think that way, do I devalue my own life...doesn't everything in our lives matter to God, regadless of how big or small? If God loves us each equally, then my sorrows are no lesser in His eyes. The question comes to me, because I have a friend most likely to die of cancer before the year is out. I also suffer bouts of depression on and off, as a result of two major losses in my life - my son and a terrific friend who taught me the true value of selflessness and the joy of giving to others. I have been belittling myself for my feelings, as when I look at what has happened due to Hurrican Katrina, I feel I have no right to my own pettiness. But then, don't I put down what God has given me - feelings and my own pathways through life? I think there is room for both in my life - to love and feel, and help others, as well as not denying that which composes the total of who I am. Perhaps there is a richess in sorrow, that I can know my own self and sorrows, yet still have emotional compassion and actions to help others. "Love thy neighbor as thyself." God did not say, "love thy neighbor forsaking thyself." Yes, I guess there is room in all times for all our feelings, and that God makes room for all. Peace to you all.

Rainbows of life 

I have had the people along the gulf coast on my mind the past few days. It seems horrific to me, and yet, I know my feelings can not begin to touch the raw emotions those stricken by hurricane Katrina are experiencing. A while back, I wrote a poem. I am posting that poem now, as my way of trying to imagine the horror, heartbreak, and suffering on many levels these people are experiencing. Let me know what you think...

Torn World

When the rainbow
slips
and the sky
cracks
the lightening
splays
the heart,
severed
painted
unspoken dreams
cascade
blood
like a waterfall
into yesterday,
today,
and tomorrow
draining
into the history
of a torn
world.