New Year's Eve, 2017-2018

            It is amazing how much can change in the span of a year, or even six months. This time last year, I thought the house I was in would be the house in which I would stay for at least two years, if not longer. By the time my birthday came around, I knew that would not be the case and I was not happy about it, but I remained hopeful and optimistic that everything would work out with the family I thought I was creating.    

            Now, 2018 looms on the morrow’s horizon and everything is different. Everything has changed.

            I entered 2017 as optimistically as I have entered the past few years—with hopes, telling myself that this would be my year. Nothing would stop me, nothing would come in my way, this would be my year to get my shit together, figure out my life, and move the fuck forward with real goals and real progress.

            When I made that resolution, I had no idea what it would take for it to come true. When they say, “Be careful what you wish for or you just might get it,” they are not kidding. I have come to the idea that when someone makes a wish—an earnest, true wish—it is released to the Universe and the Universe will grant that wish. The catch is that the wish will never be granted the way you imagine it to be. Never.

            As it turned out, 2017 was difficult, but ultimately I have met much of what I wanted to do. My blog has not remained as active as I had set out to make it, but given my limited audience, I’m not really hurt about that. I know that as I take my time getting all of my ducks in a row, blogging will fall into the pattern of routine. I have been journaling again, nearly every night, before bed. I write down my innermost thoughts and feelings, those intrusive things that come unbidden to my mind and would linger, festering, if not for the release of ink into paper.

            The year draws to a close and as the end, and a new beginning, draw nearer, I find myself reflecting on my own thoughts yet again. I did not imagine I would be in another apartment, nor did I think I would still be renting. I never dreamed that I would be alone with my beautiful daughter. I know a handful of people who have managed to purchase homes, moving forward with life in that typical way that our society deems normal and acceptable. People with whom I went to high school are getting married, having babies, and purchasing houses as if we still lived in the Golden Age of American Financing (also known as the years during which income taxes on the highest income bracket were over 90%). When I compare myself to them, I think I am somehow coming up short on my potential, that somehow I am not living in the timeline I was meant to and instead I am in many ways retarded—lacking in some crucial fashion that others are not.

“People with whom I went to high school are getting married, having babies, and purchasing houses as if we still lived in the Golden Age of American Financing.”

            As 2017 ends and 2018 begins, I find the futility in making such comparisons. It does not do to compare myself to my peers in this way, for my journey in life has been nothing like theirs. These people lived in nuclear households, having both parents and full siblings with whom they lived stable lives and learned how they belong in this world.

            While my peers had stability, love, support, and the sense of belonging no matter what, I had other issues to face. My parents were never together; they were never married and they never lived under the same roof. My mother had four children, each with a different father, and my own dad fathered his second child when I was 20 years old. My family is wrought with mental illnesses, including depression, anxiety, and dementia (in old age). Those who were my peers and suffered similarly became people I called friends, but even then, I felt as though I didn’t belong.

            Ultimately, realizing the differences between myself and my peers in terms of what has led each of us to this point in our lives helps me to realize that I cannot compare myself to them, nor can they do so to me. I have a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment at a lower monthly rental rate than any other apartment complex or house within 100 miles. I am located conveniently close to my school (I can ride my bicycle to class), with my daughter’s new preschool within walking distance of our new home. The mall is within walking distance of our new home, and my best friend lives a mere 5-minute drive away.

            So, I am in an apartment. I have less square footage to maintain than my peers with full-size houses of their own. I do not need to worry about paying for my own garbage disposal, water usage, or sewage service. I have no HOA fees to pay, nor property taxes. I may be a single mother now, but I have friends who come to see me and I have friends who invite me out to do things. My daughter is developing much better than she was, six months ago. Her speech has vastly improved, and it has become clearer even in the mere month during which we’ve lived in our new place.

Happy New Year!

A Poem: Call for Help

I put my heart into the wrong container,

expecting it to be healing and warm.

Instead, what I found was a complainer

whose affection hit me like chloroform.

In those years, every time I would wake

and work to fix the situation at hand,

instead I would find a man like a snake,

all too ready to lie and misunderstand.

My inner strength was sapped away,

stolen in pieces, he’d ruin it, bit by bit.

A kick or punch is so much clearer by day

than the words upon which he would sit.

How I was so blind, I ask myself daily,

wondering how I could be so broken.

If only he’d hit me, punching as gayly

as his words and dismissal were spoken.

Now, I find myself in a vice-grip by fear,

its cold, dead fingers attached like a leech.

My first instinct is to run away, steer clear

of any affection—anxiety makes me screech.

Please, I implore, help me pick up the pieces

of what is left in the aftermath of this fall.

Alone, impossible, but with help, it ceases

to be something for which I feel I cannot call.

Thoughts and Memories

Memory may be imperfect,

but mine lasts a long time.

Some things I remember,

some are lost along the line.

Still, never in my wildest dreams

did I imagine something like this.

Never would I have considered

Taking another swing after a miss.

“If at first you don’t succeed,

try, try again,” said our old friend,

a quote I failed to take to heart

from our Founding Father, Ben.

Now, though, I look around,

bemused and wondering what I see.

Uncertainty and anxiety, my friends,

and the results of severe PTSD.

My memory is long, and I

remember vividly how we

fit together and you inspired

romanticism in poetry from me.

Still, memory is broken in places

and I find myself wondering

just who it is you’ve become, now,

and I can’t stop pondering.

Encountering Evil

Crawling out of the woodwork like a termite,

his toxicity, like tentacles slither out, poison

to the sweet sapling that must be moistened,

protected only by the tamarin and her vicious bite.

Damaged walls let the poisoned gases in,

inhabitant unsuspecting of incoming damage

or even the glaring lack of proper bandage

over wounds never healed; they easily reopen.

Small, innocent soul, unknowingly tortured by

the confusion and disruption: betrayed by him,

a most trusted companion she held above all sin,

in the highest esteem; surely, he was unable to lie.

Confusion and chaos abound in her mind,

put to rest only by motherly affection and love,

protected, held close within Mama’s glove,

so, to the demonic manipulation, she is blind.

Discomfort seeps in, touching everyone with infection;

social constructs do the best to make it squirm.

One can find comparison to it with the worm,

an apt comparison in terms of lacking verbal inflection.

It’s enabled and encouraged by a female so vile,

her vitriol, never-ending, just sprays and spews

to those she cannot control with her narrow views

and manipulation tactics that only provoke bile.

Nausea, rocking, churning, bubbling like a hot sea,

a physical response to psychological stress

unnecessarily exacerbated in times of distress,

appetites turned as sour as a lost, forgotten pea.

I knew what it was when I laid eyes on it at first,

a hideous, disgusting energy, vile as vomit,

disguising itself with the success of a large comet

shooting through a night only described as the worst.

As I watched, the shape transformed, a mask

seeping over the visage I’d glimpsed but quickly;

my soul knew the evil as I do now as its sickly

energy could be drunk like liquid from a flask.

But then I allowed it to slip on its mask before

I knew what was even happening before my eyes.

He gave meaning to the phrase, “time flies,”

and I became lost within its darkness, craving more.

Conflict: A Poem

Cold tendrils like rage

curl around my lungs and chest,

held within the cage

of my ribs.

Adrenaline, hot, mad,

courses through my tibia, femur

burning with the bad

desire to run.

My hands begin to quiver

with the pent-up emotion within

causing a full-body shiver

of reactivity.

Unable to physically fight,

my voice rises with the stress, pitch

high as you police my right

to express it.

“Do this, don’t do that!”

Words that ring hollow like plastic,

“Be careful not to get fat,”

as you balloon.

“Do as I say, not as I do,”

never sat well with me from the start,

yet I can’t speak to you

about anything.

If your ears were doors,

they would be closed at all times

as your eyes sweep floors,

anticipating misstep.

Anticipation for naught

when one considers the consequences.

With fear, you’re fraught:

can’t be wrong.

Tinted Glasses

You perceive of me only what you wish to see,

but I’m a human with flaws, like you.

Like him, you’re quick to say, “It’s not me;

it’s you, you’re wrong,” but I can see through

it now; things will play how they must be.

At the end of the day, see, I have my crew.

How many close relationships does he keep?

Tones would change if you knew what I knew.

But you could never be wrong.

I recognize when I’m wrong, I write it down,

take note to make the needed change

and work on it every single day, through the frowns

that come when I’m feeling a little strange.

I’m learning every single day, yet like a clown

you recognize nothing of import, set a stage

to paint me as a villain all the way around.

To think I’d wanted to chalk ignorance up to age.

But you could never be wrong.

If this were a movie, we could flip; we could switch

perspectives, and maybe then you would see

the truth instead of calling me a rude bitch.

 Unfortunately, I can tell when it comes to me,

there’s nothing you want to see but that which

makes you pretty and helps you feel free.

So, then, like a disease, you pull at every last stitch

on my heart, doing your best to unravel me.

But you could never be wrong.

The meaning behind your words is so devoid,

I can practically feel your desperation

to control everything and monitor the noise

coming out of every radio station.

Your eyes glaze over, all you care for are coins,

ears plugged while you make accusations.

Your masks are so thin, it’s no wonder your boys

are so easily discovered, peeled like crustaceans.

But you could never be wrong.

Heaven forbid you see things through the eyes

of any person other than yourself,

but I won’t join in your pity-party or lies

or enable the bullshit to come back off the shelf.

I’m done with you and your slithering spies.

But you could never be wrong.

Perception

Mindful practice leads to mindful expression,

yet my words bring on unwarranted projection

of a psychotic, horrible, toxic perception

of unfolded events; denial; rejection.

Boomerangs aren’t my style; I prefer seeds

to plant as thoughts that, like food, feed

some ideas that might just let you see,

if I explain it right, I’m a human with needs.

Reputations do not depend on one person’s thoughts;

actions explain themselves, reason is sought,

and when reason comes up naught,

then, only then, is the true villain caught.

Those without balance devise their own doom,

regardless of dark or light on their loom

of life; the organization of their living room

does nothing to stop the disastrous boom.

“Unacceptable,” the consensus does say;

the same word is uttered every day

as an assessment of the inexplicable way

he decided he no longer wanted to stay.

A tiny spirit, confused, heartbroken, trampled and torn

over sudden abandonment, sharp as a thorn;

I do what I can to ease her pain, while my scorn

comes out in writing; yet it’s seen as something worn.

Distance, closed by screens yet expanded by air,

I am here and you’re all the way over there;

you will never see the why and the where,

the what or how I soothe her when she’s scared.

Shit: A Poem

If you ain’t about shit,

then you ain’t shit.

I’m done; no time for bullshit.

It’s time to be grown.

You can be about your own shit,

or someone else’s shit.

But if you’re on some other shit,

it’s time for me to go.

At last, I see what’s wrong with shit.

I hadn’t noticed this shit:

People not maintaining their shit,

their dwellings in disrepair.

I’ll tell you all about my shit,

’cause I’m about a lot of shit.

But I am done with bullshit,

and all you can do is stare.

Watch me rise higher than any shit

you’ve seen before; my shit

will have you saying, “Shit,

man, I need more!”

But I’m a selfish bitch; you’re shit

cause you ain’t about your shit.

I’ve seen the way you live: bullshit

owns you from your core.

Irresponsible like some child’s shit,

you play with nothing but shit.

You talk to spread some bullshit

and never wash your clothes.

I tell you now, I’m done with that shit.

Grown-ass people recognize shit,

but you’re so damn stuck in bullshit,

you can’t see past your nose.

What "The Struggle" Looks Like... with Depression

            For the sake of authenticity, this post is a one-shot. That means it was drafted and posted with very little review or editing.

            Monday came this week with great ado: This is the day of the Total Solar Eclipse. There was much fanfare and many social media updates with photos of the sun varying in quality.

            I awoke with my daughter, ready to face the day and accomplish a set list of tasks. My intention was to do laundry, work out, get homework done, and clean up my room at least a little. So, I began my day slowly, as tends to happen when I don’t have school or actual requirements for a day.

            Things began well. I put my daughter on the toilet, dressed her (in big-girl panties!), gave her breakfast, dressed myself and prepared for the gym, and drank my morning tea. I stopped to visit my friend on my way to the gym. It was a good time and I felt good about how the day was going. I wasn’t even upset about missing the eclipse, as there’s another one in the United States in 2024. I’ll drive to Texas to see it, even. It doesn’t bother me.

            I got to the gym and they told me that because I haven’t been a member with Planet Fitness for 90 days yet, I can’t change my home gym, and because I can’t change my home gym, I can’t work out at the Tacoma location again unless I pay a $5 franchise fee. Well, that’s just asinine, so I told them to suck it by saying, “Thanks anyway,” and walking away.

            Coming home, I thought I might go for a run while Persephone slept. She had yet to go down, so we had some lunch and I even cooked my breakfast to eat for the next two days. My plan was to get Persephone down after lunch and get busy working out, but then I heard from my friend. I thought he’d be able to work out with me, so I postponed working out and instead made progress on an essay for my communications class.

            My friend’s car broke down, so he couldn’t take me to my home gym for us to work out, so I finished my homework. Then, miraculously, my grandpa gave up the TV and I was able to start Sweatin’ to the Oldies 2 by Richard Simmons. The video started and I don’t like it nearly as well as I like the first Sweatin’ to the Oldies “aerobic concert” of his, but I was determined to get through it just to have done an exercise.

            Alas, I was interrupted by my daughter, waking from her nap with a load of poop in her pull-up.

            Inexplicably, all good humor was gone from me. Without shouting or even saying a word to my daughter, I gathered the materials to change her and went about it. I said very little except to direct her to lie down for cleaning and then get up when I was done. I allowed her to get her big-girl panties from our room and wear them, despite having had a poopy accident, because she’s done very well these past couple of days with using the toilet.

            Suddenly, I was filled with sadness. Depression, even, and I asked Persephone for a hug to help me feel better. She was happy to oblige.

            When I say that my depression is a daily struggle, this is what I mean. None of these events was enough to put me in a mood. Nothing that happened on this day could possibly have been enough of a trigger to set me into a depressive spiral, and yet here I am, wondering why I feel like garbage.

            To itemize my day like this makes me sound like I’m whining about choices I made. That isn’t the case. Things are outlined in this post because I felt it relevant to show that it doesn’t matter how well a day is going (there has been very little wrong with today), depression can come at any time and hit as hard as it wants to.

            Everyone goes through ups and downs. Some days are all up; some days are all down; some days are a roller coaster of emotions. Everyone experiences this. Some people might think that what I went through today is nothing short of normal, but here’s the way I see it: Normal would be the ability to recognize that the day has really been quite productive and refrain from the crippling, all-consuming depression that enveloped me for some time, this afternoon. Even as I write this, I feel it lingering. Every keystroke is a hand, grasping upwards to avoid falling into the bottomless pit of sorrow and meaninglessness.

            Thanks for reading.