Hello. It's me. Whoever that is.
Who am I? Don't ask me. I don't know.
Ask me twice and I'll say, "I'm an oxymoron."
And you'll look at me sideways and chuckle. Slap my shoulder cuz you think I'm joking.
And I'll smile. Of course. Because that's what I do when I'm being completely serious, but you don't think I am. And you'll think to yourself, "She's just kidding." You think.
I'm wild at heart, but domesticated. And I like it. For the most part. Wild and free to be me in the moment, whoever she is at stroke of the clock...rockin' hard, not able to stop. And the next day: hair smoothed down, straightened out, donning a dirty apron in the kitchen whipping up brownies, rolls, roast, and salad dressing. Kissing owies and wiping noses.
Oxy. Moron.
Pissed off like a Fire Ant, but as soft as French Silk. That's also me.
Oxy. Moron.
Guns, weightlifting, and testosterone; hoorah!! Pearls, heels, and acrylic nails. That's also me.
Oxy. Moron.
Health nut, medical researcher, herbalist. Cheeto's, butt-laods of ice cream and candy binges. Yup, that's me.
Can you say, "oxymoron?"
I knew you could.
Loves people, wants to help, there in your time of need. Hates people, wants a cave to hide in, or a mountain to get lost on. Also me. That's right:
Oxymoron.
Full of hope, ready to live life, hitting challenges straight on. Wishing for eternity to come quickly, skies too gray to fly in, overwhelmed because the toothpaste lid got lost. Uh-huh. That's me.
Oxymoron.
Wait a minute. I think I have the wrong word.
Bipolar.
Hmmmmmmm....
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Drip Drop
Drip, drop go the tears, falling to the ground.
Drip, drop go the tears, made without a sound.
Drip, drop goes the time, another sleepless night.
Drip, drop goes the rain, but one more storm of life.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, of other things that could be.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I wonder, what will become of me.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, what happens when all hope is gone.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I falter, not to chose that song.
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I ask again and again.
Tell me, tell me, preacher boy, is it 'cause of sin?
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I look into the mirror.
Everything...., Everything....., is whispered in my ear.
Hold me, kiss me, keep me safe, I whisper to the night.
But.
Drip, drop go the tears, into the silent night.
Drip, drop go the tears, made without a sound.
Drip, drop goes the time, another sleepless night.
Drip, drop goes the rain, but one more storm of life.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, of other things that could be.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I wonder, what will become of me.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, what happens when all hope is gone.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I falter, not to chose that song.
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I ask again and again.
Tell me, tell me, preacher boy, is it 'cause of sin?
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I look into the mirror.
Everything...., Everything....., is whispered in my ear.
Hold me, kiss me, keep me safe, I whisper to the night.
But.
Drip, drop go the tears, into the silent night.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
It Hurts
I think of it like this: it's hard to do what needs to be done. Like, re-setting a bone that has started to heal improperly. It's gonna hurt like a booger and set you back a while as it heals properly, but it's the thing that needs to be done. Well, that is, if you actually want to heal to your full potential and stop limping through life.
Ouch. It hurts.
I signed the divorce papers yesterday. I woke up Tuesday morning (yesterday, of course) and knew what had to be done. Just like that. Before my feet even hit the floor, I knew. This was in stark contrast to Sunday (two days before yesterday, of course), when my heart ached to have him near, to enjoy the honeymoon stage that this vicious cycle goes through, and forget that the top of the wheel is where life falls apart in one of his outbursts of calm, cool, deliberate and damaging punishment. Sunday night I called her, my friend that's not my friend, and asked those questions my heart longed to hear good answers to: has he really changed? Is he dangerous? Is he different?
And Monday (the day before yesterday, of course), I could barely hold myself together. At work, a patient came in to the office, smiled at me and politely asked, "How are you today?" The normal response would be, "I'm fine, how are you?" But oh no, far be it from me to be anything close to normal. I simply looked at her and started to cry. I had sucked it up too many times, for too many patients, the tears wouldn't stay in; cursed tears.
Oh, how it hurts.
Yes, Monday (the day before yesterday, of course, of course), I was an emotional, exhausted, held-together-barely-by-duct-tape-type of mess. And I missed him, oh how I missed him.
I pushed the emotions to the side, like separating the food on your plate so the salad dressing doesn't touch the rest of the edibles and make the flavors meld in an un-tasteful (i.e.yucky) way. Yes, to the side went the emotions, as I searched diligently for the "logic" switch that had been eluding me for several days. Finally, I found it.
.....................................................................................................................................................................
On came Logic, sneering at Emotions, and the facts were examined, again, and though Emotions ached for things to be different, the verdict did not change. Guilty as charged.
Emotions screamed out, "But I love him! He can change, I KNOW he can!"
And Logic replied, "It's been nearly 18 years now, how much longer will you waste your time? You know he won't change unless you leave him. He's too complacent, too selfish, you know you can't make him change; you can't make a blind man see."
Oh, poor Emotions, they knew Logic was correct. "But," they retaliated, "I don't want the children to grow up without a father!" (Emotions thought she could fool Logic with this one, because she had in years past.)
"Oh, but they already have," Logic rebuked. "Look how much damage he has caused them. More than he even dares to recognize, more than he'll ever admit, more than he can bare. Neglect is the worse form of abuse, they say, and besides demoralizing his son and neglecting his daughters, he has put bruises on every single one of them; every single one. Physical bruises, of course, but much deeper and painful emotional bruises that have yet to heal. They fear him. An unhealthy, trauma-causing fear. And face it Emotions, you fear him, too."
Oh, how Emotions can't stand Logic.
......................................................................................................................................................................
Too many times I have let emotions win, and look at what it's got me. Look at what it's done to my children. Look at what it's done to me. The counselor tells me I need to forgive myself. And she's right. But I don't know that I can. I tried to stand up for my children, for myself, but I didn't do a good enough job. Once again, I wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough for him, and now, a failure at a mother's task, I wasn't good enough for myself. I tried to compensate for his lack of parenting, I tried to be an extra good mother. But, good mothers don't let their children get hurt. Especially by their fathers. Or so I tell myself.
I wanted to love him good; God knows it's true. I wanted to love him with everything I had, and that's just what I did...to my own detriment. I poured out love, sweat, and tears for years and years into a bucket with holes, a sink with no stopper, a bottomless pit. I gave 'till it hurt, and then I gave some more. I thought that was love: sacrifice. I covered for his sins, covered bruises on children, covered scars on my heart. I covered and covered and covered. I should have exposed. I know that now. My bad.
Regret. Pain. It hurts.
When you love someone, you don't let them continue on their path of destruction. You stop them, warn them, help them get back on the right track. It's the kindest, most loving thing to do.
And that's why I signed the papers. Because I do love him. And for too long I have covered when I should have exposed. I should have gone to others when the concern I raised to his parents fell on deaf ears. I should have been braver, wiser. I should have listened to my instinct that told me to leave that first week we were married. The second year. The fifth. The seventh. And every year after that all the way up to seventeen.
His family calls me vindictive. I know vindictive, I even attempted to dress up in it and try it on for size. It didn't fit. Part of me wanted it to fit, but it just wasn't "me." It hurts to be called something you're not, but, I suppose I understand. A small part of me wants to say, "Oh yeah? You want to see vindictive, I'll show you vindictive!" But then, it falls flat, and I'm glad, because wearing someone else's ill fitting clothes is never attractive or fun.
Yes, it still hurts.
But, his family is the least of my worries. I have my children to think about, as they struggle through, so angry at him for doing the things he's done. They see what he cannot; that he is abusive. He doesn't see the PTSD he's caused them, the deep rooted issues that I, alone, after counseling sessions and throughout the days and weeks, have to deal with. He doesn't feel their pain or hold them when they awake in fear that he's coming for them with a gun in his hand. He has burned what little bridges he's had with them. It hurts my heart to see it happen. Why couldn't he have just listened to me when I read the warning signs to him before? Damn you! Why didn't you just listen to what I had to say?
Once again, I pay the price for his sin. I try to put the pieces of little broken lives back together, while exhausted and carrying my own bundle of pain, tears, and hurts. Once again I clean up his mess. I get angry. And, it hurts.
All the divorces I've known have been two people hating each other and wanting the other to suffer. Not I. I signed the papers and wanted to attach an apology note saying, "I'm so sorry. I know this hurts, and I don't want to hurt you; it hurts me, too. But, you need to change. I can't make you change. You need to see the darkness that is rooted inside of you, and put it to death. Until it is dead and long, long gone, this marriage cannot work, nor can you be a good, safe father. P.S. Let's get back together once you slay the beast."
I'm sure my lawyer would find this completely absurd. Already she thinks I am being "too nice." Too nice. Tooooo nice. Sigh.
Make it stop. It hurts.
I wish it all would work out. Oh, how I wish it would. But I can't control that. I can't control him. I can't control anything. And I accept that.
In the mean time, it hurts. I hurt.
But.
I've hurt for a long time.
A long, long, looooong time.
At least this time, there is hope for change. Paradoxical. Ironic. But here it is.
The papers are signed.
It hurts.
Ouch. It hurts.
I signed the divorce papers yesterday. I woke up Tuesday morning (yesterday, of course) and knew what had to be done. Just like that. Before my feet even hit the floor, I knew. This was in stark contrast to Sunday (two days before yesterday, of course), when my heart ached to have him near, to enjoy the honeymoon stage that this vicious cycle goes through, and forget that the top of the wheel is where life falls apart in one of his outbursts of calm, cool, deliberate and damaging punishment. Sunday night I called her, my friend that's not my friend, and asked those questions my heart longed to hear good answers to: has he really changed? Is he dangerous? Is he different?
And Monday (the day before yesterday, of course), I could barely hold myself together. At work, a patient came in to the office, smiled at me and politely asked, "How are you today?" The normal response would be, "I'm fine, how are you?" But oh no, far be it from me to be anything close to normal. I simply looked at her and started to cry. I had sucked it up too many times, for too many patients, the tears wouldn't stay in; cursed tears.
Oh, how it hurts.
Yes, Monday (the day before yesterday, of course, of course), I was an emotional, exhausted, held-together-barely-by-duct-tape-type of mess. And I missed him, oh how I missed him.
I pushed the emotions to the side, like separating the food on your plate so the salad dressing doesn't touch the rest of the edibles and make the flavors meld in an un-tasteful (i.e.yucky) way. Yes, to the side went the emotions, as I searched diligently for the "logic" switch that had been eluding me for several days. Finally, I found it.
.....................................................................................................................................................................
On came Logic, sneering at Emotions, and the facts were examined, again, and though Emotions ached for things to be different, the verdict did not change. Guilty as charged.
Emotions screamed out, "But I love him! He can change, I KNOW he can!"
And Logic replied, "It's been nearly 18 years now, how much longer will you waste your time? You know he won't change unless you leave him. He's too complacent, too selfish, you know you can't make him change; you can't make a blind man see."
Oh, poor Emotions, they knew Logic was correct. "But," they retaliated, "I don't want the children to grow up without a father!" (Emotions thought she could fool Logic with this one, because she had in years past.)
"Oh, but they already have," Logic rebuked. "Look how much damage he has caused them. More than he even dares to recognize, more than he'll ever admit, more than he can bare. Neglect is the worse form of abuse, they say, and besides demoralizing his son and neglecting his daughters, he has put bruises on every single one of them; every single one. Physical bruises, of course, but much deeper and painful emotional bruises that have yet to heal. They fear him. An unhealthy, trauma-causing fear. And face it Emotions, you fear him, too."
Oh, how Emotions can't stand Logic.
......................................................................................................................................................................
Too many times I have let emotions win, and look at what it's got me. Look at what it's done to my children. Look at what it's done to me. The counselor tells me I need to forgive myself. And she's right. But I don't know that I can. I tried to stand up for my children, for myself, but I didn't do a good enough job. Once again, I wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough for him, and now, a failure at a mother's task, I wasn't good enough for myself. I tried to compensate for his lack of parenting, I tried to be an extra good mother. But, good mothers don't let their children get hurt. Especially by their fathers. Or so I tell myself.
I wanted to love him good; God knows it's true. I wanted to love him with everything I had, and that's just what I did...to my own detriment. I poured out love, sweat, and tears for years and years into a bucket with holes, a sink with no stopper, a bottomless pit. I gave 'till it hurt, and then I gave some more. I thought that was love: sacrifice. I covered for his sins, covered bruises on children, covered scars on my heart. I covered and covered and covered. I should have exposed. I know that now. My bad.
Regret. Pain. It hurts.
When you love someone, you don't let them continue on their path of destruction. You stop them, warn them, help them get back on the right track. It's the kindest, most loving thing to do.
And that's why I signed the papers. Because I do love him. And for too long I have covered when I should have exposed. I should have gone to others when the concern I raised to his parents fell on deaf ears. I should have been braver, wiser. I should have listened to my instinct that told me to leave that first week we were married. The second year. The fifth. The seventh. And every year after that all the way up to seventeen.
His family calls me vindictive. I know vindictive, I even attempted to dress up in it and try it on for size. It didn't fit. Part of me wanted it to fit, but it just wasn't "me." It hurts to be called something you're not, but, I suppose I understand. A small part of me wants to say, "Oh yeah? You want to see vindictive, I'll show you vindictive!" But then, it falls flat, and I'm glad, because wearing someone else's ill fitting clothes is never attractive or fun.
Yes, it still hurts.
But, his family is the least of my worries. I have my children to think about, as they struggle through, so angry at him for doing the things he's done. They see what he cannot; that he is abusive. He doesn't see the PTSD he's caused them, the deep rooted issues that I, alone, after counseling sessions and throughout the days and weeks, have to deal with. He doesn't feel their pain or hold them when they awake in fear that he's coming for them with a gun in his hand. He has burned what little bridges he's had with them. It hurts my heart to see it happen. Why couldn't he have just listened to me when I read the warning signs to him before? Damn you! Why didn't you just listen to what I had to say?
Once again, I pay the price for his sin. I try to put the pieces of little broken lives back together, while exhausted and carrying my own bundle of pain, tears, and hurts. Once again I clean up his mess. I get angry. And, it hurts.
All the divorces I've known have been two people hating each other and wanting the other to suffer. Not I. I signed the papers and wanted to attach an apology note saying, "I'm so sorry. I know this hurts, and I don't want to hurt you; it hurts me, too. But, you need to change. I can't make you change. You need to see the darkness that is rooted inside of you, and put it to death. Until it is dead and long, long gone, this marriage cannot work, nor can you be a good, safe father. P.S. Let's get back together once you slay the beast."
I'm sure my lawyer would find this completely absurd. Already she thinks I am being "too nice." Too nice. Tooooo nice. Sigh.
Make it stop. It hurts.
I wish it all would work out. Oh, how I wish it would. But I can't control that. I can't control him. I can't control anything. And I accept that.
In the mean time, it hurts. I hurt.
But.
I've hurt for a long time.
A long, long, looooong time.
At least this time, there is hope for change. Paradoxical. Ironic. But here it is.
The papers are signed.
It hurts.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The Grand Finale
Oh yeah, the Grand Finale. The moment when the accumulation of the show rises to its peak crescendo and, wah-lah, the intensity of the total of all the sums has its glorious moment and everybody ohhhs and ahhhhs. That's where my life is right now. At its grande finale. Or towards the end of it. But there's more of gasped "oh!"'s and timid "ahh..."'s instead of the impressive "wow's" of wonder and awe.
So, ya know what ya get folks, when you start a blog and recount your crappy life bit by bit and it his the Grand Finale? Well, I'll tell you...
Because your abusive husband "doesn't have a problem" (but you do, you mentally unstable woman who can't do anything right), one night your teenager gets assaulted by him. Oh, it's nothing big, you know...just grabbing her frail frame by the collar of her pajamas, slamming her into a wall, them jabbing an elbow in her neck. There's nothing wrong with that. Infact (which is two words and not one), when your abusive husband (oh, but he's not abusive, you're the one that needs counseling, not him) recounts to you, very calmly, as if he's talking about the weather, what he's done and you say, "What? What did you do?" because you really don't know if you heard him correctly as he explained how he just "disciplined" your daughter. So, a little more arrogantly this time, in a more justified manor, he recounts "Yeah, I grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the wall. She was being disrespectful and I needed to teach her a lesson."
Simultaneously you panic, but also play it as cool as you can. You're afraid. What will he do to you if you stand up to him right now? Will he pull that gun off his hip and shoot you like he once said he would? Part of you wants to pretend this didn't just happen. Part of you even THINKS about just climbing into bed, self-medicating with NyQuil, and.... But the larger part of you is furious. Furious. Furious!! The larger part of you screams at him inside your head, "How could you? How could you hurt MY child? You don't lay your filthy hand on MY child! NO ONE lays a hand on MY child!"
But, oh no, you don't say that out loud. You look at him and simply say, "That was wrong. What you just did is SO wrong."
You see that familiar look in his eye, the one that tells you that you're such an idiot and incapable of understanding things at his higher reasoning...that look that often comes out as a snobbish laugh when you try to discuss things with him; that degrading laugh that sickens you. He calmly tells you in a stern, semi-loud voice, "She was disrespecting me." As I move towards the bedroom door, expecting him to block my exit he questions me in bewilderment, "Are you going to disrespect me, too, by usurping my authority?" I say nothing as I leave the room.
(Yes, I just switched to first person in the same paragraph, get over it you literary nuts!)
My heart is aching as I make the short trip up the stairs and down the hall to my daughters room, secretly hoping that what Mr. Abusive (oh, he's not abusive, I'M the one with the problem) said is an over-exageration, that it's just a story, not real.
I enter her room, and she's sobbing on the bed. My heart aches. Where was I to protect her moments ago? I feel her pain, and it breaks. my. heart. She's never cried like this before. No wait, yes; one time before, when Mr. Abusive got the gun to kill the family dog....yes, she had cried like this then....
I gently put my hand on her back and ask, "What just happened?"
She recounts, through sobs, what my ears don't want to hear, the same story I heard downstairs but with the addition of "and then he threw his elbow into my neck and I was terrified!" My panic reaches a new level, while I am simultaneously calm; I feel that if I show my true anger and outrage over this, his actions will reach a fever pitch and more damage will come in more brutal forms.
My poor, terrified daughter. I want to hold her in my arms, rock her like I used to as a toddler, and tell her it's okay, she's safe now. Knowing I'm short on time, he's waiting for me back downstairs, I check her over. Red mark on her neck. I can't see anything else. She can breath, talk, perhaps her throat isn't internally swelling. I stand up and that inner strength that always finds me when I think I just can't take anymore, instructs me. I hear myself calmly saying, "Pack a bag, I'm getting you out of here. Do it quickly and don't make any noise, he can't know that we're leaving. Go tell your sister to do the same."
Calm voice outside, but inside I'm totally freaking out. Do I call the police? Will that red mark on her neck count as "traumatic injury?" He'll get arrested. She's a minor, her younger sister saw part of it, he had his gun on him. My mind reels. This is possible felony quality by Idaho statute. If he gets charged as a felon, he'll have to surrender his guns. He'll hate that. He'll get out of jail and kill me, in the desert, just like he said he would. I'm scared. I'm weak. I'm courageous and weak at the same time. I'm calm and a total mess simultaneously.
First priority is the safety of my girls. I must get them out of the house before he prevents us from leaving. Who do I have to call? Where will my girls feel safe? Who can I call that still protects my husband's reputation? I have to think fast, my precious time is slipping away.
I walk back downstairs, I need my cell phone. I nonchalantly enter our bedroom and mumble something like, "I need my slippers," and swipe my phone when I don't think he's looking. I put on my ugly sweater, the one I'd never wear out in public, because I don't want him to think we're going to leave, and exit the room to go back upstairs; hoping that he thinks that's all I'm doing. I check on the younger children, hoping that they're safe. They are. Plugged in and tuned out.
Back up the stairs. Into an empty bedroom, close the door. I call his parents. I know they'll be watching the evening news. His dad answers. My tears start to flow, I try to hold them back, but they won't obey. I choke out the words, "Can the girls, the older ones, stay with you tonight? We've had an......an incident and, um, could they stay at your place tonight?" A tiddle wave of wracking sobs is on the horizon, I mentally turn them away; I've got to keep it together.
As only his dad does, he pauses then says, "Yes, they can." Long pause. "What happened?"
My mind races. I still have the need to protect him, that disgusting, beaten-down wifely need to keep his reputation intact while her world continually falls apart. (Bleck!) I say, "Well, Marty got mad and shoved Kali into the wall and put his elbow into her neck..." I trail off as I choke on my tears, I can't swallow right. I can hardly breathe. On the other end there is a long pause, and then, "Are you okay?"
That question caught me by surprise. Was I okay? Was I okay? What a foreign question, I thought. What was the answer to that? I didn't know. I panicked again, because I'm me, and if I don't know how I'm doing, then what's wrong with me? I stumble, fumble then finally say, "I don't know."
I hung up, told the girls to exit the house quietly, and off we went. I remembered the feeling from the time before when we fled, scared for our lives, when he had the gun out to go shoot the dog, with that crazy, scary calm look in his eye. Driving down the same lane, hoping he wouldn't see us, hoping he wouldn't fire off a round or two; is this what life is supposed to be like?
I hadn't thought this would happen, I hadn't planned for this. But I heard words coming out of my mouth, words I don't think I was consciously thinking, maybe, I guess. I held back tears as I heard the words escaping my mouth, "Girls, what Dad did is wrong, it's not normal. I don't want you thinking this is normal. I'm so sorry this happened. This is so wrong...." Driving the familiar road on autopilot, I paused and told myself to breathe, just breathe.
Then I continued, "I promise you this, this will NEVER happen again. Not on my watch. Never again. If your Dad won't protect you, I will. Never again. He will never, ever, hurt you again."
The tears dripped off my chin. I was thankful for the cloak of darkness that hid my face from direct sight. I needed to be strong. For my girls. Too many years I hadn't been strong enough for myself. But everything changed this night. Everything.
It was the Grand Finale.
Oh yeah, the Grand Finale. The moment when the accumulation of the show rises to its peak crescendo and, wah-lah, the intensity of the total of all the sums has its glorious moment...its inglorious, sickening, overdue moment.
So, ya know what ya get folks, when you start a blog and recount your crappy life bit by bit and it his the Grand Finale? Well, I'll tell you...
Because your abusive husband "doesn't have a problem" (but you do, you mentally unstable woman who can't do anything right), one night your teenager gets assaulted by him. Oh, it's nothing big, you know...just grabbing her frail frame by the collar of her pajamas, slamming her into a wall, them jabbing an elbow in her neck. There's nothing wrong with that. Infact (which is two words and not one), when your abusive husband (oh, but he's not abusive, you're the one that needs counseling, not him) recounts to you, very calmly, as if he's talking about the weather, what he's done and you say, "What? What did you do?" because you really don't know if you heard him correctly as he explained how he just "disciplined" your daughter. So, a little more arrogantly this time, in a more justified manor, he recounts "Yeah, I grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the wall. She was being disrespectful and I needed to teach her a lesson."
Simultaneously you panic, but also play it as cool as you can. You're afraid. What will he do to you if you stand up to him right now? Will he pull that gun off his hip and shoot you like he once said he would? Part of you wants to pretend this didn't just happen. Part of you even THINKS about just climbing into bed, self-medicating with NyQuil, and.... But the larger part of you is furious. Furious. Furious!! The larger part of you screams at him inside your head, "How could you? How could you hurt MY child? You don't lay your filthy hand on MY child! NO ONE lays a hand on MY child!"
But, oh no, you don't say that out loud. You look at him and simply say, "That was wrong. What you just did is SO wrong."
You see that familiar look in his eye, the one that tells you that you're such an idiot and incapable of understanding things at his higher reasoning...that look that often comes out as a snobbish laugh when you try to discuss things with him; that degrading laugh that sickens you. He calmly tells you in a stern, semi-loud voice, "She was disrespecting me." As I move towards the bedroom door, expecting him to block my exit he questions me in bewilderment, "Are you going to disrespect me, too, by usurping my authority?" I say nothing as I leave the room.
(Yes, I just switched to first person in the same paragraph, get over it you literary nuts!)
My heart is aching as I make the short trip up the stairs and down the hall to my daughters room, secretly hoping that what Mr. Abusive (oh, he's not abusive, I'M the one with the problem) said is an over-exageration, that it's just a story, not real.
I enter her room, and she's sobbing on the bed. My heart aches. Where was I to protect her moments ago? I feel her pain, and it breaks. my. heart. She's never cried like this before. No wait, yes; one time before, when Mr. Abusive got the gun to kill the family dog....yes, she had cried like this then....
I gently put my hand on her back and ask, "What just happened?"
She recounts, through sobs, what my ears don't want to hear, the same story I heard downstairs but with the addition of "and then he threw his elbow into my neck and I was terrified!" My panic reaches a new level, while I am simultaneously calm; I feel that if I show my true anger and outrage over this, his actions will reach a fever pitch and more damage will come in more brutal forms.
My poor, terrified daughter. I want to hold her in my arms, rock her like I used to as a toddler, and tell her it's okay, she's safe now. Knowing I'm short on time, he's waiting for me back downstairs, I check her over. Red mark on her neck. I can't see anything else. She can breath, talk, perhaps her throat isn't internally swelling. I stand up and that inner strength that always finds me when I think I just can't take anymore, instructs me. I hear myself calmly saying, "Pack a bag, I'm getting you out of here. Do it quickly and don't make any noise, he can't know that we're leaving. Go tell your sister to do the same."
Calm voice outside, but inside I'm totally freaking out. Do I call the police? Will that red mark on her neck count as "traumatic injury?" He'll get arrested. She's a minor, her younger sister saw part of it, he had his gun on him. My mind reels. This is possible felony quality by Idaho statute. If he gets charged as a felon, he'll have to surrender his guns. He'll hate that. He'll get out of jail and kill me, in the desert, just like he said he would. I'm scared. I'm weak. I'm courageous and weak at the same time. I'm calm and a total mess simultaneously.
First priority is the safety of my girls. I must get them out of the house before he prevents us from leaving. Who do I have to call? Where will my girls feel safe? Who can I call that still protects my husband's reputation? I have to think fast, my precious time is slipping away.
I walk back downstairs, I need my cell phone. I nonchalantly enter our bedroom and mumble something like, "I need my slippers," and swipe my phone when I don't think he's looking. I put on my ugly sweater, the one I'd never wear out in public, because I don't want him to think we're going to leave, and exit the room to go back upstairs; hoping that he thinks that's all I'm doing. I check on the younger children, hoping that they're safe. They are. Plugged in and tuned out.
Back up the stairs. Into an empty bedroom, close the door. I call his parents. I know they'll be watching the evening news. His dad answers. My tears start to flow, I try to hold them back, but they won't obey. I choke out the words, "Can the girls, the older ones, stay with you tonight? We've had an......an incident and, um, could they stay at your place tonight?" A tiddle wave of wracking sobs is on the horizon, I mentally turn them away; I've got to keep it together.
As only his dad does, he pauses then says, "Yes, they can." Long pause. "What happened?"
My mind races. I still have the need to protect him, that disgusting, beaten-down wifely need to keep his reputation intact while her world continually falls apart. (Bleck!) I say, "Well, Marty got mad and shoved Kali into the wall and put his elbow into her neck..." I trail off as I choke on my tears, I can't swallow right. I can hardly breathe. On the other end there is a long pause, and then, "Are you okay?"
That question caught me by surprise. Was I okay? Was I okay? What a foreign question, I thought. What was the answer to that? I didn't know. I panicked again, because I'm me, and if I don't know how I'm doing, then what's wrong with me? I stumble, fumble then finally say, "I don't know."
I hung up, told the girls to exit the house quietly, and off we went. I remembered the feeling from the time before when we fled, scared for our lives, when he had the gun out to go shoot the dog, with that crazy, scary calm look in his eye. Driving down the same lane, hoping he wouldn't see us, hoping he wouldn't fire off a round or two; is this what life is supposed to be like?
I hadn't thought this would happen, I hadn't planned for this. But I heard words coming out of my mouth, words I don't think I was consciously thinking, maybe, I guess. I held back tears as I heard the words escaping my mouth, "Girls, what Dad did is wrong, it's not normal. I don't want you thinking this is normal. I'm so sorry this happened. This is so wrong...." Driving the familiar road on autopilot, I paused and told myself to breathe, just breathe.
Then I continued, "I promise you this, this will NEVER happen again. Not on my watch. Never again. If your Dad won't protect you, I will. Never again. He will never, ever, hurt you again."
The tears dripped off my chin. I was thankful for the cloak of darkness that hid my face from direct sight. I needed to be strong. For my girls. Too many years I hadn't been strong enough for myself. But everything changed this night. Everything.
It was the Grand Finale.
Oh yeah, the Grand Finale. The moment when the accumulation of the show rises to its peak crescendo and, wah-lah, the intensity of the total of all the sums has its glorious moment...its inglorious, sickening, overdue moment.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Opposites Detract
Here I am again, a night like many others; a re-run on an old rabbit-eared TV, static and fuzz annoyingly interrupting the black and white sitcom that plays itself over and over again. Except, this is no ordinary sitcom, this pathetic re-run is my life.
I cry silently, my pillow swallowing up my many tears. Again. I feel small. Very, very small; scrunched up on the outer-limits of my side of the bed, feeling like an orphan, an alien; a person with no place to rest and be safe, no place to call home.
And you snore.
Loudly.
In the middle of the bed.
Your worries have passed over you like a cloud blown swiftly over the sun and slumber has enveloped you, as it always does.
You are as deep as a mud puddle. Should I be envious or discouraged? Envious that you live such a simple life, or discouraged that you experience so little; there are oceans in this world you've never dipped a toe in; you prefer your mud puddle. You are content with small, explainable, ordinary things. But not I. Ordinary is death to me. It is death to me.
The numbness sets in again. Hatred is hot, but numbness is cool. Stick me, poke me, cut me; it's okay. I'm numb. Burn me, shoot me, beat me; it's okay. I'm numb. Lash out, spew your bitterness with your voice raised high, clench your fist as you stand there with your arms crossed and eyes glaring; it's okay. I'm numb. Slit me and see if there is anything left in me to bleed out; I dare you, go ahead. Take me to the dessert like you said, finish me off. I dare you. I beg you. I invite you. Finish me off so I can finally die, put me out of my misery. Then leave me. Like you said you would. Leave my corpse and let it be.
Let me be.
Let me be, and believe me to be dead. Believe me to be dead so she will live, the she in me that defies death; this death in daily doses. She will rise like the phoenix and life will fill her veins again, and this time she will fly. She will fly to lands exotic to her, lands that fill her soul with the essence of life; lands she has always dreamed of but never seen.
Lands without tear-soaked pillows and broken spirits, never able to fully mend.
Or.....
You could just continue snoring.
And wake up tomorrow.
And live another day of this re-run life.
I cry silently, my pillow swallowing up my many tears. Again. I feel small. Very, very small; scrunched up on the outer-limits of my side of the bed, feeling like an orphan, an alien; a person with no place to rest and be safe, no place to call home.
And you snore.
Loudly.
In the middle of the bed.
Your worries have passed over you like a cloud blown swiftly over the sun and slumber has enveloped you, as it always does.
You are as deep as a mud puddle. Should I be envious or discouraged? Envious that you live such a simple life, or discouraged that you experience so little; there are oceans in this world you've never dipped a toe in; you prefer your mud puddle. You are content with small, explainable, ordinary things. But not I. Ordinary is death to me. It is death to me.
The numbness sets in again. Hatred is hot, but numbness is cool. Stick me, poke me, cut me; it's okay. I'm numb. Burn me, shoot me, beat me; it's okay. I'm numb. Lash out, spew your bitterness with your voice raised high, clench your fist as you stand there with your arms crossed and eyes glaring; it's okay. I'm numb. Slit me and see if there is anything left in me to bleed out; I dare you, go ahead. Take me to the dessert like you said, finish me off. I dare you. I beg you. I invite you. Finish me off so I can finally die, put me out of my misery. Then leave me. Like you said you would. Leave my corpse and let it be.
Let me be.
Let me be, and believe me to be dead. Believe me to be dead so she will live, the she in me that defies death; this death in daily doses. She will rise like the phoenix and life will fill her veins again, and this time she will fly. She will fly to lands exotic to her, lands that fill her soul with the essence of life; lands she has always dreamed of but never seen.
Lands without tear-soaked pillows and broken spirits, never able to fully mend.
Or.....
You could just continue snoring.
And wake up tomorrow.
And live another day of this re-run life.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Angry Woman At Keyboard
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Angry Woman At Keyboard
Who wouldn't be angry when there is but one incident after the next, (before the word "incident," and after the word "one" enter the word "bad") which consumes your measly existence, one year rolling into another, like gray merging into black.
And what, just what would make an angry woman more angry than a three year old screaming her head off in the bathroom? A three year old with a tiny little paper cut on her petite little thumb. Screaming. Yes, screaming. This is the same 3 year old who, only a half hour before, just sunk three (at least I can see three marks) teeth through the middle of her tongue as she fell on the stairs. Blood came gushing from the wailing little mouth, dripping onto her already dirty pink shirt, trailing down the side of her little anguished face. But forget that incident, there is, after all, a paper cut less than half an inch long on the chipped nail-polished appendage called the thumb.
I like quiet. I need quiet. I like to be alone. I need to be alone. And yet, I constantly have children in my space; talking, eating, fighting, crying, talking, talking, talking, eating, fighting, screaming, eating some more, and constantly talking, talking, talking. And these are just my children. Then there's the neighborhood children, joining the brood that calls this 2600 square feet of space "home;" six children, seven, eight, running, laughing, arguing, plotting, planning, screaming, talking, talking, talking. Of course they can also be adorable, fun and a joy; but there is an angry woman typing this today, so there is nothing but doom and gloom and unabashed grumpiness.
I have no idea why my mouse icon is traveling crazily across the screen, where it stops I'm sure I won't know. By now, as an angry woman, I envy its freedom; completely unrestrained from the fingers that so often hold it hostage, tell it what to do; what to click on and where to go.
But me, the angry woman, has had a no-longer-screaming-three-year-old talk to her non-stop for the last three paragraphs. Mix finger nails on a chalk board with banging your forehead on a cement wall and you may start to understand just how I feel. Oh look, there goes my little mouse arrow again, running away to some private destination.
I was thinking about writing a book. Producing at blub.com, where I have my scrapbooks made. I'd like to write stories for my children, stories with great characters with matchless integrity. Stories with great morals and page-turning adventures. (The talking stopped for but a moment, now the running commentary has begun again. Now the doorbell has chimed it's much too cheery tune and the soon to be ex-neighbor boy stands with yet another load of food items from his home, as the movers are here today and the fridge must go.)
It is very interesting to find out what sorts of things one's neighbor's eat. I now own the largest flip-top bottle of catsup ever known to man. The question is, do I use said bottle, seeing how it is already open? And just where does such a large bottle of catsup fit inside one's fridge? Bologna. The processed, nitrate laden, not-a-real-food food now sits in my cheese drawer. I haven't bought bologna in.....10 years. But now I have a half eaten package of it accompanying my cheese. Why did I not just throw it away? Because I don't like to waste. And surely, the husband will come home, see the bologna (if indeed he ever opens the fridge for himself) and say, "Bologna? I love bologna! You haven't bought that in eight years!" And I'll say, "Ten. It's been ten years." And then we'll join in combat over the number of years it has been since I last purchased an 88 cent package of bologna, a battle to the death, which he will give up on after I beat him mercilessly with fact after fact of my grocery shopping history and how I stopped buying bologna, yes, ten years ago.
Anyway, a book. Or two, maybe some chapter books and some early reader books for the 3 year old that certainly enjoys torture by way of making noise. I have no money to pass on to my children as a heritage, but perhaps I can pass on the story of their lives, a little creativity mixed with truth. Books that have four wild children in them with a mother who never gets angry but always, amazingly, does just the right thing.
And now, what is this? Amidst the 3 year old than can't stop talking, the middle two children come in, one tattling and the other whining so loudly the sound barrier must surely have been pierced. Middle Girl says: He ripped the thingy that goes over the thing! (Now noisy 3 year old, whom I have asked to stop talking, is talking without opening her mouth. Mostly grunting and angry growling noises are coming out.) Middle Boy whines: I didn't do it, it just fell down when I touched it! I use my Super Mom Powers to see that Middle Boy is lying and order Middle Boy: Go to bed! Then I ask Middle Girl: What got ripped? The outside blinds in the back patio? Middle Girl struggles to find the right words as she often does. After an annoying game of charades, Angry Mom discovers that Middle Boy has demolished the fabric cover that shades the outside swing. Angry Mom tells noisy 3 year old to clean up and get ready for bed.
Will Nap Time save Angry Mom from pulling her hair out strand by strand?
Time for a commercial break...
When Silence Speaks
I do not know why I sit here, eating Skittles, blogging about crickets and trees. What, did I turn into Aesop momentarily or what? And what is the hidden depth behind the story that even I, its creator, does not fully understand? It was but a thought that came to me, after the children left; after I mopped the floor, vacuumed the carpets, straightened the cushions and wiped off the coffee table. It was but an "after" thought, when I sat down, becoming frustrated with the incredibly slow speed of this laptop, that the silence spoke to me. And just what did the silence speak of? Well, obviously, the cricket and the tree.
(Even when I eat Skittles, I sort them by color, only eating like kin with like kind. What, dear Lord, is wrong with me? Come to think of it, one of the best parts of being an adult is the ability to eat as horribly as you wish and not hear your mother say, "Now put that away and eat your peas!")
Anyway, I am a fan of silence. With five kids, one who is much like a bouncy ball in a small, uncarpeted room, and another who is so brilliant his mouth is always moving (yes, while at dinner, Mr. 9 Year Old took a swig of his glass of water then pronounced, "Though this looks like a clear liquid, it is not. There are beasties floating around in here, we just can't see them. There are single cell organisms...." Yes, Microbiology in his Gifted and Talented class just showed up at my dinning room table.), who wouldn't be? As a mother of many children, silence is a commodity not often seen, let alone, heard. Yet here I am in silence, surrounded by it and breathing it in, listening to it speak to me.
It speaks many languages and says many things. Only if you're listening do you hear it. At least, that is how I interpret what you cannot hear it say. Unless, of course, you are listening.
It is in the silent moments that I think clearly, perhaps that is why I think constantly at night, semi-awake in bed, brilliant thoughts skimming the surface of my consciousness, taunting me to grab a pen and paper and capture them. But too often I am too tired to transcribe, thinking that when daylight hits, I will put them down in ink, but when the robin sings and the alarm clock beckons, they are gone; shadows I can't clearly see, mist in the night.
(I have consumed an irrational amount of Skittles now.)
It is in the silence that I am able to organize my thoughts, take stock of who I am, where I'm going, and what I've done. It is in the silence that I am the most creative, inspired, and apt to string useless words together into coherency. It is in the silence that my brain can heal and repair the depletion that is caused by constant noise, noise, noise! Which reminds me...
I remember when the girls were little and Barney was the hot tamale of the day. Oh, how they loved Barney. "I love you, you love me. We're just one big family..." We had more Barney videos that a teenager does zits, and let me tell ya, there were no silence with Barny around. Then the girls started to outgrow Barney and Elmo was King. "La la la la. La la la la. Elmo's world...." Oh, how the excitement would reach a feverish level when Elmo, red head bobbing back and forth on the TV screen, would start his Elmo-y song.
After Elmo is was Barbie videos, which turned into Pixar films, which turned into American Girl movies, which turned into old 80's movies which (enter Netflix) brings us up to the present. And that hasn't even touched to world of music, but let's not get started on that.
Actually, let's do. I think that the DOD should really look into using children's pre-school songs as a tool for torturing the enemy. Let's take the song "The Wheels on The Bus" for example. How many times can an adult listen to that before going crazy? I'd find my mind replaying that song over and over again when the kids were little. I'd be relaxing in the bathtub and hear little voices in my head singing, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round." I'd be making bread and the little voices in my head would chime in, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town." I'd be in the grocery store and hear, "The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down..." I could not escape the curse of the song.
At least when I wrote children's songs, I had fun snazzy lyrics, accompanied by modern day rhtyhm. Afterall, being a parent myself, why would I want to subject other parents to the same torture I'd endured with "The Wheels on the Bus?" Not that I'm too arrogant, but I did write some pretty cool songs, as I look back mentally on the three CD's I made. And I offered variation as well; slow and sweet, upbeat and jazzy, even a little rap mixed with reggae. Man, I miss that. Not only did I feel so alive writing, creating, playing, singing, mixing and recording, but I had so much fun. As much as you may be surprised to hear it, I was not created to be a waitress. Which reminds me....
SO I get a table on Sunday, my famous Lots-of-tables-with-crappy-tippers Day, and my first table is of three people, one of whom is an older lady dressed up in a Christmas Tree sweater with matching earrings, neacklace, and yes, hairbow. I mosey up to the table and say, "Well, don't you look jolly Mrs. Claus, I just want to hug you and squeeze the sugar right outta ya." (And don't ask me where I come up with this stuff, because I myself have no clue.) Instantly we were friends and our little time together went well. Upon the winding down of our journey in Mexican Food Land she told me, "Oh honey, you were just born to be a waitress! You're so outgoing and witty and attentive, you gave us excellent service. You're the best waitress I ever had; this job was meant for you!"
Instead of saying, "Why yes! Eureka! I've found my life's calling! A waitress! A waitress! Yes! I can save the world one table at a time! "More chips? More salsa?" Oh yes, I've been longing to say those words my ENTIRE life! Here I was wondering what my life purpose was, and now it's clear. I was born to be a waitress!" I smiled and said, "You think so?" And she smiled and pinched my cheek and said, "Oh yes, honey. You were born to be a waitress." So there ya have it folks, I can die tomorrow knowing that my mission on this planet has been accomplished.
Anyways, see what happens when the silence speaks? I find myself high on sugar and artificial colorings, writing fables about how the Willow tree came into being and how I hear things when there is nothing to hear. And why do I really feel the need to type about all this anyway? I don't even know that. But there is something cleansing about putting my fingers on the keyboard and typing away the nonsense that rattles through me while it is, of course, quiet.
I think I may need to find a job. A real job. Not just a waitressing job (even though that IS my life's calling). But I am unsure. Unsure of my direction. I know what I am and I know what I am not. I am NOT a person who can do the same thing, everyday, for the rest of my life. I could never be a box person: get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box. Get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box. I can't even stand to type that twice, let alone do it for a 10 hour shift. No, no, no, I am not a box person.
Infact (two words, not one), I remember a year or so ago when I was out looking for a little work, and decided that working night shift at a hotel as the front desk lady sounded just about perfect. Quiet atmosphere, time to study, read, learn while getting paid. Maybe munching on a few of those incredible cookies they put out for the customers. Yeah, that sounded like something I'd be willing to get paid for. So, I get dressed up all classy, and mentally draw out my assault route for the finer hotels in town. The first hotel has just hired someone, sorry. The second hotel has a very large Mexican woman at the counter who immediately doesn't like my because I'm white and only take up one seat at the movie theater. She basically tells me to get lost until her manager peeks around the corner, decides that he likes what he sees, and suddenly - wah lah! - they just might be hiring. I think he's too creepy, so I throw his application away.
Then I hit up the nicest place in town, also the newest. The I'm-so-sweet-even-if-I-puked-it-would-taste-great blonde at the counter summons the manager upon my inquiry for work, and as the manager hands me an application she says, "We're not hiring for a front desk position, but the lounge is hiring for someone to bus tables." I look at the paper in my hands, look at the lady, look at the lounge, back at the lady, and hand her the application back, smiling and saying, "Thank you, but no thanks," then turn and walk towards the door. I can see her in the reflection of the glass, looking at me like, "Wait a minute, what just happened here...?"
Point being, I'm not going to take just any job, I'm gonna wait till the right one comes along, or until I, once again, create my own job. And that is where I ind myself sitting. I'm waiting for that right job, that one where I fit nicely for this point and time in my life. How the bills will get paid, I do not know at this point, but I do know that I am to be patient; my ear to the door, listening for opportunity to knock.
And in the meantime, I listen to the silence. For, as you know, it speaks to me. Many a things. Grand things, small things, creative, big dream-type things.
Yes, I am listening.
(Even when I eat Skittles, I sort them by color, only eating like kin with like kind. What, dear Lord, is wrong with me? Come to think of it, one of the best parts of being an adult is the ability to eat as horribly as you wish and not hear your mother say, "Now put that away and eat your peas!")
Anyway, I am a fan of silence. With five kids, one who is much like a bouncy ball in a small, uncarpeted room, and another who is so brilliant his mouth is always moving (yes, while at dinner, Mr. 9 Year Old took a swig of his glass of water then pronounced, "Though this looks like a clear liquid, it is not. There are beasties floating around in here, we just can't see them. There are single cell organisms...." Yes, Microbiology in his Gifted and Talented class just showed up at my dinning room table.), who wouldn't be? As a mother of many children, silence is a commodity not often seen, let alone, heard. Yet here I am in silence, surrounded by it and breathing it in, listening to it speak to me.
It speaks many languages and says many things. Only if you're listening do you hear it. At least, that is how I interpret what you cannot hear it say. Unless, of course, you are listening.
It is in the silent moments that I think clearly, perhaps that is why I think constantly at night, semi-awake in bed, brilliant thoughts skimming the surface of my consciousness, taunting me to grab a pen and paper and capture them. But too often I am too tired to transcribe, thinking that when daylight hits, I will put them down in ink, but when the robin sings and the alarm clock beckons, they are gone; shadows I can't clearly see, mist in the night.
(I have consumed an irrational amount of Skittles now.)
It is in the silence that I am able to organize my thoughts, take stock of who I am, where I'm going, and what I've done. It is in the silence that I am the most creative, inspired, and apt to string useless words together into coherency. It is in the silence that my brain can heal and repair the depletion that is caused by constant noise, noise, noise! Which reminds me...
I remember when the girls were little and Barney was the hot tamale of the day. Oh, how they loved Barney. "I love you, you love me. We're just one big family..." We had more Barney videos that a teenager does zits, and let me tell ya, there were no silence with Barny around. Then the girls started to outgrow Barney and Elmo was King. "La la la la. La la la la. Elmo's world...." Oh, how the excitement would reach a feverish level when Elmo, red head bobbing back and forth on the TV screen, would start his Elmo-y song.
After Elmo is was Barbie videos, which turned into Pixar films, which turned into American Girl movies, which turned into old 80's movies which (enter Netflix) brings us up to the present. And that hasn't even touched to world of music, but let's not get started on that.
Actually, let's do. I think that the DOD should really look into using children's pre-school songs as a tool for torturing the enemy. Let's take the song "The Wheels on The Bus" for example. How many times can an adult listen to that before going crazy? I'd find my mind replaying that song over and over again when the kids were little. I'd be relaxing in the bathtub and hear little voices in my head singing, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round." I'd be making bread and the little voices in my head would chime in, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town." I'd be in the grocery store and hear, "The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down..." I could not escape the curse of the song.
At least when I wrote children's songs, I had fun snazzy lyrics, accompanied by modern day rhtyhm. Afterall, being a parent myself, why would I want to subject other parents to the same torture I'd endured with "The Wheels on the Bus?" Not that I'm too arrogant, but I did write some pretty cool songs, as I look back mentally on the three CD's I made. And I offered variation as well; slow and sweet, upbeat and jazzy, even a little rap mixed with reggae. Man, I miss that. Not only did I feel so alive writing, creating, playing, singing, mixing and recording, but I had so much fun. As much as you may be surprised to hear it, I was not created to be a waitress. Which reminds me....
SO I get a table on Sunday, my famous Lots-of-tables-with-crappy-tippers Day, and my first table is of three people, one of whom is an older lady dressed up in a Christmas Tree sweater with matching earrings, neacklace, and yes, hairbow. I mosey up to the table and say, "Well, don't you look jolly Mrs. Claus, I just want to hug you and squeeze the sugar right outta ya." (And don't ask me where I come up with this stuff, because I myself have no clue.) Instantly we were friends and our little time together went well. Upon the winding down of our journey in Mexican Food Land she told me, "Oh honey, you were just born to be a waitress! You're so outgoing and witty and attentive, you gave us excellent service. You're the best waitress I ever had; this job was meant for you!"
Instead of saying, "Why yes! Eureka! I've found my life's calling! A waitress! A waitress! Yes! I can save the world one table at a time! "More chips? More salsa?" Oh yes, I've been longing to say those words my ENTIRE life! Here I was wondering what my life purpose was, and now it's clear. I was born to be a waitress!" I smiled and said, "You think so?" And she smiled and pinched my cheek and said, "Oh yes, honey. You were born to be a waitress." So there ya have it folks, I can die tomorrow knowing that my mission on this planet has been accomplished.
Anyways, see what happens when the silence speaks? I find myself high on sugar and artificial colorings, writing fables about how the Willow tree came into being and how I hear things when there is nothing to hear. And why do I really feel the need to type about all this anyway? I don't even know that. But there is something cleansing about putting my fingers on the keyboard and typing away the nonsense that rattles through me while it is, of course, quiet.
I think I may need to find a job. A real job. Not just a waitressing job (even though that IS my life's calling). But I am unsure. Unsure of my direction. I know what I am and I know what I am not. I am NOT a person who can do the same thing, everyday, for the rest of my life. I could never be a box person: get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box. Get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box. I can't even stand to type that twice, let alone do it for a 10 hour shift. No, no, no, I am not a box person.
Infact (two words, not one), I remember a year or so ago when I was out looking for a little work, and decided that working night shift at a hotel as the front desk lady sounded just about perfect. Quiet atmosphere, time to study, read, learn while getting paid. Maybe munching on a few of those incredible cookies they put out for the customers. Yeah, that sounded like something I'd be willing to get paid for. So, I get dressed up all classy, and mentally draw out my assault route for the finer hotels in town. The first hotel has just hired someone, sorry. The second hotel has a very large Mexican woman at the counter who immediately doesn't like my because I'm white and only take up one seat at the movie theater. She basically tells me to get lost until her manager peeks around the corner, decides that he likes what he sees, and suddenly - wah lah! - they just might be hiring. I think he's too creepy, so I throw his application away.
Then I hit up the nicest place in town, also the newest. The I'm-so-sweet-even-if-I-puked-it-would-taste-great blonde at the counter summons the manager upon my inquiry for work, and as the manager hands me an application she says, "We're not hiring for a front desk position, but the lounge is hiring for someone to bus tables." I look at the paper in my hands, look at the lady, look at the lounge, back at the lady, and hand her the application back, smiling and saying, "Thank you, but no thanks," then turn and walk towards the door. I can see her in the reflection of the glass, looking at me like, "Wait a minute, what just happened here...?"
Point being, I'm not going to take just any job, I'm gonna wait till the right one comes along, or until I, once again, create my own job. And that is where I ind myself sitting. I'm waiting for that right job, that one where I fit nicely for this point and time in my life. How the bills will get paid, I do not know at this point, but I do know that I am to be patient; my ear to the door, listening for opportunity to knock.
And in the meantime, I listen to the silence. For, as you know, it speaks to me. Many a things. Grand things, small things, creative, big dream-type things.
Yes, I am listening.
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