Fat Eyes



NOTE: This post deals with fat, food, eating, and body image. This is about me and it’s personal. This is not a political page. Be advised that any political proselytising will be immediately deleted.

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I’m struggling with body image, food, weight… All of it. I’m worried about every bite. I feel like i’m eating too much. My body looks fat to me. I don’t feel comfortable in my skin. I’m back outside walking regularly, but the weather has turned chilly and i’m already in a chronic pain flareup. So, yeah… Suckville. I’m doing all the things that have worked before, but i’m not seeing any weight loss. In fact, i think i’ve gained.

My clothes say i haven’t. My doctor says i’m on track. My loved ones say i look as if i’m continuing to lose.

That means i have fat eyes again.

Fat eyes is the name i give the tricks my mind plays on me when i’m in a tough spot mentally/emotionally. The stuff i’m dealing with in therapy has me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Seriously. Everything is triggering memories. This guy looks like… This song was playing when… This smell brings me back to… I’m constantly on edge and it’s exhausting. Every little noise startles me. I wake up shaking. Random, banal things scare me.

And maybe because i’m dealing with the sexual abuse more directly than i have before, my body feels disgusting. I look at myself and think i’m dirty and gross. I’m even less inclined to have sex than i was before — and that’s saying something. The closest i can get to sex is wanting to want it. Between my dead marriage and working on accessing the split off parts of me that were raped as a child, i’m having trouble envisioning a future where i’m having sex.

Where does food end and sex begin? In my story, it’s hard to unravel. Food probably came first because my mom starved me off and on as long as i can remember. Maybe she fed me well when i was a baby/toddler, but i doubt it. Rewards and punishments were mostly food-centric. And let’s not even get into what school, bullies, peers, tv/movies, and fashion did to my self-image.

Warped, indeed.

Suffice to say i’m drowning in self-loathing at the moment. I can suss it all out intellectually, but it isn’t helping me as far as what i see when i look in the mirror.

Fat eyes.

I know what to do:

– maintain soft calorie deficit eating;
– keep walking to no more than 15,000 steps or 10km;
– listen to body pain and adjust eating/exercise when necessary;
– THERAPY

There’s nothin’ to it but to do it.

Y’all hang in there, and remember, sometimes, the brain lies.
If my brain wore pants they’d be on fire right now.



IMAGE: Pexels, uncredited

Offal Stew

Honestly, i don’t know what to tell you. Life is hard and it sucks right now, but it also doesn’t. I want to give you something good, something you can think of when you’re low and it’ll make you feel a little less so. Some bit of experience where you can see yourself and hang on because hey, i am, and i’m a total fuckup… So why can’t you?

But my head is throbbing and i can’t find any interesting words swimming around up there at the moment. I’ve got a headache every goddamn day these last weeks. It is the soup of madness and chaos bubbling and spitting hot broth when i give it a stir. There are those who live in my brain who NEED me to do this work that’s in front of me and there are others whose very ephemeral and esoteric existence is built exclusively around STOPPING me from doing this work.

That probably makes no sense.

Parts of my system are allied with my abusers. That is a sad and scary fact. They drank the kool-aid. They believe i was born for a special purpose. They are searching for the man i called Daddy, and his right hand man, and all the rest of his compatriots and co-conspirators. That sounds romantic, doesn’t it? But that’s just the way i like to write. What those fucks were, were a bunch of predators; perverts and paedophiles who shared information on how to be the BEST child rapist, i.e. how not to get caught and have access to as many children as possible!

This is ugly writing here, and i try not to do any of that anymore. I’m trying to make my story consumable; spicy, but not so hot as to be unpalatable. Your guts might hate you for an hour or 2 and we won’t talk about the burn that awaits your butthole, but the dish was cooked, seasoned and served in such a way that you’d never have guessed you’re eating offal stew.

Today i’m serving up something that’s raw and still squirming.
Today i have no panache.
Today i am a wall of stone-muscles and magma-guts.
Today i cannot hang on to time.

That’s the “suck” part.

The not-suck is that i know i wouldn’t be here if i weren’t progressing. These fail-safes in my brain can’t be triggered by just sitting on the curb watching the parade go by.

I’m in this. I’m not even in the fucking weeds yet and it’s a LOT.
I have to go in and grab my babies away from the terrible men and women that have held them captive all these years.
And holy shit, do i not want to.
But you better believe i will.
The thought of touching them makes my head throb so badly i’ve shut all the light i can out of the house and i’m playing elevator jazz on volume level 4 and i’m wearing sunglasses to be able to look at this bloody keyboard i’m clacking away on, and if i retch one more godforsaken time i think my head might actually explode like that motherfucker in the movie Scanners…

But you better believe i will.

I’ll try to be a bit less… whatever-this-is tomorrow.


IMAGE: Kai-Chieh Chan

Push-Start

I’m pushing myself because i can. Maybe i could have before if i’d tried harder. I certainly tried, but maybe i could have done more. I couldn’t do much. I could barely keep the house together and get my family fed. My hygiene was… Okay.
But i wasn’t writing anything publishable.
And i wasn’t walking.

Those 2 things are the most important to me, the ones i’d immediately rattle off if i were asked what was vital to managing my mental health.

I don’t know what, if anything, has changed. I think it’s more that i’ve gotten sick and tired of being sick and tired. I’m in a corner and i don’t take kindly to being cornered — even if i’m the one who’s done it.

I started back walking this week. Just 2km, that’s it. My headphones weren’t working, and i hadn’t set up my new Fit band, but i went. My brain really wanted to use those things as excuses not to go, but it was easy to see them for what they were, so i went. I walked. And then, with that tiny bit of momentum, i walked in the door, sat down in front of the laptop, and i wrote.

Here on my WP blog, i can be a little less demanding and a little less perfect when it comes to the content i post. I’m not trying to be legit, make money, attract the algorithm gods’ attention, or win kudos from top writers and their publications. This is my diary. This is where i let people see who i am and how i figure shit out.

Over the last few days, i have sorted my music and Fit band situations. I’m walking more, and thanks to this blog, i am writing more. I’m not yet creating fantastic new content on my other platform, but i’ve resumed going back over my old WP blog posts and commenting on them and how i’ve progressed since writing them.

They’re like a reaction video on YT, heh. I’m reacting to my own stuff. It’s not terribly original, but it’s keeping me in the game. The added benefit is that i can see how far i’ve come since i began writing. This place got me to admit that i love writing and i want to be a writer. That admission was challenging and a long time coming. I can see what i’ve learned and how i’ve grown, all of which help me through this dratted depression i’m currently in.

This is the easiest that writing has come in a couple of months.

My new Fit band is sending me messages that i’ve been sitting too long. Maybe that wouldn’t have be,en good for me a couple of weeks ago. Now, it’s okay. I’m using it to get myself up and do something, no matter how small. I’ve walked my dog around our yard, done a couple of loads of dishes, scrubbed the tub and tiles, and vacuumed the living room. Yesterday i made 2 carrot cakes. Tomorrow i’ll be preparing for my grandchildren to come for an overnight visit and getting ready for a family Thanksgiving celebration on Sunday.

I got some poetry written. I checked my analytics on the other site, and i’ve got an idea i’ve been sitting on for a publication where i always get good engagement. I’m gonna move into my office and make writing more intentional. Sitting at my desk feels official and grown up. I probably need a bit of that right now.

What i have to do next in my therapy journey looms large on the horizon. I’m now able to think of other things, and i’m no longer frozen with dread and terror. But it is still paramount in my mind because i understand what i’m about to do, and i know it will suck a truckload of shit. What it’s costing me to avoid the work has become untenable. I’ve backed myself into a corner here, too.

ZOOMing with my therapist tomorrow.
Tomorrow’s blog entry might be interesting.
I guess we’ll see.





IMAGE: Mitchell Orr

Sounds Wise, but Is It?

Dissociated AF today. Trying my best.

Today in contrarian snark, i bring you Rupaul’s iconic catchphrase:

“If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?”

For me, that’s absolute nonsense. I was born with a sweet and beautiful heart that loved everyone in my life, even my mother — purely, and without reservation. Even now i love my mother. I have hate for her, but the love is still there.

I didn’t think about loving myself, but i can assure you that, if i had, i would have struggled to do it. That goes against all my childhood indoctrination. Not even religion could penetrate what i was taught to believe about myself.

Pop psychology and its parade of self-help gurus got me thinking about it. It was like reading a book jacket — it sounded interesting and i wanted to know more. Finally acknowledging my trauma got me working on it. It started with a lot of eye-rolling and bosom-heaving. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. I could see the value in it and i wanted very much to love myself.

But i couldn’t get it done. I couldn’t seem to make much headway until i had my boys. In them, i saw that there was good and beauty inside me. More than that, though, I LOVED THEM so much! I saw that they needed to see me living my best life, which included loving myself.

I’ve fought the good fight since then. The knowledge that they’re watching me is always in the back of my mind. I think about what my treatment of myself might be teaching them.

I ask myself:

  • what do i want my children to know
  • who do i want them to be
  • how do i want them to comport themselves
  • how do i want them to FEEL about themselves
  • what can i give them that i wish someone had given to me

My love for others, my sons in particular, spurs me ever onward in loving myself. I’m learning how to treat myself by how i treat others. I can see how it can work the way Rupaul says, but it just doesn’t for me. I have some healthy natural instincts for how to love others, but loving myself was beaten out of me; it doesn’t come naturally at all.

Today i am pushing through depression, dissociation, and exhaustion, in part because my kids need to see me do it. They will know they can walk through their own valleys because they watched me walk through mine. I’m hoping to show them how good it is to love oneself, how worthy a pursuit, by how hard they see me fighting for it.

Today my system is very active and i’m coming up against a lot of resistance to write in depth about the work i’m currently doing in therapy. I’ll try again tomorrow.

IMAGE: Gianluca Tristo

I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up

Depression has kicked my ass so hard i’m having trouble doing much of anything.

My house, yard, body, and relationships are basically okay, meaning clean enough, not cluttered or in disrepair, but that’s it.
I’m having a shit of a time writing.
My fibro pain is so bad i’m dissociating to get away from it.
I struggle in conversation; i can participate, but on the inside, i am freaking. out.
My system is banging around in my head so hard that i have a constant headache. The only time i’m not aware of it is when i’m sleeping.

Speaking of sleeping, it’s the only thing that’s going well in my life, which makes me wonder if i got sucked into an alternate universe where it’s Spongebob’s opposite day, every day. Because sleep is always a crapshoot for me. Maybe i’m finally on the right mix of meds? The only problem remains dreaming. I dream all night long, flowing from one dream into another and then another. I wake up to use the bathroom, and as soon as i’m back to sleep, my dream picks back up where it left off. They’re not nightmares, they’re not even particularly disturbing, but they are exhausting. They’re the kind of dreams i have when my stress level is too high.

My body is at the breaking point.

I saw the doctor last week to chat about my last round of blood work. My organs are functioning well, and my weight loss continues. My headaches have become debilitating, so she gave me a neurological exam.

When she was through, she said, “You are the tensest person i’ve ever examined.”

She thinks the problem might be stress, and i’m inclined to agree. The band around my forehead began tightening as soon as i started typing this post, and it’s already at the point where i’m having trouble concentrating. I’ve decided to cut this post short, but i will continue it tomorrow. It might be the only way i can produce consistently for this blog.

Some people in my brain do not want me to do this work i’m doing with my therapist. I was never supposed to talk about what happened to me, let alone survive this long. I’m coming up against some parts of my system that are allied with my abusers. I’ve spent years cleaning out the horde in my brain, and they don’t like it. I’m integrating (becoming fully co-conscious with my system), and some of the bits that split off when i was little have been… I don’t know what to call it. Reabsorbed?

It’s hard to describe; it’s all so esoteric.

I’ll elaborate tomorrow.

IMAGE: Caleb Woods

Fire and Ice On the Road to Ruin


I’m a trash monster dancing in an old green dumpster 
I smell like coffee grounds and mouldy spaghetti
There are soggy gobs of kitchen roll between my toes
and all the flies wish I’d get the hell out

I’m an ice cream goblin under a Tamarack pine
I look like a grandma but i’m actually a child
There’s a spoon in my back pocket and i use it to stir
my dessert until it’s more like a malted

I’m a naif in a love-queue who’s bouncing foot to foot
I’ve really gotta pee but i’m up next to get some
There’s a sweaty woman crying loudly right behind me
and i let her take my spot cuz i can’t wait any longer


I’m a hitchhiker headed for paradise
who thumbed a ride in a killer’s car
I’m a broken bit of china in the back garden
I’ll cut you open and you’ll bleed on your vegetables
I’m a stray dog with my nose stuck in a Slurpee cup
You can try to rescue me but I won’t thank you
I’m a rollercoaster fallen into disrepair
Don’t go and risk your life for a quick thrill


Hot mess
on a tin roof
desperately needs the rain
to drown all the pretty flowers
inside

I can’t
be alone now
‘Cause I’m always undone
and I’ve licked the milk chocolate off
my hands

You tried
and I know that
So if you have to go
I totally understand why
Goodbye

Published on my other writing platform.
~ Mine, August 09, 2022 ~


IMAGE: Pexels

Slip-Trip

Slip the leash, now
squeeze through the slats
into the neighbours’ yard
The fresh new smells
invigorate my tail, so
I set to sniffing
and wagging
until the sun is high
and my tongue lolls
wanting coolness
and water
to restore all that I’ve left behind
generously dotting their lawn
The slick trip back is quick, home
to the welcome of a full dish
and Mother’s sweet voice
with best scritches

~ Mine, August 17, 2022

Watch Me

Yes, i’m in the weeds. Bipolar depression is the absolute shits. The thing is, though, i’ve been here before, and i basically know what to do. I have experience with what this is like. I’ve been experiencing active suicidal ideation, but don’t let that scare you too much. And while i haven’t had a plan for a long time, and the fact that i have one now is concerning, i’ve told the appropriate people and taken the proper steps. This is learning to live as well as i’m able with this wacky noggin of mine.

I’m done with that subject and on to something better.

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Audre Lorde said,

“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”

I am developing a vision of who i am and what i want. The first half of that has been coming along nicely for some years, but that last part has been tough to even imagine.

I needed the safety of my marriage and trust in my therapist before i could clear away enough of the wreckage of my past to see what was on the horizon. For most of my life i’ve been hypervigilant, functioning in survival mode. My brain was stuck in my childhood, and my body thought it was dead. It took years before i could think of anything i wanted to do beyond surviving. My desires only went as far as “not to be fucked up.”

At this point in my healing i finally do have dreams and plans for the future, but i have trouble bringing them to fruition. My first success came a couple of years ago. I decided that i was going to take the bus to the mountains, stay in a hotel by myself, and meet a couple i’ve been friends with online for years.

It was a big challenge. I’m so dissociative i have trouble with things like planning trips and setting itineraries. I’m easily distressed, and when that happens, my system can get activated and things can get FUBAR, fast. I also get lost very easily, which triggers such a high level of anxiety that i will run away from whatever and with whoever i’d made plans.

The trip was a resounding success. I was able to do everything i’d planned to do. The meeting was fulfilling and joyful, with a minimum of dissociation. I got lost in the airport looking for the shuttle desk where i was supposed to be picked up, which triggered me, but that was at the end of the trip. I could go home and care for my upset rather than having to hide it away inside myself until after i’d met my friends. That would’ve curdled my milk, you know?

I plan to go to my old home town for a week by myself to write. I think i can make it happen before the end of the year. For spring of next year, i’m going on a tropical vacation. I know where. And i’m hustling hard for enough money to do both, plus get myself a couple of things i’ve been after for some time. They’re expensive, but i’ll be working at it until i can get what i want.

To accomplish my goals, i’ve had to redefine and reshape my role in my marriage.

I made a mistake in my relationship, and it’s cost me, and probably him, too. When i fell apart so badly that i had to pull away from everyone except my husband, sons, and therapist, i may have given up too much. I surrendered all my responsibilities except cooking, cleaning, and basic mothering, and dumped the rest of it in my husband’s lap. I thought that was what i had to do, but now i wish i’d done it differently.

He paid all the bills and made all the decisions. I tried to keep myself and the house together and did the best i could to mother our kids, but beyond that, all responsibilities were his. I even stopped driving. I was so consumed with my own problems that i didn’t see that he had issues, too. He’s reliable and responsible but he’s not without flaws and limitations. There were areas i might have been more helpful and a better partner.

For instance, by the time i emerged from years-long, intensive therapy, i had no idea what our financial situation was. I didn’t know what bills he paid, how much they were, how much was in our bank account, or what our credit looked like. I had decided that i wasn’t good with money and didn’t know nuthin’ ’bout budgets or saving money. And that’s total bullshit.

When i’m manic i need someone else to handle the money — that’s just common sense. But at other times, i can be quite good to have around when it comes to spending, saving, and paying bills. Before i met my husband, i made a small inheritance last for five years while i stayed home and raised two kids. If i could do it again, i would have gone to school, but i was enmeshed in a religion that told me i had to stay home to be a good mom. I made it work by investing the money and paying myself a small monthly stipend, draining my inheritance as slowly as possible.

I bought used or gratefully accepted hand-me-downs and any charity i was offered. I clipped coupons. I didn’t splurge on anything. And i paid my bills on time. I’m not a materialistic person. I don’t care about labels or what the Joneses have. I’d grown up in such poverty that i felt like i was livin’ large in my little low-rent apartment where everyone who lived there was my friend. I cooked, cleaned, and entertained my kids on a shoestring, but it never felt like we went without.

I have emerged from years of uninvolvement to find us in what i consider to be an untenable situation financially. I’m not happy with our debt load or the handling of our finances. That’s on me as much as it is on my husband, and i own that. But i’m ready to shoulder more responsibility in our relationship… And i’m coming up against some attitude and push-back.

So i’ve had to do an end-run. I’m in my 50s, and i’m done waiting for some things. I have to bear the responsibility for some of how things currently are, and i am. However, i’m going to get what i want, with or without help. Without help is fine — i’m hustling, i’m working, i’m striving. And if i’ve gotta come up against someone who’s standing between me and what i want, it doesn’t matter who it is or how i feel about them; i’m gonna do what i’ve gotta do. I am living in the second half of my life, and time waits for no one.

I’ve been a certain type of way for most of my life. Apologetic. Walker on eggshells. Terrified of rejection. Trying to be who other people tell me i should be. NO MORE. I might still feel that way sometimes, but it will no longer keep me from pursuing my vision. And a vacation is only the beginning. It’s not just about STUFF i want; it’s about things i want to DO. Things that will make the world a better place for me having lived in it.

I’m going after what i want. I’m pushing for it, and all those messages i got from abusive caregivers and well-meaning societal robots aren’t going to stop me. And anyone who has trouble adjusting to this new me can step aside. I did all that other work so i could do this work — so i could do something useful and help others instead of only trying not to die.

I want to write to help people, but i think i can help in other ways, too. My vision isn’t fully fleshed out, but i know where i’m at, and i’m clear on my next few steps.

This depression is slowing me down, but it won’t stop me. I have smaller plans to accommodate my current mental state. Plans for August that are doable, goals that are reasonable and reachable.
Watch me.
Help me or get out of my way.

I want to apologise for my tone in this piece so badly. I’ve lost the battle a little to even be writing this part, i think. But it’s babysteps, and i’m doing pretty well, all things considered. Being strong and firm and matter-of-fact is new for me. It’s hard to write these things, harder still to say them, and hardest of all to speak them to a loved one.

I am though, and i’m going to keep on with it.
Watch me.
Help me or get out of my way.

Y’all take care of yourselves as best you can, and i’ll do the same.

Hang in there.

Love and Peace,
~H~

What I Was Pretending Not to Know

I’m trying to write on my other platform, and i can’t. Well i can. I can still write poetry, but prose creeps along like molasses in January. I also have a couple of serious essays i’ve been working on that have ground to a halt.

I don’t have writer’s block. I have lots of ideas and several pieces in various stages of development that i like, i enjoy writing them, and i think (hope) they’ll be good. I’ve popped out some new writing along the lines of humorous commentary, which i’m pleased about. I have a wry sense of humour that i’ve been attempting to find a place for on my other platform, and getting accepted as a writer for a couple of the publications i enjoy has boosted my self-esteem. Which, if you follow my blog, you might realise was needed, or at least desired.

But i’m having trouble writing. Like, slipping into that bashedy-bash-bash flow that feels like free chocolate and new kicks were delivered to my door. Or when it’s so good, i feel like Snow White in the forest with all the forest creatures gathering around… It’s missing. I can sit at the laptop, pull up a piece, read what i’ve written so far, edit a bit and add another paragraph or 2… And i’m done. My brain seizes up. My Bits N’ Pieces infernal racket plays a part in that for sure, but also i just feel stuck, somehow.

Well, after my last time loss, my husband insisted i get back to therapy. He didn’t have to push, though, i wanted to talk to her. I’d cancelled an appointment as i was finished detoxing, and i wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t gotten into too much trouble drink-wise, and i was feeling okay to talk. But i still ducked it.

Being as dissociative as i can be, means knowing something while not knowing it can be on a whole other level. I think we can all ignore the truth that’s in front of us sometimes. I think feigning ignorance is a way to avoid any number of things that we might not want to face. Me, i do that shit like so many other folks, but Dissociative Identity Disorder can make it harder to be aware that i’m doing it because i have deeper and darker places to hide the knowledge. It can be kept from me by other personalities, some of whom have a great deal of power in who i am and how i operate, most of whom are difficult and crafty.

I saw my therapist yesterday. I told her frankly that i’m struggling with suicidality, and i told her my plan. She looked at me for a few seconds -long ones- and asked me a couple of pointed questions:
When is your birthday?
How old are you now?
How did you feel about this spring?


Asking those questions might seem weird. My therapist knows these things, at least approximately. She was asking me to access information that she knew i already had. Things i know that i’m pretending not to.

I was born into servitude. My mother had me to satisfy her own selfish desires. She wanted unconditional love and a vessel into which she could pour all the feelings she didn’t want to house in her own body, like shame, rejection, fear, and especially anger. It didn’t stop there, though. I don’t know how, although i could hazard a guess, but she came across people who wanted what she had — specifically, me. Men who would give her their attention, along with gifts and money. For me.

As open and vulnerable as i’ve been about my childhood trauma, i’m rarely literal in how i refer to specifics, especially the sexual abuse. I prefer to imply, allude to it, and use euphemisms and metaphors. What happened to me was brutal and ugly and horrific. It took years for me to use the words that tell what happened to me in the most simple and succinct language. Words like grooming and indoctrination. Words like trafficking and rape.

I was taught to lie, hide, and deny. I was told i was dreaming, that i had an overactive imagination, that i was a compulsive liar, overly dramatic, and an attention-seeker. I did what i was told, and i believed their lies and internalized their abuse.

Their lies.
Their abuse.

All these years i’ve just been dealing with my mother. I told myself it would be enough, because she was at the root of it all. It was hard to admit my mother was an abuser. It flies in the face of all my programming — all her programming. It was hard to accept my DID diagnosis. Not just because it’s fantastic and controversial. Not only because television and movies portray multiples using harmful and inaccurate tropes.

It’s also because my mother knew i was a multiple, and she knew because the men she trafficked me to, knew.

And now i’m going to write about what i don’t write about: the paedophiles that used my mother to get at me.

Don’t misunderstand me here, please. I’m a skeptic. I’m not a conspiracy theorist.
Some things about my childhood are provable, but some i’ll never know for certain. If it cannot be proven, i put it on a continuum of likelihood. I look for patterns of behaviour. I use what i’ve learned about other victims and their stories, again looking for patterns and probabilities. I try to state regularly the things that i’m not sure of and what i’m only guessing at.

So, consider this fully caveated.

It is my belief, although i do not know (knowledge is a subset of beliefs), that there are very “successful” paedophiles out there. They learn from each other, and yes, i believe there are some that form groups. I’m not talking about some massive worldwide cabal, but it is my personal, lived experience that some hang out together, and even abuse, together. Some paedophiles know about dissociatives like me. They look for qualities that might make a child more susceptible to dissociation, like long-term, preexisting trauma. Children like i was are the paedophile’s unicorn.

I was already shattered when they found me. I was already on the far end of the dissociative spectrum; i had alters. And they knew how to make more. So they did. They made alters in me to hide what was happening. More than that, though, they made them complicit in the abuse. They made parts that would ally themselves with them — my abusers.

I know that this is some whackadoo territory, so let me reiterate: i don’t know this, i only suspect it’s true. I have a therapist who is tops in her field, who confirms my suspicions based on her treatment of others who’ve been through similar extremes. I also have memories that back this up, although i know very well the unreliable nature of such, and the danger of confirmation bias that ever-looms over my interpretations.

So when my therapist asked me those questions, i stopped ignoring what i knew.
I thought i could get away with just dealing with my mother. But i can’t.
I’m going to have to deal with the men, especially the man i called “Daddy” and his best friend. There were other men, and some other women too, and i’ll work through what and whomever else i must.

There’s so much more about how i got to this place and why i believe these things, but i don’t know if, when, or how i’m going to write about them. This is quite enough for now. It’s taken me days to write this much — there is powerful programming coming up against me. I’ll be thinking about it and processing it with my therapist, making sure it’s the right thing for me to do and setting up solid, safe boundaries before i go any further with this part of my story. No matter what i decide, i’ll keep writing about the journey.

I feel like Michael Corleone, fuuuuck.

I hope this greases the wheels a bit and can get me writing more smoothly again.

Y’all hang in there. I’m doing my damnedest.
Love and Peace,
~H~

IMAGE: K8

Graveside Poetry

Goodbye in Three Acts


1.
I have worlds inside me
Universes where lives are lived and lost
I melt between them
appearing and disappearing
while my face forms into your desire
Cherub
Captive
Coquette
Chattel

I read the books 
and hid inside the pages
You thought you’d found me
but i wasn’t there
Meantime my body was your marionette 
Pleaser
Performer
Puppet
Plaything

I lost myself in cleaning up your kitchen
and cooking for you almost made me happy
still i knew to stay behind the iron curtain
while stirring the pot in my lead apron
it protected me from your x-ray eyes
Darling
Daughter
Doll
Delight

You never saw me
I was waiting in the wings
Listening intently for your reaction
to my performances
My golem dancing center stage
Sister
Sidekick
Savior
Slave

I live these worlds in dreams
Sleepwalking through my waking life
My children raised by a shadow
I look at pictures but i don’t remember
I was inside living orbits away

It’s all your fault
You put my hands and mouth
my fresh warm body 
in places i didn’t want to be
So i ceased to exist


2.
The cars that came to take me away
that brought me back scooped out and hollow
Never knew i was already gone
Long gone before they even knocked
I’d clicked my heels and blinked and flown away

Walking in space and dancing with stars
My mother was the sun
She shone so bright 
i couldn’t see the corpse beneath me
The maiden on the pyre made from my bones

I watched her burn to ashes
I shed no tears 
I voiced no cries
I floated down to her remains and
I performed my necromancy

I am the root of your carnality
the ramification of your wretchedness
the remonstrance of your rape
I am your reprimand and repercussion 
your reproof and I rebuke you

Your cross won’t stop me
from this sacred appointment
Nor my brother that you twisted
into ugly angry knots
His warning is my parting gift

I blink twice against the sunlight
to clear the water gathering
these tears I shed are not for you
they’re all for me
and from each drop that falls I’ll grow a diamond

I look down upon your resting place
the pretty pink stone merely performative
because in that place where we remember
no one truly mourns
The ground is the best place for you
Molester
Mutilator
Murderer
Monster


3.
Dear Mom,

You were a creature 
a canker 
a cancer

and I’ve come to your grave for the children inside me

You were a pestilence 
a plague 
a poison

but I planted these petunias to keep you imprisoned

You were a disease 
a deceiver 
a destroyer

Now I dare to dance over you in devout celebration

You were a slayer 
a strangler
a sniper

So I sing out my joy at the death of your savagery

All My Hate,
~Histrionica~
*Crossposted from my other platform