Sunday, January 27, 2013

mommy dearest

Momma doesn't really want to talk to me.

We had become quite close, but that is over now. She doesn't want to be around me.

She doesn't want to be around The Boy either.

How do I know this? Because she chooses, quite pointedly, to not be present.

I'm not sure if it's because she's mad at me or because she's ashamed of herself. I suppose it could be either one, depending on the time of day and her ability to feel remorse, which I question.

I've betrayed her, well, betrayed Daddy. In her mind it's the same thing.

That's what Daddy said anyway. She and I don't talk about it. We never have.

She just screamed in my face and lied to me about it for years.

While preaching to me of honesty and trust.

I suppose it may be hard to face me now, but I've done nothing to make it so. Perhaps she doesn't know I've forgiven her. It's not a concept she seems to grasp and she never bothered to ask.

Sunday, January 20, 2013


Who am I kidding?

One of the biggest reasons I don't write anymore is because I figure I don't really have anything so important to say that anyone needs to hear it.

I have, what I consider to be, important conversations with myself incessantly. With myself, with God, sometimes even with my dead husband or some other spirit passing through - but mostly it's a conversation just among God and I, a running dialogue if you will.

I've often wondered if people would think me crazy if they knew about this never-ending dialogue, this story that seemed to write itself. I've often questioned whether I might be crazy.

And I may be. In fact, I'm pretty sure I am, but aren't we all?

But I don't think it's crazy that I have conversations with God, and with myself. I'm pretty sure we all do.

I imagine it would be very lonely having only yourself to talk to. I wonder of those who do not believe in anything - in any higher power or natural law of order - I wonder how they explain that extra voice deep in their psyche.

That often silent, yet booming voice that alerts you to reconsider your actions, your motives, your words; to remind you that you are not alone; to nudge you down a certain path and to nag you (sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully) into seeing the Truth.

Don't we all have that voice?

Tuesday, January 15, 2013


There is no one person left on this earth that knows everything about me.

I recently found myself spilling my guts with a member of my extended family. She was always privy to the heavily filtered, often straight-up propaganda, version of of what the rest of the family thought of me so she never had a chance to really get to know me. We've been working on that.

I don't know what surprised me more, the fact that I shared so much with her or the fact that, while horrified, she didn't immediately begin placing blame and judgment.

There are pieces of my past that most people know very little about. Most people would rather not know.

The Husband would prefer not to know if I masturbate or not. I suppose it's safe to assume that he doesn't want to know about the various times in my life I've been violated either.

The First One knew all of that and then some. The difference is that we were friends first. We were always friends first.

There are things you won't think twice about telling your best friend, but you may hesitate and perhaps not ever tell your mom, your child, your spouse. Some people simply can't handle receiving certain bits of information. There is some information you simply don't want to share with certain people.

Is it truly necessary?

There's a certain comfort in knowing that there is someone out there who knows everything about you -good, bad and ugly - and still loves you anyway. It validates your sense of self-worth in a way very little else can.

But is there such a thing as too much information? Too much transparency?

After all, ignorance certainly can be bliss.

Monday, January 14, 2013

words, words, words

I used to be a prolific writer. Short stories, essays, poetry - the written word consumed me.

I don't know that any of it was any good. In fact, I always thought most of it sucked.

I was never much worried about whether or not it was any good. For me, it was all about the escape. Words provided that escape. Whether they were written by the masters - Shakespeare, Dickens, Bernie Taupin (and yes, I consider Taupin a master) or by me - words were beautiful. Rather, the often elaborate, sometimes deceptively simple, always unique way in which people strung them together was beautiful.

If I was awake, I was creating my own strings of words or reading someone else's. You never saw me without a book, a notebook and a couple of pens.

Then life got in the way.

At first I still read voraciously and scribbled on napkins in the middle of the night as I served bacon and eggs to the bar hoppers.

It wasn't long before the words no longer seemed important.

There was never enough sleep, never enough money, never enough words to change that.

I was trying to keep it all together, trying to keep him from self-destructing, trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. Words became a luxury.

I could not have found the words, or strung the words together in such a way as to adequately convey my emotions during that time period anyway.

Since then I've worked for a small newspaper, serving as a reporter, photographer and managing editor. I wrote hundreds of stories.

But that was different. Very different.

Oh sure, I'll go through a spurt - usually paired with some sort of emotional crisis, but I have never gotten back to the 5-25 page a day cycles I use to hit so frequently.

But that's back when my life revolved around words and now my words must revolve around my life. It's certainly an adjustment.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

offerings and boundaries

I suppose another problem is wrestling with what I should share.

Is there a thing as too much information? Too much insight into me?


It is in fact, quite probable.

But it is also all I have to offer.


It's hard for me to believe that anyone would care to know.

And I am always afraid that, if you did know, if any of you knew - really knew - you would no longer care.


Meanwhile the music of Mumford and Sons is making me very happy.

Saturday, January 12, 2013


I don't write anymore.

It's not that I've made the conscious choice not to. I just don't.

I don't spend that much time living in my own head. We miss out on an awful lot of living when we live locked away in our own minds.

I should, but I must hide to write. Be alone with that quiet voice murmuring within.


Work is a fabulous distraction.

It requires my focus. Every single minute.

By the time I've processed so much, I'm exhausted. I'm not ready for visitors at that point, especially if the visitor is me. I just want to shut down.

I not sure what I'm trying to prove.


I wonder sometimes if I'm supposed to hide away, in a cabin by the creek.

I know that I am. There is no doubt.

One day, when I've experienced more and know how the ending feels. Meanwhile I scribble sporadically and I wait.

Until Forever.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013


Some loves last forever. Real love always lasts forever.

It doesn't matter how much time has passed or how much distance separates you.

Some things never change. You always seem to find each other.

And if you wait, and trust Him, God always gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. Forever.