On Grief and Loss

When a loved one dies, our reactions are immediate

Some react with cries, wails, sobs, or

Shocked silence in which all reactions then become internal.

Others are angry

Angry with the deceased, the disease, the doctors

Angry at themselves

Angry at the situation, circumstances, the unfairness they perceive.

Some deny the facts in front of them.

Grief is a deeply personal process

Each person experiences it differently.

The commonly accepted Stages happen for each individual in their own time,

On their own terms.

Offer kindness, support, comfort, and love to the grief stricken. 

Your advice is not necessary.

Encourage them to talk

Listen actively

Reserve all judgments, criticisms, and destructive remarks.

Rather empathetically share your own experiences with grief

And help the suffering lay a plan for their personal process.

Realize there is no set period of time for grief

No deadline by which we reach it's end.

Walk with them hand-in-hand through anger, denial, depression, and bargaining.

Love through all.

Tend the wound.

Celebrate their acceptance whenever it comes.

Accept that, while scars heal, the marks they leave cannot be lost.

Resurrection

The recent tragedies in my family have created a wall

Erected internally from the depths of feelings

 direct descendants of their ancient predecessors,

 originally constructed to protect me from the agony of betrayal: 

those who betrayed me

those I have betrayed

These walls protect me for a time against the perceived threat.

When the threat no longer threatens, 

And there is only me

Like the ever forward movement of t i m e

My walls succumb to the force of Nature.

Some would say these walls are unnecessary

They do more harm than good. 

I disagree. 

The only harm comes when the walls cannot be breached -

The betrayals; the tragedies are real enough.

My soul can only take so much.

The tragedies; the betrayals are real enough.

For all of us...old souls and kindred spirits.

As the walls of my citadel crumble 

Inevitably

by the elements of Nature

I do not merely emerge "like a butterfly,"

In fact, I

Struggle to disentangle my newly formed body

Explore my new shape and abilities

Push through the crumbling walls that encased me

With my new found strength.

I do not immediately begin to rebuild.

I wait. I observe.

Observe using all my available faculties.

Observe. Wait.

Open my eyes; set off on a new course,

One that befits the change in my psyche -

My new life path.

The walls stay with me metaphysically.

A blueprint for my future travails.

My mind knows there will be future tragedies;

Future betrayals.

I will be prepared for the inevitable.

I will do all I can.

I will enter my sanctuary confident that I will rise again-

As the butterflies do.

As the phoenix does.

As Jesus did.

As Buddha,

As Ghandi.

All good things come to an end

So do their counterparts.

This knowledge, this faith, is strangely comforting.

I will one day emerge

Stripped of betrayals and tragedies

Stripped of metaphysical walls

And I will flow confidently

Into eternity.

Black-and-white

There is always something new to do

There is always something new to learn,

To be, to say, to have.

Only always never happens

And never always wins

Because I am complacent

Because I am comfortable,

Tired, stressed;

There's always some excuse:

I never get what I want.

I'm not who I always wanted to be.

 

I'll never get there. I'll always be stuck here.

There is no such thing as always 

Nor is there a never -

There is no such thing as black and white,

And, yet, there often is.

Modern Women

We modern women wear our badges of honor

with all the pride and sometimes pomp of 

a Scout or 

a soldier.

Gold rings on our fingers are the symbols of 

our greatest accomplishments. 

Class rings with 

 Dates 

  gems 

   symbols

Lockets with photos of our precious babes

Daily dangling at our throats

Gently tumbling between breasts that nurse no longer

But remind us of that sweet time when they did

And of the intensity of the love, pleasure, and pain

That only a breastfeeding mother can know

Regardless of how long that time lasted,

Whether five weeks, five months, or five years.

Wedding rings that we often think can symbolize 

what we hope to or in fact have accomplished:

The stronger, more expensive the band, 

the stronger the marriage

The higher quality the diamond,

The higher the quality our relationship

The cut of the diamond; an expression of 

individuality, 

character, and 

temperament.

Signature pieces of jewelry that note our 

independence from social norms

Whether these are bracelets, bags, photos, electronics, 

Pedicures, manicures, hairstyles, colors,

Clothes,

Shoes!

We have another badge, too.

Our names speak volumes to you.

We honor our mothers, fathers, husbands, children, families

We change our names

We hyphenate

We incorporate

We relinquish

We punctuate with letters

Meaning we are 

 Learned

  Professional

   Experienced

    Proud.

What's in a name?.....An identity.

We have paper badges, too:

Degrees,

 Certificates,

  Resumes,

   Records,

    Licenses,

     Documents,

      Decrees...

       Manifestos.

We have fabric badges, too.

Our scarves we drape around our necks

Regardless of the weather

Our scarves we tie with fumbling grace 

Covering our hair, 

Covering our faces, 

entwined with the tendrils of our hair you like so much to

Run your fingers through or

Grab and pull

When you take your pleasure.

We are modern women.

We are more than 53%.

Metamorphosis. Evolution. A new normal.

I have found a place

Inside

Where 

I can be slow

I can be

Me

The essence of me

Uninhibited

And carry this over to

My waking life.

To marry the voices in my mind

Mother to daughter. Plus me. Equals. Dawn.

Marry the woman I hold dear.

In answer to the question: Where is she?

She is me. We are one. We do not merely coexist. We have survived.

We have heard your advice. We accept your counsel. We analyze, incorporate

We become

Envy does not have to become hate. 

Embrace your envy. 

Create your success.

Rephrase the question, "Will I ever be...."

To "This is how I will be."

Know what it is you wish to be

Realize wishing is not an action. It is just a verb.

Accept that sacrifices will be made. Only those you are able to give

Unless your loved ones love you enough to give as well.

You are never alone. 

Their voices and your mind created you.

Do what must be done

Or choose a different fate.

A Mother's Memories to Her Child: My Father

My father's full name
Ralph Abraham (R. A.) Ambuehl

When and where he was born
April 6, 1947
Washington state

My father grew up in
Washington state; Cuba; Miami, FL.

My father's best story about growing up
Whenever he was naughty, his mom sent him to his room, which was, unbeknownst to her, not really a punishment because then he could read his books in peace.

Growing up in Cuba, he saw public executions on T.V. He, his brother, and sister were quite the novelty because they were blonde-haired and blue-eyed. The Cuban children would stare at them unabashedly.

His father sold books, so they traveled a lot. I have a number of the children's books his father sold. They have been bequeathed to my daughter, and she cherishes them as much as I do.

His dad once got so mad at my dad's brother because he wouldn't get in the car that he caught his sleeve in the car door and dragged him down the driveway.

His Nana and Baba's house in Miami with all the cats.

Screaming for my mom to get a broom so he could swipe the spiders from the ceiling. He was asleep. There were no spiders. He nearly gave her a heart attack.

My favorite memory of my father
He would carry me from the car to my room when I fell asleep on long drives. Sometimes, I just pretended to be asleep so he would carry me to my bed. I felt safe and loved in his arms.

One evening, he was out working in the yard. I panicked for some inexplicable reason. I felt so alone and frightened. My sister didn't know what to do with me (she's younger by two years), so she finally opened the front door and shouted, "Dawn! He's out here!" He rushed to me and gave me a huge hug.

The sad look in his eyes when I told him I wanted to change my name to dawn marie and drop the last name. You'll notice I hyphenated my name when I got married. I guess I changed my mind.

The time I told him that I never wanted to have children (by giving birth) and that I wanted to adopt when I was 30 - you know - OLD. He asked me how I was going to do that without a husband. I didn't agree with him, and I disagree even now because I believe many women are up to the task. Even though he may not have used the right words, he was trying to help me understand the important role of a father in a child's life.

When I was 15, I wrote a sort of suicide note at school, which my teacher gave to the counselor, the counselor to my mom, and my mom to my dad. He took me to lunch one afternoon while we were out shopping for psychiatric help, and he looked at me accusingly and asked, "What right do you have to take your own life? Do you know what you are putting us through?" I felt very ashamed of myself, but, by his saying that, I realized the depth of his and my mom's love for me. It gave me the push I needed to at least try to get better.

La Vie Peut-Etre Belle: Life Could Be Beautiful

Is there a place - a physical location - in the world where we can truly be everything we are?

In this Utopia, I would not rely on money to determine the direction my life takes.

In this Utopia, I would use my true talents in exchange for goods and services for people, not corporations, bureaucracies, hierarchies.

I would be able to clearly see my connection to all life, and this knowledge would give my life meaning and purpose.

Source: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtSpUqpGxX47c-BaucKMgUug6l4VWbdGasTyox3FdE-9lRf9eQvtRfmh3sBfiSWss9R9Zl3jwQJKRsENN0ymuCPuR-ynTX9J4FlpFRbvXlhrUbvL1eZg2ZE3zHw9VuHfGpaTr-hubJCHK/s400/collective-consciousness.jpg

I would not be perfect because that is unrealistic. I would be aware of all my flaws, mistakes, and I would know how to analyze, understand, and correct them so I would live more fully. I would be satisfied - content - in this knowledge so that I may live unencumbered by doubt or judgement in the fullness of the present moment.

I would not allow this lifestyle for everyone else. I don't have the right to allow it. It is an obligation  to respect individual members of our Utopia as well as to all the lives they touch. It is inherently understood. We all see and know these principles to be true, and we know the depth of our universal connection. 

If this place does exist, even on the smallest level, please give me the maps and instruction on the proper method of travel I need to make my way there. 

Make room for at least three people on the trip: My daughter, my husband, me. 

Make room in the Utopia's collective conscience for all the memories of the minds and souls we have touched. They are as much a part of us, and we could not leave them behind. It would not be right to do so.

When I have the maps and the instruction, I will liquidate my assets, renounce my earthly possessions, donate all that is unnecessary to make this trip to charity because I will not be coming back. 

When my journey is done; I will not be coming back. Only my spirit, thoughts, and memories will remain.   My body and my soul stay with me, until my body returns to the earth, and my soul is set free to choose its next incarnation.

• For more information about the psychological and sociological theory of collective conscience, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collective_consciousness.
• For more information about the movie Life is Beautiful, go to http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118799/. 

Dedication to My Favorite Uncle

Edward Howard Colson, Jr., a.k.a. Howie, a.k.a. Uncle Ed, was my favorite uncle. He was 58 years old. Two days from now, he would have turned 59. But, now, he will not live to see another birthday. He died last night.

My favorite uncle lived in Alameda, California just outside of San Francisco. Some would have called him a screw up, at least back in the 70's. His family thought he was dead after he ran off and found himself in a gutter in San Fran many years ago. He called his dad, my grandpa, and cleaned up his act.

But I don't remember any of that. I wasn't born, yet.

What I remember is the man who walked so fast, it was just below a run, so I had to run to keep up with him, even as an adult. Was he walking so fast to greet his future, or was he walking to avoid something? I don't know. I just knew I had to stay close, or I would miss all the fun.

He took me antiquing and picked out the most beautiful china, which he then placed tenderly on shelves you would think could not survive California earthquakes. But he knew better. He ushered me through the streets of San Francisco educating me about all the sights - talking as fast as he walked. He took me to his favorite hot spots, gorged me on Ghiradelli chocolate and clam chowder in a bread bowl. We strolled through Berkeley, The Castro, Haight Ashbury - all the while he's pointing out sites like a proper tour guide. We rode the trolley and trekked up Lombard Street. We walked the Golden Gate Bridge together and looked out over the edge of the world. We rode the ferry to Alcatraz and took the guided tour, joking around inside the cells and taking pictures.

Like most kids, I thought he was not just awesome, but indestructible. He survived a drive by shooting in Montrose in Houston many years ago. He survived the Bay Bridge collapse during the earthquake in 1989. The man always seemed to walk away unscathed.

That was his personality. He didn't let life get him down. There was too much life to be lived to worry about what could have happened.

From the time he was a small child, my Uncle Ed knew he was gay. In a letter to my grandmother, he "told it like it was." My mom still has the letter. She and the rest of his family thought even more highly of him because of his courage and bravery. Families don't always do what's right by each other as many, many, many of my uncle's friends can tell you.

The fact is, when my parents revealed this "family secret" to me, I was absolutely unsurprised. I looked at my mom and said, "Duh. He's gay. He took me antiquing for crying out loud."

He is, was, and always will be my favorite uncle.

He took us to Great America in California, and took me on a roller coaster that went upside down on the ceiling. I was a big girl, but my sister wasn't, so I got to go without her. Unfortunately, I was still too little for the buckle and almost fell out when we raced skyward, but he grabbed me tight and held on. What a rush that was! Of course, he made me promise not to tell my mom.

I remember his Beanie Baby collection from which he allowed my sister and me to choose just one each - the ones "born" on our birthdays.

His Nightmare Before Christmas collection.

His duplex.

His prize-winning poodles.

Deva, his pet cockatoo. She would stay on his shoulder even when he took her outside, and she ate from his own plate while he had his morning coffee.

His Halloween costumes. I have a picture of one of them. He wore a French maid's costume complete with mustache and feather duster.

Uncle Ed sent us Christmas presents every year until we were 18. He bought us the things my parents couldn't afford. When I was 15, we visited for Christmas, and he bought me a Union Bay jacket I'd been mooning over. An honest-to-goodness brand-name, brand new coat. Then we went to Sanrio AND FAO Schwartz! Toys! Brand, spanking new toys. With a twinkle in his eye, he would watch us as we browsed our favorite characters and surprise us later with a gift he knew we wanted.

When I was an adult, I finally got to accompany my Uncle Ed on night time adventures. We walked the beach in Florida and talked, or mostly, he talked. You couldn't get a word in edgewise when he was talking. But he always spoke the truth. The cold, hard, blunt truth. We went clubbing in Montrose and he told me about bear bars and drag queens.

At my wedding, he was one of two men who danced with me properly, expertly spinning me around in my wedding gown like he was born to do it.

My favorite uncle.

A year and four months ago, he found out he had cancer of the esophagus. After surgery and chemo earlier this year, his cancer came back, and it metasticized. It was in his bone marrow. I found out just two short weeks ago. My mom called this morning, and I knew as soon as I picked up the phone and heard her shaky voice that he was gone. All I could muster was an eloquent string of "No. No. No. No." I knew it was coming, and I knew he wanted to die on his own terms, and I knew he had already given up the fight, but I was stunned nonetheless.

When I talked to him two weeks ago, he said, "I don't like long check outs. When it's my time, I just want to go - no tubes, no machines, no drugs, nothing."

Yesterday, his family and friends celebrated his birthday. He stayed up reminiscing, telling silly stories, reading his cards, and opening his presents. He laid down on the couch to rest. My dad said he seemed delirious, but he was on a lot of medication, so that didn't seem amiss. My dad laid on the floor next to the couch, while my mom went upstairs to sleep. My uncle died there last night, on his couch in his home, surrounded by his beloved pets, family, and friends.

He died on his own terms; the same way he lived his life.

A Mother's Memories to Her Child: My Mother

My mother's full maiden name
Joyce Marie Colson

When and where she was born
May 23, 1947
St. Petersburg, Florida

My mother grew up in
St. Petersburg, Florida

My mother's best story about growing up
Playing bongos on the roof with her cousin Butch.

Sinking a canoe with her cousins.

Her brother throwing a frog with a firecracker in its mouth at her, and it exploded all over her. She fears frogs to this day.

Whipping a boy with her daddy's bullwhip when he tried to beat up her little brother.

Dancing the Jitterbug with her baby brother.

All the boys in high school hanging out with her and asking her details about the girls they liked (because she was a tomboy). She always wondered why they didn't ask her out since she was the one they talked to.

Taking care of her grandmother when she was ill and came to live with them. My mom's mom was too depressed to deal with her mother dying, so my mom had to grow up pretty quickly.

Her daddy.

A favorite memory of my mother
When she would show me her dolls she played up with as she grew up. She has them still - all wrapped up snugly in a Rubbermaid tub. Her mother and her grandmother gave her those dolls. They looked so funny to me as a child because they were so different from my dolls.

Singing "Que Sera" in the living room.

Comforting me when I had bad dreams.

Craft projects. We did tie dye, etching, gluing, painting...the works!

I always think of my mother whenever
I hear the song "Que Sera."

I have a bad dream. Only God and my momma make me feel safe.

I see my grey hairs.

From my mother, I learned
God made you the way you are. You are beautiful and intelligent, so don't worry what others think of you. Be yourself.

Be honest. Be kind. Be fair.

Don't judge others. Don't hold any prejudice. Don't be racist. Love everyone even if they don't agree with you.

Get your education. It is the best gift you can give yourself and no one can take it from you. Learn your whole life through. Read voraciously.

My mother's greatest gift to me
Accepting me for who I am no matter what.

My mother taught me that God
Loves you  no matter what.
Is perfect.
Loves you like a parent loves her child.

My favorite recipe of my mother's 
Her dirty rice she learned from her mother. She serves it at every major Catholic holiday. I finally learned how to make it when I got married, but it never comes out like hers. I'll have to keep trying!

Her Christmas breakfast casserole. It's a Jimmy Dean recipe she got off a package of breakfast sausage many years ago. It is delish!

Nachos. Chips, cheese, and pepperoni heated up in the microwave. Yes, I know. Very healthy. ;-)

Frozen fruit salad. Strawberries, whipped cream, and cream cheese blended and frozen. Nuff said.

Sweet potato souffle. Borrowed this recipe from my Aunt and never looked back.

Thinking about all this food excites me for Thanksgiving!

I hate being bipolar. It is awesome.

With each passing day, I become more and more aware of the internal functioning of my mind and body. 

MIND

Some days, I feel utterly in control of my thoughts, my feelings, and my life. I am perfectly capable of controlling how I react to circumstances, events, and people. Other days not so far  off (i.e. last week) I felt unable to control those same reactions. 

Some days I feel so organized. I make lists, check things off as they get done, make compromises for things I cannot do, make adjustments to my schedule with ease, and accept that some things must be put on hold for another day. Some things will never be done. And that's okay. I can keep track of my thoughts. My mind is not a jumble.

Those days I feel out of control, emotion takes over. Emotions become urges, impulses. Instead of being effortlessly proactive in controlling my responses, I become reactive to the impulses and do damage control. I have to exert a lot of energy trying to calm myself down so I can think rationally. 

In my ideal vision for the life of my mind, the better days would be more prevalent and the not so much better days would cease to exist, but I would keep the good things about me pre-treatment only modify them to fit my current lifestyle.

The hardest part of living through those days is when I start to question why I want to have control over my emotions. Have I lost a part of myself by taking medication? Does the medication truly work if the bad days still exist? The bad days aren't as torturous and destructive as they used to be. I don't contemplate suicide. I don't think the world would be better without me. I don't want the comfort of death because I know my mission and my life has purpose. 

I no longer question if my life has meaning, if humanity has a purpose, or what is the grand scheme of things. I no longer feel the need to question. The answers will be revealed. I do not participate in any religious ideology perse, but I firmly believe that a power greater than me has a plan, and questioning that plan wastes precious time I could spend just living the plan and having relevant pieces of the plan revealed when they need to be and when I am ready to know them.

When I was unmedicated - or self-medicating - there were good times between the mania and the depression. Times of lucidity that don't compare to where I am now, but were useful in their own right. I was more drawn to art, specifically the artists who suffered throughout their lives and had to cope with any number of different illnesses, diseases, or circumstances. I was more daring. Much more daring! But that's another chapter in and of itself. I think I'll call it "Confessions." Thank you, Usher.

But if you take away my ability to create these lists that keep me focused, organized, and in control which I - right or wrong - attribute to my medication, would I regress to my former mania and depression?

I am committed to only moving forward, never backward. Not again. My fear is that I have lost the good in who I was. I am starting to see her come back, slowly. I realize and accept this is my natural progression; the evolution of DAWN. I look forward. Not backward. Yet, I seek to rekindle the good from my youth and adjust it to fit my new, healthy vision for my life.

BODY

I have had so many insights through this period of not working full time achieving someone else's goals, and I have set new goals to which I will hold myself accountable and depend upon my family and friends for support. Yet another chapter. Stay tuned!

So many interesting things have come to pass since I have now had four months of self re-discovery. I am more mindful of my body's inner workings. I drink less alcohol because of the way it makes my body and mind feel. I never paid attention before. I only paid attention to the fallout the day after a binge in which I would feel tremendous guilt, self-loathing, and I would make promises to myself that I rarely kept. 

Sleep has been a key component to the improvement in my psyche which has led to a healthier appreciation and respect for my body. After countless months of insomnia, my doctor prescribed Ambien, which slows my thoughts to a point I can focus on one important thing at a time. It has allowed me to get organized, focused, and honest. I used to think I was an honest person. I have since learned that I was an ostrich; an escapist. 

The regimen of recovery prescribed by my chiropractic doctor has taught me to slow down physically and accomplish each task at hand and to be mindful of when I need to rest or treat my body more gently because everything can break if you put too much pressure on it. 

My self-image is undergoing its own, related evolution. This facet of me is still in progress and  will be elaborated in a future chapter.

I share this with you whether you suffer from a disease of the mind, whatever state you are in, and to our families. I hope to shed some light on the turmoil we can cause and promote empathy for all individuals involved. 

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, priest, yoga instructor, or a lawyer. My experiences are my own. Consult your own medical or spiritual guide to find a solution that will benefit your life.

A Mother's Memories to Her Child: My Birth

I recently reread a book my mom wrote for me. A Mother's Memories to Her Child. I gave it to her for Christmas in 2004. She gave it to me in 2010 after I had Maya. I am going to answer some of the questions from the book for Maya, and I will share the answers with you.

MY BIRTH
When and where I was born
June 1, 1978 - Hermann Hospital - Houston, TX

My parents named me
Dawn Marie Ambuehl

• Dawn for Dawn Osborne
• Marie for my mother
• Ambuehl for my father

My earliest memories
Getting my thumb slammed in a car door while helping my neighbor's mom put her son in his car seat. It was very painful, which is why it is my earliest memory.

Watching the rain on the windowpanes in the living room.

Waking up after nightmares and running to my parents room. Crawling in bed with my mom because she made me feel safe.

Getting teased on the playground because I didn't play like all the other kids. I wrote stories and drew pictures.

Getting choked by a boy as I tried to run away from him on the playground.

Watching a boy in my class get bullied by other boys.

Prank calling boys with my best friend while hiding in her closet buried beneath the clothes.

Birthday parties in the backyard. I'm a summer baby, so we always got to run around in our swimsuits. My mom made cakes for almost every one of my birthdays. She took a Wilton class to learn how to decorate them.

The Halloween costume parade at my elementary school. I was "Mary Had a Little Lamb," and the boy I had a crush on told me I looked pretty.

Trips to Florida to visit my grandma. She was my best friend.

Going antiquing with my Uncle Ed. He is still my favorite uncle.

Dancing in the living room with my mom and sister to the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields."

Fighting with my sister, and kneeling in the corner of the hallway until we apologized to each other.

Building houses, ships, and forts with pillows with my sister, and turning the fan on high to pretend we were in a storm.

My mom, my sister, and me getting sick with the flu and missing the Christmas play at my elementary school. My mom was so sick, she came into our room to wake us for school and just collapsed on our floor. My dad had to help us all get dressed.

Performing a dance to the Beastie Boys' "You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party" in music class.

My first cat Sir John. He was pure white, very large, and liked to sit on the headboard of my mom's bed and swat at her hair. I adored him. I cried when he died, and my parents buried him in the back yard.

Faces

Behind every face

Is a darkness

In many imperceptible

In precious few

Visible

In virtually none

Hidden

You do not see

Because you do not look

Do not want to see

Occasionally you 

Recognize

And realize

You are not alone

Elements that matter

Air
Fire
Water

Maya

The true love of my life

I love her

Without question

I would do anything

To keep her...

She is not mine to keep

Only to protect

And shelter 

Water

Air 

Fire

The elements of my life:

Water - her

Fire - our instinctual bond

Air - an undeniable necessity

I breathe and receive

All that is good

And quiet

In silent acquiescence 

I appreciate the silence

Adhere to it

With fire in my heart

My daughter

My soul

No matter what she does

Who she becomes

Etched on my soul

She is life incarnate

She is fire

Water

Air

She is real

And I will never forget

I am the one

Who brought her

To co-exist

Fire

Water

Air

I breathe

I drown

Exhale

Ascend, and

In the end

We are all that matters.

Relax

Each person who has touched me
Has left a mark
Indelible
On my psyche,
my soul,
my mind,
my body
By choice or by force
Irreversible

Any attempt at removal would leave scars
Scars that exist upon scars
Bruises shaped over bruises.

A body does not move backward
It is not locked in place

A mind creates pathways
Connections that later cannot be disconnected
Only revised

Once healed, scars inflict less pain
Sometimes none at all
Some scars invoke pleasant memories
And some unpleasant
What's done cannot be undone
That is as it should be

We inch closer each day toward new wounds,
New scars,
New memories
New pleasures and new pain
The old are not forgotten but diluted
Extinguishing the flame

I am glad for this
I welcome the freshness
Of life not yet lived
Future promises fulfilled and broken
I do not hesitate to step forward
I rarely look back
What would I see there but damages done
To my body,
My flesh,
My soul

Mind over matter.
Never mind.
Only ask
How have I fulfilled my fate?
Have I created destiny?
And when I sleep
I dream
And there is nothing can take that from me

Would I choose to do things differently?
Yes
Do I regret my actions or the actions others inflicted on me?
Yes
Would I change them if I could?
Yes
Can I change?
Yes

I can change.

Don't ask too many questions
Only ask what drives me forward
Through each moment of clarity
In the present.

Relax.

About my wings, finding what was lost, and Halloween

Somewhere along the line, I lost myself. I hid my thoughts and feelings from my coworkers for five and a half years. Because the place was so conservative, I had to change the way I behaved, the way I dressed, and the way I look. My tattoos barely saw the light of day for that period of time. I even put my makeup on differently.

Unfortunately, now I'm trying to find myself again, and I'm not sure what's left of the person I was. It's not necessarily a bad thing. I just have to reinvest in myself, introspect, meditate, and get back in touch with the essence of my being. But, being alone with myself is tough. I haven't been without busy work for as long as I can remember. 

Whenever I've gone through a big transition, I've cut my hair off. This time, I cut it shortly before I left my job, the week I was on vacation. Like a reptile shedding it's skin, there's something liberating about physically removing a part of myself when entering a new era. I am a different person now. Literally. I like myself a lot more this way. I feel peaceful.

This fall, I'm going to alter myself again - physically. I've been planning a new tattoo for two years. James sketched it for me right around my birthday. I've been carrying it in my purse since then. It's Maya's name in Arabic drawn into the form of a water lily. I want to have it tattooed over my heart.

This has me thinking about my first major tattoo, which was also two years in the making. This October will be the nine year birthday of my wings. This is significant because it will also be my nine year anniversary with James and our seventh wedding anniversary. 

For the two years prior to meeting James, I thought about getting wings tattooed on my shoulderblades. At the time, I was fascinated by fairies and faery lore. Not Tinkerbell, but real faeries: The good, the bad, and the ugly. I started researching Amy Brown's fairy depictions. I liked hers the best of all the artists. Her fairies are playful, sweet, fun, mischievous, beautiful. Many are grounded in reality with bold, opaque colors. I love the ethereal look, but that's just not me.

So, I printed out my favorite Amy Brown pieces and went to my favorite tattoo studio. Sacred Heart Studio in Houston, a purple house converted to a two part studio, half dedicated to piercings and the other to tattoos. It's brightly lit and painted several different neon colors inside. Parked in back is the shop owners' art car: A giant yellow sunflower. 

The owners themselves are some of the most attractively decorated people I've ever seen. She's an older woman, probably early to mid forties, very fit, with short hot pink hair, dramatic makeup, spacers in her ears, and a lip piercing that looks like a Cindy Crawford mole. He's a short but very fit older man whom I can only describe as having the appearance of an artist. They don't talk much, but, when they do, their kind and eclectic personalities shine through.

So, I went in and asked for Danny, the tattoo artist who had done a different tattoo for me previously. The Danny that came up front to talk to me was not the Danny I remembered. I asked what happened to the other Danny, and new Danny told me he'd been shot and killed by his girlfriend. Um.... awkward.... 

But, new Danny and I got to know each other a bit. I showed him my printouts and explained my vision to him. He promised to draw up some sketches and call me in when they were ready. 

During this same period of time, I met James. After a rocky start, we became good friends. He came with me to get my tattoo. There were two sessions. At the first, while I winced in pain for a couple of hours, he held my hand and made jokes to distract me. Danny asked how we met. We both laughed and said we were "just friends."

By the time my wings were complete, James and I were a couple. I hosted a Halloween party where I debuted my wings. The two of us went shopping together for costumes. I found mine in the discount section because it was missing the wings, and, of course, that wasn't a problem for me. James didn't find anything. Once he decided what he'd be for my party, he wouldn't tell me. He wanted it to be a surprise. 

He came to my party as the Crow.

Life sometimes imitates art. Or is it vice versa?

James and I were married Halloween weekend. I wanted to be married on Halloween that year, but it was on a Monday. Instead, we were in London for our honeymoon. We got lost in Kensington Gardens, locked in after hours, but we didn't mind. We strolled hand in hand down well groomed paths between perfectly straight aisles of trees until we found an exit. We toured the streets, parks, and alleys with Brits in all sorts of costumes: ghouls, goblins, princesses, fairies, rag dolls, comic book characters....

I love Halloween, and here is why: We get to dress up. We get to be someone else. We get to show on the outside what we think we are on the inside. We express our humorous, fun, dark, and/or sensuous natures to the world. We can pretend for one day that we are not ourselves, and, in that moment, we are more like ourselves than ever. 

Positivity?..Possibly

Let's talk about something positive. Like puppies and kittens. Or rainbows and unicorns. That's positive, right?

Ha! Who am I kidding? I don't do positive. I've done all sorts of self-help, and the fact is, I can find the worst in just about anything. I never thought anyone could top me until I met my husband. He hates people. Not any person in particular, just people in general. After being with him for eight years, I'm starting to see his point.

Would we humans devolve into anarchy and chaos if there were no laws to protect us, no "common sense" to guide us, no morality, no rules, no religion?

I studied philosophy, in fact, I minored in it in college, and I still debate this question. Are people inherently good or evil? Or both? Or neither?

Putting aside the extreme cases, look at how we interact on a daily basis. Commuting on the highway. Vying to be first in the checkout lane. Office politics. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. In the long run, do any of those things even matter? Will I worry about which parking spot I got at the grocery store at age 30 when I'm 80? Hell no.

This could be a very subjective question, one based on where and when you are born and raised. How much of our personalities is determined by nature versus nurture?

An example for contemplation: My maternal grandmother was a foster mom to countless children. Many of the children who grew up alongside my mom were from abusive homes, and I don't mean normal abusive. I mean literally treating a child like a dog, complete with leash, bowl, and sleeping on the porch. The boy in question grew up to be a lawyer, a father, and a husband. He's very successful, and recently took my parents out on his yacht. How do you account for that? He says it was my grandmother, but others came through her house and did not turn out that well.

Another case in point, my neices. Three are from broken homes. Two are "good" girls and one's a "bad" girl. Their circumstances are largely the same, so why did one end up in a "home" for girls miles away from her family because she was deemed a bad influence on her younger siblings while the other two could have their pick of any boy (or girl) and any college they want?

I wonder these things about my daughter. How will she end up? Even if James and I stay together, even if we give her the best possible upbringing, what will she do with her life? She's so bloody fucking headstrong, even at three years old. Will she do everything in her power to test us? Will she specifically look for ways to hurt herself, or us, or both?

In other words, will she be like me?

And anyway, what's wrong with me? I've done some horrible shit, some things I won't go into now. Some things my seventeen year old self would NEVER in a million years have thought possible.

In my darkest moments, which I'm sorry to say have been numerous, though not recent, I've wondered why any of it matters. Why do we strive toward anything at all? Aren't we all just matter? Just atoms moving about, making minimal impressions in the grand scheme of things? When you look at things from the earth's perspective, aren't we insignificant? Doesn't an ant think it's own life is pretty darned important?

I learned about the history of our planet in theology. Yes, theology. I'm pretty sure my professor's intention was not to prompt me to contemplate the human race's insignificance, but it did. Our planet is so old, and, yet, it's young compared to the universe. So, what does that make us? If we are barely a blip on the universe's map, what is our purpose in existing at all?

I was raised a Catholic, but my problem is that I question, and, therefore, I am. I have so many questions, and Jesus doesn't give me answers. Only riddles; mysteries. I am supposed to have faith that my life has a purpose. Unfortunately, I wasn't born with oodles of patience or faith.

The reason I toyed with suicide so much was because I didn't believe my life had any purpose. But, the will to survive is instinctual, and I couldn't fight it. Believe me, I tried.

I didn't think my life had purpose until I had Maya. When she came into the world, when I brought her into the world from my own flesh, my own agony, I realized that she is my purpose. Even if it's only to continue our species (which it's not), bringing her life into the world and raising her to the best of my ability is my life's purpose. And, I'm okay with that. Because she is who she is, and she will be who she chooses to be, and her life may bring new life or impact other lives in a meaningful way.

She is not, nor will she ever be, nothing. And neither am I. And neither are you. We are important. I don't know why or how. I don't know why other people suffer and die. But I'm dying every day. And so is she. And so are you.

We live. We breathe. Every day, our lives touch others, whether positively or negatively. Then we die, and our deaths mean something to someone. Not just someone, but the people whose lives we have touched. 

And that means something.

Doesn't it?

Marie

Out with the old. In with the new.

I never knew how great it is to be alive until I gave birth. I didn't know how much I would love motherhood or how much I could love a child. We women are blessed with great power. Great, animalistic power. The power to give life and to sustain it. Even those of us who are denied the power to give it can protect it.

I've said and thought some awful things about my mother, but one thing is certain: Her miraculous life gave birth to mine. Her determination sustained and protected my life.

 In 1947, my grandmother was told she would give birth to a stillborn. When she did not, she was told not to expect her 2.5 pound daughter to live longer than a few days. My infant mother slept in her father's shoe box with a handkerchief as her blanket. My mother is now 65 years old and quite healthy.

Until a few years ago, we did not know my mom was Creole, but I grew up hearing the tale of my parents' honeymoon when they were denied a hotel room because they were a "mixed" couple. Growing up on the beaches in St. Petersburg, Florida, my mom was the envy of her friends because of her beautiful, tan skin. Despite her obvious beauty, and like most teenage girls in the sixties, my mom spent hours trying to iron the tight curls out of her jet black hair.

My great grandmother gave my mom her middle name. Marie. Bitterness. It is my middle name and my daughter's too. As a child, I didn't understand the word "bitter." What I did understand was that my mom was angry. She was angry with the way she had been treated as a female.

Her parents saved for her younger brother's education, but not hers. She was expected to take care of the family. She took care of her dying grandmother when her own mother was incapable. She wasn't allowed to have a car and had to rely on her little brother to drive her to work. She went from her father's house to her husband's without ever knowing what it was like to live independently. I grew up hearing these stories and much more, I can assure you. I took in her anger, every last bit of it.

I took it all in when she and my brother had screaming matches in the living room while my dad sat on, paralyzed with indecision. I took it all in when she screamed at me while I cried. "Why are you crying? There's nothing to cry about!"

I can still hear the scratchy, bleating anger issuing from her mouth when she screamed. I can still see the fury in her brown eyes and the fire in her red cheeks. After one such incident, I remember her crying all alone on the porch. It frightened me. I was accustomed to her screaming, not to her crying. She took off in the car that night. To this day, none of us know where she went, but she was there in the morning, smiling like nothing had happened.

That was her signature. She could somehow turn it on and off like a switch. It never occurred to me until I experienced it for myself that she wasn't in control. As much as her anger terrorized me, it probably terrified her just as much.

So, from age 12, I decided I would not have kids. I  feared I would be just like my mom, and I did not want them to experience the same pain. I did not want to be responsible for inflicting that sort of pain on another human being.

You could say that I have been more fortunate than my mother. She and my father both sacrificed so I could have a car, an education, a place of my own. They took me from one doctor to another to get me the help I needed. They took me to support groups, therapy, and even rehab. The world is such a different place from when my mom was a little girl. I pray it will be even better for my daughter. I hope I will have a hand in making it a better place for her, and that, should she ever experience a similar mental disability, that I will recognize it immediately and help her cope with it.

More than anything, I hope that she will never understand the meaning of her middle name, but that she will carry it with her as a reminder of how far we have come.

My letter to the world

"This is my letter to the world,/That never wrote to me." Emily Dickinson


Last Monday, I liberated myself from my job of five and a half years to set out on a new adventure. Rather than continuing to allow others to define my future, I've decided to define it for myself.

I have been a writer since I was in elementary school. I'm not sure at what age I began, but I remember my first story. I wrote about the origin of bluebonnets and brown-eyed susans. It was a complete fantasy with dancing girls and laughing trees.

My first poem was about a rose. Do you want to hear it?

My velvet rose,
Standing there in her soft, gentle pose,
Turning in her small, frail way,
Until she dies and fades away.

Too depressing for a little girl? You haven't heard anything, yet.

My childhood can be summed up in three words:
Imagination,
Tears,
Nightmares.

I have vivid memories of my nightmares. I can recall the images even to this day. Foxes hunting me; snakes lashing out at me; lonely, deserted planets; war; dogs with red eyes; stark, white labyrinths; and water. Always water. Water of all shapes, sizes, depths, colors...

In dreams, water symbolizes emotions, and the qualities of the water reveal the state of those emotions. The water in my dreams was always changing, drowning me, moving me, pushing me, forcing me. That was how it felt to be awake, too. Drowned in emotion. Uncontrollable. Pushed to the brink, and plunging feet first into darkness.

My mom used to scold me to "get control" of myself, but I couldn't. I really couldn't. My heart would race, it felt like fire in my brain, my whole body was possessed by anger and despair. I hated it, but I couldn't stop it from happening.

When I was little and I awoke from these nightmares, I would be paralyzed at first, but once I regained my faculties, I would climb down from the top bunk, race through the dark living room, and stand by my mother's bedside begging her to let me in. I would lay beside her, nearly falling off the edge, and stare at the dark room until I was forced to blink. She would snore, but, as long as her arm was around me, I felt mostly safe.

My nightmares continued into my teens. In fact, even in my early twenties, they plagued me. I felt like a fool at that age crawling in bed with my mom, but a girl does what she has to. When I lived on my own and I had nightmares, I would turn on the lights and pray - beg - God to take the nightmares away.

After five years of therapy, I became a novice at interpreting dreams and learned that my dreams could be very instructive.

The last nightmare I had was in my late twenties, after I had been married for a couple of years. I awoke one night screaming. That had never happened before. Before, I had always been paralyzed. The only thing I remember from the dream was the anger in my mother's eyes as she glared at me and my mouth opening wide to scream at her to stop.

The dream clarified for me the years of emotional abuse I endured. That abuse, combined with adolescence and the massive fluctuations in my hormone levels, triggered the diagnosis I finally received two years ago: Bipolar Disorder 2. My mom probably had it, too, or at least she had something like it.

I have made many rash decisions before. Impulsive decisions based solely on my emotions. Recently, and for once in my life, I made a dramatic life change after carefully considering all ramifications, just like a rational person, while also honoring my emotional "gut" feelings.

So, I quit my job a week ago. It's time for me to take control of my future, to define my own destiny rather than allowing others to do it for me. Not my mom, not my husband, not my daughter, father, sister, brother, teacher, lover, friend.... Just me.

This is my life. And I came here to share it with you. Will you join me?