Pushed to the limits, she has no choice but to turn and fight. Her fist raises high about her raven hair, her eyes solid black as though the devil himself had taken over her soul. Her skin starts to burn, her breathing turns shallow, her fists get tighter and tighter. Her heart beats slowly....she is not angry....she is not moved. She is steadfast, concentrated, slowly she takes a step forward, unsure what he is going to do...one step at a time....slowly making her way towards him. He is confused, an she sees it for a moment. It was a moment of weakness on his part.
A moment that cost him his life.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
A scary trip....
I have recently found myself on the reverse side of karma, while I generally try to maintain a healthy balance of good and bad karma, the last months recent evens have led me to believe that I am doing more harm to myself than good by being helpful and willing to commit so suddenly to people who really don't deserve help.
Take my sister for example, I uproot my son, my life and everything I know, because she needs help taking care of a woman who I have absolutely no respect for. I give into their needs putting my sanity, my health and my emotions last to theirs. In the end this woman defined her true personality. Showing me that while you can have faith in people its probably not a good idea to have faith in someone like her. She is still to this day mentally ill and should probably not be a functioning member of society. She will do what she needs to do in order to get to where she thinks she needs to be, and in the end doesn't care who she hurts to get there. I believe that she and my mother are more alike than they realize.
Then there are the so called friends who are so willing to let you into their lives only to make sure that when they screw you they REALLY screw you. I left one abusive home to go into a dysfunctional home. In all of this change I have tried to maintain a healthy outlook on things and so far its kind of working, but at this juncture I find myself homeless, alone and tired. I am ready to give up, I am ready to throw in the towel. Everyday that I wake I struggle with how I got to where I am now, and how I managed to disrupt and destroy everything I have worked so hard for in the last 6 months to create.
I have lost the promotion that everyone around me worked so hard to get me, I have lost my home, my car and along the way friends. I have always been alone as far as family is concerned, but my friends mean a lot to me. They are the ones that have always been there for me, and lately I find myself with out any. I find myself desolate and struggling. Gasping for air. I find myself having anxiety attacks about doing things I wouldn't normally freak out about. And the saddest thing, is that I have no way to control it. No matter the medications the doctors prescribe, they don't do me any good.
I am determined to bounce back from the situation I find myself in, but at times find myself wondering if there was something I could have done differently in life. Or is this just what people have to go through sometimes to reset their lives to normal mode. I want to be able to eat dinner at the table with my son, to watch a movie with my boyfriend in bed, and to know that if either is hungry, all they have to do is open the fridge and not worry about where their next meal is coming from.
I think I can do this, but I pray to god every day that he continue to give me the strength to carry on.
Take my sister for example, I uproot my son, my life and everything I know, because she needs help taking care of a woman who I have absolutely no respect for. I give into their needs putting my sanity, my health and my emotions last to theirs. In the end this woman defined her true personality. Showing me that while you can have faith in people its probably not a good idea to have faith in someone like her. She is still to this day mentally ill and should probably not be a functioning member of society. She will do what she needs to do in order to get to where she thinks she needs to be, and in the end doesn't care who she hurts to get there. I believe that she and my mother are more alike than they realize.
Then there are the so called friends who are so willing to let you into their lives only to make sure that when they screw you they REALLY screw you. I left one abusive home to go into a dysfunctional home. In all of this change I have tried to maintain a healthy outlook on things and so far its kind of working, but at this juncture I find myself homeless, alone and tired. I am ready to give up, I am ready to throw in the towel. Everyday that I wake I struggle with how I got to where I am now, and how I managed to disrupt and destroy everything I have worked so hard for in the last 6 months to create.
I have lost the promotion that everyone around me worked so hard to get me, I have lost my home, my car and along the way friends. I have always been alone as far as family is concerned, but my friends mean a lot to me. They are the ones that have always been there for me, and lately I find myself with out any. I find myself desolate and struggling. Gasping for air. I find myself having anxiety attacks about doing things I wouldn't normally freak out about. And the saddest thing, is that I have no way to control it. No matter the medications the doctors prescribe, they don't do me any good.
I am determined to bounce back from the situation I find myself in, but at times find myself wondering if there was something I could have done differently in life. Or is this just what people have to go through sometimes to reset their lives to normal mode. I want to be able to eat dinner at the table with my son, to watch a movie with my boyfriend in bed, and to know that if either is hungry, all they have to do is open the fridge and not worry about where their next meal is coming from.
I think I can do this, but I pray to god every day that he continue to give me the strength to carry on.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My addictions
“Why does it have to be so damned cold?” I think to myself as I stand on the side of the gas station waiting for the grey hound bus to arrive. Its 1998, it’s cold, and I am in Albuquerque, NM waiting for a bus to take me home to Phoenix. I just watched them put my brother in the ground, I’m coming down from a 2 week meth binge, and my dad is no where to be found. What a surprise there. He has never been there. Unless he needed something or he was on furlough from the “farm”. I feel as though the world is folding in on me, and the only thing I can think of is getting back to phoenix and hitting up my dealers house. Man what I wouldn’t give for a big bowl of smurf dope, I can smell it as the torch melts the first few crystals, the first hit is always the best. It’s the smell of chemicals, mixed with addiction. Addiction. It’s a word I’ve been best friends with since I was 12. First it was sex, then marijuana, it was heroin for a short stint, then alcohol and now I find myself addicted to meth. Don’t get me wrong, I still dabble in all of the above on occasion, and I definitely still have sex as much as a fat kid eats Twinkies, but my one true love will always be meth.
What, you are asking yourself, would bring me to this level, this level of self loathing and destruction? Over the years I have asked myself the same question, and now that I’m pushing 30, I think I finally have the answers.
I started drinking when I was 12, I had sex when I was 12 and smoked my first doob when I was 12. 12 was the magical number. But let’s travel even farther back to a time where innocence should have been but was replaced with feelings and thoughts of suicide, hatred and self loathing.
My very first cognizant memory was when I was 4. It was dusk and we were visiting a friend of my mom’s, more than likely she was inside getting high as I was running around outside, alone. I guess in that time there wasn’t too much concern for child predators. Or at least she wasn’t too concerned. This family lived next door, I used to play with their kids all the time and they had a German Shepard. This dog was always around the kids, never snapped at any of us. He would always walk me back next door, making sure I got home safely. One night, something must have been triggered and as we were walking home, I remember walking beside him, then I remember him on top of me, growling, and trying to eat my head whole. I was confused, I was scared and I was alone.
I remember hearing yelling, as my mom’s friend Lucy came running out with a broom, all the while my mom was on the porch. Why wasn’t she helping me? Why wasn’t she running to my rescue? I remember sitting in the front seat of the car, more specific Lucy’s El Camino, asking my mom to stop pouring water on my face, because I can’t see and I it’s drowning me. I remember lying in the urgent care hospital bed, crying for my sister, crying for my grandma. I can remember closing my eyes, and opening them and my sister was there. Holding my hand, telling me it’s ok. And it was ok, she was there. She was there to protect me. I didn’t want my mom, I wanted my sister. I wanted my dad, but thanks to my mom, he was locked up again. I guess it’s not her fault really, but at the time I felt it was. I felt that she could have done better to keep him clean and keep him out.
I remember staring out my window at the hospital, there was a bar across the street, and I could have sworn I would watch my mom walk across the street and go in there and not come out for hours. I remember going through the double doors, into surgery and begging my sister to come with me, because I was scared. I remember my sisters face, as they took me back. Anger mixed with fear mixed with hate. I can remember praying that she didn’t hate me, praying that I hadn’t messed up again. I didn’t know that her anger was towards my mother, and I would later find out that once again she wasn’t around to protect her children.
Fast forward a few years…..we had just moved into a house off of Los Padillas, this house had an acre of land and this huge hay loft in the middle of the field. I used to walk to school, which was a few blocks away. I would hunt for crawdads in the irrigation ditch behind our house; I would sit and watch the sunset with my best friend Freddy. Freddy was just as broken as I was. I was destined to marry him. He was my first kiss at 7; he was the only person who understood what it felt like to be ignored. His dad used to beat his mom, he would come home from work and get drunk and the yelling would start. I could always guarantee that Freddy would be with me until his mom called him home. He lived right next to us, and sometimes his dad wouldn’t let him come over. So we would sit by the chain link fence our fingers interlaced, ants crawling over us. Laughing about the time when the crawdad pinched my finger and it wouldn’t let go.
We would tromp through his mom’s vegetable garden, helping her pick cucumbers; we would lie on his bean bag chair in the family room watching movies or T.V. We would always watch Transformers, or G.I. Joe, or He-Man. He wanted to be He-Man when he grew up and I wanted to be She-Ra. And we would have a big farm and raise animals and kids and have a garden. He told me he would never hit me, and I told him I would always love him, unconditionally. I told him that would forever be best friends, no matter what. And when we were 30 if we weren’t married we would marry each other. I sometimes lie in bed wondering where he went. What did he end up doing with his life? Does he love his wife, his kids and his family? Did his dad finally stop hitting his mom? Does his mom still have a garden? Did he get his ranch with the animals and never ending love? I wonder if he ever thinks about me, and for a fleeting second I can feel him. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it feels true.
That house was a house of discovery for me. There were other houses along the way, the house on silver, where my sister locked me in the basement, the house on copper where my mom would bring Charles over to hook her up with coke and weed. There was the house where I last saw my dad until I was a teenager. I will get to all of these, but I want you to see that I wasn’t always broken. I wasn’t always chaotic and angry. I was made to love. I see that now, I am a caregiver, I am a lover and I am the true essence of a mother. I am a fountain of never ending love. So why, why am I so broken? Maybe I feel broken, but in all reality I am completely whole, with a few nicks and scrapes.
That house, in Los Padillas, nestled in the south valley just out side of Albuquerque was the start of many things for me. It was where my fondest memories were created with my father, where my mother would become jealous and threaten to call my dad’s PO. Where my brother Michael would take care of me when I was sick, and call me a runt and a jerk when I invaded his button collection. Where I would find the dirty needles and cotton balls, the bent spoons behind my dresser, and they didn’t belong to my dad. Where I learned to set the timing on a 1984 Nissan Sentra, and where I would remember walking out to my dads shop, two seconds after he had just mainlined a spot of heroin. I remember having my first holy communion, my grandma so proud of my white dress and perfect veil. I remember my mom intentionally burning my veil because she was jealous that my grandma was paying attention to me. I remember all my aunts and uncles, and cousins and family coming to visit and my mom sitting in her room getting high. My dad, my grandma, they were proud of me.
I remember my dads 1957 Candy apple red Chevy pick up, fully restored with a wooden deck bed in the back, and bouncing on the seat as we drove down the street coming home from baskin robbins. Lynrd Skynrd playing on the radio, the windows down, the wind tossing my hair around and my dad laughing, calling me leggers. I remembered being loved. I remember my dad loving me and my mom hating me. I remember my sister visiting and my mom ruining the visit. I remember lying in bed at night listening to the sounds outside, wishing Freddy could be with me. A child at the age of 7 shouldn’t know what sex is, or what feelings this act invokes in you, but I wasn’t a normal child. I was a child who had been molested, by people she trusted. I was a child who understood what addiction meant, but would never completely understand what addiction was until I was 12.
We moved from that house, we moved from that house to another house. This house was downtown. It was a 2 story town home. We moved from that house, from Freddy and from those long gone memories. The day we moved, I never saw him again. I never saw the boy I was supposed to marry and have a family with. The boy who would grow up to be a man, who would love me unconditionally and cherish every word I said.
This new house was cool, it had a spiral staircase up to the 2nd floor, my room had a view of the city, and the kitchen had brown Saltillo tile. This was my last Christmas with my father, right before he went back to the joint and right before we moved to Austin. I didn’t care what I got for Christmas, as long as I could sit on my dads lap and open presents. As long as I could smell his old spice cologne and feel his stubble on my face when he woke me up Christmas morning.
Everywhere I went I made friends. I made one friend here; she was a lonely old lady. Her name escapes me now, but I remember how she loved turtles, despised slugs, and would tolerate little kids. She always had treats for me, and would always let me feed the turtles. She had 25 or 30 turtles through out her house. We would sit outside and pour salt on the slugs to kill them. We would let the turtles run (more like meander, because her turtles didn’t run!) through her small veggie garden. We would giggle and eat fig newton’s and tease the turtles. I remember times like these randomly, they come and go. I don’t know if it’s the drugs that I’ve done or possibly the fact that I’ve blocked a lot of trauma and heartache. Either way, they follow me where ever I go, always and forever lingering.
It was at this house where I first thought of suicide. A thought that would haunt me for years to come and will probably still haunt me on my death bed. It was Christmas Eve, my mom and dad were fighting and I was upstairs, in my room, twirling and dancing in the new skirt and top my dad had gotten me for Christmas, I could hear the sound of music coming from the T.V., I was watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, in full Christmas cheer when my mom came home. She was angry at something, something I did, something someone did to her, something she did. It was never the same scenario; it was always something different that made her angry. But you always knew, even if it wasn’t you, you would get the worst of it.
She never hit me; she would attack me with words. Words were her weapon of choice. She was a smart woman; she knew that if she could get you, she would do it with words. She would shoot words at you hotter than 50 cal bullets whizzing past your head. Her words could tear you down in 10 seconds flat, or your money back. Her favorite word was “asshole”, oh man she loved to use this word on me. “Why are you such a little asshole?” “Quit crying you asshole.” Little did she know that later in life that word would instill violence and anger in me, an anger that no one would contend with, an anger to make Hitler himself shit his pants. Words, words that she was so good at tossing about, would some day come back to haunt her. But that’s for later in this tale. Right now I want to give you the foundation for where I came from, what I’ve done, and where I am now.
That night I knew something was bubbling up inside of me, I was 8, my thoughts should have remained on waking up to finding presents left by Santa Clause, and the thought of a snowy Christmas morning. Instead they were tuned to thoughts of suicide. She was pushing the only person I could feel safe with away. She had pushed my sister out of my life, and now my father. I was 8. I don’t recall what they were fighting about; I think it had something to do with money or drugs or something. The week before my cousin had stayed with us, and apparently he had written a check from my mom’s account and cashed it, and I think that she had blamed my dad. Because at the time, no one from her side of the family could have done any harm.
I remember opening these wooden shutters, they were a rough wood, the kind that leaves splinters, and they smelled of oil and mildew. The kind of mildew you find in the forest under rotting tree stumps. I remember opening them, I remember lifting the window up, and I remember pushing out the screen and watching it fall into the snow below. Beneath my window was my dad’s prized possession, his truck. I remember feeling sad about me falling on the truck, although I was 8, I was still a porky kid and I would probably cause some damage. I looked up, and I could see the lights of the city, I could feel the crisp air whipping my face and I could smell burning pine in the air. It was Christmas Eve; families across the valley were sitting down to dinner eating Tamales, and chile rojo, biscochitos, and empanadas. They were singing and welcoming weary travelers celebrating la posadas, luminarias were being lit, abuelitas were singing traditional cantadas and the air was filled with the essence of Albuquerque.
I was a porky 8 year old girl, with braids standing in a window watching over the city, I could hear the laughter of the city, and I could see the city moving, breathing. I stood in my window, my heart racing, the cold air hitting me. I heard my dad’s voice, then I felt his arms wrap around me. The arms I felt safest in. The arms that held me as a baby, carrying me out of the delivery room, the arms covered in prison ink with women behind chain link fences and prison guard towers watching over them, with Spider webs, and “ruka’s” with big tits. I felt his arms wrap around me and hold me. I could smell his cologne, and I heard him say it was alright, that it was ok. He was here, he would protect me. I don’t know if he knew what I was thinking that night, or what happened, but I know he saved me. I was 8 years old. He closed my window, closed and secured the shutters, and sat down with me for a bit. When he left, I could hear them fighting. This time they were fighting over me. She was jealous that he had left her to check on me. She was yelling at him that I could have taken care of myself, I was ok alone. I was a big girl.
I remember gathering all of my presents I had been given, mostly from her, I kept the black and white checked skirt and top, and I threw them down the stairs at her, hoping something would hit her. I was angry at her for all the names, she called me, all the cookies she burnt, and all the times she spent away from me. Wasn’t she supposed to be my mother? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one to protect me? I threw my presents down the stairs, went back to my room and locked the door. One solid push was all it took for my dad to open the door, and I can remember him standing there smiling, his blue eyes sparkling, his hair a mess from running up the spiral staircase, and the slight smirk on his face. That smirk told me I had pissed her off for good. That smirk told me she was gone. She had left. She would be back, but for now she was gone. He came back and in his arms were all my presents. He helped me organize my room, put everything away. Then we went downstairs and while he ate cottage cheese with sugar, I ate vanilla ice cream and we watched frosty the snowman.
I was asleep when he left. She had come home drunk, high, and yelling. I think he hit her. She deserved it. I remember the yelling. Always yelling. I fell back asleep, and when I woke up he was gone. There was a note, telling me to be good, he loved me and would see me soon.
And like that he was gone. I wouldn’t see him again for a few months. Not until we moved into the house with the high ceilings and red velvet carpet. Once again my mom had managed to run him off. I never knew until later in life where he went. I never asked him, and he never told me. There are so many memories of my dad, and hopefully I can touch on all of them. There is so much to be told about this life, and the person who holds it. The good, the bad and the indifferent. While the preface might be depressing or seemingly filled with a horrible child hood, there are good memories. There are memories of sitting in the kitchen with my grandma, of sitting on my dad’s lap watching Dune, or learning to swim or participating in the posadas. This is merely a foundation for what’s to come next.
What, you are asking yourself, would bring me to this level, this level of self loathing and destruction? Over the years I have asked myself the same question, and now that I’m pushing 30, I think I finally have the answers.
I started drinking when I was 12, I had sex when I was 12 and smoked my first doob when I was 12. 12 was the magical number. But let’s travel even farther back to a time where innocence should have been but was replaced with feelings and thoughts of suicide, hatred and self loathing.
My very first cognizant memory was when I was 4. It was dusk and we were visiting a friend of my mom’s, more than likely she was inside getting high as I was running around outside, alone. I guess in that time there wasn’t too much concern for child predators. Or at least she wasn’t too concerned. This family lived next door, I used to play with their kids all the time and they had a German Shepard. This dog was always around the kids, never snapped at any of us. He would always walk me back next door, making sure I got home safely. One night, something must have been triggered and as we were walking home, I remember walking beside him, then I remember him on top of me, growling, and trying to eat my head whole. I was confused, I was scared and I was alone.
I remember hearing yelling, as my mom’s friend Lucy came running out with a broom, all the while my mom was on the porch. Why wasn’t she helping me? Why wasn’t she running to my rescue? I remember sitting in the front seat of the car, more specific Lucy’s El Camino, asking my mom to stop pouring water on my face, because I can’t see and I it’s drowning me. I remember lying in the urgent care hospital bed, crying for my sister, crying for my grandma. I can remember closing my eyes, and opening them and my sister was there. Holding my hand, telling me it’s ok. And it was ok, she was there. She was there to protect me. I didn’t want my mom, I wanted my sister. I wanted my dad, but thanks to my mom, he was locked up again. I guess it’s not her fault really, but at the time I felt it was. I felt that she could have done better to keep him clean and keep him out.
I remember staring out my window at the hospital, there was a bar across the street, and I could have sworn I would watch my mom walk across the street and go in there and not come out for hours. I remember going through the double doors, into surgery and begging my sister to come with me, because I was scared. I remember my sisters face, as they took me back. Anger mixed with fear mixed with hate. I can remember praying that she didn’t hate me, praying that I hadn’t messed up again. I didn’t know that her anger was towards my mother, and I would later find out that once again she wasn’t around to protect her children.
Fast forward a few years…..we had just moved into a house off of Los Padillas, this house had an acre of land and this huge hay loft in the middle of the field. I used to walk to school, which was a few blocks away. I would hunt for crawdads in the irrigation ditch behind our house; I would sit and watch the sunset with my best friend Freddy. Freddy was just as broken as I was. I was destined to marry him. He was my first kiss at 7; he was the only person who understood what it felt like to be ignored. His dad used to beat his mom, he would come home from work and get drunk and the yelling would start. I could always guarantee that Freddy would be with me until his mom called him home. He lived right next to us, and sometimes his dad wouldn’t let him come over. So we would sit by the chain link fence our fingers interlaced, ants crawling over us. Laughing about the time when the crawdad pinched my finger and it wouldn’t let go.
We would tromp through his mom’s vegetable garden, helping her pick cucumbers; we would lie on his bean bag chair in the family room watching movies or T.V. We would always watch Transformers, or G.I. Joe, or He-Man. He wanted to be He-Man when he grew up and I wanted to be She-Ra. And we would have a big farm and raise animals and kids and have a garden. He told me he would never hit me, and I told him I would always love him, unconditionally. I told him that would forever be best friends, no matter what. And when we were 30 if we weren’t married we would marry each other. I sometimes lie in bed wondering where he went. What did he end up doing with his life? Does he love his wife, his kids and his family? Did his dad finally stop hitting his mom? Does his mom still have a garden? Did he get his ranch with the animals and never ending love? I wonder if he ever thinks about me, and for a fleeting second I can feel him. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it feels true.
That house was a house of discovery for me. There were other houses along the way, the house on silver, where my sister locked me in the basement, the house on copper where my mom would bring Charles over to hook her up with coke and weed. There was the house where I last saw my dad until I was a teenager. I will get to all of these, but I want you to see that I wasn’t always broken. I wasn’t always chaotic and angry. I was made to love. I see that now, I am a caregiver, I am a lover and I am the true essence of a mother. I am a fountain of never ending love. So why, why am I so broken? Maybe I feel broken, but in all reality I am completely whole, with a few nicks and scrapes.
That house, in Los Padillas, nestled in the south valley just out side of Albuquerque was the start of many things for me. It was where my fondest memories were created with my father, where my mother would become jealous and threaten to call my dad’s PO. Where my brother Michael would take care of me when I was sick, and call me a runt and a jerk when I invaded his button collection. Where I would find the dirty needles and cotton balls, the bent spoons behind my dresser, and they didn’t belong to my dad. Where I learned to set the timing on a 1984 Nissan Sentra, and where I would remember walking out to my dads shop, two seconds after he had just mainlined a spot of heroin. I remember having my first holy communion, my grandma so proud of my white dress and perfect veil. I remember my mom intentionally burning my veil because she was jealous that my grandma was paying attention to me. I remember all my aunts and uncles, and cousins and family coming to visit and my mom sitting in her room getting high. My dad, my grandma, they were proud of me.
I remember my dads 1957 Candy apple red Chevy pick up, fully restored with a wooden deck bed in the back, and bouncing on the seat as we drove down the street coming home from baskin robbins. Lynrd Skynrd playing on the radio, the windows down, the wind tossing my hair around and my dad laughing, calling me leggers. I remembered being loved. I remember my dad loving me and my mom hating me. I remember my sister visiting and my mom ruining the visit. I remember lying in bed at night listening to the sounds outside, wishing Freddy could be with me. A child at the age of 7 shouldn’t know what sex is, or what feelings this act invokes in you, but I wasn’t a normal child. I was a child who had been molested, by people she trusted. I was a child who understood what addiction meant, but would never completely understand what addiction was until I was 12.
We moved from that house, we moved from that house to another house. This house was downtown. It was a 2 story town home. We moved from that house, from Freddy and from those long gone memories. The day we moved, I never saw him again. I never saw the boy I was supposed to marry and have a family with. The boy who would grow up to be a man, who would love me unconditionally and cherish every word I said.
This new house was cool, it had a spiral staircase up to the 2nd floor, my room had a view of the city, and the kitchen had brown Saltillo tile. This was my last Christmas with my father, right before he went back to the joint and right before we moved to Austin. I didn’t care what I got for Christmas, as long as I could sit on my dads lap and open presents. As long as I could smell his old spice cologne and feel his stubble on my face when he woke me up Christmas morning.
Everywhere I went I made friends. I made one friend here; she was a lonely old lady. Her name escapes me now, but I remember how she loved turtles, despised slugs, and would tolerate little kids. She always had treats for me, and would always let me feed the turtles. She had 25 or 30 turtles through out her house. We would sit outside and pour salt on the slugs to kill them. We would let the turtles run (more like meander, because her turtles didn’t run!) through her small veggie garden. We would giggle and eat fig newton’s and tease the turtles. I remember times like these randomly, they come and go. I don’t know if it’s the drugs that I’ve done or possibly the fact that I’ve blocked a lot of trauma and heartache. Either way, they follow me where ever I go, always and forever lingering.
It was at this house where I first thought of suicide. A thought that would haunt me for years to come and will probably still haunt me on my death bed. It was Christmas Eve, my mom and dad were fighting and I was upstairs, in my room, twirling and dancing in the new skirt and top my dad had gotten me for Christmas, I could hear the sound of music coming from the T.V., I was watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, in full Christmas cheer when my mom came home. She was angry at something, something I did, something someone did to her, something she did. It was never the same scenario; it was always something different that made her angry. But you always knew, even if it wasn’t you, you would get the worst of it.
She never hit me; she would attack me with words. Words were her weapon of choice. She was a smart woman; she knew that if she could get you, she would do it with words. She would shoot words at you hotter than 50 cal bullets whizzing past your head. Her words could tear you down in 10 seconds flat, or your money back. Her favorite word was “asshole”, oh man she loved to use this word on me. “Why are you such a little asshole?” “Quit crying you asshole.” Little did she know that later in life that word would instill violence and anger in me, an anger that no one would contend with, an anger to make Hitler himself shit his pants. Words, words that she was so good at tossing about, would some day come back to haunt her. But that’s for later in this tale. Right now I want to give you the foundation for where I came from, what I’ve done, and where I am now.
That night I knew something was bubbling up inside of me, I was 8, my thoughts should have remained on waking up to finding presents left by Santa Clause, and the thought of a snowy Christmas morning. Instead they were tuned to thoughts of suicide. She was pushing the only person I could feel safe with away. She had pushed my sister out of my life, and now my father. I was 8. I don’t recall what they were fighting about; I think it had something to do with money or drugs or something. The week before my cousin had stayed with us, and apparently he had written a check from my mom’s account and cashed it, and I think that she had blamed my dad. Because at the time, no one from her side of the family could have done any harm.
I remember opening these wooden shutters, they were a rough wood, the kind that leaves splinters, and they smelled of oil and mildew. The kind of mildew you find in the forest under rotting tree stumps. I remember opening them, I remember lifting the window up, and I remember pushing out the screen and watching it fall into the snow below. Beneath my window was my dad’s prized possession, his truck. I remember feeling sad about me falling on the truck, although I was 8, I was still a porky kid and I would probably cause some damage. I looked up, and I could see the lights of the city, I could feel the crisp air whipping my face and I could smell burning pine in the air. It was Christmas Eve; families across the valley were sitting down to dinner eating Tamales, and chile rojo, biscochitos, and empanadas. They were singing and welcoming weary travelers celebrating la posadas, luminarias were being lit, abuelitas were singing traditional cantadas and the air was filled with the essence of Albuquerque.
I was a porky 8 year old girl, with braids standing in a window watching over the city, I could hear the laughter of the city, and I could see the city moving, breathing. I stood in my window, my heart racing, the cold air hitting me. I heard my dad’s voice, then I felt his arms wrap around me. The arms I felt safest in. The arms that held me as a baby, carrying me out of the delivery room, the arms covered in prison ink with women behind chain link fences and prison guard towers watching over them, with Spider webs, and “ruka’s” with big tits. I felt his arms wrap around me and hold me. I could smell his cologne, and I heard him say it was alright, that it was ok. He was here, he would protect me. I don’t know if he knew what I was thinking that night, or what happened, but I know he saved me. I was 8 years old. He closed my window, closed and secured the shutters, and sat down with me for a bit. When he left, I could hear them fighting. This time they were fighting over me. She was jealous that he had left her to check on me. She was yelling at him that I could have taken care of myself, I was ok alone. I was a big girl.
I remember gathering all of my presents I had been given, mostly from her, I kept the black and white checked skirt and top, and I threw them down the stairs at her, hoping something would hit her. I was angry at her for all the names, she called me, all the cookies she burnt, and all the times she spent away from me. Wasn’t she supposed to be my mother? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one to protect me? I threw my presents down the stairs, went back to my room and locked the door. One solid push was all it took for my dad to open the door, and I can remember him standing there smiling, his blue eyes sparkling, his hair a mess from running up the spiral staircase, and the slight smirk on his face. That smirk told me I had pissed her off for good. That smirk told me she was gone. She had left. She would be back, but for now she was gone. He came back and in his arms were all my presents. He helped me organize my room, put everything away. Then we went downstairs and while he ate cottage cheese with sugar, I ate vanilla ice cream and we watched frosty the snowman.
I was asleep when he left. She had come home drunk, high, and yelling. I think he hit her. She deserved it. I remember the yelling. Always yelling. I fell back asleep, and when I woke up he was gone. There was a note, telling me to be good, he loved me and would see me soon.
And like that he was gone. I wouldn’t see him again for a few months. Not until we moved into the house with the high ceilings and red velvet carpet. Once again my mom had managed to run him off. I never knew until later in life where he went. I never asked him, and he never told me. There are so many memories of my dad, and hopefully I can touch on all of them. There is so much to be told about this life, and the person who holds it. The good, the bad and the indifferent. While the preface might be depressing or seemingly filled with a horrible child hood, there are good memories. There are memories of sitting in the kitchen with my grandma, of sitting on my dad’s lap watching Dune, or learning to swim or participating in the posadas. This is merely a foundation for what’s to come next.
Lip Service
Shhh…..
You put your finger on my lips
Your touch burns my heart
Your kisses make me melt
I slowly fall into your arms
Shhh…..
As we lay here I can feel your heart
I feel the rise and fall of your chest
I sense your green eyes staring at me
I look up and for a second there is just us
Shhh…..
What you give me
How you make me feel
This isn’t lip service you’re giving me
This is real, this is love.
Shhh…..
When you hold me I feel complete
When you touch me I feel warm
When you smile at me, my heart flutters
When you love me, nothing else matters
Shhh…..
I won’t let you down
And I won’t leave you stranded
I won’t keep you waiting and
I won’t hurt you.
Shhh…..
Everything that I am is yours
All the love I have is for you
We have both waited so long
For love to come our way
Shhh…..
You put your finger on my lips
Your touch burns my heart
Your kisses make me melt
I slowly fall into your arms
Shhh…..
As we lay here I can feel your heart
I feel the rise and fall of your chest
I sense your green eyes staring at me
I look up and for a second there is just us
Shhh…..
What you give me
How you make me feel
This isn’t lip service you’re giving me
This is real, this is love.
Shhh…..
When you hold me I feel complete
When you touch me I feel warm
When you smile at me, my heart flutters
When you love me, nothing else matters
Shhh…..
I won’t let you down
And I won’t leave you stranded
I won’t keep you waiting and
I won’t hurt you.
Shhh…..
Everything that I am is yours
All the love I have is for you
We have both waited so long
For love to come our way
Shhh…..
Monday, July 27, 2009
Defining life
Fast asleep, I wake shakily from my dream. The night before you weren’t there and I awoke to your green eyes staring back into mine. Where did you come from? Are you an illusion that my twisted mind has conjured up?
We lay in bed, talking for what seems like hours but is only minutes. I study your face, the way your eyes stare into mine, the way your lips, so full and round slowly curve into a smile. I can see the stubble on your chin, and the way the small indent disappears when you smile.
I can smell the lingering scent of your cologne mixed with sweat. The softness of your hands, and they way they caress my back when you hold me. I can sense the heat emanating from your hands, as if they were on fire and I was the ice with which to cool them.
The sound of your voice, when you talk to me in the morning, the feel of your lips touching mine I have a sense of what is or what is about to come and I am scared, I am broken, but I feel safe with you. I feel complete.
You are forever looking for your unicorn, and I was forever looking for my
When I watch you move, you move with the ease of water flowing through the river. You give me the need to be better, to want better. You make me laugh louder than I ever have before, and you make my heart skip beats when I think about you.
But I am scared, I am scared because I am broken, I am incomplete and I am lost. I am scared because I do not want to lose you, but yet fear that I might have already. I would give you the world if you would call me yours. I would cherish the love you gave me and return it ten fold.
For you I would travel the distance of the earth to move mountains and part the seas. I would protect you from the man inside your head, and I would feel safe and warm as I lay in your arms each night.
But I am scared.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Follow the breeze
Sometimes I sit back and contemplate what life has taught me and I realize that In all my years of trying to figure out who I am, I lost myself. I lost myself in the world of self doubt, self hate, self loathing and lack of self esteem. I lost myself when I became too interested in someone else to care about how I felt about situations and I lost myself when I stopped writing music and I started letting someone else direct my life.
At some point in our short life here on earth, we allow other people to take the wheel and control our destiny, and we don't know where they are taking us, or how we will get back, we just let them assume control of our lives and they direct us and tell us where to go. Its like following the breeze. Like being a tumbleweed on the great highway of life, blown from side to side, and every once in a while there comes a long a big truck that snags you, and you are just carried away....
I used to feel like that sometimes, like a tumbleweed being blown where ever the wind wants me to go. But in recent months, I have decided to forge my own path. Make my own highway on the road of life. Its hard, and time consuming and the materials I collect for the job are rare and few and far between my destinations.
Growing up I can remember sitting front row at Antons in Austin, Texas with the likes of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimmy Vaughn, Muddy Waters, and BB King. I was 10. I was 10, and In a city where the music rolled endlessly through the streets, singing of glory days passed and lyrics to come. Now, at 30 I sit here and I can actually hear the words to the songs I didn't understand back then. I understand why the lyrics were important and why the person sitting on stage in this smokey, sticky floor, dingy club sang with his heart and the souls of his shoes instead of getting on stage and being another figure in the spot light.
I understand where the feelings come from and the heart filled words, I understand the women who loved those men, and the men who loved those women. If I could go back to that night, to those days, sitting under the old oak tree in the Travis heights park, listening to the Sex Pistols for the first time and Red Hot Chili Peppers on an old sony walkman that a kid in class brought. To chasing and being chased.
To staring at the woman driving the pink thunderbird, and watching the punks lounge in college square behind UT. I remember my nanny with a clarity, Sandy was her name. She took me to college square to the no name record shop where they played the punk music our kids consider cool, where the posters on the wall showed guys with freakishly large Mohawks and tattoos, the place where they carried Jerome Russell's punky colors back when only the "degenerates" and the "troublemakers" knew what punky colors was.
So I find myself back in that bar tonight, reminiscing and longing for days of old. Only now, I long to share those thoughts with someone. To share that music, and awe inspiring depth. It's few and far between that we find someone as compatible to ourselves other than ourselves....
Well, It's time for this allekats bed time, until I get inspired again....
At some point in our short life here on earth, we allow other people to take the wheel and control our destiny, and we don't know where they are taking us, or how we will get back, we just let them assume control of our lives and they direct us and tell us where to go. Its like following the breeze. Like being a tumbleweed on the great highway of life, blown from side to side, and every once in a while there comes a long a big truck that snags you, and you are just carried away....
I used to feel like that sometimes, like a tumbleweed being blown where ever the wind wants me to go. But in recent months, I have decided to forge my own path. Make my own highway on the road of life. Its hard, and time consuming and the materials I collect for the job are rare and few and far between my destinations.
Growing up I can remember sitting front row at Antons in Austin, Texas with the likes of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimmy Vaughn, Muddy Waters, and BB King. I was 10. I was 10, and In a city where the music rolled endlessly through the streets, singing of glory days passed and lyrics to come. Now, at 30 I sit here and I can actually hear the words to the songs I didn't understand back then. I understand why the lyrics were important and why the person sitting on stage in this smokey, sticky floor, dingy club sang with his heart and the souls of his shoes instead of getting on stage and being another figure in the spot light.
I understand where the feelings come from and the heart filled words, I understand the women who loved those men, and the men who loved those women. If I could go back to that night, to those days, sitting under the old oak tree in the Travis heights park, listening to the Sex Pistols for the first time and Red Hot Chili Peppers on an old sony walkman that a kid in class brought. To chasing and being chased.
To staring at the woman driving the pink thunderbird, and watching the punks lounge in college square behind UT. I remember my nanny with a clarity, Sandy was her name. She took me to college square to the no name record shop where they played the punk music our kids consider cool, where the posters on the wall showed guys with freakishly large Mohawks and tattoos, the place where they carried Jerome Russell's punky colors back when only the "degenerates" and the "troublemakers" knew what punky colors was.
So I find myself back in that bar tonight, reminiscing and longing for days of old. Only now, I long to share those thoughts with someone. To share that music, and awe inspiring depth. It's few and far between that we find someone as compatible to ourselves other than ourselves....
Well, It's time for this allekats bed time, until I get inspired again....
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Dead in the water
Silently I life my feet off the ground, reaching for the unknown.
Death takes me quickly, and I see myself swirling in a sea of stars
Twisting, turning, waiting, watching.
I am here, I am dead in the water, scum floating around me,
depths unknown, I try to dive, to sink to the bottom.
Floating aimlessly in the sea of life, risking my soul
Death takes me quickly, and I see myself swirling in a sea of stars
Twisting, turning, waiting, watching.
I am here, I am dead in the water, scum floating around me,
depths unknown, I try to dive, to sink to the bottom.
Floating aimlessly in the sea of life, risking my soul
Monday, May 4, 2009
What are the chances?
What are the chances?
Of hearing that perfect song, on a perfect day?
Well, my weekend was an awesome one, minus a few FAIL boat rides, I managed to hold composure and my bladder and not fly off a cliff at a bajillion miles an hour, and I managed to not flop a jeep after spinning out a 360 on a dirt road.
Overall, it was a good weekend, I had a date Friday night that I think went really well, with a super cool guy.
Saturday, I let my nerdiness out and went to see the Star Trek exhibit at the Science Center, 3 kids in tow as I oooh'd and ahhhh'd at the pictures and memorabilia, got my toes painted pink and my hair was good.....
So now on to that perfect song on a perfect day......
I was sitting at my desk about 20 minutes ago, listening to Social Distortion, Pennywise, and Rob Zombie. This song came up, ironically right after Sick boys, and before Bro Hymn, its called Highway 101. I had to listen to this song 3 times before I decided that I truly liked it.
"Take a drive baby up the coast, yea highway 101
I’ll pass Ventura and Santa Barbara too, just as fast as my motor runs
Gotta pocket full of memories, some happy and some are sad
Gotta girl standin’ by my side through the good times and the bad
Chorus:
Listen to the boulevard, listen to the falling rain
I believe in love now, with all of its joys and pains
Sick boy, sick girl, looking nice dressed up on a Saturday night
Take a walk downtown for a while and chase the pale moonlight
I can still hear the mission bells and the train rollin’ through your town
Gonna leave this world behind, we’re Southern California bound
Chorus: x 2
Listen to the boulevard, listen to the falling rain
I believe in love now, with all of its joys and pains
Follow the palm trees under the California sun
I believe in love now, I believe in love again"
Of course, I had heard the song once or twice before, but never really HEARD the song until today. Thanks to a friend who shall remain nameless, he opened my eyes to music I wasn't hearing until recently. Now this particular album, has a certain song on it that I didnt want to hear, I had a fear of being reminded of darker days past. The album is Sex, Love and Rock'n'Roll, the song of darker days is Angels wings, reminds me too much of my brother.
So this song comes on, and I start to really hear the words, escaping with the song. To me, it was the perfect song to a perfect day.
When times like these come around, I retreat to my music for consolation, I also write alot and get tattoos. It's times like these that my fondest memories are created and my heart is healed.
I suggest if you get the chance to hear it, you do so.
Enjoy....
Wikked
Of hearing that perfect song, on a perfect day?
Well, my weekend was an awesome one, minus a few FAIL boat rides, I managed to hold composure and my bladder and not fly off a cliff at a bajillion miles an hour, and I managed to not flop a jeep after spinning out a 360 on a dirt road.
Overall, it was a good weekend, I had a date Friday night that I think went really well, with a super cool guy.
Saturday, I let my nerdiness out and went to see the Star Trek exhibit at the Science Center, 3 kids in tow as I oooh'd and ahhhh'd at the pictures and memorabilia, got my toes painted pink and my hair was good.....
So now on to that perfect song on a perfect day......
I was sitting at my desk about 20 minutes ago, listening to Social Distortion, Pennywise, and Rob Zombie. This song came up, ironically right after Sick boys, and before Bro Hymn, its called Highway 101. I had to listen to this song 3 times before I decided that I truly liked it.
"Take a drive baby up the coast, yea highway 101
I’ll pass Ventura and Santa Barbara too, just as fast as my motor runs
Gotta pocket full of memories, some happy and some are sad
Gotta girl standin’ by my side through the good times and the bad
Chorus:
Listen to the boulevard, listen to the falling rain
I believe in love now, with all of its joys and pains
Sick boy, sick girl, looking nice dressed up on a Saturday night
Take a walk downtown for a while and chase the pale moonlight
I can still hear the mission bells and the train rollin’ through your town
Gonna leave this world behind, we’re Southern California bound
Chorus: x 2
Listen to the boulevard, listen to the falling rain
I believe in love now, with all of its joys and pains
Follow the palm trees under the California sun
I believe in love now, I believe in love again"
Of course, I had heard the song once or twice before, but never really HEARD the song until today. Thanks to a friend who shall remain nameless, he opened my eyes to music I wasn't hearing until recently. Now this particular album, has a certain song on it that I didnt want to hear, I had a fear of being reminded of darker days past. The album is Sex, Love and Rock'n'Roll, the song of darker days is Angels wings, reminds me too much of my brother.
So this song comes on, and I start to really hear the words, escaping with the song. To me, it was the perfect song to a perfect day.
When times like these come around, I retreat to my music for consolation, I also write alot and get tattoos. It's times like these that my fondest memories are created and my heart is healed.
I suggest if you get the chance to hear it, you do so.
Enjoy....
Wikked
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Le sigh
Le sigh.
Tragedy has struck! Ok not really, but on a serious note, I am living a bad soap opera. Drama to the nth degree. What do you say to someone who you have nothing to say to? Nothing. Yep, thats what you say, you just smile and nod and hope to god and the devil that they get it.
So my thoughts are supposed to be random, not in any particular order, but it seems that somehow ive managed to unrandomize my random thoughts. le sigh
1. Why is it that, when you try to communicate with someone about something you want, and you tell them specifically what you need/want/looking for, that they just dont get it? Its like talking to a foreign parrot who only speaks on language and can say "alfederzen"
2. Boys really are the devil, whether they want to admit it or not, they walk around sporting their high hair, their cool tats, their innocent smiles, but when it comes down to it, they are the D-E-V-I-L. They have no remorse for their thoughts, and why should they, they are boys after all right?
3. Whats with all this hoopla about being in a recession? Seems to me, people are still spending the same amount they spent three years ago, or is it just that im spending the same amount?
4. Bras! Oy vey! These things suck! You have to keep readjusting, and pulling and tugging and fixing, and then when all thats said and done, you end up with quadra boob, quadra boob is the enemy, its like krytonite for women. And finding a comfortable bra is pointeless they arent out there and they dont exist.
5. Kids and marriage. This seems to be a sensitive topic amongst most people now a days. Why? Why cant i just have the kids but no husband but with the spouse income? It makes no sense when you break it down, that more homes would be functional if the husbands just all lived together allowing the wives to take care of the home and what not, that way they would have to take care of themselves and we could continue to keep our houses and lives clean and man free. For the most part.
6. Food, really ladies, FOOD. What a wonderful concept. Why cant they make food that tates super but is like ZERO fat and makes you lose weight? Not possible but, they can teach a monkey to talk? FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!
Ok since my rant is done, I just want to say, have a great week!
Tragedy has struck! Ok not really, but on a serious note, I am living a bad soap opera. Drama to the nth degree. What do you say to someone who you have nothing to say to? Nothing. Yep, thats what you say, you just smile and nod and hope to god and the devil that they get it.
So my thoughts are supposed to be random, not in any particular order, but it seems that somehow ive managed to unrandomize my random thoughts. le sigh
1. Why is it that, when you try to communicate with someone about something you want, and you tell them specifically what you need/want/looking for, that they just dont get it? Its like talking to a foreign parrot who only speaks on language and can say "alfederzen"
2. Boys really are the devil, whether they want to admit it or not, they walk around sporting their high hair, their cool tats, their innocent smiles, but when it comes down to it, they are the D-E-V-I-L. They have no remorse for their thoughts, and why should they, they are boys after all right?
3. Whats with all this hoopla about being in a recession? Seems to me, people are still spending the same amount they spent three years ago, or is it just that im spending the same amount?
4. Bras! Oy vey! These things suck! You have to keep readjusting, and pulling and tugging and fixing, and then when all thats said and done, you end up with quadra boob, quadra boob is the enemy, its like krytonite for women. And finding a comfortable bra is pointeless they arent out there and they dont exist.
5. Kids and marriage. This seems to be a sensitive topic amongst most people now a days. Why? Why cant i just have the kids but no husband but with the spouse income? It makes no sense when you break it down, that more homes would be functional if the husbands just all lived together allowing the wives to take care of the home and what not, that way they would have to take care of themselves and we could continue to keep our houses and lives clean and man free. For the most part.
6. Food, really ladies, FOOD. What a wonderful concept. Why cant they make food that tates super but is like ZERO fat and makes you lose weight? Not possible but, they can teach a monkey to talk? FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!
Ok since my rant is done, I just want to say, have a great week!
The girl in the window
The same time everyday
I pass by her house and
there she stands, the girl
in the window.
She wears aqua blue
everyday, A knee length skirt,
flowing softly just below her knees,
a soft blouse made of silk flowing
around her.
She is there everyday
watching the world pass her by
she never smiles, or cries,
but looks in the distance
at something I cant see.
One day shes not there
i stop even though ill be late for work
I walk up the rotted yard,
full of weeds overtaking the rose bush
Shes not there, I panic,
for so many years she was there
she greeted me on my to work
she was like my beacon in a storm
But today she wasn't there.
As i near her house, i see the blackened
carpet and the dusty shelves, the empty rooms.
As i get closer the girl appears,
that vacant look in her eyes, screaming
I realize as my nose touches the glass
that the girl looking out to the world is me,
She was staring back at the world.
I pass by her house and
there she stands, the girl
in the window.
She wears aqua blue
everyday, A knee length skirt,
flowing softly just below her knees,
a soft blouse made of silk flowing
around her.
She is there everyday
watching the world pass her by
she never smiles, or cries,
but looks in the distance
at something I cant see.
One day shes not there
i stop even though ill be late for work
I walk up the rotted yard,
full of weeds overtaking the rose bush
Shes not there, I panic,
for so many years she was there
she greeted me on my to work
she was like my beacon in a storm
But today she wasn't there.
As i near her house, i see the blackened
carpet and the dusty shelves, the empty rooms.
As i get closer the girl appears,
that vacant look in her eyes, screaming
I realize as my nose touches the glass
that the girl looking out to the world is me,
She was staring back at the world.
No thanks, Im trying to quit
Once was one time too many
the tears fall silently from my face
dripping into the remains of my heart.
You said it was an addiction,
you said it would stop,
your words rang hollow in my ears.
I move quietly throught the darkened house,
wishing I wasnt here,
begging for a silent dream to come true.
Death and mayhem are all ive known,
you've killed me inside
ripping my heart out with your ringed finger
your betrayal cant be undone
your lies cant be untold
your eyes cant unsee
what youve shared with me
Your heart is an open sore
Your hands burn though my shirt
betrayal
its all ive even known.
I scream and the room spins
I run but I cant get far enough
I try to hurt you as youve hurt me.
nothing ive done
nothing ive said
will ever be enough for you
sadness rips the window open
the blinds gone, i see the day
my time has come to leave
In my wake i hope you see
that what youve done to me
cant be fixed
wont be fixed
betrayal is not forgiven
the tears fall silently from my face
dripping into the remains of my heart.
You said it was an addiction,
you said it would stop,
your words rang hollow in my ears.
I move quietly throught the darkened house,
wishing I wasnt here,
begging for a silent dream to come true.
Death and mayhem are all ive known,
you've killed me inside
ripping my heart out with your ringed finger
your betrayal cant be undone
your lies cant be untold
your eyes cant unsee
what youve shared with me
Your heart is an open sore
Your hands burn though my shirt
betrayal
its all ive even known.
I scream and the room spins
I run but I cant get far enough
I try to hurt you as youve hurt me.
nothing ive done
nothing ive said
will ever be enough for you
sadness rips the window open
the blinds gone, i see the day
my time has come to leave
In my wake i hope you see
that what youve done to me
cant be fixed
wont be fixed
betrayal is not forgiven
Betrayal
Once was one time too many
the tears fall silently from my face
dripping into the remains of my heart.
You said it was an addiction,
you said it would stop,
your words rang hollow in my ears.
I move quietly throught the darkened house,
wishing I wasnt here,
begging for a silent dream to come true.
Death and mayhem are all ive known,
you've killed me inside
ripping my heart out with your ringed finger
your betrayal cant be undone
your lies cant be untold
your eyes cant unsee
what youve shared with me
Your heart is an open sore
Your hands burn though my shirt
betrayal
its all ive even known.
I scream and the room spins
I run but I cant get far enough
I try to hurt you as youve hurt me.
nothing ive done
nothing ive said
will ever be enough for you
sadness rips the window open
the blinds gone, i see the day
my time has come to leave
In my wake i hope you see
that what youve done to me
cant be fixed
wont be fixed
betrayal is not forgiven
the tears fall silently from my face
dripping into the remains of my heart.
You said it was an addiction,
you said it would stop,
your words rang hollow in my ears.
I move quietly throught the darkened house,
wishing I wasnt here,
begging for a silent dream to come true.
Death and mayhem are all ive known,
you've killed me inside
ripping my heart out with your ringed finger
your betrayal cant be undone
your lies cant be untold
your eyes cant unsee
what youve shared with me
Your heart is an open sore
Your hands burn though my shirt
betrayal
its all ive even known.
I scream and the room spins
I run but I cant get far enough
I try to hurt you as youve hurt me.
nothing ive done
nothing ive said
will ever be enough for you
sadness rips the window open
the blinds gone, i see the day
my time has come to leave
In my wake i hope you see
that what youve done to me
cant be fixed
wont be fixed
betrayal is not forgiven
Whispers
Whispers in my ear, making everything clear
silent thoughts parade around in my head
wishing they were dead
whispers in my throat, what i cant say
Im trying to show
My eyes cloud, my mouth dries
My heart stops beating and im dead
for only a minute im dead
I grasp my head screaming
whispers in my ear
tell me your near
I walk silently through the garden,
watching a surreal scene unfold
whispers in my hear beg for the cold
I need you to carry my heart with you
I need you to show me the way out.
whispers in the night, silently calling
no ones there to reach out and grab me
i float away, silently falling
whispers in my ear, the things i
cant bear to hear
day has come, the ghosts have gone,
and im left with an inner peace,
i am insane, but you whisper
you whisper that you still want me.
I let you take me over and over
not caring what they say,
wanting your whispers in my ear.
Wanting that floating again.
silent thoughts parade around in my head
wishing they were dead
whispers in my throat, what i cant say
Im trying to show
My eyes cloud, my mouth dries
My heart stops beating and im dead
for only a minute im dead
I grasp my head screaming
whispers in my ear
tell me your near
I walk silently through the garden,
watching a surreal scene unfold
whispers in my hear beg for the cold
I need you to carry my heart with you
I need you to show me the way out.
whispers in the night, silently calling
no ones there to reach out and grab me
i float away, silently falling
whispers in my ear, the things i
cant bear to hear
day has come, the ghosts have gone,
and im left with an inner peace,
i am insane, but you whisper
you whisper that you still want me.
I let you take me over and over
not caring what they say,
wanting your whispers in my ear.
Wanting that floating again.
Let your parady define you...
Well, yes..yes it is a blog, and no thank but I've had my fill of drama, arguing, anger, resentment and bullarky for the month. So yes, yes it is a blog about the many wonderful facets of my month.
Where to start.....October 1st found me at work. WHEW! what a week was had...
ok ok I'll skip to the last few weeks as those are the most important anyway....
I'm plugging away ( to the sound of Mario brothers game...you know the one...dooo dooo doooo dooot dooot doot ) working at my job, at life, and home. And all of a sudden it hits me! BLAM! Like a cream pie to the face, what have I accomplished in my life. What turns me wheels, drives me to get up face the world (if that's not scary enough) get dressed, drive to work and function.
The answer still hasn't come to me, so day after day I get up, take a shower, get dressed, get my kid outta bed, get him dressed, make his lunch, take him to daycare, go to work.
I love my job, I like my team, I like my boss, I like everything about it! The job as a whole serves a purpose to help educate and encourage kids across the globe to go to school, so yeah its rewarding and just what I thought I would be doing.
But I'm working, in a loveless marriage, no, I don't get sex either. I'm in this marriage because I love my husband. I always have and I always will, but I find myself questioning whats in it for me.
What is it about my marriage that is fulfilling to me? What makes me want to keep at it, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year...by now I'm sure you get the picture. By now I'm so lost in my thoughts that I've forgotten about the stack of files I have sitting on my desk, or the stack of little pink message slips sitting on my keyboard. I've forgotten that I have 200+ emails that at some point I need to answer. All I'm trying to do at this point is to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs, and running out of the office in 3 inch heels and a skirt into traffic (I would but I might fall and I'm not sure what's more embarrassing, falling or getting hit by a postal tractor trailer), so I silently whimper, holding it in, like a bubbling fart..........
And then it hits me. I'm here because I'm scared, I'm scared that I can't make it on my own, I'm afraid that no one else on this planet will even acknowledge my existence, I'm scared that once it's said and done, I will be truly happy and at peace with the demons inside of me. And I'm scared that he will be happy too. And that his demons will rest.
Fast forward to yesterday, October 30th 2008. My mom (who has led a tumultuous relationship with me for the last 29 years, is dying. As time has taught me, sometimes you have to forget the past to move into the future. So I have forgiven her, I have forgiven myself, I have moved on to the next stage of caring for her, or at least helping take care of her. I meet with the Hospice nurse, who tells me that the cancer is extremely aggressive, and as I'm studying her, it's almost as if I can read her thoughts, she is thinking "yolie, yolie posole, baby, your dying, and your dying sooner than you think. It's time to help you transition."
That's not what I want to hear, but Its what I see plastered all over her face. I come home to the only solace I have, my husband, who time and again I have given the benefit of the doubt to, taken back after empty promises of change and counseling, and bullshit, and I sit him down and I tell him "Nate, things are going to be rough for us in the next few months, I need your help, I need you to h elp me. I need you to be there." and like any good man (OK really it was what I wanted to hear, but he wouldn't say) "Allegre, I will be there through thick and thin, good and bad. I got your back" But what was actually said, "What's with all this wishy washy bullshit? 2 months ago you were ready for her to die and you accepted it and moved on, now you freaking out about and crying? Make up your damned mind."
*sigh* He will never be what I need him to be will he? He will never tell me (with out me having to tell him first) that he is there for me. It hit me this morning as I was driving to work, 7:28 am on October 31st 2008, it hit me like a ton of bricks to the face, he will never, NEVER, give me the support, understanding and love someone like me needs. I'm too free spirited and too emotional. I'm loving, caring, compassionate (sometimes too much), and too enthralled with the world around me to be with someone who has no emotion. Who is emotionally retarded.
I can't. I can't stand by silently anymore, dying inside, ignoring the scream that is building up to break free and shatter the glass of my life.
My life is too short, and I have big dreams, I have big dreams for me and my son. I have big dreams, and I want to share those dreams with someone who can enjoy them. Someone who understands them. I want to say thank you, thank you for spending the last 11 years with me. Thank you for giving me my son, thank you for saving my life, but I have to go. I have to leave. I have to leave so that we can be happy.
Know that I love you, that you will always be in my heart, and you will always have a pillow to lay your head on if you need it.
Where to start.....October 1st found me at work. WHEW! what a week was had...
ok ok I'll skip to the last few weeks as those are the most important anyway....
I'm plugging away ( to the sound of Mario brothers game...you know the one...dooo dooo doooo dooot dooot doot ) working at my job, at life, and home. And all of a sudden it hits me! BLAM! Like a cream pie to the face, what have I accomplished in my life. What turns me wheels, drives me to get up face the world (if that's not scary enough) get dressed, drive to work and function.
The answer still hasn't come to me, so day after day I get up, take a shower, get dressed, get my kid outta bed, get him dressed, make his lunch, take him to daycare, go to work.
I love my job, I like my team, I like my boss, I like everything about it! The job as a whole serves a purpose to help educate and encourage kids across the globe to go to school, so yeah its rewarding and just what I thought I would be doing.
But I'm working, in a loveless marriage, no, I don't get sex either. I'm in this marriage because I love my husband. I always have and I always will, but I find myself questioning whats in it for me.
What is it about my marriage that is fulfilling to me? What makes me want to keep at it, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year...by now I'm sure you get the picture. By now I'm so lost in my thoughts that I've forgotten about the stack of files I have sitting on my desk, or the stack of little pink message slips sitting on my keyboard. I've forgotten that I have 200+ emails that at some point I need to answer. All I'm trying to do at this point is to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs, and running out of the office in 3 inch heels and a skirt into traffic (I would but I might fall and I'm not sure what's more embarrassing, falling or getting hit by a postal tractor trailer), so I silently whimper, holding it in, like a bubbling fart..........
And then it hits me. I'm here because I'm scared, I'm scared that I can't make it on my own, I'm afraid that no one else on this planet will even acknowledge my existence, I'm scared that once it's said and done, I will be truly happy and at peace with the demons inside of me. And I'm scared that he will be happy too. And that his demons will rest.
Fast forward to yesterday, October 30th 2008. My mom (who has led a tumultuous relationship with me for the last 29 years, is dying. As time has taught me, sometimes you have to forget the past to move into the future. So I have forgiven her, I have forgiven myself, I have moved on to the next stage of caring for her, or at least helping take care of her. I meet with the Hospice nurse, who tells me that the cancer is extremely aggressive, and as I'm studying her, it's almost as if I can read her thoughts, she is thinking "yolie, yolie posole, baby, your dying, and your dying sooner than you think. It's time to help you transition."
That's not what I want to hear, but Its what I see plastered all over her face. I come home to the only solace I have, my husband, who time and again I have given the benefit of the doubt to, taken back after empty promises of change and counseling, and bullshit, and I sit him down and I tell him "Nate, things are going to be rough for us in the next few months, I need your help, I need you to h elp me. I need you to be there." and like any good man (OK really it was what I wanted to hear, but he wouldn't say) "Allegre, I will be there through thick and thin, good and bad. I got your back" But what was actually said, "What's with all this wishy washy bullshit? 2 months ago you were ready for her to die and you accepted it and moved on, now you freaking out about and crying? Make up your damned mind."
*sigh* He will never be what I need him to be will he? He will never tell me (with out me having to tell him first) that he is there for me. It hit me this morning as I was driving to work, 7:28 am on October 31st 2008, it hit me like a ton of bricks to the face, he will never, NEVER, give me the support, understanding and love someone like me needs. I'm too free spirited and too emotional. I'm loving, caring, compassionate (sometimes too much), and too enthralled with the world around me to be with someone who has no emotion. Who is emotionally retarded.
I can't. I can't stand by silently anymore, dying inside, ignoring the scream that is building up to break free and shatter the glass of my life.
My life is too short, and I have big dreams, I have big dreams for me and my son. I have big dreams, and I want to share those dreams with someone who can enjoy them. Someone who understands them. I want to say thank you, thank you for spending the last 11 years with me. Thank you for giving me my son, thank you for saving my life, but I have to go. I have to leave. I have to leave so that we can be happy.
Know that I love you, that you will always be in my heart, and you will always have a pillow to lay your head on if you need it.
Sadly, It's me.
Sometimes, when I lay alone in my bed I can see the shadows dancing around me. I can feel the whispers, and I can smell the rotting earth. Sadly, it's not you, its me. I can't stand the smell of you anymore and I can't stand to look at you anymore. I start running, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my lungs expanding, my brain is going in circles.
Suddenly its raining, the drops beating me softly into the ground, I don't run, I don't move I just stand there listening to people yelling, and I can hear the rain beating the ground. I can smell that rotting scent, I can feel the shadows surround me.
I wake up and I'm on the bathroom floor, I'm on the bathroom floor, the cold tile pressing against my cheeks, the smell of bleach raping my senses, bringing me to a kneeling position. My throat is burning, my tongue is dry, my joints scream out.
I move silently through my house, noticing the way the lights from the Christmas tree illuminate the tile floor, I notice the way the cold tile feels on my feet and the smell of vanilla mixed with pine mingles in the air. I hear the cat mew and the dogs snore.
I slowly make my way back into my bedroom, the smell of freshly washed sheets and vanilla calming my senses. I quietly find my way to the center of my bed, making sure not to creak the mattress.
As I lay on my bed, the shadows dance around me, and the smell of rotting earth fades, It wasn't you all along, it was me.
Suddenly its raining, the drops beating me softly into the ground, I don't run, I don't move I just stand there listening to people yelling, and I can hear the rain beating the ground. I can smell that rotting scent, I can feel the shadows surround me.
I wake up and I'm on the bathroom floor, I'm on the bathroom floor, the cold tile pressing against my cheeks, the smell of bleach raping my senses, bringing me to a kneeling position. My throat is burning, my tongue is dry, my joints scream out.
I move silently through my house, noticing the way the lights from the Christmas tree illuminate the tile floor, I notice the way the cold tile feels on my feet and the smell of vanilla mixed with pine mingles in the air. I hear the cat mew and the dogs snore.
I slowly make my way back into my bedroom, the smell of freshly washed sheets and vanilla calming my senses. I quietly find my way to the center of my bed, making sure not to creak the mattress.
As I lay on my bed, the shadows dance around me, and the smell of rotting earth fades, It wasn't you all along, it was me.
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