Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Nana's Song
Micky Mouse is Dead
He Died Last Night in Bed
He Cut his Throat
With a Ten Dollar Note
And These are the Words he Said:
"Red, White and Blue,
My mother was a Jew,
My father was a Scotchman,
And I am a dead Kangaroo."
He Died Last Night in Bed
He Cut his Throat
With a Ten Dollar Note
And These are the Words he Said:
"Red, White and Blue,
My mother was a Jew,
My father was a Scotchman,
And I am a dead Kangaroo."
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Trying Something Old for New Again
Writing in the 3rd person?
He woke up this morning and blinked. For a moment it was forgotten. Then the heavy blanket of thick fog rushed over him. It was as if the sleep could never be removed from his eyes. He rolled over, heart heavy. Although it was early still he could not fall back asleep.
All of his problems and worries and fears were lying next to him. A chill went down his spine and he got up to use the bathroom.
He thought "Fuck it"
Another day.
He showered and went through the motions. Shaving, eating, going to work. He still could not see clearly. But he couldn't tell anyone because he knew they wouldn't be able to understand. If you start to talk about the pain and frustration, nevermind the depression, people look at you as if you have a third head.
The day goes on. He goes through the motions but feels nothing. The pain is deep inside and isn't releasing itself at the moment. It just feels dull. Nothing gets better.
Nothing good happens.
He promised he would not drink anymore. He promised his wife of forty years and his beloved family that it was a new begininning and things were changing and getting better and he would not drink.
Starring at the fridge by his desk he thought "maybe just one"
And one turned into two.
Instead of feeling dead, he felt something. He had no label for it. It was not a buzz, he was not yet numb to the pain but he felt differently.
Maybe he could conquer another night.
He arrives home and attempts his usual chores. The only problem is he doesn't feel "his usual self". He feels worthless and pathetic and better off dead.
How could he survive another day? Another night even? He felt a scream from deep within his throat but it never came out.
He sat at the kitchen table and waited for something to happen. He knew he disappointed his wife and family by giving in to those beers. At first he didn't care but now the guilt kicked in. When his wife walked in the door after another day of her stressful job he tried to pretend everything was different and normal but she knew better.
Frustrated he went upstairs without his dinner. Pushed his insulin in as if he was going to eat and lied in bed waiting for the numbness he craved. He longed for the removal of this feeling. It was uncomfortable. It was different. And he could not control it.
But he could try and make it go away.
Things got kinda funny for awhile. He rolled over in bed. Eventually unconscious he started moaning. Although his brain believed he was ready to go, his body knew it wasn't his choice.
God gave us life. We didn't ask to be born. And he decides when it is our time. Selfishly we believe we can control otherwise and make bad decisions and hope for the worst or best- depending on who we are and where we are in our life.
God decided tonight was not the night and made his body groan loudly in pain, begging for needed nourishment. Not just from complex carbohydrates, but from love for the soul.
Everything went blank.
For a brief amount of time he felt the nothing he craved.
Suddenly lights every where shining on him and needles being poked into his body. He shivered from the cold.
"What was happening?" he thought to himself but his dry mouth couldn't form the words.
The room was full of people drawing blood, inserting an IV, asking questions.
He saw strangers.
He saw his family.
Why were they all here? He was finally in his bliss, in his quiet place and they took him away and he was angry.
Right?
He was pushed around and repremanded like a child. He remembered the time they took him and he couldn't leave. He didn't want that again- that much he was aware of and he kept trying to speak and say it was okay and it wasn't on purpose and other mumbles.
Quietly without questions family members began performing duties they had done before because this was not new to them. Perhaps before it was by accident and they hoped this time it was too.
Not all of them saw it that way.
One daughter began cooking.
The husbands tended to the children.
The wife answered questions and told as little and as much as she could because in her mind she still hadn't decided what was best for him and if this was on purpose and if he should be taken again or if this would end up okay like the other times.
He refused treatment. He refused to eat.
People started leaving and he questioned what happened.
His younger daughter understood; having lived with the blackness on and off for almost twenty years.
She hand fed him the food he was refusing to eat, while threatening to call the people back to take him away again which he did not want.
He ate and drank just enough to satisfy everyone and they went away.
But she couldn't. She kicked off her shoes and lied next to him and put her head in the welcoming shoulder he had ready for her.
She cried. She spoke. She came clean without coming too clean and giving more ideas. She stated the facts and he realized he was not the first nor the only person to feel this way.
They cried together for the first time.
She prayed to God for answers; not just for her daddy but for herself. For she didn't know where she would be in an hour or a day or a week. Giggling they compared the same medication. Crying they discussed the same fears. Nostalgically they discussed the children.
She had to go home to tend to them so her husband wouldn't get angry at her for something else. She knew she couldn't take that tonight.
She kissed and hugged him good night. Made him promise that we only have to take it minute by minute because looking any further ahead brought bleakness, despair and frustration. And if we make it this minute we can make it the next.
She went home crying alone. She drank to numb her pain. She drank some more and drew a warm bath. Somewhere she heard someone putting her down and she drank some more. After all the lecturing on staying sober she hypocritically polished off a bottle of wine and read old poetry.
Another night has come. Midnight is about to post. A new day will begin.
What will it bring? Where will we be?
She brings her daughter's magnetic Valentine's to his house and places it with his work stuff to put on his fridge at work to maybe keep him from one day of drinking at least. She plans on going and checking on him tomorrow.
Who will check on her?
And why isn't the spell check working?
He woke up this morning and blinked. For a moment it was forgotten. Then the heavy blanket of thick fog rushed over him. It was as if the sleep could never be removed from his eyes. He rolled over, heart heavy. Although it was early still he could not fall back asleep.
All of his problems and worries and fears were lying next to him. A chill went down his spine and he got up to use the bathroom.
He thought "Fuck it"
Another day.
He showered and went through the motions. Shaving, eating, going to work. He still could not see clearly. But he couldn't tell anyone because he knew they wouldn't be able to understand. If you start to talk about the pain and frustration, nevermind the depression, people look at you as if you have a third head.
The day goes on. He goes through the motions but feels nothing. The pain is deep inside and isn't releasing itself at the moment. It just feels dull. Nothing gets better.
Nothing good happens.
He promised he would not drink anymore. He promised his wife of forty years and his beloved family that it was a new begininning and things were changing and getting better and he would not drink.
Starring at the fridge by his desk he thought "maybe just one"
And one turned into two.
Instead of feeling dead, he felt something. He had no label for it. It was not a buzz, he was not yet numb to the pain but he felt differently.
Maybe he could conquer another night.
He arrives home and attempts his usual chores. The only problem is he doesn't feel "his usual self". He feels worthless and pathetic and better off dead.
How could he survive another day? Another night even? He felt a scream from deep within his throat but it never came out.
He sat at the kitchen table and waited for something to happen. He knew he disappointed his wife and family by giving in to those beers. At first he didn't care but now the guilt kicked in. When his wife walked in the door after another day of her stressful job he tried to pretend everything was different and normal but she knew better.
Frustrated he went upstairs without his dinner. Pushed his insulin in as if he was going to eat and lied in bed waiting for the numbness he craved. He longed for the removal of this feeling. It was uncomfortable. It was different. And he could not control it.
But he could try and make it go away.
Things got kinda funny for awhile. He rolled over in bed. Eventually unconscious he started moaning. Although his brain believed he was ready to go, his body knew it wasn't his choice.
God gave us life. We didn't ask to be born. And he decides when it is our time. Selfishly we believe we can control otherwise and make bad decisions and hope for the worst or best- depending on who we are and where we are in our life.
God decided tonight was not the night and made his body groan loudly in pain, begging for needed nourishment. Not just from complex carbohydrates, but from love for the soul.
Everything went blank.
For a brief amount of time he felt the nothing he craved.
Suddenly lights every where shining on him and needles being poked into his body. He shivered from the cold.
"What was happening?" he thought to himself but his dry mouth couldn't form the words.
The room was full of people drawing blood, inserting an IV, asking questions.
He saw strangers.
He saw his family.
Why were they all here? He was finally in his bliss, in his quiet place and they took him away and he was angry.
Right?
He was pushed around and repremanded like a child. He remembered the time they took him and he couldn't leave. He didn't want that again- that much he was aware of and he kept trying to speak and say it was okay and it wasn't on purpose and other mumbles.
Quietly without questions family members began performing duties they had done before because this was not new to them. Perhaps before it was by accident and they hoped this time it was too.
Not all of them saw it that way.
One daughter began cooking.
The husbands tended to the children.
The wife answered questions and told as little and as much as she could because in her mind she still hadn't decided what was best for him and if this was on purpose and if he should be taken again or if this would end up okay like the other times.
He refused treatment. He refused to eat.
People started leaving and he questioned what happened.
His younger daughter understood; having lived with the blackness on and off for almost twenty years.
She hand fed him the food he was refusing to eat, while threatening to call the people back to take him away again which he did not want.
He ate and drank just enough to satisfy everyone and they went away.
But she couldn't. She kicked off her shoes and lied next to him and put her head in the welcoming shoulder he had ready for her.
She cried. She spoke. She came clean without coming too clean and giving more ideas. She stated the facts and he realized he was not the first nor the only person to feel this way.
They cried together for the first time.
She prayed to God for answers; not just for her daddy but for herself. For she didn't know where she would be in an hour or a day or a week. Giggling they compared the same medication. Crying they discussed the same fears. Nostalgically they discussed the children.
She had to go home to tend to them so her husband wouldn't get angry at her for something else. She knew she couldn't take that tonight.
She kissed and hugged him good night. Made him promise that we only have to take it minute by minute because looking any further ahead brought bleakness, despair and frustration. And if we make it this minute we can make it the next.
She went home crying alone. She drank to numb her pain. She drank some more and drew a warm bath. Somewhere she heard someone putting her down and she drank some more. After all the lecturing on staying sober she hypocritically polished off a bottle of wine and read old poetry.
Another night has come. Midnight is about to post. A new day will begin.
What will it bring? Where will we be?
She brings her daughter's magnetic Valentine's to his house and places it with his work stuff to put on his fridge at work to maybe keep him from one day of drinking at least. She plans on going and checking on him tomorrow.
Who will check on her?
And why isn't the spell check working?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
He's yelling again.
So am I.
The kids look around and pretend that this isn't happening. Again. The baby begins to cry. Begs to be nursed because when being nursed all is secured.
Why are things this way?
What happened to the love that was felt? Where did it go? Where did we go wrong?
I'm back to a bottle or so of wine a night. I still don't sleep well. I take something. I still hear the baby cry and I comfort him with my breast. I hear my two-year old scream with night terrors and I hold her so she doesn't hurt herself until she gets back to sleep. I can still function. For now.
But what happens on other days? All the times I was suicidal and didn't succeed or wimped out or got caught? So I got smart, I went to the doctor. I upped my medication and started frequenting my psychologist again.
When they took my daddy away I could only think "It should have been me"
Maybe I am a selfish bitch.
I don't want to live in a loveless marriage. I want passion and hope and dreams. I want love for not just me, but my children who deserve the world.
I am a good wife.
I'm a fucking fabulous mother.
I would do anything for this family. And I am.
I pray to God. I argue with him.
I drink some more wine. I pray. I eat ice cream and watch crappy TV and sometimes I cry.
It pulls me. I want passion and kind words and children that are not afraid of yelling and of their mama crying over something they don't understand.
Children should not ever have to suffer from Adult Problems.
My babies are everything to me.
I will become everything they need me to be.
I may need stuff to survive but SO FUCKING WHAT? I will not feel guilty for having endometriosis or fibromyalgia or bipolar disorder. It is who I am and I will take what I need to and talk to whom I have to and I will be a good person and great mom and they will depend on my stability.
I will always be there for them.
I wish we could say the same for eachother.
I don't want to be hurt anymore. I'd rather be alone than put down and unloved. I think, perhaps stupidly, "why would he stay if he didn't love me" and "maybe this is all he knows?" But maybe I just hang on to the hope that this love is meant for me and things will get better and my children will have a good life.
God, I will do anything for my children.
Anything.
Why can't I seem to find the right answer? Or have I?
So am I.
The kids look around and pretend that this isn't happening. Again. The baby begins to cry. Begs to be nursed because when being nursed all is secured.
Why are things this way?
What happened to the love that was felt? Where did it go? Where did we go wrong?
I'm back to a bottle or so of wine a night. I still don't sleep well. I take something. I still hear the baby cry and I comfort him with my breast. I hear my two-year old scream with night terrors and I hold her so she doesn't hurt herself until she gets back to sleep. I can still function. For now.
But what happens on other days? All the times I was suicidal and didn't succeed or wimped out or got caught? So I got smart, I went to the doctor. I upped my medication and started frequenting my psychologist again.
When they took my daddy away I could only think "It should have been me"
Maybe I am a selfish bitch.
I don't want to live in a loveless marriage. I want passion and hope and dreams. I want love for not just me, but my children who deserve the world.
I am a good wife.
I'm a fucking fabulous mother.
I would do anything for this family. And I am.
I pray to God. I argue with him.
I drink some more wine. I pray. I eat ice cream and watch crappy TV and sometimes I cry.
It pulls me. I want passion and kind words and children that are not afraid of yelling and of their mama crying over something they don't understand.
Children should not ever have to suffer from Adult Problems.
My babies are everything to me.
I will become everything they need me to be.
I may need stuff to survive but SO FUCKING WHAT? I will not feel guilty for having endometriosis or fibromyalgia or bipolar disorder. It is who I am and I will take what I need to and talk to whom I have to and I will be a good person and great mom and they will depend on my stability.
I will always be there for them.
I wish we could say the same for eachother.
I don't want to be hurt anymore. I'd rather be alone than put down and unloved. I think, perhaps stupidly, "why would he stay if he didn't love me" and "maybe this is all he knows?" But maybe I just hang on to the hope that this love is meant for me and things will get better and my children will have a good life.
God, I will do anything for my children.
Anything.
Why can't I seem to find the right answer? Or have I?
Monday, February 11, 2008
So Therefore,
I send regrets to all those I've failed. To the things I have not achieved. Tonight I attached myself to a cold bottle of inexpensive chardonnay and forced myself to stop halfway through. I know I can drink it all without the hangover and next day regrets. I also know I won't feel anymore than I feel right now so why bother?
Psychiatric institutions are too good for me and the general public is below what I can feel, sense. Who are you and why are you infiltrating my life? I questions quietly as I look into the eyes of those I know well and those I don't know at all.
Can you hear my cries for help or are they lost in the sea of madness?
Psychiatric institutions are too good for me and the general public is below what I can feel, sense. Who are you and why are you infiltrating my life? I questions quietly as I look into the eyes of those I know well and those I don't know at all.
Can you hear my cries for help or are they lost in the sea of madness?
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