Muddled

Pre-Dating Questionnaire:

1) Are you now or have you ever been on heroin, oxycodone or any other mind-altering, massively addictive “recreational” drug?

2) How many therapists are you currently seeing?
(More than one is a red flag.)

3) How many therapists have you seen in the last three months? (More than one has passed red flag and gone flying into Seek Shelter Immediately siren territory)

4) Do you have a love child from a former partner? That is still in your life? With her current girlfriend and their love child?

5) Are you actually a lesbian or are you just working on a new life experience?

6) Do you have daddy and/or mommy issues? If so, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate them?
(1 being “Not really” and 10 being “DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER!!!!”)

7. Did you major/minor in Psychology? If so, why? (Refer to question #6 if necessary.)

8. Regarding question #6 and #7 if answered in the positive – What exactly makes you get off about screwing with another persons head? The flip-trip-and-reversing of the other persons words? Watching the other person struggle? Or is it just the Power Trip that you hadn’t experienced until now?

9. Can you allow yourself to be vulnerable?

10. If “Yes” to question #9 – Will you allow yourself to remain vulnerable if the person you opened up to screws up once?
10a. Will you tell the person how you feel? Y / N
10b. If “No” – Why?

11. Do you give second chances?

12. If “No” to question #11 – Why not? Surely you’ve been given at least one second chance in your lifetime, no?

13. What are you afraid of?

___________________ Print Name
___________________ Sign Name
____________ Date

How Long? (Very Embryonic)

‘Till my soul gets it right?

Can any human being

Ever reach that kind of light

I call on the resting soul

Of Galileo

King of Night Vision

King of Insight

(Galileo – The Indigo Girls)

There’s…something in those words…actually the entire song…..I…need to keep listening…

He backtracked so as not to be burnt at the stake. He gave up and gave in….to stay alive…

Don’t we all?

Shattered (B2)

The standard definition of the word Shattered pretty much reads like this –

  • to break suddenly into many small pieces

  • to damage (something) very badly

The funny thing about how we interpret the word Shattered is this – the assumption that the force for the shattering comes from the outside.

Think about it. What’s shattered? A roof via some sort of cosmic deviation (or a bit of frozen waste ejected from a plane…). A windshield. Glass. Brick, concrete and, yes, even steel under certain conditions. When we speak about a Soul shattering, the language is “Oh, they tried, but they were given too much to deal with”; “They were ok until <X> {left/died/disappeared} and now they’re shattered.”

Physically, mentally, emotionally, the word Shattered can, and does work.

 

It’s rare when you hear talk about someone shattering from the inside out.

 

Shattering from the inside out is…raw. And brutal.

 

It’s as raw as flesh exposed suddenly from a scrape or rug-burn or anything that suddenly strips your outer layers off to leave a stinging, burning, bloody wound. As raw as the crack of a bone fracturing, breaking, ringing in your ears and nauseating your belly.

Shattering in this manner means you’ve chosen to be Open. You’ve turned yourself willingly inside-out, so in your head the easy snarking grin you’ve made your mask turns into a caricature of yourself, and your skin skims off, and all that’s left is the You, and the easy snarking grin becomes…becomes…

Becomes a woman who is gritting her teeth as hard as her Mother and Grandmother (and lords only know who else) did just to survive.

Shattering from the inside out is not only raw, it leaves you vulnerable. Because you’re exposed, flesh, bone, brain, soul, mind, heart, wishes, dreams, demons and all. The crytstal fractures, scudding fissures like quicksilver capillaries under the surface,  the force of your bottled up emotions ever widening them until…

And you know that the sands of time will lash and flay you because you dared to break out.

You will sob and bleed and cry and howl and kick and tantrum and hurt…hurt…fucking hurt.

 

And if you’re lucky…or stupid…or stubborn…or just you…after all that…you’ll wibbily-wobbily sort your feet out, and stand.

You’re Shattered.

Totally. Utterly.

Raw.

And Alive.

One breath, one step, one second at a time from here on out. And when you feel like nothing once again…

Let yourself be Raw.

One breath, one step, one second at a time…

 

 

 

 

Gifts (B1)

Gifts are odd things. They can be funny or cruel. Poetic or prophetic. They can mean all to one and nothing to the other, and vice versa. Sometimes they may be life or death. Given out of love, or like, or indifference or spite or clear-as-air hatred, a gift given means something to both the giver and the receiver. For whatever it’s worth.

Life is a gift. Sometimes. And death can be a gift. Sometimes. It’s all in how you interpret it, plus what you’re handed throughout your waking days on Earth. Interpretation can be crucial, and key, no matter what else swamps and drowns the rest.

I was given life…for whatever reason. From what I was told, it was an easy birth. First labor pang hit at around 8:00 PM and *fwooomph*, I was out by 2:01 am the next morning. Six hours and one minute after the first “WHOA! Ok….” flashed through my mother and broke her water.

In my mind, my mother held me in her arms and I was both her greatest dream and worst nightmare all at the same time.

But she gave me life, and she probably smiled as I howled indignantly, angrily, sullen at being suddenly exposed to bright light and cold air, and then quieted down once I was swaddled tight and placed into her arms, heat coming back into my body after the indecency of being shoved out of the one place I’d known, all warm and swimmy and calm.

And she gently touches your still rage-red face and says “It’s ok. It’ll be ok. I promise…”

****

You know when Death comes for someone. You…just do. There can be a cacophony of things…labored breathing…water running, horns blaring outside on the street, sirens and buses and trains, oh my, the beating of your own heart loud in your ears, the words  you just said “It’s ok, I promise, It’ll be ok” whispered into the washcloth you soap it up…but then…

Then…

Then there is a silence that you must believe was the same silence in the stillborn Universe right before everything went BANG…It’s a…quiet…that settles deep into your marrow that you will never, ever, ever be able to shake, like standing in the heart of a hurricane, watching the world whirl, whorl, wind and twist, while all around you is still.

It’s over.

You know. And the knowing doesn’t make the whole thing any less terrible, any less horrific or terrifying…it…just is…and you will have to deal with the repercussions…

And your last, true Gift to her is touching her pale white face, so different from what you knew…cupping her chin to close her mouth, then…then…reaching up to gently close her eyes…

The cycle, in some way, is complete. But the memory will always haunt.

 

 

 

 

 

From Me For You

*snerk* How very “Good Samaritan”-ish  of the scriptwriters.

Besides…’Course I’d jump down. Who the hell else is gonna show you where the snack stash is? *grin*

****

The funny (?) thing about the hole is that it’s always been there from the moment you’re born. Always.

If you’re very lucky? You never see it, much less fall into it. It exists, but it’s not a part of your life in any tangible way. Nope. Nuthin’ there. Walkin’ on Sunshine (whoa-ugh). And that’s awesome.

If you’re….like me? You know the hole is there. Beckoning. Calling to you with a gentle siren song of “better to curl up down here than be alone out there”. Which, by the way, is a bloody fucking lie. Because the hole is also the wellspring of your darkest, direst, self-loathing and most hateful thoughts. In some cases you direct all that bleak towards other people, because you want them to hurt as badly as you do. In my case, you direct them inwards. Because I don’t want to hurt other people…I don’t succeed, but…*shrug*  I am a total Master of hurting myself. It’s easier. People don’t get mad at you if you rip yourself apart inside over and over and over again. Because you’re not ripping them apart. (‘Course, most people don’t recognize the fact that you’re gutting yourself on the daily, and even if they do…they’ll take an interest insofar as it suits their needs at that juncture. Then they get bored. After that? You may now proceed with your daily psychic-cutting. They’re done with you.)

And then the hole becomes your comfort zone, where you jump in willingly because at least it’s familiar. It’s dark, it’s cold, but it’s recognizable. It becomes Home in your head.

And then there are those who kinda-sorta see the hole but either don’t want to deal with it or believe it’ll never happen to them. It may be the Bogeyman in your dreams, or the slight shift of a shadow on the ground as you’re walking, but otherwise? Nope nope nope Nope.Org. nope. Those falls, I think, may be the hardest. Because you’ve done your level best to keep everything in your life together and then HEY! There’s a HOLE! And I’m in it! And…I’m…scared. (Individual mileage may vary).

If you’re lucky, you have someone in your life who is an excellent internal spelunker. And when they notice someone who is an excellent internal mountaineer kinda slip off the line, no matter how slowly…they’ll follow you down. And will wait, and talk you through it, all the while recognizing that your experience is yours alone. And no matter how deep you think the hole is, they’ll help you climb out, if you’re willing to let them.

You can’t understand the highest summits until you’ve known the darkest depths.

I actually made my own teeth itch with that last sentence, and I now feel the need to shower…

So…to end with a quote of mine own choosing –

“Your hand opens and closes, opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralyzed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds’ wings.”

– Rumi

 

 

For You From Me

I heard a story on an old episode of West Wing that reminded me of, well…us.

This guy’s walking down a street, when he falls in a hole.
The walls are so steep, he can’t get out.

A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up “Hey you! Can you help me out?”
The doctor writes him a prescription, throws it down the hole and moves on.

Then a priest comes along.
The guy shouts up “Father, I’m down in this hole, can you help me out?”
The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

Then a friend walks by. “Hey Joe, it’s me, can you help me out?”
The friend jumps in the hole!
Our guy says “Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here!”

The friend says, “Yeah, but I’ve been down here before, and I know the way out.”

Thanks for jumping in the hole.

Like…Mother…? (Claire #2)

I was sitting on our stoop. Ma was gossiping with Mrs. Nagy in that fantàstical, magificent

Language of the Magyars…

All gentle cz’s, sz’s, no gutterals, the harshest sounds a buzzing like a bug in your ear. Shhshhh’s and Chhhhh’st and Sshhzzzt’s Chhhzzzzt’s like they wanted the language to be silent and yet still reverberate through the world like gentle thunder.

I wish we’d cared enough to keep it.

I bumped into the concrete banister, so I was told, and the grand, perfectly  round limestone cap teeter-tottered and

*BONK*

 

Apparently,  the perfectly round limestone cap was not perfectly in sync with gravity. And the hole the drilled through the bottom to hold it in place was less than perfect…

 

I sat on the chair in the kitchen, holding half a frozen chicken on my head draped in an old towel.

There was blood too…

It took me a little while to realize it was mine. And it when I realized that,  I also realized I was crying, and my head hurt. I felt my chest get tight even as the nausea and frostbite fear settled into my stomach and limbs. I remember looking up at one point, and even though my eyes were blurry from the tears, seeing Ma’s eyes…

I had never seen them so…cold…icy…like…like she’d somehow shut herself off in some way that I couldn’t fathom…

She took the chicken in the towel off my head, frowned, said something in Hungarian, and placed what should have been dinner back on my bloody wound. My hand reached up instinctively to hold it there, hold it so my brains and blood wouldn’t gush out onto the newly mopped worn floor. The fear curled and coiled in my gut until I was frozen in place, my hysteria paused by her words.

“B…bu…but what are they gonna do to me in the hospital?”

My voice quavered as I watched her calmly put her coat on. She looked at me and smile-smirked, a flash of something sparking her eyes crystal.

“Oh, probably cut your head off.”

I proceeded to get more hysterical.

***

I remembered that as I stood over my daughter lying on the slab of the MRI machine in Lenox Hill. Her Pediatrician stood next to me, an ancient, wizened old man with a head like a billiard ball. He was speaking to her softly, gently…something I…couldn’t do…not…now.

I was so fucking frightened.

The slab began to move, and he took my arm. “She’ll be alright,” I vaguely heard him tell me as he lead me out of the room.

All I could do was focus on the panic on her face…the shudder of terror…the unkown…God why the HELL was she so afraid of the dark???!?…her green eyes so frightened…left pupil so much larger than the right…trying so hard to be obedient then, not move her head in the blocks…

…When the machine began to move her into the tunnel that would scan her brain in stone cold black and white (the X-Ray showed nothing but the lump forming from the impact of her head against windshield), the halo of white light circumnavigating the circumference of the catacomb she was being dragged into crowning her like she was some sort of foolish, triumphant daredevil…

But she never cried once.