So I abandoned my writing here on WP in order to pursue other creative expressions. Guess I was kinda bored with words. But not entirely restless. I dabbled for a bit in paint, wool felt, collage and learning the piano. None and all pursuits satisfied.
I also took shelter under a published poet, during this time, to gain feedback on my words. He addressed nine of what I consider some of my better poems and he suggested one was ready to publish. But where?
Yet, before I publish in a journal, I wondered, do I wait, sit longer with the other poems until they are publishable in the greater sense, by a jury of peers? Until the realization of the time problem and my ability to fix them. Or would the object lesson of editing render me helpless? Why should I consider putting twenty to thirty poems together in a chapbook? Then I think out loud “Why even allow the renegade poems to take my mind and heart hostage?”
Friends and readers, I am still no further along this journey. I am unsure what to pursue full force. Do I saturate myself in pursuing publishing perfection or give up the destination? Do I stay with the map and follow the stars? Or abandon ship and set off on a new course? What should be my priority? All avenues would be ideal.
One thing is for certain, I look forward to indulging my creative expressions and see where I end up and sharing them here for awhile. My Instagram account has now been neglected. Cheers!
What am i doing here this morning? Did i not say i was gone from WP? Well a thought entered my head after reading a post in a closed group i belong to on FB… and decided to share here as well.
So, what is the group? Survivors of Suicide. A group i did not sign up for but was rather pushed into. And i reside there eternally.
I am healthier today. Actually quite happy. It hurts to say i am happy. I wear my brother’s pain… my grays and blues. Back in black on sunny days. No hat can hide or sunglasses conceal my tears.
Regardless i have survived two suicides and countless hopes to die myself. What follows is my posting to the group this morning…
“At some point life becomes unbearable… my mother was miserable and trudged through life. Her desire to die was known growing up and affected us children, as much as if she had died. I started to desire death at 8 years old. Then my grandfather did die by suicide… gunshot to the head, two months before my wedding. My desire to die increased and my happy day was miserable… it rained as my dad drove me to the church. Then, a rainbow appeared as i got out of the car. A tinge of hope engulfed me. That sparkle flickered for years. Fast track to March 1 2008 and my brother died by suicide. I was still a broken girl with dashed dreams (moments of hope sprinkled in) and felt compelled to leave this earth too! I spent days staring out the kitchen window while holding a knife to my neck, ever gently scraping… singing a lullaby to myself. Oh! and the knotted ropes in my mind would magically turn into snakes, dance in my head while telling me peace came with death.
“Lies!!!” i screamed back.
Today? Ten years later and 51, I have never felt so alive!!! I do not think about the past… my environment has changed. I live in a new house, a new town/state, surrounded by beauty and inner peace… everything before today was all a nightmare.
(To everyone in the FB closed group i told them ‘So glad you all are here. Talking. Suicidal thoughts are a disease. A product of overgrown emotions that do not know to express themselves outward. I went to therapy for ten years… my escape was to pack my bags and get the hell out of hell… i stay in this group because i cannot leave my brother. I so wish he was here. He would be happy to know i made it out alive.
Hope this isnt too harsh. It was my reality for 50 years.’)
I am always available to listen to you too. email@example.com
my son is so much
like his father
i want to jump
out the window
i can leave the man
but i cannot
being a mom
is so painful
that i catch myself
i’d made different
about a life …
i am contemplating buying a typewriter. why? glad you asked!
i am starting to think i spend too much time here… in WP Land. and not enough time producing my chapbooks for family and friends. my time spent here also leaves me little time to work on quilts, paintings, my promise garden or finding a job that pays my heart with fulfillment.
the reasoning behind the typewriter is that it would force me to keep my words private. ah! similar to those diaries that would be buried under mattresses and pillows. or deep in bureau drawers where no prying fingers or eyes could disease the soul.
may save me…
or not! i would find a routine where i could post my favorite work of the week… say Monday. here, on my Borderline Crossing blog… i know otherwise i would miss you wonderful people. so stay tuned for next Monday… i have my phone calendar set to ring at 6:00 am, so i can post and connect with you.
as a child i nagged my parents to stop smoking… my dad was happy to quit and exclaimed “i can smell and taste again!” what should have been a breakthrough was left a defeat, mom moping and poking around, complaining as usual… she wanted her cigarettes… not wanting to smoke alone, she subsided the habit, never lit another cig again… she also never let me forget her misery was my fault…
today i am suppose to be packing… what little we brought to our temporary apartment, so i better scoot and tape up some boxes to haul stuff over to our new house… it is our home tomorrow! it feels like a Christmas, as it hasn’t felt since i got a Barbie Townhouse from Santa in the 3rd grade… i won’t go into a diatribe about the evils of believing in nonsense (perhaps another day i will reminisce about breaking my brother’s heart and getting an ass whooping) or how Barbie and Ken evokes sexual feelings in kids… might just let that be forever…
not going to fix humanity and i have given up trying… my egotistical complex has been put to rest… now off to calm this racing heart… and pack!
Daniel Paul Marshall’s blog... click link to read the complete post. “Nietzsche concludes book III (268-275) of The Gay Science by posing 8 questions to himself & answering them. I found, answering them as if they were philosophically incentivized Rorschach blotches, quite revealing.”
Finally posting my answers to the 8 questions… (and yours?)
What makes one heroic? Saving yourself from doubt.
In what do you believe? Myself. My ability to contradict the obvious and assert i am nothing.
What does your conscience say? To pardon, is the first act of grace.
Where are your greatest dangers? My ability to listen and hear with my eyes.
What do you love in others? A sense of humor.
Whom do you call bad? The unmistakable persistence of a man caught in a game of chance.
What do you consider most humane? The ability to live.
What is the seal of liberation? Saying goodbye despite having just said hello.
I wrote the above to help me through a day, last week. It was not meant for public consumption, but after reading Aguycalledbloke this morning, i decided to share. This is but a snippet of my relationship with my mother.
Is it worth returning to this planet? Of trying to understand why i am so crazy today? Am i not making progress any more? Am i not rebelling against their prison, set-up to chain me to the past?
I am my own person. My parents are gone. They had their chance to live. I have today and i cannot live in their fear… a person cannot fully live, regretful.
My love of nature is born from my dad. For that i am eternally grateful.