Innocence (Raccoon)
As he reached down to pick up the jeweled scallop shell, flawless, almost as if from a mold, the symmetry breathtaking in its perfection, I watched his hand, his beautiful hand and wished he was holding mine. His hair, flaxen, bangs almost obscuring one eye: his eyes, like rare jade, piercing. I felt my heart flutter knowing that his man, handsome, unaware that my eyes coveted him, had little idea that I wanted him to hole me close.
I did not know him, but as he stood back up, he saw me out of the corner of his eye, and grinned self consciously, yet slightly flirtatiously, and said “Hey.” Just hey. No introduction, nothing complicated, just hey. And all that was required of me was to say hay back.
“Hey,” I said, as I blinked, then looked down for just a half second before I looked at him again, studying him, his muscular calves, evenly tanned skin, his tight abs, and developed chest, square jaw, that smile, bedeviling, disarming, and his dancing eyes. All of this was captured in a snapshot, so quickly that perhaps he hadn’t noticed my awe. His eyes still held mine as I returned to his face, his face that had gained some intensity, or was it tension. No, it was intensity for he did not look away to even flinch, relaxed.
I felt confused, like my knees were about to cave, buckle, leaving me in a pile of bones, but I tried not to show just how nervous I was, my smile just a little too tight.
“I’m Robert,” he said.
“Wayne,” I uttered in response.
“Where are you visiting from?”
It was summer break and out-of-towners and tourists were en masse.
“Asheville.” And then “North Carolina I mean,” I mustered, as if this was not obvious.
“I know where that is. I go to college at Wake.”
“What are you majoring in?” I inquired clumsily, trying to sound natural, get my bearings, understanding that without the eye liner I felt naked, embarrassed.
“Pharmacology,” he replied, without a hint if feeling flustered.
“Cool,” I summoned. “I might apply to Wake next year. I don’t know. Unless I move to California that is…” trying to show just how brave a move like that could be. Bravado.
He nodded. Something still, yet understood, passed between us, an apparition or a shadow, something unseen, unheard, yet you knew it was present.
“Cool,” he stated matter-of-factly. Just cool. No elaboration. I felt trapped for words in that moment, trying to find anything to say.
“That’s a beautiful shell, “I stammered. I almost picked it up first.”
“Yeah. Take a look.” And as he held it out to me and I reached to grab it, careful not to actually touch him, his fingers lingered just a slight second. I flushed, thankful I had been out in the heat for a few hours.
“Well,” he said, “I am staying at the cottage just up the beach, the blue one on stilts.
“Really?” I replied a beat too soon, my heart pounding like a bass drum, feeling as if I had fallen down a well, or as if the undertow might smother me. “I’m staying just a few houses down – the yellow one.”
He smiled. “Cool.” Yeah, cool I thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that, he turned and walked up the beach, leaving me with that beautiful scallop, a remembrance, and possibly a hint at what a future might be like with someone you adored, who equally adored you. It was the first time I had felt a certain amount of awareness, a certain amount what it might be to be an adult, not quite comprehending that my idealization was still very childlike in general. And it was the first time I felt I knew who I was for just a few moments, moments that would eventually flood me like ocean waves or pockets of rain.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Boy Girl
Boy Girl
Baby Girl was often lonely but seldom alone.
This shallow feeling had persisted for oh what,
some thirty years, back as early as grade school,
as early as when she knew the difference between
boys and girls. The boys teased her endlessly,
as boys will often do, for not being like them,
acting like them, being them. She remembered
letting the captain of the football team cheat off
her exam in Earth Science, an exam about conifers,
tall pines that produced seeds that grew into
cones. In exchange, he agreed to protect her
from those monsters that lurked around the corners
of hallways, a maze she would have to navigate
in order to arrive safely to her next class. Having
a guardian was a lesson she carried with her
even today. Looking back at that boy, she could
still relate to him, the one with the recessive gene,
that freak of nature and science, a mistake,
an aberration, the last to be picked for basketball.
Instead, a new woman had been born on
Her eighteenth birthday, and she never looked back.
These lessons, lessons learned, necessary lessons,
would serve her well, and who she became, the woman
who had arrived, survived, would have knocked
all those childhood bullies down with one punch,
one solid punch. None of her friends, except Raccoon,
knew that Robin was her real name, a name that could
have just as easily been born a girl rather than a boy.
She had been reborn Baby Girl, even if her driver’s
license picture reflected those childhood taunts. But
no one presently knew of this boy, and she kept him
hidden, out of sight, Still reflecting, she sat in the
center of a party in her honor, smiling, feeling completely
and utterly alone.
Baby Girl was often lonely but seldom alone.
This shallow feeling had persisted for oh what,
some thirty years, back as early as grade school,
as early as when she knew the difference between
boys and girls. The boys teased her endlessly,
as boys will often do, for not being like them,
acting like them, being them. She remembered
letting the captain of the football team cheat off
her exam in Earth Science, an exam about conifers,
tall pines that produced seeds that grew into
cones. In exchange, he agreed to protect her
from those monsters that lurked around the corners
of hallways, a maze she would have to navigate
in order to arrive safely to her next class. Having
a guardian was a lesson she carried with her
even today. Looking back at that boy, she could
still relate to him, the one with the recessive gene,
that freak of nature and science, a mistake,
an aberration, the last to be picked for basketball.
Instead, a new woman had been born on
Her eighteenth birthday, and she never looked back.
These lessons, lessons learned, necessary lessons,
would serve her well, and who she became, the woman
who had arrived, survived, would have knocked
all those childhood bullies down with one punch,
one solid punch. None of her friends, except Raccoon,
knew that Robin was her real name, a name that could
have just as easily been born a girl rather than a boy.
She had been reborn Baby Girl, even if her driver’s
license picture reflected those childhood taunts. But
no one presently knew of this boy, and she kept him
hidden, out of sight, Still reflecting, she sat in the
center of a party in her honor, smiling, feeling completely
and utterly alone.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
There Was Always One Night
There Was Always One Night
There was always one evening a week, her evening,
where Baby Girl would dress up in a smart purple suit,
popping it with some green pumps and a yellow clutch,
her hair twisted into a chignon, appearing like a lady of leisure.
It was just another cornflower day. There was always
one evening a week, where Baby Girl would take a seat
at Frenchy’s, while Max poured liberal potencies of Bombay gin,
extra dry, dry as a bone, dry like her humor, two olives please,
one onion, and usually, the lounge was deader than the
fogged over moon, with the exception of a few stray cats,
hissing and meowing to each other as if in heat, unembarrassed
and unaware of being watched, scrutinized, usually no one
that interested her. While the jukebox wailed “I Fall To Pieces,”
she would sit distantly, observing the frail man tearing up,
liquid salt pouring into his chardonnay. There was always
one evening a week, where Baby Girl would sit distantly,
apart from the jarring action, the jarring emotions of others,
owning these moments, some of the few that she allowed
to be present with herself by herself. Max, was great company.
He made her laugh, and she needed to laugh more at life’s
fickleness, and she even wondered if Max liked women like her.
No matter. Max held coveted secrets, as she did his, allies
against the sycophants that usually surrounded her, whom she
dismissed with a smile or bat of an eye. Four martinis,
three cigarettes, and then onward home to her small, bright,
quiet apartment, the silence palpable, nearly unbearably so,
alone with her cat, Sam, and the crazy neighbor across the hall,
a place she had consciously chosen for herself. There was always
one evening a week when she acquiesced to routine, without
giving it another thought.
There was always one evening a week, her evening,
where Baby Girl would dress up in a smart purple suit,
popping it with some green pumps and a yellow clutch,
her hair twisted into a chignon, appearing like a lady of leisure.
It was just another cornflower day. There was always
one evening a week, where Baby Girl would take a seat
at Frenchy’s, while Max poured liberal potencies of Bombay gin,
extra dry, dry as a bone, dry like her humor, two olives please,
one onion, and usually, the lounge was deader than the
fogged over moon, with the exception of a few stray cats,
hissing and meowing to each other as if in heat, unembarrassed
and unaware of being watched, scrutinized, usually no one
that interested her. While the jukebox wailed “I Fall To Pieces,”
she would sit distantly, observing the frail man tearing up,
liquid salt pouring into his chardonnay. There was always
one evening a week, where Baby Girl would sit distantly,
apart from the jarring action, the jarring emotions of others,
owning these moments, some of the few that she allowed
to be present with herself by herself. Max, was great company.
He made her laugh, and she needed to laugh more at life’s
fickleness, and she even wondered if Max liked women like her.
No matter. Max held coveted secrets, as she did his, allies
against the sycophants that usually surrounded her, whom she
dismissed with a smile or bat of an eye. Four martinis,
three cigarettes, and then onward home to her small, bright,
quiet apartment, the silence palpable, nearly unbearably so,
alone with her cat, Sam, and the crazy neighbor across the hall,
a place she had consciously chosen for herself. There was always
one evening a week when she acquiesced to routine, without
giving it another thought.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Carrie Prejean -- Fraud
Carrie Prejean -- Who's the Boob Now?
Posted May 11th 2009 3:00AM by TMZ Staff
Those topless photos of Miss USA California Carrie Prejean were taken after she turned 18, according to one of her former pageant sponsors. This contradicts Carrie's position that she posed for the pics when she was only 17.We obtained an email sent by the sponsor (we were asked not to use his name) and he says Carrie sent him one of the topless photos after January 6, 2009, asking "if she was in good enough shape for the Miss USA Pageant." The date is significant, because that's the day Carrie got a boob job. The former sponsor says the pic was post boob job and she was well over 18.TMZ obtained 4 topless photos a week ago. Her rep contacted us and said Carrie's position was that she was naive at the time she posed. Then we got a second email stating she was only 17. As a result we did not publish the photos. But the sponsor says he's positive they were taken when Carrie was a full-grown adult.
Carrie Prejean -- Phone Whore
Posted May 11th 2009 2:24AM by TMZ Staff
If your phone rings and there's a voice recording asking you to donate money and sign a petition against gay marriage, you can draw comfort from the fact that the person who recorded the message is really hot.We found out Miss California USA Carrie Prejean recorded that message for the National Organization for Marriage (NOM) during a recent trip to Washington D.C. She's certainly accessible to NOM, but she's been like the topless version of Phantom of the Opera for the folks at Miss California... she will only communicate with pageant officials through her publicist -- the same dude who was the publicist for Billy Graham.By the way, the pictures that we did not post showing a topless Carrie... even though her lawyer says she was 17 when the photos were taken, we obtained an email from a former pageant sponsor of hers, who says on or after January 6, 2009, Carrie sent him the photo (posted on thedirty.com) asking if she was in good enough shape for the Miss USA Pageant. The upshot -- the sponsor says he knows "for a fact" she was not 17 in that picture.
Miss California Carrie Prejean -- Take it Down!
Posted May 10th 2009 12:07PM by TMZ Staff
Miss California Carrie Prejean wants to put a lid on those nude photos that have been posted on the Internet -- stat.We've obtained a cease and desist letter fired off from Carrie's lawyer to thedirty.com, demanding that the site take down two photos, showing a topless Carrie posing for the cam.In the letter, her lawyer says, "One of the displayed images of Ms. Prejean was illegally taken under false pretenses when she was a 17-year-old minor and unable to consent to its creation." The letter goes on: "The other image depicts Ms. Prejean's likeness but is not an actual photograph. It is an electronic manipulation ["photoshopped'] of her image created without her consent."The response from thedirty.com: "Your client's publicity rights are substantially inferior to the right of the public to consider, discuss, agree and/or disagree with Ms. Prejean's actions and views. This is not conduct for which your client's consent is required." Translation -- go pound sand.
More Lies From Miss California Carrie Prejean And Her Camp
Access Hollywood: TheDirty.com, which posted the first racy photo of the beauty queen on Monday, has posted another shot of a woman posing in just her underwear covering her chest with her arm, which they claim is Prejean.
But a rep for Prejean told Access Hollywood the photo is not her. The rep acknowledged that photo shows Prejean’s head, but that “it appears to have been Photoshopped.”
The rep went on to say that Prejean maintains that one photo was taken during that session, “as far as she can remember.” Her rep noted that the photo was taken four years ago and “her memory might be faulty.”
Prejean’s rep also told Access the photo was taken by a friend of Prejean’s, who sent it to an agent, but that she “can’t remember his name.” The rep said they believe the agent might be responsible for releasing the photo to TheDirty.com.
According to her rep, Prejean has contacted the Web site and asked them to stop using her photo.
Click Here To Read Full Article
Carrie, your lips are flapping and all you keep doing is lying and making everything worse! You and your “rep”? Isn’t it stated in your agreement with the pageant that you are not allowed to even have your own PR rep.? You have not tried once to get in touch with me or anyone here at TheDirty.com. The image is NOT photoshopped and an agent did not release these images to me. As for your statement, “can’t remember his name” that is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Carrie, TheDirty Army and I will pray for you.
Exodis 20:16
Ephhesians 4:24-25
Carrie, I am sure you skipped over those passages. I decided.- nik
Posted May 11th 2009 3:00AM by TMZ Staff
Those topless photos of Miss USA California Carrie Prejean were taken after she turned 18, according to one of her former pageant sponsors. This contradicts Carrie's position that she posed for the pics when she was only 17.We obtained an email sent by the sponsor (we were asked not to use his name) and he says Carrie sent him one of the topless photos after January 6, 2009, asking "if she was in good enough shape for the Miss USA Pageant." The date is significant, because that's the day Carrie got a boob job. The former sponsor says the pic was post boob job and she was well over 18.TMZ obtained 4 topless photos a week ago. Her rep contacted us and said Carrie's position was that she was naive at the time she posed. Then we got a second email stating she was only 17. As a result we did not publish the photos. But the sponsor says he's positive they were taken when Carrie was a full-grown adult.
Carrie Prejean -- Phone Whore
Posted May 11th 2009 2:24AM by TMZ Staff
If your phone rings and there's a voice recording asking you to donate money and sign a petition against gay marriage, you can draw comfort from the fact that the person who recorded the message is really hot.We found out Miss California USA Carrie Prejean recorded that message for the National Organization for Marriage (NOM) during a recent trip to Washington D.C. She's certainly accessible to NOM, but she's been like the topless version of Phantom of the Opera for the folks at Miss California... she will only communicate with pageant officials through her publicist -- the same dude who was the publicist for Billy Graham.By the way, the pictures that we did not post showing a topless Carrie... even though her lawyer says she was 17 when the photos were taken, we obtained an email from a former pageant sponsor of hers, who says on or after January 6, 2009, Carrie sent him the photo (posted on thedirty.com) asking if she was in good enough shape for the Miss USA Pageant. The upshot -- the sponsor says he knows "for a fact" she was not 17 in that picture.
Miss California Carrie Prejean -- Take it Down!
Posted May 10th 2009 12:07PM by TMZ Staff
Miss California Carrie Prejean wants to put a lid on those nude photos that have been posted on the Internet -- stat.We've obtained a cease and desist letter fired off from Carrie's lawyer to thedirty.com, demanding that the site take down two photos, showing a topless Carrie posing for the cam.In the letter, her lawyer says, "One of the displayed images of Ms. Prejean was illegally taken under false pretenses when she was a 17-year-old minor and unable to consent to its creation." The letter goes on: "The other image depicts Ms. Prejean's likeness but is not an actual photograph. It is an electronic manipulation ["photoshopped'] of her image created without her consent."The response from thedirty.com: "Your client's publicity rights are substantially inferior to the right of the public to consider, discuss, agree and/or disagree with Ms. Prejean's actions and views. This is not conduct for which your client's consent is required." Translation -- go pound sand.
More Lies From Miss California Carrie Prejean And Her Camp
Access Hollywood: TheDirty.com, which posted the first racy photo of the beauty queen on Monday, has posted another shot of a woman posing in just her underwear covering her chest with her arm, which they claim is Prejean.
But a rep for Prejean told Access Hollywood the photo is not her. The rep acknowledged that photo shows Prejean’s head, but that “it appears to have been Photoshopped.”
The rep went on to say that Prejean maintains that one photo was taken during that session, “as far as she can remember.” Her rep noted that the photo was taken four years ago and “her memory might be faulty.”
Prejean’s rep also told Access the photo was taken by a friend of Prejean’s, who sent it to an agent, but that she “can’t remember his name.” The rep said they believe the agent might be responsible for releasing the photo to TheDirty.com.
According to her rep, Prejean has contacted the Web site and asked them to stop using her photo.
Click Here To Read Full Article
Carrie, your lips are flapping and all you keep doing is lying and making everything worse! You and your “rep”? Isn’t it stated in your agreement with the pageant that you are not allowed to even have your own PR rep.? You have not tried once to get in touch with me or anyone here at TheDirty.com. The image is NOT photoshopped and an agent did not release these images to me. As for your statement, “can’t remember his name” that is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Carrie, TheDirty Army and I will pray for you.
Exodis 20:16
Ephhesians 4:24-25
Carrie, I am sure you skipped over those passages. I decided.- nik
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Visitation
Visitation
Every time I approach that hill, the one that leads to that monstrous fortress, the cold institution where those intakes caused my heart to pound, my palms to sweat in dread, the panic rises and I hold my breath. I hold my breath forgetting to breathe deeply. But, I had already reconciled myself to the fact that it was important to give feedback about the intake process, how everyone did their part, that the clinicians were excellent and caring, but that the communication on the team failed, and as a result, I was forced to retell and relive the trauma again and again without the tools necessary to do a little harm reduction as far as symptoms are concerned. I had to give the feedback because, like most of us, we believe that we are not allowed to actually participate in our own healthcare, whether it is physical or emotional. Doctors cure. I also know that doctors are constantly learning, and though their intentions are honorable, they are human. Researchers especially are cogs in the machine, so the fact that reports are produced, does not necessarily mean that they actually talk to each other about the patients, or treat each individual case uniquely.
I had already decided that I would probably drop out of this study after I had delivered my feedback to Dr. Marmar. For those who are not familiar with Dr. Marmar he is Vice Chair and Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco. He is also Associate Chief of Staff for Mental Health, San Francisco VA Medical Center. Dr. Marmar’s current studies include a five-year prospective study of posttraumatic stress. His research has been supported by the NIMH, Veterans Administration, and Upjohn, Solvay and Forest Pharmaceuticals. With the use of Cognitive Behavior Therapy, Dr. Marmar has had a high success rate in treating PTSD survivors since the mid seventies.
So, this man, this doctor, this amazing opportunity – was I going to give the feedback and just leave, knowing I had a great therapist who supports me, who thinks I am doing FABULOUSLY anyway? Or was I going to be open to the possibility. It is interesting how you think you have a plan, and yet you know you will try and be open for anything that might give you a way to get in or out. And that is what happened. Dr. Marmar told me that the intake process should have never occurred in the manner it did. There should have never been a seven hour intake. There was no reason to relive trauma three separate occasions, followed by a startle study that would produce said symptoms, before the actual treatment had even began. The feedback he said was useful, and I was assured that if I was willing to trust him, trust the process, to make associations that did to create pain and anxiety, with the help of tools, and techniques which would be given to me, and that if I did the homework each week, I would benefit from the treatment. If I received the medication or if I received the placebo, we would not know as it would be randomly assigned. But regardless, he would help. And so, I took a leap of faith, and decided to not give up just yet, and to do the best I could, and if it did not work, then I could make an informed decision. He also gave me the much needed self-esteem boost by telling me that he could tell I had already done my research that I was already working hard, and that I was well along my way as it was. So, I feel grateful, and I am shedding skin, and I am happier, because I am open. Being open. That is what it is about. And now I do not have to look up that hill and see the facility as something to be feared. I can look at it has a refuge, each time I visit.
Every time I approach that hill, the one that leads to that monstrous fortress, the cold institution where those intakes caused my heart to pound, my palms to sweat in dread, the panic rises and I hold my breath. I hold my breath forgetting to breathe deeply. But, I had already reconciled myself to the fact that it was important to give feedback about the intake process, how everyone did their part, that the clinicians were excellent and caring, but that the communication on the team failed, and as a result, I was forced to retell and relive the trauma again and again without the tools necessary to do a little harm reduction as far as symptoms are concerned. I had to give the feedback because, like most of us, we believe that we are not allowed to actually participate in our own healthcare, whether it is physical or emotional. Doctors cure. I also know that doctors are constantly learning, and though their intentions are honorable, they are human. Researchers especially are cogs in the machine, so the fact that reports are produced, does not necessarily mean that they actually talk to each other about the patients, or treat each individual case uniquely.
I had already decided that I would probably drop out of this study after I had delivered my feedback to Dr. Marmar. For those who are not familiar with Dr. Marmar he is Vice Chair and Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco. He is also Associate Chief of Staff for Mental Health, San Francisco VA Medical Center. Dr. Marmar’s current studies include a five-year prospective study of posttraumatic stress. His research has been supported by the NIMH, Veterans Administration, and Upjohn, Solvay and Forest Pharmaceuticals. With the use of Cognitive Behavior Therapy, Dr. Marmar has had a high success rate in treating PTSD survivors since the mid seventies.
So, this man, this doctor, this amazing opportunity – was I going to give the feedback and just leave, knowing I had a great therapist who supports me, who thinks I am doing FABULOUSLY anyway? Or was I going to be open to the possibility. It is interesting how you think you have a plan, and yet you know you will try and be open for anything that might give you a way to get in or out. And that is what happened. Dr. Marmar told me that the intake process should have never occurred in the manner it did. There should have never been a seven hour intake. There was no reason to relive trauma three separate occasions, followed by a startle study that would produce said symptoms, before the actual treatment had even began. The feedback he said was useful, and I was assured that if I was willing to trust him, trust the process, to make associations that did to create pain and anxiety, with the help of tools, and techniques which would be given to me, and that if I did the homework each week, I would benefit from the treatment. If I received the medication or if I received the placebo, we would not know as it would be randomly assigned. But regardless, he would help. And so, I took a leap of faith, and decided to not give up just yet, and to do the best I could, and if it did not work, then I could make an informed decision. He also gave me the much needed self-esteem boost by telling me that he could tell I had already done my research that I was already working hard, and that I was well along my way as it was. So, I feel grateful, and I am shedding skin, and I am happier, because I am open. Being open. That is what it is about. And now I do not have to look up that hill and see the facility as something to be feared. I can look at it has a refuge, each time I visit.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Heat Rises -- A Fluff Poem
Heat Rises
This was a class write tonight that we needed to complete in four minutes. Thought I would share. The prompt was “Heat Rises.”
The bell rings
Ring the bell
Heat rises
The smell of
Brandy carrots
Pork tenderloin
Jasmine rice
I can taste it
The heat rising
Coming to a head
My hunger palapable
Unmanageable
The bell rings
Ring the bell
Stop the alasm
The brandy carrots
Pork tenderloin
Jasmine rice
And don’t forget
Luscious chocolate brownies
Served warm
Over vanilla bewan ice cream
Rich fudge sauce
Heat
Heat rises
My tongue anticipating
Savory gifts galore
Satisfying and filling
Urgent anxiety
Comfort food
Settling
Settling
Filling that hole
That massive hole
This was a class write tonight that we needed to complete in four minutes. Thought I would share. The prompt was “Heat Rises.”
The bell rings
Ring the bell
Heat rises
The smell of
Brandy carrots
Pork tenderloin
Jasmine rice
I can taste it
The heat rising
Coming to a head
My hunger palapable
Unmanageable
The bell rings
Ring the bell
Stop the alasm
The brandy carrots
Pork tenderloin
Jasmine rice
And don’t forget
Luscious chocolate brownies
Served warm
Over vanilla bewan ice cream
Rich fudge sauce
Heat
Heat rises
My tongue anticipating
Savory gifts galore
Satisfying and filling
Urgent anxiety
Comfort food
Settling
Settling
Filling that hole
That massive hole
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Glue -- A Poem
Glue
The three of us make quite a pair
Me, the third wheel and the glue that solidifies this treacherous partnership
I look at Chase, catch his eye, share a private moment
All the while Lloyd stares at me as if I am a Thanksgiving turkey
He wants to carve my wings
Only I keep him at arm’s lengthHis sharp fangs unable to puncture my neck
Suck my blood, the little parasite
Lloyd and Chase live together in a state of confusion and betrayal
Unable to free themselves of their death grip
I come along
I am the glue
I hold everything together with delicate balancing
Gracefully managing the balance beam
With the perfect dismount
It’s a secret Chase and I share
He’s loyal and kind
Aware of Lloyd’s deceits and insecurities
Endangering trust by taking, takingForging new bonds, he thinks, with someone like me
Or Tim, or Paul, or Kevin, or Whomever
Alliances are tricky
But I am the glue
I keep Lloyd at a safe, not quite respectful distance
For that is a two way street
And he is unaware how cheap and disposable he makes me feel
Like a newspaper barely read, facts unremembered, thrown into the trash
I do not internalize this
I say what I think of him — outright, teasingly
Loathing and enjoying him simultaneously
Because I am the glue
He’s stuck to me, and still I push his paws away
I pledge allegiance
Forbidden kisses, later feeling ashamed, only slight regret
Sometimes I cannot even meet his eyes
Fearing disloyalty I have already committed, easily hurt
Chase, he cares about
Mysterious, subconscious feelings
Yet
It’s Lloyd and Chase
Bonded in their seething hostility and love
Neither one trusting the otherBoth loyal to me, undeservedly
I am the glueI know the full story
Keeping their not so secret desires and platitudes
Within
Under lock and key
The three of us make quite a pair
Me, the third wheel and the glue that solidifies this treacherous partnership
I look at Chase, catch his eye, share a private moment
All the while Lloyd stares at me as if I am a Thanksgiving turkey
He wants to carve my wings
Only I keep him at arm’s lengthHis sharp fangs unable to puncture my neck
Suck my blood, the little parasite
Lloyd and Chase live together in a state of confusion and betrayal
Unable to free themselves of their death grip
I come along
I am the glue
I hold everything together with delicate balancing
Gracefully managing the balance beam
With the perfect dismount
It’s a secret Chase and I share
He’s loyal and kind
Aware of Lloyd’s deceits and insecurities
Endangering trust by taking, takingForging new bonds, he thinks, with someone like me
Or Tim, or Paul, or Kevin, or Whomever
Alliances are tricky
But I am the glue
I keep Lloyd at a safe, not quite respectful distance
For that is a two way street
And he is unaware how cheap and disposable he makes me feel
Like a newspaper barely read, facts unremembered, thrown into the trash
I do not internalize this
I say what I think of him — outright, teasingly
Loathing and enjoying him simultaneously
Because I am the glue
He’s stuck to me, and still I push his paws away
I pledge allegiance
Forbidden kisses, later feeling ashamed, only slight regret
Sometimes I cannot even meet his eyes
Fearing disloyalty I have already committed, easily hurt
Chase, he cares about
Mysterious, subconscious feelings
Yet
It’s Lloyd and Chase
Bonded in their seething hostility and love
Neither one trusting the otherBoth loyal to me, undeservedly
I am the glueI know the full story
Keeping their not so secret desires and platitudes
Within
Under lock and key
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Heartbeat
My heart pounds, pounds, pounds, not that of a man who has been defeated, not one whose pulse is fading in such a way that you cannot tell if the man has lost the battle, or the ghost has won. It's not like that. Things cannot always be wrapped in peppermint bows and almond kisses. I wish that it were so, but it isn't.
Another day at the VA. For those who don't know, the VA hospital is off 42nd Avenue by the ocean, up a hill. The cold cement structure has a pulse of its own, and I can feel it as my stomach turns inside out as I walk up to my appointment. This was supposed to be meet and greet with the physician I would be working with and for, but as I approached the office, I was also informed that I had agreed to participate in a starle study after meeting with the man. So, first I go to meet the doctor. He tells me what I want to hear -- the course of treatment will be at the patient's pace, and there would and will be no pressure to deal with anyting in a certain way. If the treatment does not work for "the patient," then we would explore other options. His office is immaculae and looks over the ocean, and I am reminded that I do not want to associate the therapy with the beautiful water each week when I come and visit. He talkes about "nuts" and "bolts," and we talk about placebos, contriol groups, D-cycloserine, PTSD, cognitive behavior therapy, and the benefits of just being in a "supportive" environment with the doctor regardless if I receive the placebo or the medication. I look out at the water, feel myself start to drown a bit as he, the doc, stops talking, and sits quietly staring at me. I know this approach. The patient will invariably break the tension by talking about their anxiety. It worked, even though I knew the strategy, but his explaining things in widgets and then going silent leeaves me cold, even though he has had experience he says in treating PTSD since the seventies. We shake hands, politely. He gives me his card with an appointment date for next week.
I am then ushered into an office for the "startle" survey, and electrodes are applied to measure how much I perspire and how much my heart pounds, as I listen to a series of sharp noises while staring at a screen with a black "X" and keeping my arms and legs still. The experiment begins. The sounds are jolting, like the needle of a turntable when you forget to put the record on -- a nasty scratching noise. I jump, yes, startled, and think, why am I doing tis when this only triggers symptoms, like each intake caused symptoms since I had to reveal trauma to three different doctors up until this point, as a fourth, who can help me, waits in the wings? I make it through. Then the clinician says that the next part of the experiment will involve noises again at different intervals and some will have an electric shock. That's it. I am out of therre. I tell the researcher that the "experiment" is over, and I am told that many people refuse to go through this, not just me. My only problem with this news is the lack of disclosure of this information prior to my involvement. A project manager comes in, very empathic and allows me the time I need before leaving.
I had therapy with my therapist, my regular one, later that afternoon. Somehow, setting boundaries help me relax and I think how relieved I did not allow this to go further. Yes, I plan on returning to the VA, and I plan to give this a shot, but with a healthy dose of feedback for the research team. They are all excellent practitoners. I just feel sometimes it is easier to focus on the actual research and forget the individual, just slighly, more that there was a lack of anticipation, much like putting a bandaid on a wound after you get burned. It isn't over, not by a long shot. I am here, and anxiety or not, I plan to make it work, study or ot, one way or another. Progress was made. And my heart is still beating.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Huge News
So this is the deal. I could walk blearily through a storm, my hood pulled over my head, freezing out the cold, my scarf securely intact. I could do this alone. Or, maybe, just maybe, I could enlist the help of a friend, who would hold my hand, make it warm, sit with me side-by-side on a train as the cold is blocked out without so much of an effort. Why is it that when you look at things this way, it seems clearer than day?
And so the past two days went, and I found an ally in someone from my past, a time that took me back to when the abuse all started, but someone who gave me a respite from the trauma that exists. And nether of us had any idea our worlds would collide, and they we are coexisting, and supporting each other with tender, tough words, and love. And that is exactly what happened.
First of all, this began a few weeks back when I started seeing my new therapist. He told me that if I told him the name of someone who had molested me, and that person still had contact with children, he would have to report it. Most of you who read this saw the blog I wrote. But then, an amazing, unexpected course of events happened. My friend J. contacted me and asked me if that same teacher was teaching at the high school I attended and what his name was. She has a daughter there. And so I told her the story, and gave her the name(s), and we started chatting. And then her husband said that the same vile, the same that had attacked me, also had meant him feel uncomfortable, though nothing so traumatic occurred. And so the conversation went back and forth until we located a possible suspect in Ohio that was incarcerated, who looked like him, and had a birthday close to his. So she showed her husband. And I sat there as my chest pounded, beating like a locomotive, and my mouth went dry, and I thought about karma. And justice, not really for me, because what has happened is beyond the statue of limitations. But, for all those abused afterward, because child offenders never really stop unless caught, I thought maybe I could do something, anything. And then I tried to sleep, fidgeted sleep, and awoke tired, but not as tired as before.
I checked my email that morning, and was surprised to learn that J.'s husband had told her this is not the same man, since that man, who became a teacher, and lived across from him, could not be the man in the picture. So, I felt deflated. But lo and behold, J.'s husband did a search, and found the f**ker, and he lives in another state, has taught third grade all his life, is well respected, and his resume, along with his alias (yes, he changed his name), along with his email, home address and phone number, AND picture, were all on the website. It was then suggested that I contact him and confront him, but instead, I sent the information to my therapist, called the jurisdiction where he lives, and was advised to pursue it in the jurisdiction where I went to high school. and is there where it is. I will not contact this man, for fear that he will bolt, and leave us all in the dust freeze.
Today I have felt lighter than I have in many, many years. I know it is temporary, and strong feelings will come up again, and I will feel overwhelmed and lost, but I feel closer, closer, to a resolution. For now, can't I rest a minute and let someone else hold the reins? Let karma please exist in this world once and for all?
Much Love!
M.
And so the past two days went, and I found an ally in someone from my past, a time that took me back to when the abuse all started, but someone who gave me a respite from the trauma that exists. And nether of us had any idea our worlds would collide, and they we are coexisting, and supporting each other with tender, tough words, and love. And that is exactly what happened.
First of all, this began a few weeks back when I started seeing my new therapist. He told me that if I told him the name of someone who had molested me, and that person still had contact with children, he would have to report it. Most of you who read this saw the blog I wrote. But then, an amazing, unexpected course of events happened. My friend J. contacted me and asked me if that same teacher was teaching at the high school I attended and what his name was. She has a daughter there. And so I told her the story, and gave her the name(s), and we started chatting. And then her husband said that the same vile, the same that had attacked me, also had meant him feel uncomfortable, though nothing so traumatic occurred. And so the conversation went back and forth until we located a possible suspect in Ohio that was incarcerated, who looked like him, and had a birthday close to his. So she showed her husband. And I sat there as my chest pounded, beating like a locomotive, and my mouth went dry, and I thought about karma. And justice, not really for me, because what has happened is beyond the statue of limitations. But, for all those abused afterward, because child offenders never really stop unless caught, I thought maybe I could do something, anything. And then I tried to sleep, fidgeted sleep, and awoke tired, but not as tired as before.
I checked my email that morning, and was surprised to learn that J.'s husband had told her this is not the same man, since that man, who became a teacher, and lived across from him, could not be the man in the picture. So, I felt deflated. But lo and behold, J.'s husband did a search, and found the f**ker, and he lives in another state, has taught third grade all his life, is well respected, and his resume, along with his alias (yes, he changed his name), along with his email, home address and phone number, AND picture, were all on the website. It was then suggested that I contact him and confront him, but instead, I sent the information to my therapist, called the jurisdiction where he lives, and was advised to pursue it in the jurisdiction where I went to high school. and is there where it is. I will not contact this man, for fear that he will bolt, and leave us all in the dust freeze.
Today I have felt lighter than I have in many, many years. I know it is temporary, and strong feelings will come up again, and I will feel overwhelmed and lost, but I feel closer, closer, to a resolution. For now, can't I rest a minute and let someone else hold the reins? Let karma please exist in this world once and for all?
Much Love!
M.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
So Why Do I Write, And What Is The Story?
So, I feel a need to talk a little about what has been mostly musings as of late. Why do I write, and why should you care? I have no idea what the answer is to the second question, but I began writing for myself, and I created a MySpace page and decided to blog. That evolved into my participation in a class after about a year after talking about returning school, and then not taking action, and I had such a warm, positive experience. In fact, I am still writing with four of the same writers from that beginning class. And there were only eleven I bellieve. My writer's group has become an extension of my life, and it truly is a vassel in which I can explore topics which I never thought I could write about, and topics that were also very personal in nature. What began as a personal narrative style evolved into prose, and then poetry, much of what is fiction. You can always tell what is true in my writing, and what is fiction. If I don't clarify or qualify my writing, you can always be certain it is mainly fiction. Poetry can be tricky though, and some of it is personal. I usually do not explain my poems as far as whether or not they are actually about my life, or the lives I have created. If you know me well, you will probably know, and if you are unsure, please ask and do not assume that the narrator in the work is based on my life. This has all led into my applying and being accepted into graduate studies at San Francisco State University for Creative Writing.
As far as the story I have begun here, well the Baby Girl poems are obviously not about me. So here is one instance that I am not talking about myself, but the events around PTSD are indeed true. Now this is where I feel the need to explain. Although there is a lot of stuff going on for me, it is not all Gloomy Guss or Debbie Downer material. Those in between moments I am smiling, even laughing along with my friends or family, or something silly I just read or heard. My outgoing persona is usually pretty obvious -- I am more of a dog than I cat. I wear my feelings. But, besides the PTSD stuff, I am pretty much just living and trying to enjoy those moments with others. The pieces I have been writing about, as far as PTSD, I feel the need to talk about. Why? Well, for one, I can't be the only one dealing with post traumatic stress. But also, it is a chance for me to write creatively, and to explore feelings. I *hope* it is useful and interesting for all of you. I know it is not light reading.
So what happened? Well, and this is the part that is sad. I was molested by two seperate teachers in high school. I will not go into detail, except to say, I have written about one experience and not the other. I will also say that that it was not the only trauma. But, I hope that in my writing, I can continue to explore my feelings and learn from them, and I hope others can too. WE ARE ALL CONENCTED IN SOME WAY! So, unfortunately, the PTSD symptoms had been there quite a while under a masqued duagnosis of anxiety and some depression at times, starting out as an internal process, and then manifesting itself to the point I decided to empower myself and take control of it, which is why I decided to apply for this study. Personally, this study scares the living Hell out of me, but it is also a fascinating learning process too. So there is the back story in a nutshell, and I am sure I will talk about it again if you appreciate it!
Thanks for all of your support, and thanks for allowing me a venue to do this. You have no idea what this experience has meant to me.
As far as the story I have begun here, well the Baby Girl poems are obviously not about me. So here is one instance that I am not talking about myself, but the events around PTSD are indeed true. Now this is where I feel the need to explain. Although there is a lot of stuff going on for me, it is not all Gloomy Guss or Debbie Downer material. Those in between moments I am smiling, even laughing along with my friends or family, or something silly I just read or heard. My outgoing persona is usually pretty obvious -- I am more of a dog than I cat. I wear my feelings. But, besides the PTSD stuff, I am pretty much just living and trying to enjoy those moments with others. The pieces I have been writing about, as far as PTSD, I feel the need to talk about. Why? Well, for one, I can't be the only one dealing with post traumatic stress. But also, it is a chance for me to write creatively, and to explore feelings. I *hope* it is useful and interesting for all of you. I know it is not light reading.
So what happened? Well, and this is the part that is sad. I was molested by two seperate teachers in high school. I will not go into detail, except to say, I have written about one experience and not the other. I will also say that that it was not the only trauma. But, I hope that in my writing, I can continue to explore my feelings and learn from them, and I hope others can too. WE ARE ALL CONENCTED IN SOME WAY! So, unfortunately, the PTSD symptoms had been there quite a while under a masqued duagnosis of anxiety and some depression at times, starting out as an internal process, and then manifesting itself to the point I decided to empower myself and take control of it, which is why I decided to apply for this study. Personally, this study scares the living Hell out of me, but it is also a fascinating learning process too. So there is the back story in a nutshell, and I am sure I will talk about it again if you appreciate it!
Thanks for all of your support, and thanks for allowing me a venue to do this. You have no idea what this experience has meant to me.
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