When You're Happy

I woke up crying, smelling blood. A bad dream I can't remember. Life still seems like a bad dream sometimes. I don't get to wake up from life.

I don't think I'll ever be normal. Whatever that is. Something I'm not.

I wanted to kill myself but I didn't have any bullets. I was too cowardly to go buy bullets.

Then it occurred to me that you have to buy the bullets when you're happy. So you'll be ready.

There's not much time left. One child is grown and gone, the other will be soon, as well.

I won't have any purpose then. Four short years to an empty nest. 

How will I talk myself out of suicide then? No one will need me anymore and I'm so tired.

A bad night, like tonight. The smell of blood all around me. The knowledge that nothing I've ever done matters to anybody. Nothing I've ever been matters to anybody.

I don't matter. I do. I don't. I do. I don't. I do. I don't. I do. I don't. I do. I don't.

A drop of sin in a glass of clean, clear water.

A drop of water in an endless ocean of sin.

I'm not known to anyone, not even myself. I tried looking for me. I'm not there.

Where did I go? Was I ever even here?

It's all been a bad, bloody dream and in four years time, if I can make it that long, I'll get to wake up. If I'm lucky. 

I've always been lucky. I was born in America, after all.

You've got to buy the bullets when you're happy. That's the trick.

I've got four years.

Getting Back To Basics

When I was a teenager I believed in everything metaphysical. Back then we called it "new age". Everything from psychic awareness to reincarnation and past lives to astral projection.

And God. I believed in God. God as as the Source of all things. I believed that God existed in me and in all other living things. I believed I had a purpose, that everyone did, and that we existed in this world to figure out what that purpose was, to fulfill our purpose and to experience all that life had to offer along the way.

I loved astrology and tarot. I loved self-hypnosis and past life regressions. I loved ghost stories and reading about UFO encounters. Once, I even saw one. I'll tell that story later. 

Basically I loved everything that would have gotten me burned for a witch back in the day.

I had a rich inner world that was connected to...well, whatever God is. Connection to myself, my loved ones, my environment. I'm not able to define the nature of God but I am convinced it has to do with connection, and I had that. It was great. 

But then I graduated high school and began my adult life. Like a lot of people with childhood trauma, I didn't fare so well. I didn't function on my own, outside the stability of my grandmother's household. I floundered, many times, though my grandma was always there for me. My support. 

I got caught up in life. Working. Partying. Drugs. Men. Stressing. Worrying. I stopped engaging in activities that used to bring me joy. My heart began to hurt, not just here or there, but all the time.

I tried to kill myself when I was twenty. Thinking back on that, all I can feel now is shame for what I put my grandmother through. I didn't even really come close to dying but the scars that remain are nasty. Plain to see. 

Five months after that I had a miscarriage just as I was entering my second trimester.

Life went on. I continued to flounder. I'm sure I've forgotten more bad decisions that I remember, and I remember a lot of bad decisions in my early twenties.

When I was twenty-five my grandma died and the whole world, my world, ceased to exist. 

I ran away, far away, to a place where no one knew me. I had a child. I got married. I had another child. I stopped believing, in anything. I wanted to but I couldn't. I began to see my teenage beliefs as infantile and just plain stupid. I lost any connection I had once had to God. I accepted that there was nothing beyond this life, this world, that they together were the one and only. I arrived at atheism and for a time, I found comfort in that. I no longer had to try hanging on to connection anymore because it simply wasn't there. It never was.

Overall, my life was static for a long time. Years of isolation. Depression. Anxiety. Overwhelm. Financial struggles. Fear. Despair. Anger. No family. No friends. Years. I took antidepressants and eventually found one that worked well for a long time. Therapy. A lot of self reflection. A lot of tilting at my own inner windmills. There were some good times, too, with my kids. There was some happiness. 

I've always thought a lot. Always tried to figure shit out, other people's shit and my own shit, in an attempt to change things. Asking myself questions, mostly why? Why this? Why that? Did this happen because of that? What did that have to do with this? But if this happened because of that, then what about this other thing over here? Is this other thing connected to that, and if yes, then how so? And why? What circumstances made this possible? How was this or that outcome reached?

In the last several years, I've found a lot of answers that way. I thought I was doing pretty well, given what I was working with. I had no problem giving myself a pat on the back for growing, through my own efforts, into a better, more self-aware person. It's no small feat to actually learn from your mistakes (as first you have to recognize and take responsibility for them, which is often difficult to do) and do better by others, and yourself, going forward.

My point, though, is that I took all the credit. I mean, why wouldn't I? I'm the one who did all the thinking, after all. I put the puzzle pieces together. Nobody helped me, I learned from my own experiences in life. I paid attention, and though it took years, I was the one who figured shit out and my life began to change in positive ways.

Or so I thought.

My life fell apart. Completely. Utterly. Suddenly.

There was a pandemic. I was betrayed. I was divorced, almost overnight, after sixteen years of marriage and twenty years of being together. I was sick with lots of different things. I was a single working mom.

I was struggling, I'm still struggling. But something changed in me. Something changed and it wasn't because of a truth I'd arrived at by thinking about it, like I normally do. 

It was realization. Revelation. It was like a switch inside me being flipped on.

And I knew. I knew that there was nothing wrong with me. I knew I was a good person. Not a perfect person, but a good person. I knew that I didn't deserve to have been treated how I was treated by those closest to me in my life. And I knew I wasn't going to spend another moment hating myself.

I realized that everything I'd been doing, despite all my ruminations, all the personal growth I'd achieved, hadn't yielded the outcome I desired. Clearly. So, what to do?

Again, the switch flipped inside me. The opposite. When faced with any problem, circumstance, choice- I should just do the opposite of whatever it was that I would normally do.

And so I started to get back into the things I enjoyed when I was younger. Astrology, tarot, hypnosis. All thing metaphysical/new age. I figured, why the fuck not? Who cares if it's "not real"? It makes me happy. I choose to believe in it because it fills some kind of need inside me and what's wrong with that? Besides, I've always evaluated reality based on my own subjective experiences and perception. We all do. And my evaluation tells me there's more. I know. I know because I'm an Aquarius and we are the I KNOW sign.

I've been working on getting back that connection with God. Because it's the opposite of what I would normally do. But what I've come to "realize" lately is that the connection was always there. It never truly went away. It was just eclipsed by my preoccupation with a shitty life. In my self reflection, God was guiding me. When those realizations happened, when those switches were flipped, that was God speaking to me. 

I'm listening now.

Limericks Say It Best

Something happened in the twenty years I was away. The world changed. Or people changed, or both. I'm not sure which. 

I knew I changed. I think we're supposed to. But how much? To how great a degree?

My life was flipped, turned upside down, as the Fresh Prince would say. Flipped again and again until I didn't know which way was up. 

I'm still dizzy from it all. Life is still upside down.

I had friends where I grew up. Good friends. My soul tribe. I was blessed and didn't know it. I took them for granted.

Then there came a time when I had to leave home. My first real life flip. I left a lot of my tribe behind, though there were those who put forth the effort to remain close to me and I was grateful for that, very grateful, because I was already by that time, feeling lost. Changed, but not in a good way.

But I did make new friends where I ended up. A new tribe. Good people. Good friends.

Things were okay until life flipped, again, and I left my tribe, again.

It was for a different reason this time.

The first time I left was because I was grieving. Running away from my pain. Leaving everyone and everything behind because remembering hurt too much.

I was running again, this time, but towards hope. I was pregnant with my first child. I was scared and wanted desperately to be a family with my child's father.

I left everyone and everything behind to start a new life in a new place.

I guess I thought I'd make friends again. Find a new tribe.

I never found anyone.

That was twenty years ago.

So the world must have changed. Or people changed. I certainly changed. I'm changing now, flipped again in this new place that isn't new anymore.

I think about my life. About the twists and turns and flips. The decisions I've made that have led me to where I am and the decisions that others have made for me.

I think about the people I've left behind and those who have left me.

I think about the major themes of my life. The ones that keep repeating, waiting for me to recognize them. Accept them. Embrace them.

I'm not meant to be a part of this world, the way it currently is. I'm no longer meant to have a tribe.

People leave and they don't come back.

It's okay to be alone. It's scary but it's okay.

I have to find some kind of fulfillment that doesn't come from deep, meaningful connection with others.

I have experienced love and I'm so grateful for that. Some people never get that. I've been luckier than a lot of people in this world.

My mistake has been wanting to experience that love again when, clearly, it's not meant for me any longer. I looked for twenty years and didn't find it.

Why? Why didn't I find it?

Because it's not there. I realize that now and am starting to accept it.

No more good friends. No more tribe. I'm meant to be alone now. Whatever I was here to do that involved other people, it must be done now.

And that's okay.

I still believe I have a purpose. I don't know what it is but hopefully, in my solitude, I'll figure it out. 

Holly Hermit has a purpose,

that of which she does not know.

But if you ask her, she'll only answer

"I am surely meant to be alone".

Grace and Mercy

When someone hurts us, people say that we need to forgive and forget. 

Some people say we should forgive but never forget.

Some people neither forgive nor forget.

Depending on the circumstances, the nature and seriousness of the transgression, any possible mitigating factors involving the transgressor and how I feel in general about the situation, I usually end up going with one of the first two options regarding forgiving and forgetting.

The third option of never forgiving and never forgetting seems like a sure way to stay stuck in a negative space. It wouldn't serve you well in any way. You would only continue to hurt.

But when someone does something that is particularly egregious, heinous... I think there is another viable option- forgetting but not forgiving.

Forgetting not just the injury, but forgetting the person who caused it, as well, and all of the associated pain of it. Leaving it all in the past so that you can move past the hurt, and begin to heal.

Some people would say that you can't heal without forgiveness. I don't think that's true. Forgiveness isn't necessary. And it's not something that be conjured out of thin air.

I can forget the pain. I can forget the person. But I will never forgive them for what they did.

And I shouldn't have to. I'm not God. It's not my job. Grace is not mine to give.

It's not about holding on to anger. That's been forgotten. It's simply what is.

I will forget you but I will never forgive you.

Forgiveness isn't required for me to move on with my life and to experience love and happiness again.

It's not a punishment, either, the not forgiving.

It just is what it is. 

Immutable. 

Unchanging.

Dear Daddy

 Dear Daddy,

    For many years you existed, for me, only in my mind. I understood the rules of biology so I knew you had to BE...somewhere, out there in the ether, floating around like a balloon on a string, tied to something I couldn't see.

    I would miss you. Wish for your presence, your appearance in my life. I wanted you save me, to be my knight in shining armor. Never once did I consider that you might be a bad man, lowly and foul. If anything, I was the bad one. Tainted, stained. At the same time I wanted you, I knew I didn't deserve you.

    It's hard to believe that you're worthy of love when you grew up like I did. Mother is your world. She's God. But instead of Gaia, my mother was Kali. A destroyer grown from anger but never did she slay any demons, only created them. Maybe she was Gaia, after all.

    She hurt me, in all the ways a parent can hurt a child. And I would think of you then, and feel ashamed. I knew why you never came. I was bad. Parents don't want bad kids. Daddy's don't want fat, ugly, stupid little girls who should have been aborted.

    But still I wished for you. I wanted to sit in your lap. I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted you to gather me up in your arms and hold me so tight I couldn't breathe. I wanted to sing you songs and recite the poems I wrote for you. I wanted you to tuck me in at night and protect me from the monsters under my bed. I wanted you to think I was smart and pretty.

    You were always on my mind, in my heart. When I was eight, I learned your name. Kim. She said you were short and had red hair. She told me a very brief story of how she met you and how I came to be. I don't know why she finally chose to tell me anything at all, but she made sure to convey the knowledge that I was the result of a one night stand and that you knew about me and didn't care. She didn't tell me that I was the spitting image of you. Maybe she had forgotten your face by then. The memory burned away by alcohol and drugs.

    It didn't matter to me. So many secrets in my family. I knew they were there. I could feel them all around me, pushing in on me, invisible to the eye but plain as day in the pain they caused. But now you weren't a secret anymore. Not entirely. I knew your name

    And I would think of you. My daddy Kim. I wondered what you must be like. What did your voice sound like? Were you ugly like me? Did I have any brothers and sisters? I never blamed you for not being there. Fathers left. It was a fact of life. My brother's father left. My cousin's father left. My friends father's left. It wasn't something I couldn't forgive in a heartbeat. I thought about you all the time, carving out a space in my heart for you, loving you without knowing you.

    But as I got older, I started to doubt her story. As my mother sank deeper into alcoholism and the abuse worsened, I began to wonder if what she'd told me was even close to the truth. Nobody believed her story. Not her mother, her sister, her best friends. None of them had ever heard the story she told me. She never spoke of you to anyone but me, and just that one time. After that, there were no more details. It was like that special night had never happened.

    As I grew older, grew up, I slowly let you go. I knew I would never be able to find you. And I knew that even if I did find you, you'd most likely be disappointed in me, if you even wanted to know me at all. I contacted various people over the years, here and there, when the mood would strike. Eventually, I crossed all the names off my list of people who knew my mother around the time I was born. Again, no one had any knowledge of you. I came to terms with the fact that I would never meet you. I accepted what, to me, felt like a profound loss.

    I was married with kids by then. I was so grateful to my husband for not leaving us that I let him get away with doing and saying terrible things to me. I allowed him to diminish me. Invalidate me. Gaslight me. Talk to me crazy. Deprive me of my sanity. I allowed all of it because I thought he was a good man because he stayed. I couldn't see him as destructive because he didn't follow the narrative in my mind of the man who leaves. Well, he did leave eventually. That's when I finally started waking up from my long marital nightmare.

    By then, though, I had found you. Through the wonders of technology and science. A DNA test. And to my surprise, you were indeed the man my mother had named as my father. I didn't have any expectations of you. Hopes, but no expectations. In fact, I did my best to prepare for the worst possible outcome- that you wouldn't even speak to me or in any way acknowledge my existence. But you did. 

    I can't say that all of your answers to my questions were completely satisfactory, but they sufficed. It was difficult to receive confirmation that you knew of my existence but chose to never seek me out. But I could understand why you didn't. It's not a choice I would have made but I understood how you could come to make such a choice. I was just grateful that you were willing to speak with me and also to allow me a small place in your life and your family's life. It's a privilege I don't take lightly.

    You wrote me beautiful letters, kind and funny letters. You wrote letters to my children. You sent us gifts at Christmas. I have photos of us together from our one lovely, awkward meet. That's so much more than I ever got from my mom. She never wrote me anything that wasn't filled with hate. She never once gave me a gift in my whole life. I have NEVER in my life laid eyes on a picture of she and I together because such a picture never existed. 

    Because of our mutual financial and health situations, and the state of the world, I don't know if I'll ever get to see you again. If I don't, I just want you to know that whatever it was I needed from you, emotionally, that you gave it to me. Your kind words, the effort you made at being a father to me even at this late stage, is priceless to me. It means the world to me, and I will always be grateful to you for that.

I love you Dad.

    

    

    

Spring Maze Escape

Spring has sprung. It's a cool morning and the tears are hot on my face. 

I'm at a crossroads. 

Again. 

Life doesn't seem so much like a journey along a winding path as it does a maze. Towering walls I can't see through, can't climb over. 

I guess that makes me a rat. Except I'm not as smart as a rat.

I don't know which direction to head in. I don't know how close I am to solving the maze, if at all. The exit could be around the next corner but I wouldn't know.

I'm tired. Bone weary of it all.

So I'll just sit here, not knowing where to go next. Tired and not knowing if I have the strength to move forward even if I did know where to go.

It's lonely here. I'm sleepy. I just want to rest.

I want to close my eyes while the maze walls dissolve around me, leaving me to float among the stars, unbound. 

Untethered.

Lost, perhaps, but free of those walls, at least.

Refuge in escape.

It's the last hope I have, driven by despair from the whole of my being. All of my failures and my successes. All of my ignorance and all my knowledge, too.

It's all I have left to hope for right now, at this moment in time, at yet another crossroads in the maze.

Letting Go

Tonight I gave it to the full Virgo moon.

I lit my candles and called my corners.

I set my intentions.

I burned you away.

I let you go.

Again. This Time, With Feeling!

I would rather feel than not feel. 

I would rather know

Every.

Single. 

Pain.

There is. Everything under the sun and moon and stars.

Every hurt, every sorrow, every fear, every anger that exists, than to feel nothing at all.

Every soul crushing moment in life.

But also,

Every joy, every love, every triumph, every good thing to be found in this world, in us.

Every heavenly ascension in our soul's journey.

I would rather feel it all than nothing. Some people are happy with nothing.

Not me, though. I understand that I have to experience the bad with the good, to be a more fully formed human being. That I have to embrace pain and not only seek what's pleasurable. I appreciate the universal dynamic of good vs evil, light vs dark, yin vs yang. 

Because it's all inside me. It resides there, waiting for me to learn from it, grow from it, integrate it.

We cannot stand in the sun without manifesting our own shadow. 

Both are worthy of our attention. Necessary in our path towards becoming real boys and girls.

I would rather feel it all than to be an empty, smiling thing that feels nothing.

It's my gift. My strength. 

I wish it could be everyone's.

Inside Out

What would you look like if your exterior appearance reflected what was inside?

I would look like a burned thing, charred and blistered and fluid filled. Every hair singed away. Black scorches where my eyes used to be. Faint plumes of smoke emanating from my body and moving into the atmosphere, leaving me behind.

I would look like a ghost. A scary thing hiding in the dark that mostly haunts itself. Dragging my rattling chains, moaning in agony for all eternity. Ever hoping someone would see me and exorcise me from the land of the living where I don't belong and send me to the next world.

I would look like a child's broken plaything. A toy that no longer works. I don't get passed down or on to the next child. I get thrown away because I'm simply of no use any longer, and there are plenty of other things, better things, to make-believe with.

I would look like a flowering weed, stubborn and awkward. Struggling to survive places I never should have been, never should have grown. Places where there was not enough sun, not enough shelter, not enough love. People trample me underfoot, hack me down only for me to grow again, against my own will.

I would look like a prism. Rainbows of color flashing, warning, dazzling the beholder. A trick of light without substance. A bauble of distraction that first spins one way, then the next and never dances any other dance. I cease to be when you close your eyes, like I was never really there.

I would look like a tiresome burden that people would prefer to avoid. An old homeless woman suffering from dementia, sitting on a park bench surround by shopping bags filled with little treasures I dug from someone else's trash and have already forgotten. Small and bent and dirty. Wrinkled and frail and yellow. Confused. My fear would look like anger. 

We always talk about inner beauty but other things reside there. 

Things that are not so pretty. Not so easy to face, either in ourselves or in others.  

We hide them there and for good reason. 

Because who would love us if we didn't?

Birthday Wishes

wish- verb.  to feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; to want something that cannot or probably will not happen.

Why are we taught as children to make a wish when we blow out the candles on a birthday cake? It seems particularly cruel. To be made to believe that, for some odd reason, when we close our eyes and purse lips at our fiery pastries, extinguishing the flames that represent each year of our time on earth with the living breath of our bodies, that some sort of magic happens. That in that momentary darkness, that dimming of illumination, something that cannot be, will be. 

It's False Hope. Back on it's bullshit. I'll take Despair over that peculiar abyss any day of the week.

Today is my birthday. I'll make a cake but I don't have any candles. I don't have any wishes, either, so that's okay. Not that there isn't anything I long for. There certainly is. But no wishes. What I desire most may not be easily attainable but it is something that can happen, probably even will happen, at that. 

I want to be free. 

I want to find home.

I want to receive all the love I can and give it back to the world, like the moon gives back the sun's light, with my face made of scars and the stars all around me, shine shine shining.

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Holly, happy birthday to me.

Ode To Mister ______

I thought about you today. You know who you are. I actually think about you most of the time. Most of the time those thoughts are unkind. Not today, though.

Today I missed you. I wanted to tell you about how they're clearing the brush away from the creek across the highway. You can see it now. It's pretty. I thought about how you used to want to go down there. Now you can. Or you could. 

But you won't. You're not here. You don't know that the bramble has been cut away. I won't tell you.

I won't tell you for the millionth time that I miss you. That I wish you still loved me. That you hadn't given up on me. That you hadn't left.

I won't tell you for the millionth time how angry I am. That I wish I had never met you. That you're an asshole. That I hate you for what you've done.

I won't tell you any of those things because you already know. You know what you've done, the hurt you've caused and the catastrophe you've left behind. You know all of that and it doesn't bother you much.

I don't know how long it will take me to move past this. Twenty years together has been most of my adult life. Now I'm living a different kind of life. I'm still adjusting.

So, for a while, I'll talk to you in my head, my heart and here. You never did read my blog. Or listen to my words. Or see my pain. You'll never know.

But maybe it will help me somehow. Help me to be able to leave you in the past, where you live now, where you belong.

I thought about you today. It won't be the last time, I'm sure. 

I miss you.

I love you.

I hate you, too, though.

Get fucked.

Wednesday's Child

They say Wednesday's child is full of woe. They also say if the shoe fits, wear it. For me, that shoe fits. I am Wednesday's child. Always have been.

I've always been lonely even when I'm not alone. Sad. Haunted by ghosts. Always yearning, desiring, needing, seeking...without. Never within. Why would I seek within? There's nothing of value there. People taught me that.

Anger came later but decided to stay. Along with it came resentment, stagnation, lies.

Disappointment has ever been my close companion. In myself, in others...in life, the universe and god.

I was not born in love but was filled with it anyway. I learned early that it hurts to love. I never learned to give up on love, though, even in my despair. 

That may seem like a good thing. To not give up on love. To keep the hope of love alive. It's not though. Not always. Not for me.

Because that hope can lie. It's easy to believe the lie. That things will change. That people will change. That things will work out in the end.

It allows you to accept things that shouldn't be accepted. Things that aren't good for you. Abuse. Neglect. Manipulation. You learn to make excuses, believe those excuses and not ever learn the reasons why.

The reasons, instead of the excuses.

Hope can make you sick and keep you sick. Hope can kill you.

Sometimes it's good to let go of hope. That's what I'm trying to do. To accept life as it really is. People as they really are. It's difficult.

I am Wednesday's child, still. I think that's just my nature. Not that there haven't been times of happiness, because there have been those times. And not that there won't be times of happiness again, because there will be. Life has taught me that.

But right now, it's hard. It's so hard to not give up but I no longer want hope. Not false hope, at least. All the hope I've ever had feels false.

I'm trying to look within. To seek there and find what I've always needed from others but never received. Trying to let my despair motivate me, propel me forward into a new, more complete understanding of myself and my life.

It's hard, though. I am still Wednesday's child, after all.