All things melancholy · Musings · Strong Woman · Uncategorized · weak woman

Pain

there are days when everything hurts, this, fibromyalgia, but I refuse to take pain medications.

i walked alot on Saturday, i mean not alot compared to what i walked five years ago, but alot for now.  just two short miles.  this week has been horrible.  my knees, my right outside edge of my foot, my lower back, my trapezium and my neck.  last night i woke myself many times crying out in pain.

words no longer have the power over me they once did.  but words, damn they can be hurtful and mean spirited and cruel.  words like, lazy.  words like, you are just like ______ (fill in the blank) for a person you strive to not be like, you aren’t __________(fill in the blank) for things that you are, words thrown as weapons, when wit cannot pull up things that are thoughtful and reflective, words that show a person that they have not seen your growth, only bringing up the past to smash you.

and i find myself not floundering and wretched but instead empowered to continue being who i am.

lazy ____ no i do not do as i once did as i sit here recalling scraping and painting the house all summer, mowing the lawn, raking leaves, putting sealant on the driveway, gardening, cooking, doing dishes, taking care of the animals utterly by myself, cleaning, laundry, taking out the trash, taking the trash to the road, literally everything that needed done the house i did or i left a short list for my daughter to do as well.  my grandparents called me lazy when i was about 8.  i wasn’t lazy, i was just being 8, but it stuck, it was used again and again, and still to this day people like to use it on me.  did i mention i am in pain? always?  i still vacuum, sweep, clean the bathroom, cook, do dishes, hose detritus off the deck, garden, shop for the household, which for me as a single person was literally one quick trip a week, but now is a two hour ordeal.  am i a stay at home mom who works two hours a day outside the home and carrying the weight of the whole household in chores?  no, and i have never been.  instead i work 7 hours a day, babysit 10 hours a week, and work on my art which i sell probably another 20 hours a week.  lazy.  that’s me.

when i am angry i tell people.  i don’t sulk and seethe quietly, i don’t pretend like nothing is wrong, i don’t throw out hurtful words, i am smart, i am creative, i am self aware, i try hard to be kind though i fall short at times, i acknowledge my mistakes, i am not ashamed of who i am, i don’t feel inadequate, under appreciated and psychologically and emotionally lonely yes, but not inadequate, not ever.

this blog is a great example of my growth, i try to move beyond my blockages, i try to learn, and grow emotionally, and when i am angry, i don’t try to push my old hurts onto others as labels, and name callings.

pain. inside.

pain. outside.

pain swirls.

the more i hurt from external resources the further i withdraw.  that is what i guess i should be my newest area of growth.

or i could just become reclusive.

i am already halfway there.

 

 

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Vision

My mind is like a pool of water on a river, ideas are swirling around me but the mind is still and calm, like a deep well, a river pothole, cold and dark.

My eyes, they are clouded, by long strings wrapped in a circle, by small black dots that I track as flies and realize later they are not, by short eyelashes swirling in my field of vision.  Eventually, your brain will stop noticing them.  Or perhaps, I think, I will paint them on top of everything I paint.  A final glossy layer separating my eye from my mind.  Can I have those photos of my retina? I ask.  Sure, but you have to show them to us when you are done. I wish I had time to paint, I think, with college graduations, spring gardening and commissions, and perhaps the newest obsession of knitted Christmas stockings.

My ear, it was bleeding, I did not know why, with my eye now a clear pool with autumn leaves floating on top, I feel frightened.  Later, after I am told its just an abrasion, I blame the black flies.  Which is more vicious? Black flies or Yellow Jackets?

My skin, it itches, black flies again.  My nails embedded with dirt as I plant medicinals, bee friendlies, dye plants, cooking herbs, and annuals where Tom has dug up my perennials with the snow plow too many years in a row.  I envision thyme oil, lavender oil, beebalm tea, pokeberry colored wool, and stinging nettles as I dig.  A. helps me pick out the annuals, and plants rocks in the dirt to make them grow.  I lament the absence of bees.  But orioles stab at orange halves and hummingbirds hope I haven’t been lazy about filling their feeders.

My heart, it is no longer strong.  It echoes empty.  It trudges through the sludge.  It aches with each step.  It loves more than it should.  It is just enough to get me through.

So I drink expensive Scotch, and Honeyed Whiskey, and seek out the best less than one hundred calorie beer I can find.  And only drink wine that tastes good.  Even if it is less often than I would like.

I have paintings in my mind though.  And my fingers ache to paint them.

Instead, I paint the yard with flowers and plants.  I paint the world.

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It burns us

I am still holding on to the lumpy ash
of whatever organic rot this has been
a heart perhaps,
or a spleen?
sweet breads?
Soaked in tears.
Necrotic.

I suckle
the soul eating bacteria.

I repeat the steps,
listen to the silence
ask for help
dig in,
hold it tighter.
let it go.
Push it down.
refocus.
regurgitate
yet still
it lurks
a paid actor in a
haunted house.

I am Edvard Munch’s scream.

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Lily

cropped-jellyfish.jpg

They say no mud, no lotus.  The lotus though it roots in the mud, digs its strong tendrils downward into the thick ooze.

The winter has come and the tuber is dormant, it waits, asleep in the frozen mud, deep, thick and stuck there.  But in its dormancy it is potential energy, it is hunger, it is dissatisfaction, so comfortable, but so unhappy with this state of affairs, it aches for the sun, for the light, for the soft touch of the dragon fly as it lights upon its petals.  And yet it is all this time still a life, a rich, deep energy.  They say that tropical lilies die when it gets too cold.  Unable to survive the deep dormancy required by hardy types.  And it is the hardy type that digs burrows the most deep, surviving in the harsh winter cold.  It is like a frog waiting to thaw.  Waiting here in the mud.  Waiting here in the mud.  Waiting here.

underthesurface

 

 

 

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Closure

and then suddenly in a rush of thought, you get it, the closure finally happens.

A man I barely know, an acquaintance of very little importance, presumed to know something about me, or else is an utter narciscist, probably the latter, whom I knew in a social setting when I was living with, dying with the pirate and that whole psychological nightmare of pre-teens, and teens surviving world war 2, on the wrong side, but still losing significant family to the death camps, and being transported on trains,etc etc, we never do hear the German side, or the German in Czech side, the Russians raping and killing girls, and then the murdering son, and the son who couldn’t cut the apron strings, the dynamic of a woman who could have children and her domineering sister who couldn’t.  And me trying to make a life with a man who was in many ways perfect for me, and in other ways like being out of a frying pan and into a fire.  And the time I met this acquaintance.  It was not a great time.  And me disillusioned in general with human beings, especially ones who have a very different moral code than me.  And the long held feeling of not fitting in, even though I fit in just fine with other people. Discovering it, acknowledging it and moving on, why waste time on feeling left out and misunderstood?

So that’s the back story,

who leaves someone and never speaks to them again?

Family dynamic.

hits me this morning like a cannon.

a man whose grandfather had two families, one a secret long held and never visited, one a cousins husband openly flagrantly, and a first cousin, the same.  And a sister, mentally ill, homeless, schizoid personality disorder who left a husband in the same manner.  That’s who.

this wasn’t about me.

I have my faults, I am the first to admit it.  But this was about a man who was weak emotionally, lazy, dishonest, young, so very young, and terribly irresponsible with money.

And the woman who was scrambling to survive, even if it meant codependency.

funny how I never check Tom’s computer, how we have separate finances, how he knows how I take my coffee, how I never have to ask or tell him to do work around the house, how I am never jealous.

And my artwork has become realistic, and practical, with the soul squeezing through in the tree branches and the shifting patterns of light.

I suddenly understand.

Thanks Drew.

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impressionist

toes curled in the sand,
in the snow,
the ache of undermedicated anxiety,
deep in my bones.
Depression lurks, breathing heavily at times,
at rest and licking its wounds,
more or less always.

Ankles that ache, and knees that cringe and a hip that more or less walks in unannounced.  Often at three in the morning.

Hello anybody home?
I was wondering if I could pick some of your flowers for the altar?

Gut oh my gut
one scrimmage after another.
Do you like cheese? why yes, yes I do.
oh well guess what?  Not today you don’t
do you like yogurt? I try to eat it every day.
well guess what I have in store for you?

strong shoulders, used to carrying a great weight, neck pushed forward.

Strong hands, capable hands and arms ready to hug.

Head, dizzy sometimes, crystal clear sometimes, muddied by the weather sometimes.
Heart beats a little too fast, a little too hard.

And then there is the hearth.  Think with reddened coals, cozy with pillows and richly embroidered tapestry, warm bed down and wool, embedded in this place.

More or less empty, but welcome to guests, on occasions.
As long as they see that this is my place.

The light from the windows casts a shadow of exquisite beauty,

who knows what all hides in the corners.

 

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We have it all wrong.

See there is this thing, where we look outside ourselves for validation, i do not know where it begins, perhaps with shame, perhaps with expecting good behavior.  In some ways it becomes broken through the course of life.  If you are deep down a good and kind child, and you are blamed for something, saying a word you don’t know is a curse word, writing in the dust of a car curse words, not little hearts and smiley faces of a little girl, throwing a ball on the roof and having it get stuck.  Not a problem, a simple broomstick solution, but to beat the child who did not even really do it, for lying.  No that causes deep deep damage.  You cannot hold up a mirror and see good because when you do you see a person who should be punished.  For nothing.

No blame here.  Just an observation, a curiosity like walking through an antique shop and picking up a wing-wang off a shelf and saying huh, I had this when I was little, or this was the silverware my grandparents used, or this is the doll I played with until its eyes popped out and its pull string stopped working.

Do you love me?  Why do you love me?  What do you see in me?  (That clearly I do not see in myself)

Am I pretty?  As I look in the mirror at my alcohol fueled gut, the jowls on the side of my face, the wrinkles and scowl lines on my face.  Am I pretty?  Why ask someone else?  What do you know, art expert?  What do you know?  I was pretty once, I have nice ears, I have big eyes, I have a nice smile.  Okay, why ask someone else to affirm that?  There is no need.  i already know.

As I hit this hill of fifty I find myself seeking philosophical answers, you can ask on Facebook but really, lets face it, those answers are not philosophical, they are trite and superficial.  I want to have deep conversations about these things.  I want to dialogue on things that have meaning.

Instead I read and play a game on my computer and write stories in my head.  I read someone else’s patterns instead of trying to design my own.  It is easier somehow, to not have to try anymore.  And this is where I look at myself and cringe.  The not even bothering to try anymore.  Who is it for anyway?  No one buys my work.  No one wants to spend time with me.  No one wants to have deep conversations anymore, how is your daughter?  How is your mother?  How is your job?  Never is there a how is your heart?  What are you thinking about these days?  What is your passion?  Where does your heart go in nostalgic moments?  What is feeding or draining your soul?

These are the conversations I want to have.

We have it all wrong, politics, and race and gender and social constructs.
Math and reading and computer coding.

We should be teaching art and drama, music, and dance, nature and nuture, physical and psychological exercises.

Use a program for the rest.

We have it all wrong.