Back again

I'm not going to apologize for wanting you
your hands in my hair while you kiss my neck

I'm not sorry
that I want you 
that i yearn for your touch
the heat of your hands
your tongue
on my flesh

for wanting
your passion
and desire
to fill me
fulfill me
like an answered prayer
a breath of fresh air
a gasp of ecstasy
when it's just you and me

I'm not sorry for wanting
you in my bed
each night

your arms around me

i'm not sorry
that i dream about you
always
the way you used to smile at me
your passion alive inside me
your eyes
your hands
your cares

i'm not sorry
for wanting more
than half hearted phone calls
while you play solitaire
distracted by thoughts
you won't share

I'm not sorry for loving you so much that i don't want to settle for awkward silences and halfway schemes
I don't want to settle
for scraps
for better than nothing
for not growing old with you
for not bearing your name with pride
for not snuggling in bed on cold rainy mornings with you
for not bringing you coffee
for not rubbing your aches and hands, and stress away
for you not laying your head in my lap

I'm not sorry for wanting the life we've planned
with all the adventures and excitement we've dreamed of for so long

i've already lived through too many nights without you 

Reservations...

Rezervations
Uncertainties
Call em what you want
Everyone's got em
What it really is is fear

Those fears that stop us from doing certain things
And occasionally make us act irrationally.

The ones we won't speak of or name.

They're pretty common.
And despite our ideas of uniqueness, pretty universal.

Fear of not being ______ enough.
Fear of abandonment
Fear of failure/success

But we shouldn't let those fears stop us from making the leap, taking the chance/risk. Be brave. Be courageous..blah...blah...blah

We've all heard it before, we all know it's true.

But ask any person with anxiety, depression, or any other mental health issue if it's really that easy.

It's not.

Make the off hand comment,"what's the worst that could happen?" To someone with anxiety and their mind will spiral out of control through a whirlwind of every possible worst case scenario.

Sometimes courage is as "simple" as asking a question when you fear the answer.

Sometimes bravery is "just" leaving the house.

More on this topic later, I think.

Hospitals

Spend a week in the hospital to remind you what's valuable.
Try not to be afraid. Focus on the words being said to you through The narcotic haze.
Complain about the meds being too strong, i can't think at all, I'd rather be in pain.
Have emergency surgery.
Try not to cry.
While being sedated, Remind your surgeon that you have a child.
He's my only son
I'm his only mama
Have nothing to do but stare at the ceiling for hours. That's too much time to think.
Family is a strange thing.
Hospitals have their own sense of time.
A day or a week?
Find silence in the morphine running through your veins.
Sleep.
Wake up when the phone rings.
Wake up for injections
What day is it?
Did i miss Christmas?
Injections.
Bruises.
This IV blew
Find joy in the few people willing to visit.
Find joy in the view beyond the window. Above the cement and buildings, look at the mountains. Look at the clouds.
Morphine.
Daydream about walking barefoot on this earth instead of cold linoleum in those god awful hospital socks.
Get exhausted brushing your hair.
Daydream about going home
Analyze the meaning of home, and what you're missing
Run through the list of every place you've lived, how much you loved or hated each one.
Rewatch the 15 years of your child's life in an instant. Look at him like he's still an infant. Look at him like the young man he's becoming.
Cry.
Remember the warmth of his little hand holding yours. Think about the last time you gave him a hug.
Morphine.
Something about a vacuum.
Remember all the other times you've almost died.
Remind yourself that you won't let this be the end.
Learn about kidneys.
Daydream about celtic warriors.
Play your own highlights reel.
Injections.
Food on a tray.
Reread the same paragraph 10 times.
Get mad at the book.
Get mad at the morphine.
Start to write a text message...fall asleep before you finish.
Daydream about not being nauseous.
Drag the IV and vacuum to the bathroom.
Drag it back.
Wake up to your arm swelling.
New IV again.
Contemplate the existence of all things.
Beg for morphine.
Sleep.

Drifting...

Pull back the veil
Whatever you're hiding
Whatever you fear.

Is it your mirror?
Your inner demons?
A truth you don't want to hear?

Year's end

We all get a bit philosophical, as one year closes and another is about to begin.

As if these tiny little boxes on a page, that we try to squeeze our lives in to truly matter. This man-made measurement is not so important as how we choose to live or lives.

Ignore the measurement, the days we track, it's not nearly as important as we pretend.

In the end, is the measure of your life going to amount to just the number of days you were alive?

And how many of them did you spend not truly living?

Those tiny little boxes, all neat and clean, how many did you slumber through in your day to day routine, not really living, or loving, or seeking anything?

How many were wasted in anger at things you can't control?

While anger can be quite motivating, it is rarely inspiring, and hardly leads to anything truly satisfying.

This has been a recent, relavent theme. It keeps coming up, begging to be examined, clearly there's a lesson.

I've watched so many people hold on to their anger for much too long.

It becomes debilitating. It's heavy and ugly, and eats you from the inside.

Let those momentary sparks of rage do what they're meant for. Let them light you up and propel you forward...then let them go. Move on.

Readers of certain other blogs may know the reasons behind my years of silence on certain topics, the stories of pain and hurt aplenty, and there are many. Those stories of woe that grew me, the stories of trauma and hate that raised me, the years of tears shed. But those words are not my own, and don't define me. I never chose to live my life there. So don't compare these two versions, similar as they may sometimes be, those comparisons are not fair.

I don't live my life guided by the pain of decades past, I don't waste the precious days of my present dwelling in damage of the damned.

Those single sided stories do not encompass the full story, the complexity of each and every moment that I refuse to let define me.

I am not my parents, their tragic lives, or their heartache, or even my father's worst mistake.

I can't play along any longer, and enable this version to stay out there as the only version, seen as truth.

Stumbled upon this little gem...

Fever dreams

I woke thrashing.
Drenched in the sweat of fever driven dreams, trying to recall what had woken me.
I'd been wandering anxiously, through the village of my subconscious.
From hut to house of each anxiety my mind had built for me.
I stumbled upon the front step of an elderly woman in a rocking chair. She sat in front of a large fan blowing way too hard.
(Indeed I must have been choking)

I stood between her and the rushing air, fumbling hands behind me, trying to find the off switch. The eldery lady curled there became my grandmother, coughing, and holding her throat.
"I thought you forgot about me."
Oh no, my sweet, dear woman. Never.
Shit.
I did forget to call her yesterday.
I'll call her today.
Trying to slow my ragged breath.
Was that my world i was in there, or hers?
Everything dingy with memory and regret.
Every direction sorrow.
God this fever...
How long have i been ill?

This sickness feels evil.