The Woman Inside

 I'm standing in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, attempting to fix my unruly hair. And the thought comes to me that the person I am seeing is not the person inside of me. The wrinkles, the sagging jowls, the sad baggy eyes; they don't accurately represent the real woman that is me. Or do they?

The woman inside is young. She longs to be free. She wishes for a better life. She wants to be loved. She is classy and confident, able to make anyone feel welcome and comfortable. She is an adventurer, longing to travel to foreign places, to explore this world and all its beauty.

The woman inside is damaged, but not beyond repair. She is hurt, but she can heal. She is angry, but she won't lash out. She won't let anyone know, not anymore.

The woman inside is smart. She knows what's going on, and yet she refuses to let it affect her. She is stubborn and is determined to stand on what she believes is right and what is wrong.

The woman inside has plans, ideas and desires to do something important. She wants to create beauty. She wants to create an atmosphere of peace for those in turmoil, so they can finally breathe. She wants to extend friendship and acceptance to those who have no-one who cares. She wants the invisible to know they are seen.

Yet, the woman inside is so tired. Exhausted might be a better word, for there doesn't seem to be any reprieve from the attacks on her mind. She tries to be in control of those thoughts, but fails sometimes. She ends up doubting everything she once was certain of.

Saudade

“The famous saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness.” (In Portugal, by AFG Bell, 1912) 

Longing for things that have been. Longing for things that may never be again. Longing for things that may never be at all.

Nostalgic. Longing for things that might have been, if things were different. 

Wishing for things, situations, feelings, times that could have been.

Missing what you never got. 

Not Enough

Once upon a time I heard something on TV that caused my heart to hurt.

Two people discussing life and the intricacies and difficulties of parenthood. Sharing their failures and accomplishments, their dreams and hopes. And after all that, she sighed and said..."We're all they have. And it's not enough."

"Not enough." Two words that pretty much summed it all up. Describing how I felt in the shortest way possible.

Not:
patient enough
loving enough
loved enough
wise enough
old enough
whole enough

I've never felt like I was ready to be a parent. After all, it was thrust upon me at 19 years of age. I was in no way mature enough to know what to do or what was expected of me. I was not enough.

Drug of Choice

I've heard it said that religion is a crutch and the opiate of the people. I'm not really understanding why that is such a big issue. After all, if you have a headache, you take aspirin to take the pain away. If you are crippled, you use a walker or a wheelchair to get around. No one criticizes the handicapped person for using the apparatus that makes their life easier. Why then do atheists criticize the Christian for using something that enables them to get through life easier? People in general use all kinds of things to enable them to survive, whether it be drugs, alcohol, sex, violence. All addictions and obsessions are coping mechanisms. They are merely the thing that a human uses to pacify and soothe the hurt they feel. Call it self medicating if you want. All of us have something. 

So if someone uses drugs, yoga, prayer, etc., isn't it simply a crutch? Aren't they all a tool or mechanism that we as humans use to make it through the day?

I use several things and have used even more than the things listed to survive this life. I would ask my friends and family to not criticize my methods, or my "drug of choice". 

Lost In Pain

IT'S DAYS LIKE THIS THAT I FEEL LOST.

I wonder who to turn to, but I can't think of anyone that I can turn to that would or could offer any comfort.  My world is crumbling. Granted, my "world" is 900 miles away. But that makes no difference. When my child hurts, I hurt.

It was a toxic relationship from the very beginning. Started through manipulation. She was stranded, and lost, supposedly. So she called him. He rescued her, brought her home. She got him drunk. She wanted to have his baby. She wanted to hurt her competition. That was her plan. She succeeded. She was good at that. Manipulative, spiteful. She decided to get it, she got it.

But what she didn't know was what she was getting herself into. She was not prepared to meet the force that was in him. A force so strong that it could create and destroy all at the same time. He was a wounded animal, looking for both comfort and escape. She tried to trap him, thinking she would finally have the man of her dreams. And, she would finally be loved. That's all she ever wanted. And if she could have him, she would be special. She would be in the spotlight. She would be number 1.

But she wasn't willing to make the sacrifice required to be Number 1. She had never really had to sacrifice when it came to men. You see, she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful at one point. Long flowing hair, green eyes, perfect mouth. Yet inside she was a disaster waiting to happen. So abused.

She took the brunt of her parents alcohol and drug issues. She took the beatings. She took the responsibility of raising her sisters and her parents at the same time. Yet she was only a child herself. She kept the house clean, cooked the meals, held down 2 jobs. She became the wife and mother at an age when she should have been having fun. Her father exposed her to a life of rock stars and the music scene. Meeting musicians, hanging out with a group of people that had a life of parties and sex. When her mother left because she couldn't take it any more, she was left with even more responsibility. Dealing with her father's anger.

So, when she was rescued by him it seemed the perfect "out". She would live in his gorgeous home, not her parents filthy trailer. She would travel, and go to parties and live the life she longed for. Free from all the chaos and troubles of home.

But, when she became pregnant, everything changed. He wanted to marry. She did not. Her idea of marriage was a vision of her parents. Not what she wanted for her life. Her messed up way of thinking threw all of it into a crazy mess of emotions and hormones and hurt feelings and the past, and all the fears associated with that.

Yet, she had her good days, sort of. She was adept at hiding it all from the world. She had an image of poise, beauty, creativity, but only on the outside. Inside she was a boiling pot of sewage. And if you pushed the right combination of buttons, you would be shown the darkness that was her heart and soul.

So, what do you do with that type of person? It's not that she's a bad girl. She's just wounded to the point that she is desperate and afraid to ask for and receive help. Who could she possibly trust? Her family? No. They were the ones that caused and allowed the damage to take place. I say allowed only because they were so dysfunctional that they had no idea how to protect her from themselves and others who would seek to take advantage of a beautiful young girl. 

She built walls around herself, her castle tower, where she lived in her fantasy world. Reality was a place she no longer wanted to be a part of. The shift of blame fell on him. All the anger, all the hatred fell on him, as she withheld his child from him. She would send an occasional posed picture, always looking like the perfect life was being lived. 

To be continued...

Sometimes, when I think of this all I can say is "there just aren't words to describe it"

I can't count how many times I've been overlooked. Left out. Ignored. Passed over. Forgotten. Never thought of.
And not by friends or acquaintances, but by family. And, I bet I'm not alone in that. I bet it happens all the time. Have you ever hear the words, "Oh, I thought I told you."?

No. You didn't tell me. Not a word. Not a hint.

I remember a time when my brother came to visit, in the town where I live. He came to visit family. I remember my father coming to visit, in the town where I live. He came to visit family.
I found out AFTER the visit. Hmm, makes me wonder. I guess I'm not "family".

Nothing quite stings like the pain of a slap. The shock. The surprise. You think everything is fine. You think your family cares about you. You think they want to see you, spend time with you. You think, but you're wrong.
 That sinking feeling when you realize they didn't think either...about you, that is.

Cracked and Broken

I remember my first Christmas after my mother died. She died in 1980, 7 weeks before Christmas, and I was the recipient of most of her things, including the Christmas ornaments and decorations. As Christmas approached we bought a huge tree and proceeded to decorate it with all the beautiful things of my mothers. I loved it, as it was the best tree ever. Vintage ornaments, handmade ornaments, crocheted angels. So, Christmas Day came, and my father was supposed to come over for dinner and to spend the day with us. He walked in the front door and just stood there, staring at the tree. Suddenly, he blurted out "The tree looks just like Mama used to do it. I can't take it!" and then he walked out. Christmas was destroyed. 

Years later, in 2001, a few months after my father died, I sat with my box of Christmas ornaments, attempting to decorate our tree. All I saw were memories of my mother in that box. The sadness and grief over took me, as I, one by one, picked up each ornament and threw them, breaking them against the wall into another box across the room. All I wanted to do was destroy the pain. 

So, this year, I misplaced my ornament box. They are nowhere to be found. But, I did find a Christmas bin with some odds and ends of Christmas things. I went searching through it and to my surprise, on the bottom of it, were some old ornaments, very old ones, wrapped very carefully. My mother's ornaments, or what was left of them. 20 of them, perfectly protected and whole.

Even though in my grief I tried to destroy them all, God knew that sometime in the future I'd get over the anger and grief and long for Mom's things again. My tree looks beautiful, filled with vintage ornaments that my mother treasured.