Half and Half; The Division of Self

Chronic Pain; The Modalities of Madness

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“It’s that TIME of year, the gruelling, catastrophic melancholy jingles of good tidings deepen Lm’s bastard of a headache.” Rock reminds Lm it’s not her “JOB” to be jolly. Lm thought last year was tough with her mother visiting; fibromyalgia, brain fog and her severe spinal pain made being merry impossible; polite and engaging was a morose daily event. Lm’s mother still does not get it even though she says she does. Her mother wakes at seventy-nine years old in good health, fully dresses, puts on her jewellery and lipstick then the giant elephant, PAIN in the ass, Lm woke slovenly, unrested, clad in in her night clothes, needing the toilet and wishing her mother to be quiet. “Good morning!” “How do you feel today?” Blah, blah, blah would ensue, and Lm would use the bathroom then excuse herself to her room again. She had wanted to shout and completely lose her fucking cool and say, ” I don’t know what a good morning is!” “I feel like shit”. What a tiring memory; simply recounting it drives steel bars through Lm’s ears, clanging, banging, whistling to the point of insanity, “Tinnitus”, Rock recalls. Lm glares at Rock, “Shut up, you don’t have ears.” Now, after having covid last March 2022 Lm has made a steady decline, like a little steam engine riding it’s breaks she slowly took each turn, believed she was in control and would not careen into the mountain sides and land in a big heap culminating into a pile of unsalvageable parts. Yet, she did. She is a heap of bitter moments, throbbing bones, more and more fatigued each minute as she lies entangled within her dreadful blob of perpetual turmoil. Dreams are cruel and vivid now. Christmas music isn’t cutting it for her and Rock pushing her to wash her hair, take more pain meds only irritates her. An unwelcomed mouse gnaws in the ceiling above her bed and her eyes burn from lack of rest. Sleeping is her game now. Fa la la la la. Rock is not as strong now. He has always carried her with crushing will and managed her weaknesses; it’s obvious he is vulnerable, too. She has clung to his ability to push through the physical pain, the abuse, the sickness, the past, the failures and smile. He can’t do it alone now and is scared. Who will help Lm? Who will see she is too weak to fight much longer? She does have two promising doctors now and soon will fly off to a special hospital for chronic repetitive pain patients. What about her CPTSD, BadDad, unresolved “Black Sheep” night terrors? What about suicidal ideation? No one wants to hear this part. Amsterdam is sounding like a good place to depart this goddamn nightmare. Laying on sofas, forgetting words, sleeping for hours now while it seemed like a romp in the snow wasn’t so long ago, a wintery walk through the forest, cooking masterfully with passion, playing a game of cards with the kids, being the “I got this” kind of mother. Lm knows she doesn’t have this now. She won’t climb a mountain, canoe or see Botswana nor make it back to her favourite old haunts with her husband. She dreams of parties and dancing, remembers her youthful beauty and laugh. She can’t take care of her surroundings and just wants out. Rock can’t console her more. He has run out of ideas. There are no good surprises coming. She will sleep through the holidays, check out her last shot at being “better” at the special pain rehabilitation centre and then come back, just the same, turn sixty in January in an uneventful way and wonder no more “why me?”. She will let go of Rock, stop dreaming and stop trying to make friends stay. No MORE existing through this shit, she will give in. She doesn’t want to be felt sorry for, sympathy and prayers. She wants OUT! Because NOBODY truly knows what it takes for her to live. The anxiety, lying in a pool of regrets, wrong turns, and basically her dumbass MINDFULNESS journey leading her right back to what she really is, useless. A total drag. Someone who holds everyone she loves back. Pride has left on the last ship out of here. Divided. Lm is now a thing. An “it”. Rock stumbles and TRUTH agrees, the two of them are in for a big last fight before the bell rings and the winner is declared. Honestly, in the boxing ring of life, he doubts either will rise again.

Why Does TRUTH Matter?

The Philosophical Dialogues Between RocK and Lm ; Part I

Photo by MART PRODUCTION on Pexels.com

Rock is calm, in control and direct; he nudges Lm after days of her hiding so deeply within herself that she hasn’t eaten properly. She developed this unhealthy habit as a teenager along with over exercising, mega dosing herself on over the counter diet pills and eventually she was given “black beautys” by her worst addiction, TJ. That’s the TRUTH. Her first love was older, maybe twenty-one going on twenty-two when she met him on the city docks in Annapolis, Maryland; he fulfilled all the longing she had for her father’s attention. When BadDad had visited her in Nashville she was treated like a wealthy princess, shown off to his friends for her beauty and good manners which he was proud of. When she ran away to live with him he had married the wonderful Elle and she longed to be with her baby sister, D. Expectations were quicky extinguished. BadDad was curt, often critical of Elle and used Lm to find younger girls to hit on. Lm never knew how to deal with this and just pushed it into the stairwell with everything else that tried to break her spirit. She was naive and desperate for love; TJ was smooth, like Old Spice commercials, a sailor, a good drunk, a good Catholic, and a sex addict; he introduced Lm at barely sixteen to a wide variety of drugs. TRUTH. “You could have overdosed!” Rock is actually still surprised Lm is alive. “Yeah, well I didn’t, did I?” Lm is snarky, angry at TJ to this day. He was the one who slept with everyone she knew, in fact he slept with other girls while she waited for him in his best friend’s room. His best friend was a good person and although drugging and drinking, too he maintained some sort of faint resemblance to decent ethics. She would go to him (aka “Moby”) and sob; he always comforted her and he didn’t hit on her which gained her trust. Soon TJ introduced her to crystalmeth, cocaine, hashish, uppers, quaaludes, hard liquor, acid (LSD) and the habit of daily pot use. Her mornings were black coffee, amphetimines and saltine crackers, just enough to start the day. Lm’s father couldn’t do much because he wasn’t around enough and well, he had no room to talk. Lm new about his teenaged lover, his mistresses and flings and tried to bury the secret life he led behind Elle’s back. Her desperation for being seen, loved, adored, and wanted was now a sickness and TJ took full advantage of it. He would show up at her school in his old station wagon which he and Moby named “the Whale”; they started a painting company and lived on an old boat docked not too far from her house. She had been transferred to an elite private school after failing religion in tenth grade. She refused summer school and thus was tossed to the next VIP high school and it was life changing. She made friends, met really nice nerdy boys she liked but TJ had a good grip on her. She felt obligated to him and missed out on much of the fun with her new classmates. Other than BadDad and a few drunks hitting on her, TJ would become the one who broke her into small fragments of a girl, he would groom her just as her father had and she would take all of his emotional and mental abuse in a grotesque self deprivating way, for she had no identity; she was only HIS. Rock forces Lm to nurture her inner child, sip some tea, come forward with all TRUTH day by day. Why does TRUTH matter? Rock says, “Denying your own experiences leads to a deep sickness.” He is never giving up on Lm and promises to help her heal and in turn she can heal others. It’s dark twenty-four hours a day right now and Lm is also physically unwell. She can’t accept her pain within her heart, or that which engulfs her soul; how is she to accept her physical pain? Rock wants to hold her but he can not. He wants to teach her to hold onto herself. Rock said, “Lm, if I could punch TJ in the snout, I would; but we of all people know violence solves nothing.” Our only secret “mean” wish is that TJ and BadDad suffer for what they did to us. Lm whispers, “Why must I suffer in my dreams all alone?”. Tonight she may not sleep; it’s her only gaurantee that she won’t wake in a cold sweat, with those fat salty tears burning her fair freckled face.

Not EVEN Close!

Rock watches from the corner of his eye as Lm takes a long inhale of a pretend cigarette. She is satisfied she is back in her dank quarters, just the two of them without disturbance. Rock has told her she is far from healed and that acceptance of her past eases her presence and will lead to a healthier future. ” Oh yay”, Lm replied, ” a healthy future is so enticing!”. Lm is not believing in Rock or the future full of smiles, love and peace anymore. She is overcooked, baked to a crisp and hard. Rock assures her that if she continues to tell her TRUTH, her story, that she will overcome all of her pain. Lm knows that even if one person saw beyond her soft blue eyes she’d be leary. Everyone, every single person in her world is backing away, and she knows that she has only her pain mentally, physically and emotionally to count on waking her at three a.m. She pulls out a drawer full of photos and sees herself at seven with BadDad and the nice girlfriend at a protest. She’s sad, looking down and he is oblivious. The word of the day, her life and relationships, with her mother and father is oblivious. Obviously oblivious.

1

Step Back People; This is My Investigation

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
D
N
A
...and me, you, us.
I feel you in my heartbeat, in my deepest known self
ID
EGO
...I knew there was someone missing; don't know how
I
Love
You.
My brother; damn how you look like him, how you look like me.
Damn.
I miss YOU.
We've never met in real life.
Skype, chats so polite and cautious are what we know.
I am selfish; possesive,sick with sorrow and desperate.
Thank the Universe, "God?". Mostly let's praise your smart birthmother, that you did not know HIM.
The man with the sperm, the lies, the narcissitic persona; the overtaking birthfather we share.
Lucky One. He flooded anyone near him with his tsunami of FIRST.
I am jealous that you had a father who loved you, NO MATTER WHAT!
A Mother that was so amazingly grateful you were placed into her arms
Still you were the son of the one who was unable to give many of his genetic creations that he "kept" a sense of importance, of being wanted.
He always was more important. I am so grateful brother you were given love, a family life that was whole.
I am broken, as I never knew this profound love from our shared birthfather.
I was his pawn, sidekick, the one who knew, saw who he was; I carried too much Truth,
I was disposable to him as he bounced from woman to woman, lived lie after lie.
You were saved.
May I, if I am given one last gift, sit next to you, hug you and protect our connection?
I am the gun with empty chambers,shooting at the bad but never succeeding in stopping the beast.
I am the sister, the mother, the wife, the daughter who will, if I must, load the pistiol, take the fall to keep us ONE.
I give you and all of BadDad's secrets a free card; It is not your fault that he did not care about us
He is a fault, a barren soul; let's recreate our world without his demons.
Triggered and Trust are both silent emotions.
LittleMe
Beckons you home, waits on the front porch far away
With her heart entwined with yours.
B
R
O
T
H
E
R
ILOVEYOU.

Resurrecting ROCK

After a long hiatus, Rock was found face down in wet leaves, stashed behind the family pet’s gravestones

For some newer readers, you might consider going back to the very first post in October 2021; Rock has been crucial to LittleMe’s growth, always her protector and strong. As Lm gets healthier, crushing her past with a mortar and pestle grain by grain she hid Rock and escaped his wise, solemn advice. Why would she do this to her best cover, her internal bodyguard since she was so small, she couldn’t talk? Rock knows and is upright, straight forward so let him explain why, despite her bravery, she still needs him and always will. ROCK is all knowing, a TRUTH teacher, and he sees what Lm is thinking before she acts. Without him, Lm (despite feeling she can take on the world), well, simply put, she can’t. Lm suffers from childhood trauma, chronic post-traumatic stress disorder, CPTSD, depression, and extreme insecurity because those she loved like BadDad let her down, not once but to the deepest, darkest, unforgettable place that creeps up on her, breaks her and torments her still. “Lm?”. Silence. Damn. “Lm? I’m back, still here for you. Are you under the bed? Are you in the stairwell opening memories without me?”. He waits. He hears a whistle, the kind a small child tries to make but it’s more like a soft blow of wind with a hum. “Come out Lm and let’s talk about what you’ve been up to. “Lm is indeed under the bed. Out stretches her hand from the same old bed she fled to when BadDad memories became too big when she was young. She feels Rock’s gritty surface, whimpers and doesn’t retreat. Rock is everlasting, part of her until her last breath; she wraps her smallest self around him as tears flood the floor. Rock is good at cleaning up messes and doesn’t mind. “We are closer to being one, but Lm you are not ready. I will know when it’s time to merge.” Rock wants to keep her safe and tells her, “Don’t hide me away again, we need each other Lm. Do you understand why now?”. Lm nods her head up and down and wants to articulate “Yes.” She can’t talk right now and is grateful Rock returned. “Tired of keeping up that big girl smile?”. Lm nods again. “I got you. Rock is here. Rest your heartache, leave your longing, stop waiting for the sky to open and for BadDad to hear you, admit his sins, to regret his lies and wrongs. It IS NOT going to happen Lm. He does NOT care and never will because you remind him of who he really is. Rest child. I will stand guard; I will keep you from starving for his love.” Lm lies in her puddle of tears with Rock. She is sorry to admit, she is not even close to being healthy. Rock knows Lm also has much chronic physical pain and is tired of fighting, that she is weary. He assures her she can close her eyes, but he knows he can never stop her dreaming.

Little White Lies; Burning Memories of You One Day at a Time

Photo by George Becker on Pexels.com
Lines on paper
          Lines of lies
Lines on your forhead
          Lines of time
Scars written in blue ink
          Signed with red wine
Burning my little self, my littleMe Mind
          Scraps of Me 
  Ripped      ON    Old Paper
           Manuscripts
Rewritten, Burn, Burn, Burned.
Lies 
      Lies Like
            Crumpled pieces of you
All that you did
            Only I knew
Candles lit, dripping at night
       YOU ARE PAPER
I stop your rewrites here
       Lies in the fire
Lies ancient, Lies new
        Kindling. one, three, two
Memoirs of Time, Flickery, flick
        In the flames you will go, blow blow below
One line at a time, one lie at a time, one lifetime blistered
        by my Father of Crime.
              

Flashes of Love; The Guide to Reawakening a Woman’s Heart

In the smallest of moments, in the hands of the keepers of Time, I am lost in my vivid dreams, my memories of another me, another you, are like digging through a shoebox of polaroids stuffed in the back of my mind. You look through me, not inside me; my own struggle is real, a curse with a cause. I pull my strength from a place so coven, a spiraling space that wedges between me before and me now. I want you to know this fierce attempt to feel alive, better than I truly am and carry me like a small girl afraid of rough waters. Words fling about, nothing to you, yet everything to me. I long for you to revisit me, my depth of consciousness, my blood pumping through my heart. Listen to my love, my emerging crone, LISTEN to the time passing through us, see my bravery, my determination to be part of an unleashed continuance. Mortality is a shell, a clause embedded in our soul, in the fine print. Perhaps some may be aware in flashes dismissed, yet I am in that flash of light we cannot dance in again. I see, breathe each breath too exposed to life’s inevitable pain. I walk with such consciousness, entirely engulfed in each glance, each movement of your eyes, your being; I am amuck in a cast of my own spell. Slipping backwards into the wanderer I have always been I ask again, I plead once more, look through our Love, savour the youthful reminders, hold on to me, to US, come with me as I cross this new threshold of time. I enter with faith a chapter unknown; in my hands I hold a piece of vitality, a bit of curiosity, a smudge of fear. Do not take my time, my devotion in vain. Each touch, every hurried second my eyes are open so wide, a destiny born into my gut, unshakable and relentless it is never off duty. Scroll again through all you know of you, of the course of life, togetherness and ask yourself again and again, ” where are we?”. In that instant let me guide you back, BACK to me and without measure, allow me to take your hand to my heart and walk forward as far as the clock, the silence of being allows. See the beauty, grasp our unknown and open this next door with me. Hold it open, help me step into hope, discard the pain and see me, you, us into the new realm of Love.

My Daughter’s Dream; My Dream.

At night I close my eyes yet am wide awake wanting a miracle to make you happy, to be whole and live the life you want to live. To unlock the chains of stigmatism, of bigotry and divisiveness I would slay fiercely. I want to wake to see you smiling, holding the hand of another, laughing and having plans that don’t include me. I want you to be loved as I love you, your heart to feel cosy and warm; I want this life to begin for you with acceptance and commitment. Will the barriers which bind you to unhappiness release you soon; will the sun shine and your warm brown eyes have no tears? I lay solemn, my pledge to see you through your journey unwaivering. I would be lying to myself and to the grand altruism deemed LOVE if I said it will all be okay. I don’t know if it will be okay, that you will thrive or that this world will give you what you need. My heart is heavy, my mind restless; I never stop thinking about you becoming who you are without more pain. I would pray, yet my beckoning turns sour when each day I see your soft eyes vulnerable. The God I once knew would not cast such pain on you. Goodnight my love. May you sleep and dream of rainbows and all the things that keep you strong; I close my eyes yet my heart is open for you every hour, every breath and will never be calm until I know you are satisfied.

Solstice’s Longing

Look up above into the sky, look to the Sun close your eyes, turn, feel the warmth of glorious time. Beauty we breathe, hear and smell, embrace Autumn, and take time to dwell. Forest Firs, Aspen’s golden, apples red for harvest’s showdown. Behold the brilliant colors pure! Gaze upon Nature’s finest grandeur. Each year we split from our inner season greeting with hope, our chest of reasons; to embody life we let go of hillsides green to white winter’s scheme. Nature is our steady guide, see the moonbeams by our side? If we should live one more day, please hold close to Nature’s way. Without the Earth, the moon or sky, how doeth heaven’s angels fly? Hold out your hand and give much more, our planet knows how to score. If humans step without good meaning Mother knows as her vessel’s are bleeding. It’s not too late to welcome change, stand up and shout we must refrain. No more garbage in our seas, clear the sky and save the trees. Humans are given the brain to think, resolve our quandaries before we sink. Come now and join the tide, Nature needs us by her side.

Night Mirrors; Sleepless Reflections

Four a.m. rain, nine celsius; usually perfect sleeping time for this weathered woman. Sipping ginger tea, disturbed by my relentless coughing, I avoid my bed and waking my husband who needs to work in two hours. From my soft sofa, a burgundy wine red, drowsiness sets in. Plumped up with pillows under an old cosy quilt I stare out a window into the black where the opposite panes behind me are lit with led lights and reflect before me. I want to be small, a Christmas Eve long ago and my mother to be sneaking around, making my morning perfect. She eats the cookies and downs the eggnog, maybe wonders if she’s got it right. Is she enough? Would this have been her little girl dream? Her’s weren’t doused in decor, perfection and excitement leading up to morning fun. My dog with her red bow, the pancake batter, fruit before stockings, albums pre-stacked, ready to drop one after the other, Bing Crosby always first. She has pretty cards on my bonus Dad’s plate and mine. She knows I will wake early and probably puts the coffee maker’s little paper bag in and pours the water, only needing to wake, push the button and join me under the tree. I too, tried to get it right year after year. People pleasing I learned from Mom. It never felt right except when I finally became a mother. I had a doggie too, a red bow, pancakes and coffee. The first year, so perfect. A four month old, the first husband smiling while opening his new sweater as our baby made sweet sounds on a soft blanket in front of the crackling fire. No hoopla. Just a new bone for our dog, the gift of motherhood and dreams were full, all good, with smiles; it would be perfect. That first Christmas as a mother I held my cherub and we watched, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Each sleepless night was a dream come true then with the long awaited child. Life in the world could be imperfect yet I would forge on, recreating reasons to be joyful, to see good and not look at the late night reflections. It was another morning, at forty years old, a Christmas of struggles and loss; my five year old watching “The Snowman” and cuddling with our doggie, sippy cup with apple juice in hand and already asking for peppermint sticks. I was a woman, staring at the deep Vermont snow with more coming down. This had been all I wanted. Why was I feeling it was impossible to make my husband learn to love through adversity, not resent the world for turning us upside down. Couldn’t we right it again? He’d lost his job the previous autumn and being post 9/11, despite his impeccable skills as an electrical engineer finding work was a dead end; he was Arabic. We’d met in a university town, he a foreign student working on his master’s and a brilliant graduate teaching fellow. He also was in charge of the cartography library and was a quiet, gentle soul. Being from north Africa he was working toward success, his culture beautiful in so many ways we learned to incorporate it easily into our life via cuisine. To this day my young adult’s comfort food is cous-cous with cinnamon and butter. That Christmas it all changed. He sat angry, not hiding his feelings as our child opened presents he resented my buying. I had worked as a writer for two local papers, taken care of those in palative care in their homes and even cleaned someone’s house each week. The bills became monster’s and no matter the music, or the lights on the tree softly lighting each evening he fell into a place that had no room for my dreams or his own. I had pleased and pleaded to keep hope alive and soon I no longer knew how to set the table just right, smile in the wake of tears, cheer up anyone at all. I had failed. Did my mother feel she had failed, too? Did she wish she knew all the answers? I had left home at sixteen and broke her heart. How could I ever fix that? I knew I had to change my own approach. My husband found a job in another state and I stayed behind, afraid to follow I took a small apartment in an old Victorian house in a new town. On weekends he would drive to see us and for awhile I thought maybe it could work. I looked for work and nothing was available with a child and no one reliable to help me out. The story is one of those that many know, you are somewhere, uncertain and just taking baby steps and holding out for an epiphany. Mine came about in a very long and loaded journey, a new country, messy Christmases that I couldn’t fix, clashes of cultures, always bending, trying, pleasing and believing in miracles. Now I feel much older than I am, often in poor health, I dread everything, every holiday as I know it can’t be like it was when I ran from my room, hugged my mother and bonus dad and let my doggie open her present first. I look at the sky now, it’s beginning to show a deep yet slowly lighting blue. The led lights on a timer will click off and I will make coffee. My second husband of fifteen years will wake and ask how I am feeling and then he will work. I will worry about my NOW. Not yesterday or tomorrow. I hope for nothing much but for my young adult to find their path, to be okay and content like that very first Christmas cooing with baby toes high in the air. I want this family, despite the buried knowing of what this “wonderful life” can do to each and everyone of us, to recognize our love is NOW. I stopped wanting it all, however I do keep believing that pancakes and coffee can turn things around. Good morning! Lm and Rock are cheering all of you on. May you stumble into something good, just right and feel the way you need.