you get stoned say you’re proud say you’re sorry say I’m beautiful
I believe you motherhood cuts deep your scars shine
like mine
My Daughter
you’ve inherited broken glass jagged-edged shattered dreams that are not yours
I tried smoothing them with cold ocean waves deep muddy lake dives but they still cut
you don’t believe me because fresh wounds sting lines etched into softness but I see you
I’m proud of you I’m sorry you are beautiful
Mother’s Day isn’t an easy day for many, but I hope today you find solace in knowing motherhood binds us more than separates us. We all come from birth. We all are broken. We are all doing our best. May you find a piece of love to hold today and every day.
he climbs tall swaying trees all the way to the top. i eat handfuls of unsalted almonds with bites of banana while reading book after book. sun-kissed, my toes press into the soft green grass. freckled shoulders out. “hi mom,” he calls. i wave back all smiles. my naive trust easily covers fear. i lean into
full moons, rainbow wishes, fairy protectors. i believe my love will shield him from harm. but it doesn’t. once. and then twice. i drink sugary coffee in hospital rooms while staring at tiny bright screens. shoulders slumped. “hi mom,” he calls beneath many bloody bandages. with a fake smile i tell him everything will
be okay. home. darkness. healing comes. i sneak candy nightly hoping it will shrink fear. it doesn’t. my body swells. aches. i pull away from everyone. hiding panic with manic activity. secretly building giant blame barriers. “hi mom,” he calls but i don’t hear him. i don’t want to. walls protect right? but i am lonely in my padded
cell. sunshine bursts through swaying trees. they miss him too. but fear stopped the climbing. we circle each other arguing. forgetting nose kisses but not bloody faces. time moves so fast. too fast. his blue cap and gown sits on my dresser. “hi mom,” he says. i listen. we eat seedy crackers while our shoulders touch. can trust regrow after fear?
Note: I’m attempting to use poetry as part of my healing process. I will return to short stories and the Shoebox Poetry series soon. Thank you for reading and supporting me during this transition time. It’s long overdue.
“When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready.”—Paulo Coelho
I’m quitting the #100DayProject.
It hurt to type that sentence. I don’t like quitting. When backed into a corner I usually double down on my efforts to prove all the shit my internal critic says about me is untrue. In fact, my plan for the week was to work my ass off catching up on everything.
But something happened.
I was reading a book in the early morning hours when I heard a terribly loud sound—a lot like a gunshot. It sounded like it came from upstairs where both my teenagers were sleeping.
My body went into complete panic mode.
“No, no, no…” I chanted as I ran up the stairs.
I threw open both their doors screaming, “Are you okay?”
They were fine.
I woke them up.
I scared them.
But they were fine.
After apologizing and reassuring myself nothing bad had happened, I went into the backyard and fell onto the ground sobbing. Hard. Harder than I have in years.
I started replaying the worst moments. The phone call. A woman found my son laying on the side of the road and called me from his cell phone to tell me he’d had a skateboard accident. The cop at our front door. He told us our son was hit by a car. He was holding his shoes. Yelling at my daughter for wearing a sweater in summer. I pulled up her sleeves to see her arms covered in cuts. The look on her face when she told me she didn’t want to be here anymore.
You are a bad mother.
You have made too many terrible mistakes.
It’s all your fault.
My body wouldn’t stop shaking. I could barely breathe.
I called my mom and told her what happened. I needed to say all my fears out loud. I needed to acknowledge the elephant sitting on my chest. I don’t want my kids to die. I feel like a failure. I don’t understand why this is our story. I’ve tried to be the best mom I could be.
I’m supposed to be watching the fruits of all my hard work pay off—proms, graduation, getting their driver’s license, first dates. Instead, it feels like one tragedy or obstacle after the next. Mountain after mountain. It’s all so horribly unfair.
She cried with me and said I’m the strongest person she knows. I didn’t want to listen, but I did. Eventually, I calmed down, but I was left knowing I had to face what I didn’t want to.
I’ve been living in a constant state of stress for many years. Too many. It’s been boiling under my skin like lava—hot, churning, angry.
A few weeks ago, facing the move of my mother out of state, the lava erupted in the form of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad rash. The doc gave me meds, but they didn’t work. It got worse. Much worse. I went on the trip anyway.
I tried to ignore it. It’s just a rash. I’m strong. I got this. My mother needs me. My daughter needs me. There’s simply no time for my nonsense.
But the rash got angrier and angrier.
I wanted to ignore it forever, but then the loud sound came.
Maybe it was an internal gunshot or a car backfiring on the road behind our house (the road my son had his accidents). Whatever it was, it forced me to stop lying to myself. I’m not okay and I need to take better care of myself.
Something has to change.
I got busy doing research and made the decision to cut out sugar, caffeine, and carbs—all things this rash needs to thrive (and I use to cope). I got different meds. I rode through the waves of migraines while sipping bone broth and taking naps. I oscillated between feeling like I’m doing the right thing and feeling selfish.
I didn’t feel strong.
I finally took the anxiety pills I’d been scared to take. I’m talking more openly with my family about my stress level. I’m not cooking for my family right now. I’m still taking naps.
It feels a bit like I’m doing nothing, but that’s not true. It’s important. I need to feel better.
I’m healing my skin, my gut, and my heart. I’ve got so many wonderful things to look forward to and I need to be my healthiest to enjoy them all. My teenagers may not look like the typical ones, but they are remarkable human beings. Extraordinary. They are the light of my life. They need me to stop simmering in the lava.
The reason I started this #100DayProject was to tackle my perfectionism and to think more abstractly. The guidelines I set for myself were:
be messy and imprecise
have fun with the process
don’t overthink
don’t plan
don’t judge the finished painting
be brave
Quitting fulfills these objectives quite nicely. It’s brave and messy. It’s not perfect. I can’t really plan what the future holds for me, but I’m taking the right steps to get healthy.
I’m proud of myself.
NOTE: I’m not quitting my blog, but I am taking some time to heal. I may be a bit less active for a few weeks as I start to feel better. Please don’t go anywhere. I appreciate you all so much.
through multi-colored glass down simple carpet floors white walls turn brass tears transform into doors
shadow trees grow there lightening flowers do too whispers come for repair howling monsters to spew
creaking boards hold ache light bulbs illuminate pain rafters rattle and shake trauma flows like rain
lose yourself, my child within safe caring walls connect with inner wild listen to phoenix’s calls
for inside healing house nothing stays for long come in quiet mouse leave brave lion strong
*This poem was inspired by a comment left on my blog by Grounded African and is dedicated to everyone attempting to enter a building like this to heal and connect in therapy, especially my darling daughter. May you find your way through the dark.
Crawl out of mismatched blankets to shiver write, heater broken again.
Cracked heels bleed in fuzzy grey socks, add self-care to today’s to-do list.
Must hold breath another week for mental health help, therapists get sick.
Tears fall fast in upstairs bathroom, moms know the art of hidden sadness.
Can’t take another hit, cold sore erupts fat, ugly on bottom lip.
Coffee in my cup is ice already, but what I need is some warmth.
Write, write, write all my crisp inside words, but does anybody want them?
Inspired by Brandon Ellrich, I used the format of the American Sentence this week to explore some of my current feelings. If you are unfamiliar with this poetic form, it was Allen Ginsberg’s effort to make American the haiku. It must be seventeen syllables and it comes from the notion, “poets are people who notice what they notice.” Thank you for reading my first attempt at these.
The same old silver grater, clear glass bowl, dented wooden spoon used to make round applesauce cake for first birthdays today made muffins for freshman and senior year. Instead of watching from your wooden high chair, bass boomed behind closed bedroom doors while green granny smith apples, bright orange carrots joined honey, oats, almond flour for you. Another day of beautiful childhood fleeting before lovesick eyes not done soaking up all the wondrous firsts, seconds of motherhood’s dance. Don’t blink they tell you; blink blink blink
Bridgette Tales 