Christmas Group Therapy
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Christmas Disorders and Carols
The Struggle
The picture below is tonight’s entry in a daily journal of sorts I try keep up with on my phone. I keep most of my entries short and simple. Nothing like the dissertations contained within this blog. There are often no epiphanies or anything eye-opening or ground-breaking. Usually just a few words about my day. About how I’m feeling. Maybe a picture I took that day and/or a picture that captures my day or mood. My hurt. My struggle(s). I often have nothing much to say (hence my laziness RE: keeping up with this blog) because my days are usually pretty empty, uneventful, and not filled with much activity or social interaction. Succinctly: I often don’t have much to write home about. A good many of my entries (in an app called Day One; Apple iOS link: https://appsto.re/us/ESRiz.isimply) just say, “SSDD.”
When my dad was alive and I would ask him how his day was, 95% of the time he would answer with, “SSDD.” – an acronym for Same Shit, Different Day. That’s how I feel most days. And I think I now have a greater understanding that that’s probably how my dad often felt too. My dad was blunt (but never intentionally mean or spiteful about it) and he was not one to sugarcoat the truth. Which I didn’t mind. I probably even loved it though I don’t think I came to truly appreciate and admire that trait in him until after he passed and I became old enough to understand the value of true honesty and realized I am much the same way. He was just being honest. Ditto. I am so much like my father. My mom says that to me a lot: “You’re so much like your father.” I know for sure that she says it out of spite and resentment for all the perceived wrongs done/being done to her (by my dad and myself). I know she means it as an insult. She doesn’t know I always take it as a compliment and I try not to beam and try to stifle a smile in front of her after she says that to me, grateful that I take after my father more than I take after my mother (in more ways than one). Thank god.
Loose Woman
They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.
They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.
They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
man-hating, devastating,
boogey-woman lesbian.
Not necessarily,
but I like the compliment.
The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.
Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I’m in.
I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.
I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my little house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.
I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and success–
I think of me to gluttony.
By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I’m Pancha Villa.
I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I’m la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.
I strike terror among the men.
I can’t be bothered what they think.
¡Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!
For this, the cross, the calvary.
In other words, I’m anarchy.
I’m an aim-well,
shoot-sharp,
sharp-tongued,
sharp-thinking,
fast-speaking,
foot-loose,
loose-tongued,
let-loose,
woman-on-the-loose
loose woman.
Beware, honey.
I’m Bitch. Beast. Macha.
¡Wáchale!
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.
by Sandra Cisneros
The Quiet Borderline
Link
Decisions, Decisions
I know I haven’t written or posted for quite some time. Lots of shit has been hitting (and continues to hit) the fan and I’m not sure if I just don’t want to write or if I’m unable to/incapable at this time. I don’t know if or when I’ll be able to write again, at least as far as blogs go. Writing in some form or fashion will always be a part of my life because it’s in my soul and it is a treasured coping skill…but my question to you, angel faces, is if you think I should keep/you would like me to keep the blog (and the accompanying Facebook page) up/going or just abandon ship? Any opinions are welcome (and appreciated; I’ve been struggling with this decision for a while).
Link
A lot of things I need to work on letting go of.
No Surprises
“No Surprises”
by Amanda Palmer
A heart that’s full up like a landfill
A job that slowly kills you
Bruises that won’t heal
You look so tired-unhappy
Bring down the government
They don’t, they don’t speak for us
I’ll take a quiet life
A handshake of carbon monoxide
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
Silence, silence
This is my final fit
My final bellyache
With no alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises, please.
Such a pretty house
And such a pretty garden
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises, please
Bigger On The Inside
Bigger On The Inside
by Amanda Palmer
You’d think I’d shot their children
From the way that they are talking
And there’s no point in responding
‘Cause it will not make them stop
And I am tired of explaining
And of seeing so much hating
In the very same safe havens
Where I used to just see helping
I’ve been drunk and skipping dinner
Eating skin from off my fingers
And I tried to call my brother
But he no longer exists
I keep forgetting to remember
That he would have been much prouder
If he saw me shake these insults off
Instead of getting bitter
I am bigger on the inside
But you have to come inside to see me
Otherwise you’re only hating
Other people’s low-res copies
You’d think I’d learn my lesson
From the way they keep on testing
My capacity for pain
And my resolve to not get violent
But though my skin is thickened
Certain spots can still be got in
It is typically human of me
Thinking I am different
To friends hooked up to hospital machines
Two kinds of cancer
And there is no better place than from this
Waiting room to answer
The French kid who wrote an e-mail
To the website late last night
His father raped him and he’s scared
He asked me “How do you keep fighting?”
And the truth is I don’t know
I think it’s funny that he asked me
‘Cause I don’t feel like a fighter lately
I am too unhappy
You are bigger on the inside
But you’re father cannot see
You need to tell someone, be strong
And somewhere some dumb rockstar truly loves you
You’d think I’d get perspective
From my few years by the bedside
It is difficult to see the ones I love
So close to death
All their infections and procedures
And the will to live at all in question
Can I not accept that my own problems
Are so small
You took my hand when you woke up
I had been crying in the darkness
We all die alone but I am so so glad
That you are here
You whispered “We are so much bigger on the inside.
You, me, everybody.
Some day when you’re lying where I am
You’ll finally get it truly.”
We are so much bigger
Than another one can ever see
Trying is the point of life
So don’t stop trying
Promise me
Borderline between what and what? 