Tag Archives: Divorce

For Better or Worse

His memory lingers
long after the last door slam,
to unsettle emotions
and distort newly held beliefs
His legacy bequeathed
in the divorce settlement
are ripples on a mirror surface. . .
the crinkles of eyes laughing
arms meant for holding,
thoughtful insight of a kind
rarely seen in the eyes of men.
And yet,
the papers speak
of a different reality,
of dreams gone awry,
and a world spinning of balance.
No regrets –
but sometimes, in quiet moments,
when I forget to raise my shields,
the memory of his eyes
as he made love to me
tears at my heart,
that I remember
there won’t be another
such as he . . .
for better or worse.

In times of greatest anger
I find myself wondering
where did that great love go?
It is here, pocketed within secret places,
to emerge in the peace of the night
and remind me
how great the loss was
to walk away in anger
and carry the love.

#everydayinspirations Prompt – Image

Chosen Image – Girl standing, looking into a forest

Scratching and clawing up the mountain, pushing through trees with long, sharp thorns, I started working my way through the pain and rage I felt.

Back at or family’s summer cabin, my parents were involved in a heated argument, sitting in chairs in the front yard. I have never been one who was highly vocal – my feelings were mine to keep.  However, when I heard that horrid, devastating word “Divorce”, I lit into them.  My fourteen year old self called the dogs and took off, trying to get as far away from the turmoil as I could.

Crossing the creek, I followed a late summer trickle of a mountain stream, rugged with sharp rocks at all angles. The stream fed the creek, with watercress and mint planted in its waters at the base. After scrambling over boulders, I got as far as I could before the boulders were too big to crawl over. I entered the land of thorns, shorter trees bearing inch long thorns throughout. It was a much larger area than I realized for in all the years we had been here in the summer, I hadn’t climbed the mountain.

Somehow, whenever major messages come from God, prickers and thorns are always a part of it  They don’t leave scratches or cuts – they are for the struggle and learning.  They are to get my attention, for the struggle of understanding.

Finally, I entered a glen as the thorns I passed away from. A huge tree had fallen, its root system an incredibly mosaic reaching to the sky. I was captivated, staring at the myriad lines the branches made.

Beyond was a barbed wire fence with a hunting road leading to a large fallow field.  A tiny cabin stood at the top. I crossed the road, easing my way through the barbed wire on both sides to a lush, soft green forest.  It was a fairy land. As I eased myself onto a log I could see moss climbing trees, grass ankle high. I breathed in the pure air and completely relaxed.  Moments later a young doe wandered to within 10 feet of me. We looked at each other, then she went back to nibbling the grass.  I couldn’t remove my eyes from her smooth, delicate beauty

A few minutes later the dogs came bounding back from their explorations. The doe took on look and high-tailed it away from their noisiness. Time to go. Crossing through the barbed wire, I decided to take the road down and the three of us started back downhill.

Back at home, all was quiet.  To my young eyes, my parents seemed to at least have called a truce.  My parents didn’t say a word to me but I was left with the feeling I had shaken them up a bit, and brought the tension they had so forcefully had earlier.

The lessons learned?:
a. State your truth.  It is right and appropriate to open your mouth and let others know how you feel
b. After life’s thorns comes beauty
c.  If you are not afraid, you won’t spread fear#everyday

 

 

 

The Dreaded DMV Story

‘Da Dreaded DMV story

Reading Atypical 60’s blog today reminded me of the nightmare I underwent when I moved to Connecticut.  It wasn’t the lines – although they were there.  It wasn’t the hot, heavy, rank smell of sweat, although that was there as well.  It was about the persecution of a woman that could never be done to a man, simply because, he was a man.

I had all my little documents in my hands as I spent a couple of hours in line, to be told to go stand in another line (well, this time I could sit).  When finally called up to the representative, I was told I had to provide proof of all the times I changed my name during my life.

That presents a few difficulties.  Two marriages, a business name, the name I used between marriages, the name I used after both ended. Oh, and my maiden name. Additionally, I am someone who has trouble staying put.  I’ve lived in about 15 places in my life.  My dad was a minister and they tend to be trotted here and there at the District’s/Bishop’s whim. So that was a few in New York and Connecticut.  I was born in Kentucky (1)  while my dad was in college.

Then there were my life choices. (2) A marriage and move to New Jersey. (3)A divorce with a name change but instead of using the American spelling of my maiden name, I chose the Norwegian spelling. A move to California and marriage a couple of years later (4). Since I was already using my business name (5), I incorporated it into my marriage name (6). Backtrack . . . We got married in Seattle, Washington. One more state of paperwork.  Then there was there was the eventual divorce number 2. I chose to adopt my grandmother’s maiden name because I wanted to honor my father but I was damned if I would ever take a man’s name again (7) once I had moved to Connecticut and the divorce was finalized. I am only grateful because I didn’t also have to provide proof of residence, just state, or it would have been another 7 or 8 places.  I am terrified that down the road I’ll have to show proof of my Facebook name or my email address or other internet names which will need to be included.

I had to go back to the DMV five times.  Each time it was to face the lines only to find out I needed something more or different or from another department in one state or another. Finally I had enough!!!  I called my State Representative and explained the persecution I was undergoing.  Within a week I was granted my license. I didn’t even have to stand in line.  However, when my renewal comes, I will have to finish this process DMV declares just.  I may take them to court.  I realize this has some vague connection to NATIONAL SECURITY but let’s be real – this is ridiculous!

I have one question?  Would this happen to a man?

Target . . . Me

I was reading a new blog, Awkword and what Michelle has asked us to do in choosing a target audience and I realized not only do I not have one I am aware of, but I don’t know who the target me is.  I have lived alone for 20 years. No dating, not a really active social life, and though there are some reasons why, I also find myself saying, once in a while, why not?

My writing can tend to be somewhat, or very, on the dark side.  I have a low to mid grade bipolar condition.  It keeps me more on the depressed or withdrawn section of life.  I also have a boat-load of physical issues and have for all those years and before. So I suppose I might draw people who have similar issues.  These can range from the conditions: once I was on O2 for 2 12 years and have had asthma, chronic eosinophilic pneumonia, and emphysema in greater or lesser strengths for all my adult life.  Fibromyalgia dogs me. I lost more than 3/4 of my intestines and gall bladder when I went septic and my systems shut down and was in a coma 3 weeks.  When I woke it was to complete loss of muscle memory.  This past year I had back surgery which didn’t help. I’ve had a migraine most of the last three months.  See what I mean?  There is more but that alone can make for a target audience.

I have Traumatic Brian Injury – caused during the coma, but which creates its own set of problems.  My memory is not always reliable. I suppose it is an understatement.  My sister calls it CRAFT – can’t remember a fucking thing.

Because of these factors, I am legally disabled. Work is hard. Complex assignments are too hard to process. Simple assignments bore the crap out of me.  I can’t work too much because Medicaid and my body won’t let me.  So I have been a caregiver for numerous years. I started off as a Business Management Consultant with clients all over the country.  Quite the let-down.

I am a mother of two twenty somethings 3,000 miles away from me and happy that way. They are living their lives well and that is the most any mother could ask.  But I live near my sisters and my 8 year old nieces are my delight.

Oh yes,  I am a recovering drug and alcohol addict – and food.  I have been sober from alcohol for more than 35 years with a 5 year break for a 5 year addiction to prescription pain killers which ended 11 years ago and had a horrible effect of my kids, especially my daughter. So there’s guilt and shame I can’t seem to let go of.

AND – I’ve wanted to be a writer  and missionary all my life.  I’ve been published a few times and I have an opportunity to go on a mission in 2017.  Until then I do what I can here.  I write a lot of poetry, some memoir pieces, and non-fiction articles  about women who have achieved greatness through tremendous adversity.  I write about what I know and want to know; what is inspirational to me and religion and spirituality.

So if you can find a target audience in all that, except that I probably sound very self-involved . . . playing with my navel and all that; let me know. And I still have to figure out pages, widgets, you name it.  Learning to be a good blogger is taking a long time . . . did I tell you about my TBI?

I welcome tips and comments.  I truly want to grow. So give me a hand why dontcha’.

 

 

Relationships

THE VICTIM

Her eyes, wellsprings of pain,
hinting of torture,
black circles under rims,
dark enough to leave one to ask,
whether they are bruises or not?
Movements covert,
a shrinking in upon oneself,
cowering in anticipated trauma,
knowing too well
one hit follows another,
but desperately trying to fend off
the next,
standing in a void, an emptiness
of pleasure, thinking somehow
these blows are restitution
but of what she can’t fathom.
An atonement of some past life.
Not willing to speak out,
to draw attention to herself,
the glimmer of life though
still seeks to shine,
in the trembling beauty,
the grace of hand,
a consciously remembered
knowing of her right to exist.
She will persevere,
and, hopefully survive.
Her body no longer carrying bruises,
her soul remembering
but no longer blanketing itself
in pain.

Among the Food Lines

food line in winterThe line is long – 200 deep
some people  standing here for 2 hours
shifting foot to foot
sitting on cold cement
mostly quiet although some know
each other way back chatter away

An amorous couple
display their affections
to the ire of those around them
she plies her wares among those
with a few dollars to spare

Mentally challenged
follow steps they’ve taken
0ver and over again
sad, sometimes angry,
depends on whether they
have medications to take.

Drug addled young people
laughing, jumping, in their cliques,
checked out of traditional paths
sleeping bags strapped to their backs
pandering for spare cash

An old man talking
about his campsite at the river
off the beaten path
the squirrels and birds he feeds
comfortable and safe

Unemployed
men with hard eyes and tough frowns
others sad – no jobs available
mothers keeping children close
families struggling –
without the lines – nothing

Physically challenged
approach lines in walkers, with canes,
one man has motorized wheelchair
he rides around town with.
some stumbling, limping, in casts
many lack medical coverage
to assist glaring needs

Old woman curled in her tattered blankets
bothering no one
no home to go to
hoping the shelter
will have a bed tonight

These are the ones
not too proud for hand outs
so many others go without
but won’t associate with
the poor unworthy
who go home with food

 

A Child’s Perspective

Daddy rages, Mommy cries,
What about me?
the little child sighs.

No home for my own
yet I have two.
Never alone
but always lonely.
Mourning for one
while with the other.
Never enjoying
without feeling guilt.

I have my spaces.
My objects surround me,
yet I can’t remember
where my teddy bear is.
Is it here or there?

I want two kisses goodnight
from two people –
not the bemused, exhausted
brush of one’s lips
on my brow.

No one asked me
when the choice was made.
I got the leftovers.

Small wonder I am scared,
so angry I want nothing more
than to strike out
at the ones I love most.
Hear me . . .
when can I speak?

yet I can’t remember
where my teddy bear is.
Is it here or there?

A Memory in Time

He carries the children
from the car,
holding them close,
so close to their breath
one last time
before he leaves.

She waits at the stair
as she has waited
for some time now,
anxious to kiss
their little faces,
hold them close
and tuck them into bed.

He gets into the car,
starts the engine with a sigh,
and pulls away,
leaving them behind.
And she watches
with eyes of regret
and turns into a home
they do not share.

Each going to separate
destinations,
but with part of their hearts
going to the other . . .
Divorce . . .
an emptiness of memories.

Family Relationships

HALF-TIME MOTHER

Sitting in the rocking chair,
window offering stark respite,
holds herself,
aching to see,
their shining faces.
Half-time Mother
time measured out
in the best
of the rocking chair’s bows.

Once a mother
at all times,
in all ways,
divorce stripped her
of the job
she knew most.

Days when she has them,
she laughs, cries,
shouts, sings,
and, exhausted,
thinks of the day
they have to leave.

One moment gone,
the ache begins to grow,
but unlike the green softness
of a young shoot
pushing itself from the earth,
she feels the emptiness
of her womb,
as she passes empty beds,
and longs for the moment
they run through  the door.

Divorce made a mother
into a woman of two lives,
one foot in either,
but never fulfilled,
one step draining her body,
the other the heart.