The Poem from 1996

Before I  let you to see this poem, I feel some background on it is in order.

My friend and I both submitted a poem to southbound press in 1996. I worked for maybe a few minutes on mine (and it shows…trust me) and look at that…there I am on page 38 of the anthology. She isn’t in the book at all.

I remember this was also my first reading as well. I was scared and cold. I stumbled over my words. the room was packed and I felt so out of place. How funny this poem and the memory of my first reading surfaces as I am about to go to my second reading of my own original piece?

Life is funny that way.

Here it is in all its horrific glory.

This is the poem I sent off to southbound press in 1996. I thought I was the next Sylvia Plath. I was wrong…dead wrong.

The Poem From 1996

 

Shaken Support = Loss of Self-Esteem

I remember when I was little; I would always find some kind of way to be on stage. Most of the time, I would be in the chorus or part of an ensemble; I rarely ever stood alone on stage.

Maybe that was why no one ever came to see my shows? I guess just being a blob on the stage wasn’t much to be proud of, so why bother leaving the house? I would come home and tell everyone all about it anyhow, so really, did it matter that they weren’t there in person?

I remember one time when this lack of support really hit me. I was in the school musical, “The Whiz” and I think it was the opening night. I was so excited because my family promised they would be there in the audience and that was such a big deal to me. Since my family never really showed up to watch me play my flute in the band, or fling a flag in the air with the marching band this idea of them coming to support me was huge. I told everyone they were coming and, that night, I was the best wind that stage ever saw.

As the play ended and the final curtain calls were made, I raced out of my Citizen of Oz outfit and ran out front to find my family. I even left on the stage make-up (which basically made me look like a cheap hooker or this chick in high school who’s name I will not put on blast, but trust me…if you went to my high school, you know her). I was so happy to go find them and hear what they thought; I even wanted to introduce them to my new “play” friends.

I stood there waiting…waiting…and watching other cast members hug their families. Then, someone came up to me with the traditional flowers the cast all got each other. There was also a long flower box with my name on it. Being the closet romantic, I was all aflutter thinking some guy had a secret crush on me and was sending me roses to tell me. I ripped open the card and there was my sister’s familiar handwriting. It said, “Sorry we weren’t able to make it. We know you did great. Love, Mom and Me.”

My heart sank. They didn’t come to see me. The flowers, well, I wanted to throw them out and toss the card in the nearest garbage can. I didn’t want the damn flowers; I wanted them to see me do something I loved doing. I wanted to feel their presence as I looked out from the stage. But, I didn’t get to feel that at all. All I felt was let down and ashamed.

I never asked them to come to another show.

Now, I am in a similar position. I won’t be in a play, but I was asked to read an original piece of my fiction.  At first I was honored. I picked up my phone and frantically started texting. I went online and emailed away. I was so thrilled to share the news and I wanted so badly to ask these people to come and see me read.

But I got ignored.

The tears came shortly after that.

It wasn’t fair of me really to start crying. I know that at least one of them had a phone issue. However, it was a gut reaction. I felt once again like that little tenth grader waiting so anxiously for her mom and sister to come around the corner and tell her how great she was that night in the show. I’ve always had a problem asking for support. I figure people really don’t want to support me or I look to people I know will disappoint me so then I can convince myself further I am not worth getting support.

 Then I continued thinking maybe it isn’t even that big of a deal. I am sure everyone got asked to read his or her work, and who knows, maybe it isn’t even open to the public.

But, in the end…it is a big deal to me. This is my work and I am proud of what I am doing. I want these people to be a part of this new phase of my life  because of the huge role in fill in my life. I am so unsure all the time and just that small bit of reassurance and faith means so much.

I run the risk of being rejected. While I know that, I still can’t stop myself from crying about the rejection.

I can’t help it; I am walking into a world I always wanted to be a part of and I’m afraid I don’t really belong. If you were there for me; sitting in the audience hearing my words and cheering me on…I could learn to cheer myself on.

 

Signs

I am always on the hunt for signs telling me I am doing or not doing the right things in life. Sure, I have my stomach that usually will drop into my feet when I am venturing into a bad deal. But, when a move isn’t totally right or wrong for me, my stomach doesn’t react. I am left to look for other ways of reassuring myself that I am fine.

This week in grad school, I had to take a creative writing evaluation test. I basically failed. First, I didn’t listen to my gut. I over analyzed questions and instead of relying on my instinct, I tried to reason the question out. Secondly, I do things on instinct. I may not know the correct terminology; but I know how the terms act in writing because they are natural to me.

Needless to say, I was ready to throw in the towel with grad school because I felt so ill prepared.

I talked to one of my friends and she pointed out I was the same way with teaching. I didn’t know the proper terminology for teaching; I just felt what needed to be done.

I also started thinking about my undergrad training. I took mostly Lit classes and Education classes. At my community college, I took a Creative Writing class. It was a joke class. We just wrote in different genres. We never really looked at our writing and we certainly never discussed theories of writing.

Until now, I have been surviving on raw talent and what I have picked up in random books.

I felt a bit better when I got home. I’m not quitting grad school because I know I am in a place where I can learn to be a better writer. It isn’t about things being right or wrong in my writing; it’s about using what will fit into my writing style and make me a better writer. It’s okay for me not to know the terms and theories of writing right now. If, by the end of the semester, I am still having problems like this, it may be time to re-evaluate grad school.

 

To Thy Old Self- Be Gone

I am sorry that when you and I were talking about this the other day, I was having such a hard time forming my thoughts. It was a sappy day for me and I just couldn’t get my mouth to say all the things my brain wanted to express. I decided to write this blog to you (knowing you won’t read it because you do hate me and want me dead) because for me, writing is the only way I can truly form some- what coherent thoughts. I will use myself as the example and I trust that you will be able to insert yourself in the appropriate places.

For years, I had an undiagnosed mental illness. I always knew something wasn’t quite right with me, but I chalked it up to being a writer. I thought this was just the person I was and I had better learned to live with it. Also, there was such a big stigmatism to having a mental illness I didn’t want to say I had one. No one wants to take a pill for the rest of his or her life. We were always told the pills would take away who we were and all the creativity would go with it.

They were only half right about the pills. It is true that the pills change us; but it is for the better. The voices in our heads that tells us such horrifically negative things; the pills quiet that voice. All the times we couldn’t get out of bed because we “didn’t feel well”; the pills give us the energy to go out and see the world. The medicine helps us become a stronger and sharper version of ourselves. Lastly, the pills don’t hush the creativity; they make it easier for us to do the creative things we want to do.

For years, I was on autopilot. I’ve talked about this before and just the other day I told you I sometimes wished I never woke up from the autopilot haze. It was so much easier just to show up and be guided. What I don’t think I made clear was why I really was afraid to give up my autopilot life.

It was what I had known for years. It was who I was and how I defined myself. It boils down to being a bad habit like picking one’s nose or smoking. The unknown is a far greater risk than the known and I’m not big on taking unknown risks. So I clung to my old self hoping I could just keep going and no one would notice.

I wasn’t as good as I thought I was at hiding my mental illness. I certainly wasn’t a good friend to people. I let my fear of becoming someone else stop me from living the life I was destined to live.

I am in the process of waking up. It’s hard baby; I won’t lie to you. Sometimes I get so sad and I have no idea why. My best guess is I’m frightened of being someone new. Will people like the new me? Will I even like the new me? What I have been finding out is the people who really love me and are really here for me are so happy I am waking up. They love watching me take back my life. Also, they like having the person they always saw come back into their lives.

I look at you now and I understand how my friends feel about me. I am watching you, the person I have always known you to be, come back to life and it is the most amazing transformation. For the first time, you are learning your true self and while it is a very frightening thing to do; it is also very rewarding. The people who truly love you will stand by you and the rest can just suck it because you didn’t need them anyhow.

I understand the fear of taking pills for the rest of your life. Hell, I hate having to take my damn synthroid every day, but I know I have to do it. There is nothing wrong with taking a pill that helps you calm the negativity and allows your true self to shine. Mental illness, in my opinion, can be worse than cancer because at least people can all understand cancer. Most people don’t understand mental illness nor do they want to understand it.

Just as I am in the process of doing now, you have to let that old you die. Our old selves have no place in our new lives. We need that room for our creativity and our true friends. It’s hard, but let go. There is so much more worthwhile to gain by letting that toxic version of ourselves go.

 

Nervous Nelly

My whole life I always had a plan. I did the things I thought others would want me to do. Also, I tried to be practical. I figured I would have always been successful if I just followed the advice of others and followed the plan. I just had to go to college, get a teaching degree, find a job, and then my life would be an autopilot success.

I don’t know why I thought I could take the easy way in life. It’s almost a crime against nature for my life to be easy.

One day, I woke up and noticed I didn’t like the feeling of autopilot. I wanted to do the things I wanted to do. I was sick of being safe and always bending to the wills of others. I needed things on my terms now.

But with that awakening comes a price.

Because everything was planned for me, I never had to make a decision. I just showed up and met the requirements. However, I found out that was no way for me to live my life. There was a lot I was missing out on and I couldn’t allow myself to miss out on my life.

For awhile after I realized I was just going through the motions of life, I had a hard time figuring out what I really wanted for myself. I decided to revisit my childhood wish to become a writer. I was like that slow turtle making cautious moves into the writing field. I felt like I was missing that big push. I also know I always wanted a Master’s in Creative Writing. I can hear my family saying it’s a dumb degree and not practical. But for me, I just want that piece of paper.

Today I start my first class in working towards my Master’s in Creative Writing. I am a nervous wreck! Normally I would not want to go to school and I would be lying in bed with my Hello Kitty blanket over my head faking an illness.

That is not the case today. I am so stressed about going to school, but there is no thought in my head saying I shouldn’t go.

I am stressed because this is the first time in my life I am taking a step that I want to take. I am letting go of the old me that lived her life for others and I am  living for myself. Old habits are hard to break. I’m so used to having everything planned out for me; right now I am going into a whole new unknown. I’m learning how to live my life in a new way and it’s more than frightening.

Although letting go of the hallow shell that was me is hard, I know that I am letting in something far greater. I know I will be happier because I am doing the things I want to do. I’m spending time with people I love regardless how others see these people. I am going for a degree I want because I simply want the degree. I am finally living my life and I am starting to see how much better I am becoming. It’s like I am finally living up to the person I was born to be.

 

Understanding Ourselves Through Horoscopes?

My mother was an odd bird. She would constantly check her horoscope in the daily paper. My childhood home was filled with Sydney Omar’s yearly astrology books and Linda Goodman’s book of Love Signs. My mother more than believed in psychics and she even fancied herself a bit of a predictor of the future with her very own set of Gypsy fortune telling cards. As a child, I can recall sitting in the dining room with an Ouija board sitting on the knees of my Godfather and myself as we looked for answers to our deepest questions.

 Now, it is a known fact that after Lincoln was shot, Mary Todd went searching for her husband’s ghost. Mary Todd consulted with every known Ghost Whisperer hoping to catch a small word or phrase from her beloved Abe.

I think my mother did the same thing.

After my father’s death, she really became a recluse. She forced my sister and me into her self-induced home imprisonment. Part of it was due to the fact my mother was so afraid to lose us. The other part was she didn’t want to raise us alone. She signed up for a dual partnership. Even if my parents got divorced; it still would have been the two of them raising us. But with my father’s death, it was all beats off. She was, rightly so, pissed.

I think she turned to psychics, her tarot cards, and the Ouija board all in the hopes of guidance from my dad. She needed a sign that she wasn’t as alone as she thought. My mother needed someone to tell her we would all be okay.

When she died, I did the same thing. I went looking for both of my parents. I needed a sign I was doing the right things. I was too young and ill prepared to deal with sudden adulthood. So, I looked for my mother in all the same places she looked for my dad. I never found her; just as she never found my dad.

I gave up looking in all those places. However, I still carry one tradition. I read the horoscopes. Most times I can relate them to my life and in times of great stress, I have been known to rely on horoscopes to give me hope that whatever horror I’m facing will soon pass.

But, what about astrological signs?

Can our personalities really be dictated by when we were born?

I don’t think our personality can be completely based on astrology, but I do think it helps.  Here is the website I was using today to learn about me. http://www.myfreehoroscopes.net/. For the most part, it was right. But I don’t know if everything I am can be determined by when I was born and in what month.

 

Addiction: A Spiritual Disease

My grandmother used to say that every day we learned something new. The statement is an easily proven one, but do we always listen to the lessons we learn every day?

I think it takes a few times for a lesson to repeat itself before one starts taking a serious look at what the lesson has to offer one in his or her life.

I was watching Oprah a few months ago and she had Dr. Drew from the VH1 Celebrity Rehab shows on as a guest and they were discussing addiction and how it was a spiritual disassociation as well as genetic disease. Oprah went on to say she didn’t understand how anyone can make it through this world without believing in some kind of higher power.

A few weeks later I find myself learning more about addiction and how it affects people. Once again I heard it was a spiritual disassociation. I start running down the clues of things I should have seen but was too dumb to listen. With small flashes I start picking up how you turned away from God. I can understand how you felt that even God left you. It wasn’t because you wanted to turn from Him (and from all the things you love), it was just the disease telling you that you should turn away.

I am not a religious person. I think if I were to walk in a church, it would implode. However, I am not saying I don’t believe in God. I don’t study the Bible (although I did take the class called The Bible as an undergrad and loved the class). But does that make God less present in my life?

I can understand when someone is battling an illness (mental or physical) it would be easy to turn away from God. You wonder why He is doing this to you and why He can’t make the pain go away. I was a nine year old little girl who lost her faith in God. Could anything be sadder than that?

So, how did I get my faith back?

I didn’t look at God the way my church taught me to see Him. God isn’t a great punisher who hurts us when we do something wrong. To me, God is a teacher. He will sit down with you and hold your hand; but He won’t stop the lesson from happening. He can’t take your pain away. He can’t stop the illness. But He will stand right by you the whole time you fight it. He will help guide you with a slight pressure on your back.

God isn’t trying to hurt any of us; there is just a lesson He needs us to learn. When we don’t pay attention, the lesson keeps showing up until will listen and learn.

We need to believe in something. If you can put your faith into something you can’t physically feel or see; imagine how easy it would be to put your faith into something or someone who is looking right at you. After you put your faith in another person; you can start to put your faith in yourself.

I understand why addiction is a spiritual disassociation. Addiction is a lack of faith. In order to battle the disease, you have to battle yourself. It’s rough fighting yourself every day. However, that is where the faith comes in. Your mind will tell you horrible things, but have faith in yourself and the ones you have put faith in to show you those horrible things are so far away from the truth.

 

Living a Life in Quotes

Sometimes life gets difficult and we find ourselves falling head first into a dark unknown hole. When and where it stops isn’t up to us. We just keep falling until, what I can only explain as a sudden inertia, stops us and we just stay floated and suspended somewhere between the bottom and the top of our own personal hole.

In times like this, people will often drop by and yell down quotes to us.  They think their little gem of wisdom will help us shake ourselves out of that suspended web and all will be well again. Even I find myself at times beginning a quote mantra in my head to help those bad thoughts from seeping in.

It makes me wonder why people feel it is not only proper but an absolute necessity to hand down these famous quotes as if they were handing us a new law to live our life by.

Sure, I understand that most quotes remain in the forefront because of the truth and wisdom that lies within the quote. Also, it helps to be able to adjust the quote to your own unique situation and watch how it fits and explains things.

But the question remains, can we really follow the advice of a favorite quote? What’s more, should we even try to live our life following the orders of quotes?

Here is my new small experiment. For the next week, I will be posting a quote up and seeing how well I was able to follow that quote for the day.

 

Snow Days of the Past

In case you didn’t hear about the huge dumping of snow on the East Coast of America, let me be the first to tell you that over the weekend, God vomited a huge snow storm on the East Coast of America. Philadelphia got a lovely 23 inches of snow and this past storm was the second largest storm…ever.

I know that people from places like Chicago and Boston would look at those totals and be like, “Yeah? It snowed like that yesterday morning” but here in NJ et al. we aren’t so used to that kind of winter dumping.

All this snow made me think of growing up with snow storms.

I hated the snow when I was little. Sure, it was very pretty to look at and I really did want to go out and play in it. But then, when I got outside and felt how cold is really was outside…I was knocking on the glass sliding door to come back inside.

Don’t get me wrong, my mother packet me up nice and tight. I had two pairs of gloves, three pairs of pants, seven shirts, some long johns, and a small portable space heater (ok, I didn’t have that, but I wanted one).

But as soon as I got outside and got hit by that wet, soggy, snowball…I was ready to come back in.

My mother would see me outside with the tears running down my face, the snot frozen to my lip, and she would shake her head and open the door. I had to un-layer right by the door and put the soggy clothes right in the washer. She would tell me and I quote, “Well, I told you it was cold outside. Why did you want to go outside for anyway, dummy?”

I didn’t go outside to play in the snow. I went outside because I wanted what came after I came back in from the snow. I wanted that warm cup of hot chocolate. I wanted those extra helping hands to hugs my frozen body and warm me up. I wanted to sit on the couch with my blanket and Ernie pillow and be happy.

It was those small, stolen moments I felt the most loved and cared for. If it meant I had to suffer a bit outside and be pummeled with snow balls…I was willing to take it.

 

The Blame Game

It’s the addict’s creed: You made me do this.

I was watching Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew and this one model was talking about her father. He was an alcoholic and when she was three he left the family. When she was older her father came back into her life. Too bad she was riding her own pale white horse. Every time her dad came drunk to her door, she made him leave. Part of the reason was she didn’t want to see him drunk and the other part was she didn’t want him to see her coked out. Well, the inevitable happened and her father died. However he left a lovely parting gift. He said that he died because she wouldn’t see him. Also, he was drinking again because she wasn’t there for him.

First I thought that was the most selfish thing to say to another person. That man drank because he did and it had nothing to do with his daughter being there or not. The man was sick and he was just looking for a reason to drink. What better reason is there to drink than blaming your daughter? In that way, he didn’t have to own his drinking. He wasn’t drinking because of himself; he drank because his daughter didn’t love him.

Second, I started thinking how horrible it was for this woman to live her whole life thinking she had her father’s blood on her hands. She wasted her life drowning that guilt in drugs, alcohol, and sex and that guilt didn’t even belong to her. She didn’t make her father drink. She didn’t make him leave when she was three. She wanted nothing but her father’s love and yet he was too sick to give it to her.  Yet she was blamed. Also, she let her father blaming her for his death be her ticket into her own addiction.

Addiction really doesn’t just hurt the person addicted…it is a pain that reaches everyone and sometimes it touches others in ways we never could imagine.

Did that father really want to hurt his little girl? Did he really want her to spend her whole life chasing his demons? Did he really mean to blame her for his death?

Dr. Drew said the best thing to do to honor his memory is for her to get well.

I look at my life and think what would my parents say if they saw me now?

My mom would be so pissed at me. She didn’t raise me to be so meek and timid.

My dad would hate what I have become.

So, for me, it is time to dust off my ass and get up. Sure, my life has had some rough patches, but who hasn’t?  It is not right for me to spoil my parents’ memory by just sitting down and letting my life rush by. They may not be here but I am…I am here.