Saturday, September 10, 2011


My husband recently referred to me as a neurotic freak who is afraid of everything.

He is a good man and infinitely patient but this was probably not his shining moment of spousal support or encouragement.  But I took from it what I needed.

The truth hurts.  I can either be upset and bitter at his words or I can work things out.  Because he's right.

I am afraid of nearly everything.  When you grow up in a house like I did, nearly everything becomes an instrument of torment.  I started making a mental list and now that I really can't sleep, I thought that I would continue here. 

Just the things or situations... the reasons aren't as important anymore.

Clothes hangers

Hair brush

Curling iron

House slippers





Deep-freeze freezer

The dark

Whole bananas

The dentist


Liquid medications

Most colognes

Old Spice aftershave




Loud noises

Screaming and yelling

Slamming doors

Glass breaking

Popping balloons

Scaring me


Electrical cords


Men crossing their legs

Touching me



Baby dolls

Tight spaces

Smell of latex





Duct tape

Bright lights

Using the restroom


Garden hoses


Smell of gasoline

Boiling water

Bouquets of flowers

Like I said, nearly everything.

I could go on but I'll save myself the smallest amount of dignity.

As I read through the list some are rational.  Some make sense to me.  Some are irrational.  Some you could figure out with a bit of imagination but I really don't recommend that.

I'll own up to the afraid part.  I'll even own the neurotic part.  I don't care much for the freak part.  They were the freaks.  Not me.  I'm just the unfortunate byproduct.

Another fear; passing my fears on to my daughter.  She doesn't deserve to live in my fearful shadow.  There is no such thing as a fear-free life but I don't want her be afraid of bananas just because her mom wilts at the sight of one.  I want her to be a kid, have her own experiences and even develop a few fear of her own.

I'm not sure what I will do with this list.  Maybe I'll work through it one by one.  Maybe I'll ignore it all together.  Maybe I'll print it and give it to my husband; tangible proof that I'm not afraid of everything.

I'm not afraid of apples.

Thursday, September 8, 2011


Hula hoops.  Basketballs.  Baseballs.  Bubbles of gum.  My favorite kinds of circles. 

Symmetry in raw form.  A perfect circle can be nothing but a symmetrical shape of beautiful numbers.

Rings.  Dog collars.  Breaking plates.  Imperfect soap bubbles that never scrub enough.  These are the circles that I hate. 

I make myself small.  Into a brave ball of tortoise shell.  I am tough.  I am rugged.  I am slower than them.  But I have an impossible field of strength around me.  An impenetrable bubble.  The ultimate circle. 

Don't look.  Not even peek.  If I don't see them they don't see me.  A wingtip shoe cracks into my side.  I was wrong.  They do see me.

It's just a crack.  My shell is still intact.  I am safe.  Don't look.  Don't look. 

Another shoe.  It cracks my lip.  Again and my chin is split.  The pain draws my head out of my shell and I look.  It's the worst kind of circle.

Man-like pride has swelled.  So big.  So ugly.  Arrows growing that will pierce my childish shell.  Their feet.  Their shoes.  They crowd around me. 

Still the crudest circle. 

And the cruelest.

The groans.  The sighs.  The arrows being drawn with fast moving hands.  Angry, selfish hands of pleasure.  Arrows dipped in milky poison; I watch a precious, rancid drop drip into a circle. 

The arrows begin to fall.  My shell is there.  I am safe.  And then it begins to melt.  Childish strength is no match for poisoned shame. 

The groans turn into laughs.  Their poison erodes me in a flash.  I am nothing but a lustful target.  Warm embarrassment runs down my face.  My missing tears are a magic bandage but I have no more to spare. 

I accept my silent place within their circle until it is soft and they turn away.  My stupid shell is in the corner.  Cast away with a laugh. 

Next time I will have a perfect circle.  A better bubble so I can float away. 

Wednesday, September 7, 2011


I am different.  I always have been.

A little girl is crying in the corner.  Her tears are on the inside.  Long, tired streaks down the dirty windows of her soul.  Her soul is old.  Her soul is different.

Shame.  Her t-shirt is never quite enough.  It stretches over her knees just short to cover her shame.  Exposed.  Her shame; it burns.  Her shame is different. 

Her hair.  Long and twisted; a curtain to hide the pain behind.  His scent lingers as it curls her hair into knots of hate.  Her hair; it would be beautiful.  Instead her hair is different.

A little girl.  She is still to let the corner hug her.  A plaster embrace will have to do.  A wall that hugs; it's not so bad.  This corner is safe.  Her hug is different.

A grown up girl stands in another corner.  Afraid to touch the pain across the room.  The tears are gone.  Clothes are hers.  Her hair is short.  That different corner still remains.

Go to her.

Clean her up.

Dress her shame.

Give her human comfort. 

Any other girl.  But this one is different. 

She is me.  And I am different.

Undeserving.  And indifferent.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011


You know.  It's the feeling that you get right after Christmas.  All that work and then it's all over in a matter of hours and you wonder why the hell you worked so hard in the first place.

I spent the long weekend with overwhelming times of letdown.  Not all the time because that's dumb.  But some of the time when I had a moment to think and reflect; my letdown was laughing at me. 

I've worked really hard in the past month or so.  I've cleaned out mental closets.  I've faced some huge fears.  I've unpacked long overdue boxes.  I have said some very difficult goodbyes.  I have even been good, for the most part, about taking my meds.

After all that I thought I would feel better.  Even happy.  I looked forward to this long weekend.  I kept telling myself keep going, it will be so nice to have a happy and peaceful weekend.

It wasn't a terrible time.  I had the tiniest moments of happiness.  But it certainly was not what I expected.  What a letdown.  That's when disappointment set in like a black cloud.

That black cloud?  A close neighbor to my standard issued rain cloud of depression.  Mix in some thundering anxiety and some lightening strikes of pain and I have the perfect storm of mental illness once again.

I waffle between stupidity and embarassment.  How stupid of me to expect happiness.  Embarassment over that expectation of more than a passing relief.

It's hard to not be disappointed.  Why the fuck would I work so hard while expecting some relief?  I have very little to show for that work and that borders on pathetic.  I guess it's time to lower my expectations before I get hurt again.