Thyself

Beginning in early childhood, I dove into the concept of ‘love thy neighbor’ without pausing to consider the ‘as thyself’ part.

Oh man, have I been cruel to myself.

The aftershocks of my self-inflicted Earthquakes are off the Richter scale, as illustrated by my harried nervous system and visibly exhausted body.

For most of my life, I’ve treated others the way I wanted to be treated without stopping to see how I was treating myself, or letting myself be treated by others.

Embodying a doormat, I didn’t realize that I had anything to do with the avalanche of abuses I endured.

Who ordered this truckload of dung, indeed.

Now I understand that I am worthy of healthy love, and I am my sole source of self-love.

Being both self-taught and a late bloomer, this will require careful cultivation and consistent effort.

At least effort and I are old friends.

Though it feels unnatural and shameful to allot resources to myself, I must begin, and begin again.

I feel remorseful when I think of the kindness I denied myself while simultaneously over-giving to others, lighting myself on fire so that they might be warm.

I feel hopeful now that I am starting to practice self-kindness. Simply thinking about loving myself is a huge step on my healing path.

I know that the treasure I seek lies in the cave I fear to enter.

Removing toxic relationships might lighten my load, and would likely be worth the temporary albeit intense discomfort incurred by uprooting.

Yet I remain like a stubborn ox, cursing my burden as I remain willingly yoked, feeling hopelessly bound by the pressure to live up to social expectations.

The cave I fear to enter echoes with judgmental whispers.

‘Through this action, I practice self-love’ is mantra. May I hear it above the voices of those who might object. May I repeat it even as my voice trembles and cracks. May I remember that those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter.

May I keep moving forward even when left in the dust by the turtle and the snail.

May I hold myself tenderly in lovingkindness, no matter what I have done or will do.

May I rest in peace in this lifetime, in moments such as this one.

Marriage

I dreamt my husband left me and didn’t say why, like when we fight because I fail to read his mind.

I felt unlovable, alone, afraid, sad, and defeated.

I told him that when he drilled the ceiling above our heads it created so much dust, noise, and falling debris that I feared for our lives.

He implied that I should understand his master plan.

Though we may disagree, I woke up with the feeling that my marriage is worth more to me than I thought.

There’s the devil that you know versus the angel that you don’t…at least he keeps me out of the horrors of the dating pool, though gentlemanly bachelors seemed to abound after we got married.

I just need to keep the sky from falling, and the sky is my mind.

The Way

I heard today that the obstacle is the way.

So true, and yet, how difficult.

I know what I must do, and yet, I don’t.

I remain married to a man-child who drags me down in every way: he drains my finances with his selfish actions and poor decisions, he uses up my time as I endlessly provide for his needs and clean up after him, and he exhausts my energy with incessant fighting, judging me harshly at every opportunity.

Though likely no one would blame me if I left him, women always get shamed no matter what they do.

Now I have our daughter to consider.

My grandmother said that she stayed married for her children, then her grandchildren, and then felt too tired to do anything new.

That was her path.

My path has a long way to go still.

I see the pixie dust sprinkled amidst the pebbles and pine needles.

Opening myself to the unknown, I sparkle back.

Something like Love

My father gave me something like love except for the swearing and shaming. At least he always worked to support the family, though his money was perpetually scarce.

My mother gave me something like love except for the long stretches of neglect punctuated by outbursts of rage. At least she always cleaned the house, or taught me to do so.

My sisters gave me something like love until they felt insecure, which always happened sooner rather than later. I learned to hide myself in plain sight to let them take the limelight.

My partner gave me something like love except for how he acts with complete disregard for our family’s wellbeing, spending his time and money on whims to stroke his male ego instead of our necessities, but at least he doesn’t beat or cheat on me.

Perhaps the currency of love is like that: always a bit dirty, even if the faults are invisible to the eye.

Maybe I’m blind to the ways that my own love falls short, and those closest to me can hold up that sacred mirror if I am brave enough to look.

I’m sure I’d be horrified to see my own shortcomings magnified in front of me. But underneath my humanly errors, I’d also see the pure intentions of my soul, which probably look something like love.

Sweet Tooth

I’ve got a sweet tooth for untruths I speak when I think he is too bitter to handle new answers to old questions.

Part of me doesn’t care what he thinks of me because I’d be better off without him, but I don’t want him to bring the full weight of religious shame crashing down on my body.

Why do I find the forest more sacred than any church?

In nature, I can be a woman.

I try to maintain a semblance of integrity amidst the corrosivity of saccharine lies

Like going to bed without brushing my teeth after dessert, I know this is only wishful thinking.

What am I to do when he prods me with questions about my life that are none of his business?

I’ve already overshared and over cared.

Every time I repeat a lie to him because he is demanding that I relive painful experiences out loud against my will, it makes it harder to tell the truth.

He doesn’t treat me right. Even on our best days, he makes me pay for everything and do all the work to take care of him, so what do I owe him?

He has not demonstrated himself to be worthy of knowing my most personal memories, given his previous reactions.

Perhaps it is true that the truth will set me free, however I am too terrified to change my habits tonight.

Paradoxically, while I have not yet changed the habit of wrapping myself up in a protective cocoon of lies, I have changed the pattern of no longer flooding my body with sugar, which is a victory.

Guys I’ve Dated

I’ve dated guys whose eyes watered from the burn of undiluted wasabi

Thinking they were Japanese cuisine purists, they were only fooling themselves

He judged others for cutting off their chi from wearing their socks too tight while his own panties were in a bunch

He took me to a restaurant where the jazz was so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves

He didn’t intend to listen to me anyway, I found out later that night

I’ve dated guys I could only wash down with an unhealthy amount of alcohol

Guys who made gourmet meals taste bland with their predatory presence

I’ve dated guys who tried to shame and control me

They must feel so ashamed and out of control themselves

I was never into that scene

I’ve dated guys who believed their suffering was unique, artists who didn’t want to feel understood

I’ve dated guys who made me feel special for a time, until I realized that they only wanted me to make them feel special

They didn’t see me as a person, but a tool to be used, an addiction to leave them unsatisfied

I’ve dated guys who drank too much and called out for me in the middle of the night like a babe to its mother

Like a mother to a babe, I gave them my teat

The narcissistic and manipulative, the accusatory and dramatic

Guys who implied suicide if I ever left their side, yet somehow they are still living

Guys who stalked me and threatened me with their bodies

I prayed for boundaries

My man isn’t like those other guys

But he wants to know how many, and why

All I can do is bask in relief and sigh

Grateful, deeply grateful

Push

My husband pushes me with prodding questions about my sexual history

It enrages him that I don’t display the intimate details of my past like trinkets at a flea market

He pries with jealous tones in his voice

He has nothing better to do than ‘solve the riddle’ of how many men have slept with me

I tell him the truth; I don’t know

I don’t tell him why there were too many to count. Early abuse trained me to be sex-trafficked, I was overworked and undersold

There are experiences in my life that I didn’t ask for

Uninvited guests who ruined my party

I have been violated more times than I’d care to tell

I don’t want to relive that hell

He is undeserving of such personal and painful information

His prying unlocks in me that deep dark, that suicidality that was once my constant companion

Standing face to face again, it is clear how much I have healed over time, and yet

I understand why ending my life is a natural conclusion

To take back my body, reclaim my flesh as my own

To liberate myself at last from the unbearable physical memories he invokes with his dredging interrogation

He cannot fathom the damage he causes

We end this round shouting

I dread and prepare for the inevitable; the next time he broaches the topic

When he demands out of the blue that I recap the worst moments of my life, I feel energetically destroyed

I start to count the cars on that long train of trauma and feel like a trapped animal, desperate for a way out

My old friend suicidality extends a hand, ‘I am here for you, when you feel pushed.’

He and She

He

He drugged her and got her drunk

He did things to her she’ll never forget

I wonder if he’d regret it if he could fathom the depths of the wound he inflicted so easily

She

She started to cut herself to release the pain

She smoked, swallowed and sniffed but could never escape for long enough

Does he ever think back to that night and wonder how she must have felt to be violated

Does he ever imagine the horrors rippling through her body still?

Does he see the selfishness and the cruelty of his actions?

She overdosed last month

She was revived in time

She is still alive

Tears flow from her eyes

She comes to me for relief

I hold space for her grief

I cannot undo the wound or the crisis which ensued

I can only offer a new way for her to view her pain today

The struggle is real

She will feel how she feels

But in harming herself she only perpetuates his actions against her

Together we form a plan that will allow her wound to heal

Cortisol

This cortisol currency you pillage out of me from depths unseen

Cannot mean as much to you as it means to me

Your hands remain empty as I am depleted

You are the storm-maker but I will not be defeated

I’m recycling my resources

Your hot air will run its course

I will hold steady

So go ahead, shake my tree

I have plenty of cortisol, from depths unseen

Enough for you and for me

Hard to Break

I am human, with a messy human body and mind

I don’t intend to hurt anyone, yet I have a habit of leaving a trail of broken hearts behind me

I’m gifted at making people feel loved and special

I celebrate their strengths and passions

I serve up what everybody craves

When I cease to deliver their fix, they protest that I’ve misbehaved

I’m trying to shake this old survival skill that used to protect me but now makes me ill

I’m trying to garner new abilities, but ancient habits are hard to break when they are built into your anatomy