Surrender

I tried so hard to do what I thought was wanted of me by my parents

I aborted my pregnancies conceived out of wedlock

I got engaged and married- thought I was following the script to be accepted and approved by my family

Yet my marriage somehow sparked a crises, as if it were an unforgivable crime

In their eyes it wasn’t with the right man or at the right time

I tried so hard, gave the ultimate sacrifice

Yet I still haven’t come close to getting it right, in their eyes

I give up on trying to make them happy

I surrender

I no longer take the bait of their meltdowns, no longer jump to their rescue

I live for my own happiness now

How much more obtainable a goal

How effortless compared to the burden I’ve been hauling

I practically float away from the wreck of our relationship

History

My man says he wants to know my history

I’d rather let it remain a mystery

I’d rather root into the present and grow a vibrant life

Than be blown over by memories of past storms and strife

Battered by hard knocks too soon

I hungered for the elusive silver spoon

How can I tell him about that first burning sting

Of too-soon penile penetration, I was barely fourteen

Of teenage crushes that crushed my heart

To this day I wrestle with heartbreak in the dark

Of older men with erectile dysfunction

I thought I’d moved beyond that at this junction

How can I tell him about the prima donnas

Inexplicably exploding bombs of drama

How can I tell him about the mobster

Who said I was safe because he had a loaded gun in his trunk

If I was so safe, why was he driving drunk?

How can I tell him about the rich man who offered me everything

Except happiness and peace

I’ve dropped men so fast they felt hit by concrete

Don’t come between me and my dreams

I’ve made a lot of mistakes, painful and blistery

Yet I keep moving forward to write my own history

Flame

Your rage strikes my heart like a lightning bolt

Cracking it open and setting it afire

I am at a loss for what to do, so I warm my hands over the embers and wait

To transform, part of me must die

I cannot rush, only trust

How many times can one heart break?

As many times as it takes

To learn the sacred lessons

To consciously unite with the divine

Time and time again

Pain is pain, sensation is sensation

No matter the form or formal education

Lucid dreaming just before waking

I see a sea of broken hearts glowing in the dark

Each a floating lantern offered up

Burning with the same flame

Good

I no longer strive to be labeled as ‘good’ by others

Like a trained fucking dog

I don’t want to act sweet

When I feel salty and bitter

I never wanted to fit into a box

Or stay between the lines

I don’t even belong indoors

I am a wild, free woman

If that means I’m not the angel you thought I was

Then light up the fire and brimstone

Too long have I carried the burden of trying to save the world while looking cute and put-together

Always satisfying other’s needs like plugging holes in a dam and I’m about to burst

I tremble and ache to let go of the many ropes which bind me

So many roles to play and expectations to meet

No wonder I have no time or energy left for me

I am the only person I can save, and my liberation doesn’t require fake smiles or insincere social pleasantries

To live my best life

I must aspire to be more than simply good

I must liberate myself from the ribbon I am wrapped up in

Rip off the docile doll’s dress and burn it,

Warming my hands and illuminating my night

I must feel my body and ride the waves of my emotions with shuddering ecstasy

You want me to be good

But I want to be better

Workaholic

I went into medicine partly due to heartbreak

The exhaustive training of medical school and residency was a welcome albeit ineffective distraction from my sorrow and loneliness

24-hour shifts are a convenient justification for not keeping in touch with loved ones

Even though the real excuse is my social anxiety and sense of inadequacy

Living within hospital walls, I suspect that I am not the only physician who became a medical doctor to try to forget unrequited love, to escape the world of human relationships

My older colleagues work far more than they need to to make ends meet, far more than any reasonable person would work in a week

Who needs friends or feelings when you have patients and science?

Our skin grows pale under fluorescent lights

Our vision becomes shortsighted as the screens stare unblinkingly

Our hearts forget how to feel carefree

Our muscles atrophy as our brains hypertrophy

Our minds become boxed in with facts, our mental filing cabinets overflow

I am a recovering workaholic working alongside workaholics who do not appear to be in recovery

Perhaps they suspect the same of me

Heads down in the trenches, none of us can know another’s heart

We can only know our own heart, if we listen

We carefully administer medications, surgeries and therapies

We measure progress in numerical metrics of lab values, calculated scores and vital signs

We arrive early and stay late

We work day and night without a break

We always have too much on our plates

We deprive ourselves of sleep, fresh air and food

We know why we have irritable moods

Practicing medicine is an unhealthy, imbalanced lifestyle and we know it

We can only ever heal ourselves

I’m ready to show it

I am finally healing my broken heart

I found that I had to begin at the start

Childhood wounds tangle and bloom

Trauma begets trauma until we change our thoughts, words and actions

Breaking old patterns even as we hold traction

I am love itself, I am the source of what I sought

My cup overflows, it was not all for naught

Take it Back

I feel the knots you’ve tied within me

Stains on my energy

Pains in my body

I observe the damage

Tension, nausea, sensation of suffocation

Insomnia, dizziness, diarrheal defecation

You made me feel powerless for too damn long

You beat me up but my spirit is strong

This shit isn’t mine

This was never mine

This is yours

Take it back

Take it all the fuck back

The trauma and the drama

The hurt and the dirt

Keep your hands and your mind out of my skirt

Don’t tell me what to do

Your mind games were never fun for me

Were they fun for you?

You can win the prize, I offer it freely to you

I won’t play anymore

Your ego will have to deal with the fact that I’m letting my sanity heal

I’m learning to put myself first

Through radical acts of self care to restore my happiness and health

Your energy is yours

Take it back

Labor Pains

Give birth to your best self, America

Painful, messy, terrifying, raw

The most beautiful transformation you’ll ever see

America, you’ve been gestating too long to stop now

Humanity is bursting from your loins, America

Born of the brutal rape of racism

Blood spills on the ground

Fertilizing the soil from which you spring forth

You cannot go back to the way you were, America

You can only keep pushing forward

I am learning to listen to my heart, America

Though the change may not be obvious to you yet

Subtle shifts below the surface move mountains, America

I change my thoughts to change my life

Though the echoes of your trauma are deafening

Though the jaws of your mental imprisonment clamp down hard around me

I no longer strive to be your wounded warrior

I am your healed child, here to show you how to heal yourself

Even though you broke my heart so early and often that you left me without a sense of self

Yet my heart kept on beating

And loving

That is how you heal

Keep on loving

Love yourself, love your life, love your fellow beings and the whole Earth as yourself

Forgive yourself and others

Be kind to all, for we are children on a difficult journey that wouldn’t be so damn difficult if we were kind to each other

Pay it forward and see what happens

Love and kindness and forgiveness is the way

America is having labor pains today

I welcome your birth America, your infinite potential

You suffered so much hate that you became a hater but it is finally time to love, America

Enlightened AF

You can never get to the end of it, you said about The Divine

Your words drew kaleidoscopic visions in my mind

I used to feel oppressed by poverty

Now I know I was only oppressed by the false beliefs within me

All the riches were always inside me

To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders

Beyond the collapsing walls, the sky is open

I am still tormented by the torrent of my thoughts

Then I think, ‘I don’t belong in anyone else’s head, nor do they belong in mine’

I try to let go of unhelpful thought-patterns

Such as my deep disappointment when I deem myself as less than perfect in every way, which happens multiple times each day

I may not be able to unthink a thought, but I can balance a negative with a positive, I can let the cloud float away without latching on all day

Today I was transported back to the time when I’d jerk off men for pennies on the dime

Now in the context of a trained medical professional providing a form of physical therapy to another doctor

Standing next to the massage table, I felt as if I hadn’t come far even after all the struggle and sacrifice to get out of poverty, to give my kids a better life

I remind myself that I have enough and I am enough

In my humble, imperfect way

I am enlightened AF sometimes

Rock

When struggling through life

I met the waves head-on

Gasping and nearly drowning as adversity slapped me in the face

Dragging down my body and my morale

Slowly, painfully, my ego was chipped away

Now a smoother stone, when the forces come at me

I bunker down in the stream bed

And let them pass over me with intentional non-effort

Challenges will always be a part of life

I used to be a leaf tossed by the wind

Now I embody the ever-present rock within

This is a practice, not a perfect

My ego still protests in victimized shame

I send a softening breath to my hard-headed brain

And soothe myself

You are OK

This is hard

You are doing your best

You are more than perfect: you are human

Humans get to live the beauty of learning from their experiences

Just breathe

Sex, Money, Dishes

Tell me you’ve never fought with your partner about sex, money, or dishes.

Sex

I used to fight endlessly about sex, mainly because I didn’t want to have it but my partners did, so we’d fight and fuck, then I’d cry and be blinded by images of destroying my body or their body just to stop the rape and the torture of not feeling safe in my skin. Amazingly, we all survived and now I have a loving partner with whom I have gold-medal sex; you have to experience it to believe it, it’s like I’m cashing in on some sex fund which I invested in long ago. Happily I don’t fight about sex anymore- I’ve got a man I’m attracted to inside and out, and he loves me the way I want to be loved.

Money

I used to exchange sex for money. It seemed like there was always too much sex and not enough money in those transactions, or transgressions. Even those back-alley deals were more straight forward than my relationships in which sex was exchanged for the illusion of not being alone, for food, housing or ‘safety’, though I learned that the cost to my physical, mental and spiritual wellbeing which false relationships exacted was not worth the dinners, drinks, gifts of lingerie, attention or the roof over my head. You might get raped if you travel alone, but if you travel with a man you are guaranteed to get raped. Live within your means because fine dining won’t taste good if you are eating with a strange man, believe me I know. If you have to learn on your own I understand, however if my years of pain can help prevent a moment of your suffering, it will have been worth it.

Dishes

Rare is the man who finishes the dishes. Common are the men who stack the dishes artfully in the sink until there is barely room to turn on the faucet. I have noticed this pattern during my co-habitations with men. I’ve done too many dishes. It especially irks me when men drown sponges in the rinsed yet still not washed dish pile, unperturbed as the sponge decomposes into a musty mess. Men seem deaf to the silent cries of the forgotten dish sponge. Day after day, I rescue the sponge, wringing it out and restoring it to its rightful place safe on dry land, in sight. My man shows his love for me not only through our award-winning sex, but also through money (ie, responsibility for personal  finances to contribute to our future together) and dishes: ladies and gentlemen, my man did the dishes tonight, thus allowing me time to write the words you read. If a man loves you he will want to learn your love language, which you must teach him with patience, positive reinforcement, and more patience.

I grew up doing the dishes, in poverty, and sexually molested by family and friends. My sister would beat me when she got in trouble for not doing the dishes with me after we were told to do them, but the alternative would have been getting beaten by my parents for not doing the dishes, so I was going to get beat no matter what I did. I wished that someone would do the fucking dishes with me. A girl can get lonely amidst the dissolving suds.