Much More Beautiful

Wow.

Big Daddy was right. And SO quickly.

One thing that makes me really happy in life ( something I was reminded of today) is that I can say whatever the FUCK I want.

That’s right.

Right here? This is my place.

And I? I can say whatever I want.

That’s glorious! Big Daddy never asks me to censor myself. He is secure in who he is, naturally dominant. He knows that words are the VERY most important thing to me. And to restrict them would be death.

I would die inside.

And I want to shine.

I am much more beautiful when I shine.

The Person He Is

I do
want to be
the staying kind.
He is worth incredible inner struggle.
To this blessed, broken girl.

End of a Day

“Mommy!”

He kept them up last night till I got home from overtime. It was like heaven.

“Mommy! Mommy! I got all smiley faces!!”

“Mommmmmeeee mommmeeeee potty!”

She with the blackish brown eyes ran at me and hugged my belly.

The LittleOne ran at me and hugged my legs. A blond and brown pony tail met my eyes as I looked down at my babies, my growing, loving babies that I created. I carried. I care for.

“Ok, back here to finish your stories.” My Love is beaming from the bed, knowing he did a nice, RIGHT thing, proud of himself for lasting ONE MORE DAY as a single dad while I work the 7 to 7 overtime. More money for our struggling family. The little pony tails bounce back to the bed. They climb up, but still face me, chattering like sparrows.

“Mommy, I have a splinter you need to get out.” She with the blackish brown eyes shows me her soft palm, with a tiny sliver of wood in it. My heart soars. I AM the one who deals with splinters. He can’t take it, but moms have to do the things that cause pain to create healing.

“Booboo! Booboo!” Not to be outdone, The LittleOne shows me a fresh shin bruise that I simply must kiss immediately.

Off to get the tweezers, my eyes fill a little. Yes, I’m tired (boy there should be a different word for HOW tired), so a little emotion is predictable.

But really, it was honest joy. Look at all my gifts…

I Found

I found

your drawing of

an ice cream cone and

knew to follow you down hill in

chuck taylors

There Should Be No Lines

Posture

You bent over,
welcomed a secret
from our daughter

in just the right way–
arched eyebrow
slopped neck
cocked ear

I’m blessed

a success
if only in this–
I gave her more dad
than I had.

Circling Birds

I’m really frightened of being alone. Especially at night. That’s when I wish I had that extra attention. And if it’s a man, looking to get off, that works. In fact, it’s a sure bet really. Isnt it? Not good for me. It’s good for me that it’s so much less. I don’t seem to have it in me anymore. That rush of knowing a new person, being pursued by a new person. I guess when you have a few bad outcomes under your belt, you aren’t as eager to go back. But then here I am. middle of the night lonely. And why does that type of lonely always settle in your pussy? If the pussy is happy, I’ll be happy.  My life is working really well with my love and Big Daddy. The medications are working. Some positive money stuff is approaching, hopefully. Sure, I’m smoking so much, its insane. And the eating. Dont forget the eating. The body aches, like a new injury every week. It’s so quiet. Sometimes the understanding is so close. Then, its gone again. (I’m scared I can’t write anymore because of my medication.) I told everyone is was a fluke. No one listened.  I am not a very good mom. I see a list a mile long of things I could be doing, giving them. I would rather die than have them think they aren’t worth every drop of my blood, every breath I take or word I write. They are everything. I hate being alone. Who needs these thoughts? Like, the sometimes man. Was that even real? Was that year of my life real? And Marian? Was she real? Is there a person out there with jewel eyes that really contains such a combination of whimsy and hard edge? I always make such bad fucking choices with abandonment, like being the risk taker is something enviable. I would give it immediately if it was worth getting. I wish I was 17 people and none of them did drugs to excess and ate to excess and hid from people and was lazy and cranky and short-tempered and slutty and glass wicked empty.  I wish I didn’t feel so fucking alone. I wish I didn’t question that a collection of molecules such as life even exists, I don’t want to care about which word is placed where and what should I wear and whats my next thing and whats my excuse and whats my rationalization and what more do I need, what reward do I demand, what price do I pay, what dowry do I come with? Can you see me wrestling with this part of myself? Or am I wrestling to beat the medication, my sickness, my demons so strong and engrained, God you could have at least made me beautiful since you made me so crazy, you could have at least made me successful in a career or a perfect mother or a social butterfly, but instead I’m just crazy. Its quiet. I have my fans, and my blankets and my babies sleeping tight in the other room. One has fine, blond hair and hazel eyes, the other, thick brown hair and brown eyes. There is milk for cereal and a bottle. My husband has more work lately, and he loves me. And I love him. I have Big Daddy. And I love him. I have my family, repaired friendships. Jesus Christ, where do I get off being such a sad sack? It’s this lingering, this nagging knowledge that what I have, others have more or better. It’s this feeling that I’m not where I belong. There is more I am supposed to be, or suppose to do. The wrong path, I don’t even recognize the planet I’m on. I’m an alien and I wandered into the wrong fucking place. But these are my babies, this is my life, stop this questioning for no reason. I can’t, what if there is something else I should be doing and I don’t do it and something terrible happens, I miss my boat, I die.

Fairly Certain

It only takes a night without to make me worry.

is this all we have in common? the kids and weed?

it always seemed we had more. Endless things to talk about.

people ask, how many years in? 7. oh yes, 7 year itch.

I dont want any itching. I want what we had back. Endless conversation, dreams, planning, goals, family, babies, growing old together. love.

if I had endless money, would my addiction be ok?

you are sleeping a lot again.

I’m working a lot, enjoying such achingly tender moments with the kids, but something is missing.

if I had endless money, would the stress evaporate? would social awkwardness melt away?

My dad went to africa when I was a little kid. My mom has told me more than once, it was the best thing that ever could have happened. The drinking had gotten so bad. He had come from his mother’s house to hers. She had lived on her own, gone to college, had a taste of freedom. and also, was born older. My mom was born a mom.

She said my dad went to africa and became a man.

My husband went from his mother’s house to mine. I’ve been so controlling, needing to hold everything together, to find the stability I lacked. Control control control. If I can control what happens, I can control what emotions burst out, like angry spirits steamed out of the devil’s radiator. My handicap. My inheritance, all the escape plans my mother could make. I’ve got myself real safe.

And I hate it. I want to trust, I want to go out, I want to dance, I want to meet new people and have silly experiences, I want to be a character from my stories, admired for her bravery, her different kind of beauty, smart, independent, never scared. I want to take the girls to the swan boats and not worry about what could possibly happen on the train that I couldn’t protect my children from. I’ve been taking the train since I was a baby! It’s too scary with the kids, they are too precious and I can’t fuck up. I feel trapped within all things I’m doing to keep myself happy and functioning, the eating, the smoking, the hiding, sex.

If I am free, is he with me? I can’t lose my love. He is my life. I already know what our grandkids will look like. I already know he will do sweet things that old men do for old ladies. I know he will shuffle and drag his feet and probably have a worn and leaning favorite chair. My grandchildren will climb in his lap and inhale the most amazing smell in the universe. Home. right there in his arms.

I can’t tease out his issues from mine, who is right, who is wrong, who can carry the load, who should carry it…the score, you know? the invisible columns you write in your head.

I feel fairly certain, if we can just get by this part, we will be forever.

I’m Exhausted

I’m exhausted.

There aren’t enough hours in the day to do the things that are required to make me perfect.

I’m not sleeping very well. Since talking about some stuff, a lot of the side affects ( effects?) from that stuff have reappeared.

Nightmares. I’m having nightmares.

I am bound with a tie, silky blue and red. Never happened. I can feel the sores and the bruises forming and all of a sudden, its like fire eating up my arms.

Is he raping me in some new way, by arriving like this, in vivid dreams waking me by no later than 3am?

I’m 33. The number 3 is my favorite number, but I have felt uneasy about 33 approaching.

I picked a scab and now I’m fucking bleeding.

But during the day, I feel good. I’m calmer. The swings are still there. I keep having urges to cry. But each time I take a different approach to a situation I want to run from, I feel like I’m learning. And I am being guided.

I’m working a lot of overtime and a lot of  kid stuff. And write. And house stuff. How do people do this? It’s exhausting.

I’m exhausted.

Kissing on the Lips and Drunks II

I have a soft spot for fucked up Irish men.

I can’t deny it.

In my history, I have loved many people, but oh so often I return to fucked up Irish men.

Drinkers. Forties. Old E. Cases of Sam Adams. Liquor. Scotch, whiskey, So Co, 7&7. Jamieson.

Smokers. Old Gold ( save the coupon). Camel Wides. Marlboro Reds.

Late nights, tears, fights, drunken fits, pass outs, broken things. So contrite the next day.

I find them interesting lovers. Very pussy-oriented. It’s a rush to the prize, then a working the way back, with soft touches and tender kisses.

Drunken kisses, sloppy and urgent, focused and endearing.

On the couch with my husband. He whispered the words to She’s So Heavy while kissing my neck and sucking my earlobe. I am wet just remembering it.

On the train with my husband, balancing against him, heavily, drunkenly leaning on the car door, faces close and gasping for air for no reason. Alcohol on his breath, perfect thick lips moist with chilled mixed drink. Kissin’…

On the bed, laying him down for the night, I’ve carried him from the couch again. He is passed out before I take his shoes off. Lips parted. One kiss goodnight.

There is a part of me that thinks its cute for men to be drunk. Sometimes its attractive, a rush of control for me, a having of the upper hand.

But more than that, and this is important and so wrong.

You see, at some point I started to associate drinking with being a real man.

If anything is obvious, it’s that I am aching for a real man.