It’s Sunday. I usually do my publishing/blog/writing based responsibilities on Sunday… but it is also Joe’s birthday. So, I am squeezing in what I can before I go to bed. Then I will be spending the day with him and trying to get the rest of the week playing catch up. Next week I will be AWOL as the 13th is my day.
I actually have ideas for this week, mostly. Wednesday is the iffy…but I may come up with something by the time I get there.
If I find that I am feeling froggy I might try to do something after the 13th as far as posts but regardless I will return to work on the following week.
Also…in addition to my own release of Internal Battlefields, my middle child, NK Xero, is looking at releasing a poetry book in April. (With Fae Corps Publishing of course). Also I am hoping to do the same thing I usually do and post a daily poem. I’m hoping to try to do some new ones ☺️
Okay… the above art is not mine but the canvas is…lol that is my soon to be 19 year old about 5 years ago. The question is do you consider face painting an art? In the same vein as tattoo work?
So my daughter and I were talking. I told her I was happy that she was comfortable enough when the kitchen flooded to cuss at me. To me that feels like she was able to express herself without worrying that I would be angry about it. I am big on self expression, which should surprise no one. She said that her therapist encouraged her to use whatever language she felt the need to express the thoughts in her head. *This is where I should note that we really don’t know any other language except American English. We know a few smattering of words in other languages, but not enough to be a fluency of it’s own…but swearing…well…yeah We swear like sailors around here. She mentioned that my mom had said that swearing shows a lack of intelligence. I so completely disagree. I think that it often is looked down upon, but there are times when a good creative swear (note I said creative) shows more intelligence than not. And not always does the swear have to be dirty. One of my favorites is a foreign (for me) word that means shame on you.
I have tried to make my home a place that my kids can call to express anything. I don’t judge them for speaking their minds. They can literally tell me anything. I am their safe space. For me that is what home should be. It is not what all of us had.
I was going to do the usual poetry update today…but my kitchen sink busted last night…well a piece of it did. We have a hose attachment that allows us directly to use water (my dishwasher is a portable) and the hose busted. It is not going to be an expensive fix. Just was a panic at 2 in the morning because of the flooded kitchen. It got me thinking, much as most incidents like that do.
My daughter was the one who had found the flooded kitchen, and bless her she immediately went to work cleaning up the mess. She sent me messages to wake me up. She was comfortable enough to curse at me for not answering the phone (I was actually in a deep sleep for a change). I wonder if I would have ever been so with my mom.
We had a conversation while we were stuck at Walmart about what our favorite dinosaur was (hers is a Saurolophus, mine has always been a triceratops) and I adore the little things that I can get to share with her. (The dinosaur conversation was initiated due to a figit toy she had in her purse. A club tailed dino filled with sand that can be manipulated various ways.)
I don’t remember ever being comfortable enough talking to my mom about anything. My doctor finds my mom and I to be a funny topic. I told her (doctor) that My mom still is blaming me for a virus I had as a teenager. I had infantigo when I was around 11 or 12. Mom is still convinced that I caused it by picking at it. And even though I am in my late 40’s brought it up as I was going to cause myself to get it again. The doctor thinks it’s funny. It is a bit of the epiphany for me.
I always expect my daughter to be amazing. Even if she has a bad day, she is going to be amazing. Nothing can change my mind on that. My mom expects the worst about me. She always has, always will… and I have to stop letting her voice color my self view I have spent 47 years trying to be good enough for a woman who is never going to see me as adequate. Time to change my aim.
I am five poems away from finishing The volume Handprints on my soul…and I am struggling with my writing…Not because I am unable – obviously. I just have too many topics and too many thoughts… so many that I have been fighting Insomnia. The end of a volume is always an anxious time for me. It is when I question my writing. It is when I question my motives. It is when I question my value…
Yesterday I answered a poem with a poem. The first poem was written by someone I love very much. A child I had given up at birth because I felt myself in a poor position to care for them. The child is now grown and I am amazed by the similarity they have to me. Also a talented poet, they posted one to their Facebook page. I have in the past found it fun to respond to poets with poetry…A slightly odd behavior perhaps but I find it a fun challenge. (I have been specifically responding to haikus written by my friend, on his Facebook feed In haiku because I find the syllable count to be challenging.) So I did not think twice to do the same with my child. Their reaction surprised me.
They said that they would never be as good as I am. I responded that they already were. In some ways that is such a lie. I see their poetry as better than my own. I see everyone who writes as better than my own. I am incredibly biased. I will never stop seeing the flaws in what I write. Though I imagine that most authors do the same. The problem is though I have some days where my writing is brilliance…I also have the days where putting more than one word on paper feels impossible.
I have days that I feel like I am too insane to be allowed to speak – much less use my voice to put something into this world that will be around for an indeterminate amount of time. (That is what writing is you realize? Passing your thoughts into the hazy future for the random person to read.) And I end up feeding the darkness of those days with my own self doubt and anxiety. That is why I refuse to be jealous of other writers or artists. Why I just judge my work and no one elses (unless I am editing their work which is when I am trying to help them get it to a state of technical perfection…) I shy away from people who cannot understand that I do not require judgement or want to be around jealousy. Those things make me harder on me. Instead I need honesty and just simply to be accepted for who I am.
Today I am a poet. I am strange and I am quiet. I am introvert. I am a writer. I am an explorer. Who are you?
Ps I also seem to update the blog more at the end of a volume…mostly because as I stated…This is when I am questioning myself more so I end up coming here with the random thoughts of am I good enough…knowing that I will never hear the answer I am needing to here.
In 1989 I was 14. I had an adorable baby boy. The above picture was me and him on my graduation from high school 5 years later. September 1st my eldest child will be 33. He has two babies of his own. I just wanted to drop a happy birthday to that little boy…and maybe try not to feel old today.
As many of you know, I just took a vacation. The vacation was fun…and it was miserable. I will explain. My daughter and I went to visit my mom. We enjoyed the visit…but there were snide little digs that my mom made that we did not enjoy. I don’t plan on going into details. When we got back we were both upset and trying to get back to the happiness that was home. Then today we were talking about it.
“It wasn’t that bad” “I just exaggerated it” “I am just ungrateful.” “I blew it out of proportion.” “She probably didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” “I was just looking for reasons to hate the trip.”
This often happens to me when I deal with my mom. I end up feeling guilty because I take what she says the wrong way. I told my therapist about a thing that my mom had said that had my daughter upset. I told her that I had told my girl “My mother loves me, but I don’t think she likes me very much. The difference Is I love you and I like you just how you are. I would not change anything about you.” My therapist asked me a question that has been bouncing around my head ever since. “Are you sure that your mom loves you?”
The question becomes how are we sure if anyone loves us? When my parents got divorced, my mom told me something that stuck in my brain. She said that Daddy loved her, but not in the way she needed. Perhaps the demons eating at my brain are doing so, not because I am unloved or unwanted, but instead because I need more than those who have loved me were capable of giving. So my internal war today is the question – Am I too needy? Is everything I do stemming from the desire to be loved more than anyone is possibly capable of? And is my inner voice just looking for an excuse to be miserable?
I am at war with myself, and to be frank, I doubt that I am going to win. I am fighting the demons within, and it looks like I am losing again. The words that whisper in my brain are getting real loud within. Teaching me that I am failing seems to be the goal, Leaving me there to somehow the answers know.
Yeah, I guess I am going slightly mad, For I find myself doubting even the truth I had. Instead of knowing that I am whole and hale, I find doubt behind every thought, everywhere.
I don’t know if I will get every day this week posted. I am not able to get the week scheduled today. I am busy fighting that war inside me.
Pattimouse 