Category: self introspection

Relationships and how they work.

I am not really good at people,  and the interworkings of being a good friend or significant other.  Mostly because I speak my mind and am damaged from abuse in my past. So speaking my mind means that what I say doesn’t often make sense to others. Add to this those days when I am in pain,  or have insomnia,  or even just am deeply into my own world and forget to socialize on occasion.

How I have managed to be so richly blessed in my friends and loved ones,  I am not sure. Still,  I treasure those who are close to me. And I am not the sort to hold a grudge, mostly.  So it sometimes surprises me how angry  people can get.  And how vindictive they can become.

Relationships take work. All of them. Even family and friends,  if you want a good solid relationship,  you need to be willing to compromise. On both sides. This is much of why I am bad at people.  I have a hatd time with compromise.  I can’t afford to compromise because I have been forged by others lack of compromise.  I do not ask much. I take care of my daughter,  and of my best friend.  I try to be there for my closest friends and family.

Now that being said,  I am surprised tonight.  A little over a year ago I had a friend pull away,  for a reason that made no sense.  So I accepted that I had lost a friend,  and as I always do,  I picked up and moved on. Tonight she messaged me with an apology, and an explanation.  It eased my mind to finally understand. It also got me considering what goes into friendship.  How often have I unwittingly hurt the ones around me because I was unable to explain?  I found myself sad that I really couldn’t answer.  So many people I have perhaps hurt. I apologize for those I have not intended to hurt. Sometimes the explanation is another form of compromise. Which is one of my flaws, for sure.

 

 

Frustration

Head in my hands,

I have lain.

Frustration rules my brain.

Doubts rearing,

Words written

With no readers opinions

To reach and sway.

 

Crippling doubt

Searing the mind,

Taking the muse

Leaving only frustration behind.

 

The pen a sword,

With a double edge so keen.

Severing the need,

Laying the heart so bare.

 

No voice 

Power stolen,Silence woven.

No voice left 

To the soul broken. 

Humanity removed, 

Difference exposed. 
Protesting the darkness 

For sake of grasping the light,

Only to find the soul

Just too weary to fight.
A voice stolen completely away 

Left by society silent today. 

For though I speak clearly, 

There is no one to hear me.

Perspective unique

                                                         I have been learning a lot about who I am and who I have been simply by talking to my twelve year old daughter.  She sees things in a very straight forward way. She asks questions about life and especially about the parts of human nature that often confuses her. Her questions are occasionally embarrassing and often thought provoking. For years I fumbled through life because I was more worried about how people saw me or the way people would react to me to allow myself the freedom of being completely comfortable in my own skin. I kept my secrets; My religion,  my sexuality,  my survival to myself. 

                                                        Part of the reason was because I was afraid. I spoke of my abuse. I was called a liar. I was told I was crazy. A heart can only handle so many blows before it closes itself off. Then as I grew older,  I found that I cared less. I surrounded myself with supporters who didn’t care about those things which seemed so bad before. That helped.  

                                                                                           I lost the innocence my daughter has too soon. I grew cynical because I needed a defense. I still clung to my desires to be a dreamer, even as I lived in a world made of nightmares. I used the ability to read to bury myself in places where the pain was not mine. I used the ability to write to speak with impunity my fear and struggle.  After all, my poems didn’t have to be what I was.  At twelve,  I tried to run away from home for the second time.  For my daughter,  home is where she is certain of the fact that she is loved.  I am proud of that fact. She still has many of the issues I had in dealing with her peers. She is very mature for her age, so she doesn’t understand conversation topics that amuse them. Also she has the same lack of filter I do. If it is on her mind, she speaks it. Yet for all that we are alike,  her mind is far quicker than mine.  She has a  brilliant sense of humor and more self confidence than I ever did.

Social Media isn’t social anymore 

I  get on social media to enjoy the random bits of people that they choose to share. Then there are moments that ruin the whole experience for me. And I find myself wondering why I keep going back. The idea behind social media is wonderful… but the concept falls through thanks to human nature.  Instead of compassion and attention,  social media promotes discord and self absorption.

                       If I like too much of what is posted by someone then I am stalking their page. If I post a disagreement then I am disagreeing with every thing they post. And if I ask to be asked before being added to another group then I am ignored. I am back to wondering if it isn’t more trouble to be social than it is worth. I guess that is just me being grouchy….but I feel that there should be a middle ground. 

Art

What is art,
Smart and sublime.
Each eye views differently,
Both beauty and the divine.

An artist places in their work,
Heart,  soul and mind.
Only to hear an offhand remark,
Of how they should really try to find
Something to do with their life.
Some people are but so blind.

The poet pouring themself
Into the words on the page,
Knowing all along that not all
Will see the truth.

The painter who sees a darker view,
Is no less showing
Yet one more truth
That oft goes unseen.

My truth and thine,
Not always so mesh,
So when speaking of art,
No matter the kind,
Be aware always
The ego is but a fragile
Easily broken piece
Of the artistic soul.

Speaking out and why

        Those who know me know I am a very outspoken person. I try to be as honest as possible. Mostly because my memory is awful,  i really would forget the lie. Easiest way to end up caught. There are topics I voice that I know make some uncomfortable. I refuse to be silenced because what I have to say makes any one feel bad.  I was told I was lying when i first spoke my truth.  Others suffered because of this.  I was sexually abused. I was terrified of my abuser doing exactly what he threatened to do. So it took time after to speak. He told me no one would believe me. They proved him right.  I was thirteen years old when I finally found the courage.  So he was allowed to continue his life,  and I was thought insane.  He did to others what was done to me.  They were heard and believed. He has been in jail for about six years now.

I speak now to take back my power.
I speak now because I believe the truth should be heard.
I speak now for those who may find comfort in my story.
I speak now because I survived. 
I speak now because no one should feel insane for telling their story.
I speak now so that my abuser and those like him never win.

Recognised during my lifetime

               I took one of those internet quizzes… you know the sort. It was supposed to analyze my writing and tell me which famous author my writing most resembles.  I was tickled to see it claim my writing most resembles Edgar Allan Poe. It also tickled my Joe. When I feel like giving up on publishing,  because of what seems to be so little interest,  he has always pointed something out to me.  Two of my most favorite writers were virtually unknown in their own lifetimes.  Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. I admit that the thought has kept me from giving up.
                       Now I believe I have mentioned before the fact that I have issues communicating sometimes.  I mentioned Joe’s amusement to my sister,  and I think it came out wrong.  She came to my defense quickly,  telling me how much of an honor that was. She claimed I was recognised.  I see this from her view.  Yes,  some know and enjoy my writing.  However,  it often feels like I am failing. I am terrible at marketing my work.  And very few of those close to me even see what I do worth speaking of.  So I am not recognised in a way I see it. To me,  being recognised means that I at least have any one who knows my work enough to do a review.  So far the only sales have been to family (my sister aforementioned). I am not about to stop writing.  I have no choice,  writing has always been a major part of who I am. Still writing does not mean I have to publish. So that which keeps it going is the idea that even if it is unappreciated now, it may still touch those it needs to later. 

I am writing!

              Vacation seems like it should be a bad time to write.  It’s work, right? Still for me, at home I find it harder to actually set the time aside for writing.  Too much else to do. So much household chores that never seem to be done.  Too many distractions,  social media and other entertainment options. I realize I should be more disciplined about my writing,  but if I structure too much,  my muse will abandon me. I have spent two hours today writing.  Cleaning up my projects helped.  I backed up a couple of projects that really aren’t working,  and cleared them from my writing app. I rewrote two pages that were lost in a save mishap.  I wrote more on a couple of my works in progress. I wrote another poem for Life Drops. I am also of course writing this blog post.  Still.  I am doing so much better on my vacation with my writing than I do normally.  I have no internet to distract.  No housework to distract.  I only have my kindle and my family.  I am hoping that I can publish the second book in the Bedtime tales series before summer ends. I am aiming to finish one of the other books (full novels)  before my 45th birthday. That gives me a little over three and a half years.  🙂

Poetry normality

                  I am a poet. My children to my pride have shown themselves capable of great pieces. Now I should mention that I have not always felt good about my poetry. I have so often been told how depressing it was that I took it to heart. However,  I wrote because it was how I healed. As an abuse survivor,  I learned that I needed an outlet for the poison that was forced into my soul. Or I would not ever be whole. So I wrote to heal.  I wrote for the love of poetry. So I would never be as good as Emily Dickinson or Edgar Allen Poe. I wrote because it was part of me. I did not force anyone to read what I had written. So if it was depressing…. that was fine.  I could accept that. Then I was talking to a social worker.  I mentioned that my poetry was considered depressing. Though I think she was being sarcastic,  she said something that got me thinking.  She asked “Isn’t all poetry?” There are various types of poetry that express different emotions. Discounting sad poetry is basically like saying that feeling sad is unacceptable.  Poetry should be able to have a nice range of emotions.  It is after all an expression of the poets heart in word form. Then someone else I care about said that his beautiful poetry was so sad. My response “Poetry is often sad. I’m told mine are depressing. Just because they are sad doesn’t have to deny their beauty.” Not every poet can write greeting card poetry or love poems. And abusing the poets whose writing causes other emotions is not acceptable either.