Tired ramblings

Last night was not a good one.  I doubt that I slept even a full hour.  Every time I would try it would be falling into yet another nightmare. I have had them all of my life,  as far back as I remember. I rarely remember them,  only wake feeling afraid and small.

So I have been sleep deprived and shaky… Not a good combo. Well it has had me trying to gather all of the random thoughts swimming in my head. Quite unsuccessfully I should add.  So much so that I have decided to post some here to help my mind to relax.  And that it is a glimpse for you of my chaos?  Bonus.

1. I miss my grandmother,  well both of them.  But mostly my maternal grandmother.  I have been trying to learn to crochet.  And she was amazing at it.  She was just plain amazing,  but it is the crochet that is bringing her to mind this time.

2. Samhain.  Yes I am pagan.  And this is a time for family.

3. I am very likely not going to end up with the death of neverland as anything but a novella.  The halfway point is 5000 words.  So I find myself wondering if I am trying to exceed my reach.  I am a  poet.  I am a children’s author. I apparently can do short stories (aka novella). But can I do a novel?

3 i really am enjoying doing the art thing.  If you are curious about how my art is… Myne drawings album is public on my personal Facebook (Patti Harris).  Go ahead,  look!  I would love new input.

4. My daughter is starting to get into create music.  I really want to encourage that.

5. Yule.  I have a idea for a few of the people on my list.  Not that my list is big. I am not able to afford much for even those.

6. Butt coasters.  A friend of mine on Facebook is doing novelty crocheted coasters (www.facebook.com/nothingbuttcoasters/) and I am so tickled by the pug ones… (Thinking about them for one of my list…

7 money.  Always a issue.

8. After the first of the year,  do I want to do another bedtime tales?

9. Zombie castaways.  Android game..  The villa (a building to make needed items in the game)  if you combine love and rubber… You get bedsheets….

10. I really want a small crockpot for the truck.  I wonder if I can pull it off this month.

11.whether I should do a blog post about religion.  Or poets that I love and why….

12 my sister’s faeries.  I feel like I should help more than I do…

So much rambling.  I am heading to bed soon.  I hope that I sleep better tonight.

What is writing?

So I am a published writer. I have just recently published my third children’s book.  I have published several volumes of poetry,  and a novella.  I write this blog and contribute regularly to another. After all of that,  sometimes I feel doubtful that I should claim that I am a writer. I do not have a novel,  and the current story that I am working on… Well I am likely doing a novella again. I am at five thousand words… And I realized that I am about half done. So should I stop calling myself a writer?  NO, because I am still writing.  I will likely have a new volume of poetry to release early in 2017. I will still finish the death of neverland.  I may never write a “Full” novel,  but I wonder if that really is that big of a deal.

So what is writing?  Writing is taking one’s heart and pulling it out through the fingertips.  Writing is creating a tender spot on your own soul,  and exposing it to the world. Writing is late nights,  sore fingers and crying yourself dry. Writing is the feeling of accomplishment of a job well done. Writing is all the tortures of Hell and all the pleasures of heaven. And in the end… Writing is an obsession stronger than any.

#amwriting #always

 

Normalcy 

I am obviously by no standards normal. I am a creative soul who is often forgetful and messy. I am anxious and freak out over the strangest things.  I have a poor self image,  so I often fail to accept compliments. Not because I don’t want them but because I think I am being made fun of. My brain and mouth rarely work together, so i have no filter and often make no sense.  I love deeply and quickly,  often the wrong people. I am often slightly crazy. I honestly see the worst in me.  Social situations end me up saying the wrong thińg because it seemed right to to me. So I end up the sad lonely girl in the corner. So I am slightly anti-social. I am crafty,  i write,  i draw.  I even sometimes do those things well. I have children.  My youngest is a fairly well behaved child who fairly much like me. She is not social.  I have tried to expose her to a variety of social options… She sees the cruelty of others and is unimpressed. She is mature for twelve. Should I force her to be something she is not?  So I have to consider what is normal? Really is it something different for each person?    And if it is what does that say for the ones who look at me because I am different and say it is wrong? 

I survived 

It seems as though I am running still

Trying to fight such a long gone foe,

That sometimes today is a haze.

I survived.
Shouldn’t it make me stronger?

So why do I feel so weak?

I survived.
So when can I rest?

When will it finally be over for me?

It seems as though 

I am running still

From memories of so very long ago,

That it takes over me.

I survived.
What did I lose to be who I am?

Was it worth it?

I survived.
Can I ever escape those memories?

Should I try?

It seems as though 

I am running still

Just to escape things from before,

And I wonder if I ever will.

I survived.
Shattered and broken,

Afraid and uneasy.

I survived.
So how do I survive yet another day?

define strength 

                          I am strong.  I have not always known what that meant. A lover I had once told me I was strong,  and I asked him to define what strong,  emotional or physical. He said both.  Perhaps because it was what he thought I wanted to hear. Truth is I have never been a physically strong person.  I was a bit more then though. I was walking two miles a day in high school and lifting weights.  By the time of the conversation,  I was starting to be less active due to pain. So physical strength has lessened by time and disability.  

              However,  if I am honest with myself, I have always been emotionally strong. Which takes a toll.  I have had to heal. I am quick to cry,  and very quick to defend my boundaries.  Those boundaries don’t have to make sense to anyone else. They exist because of my life has been a mess of epic proportions. 

                  I was born to a pair of teenagers. Mom worked all the time,  she was rarely home. She managed to graduate high school when I was five.  Daddy was in and out of my life.  We moved alot.  My parents married when I was six,  which lasted about four and a half years.  The first four years we moved 27 times.  So as the new kid, constantly,  and the shy introvert… Well I had trouble making friends.  So much so that my grandmother introduced the idea that reading could fill the gap. 

                Which is why I was I was able to be molested.  I was not a  social child and he took advantage of how lonely and misplaced I was. I was strong enough to gather my courage and tell him to stop.  I told him that I would scream and not stop if he came near me again. So he made sure to scare me. Which keep me quiet for four years. *not that speaking up did any good * 

                   When I was eleven,  Mom met an amazing man. She moved us,  my brother and myself and her,  into his place. He had six sons,  though most were grown up and gone.  He had his youngest two still.  He lived in a two bedroom trailer on land he was buying. The trailer didn’t have running water. We lived a mile from the road,  three miles from the store and six from town. Mom worked.  My stepdad worked.  So often it was just me and the stepbrothers. 

                  We moved into the new trailer two years later,  six months after my son was born.  I was thirteen. It had running water,  and I was no longer sleeping on a couch in the living room. However,  now I had my stepbrother threatening to kill me,  and I was expected to do all the household chores. The boys were allowed to help outside. (Mind you I am a terrible housekeeper).  

              My mom took custody of my son,  to try and allow for all of us to grow up. During this time,  because of my stepbrothers actions,  she kept sending me to stay with family.I was raped during this time.  I was over at a friends house with my son,  and a guy who I had been seeing used it to abuse me.  Him and four of his  friends. So I was suicidal,  because the first thing that was really good in my life was being taken from me and I was not as important to my mother as her husband’s sons,  and because I was so very tired of life hurting. This is when I started dissociation. I had been told I was lying about the abuse,  And I was feeling like I was losing my mind. My mom and I were constantly fighting,  because of it.  She couldn’t see me,  all she saw was a mirror.  So I  moved in with my favourite grandmother.  She was a special lady.  She had broken her back three times and had to have it fused five.  About the same time,  she had been put on oxygen for emphysema. So it was a case of her needing me and I needed to be somewhere mom wasn’t. 

                  I have struggled to put the pieces of my life in a way that makes sense.  What I have listed above is sixteen years.  I am fourty one.  I have not had an easy life.  I doubt that it will change,   but I am strong enough to handle what ever comes my way.  Just occasionally I have a day when I have to say… 

Rape culture

So I am not an easily triggered person,  usually.  However,  here lately social media has been testing the limits. Several times I have opened Facebook and found articles about children dying because they were raped.  Then there are the articles about rapists getting nearly no punishment for what they have done. So then I take to Twitter,  which is usually a little bit more light-hearted. Until the presidential election.  Then there started a new hashtag. #WhyWomenDontReport. Well,  that is a huge can of worms. It caused me to discuss this with Joe.

He said that most of the women who he knows,  or has known have been either raped or molested.  Then as we were talking about it,  he considered.  Of the twenty women who he was intimate with,  he said he was unable to say for sure on four.  The rest were survivors.  That is not even a random statistic.  That is women who he was with.

I was floored by that.  So I posted on Facebook. (So there is a thing on Twitter… #whyIdidntreport
I DID REPORT! At least the first time. I was told that I was a liar. Not all rapes go unreported, some people speak and go unheard. I didn’t speak of the second time because I knew I wouldn’t be believed.) I had several of my friends express similar situations. Think on this,  according to Google,  one in three women are raped in their lifetime. Yes men are also raped,  but I am not speaking of them,  not yet anyway.  So 1/3 of all women.  We as a people need to address this… That is a huge issue.

Add to the issue the ignorance of Trump’s “locker room talk” and the treatment of the victims by those who have the power to change things.  Is it any wonder that sexual assault is the least reported crime?  We make it hard for the scared to overcome the fear instilled by violence to step into a safe place…  And I for one am tired of that.  I was raped at fourteen and molested as a small child.  I am not a statistic.  I am  not a victim.  I am not allowing Rape culture to break me. I speak my truth,  and invite you to do the same.

Love Dust

In my life too many
Have claimed that they
Loved me,
Just before turning
And walking away.

Don’t ask me
To tell you,
Who he really is.
For in my sorrow,
In my shame and pain,
I realized that I really
Never even knew.

Do not ask me
What I did,
That drove her away.
For all that I am
The one who once
Sister she called,
In truth I doubt
That she really ever
Knew the truth of me.

The shattered shards
Of self esteem and trust,
Left beside me as those who
Claim that they love me
Leave me in the dust.

Outside blind

Okay,  I believe it is time that I explain my truth,  and set myself free.  I have survived many abusive situations.  I really was a broken soul. Then I met an angry redhead. He is my anchor.  He allowed me to heal.  When I met him,  I was dissociating.  I was on more medications than a person should ever take and I flinched whenever anyone looked at me cross.  I was hiding who I was,  mostly because I had seen that it would be unwelcome.  No one believed me when I spoke of what I had been through.  So when I met him,  I was more than a hot mess. I was having nightmares nightly and I was terrified of everything.  I had at our rough count at least fifteen distinct personalities.  Twenty years later, I no longer dissociate. I Will likely have nightmares for the rest of my life,  but I have them less now.  I now wake up to arms who hold me as I cry the tears of fear.  I have someone who has encouraged me to be myself,  no matter what anyone else thinks. We heal each other.

That sounds amazing right?  Well the problem is most people see him and because he is grouchy and anti-social,  They think that he is not good to me. I have watched him walk away from people who he loved because of how they treated me.  I have watched him protect me when I was trapped in my own mind. I have had to stand between him and the outside,  because of people misunderstanding. I will always stand up for him,  he is why I have found the strength to heal a shattered soul. So many people have told me that I can do better……but What they fail to understand is that I don’t want to.  We fight,  we play,  we love,  and we have healed.  Unless you are part of it,  there is so much that you Can not see,  so please don’t judge my life based on the first impression that you have of him or me.

 

A concept flawed

for·give·ness
ˌfərˈɡivnəs/
noun
noun: forgiveness; plural noun: forgivenesses
  1. the action or process of forgiving or being forgiven.
    “she is quick to ask forgiveness when she has overstepped the line”
    synonyms: pardon, absolution, exoneration,remission, dispensation,indulgence, clemency, mercy;More

    reprieve, amnesty;
    archaicshrift
    “we beg your forgiveness”
    antonyms: mercilessness, punishment
Origin
Old English forgiefenes, from forgiefen (past participle of forgiefan ‘forgive’) + the noun suffix -nes .
                     For me forgiveness has been a tough matter.  I am a survivor,  and I cannot tell you how many times I have been told to forgive my abuser.  That it is for my peace.  No it is not.  It is the way that everyone around me feels better about my mental state.  Forgiveness for me has always meant being able to go around the forgiven.  To accept that this was done and not hold the person responsible for it.  Well I refuse.  He hurt me.  I still wake up from nightmares.  That is unlikely to change.  I am not a victim anymore, I have healed as much as I am likely to do.  Still if I was to be in the same room with him,  I would not be civil.  He was responsible for some of the darkest moments of my life.  So I think that the concept of forgiveness needs to be adjusted.  If you Google it,  forgiveness comes up only as a way to heal from abuse.  The fact that the word has been adjusted in such a way says quite alot.  I am a writer.  I see words as they are meant.  So for me forgiveness is being misused,  and mostly by people who have never been there.  If someone chops your foot off then I  guess you can forgive them?  You can say that it’s ok and that you are fine with it?  Well I have my doubts.  My abuser caused horrific nightmares,  ptsd,  and an overwhelming claustrophobia.  Those are not something that my “forgiving” him will fix.  I have managed to put a shattered mind mostly back together.  I was dealing with dissociation.  I am not anymore. I am able to speak of what I went through,  even if it is not an easy thing.  Forgiving him will not change that. He is a monster.  Accepting that was needed.  That is not forgiveness,  I will never be able to be in the same room as him.  As a matter of fact,  I told him the last time I saw him that I would scream if I ever saw him again.  Forgiveness is not a tool for my peace of mind,  it is a tool for those who have not been where I have.

Sensitive body topics

Okay,  this is not an easy thing for me to write.  I am a firm believer in teaching children about their bodies and teaching consent. What that means is teaching a child that their bodies belong only to them. No forcing the child to give unwanted hugs,  no ignoring discomfort with affection. Teach girls about what is natural for their bodies. Oh I realize that eventually most have to explain the whole puberty thing.  But if you make no topic taboo,  then if there is something wrong,  your child is not afraid to speak up.

There are several reasons why this is a tough topic , and why it is such an important one.  I was molested.  He convinced me that no one would believe me.  My mom was so uncomfortable with some topics that she couldn’t discuss them… Puberty was not a easy time (I was given a pamphlet and told to go to my room to read it.) So when I finally worked up the courage to speak,  well he was right.  I was not believed.  So when I had my own daughter,  I swore I would do things differently.  I don’t allow anyone to force affection.  We don’t have secrets.  If she has a question about anything,  I try to answer it. So at twelve years old,  I had tried to run away from home three times.  She feels safe. I was sexually active at twelve and pregnant at thirteen.  She has said that she is not ready for a boyfriend and really is not wanting to have sex anytime soon. She is a smart and sensitive girl who is learning how to be sarcastic and funny,  not as a defense mechanism like I did….but because she enjoys laughing. I have been told that I should be less open with her because people were uncomfortable with how honest I am with my twelve year old.  I let her ask questions and I refuse to lie.  I will not apologize for my doing what I felt was right for any of my children. Even if I fail at all else I do in life,  I have a smart funny happy girl.