Inner Tears Poem ~Written in January of 2009

You can’t see the tears in my eyes. No one can. They never fall in sight. Only at night. Only in the darkness do they course down my face. Like a race. I don’t notice. Rain drops frozen upon my cheeks. Glitter like cold diamonds. Drops of pain glide softly upon my cheek.

I’m broken in so many ways. Marked like the faceless thing he called me. I am gone, but a shadow remains. She wants to live! She wants to feel again. She wants to be free. She wants to be loved and kept safe.

You can’t hear my silent screams. No one can. They are never spoken aloud. Only in my head. Only in the silence do they cry out. Like cries of the wind do they sing. Like a storm. ~J

I hardly cry anymore. I couldn’t say why though the distance the PTSD gives me from most of my feelings probably doesn’t help. Since my failure in Knoxville and the Trial I don’t focus on how I feel much. Just seems like a waste of time. These feelings don’t pay my awful bills, train the dogs or enable me to do my job. They tend to bring me down, make me unable to enjoy the things I do like is this messed up world, drive my friends and family away, make me hate myself all the more for being weak. I still strive to live, to breath in life and all of it’s forms. To make everyday as meaningful as possible. But I don’t spend much time anymore with the deluded wishes that people can love me if I let them see my broken state. That being safe is a possibility (rather laughable when one thinks about it) and certainly no one else can do it for me.  To wish for others to help me up when I’m down every time or be the ‘one’ who makes me safe is irrational and pointless. To work on my “issues” to put it a LONG process and I have had to make peace with the minute baby steps that I do get.

I hope people don’t just see the darkness in my words, but the amount of energy I put forth in living when I often feel such pain as I sometimes write about.

Good Medicine ~ J


Originally written March 4th 2011~ Today it has been 2 years

Today it’s been 2 years.  So hard to believe yet with the changes in our lives and the shape of the world it must be true. Somehow two years seems worse than the first year. The first for everything was (this time last year she was with us. She was here. She was our life.) This year its memories of the first time she wasn’t with us.  There are no happy memories of how it was with her amazing life force the time before.  Now its how it was without her the first time, and how the second time around feels.. well the same only without the sweet memories of a happier time before. Now it’s the look on Jesse’s face as he tried to be brave for the first Mother’s day we can’t give her that comes to mind. It’s how we planted a tree on the year one mark and how empty it was, how unresolved things were and how fucking awful everyone felt. And now a year after the first year mark, everything is still empty, NOTHING is resolved, there isn’t even justice. 23 years in jail and that’s supposed to be justice? No one has agreed with this statement of justice yet.

I don’t know how it is for others, but my mind struggles endlessly with putting the memories in the proper order. I keep going “last year.. wait no. The YEAR before” she was doing this and the world made sense. I try to recall what “this time” last year was happening and more often then not I draw a blank. And upon investigation I find its because the memories are cold frozen images of grief, pain and despair.  Of being unable to comfort innocent children in agony of needing their mother and having no answers as to why she is not here with them.  It’s the pain that etches new lines into every face that is recalling life before.  I remember now why I didn’t want to remember.

On Mom’s Birthday it’s a bittersweet memory. On Mother’s day is a sad but happy memory of the most amazing mother. And the rest of the holidays its up and down with the wonderful memories of what was and the sad ones now without. But there is always something to be happy for, to smile in the face of pain for having such memories of those great days, to have been given the times we did have. But today, there is no happy time, no light to recall in the dark and pain. As a realist I believe it is more honest to say this than to “try” to remember all the good days because that is what we do every day. But today there is the dark hole because until March 4th 2009, this day was like any other soon to be spring day. Now it a mark on the calendar of our hearts, the darkest of days, the end of the world as we knew it and sometimes there is nothing to be found in such pain. This is one of those times. To me it ‘s crueler to “try” to smile, to “try” to enjoy things, to “try” and remember the good times; of course I remember the good times! Don’t we all? But to down play, to try to say anything but the truth of what is, is simply too much. Tomorrow I will smile. Tomorrow I will light my happiness candle and feel joy. But today.. today is sadness, today is a grief so great that words cannot be found in the dark trenches of my mind. And by accepting what is somehow gives me peace.  By not holding back my dark thoughts, I am given peace to experience tomorrow.  I can only hold the space of thought (my version of prayer) that you will do whatever you must to find the same peace in  darkness so great.

On the note of peace, I was sent an invite on facebook a while ago (those of you who use it -you may have seen it) that we celebrate a day of peace. And for reasons nonrelated (I asked) this person picks March 4th as his day to remind the world to celebrate peace.  I don’t know if it will continue or not on the web nor do I really care. I just thought ~ what a message from the grand scheme of things it is, and how I received it was to be at peace with how things really are. And to many of us, this day is truly hell and there is little to smile about.  I get through by being at peace with the depth of pain I am in and not forcing myself to be something I am not today.

I found this Gem that I thought was lost ~ Written May 2009

While the content is not happy I think this bit of writing was one the few honest expressions I ever made before I couldn’t write anymore. Maybe one day I can write like this again. I believe the entire thing is about one day, but it took me 3 to find the time to write it all down. Anyone who has never been to the Farm might lack the understanding to some of the day-to-day things but give you some insight to that time, even in May it is hot and VERY humid in Eastern Tennessee and there is no air conditioning at the Farm.  At that time there were over 15 people living at the Farm and tons of relatives and friends there every week. Everyone was a mess and no one could help.

**May 5th**.

My day was long, trying and sorta sucked. Actually I had a few people tell me it was a horrible day. So I guess it really sucked. I went downstairs after the kids were put to bed. To find the kitchen in shambles for the second time today. Not messy, not in need of tidying. OH NO. A freaking disaster. A Dishwasher load of dishes plus the pots and pans and everything that wouldn’t fit along, with all the clean ones from the first go round I’d had out with the cursed place. Only this time it wasn’t just breakfast I was cleaning up; nope it was dinner AND lunch since the lunch crew left their shit (dirty dishes) in the sink, the other shit (pans) still on the stove with shit (grease and dried food) in it and even more shit (more food only cooked onto) the stove top. And then there was the dinner mess. As I’m putting food away. I go to grab the salad bowl with leftover said salad only to have a cloud, not a few, a cloud of gnats (fruit flies) fly into my face. Jesus F-ing Christ! I mutter as half the things settle onto the fruit bowl. Guess it’s time to put the apples up I think to myself. I also wonder why I’m the only who noticed the large amount of bugs cruising around the island counter… Okay salad is officially bad! I finish putting the food away, and notice again the pan holding black (not blackened) sweet rolls. Jeez someone forgets to check the oven when they turn it on and can’t be bother to dispose of the burnt rolls they almost caught place on fire with? UGH. Another pan that will be fun to clean. I speed through the dishes. I’ve got head banging music going. Maybe it’ll shut out my thoughts too. Especially if bang the dishes to the beat as I scrub. Nope but it did cause the dog to bark. Okay scratch that idea, I’ll wake up the brats (children). I scrub burnt food off the stove (earlier said shit) and notice that the tea-pot has um goo? All over it. WTF??? AM I really the only one who sees this shit??? Okay add scrub damm tea-pot to list. Hmm the fruit fly’s are sniffing around my beer now that I’ve taken their food away. Bastards. I clean like a possessed dirty dish demon. I try to keep the dark thoughts away. Or at least blare them out with my music and push them away with nasty old food and furious scrubbing. Storm is coming. I hear the rain start up. As it gets closer I see the lightning. I watch it, memories swamping me. SHHIIT! I look down to the cause of my pain. I’ve scalded my hand in the hot water. Oh yea. When only on the hot – it burns. ops. I move to counters and tables. Sometimes I pause to skip a song that is too close to home. Or just too much memory. I go to take a swig of my beer. I think there is a bug floating in it… Oh well. Protein right? I’m supposed to be eating lots. Maybe this will count. Bugs and beer. Shit what a dinner. Sigh. I look around, the floor is disgusting. It hasn’t been scrubbed properly since uh the last time I did. Which was.. January? Okay, time to do that. Been talking about it anyway. I’m hot. I open the window and turn on the fan. Big gnats with spidery legs tumble down from the ceiling. Sigh. People would run screaming from my house… Takes a good 15 minutes to locate the LAST bottle with the LAST little bit of cleaner that will work on floors (not leave a sticky dirt magnet residue). Alright. I sweep up a bucket full of dirt and dog hair and god knows what else. I swipe the bucket out on the porch in the rain holding a six and a half pack of empty beer bottles…so what the hell is the bucket for? Scrubbing our floor requires a REAL scrub brush. And old fashion hot water. Yep like some people only see in the movies, it’s the only way to really clean the damn thing. I start. And within seconds realize this will take even longer than the hour, hour and a half it usually does… Great It’s already 10:30. I scrub so long and hard I have sweat running down my face and chest. Ick. Now I’m nasty too. The fumes from the cleaner make my cough worse. I feel like I’m doing hand to hand combat training. My knees become big bruises from kneeling for so long. My iPod lovingly does not freeze up and continues to play. I scrub, mop with old towel, dump bucket, refill bucket, and start again. At some point I finish my now warm beer. And open another one. People head to bed. the rain starts and stops. The lightning moves off. It’s just me awake now. And My dog. She comes in and checks on me now and then. At least she cares that I’m trying to do good here. My cousin calls on her way home from work. We talk forever. And I scrub. An hour passes, I tell her to get some sleep. She tells me to stop doing so much shit so late. I laugh, I don’t do enough remember? Get off the phone and go back to scrubbing with more force. I refill my bucket for the second to last time. Change “I’m in love with a stripper” to something less afflicting and sink my other hand into scalding water. Ops. Guess I filled the whole bucket up with hot water. Fuck my life. I finish. I am finally done. It almost 2 in the morning. By the time I put the chairs back, empty the bucket and get to my room. It’s after 2. Wow that took way too long. Next time I need to try harder is my only response to that. I get on my lovely new laptop. Get a little intense at the words of a close friend in response to an email about my day earlier. Her words ***And you know what else makes me angry? That anyone can tell you,  you don’t do enough, from where I’m sitting it looks like you half suffocate yourself under all the work you do at times.*** Make me wish I could cry. So sweet and direct. Too bad we’re not into girls. She knows the way to my heart~ Complete integrity! But then she threaten to take my blankie away…so maybe not.

At some point, I have to see my everyday life as something other than what it is. HELL. So I wrote about it like it’s not me. Make me feel…not as connected to it and less likely to smash someone’s head with a coffee cup.

It’s 3:30 now. Kids will be up in less than four hours. Oh goody. It starts anew.

**May 4th**

Sometimes I don’t think people realize how close I am to the fucking edge of control, sanity and relative humanity. Sometimes I’m not sure that I know how close I am. And then I get pushed. My Father took my car this morning. NO big deal right? Shouldn’t be. But it is… He didn’t ask. Didn’t tell me. I call him as he drives out. His excuse is: ‘I’ was sleeping. Funny. He has no problem waking me up to ask me what I’m doing that day… Nope none. He just wanted to take it. No biggie. So why are my hands shaking with rage? Why is my chest tight with anxiety? Why do I now feel like shit when only moments before this I was feeling alright, I mean I scraped out 6 hours of broken sleep scattered with bad dreams. I WAS DOING GOOD! Now I feel worse. There went the benefit of my disturbing sleep patterns. Ah yep, still coughing too. It’s not going to be pretty today. I’m trying so hard not to let this “Dad running off with my car thing” not get to me. Hence the writing. But SHIT it IS my car. When I think about why this bothers me (see people, really don’t need a therapist to ask me, I ask myself!) I realize it’s because I feel like there are no boundaries in my life ANYWHERE. My stuff. People just take my shit. My brothers, My family, the police, the fucking FBI. Whoever wants it, come and get it. Really! Why should I think any of this would change now that I’m older… when that’s how it’s been my whole life? People want something from me? They take it. My body. My mind. My heart. And obviously my stuff. And when they are done with it. They give back in bad condition or just up and leave it, throw it away, whatever is easiest I guess. There has been only a few people who have never done this to me in some form or fashion. After all this, I don’t trust the now even fewer remaining anymore. Yeah… my bad on my part. I’m paranoid and all now. So what though, if my paranoia gets too bad, people will leave. Wait, that’s what I’m expecting to happen anyway, I’m just paranoid with how much of me they’ll take with them. Even I, a seriously fucked up paranoid person can see how sad this is… Yes even my hard heart breaks when I look at the child I never was and person I’ll never be now. Guess I’m not as hard and cold as people tell me. Just really close.

Yes my little sign of “Made to be broken, please break now” is calling in the shots. Even people who tell me they are here for me, that I have their support, are walking on me today. Making comments that cut like thorns, shallow on the surface, deep and festering on the inside. What do I do? Suck it up. What I always try to do. I mean they are hurting too. Sadly it usually works too. Today is no exception. And of course, people would pick today. It’s May 4th. Two months. How can it have been two months. I’ve aged years. Centuries. Yet only two little months have passed. I do not remember what it feels like. A life without everyday being a war, on the inside along with the outside world. A life where I am not alone. Truly alone. Not just with my thoughts (that I’m used too) but with the everyday stuff too. A life where I cannot even ask basic questions of life from the person I trusted the most. Mom. I barely remember the easiness of the days with her. Now it seems like a dream. A world I’ve made up to escape the hell that is my life. A fantasy that little kids whom do not like their lives create. Sometimes I wake up from those dreams of the past and ask my self if it was all a dream, my love and life with Mom. The peacefulness I didn’t even know I had. So where the hell does that leave me with Erick? I’m not even going there today. If only two months has passed, what will I be in two years? Will I remember at all? Or will I just be another lifeless person struggling to survive. Is this what my future holds? Losing all that made this life amazing and good. The people, the animals, the memories? Will they all get lost in this black hole. The darkest of nights in my past do not compare to the depth of despair in the brightest of days now. I feel as though my life never was anything but a struggle and never will be anything else. I watch myself struggle with not snapping as someone else takes control of something that is mine. A try not to lose control of myself. I put down my coffee cup so I do not shatter it. Oh but it would feel so good if I did… chucking it hard, glass breaking, the emotion of sound omitting from the impact. Like a druggie gazing upon his fix. It soothes him before he even uses. If shattering a coffee cup would feel this good, imagine what a baseball bat and bunch of windows would feel like? Too bad I never do. Just in my head. Just enough to make me feel something other than my control slipping. The nano second of fantasy leaves. And I’m still staring at the person walking on me. I smile and say nothing. Or if I’m really feeling it, I grimly say “whatever”. They frown upon my bad attitude and short words. Too bad they don’t know what I’m thinking. Cause a coffee cup and their head would make an amazing sound I know it my bones… And as they make snide comments about absurd things I grit my teeth. ‘Say nothing’ I tell myself. As the words bubble up, I lodge them in my throat and grind my teeth. The pain hits, as I again forget the wisdom teeth I now have and the sharp edges cut me. The taste of blood faintly coats my mouth. To bad I can’t just hit them I think to myself. Fuck the coffee cup, I’ll use my hands. But I don’t. Nope, don’t even come close. But I smile inside at the image. And when I am not consumed with anger. I feel the pain of their words. I suffer more. I tell myself not too, that they mean nothing. But I feel them as though a razor is making little slivers upon my skin, on my heart, my soul. I feel the wash of worthlessness flow over me. The guilt of not trying hard enough, not being good enough creeps into my very being. My heart wants to hide under a rock like a dog that has been kicked to many times crawls under the stove. I feel the despair set in. And I jerk myself away from it. It’s early in the day, I have work I must do, as the said person has already stated, I do not near enough. I must do these jobs, perform the tasks that others do not have time to. I work and the emotions are still there. The rage. The guilt. The despair. I finish the job, now I must find a way to express these emotions before they can control me. So I write. I read. Whichever comes first. And then someone sees me not working. And the cycle starts again.

The thought, I cannot wait till I am too dead inside to care comforts me. Horrifying to others, a blanket to sleep with for me. Yes I am this fucked up in the head. When the emotional pain threatens to become too much. I focus on the physical pain. For that I am used too. That I know how to deal with. And things that are familiar are a comfort. Whatever it takes, so that the physical pain is more relevant than the pain in my soul, I will do. A body can only handle so much. The soul though, there are no presets on the depth of love and the depth of despair it can feel. No range, no absolute lines, levels or ends. Every time one thinks they have reached the end, a new door opens, and all my doors are black holes. Never ending darkness that goes who knows where. When I experience too much physical pain, my body shuts off. If it is still too much, I imagine I would die. The death of the physical is not so bad. For your soul goes on. The death of a soul, now there is never ending agony. It would never change, never alter. None of use need to experience that. Sometimes that is what I feel I’m up against. My soul’s impeding doom.
But I will have to ponder this later. For I have people to take care of (children who just want Mom), things I must do (work & shower) and places I must be (group therapy) so that I am driven back to writing and the pondering of my soul.

**May 3rd**

Sometimes I wish for things I would normally run from. I wonder sometimes what that makes me? Obviously broken. Probably damaged in ways people wish to not know of. Some say reckless. Others say stupid. Or that I want to hurt myself and that’s why I am sometimes drawn to the very things I am normally frightened of. I have my own theory though. Maybe I want to feel alive. Maybe I just want the undeniable knowledge that I am indeed alive and can feel. Emotions are emotions. And a high from fear is just as powerful as a high from joy. I have no idea what joy is anymore. But I know what fear is. And sometimes at the end of a day, when I’ve done nothing but push everything down, deep, where it does not interfere with my actions. The pain. The anger. The rage. The betrayal. The endless agony… I just deaden these feelings. I want to die when I do feel them. So how do I live? I do not know. But sometimes I need a release. I need to feel the adrenaline that tells me to live, that tells me I AM alive. Even if it hurts and scares me. For I no longer care about such small things. Physical pain. Fight or flight reactions. It all tells me I am indeed alive in the kingdom of hells I live in. Such intense emotions tells me that I am in reality. That it is all real. Does this make me suicidal? Some certainly think so. But when I push all feeling away, I truly do feel suicidal; for I do not care what happens to me. My brain takes on a whole new meaning of possibilities. I suddenly see the world as something I can endure. That anything can happen to me and it won’t matter. Not too me. Not to my body. And my soul doesn’t get any say. Because my soul and heart does not matter anymore.

I think of dying when I am in such careless moods. And I feel peace. Thoughts of ‘I can’t wait for the quiet’ run through my mind. And how it will not be terribly long before no ones lives will depend on me. I look forward to the day I will die. Free from all of this. But I know it cannot come yet. Not for many years. But I can dream.
I also notice how I end up in situations that spell bad news. Whether the chance of being used and abused is high or death itself, I notice only abstractly and with little care of my well fare. As long as I am around tomorrow to take care of things, I notice not pain nor a tiredness beyond exhaustion. Only what I must do. I wonder at the significance of my actions. Yet I find only my soul cares. But it is my soul I keep silenced. So I must ignore this too.
I used to wish for someone to save me when I could not save myself. For someone to hold me when I could not hold on any longer. I used to wish for someone to catch me as I fall. But now I realize that I would be caught, only to be dropped harder, faster and more painfully than the original fall. And that the impact of the fall might not kill me, but the impact of bring tossed aside like the trash I represent would.

Ahh those words – “But now I realize that I would be caught, only to be dropped harder, faster and more painfully than the original fall”–  so true. Sadly I forgot those words and the ability to hear them. Not even six months later I wrote this sappy foolish little bit. Maybe someone with wings will catch me now that I’ve fallen. Maybe they will lift me up as I plummet. Maybe they will soften the blow as I hit bottom. Maybe, just maybe they will point out a new path and be my guide. Stupid, stupid I am. I was sadly right, someone did catch me for a bit, but then he dropped me harder, faster and more painfully than I could ever imagine. And some else did again, even worse than the first time. Being tossed aside is what came very close to my demise, not hitting bottom or being alone.

The Pain ~Written March 22 2009

I wrote this when I was still at the farm, not even a month had gone by yet..

Pain, Grief, Fear, Agony, Rage. These simple words are supposed to describe the emotions of a human being. The overwhelming intensity of feeling that one does even know how to express it. These four and five letter words are supposed to tell you how I feel. How I view the world. How it affects me. And I wonder how can these simple silly words capture the moment to moment emotions that I feel. I can’t find an answer. Yet I keep writing, because maybe one day, if I’m a good enough writer, others will understand, will feel and see as I might.

I smile. With pain to a favourite memory that will never be created better because she is gone. I cry. With a pain so intense that I cannot do anything but feel the tears course down my face, raw with salted grief. I laugh. Pain tightens my heart even as I try to lift my spirit. She always laughed. She sang silly songs she’d make up just because. My laugh is hollow compared to hers. Empty and mocking. I buy some cookies I like. Pain rushes in as I remember…their her favorite. Every good thing in my life, is now accented with pain. She had something to do, say or simply enjoy the things in my life. I go through my day, doing what needs to be done. And every time a quiet moment sneaks up, a memory surfaces and the pain touches for a second. And a far off voice tallys the pain as it steadily climbs in amount. I sigh tiredly, there is nothing I can do. I tell myself, don’t focus on the pain. Don’t let it touch your thoughts. For than it will affect your actions. So I accept the pain, and wonder how much more will come. How much more I can feel without being dead inside.

My body hurts, my mind hurts, my heart hurts. My Soul hurts and there is nothing I can do about it. Never again will I know something other than pain.

Today:  I wish I could say I feel different now, over two years later. But I don’t. Actually with my recent back problems I’m probably in more pain. I’ve developed a way to “deal” with the emotional pain. It goes into ‘cannot feel this’ section of my brain. Later it becomes a deep ache in my head or often my chest, then when I notice the physical I’ll wonder what it is and when I take a deep look I remember and let it be. So it just sits there for a while until it eventually goes away. It’s not the healthiest way to deal I know. But right now it’s all I can do. Sigh…that line  “How much more I can feel without being dead inside” it haunts me now. The answer I can say now two years later is more than I could ever fear. Ever dream up in my worst nightmare. Ever believe if someone had told me just how much more I could take and feel. See it still hasn’t stopped. I never could make myself completely turn off, I couldn’t be the very lie I despise the rest of the world for and just stop feeling. Gods know how I wanted to. The closest I ever get is when the PTSD kicks in and I dissociate from whatever is going on. But I’m not in denial. I know it’s there and what it is. When the physical pain wears down the barrier that keeps the emotional pain at bay I am overwhelmed with pain. I’m left with no choice but to go into the very heart of the pain (I guess the other option is massive amounts of drugs that I have never taken). For alcohol or any basic pain medication won’t touch it. By diving into the bottomless sea of physical and emotional pain I find peace for a while. The process leaves one wrung out and used in every manageable way. The next day I could eat a moose, sleep for a year and not feel ever again and it still wouldn’t be enough. But that process is what saves my ass in the first place. So I shouldn’t complain but it’s rather hard to explain how I get to such a state. I happened upon this purely by accident. In my life I have had times where there was NOTHING I could do (or felt that I make happen at that moment). In respect of others I had to just lie there and wait for morning. No bathtubs to ease the physical pain, not books to forget the emotion pain (or light to read them by) no phone or computer to distract me from my state. Just lie there silently (or sit depending on where and when). That quiet silent battle is quite possibly the hardest one any of us might ever face in life. And I’m a veteran of many wars.

Empty words ~ Mine are not

Words can be so full or so empty. A person can say something to you, and when it’s from their heart the words are often priceless, they touch us at our very soul and when doubt creeps in those simple but-true words from a friend or loved one can blast away those little demon thoughts that plague us. Words can connect us, tell us we are not alone, that we are loved, felt and heard. When used with awareness words can tell us the very thing we all need; that we are SEEN and someone emphasizes. That we are real and this is really happening. I don’t know how it is for people without PTSD, maybe the need to be heard,  seen and reassured that ‘this’ IS reality isn’t very strong or perhaps it does not exist at all. But from the discussions I’ve had with others who have suffered at the hands of PTSD or something along the lines the need to be seen is huge. The need to be heard and LISTENED too is overwhelming. Sure lots of people say “talk to me, I’ll listen” but what often happens is they need to say something to ‘help’ even when they don’t know what to say. While their hearts are in the right places these wonderful friends and loved ones I cannot usually talk to beyond ‘this is whats happening’ and get shut down by their helpful ideas.. And more commonly here of late, people can’t truly hear what I have to say (at least not in person). It’s too much. They cry, they pray RIGHT there for me, they mutter nonsense words of what happened and what can we do? I understand and do not begrudge them that the pain is too much for them to hear, to witness or carry for even a moment. But I cannot forget and go back to my life as the rest can, because this IS MY LIFE. This pain? These thoughts? These horrid memories? It’s all MINE. I can’t get away from it, I can’t change it, I can’t forget, deny (I’ve tried-just comes around and bites me in the ass) or pretend that it’s not mine. I don’t have the space, the ability or the luck to not have all this pain. I know that I have tons and tons of happy amazing stuff too. That’s usually pretty easy to share, people love that shit. It’s the darker stuff that no one wants to know about or see.

The words that people say to me are bitter-sweet. So many people are moved to say something, and it’s sweet, so sweet. But then their actions begin to speak, and their words change and the sweetness is fighting with the bitterness of reality. I cannot begin to tell you how many people have offered me something, their ear, their shoulder, their couch or something that I may need. But so few mean it, and even fewer follow though. Again I don’t begrudge these friends and family (sometimes even strangers). I understand that I really am too much pain and despair for a person to take on. But I do wish they wouldn’t say those empty words. I wish they wouldn’t be nice to me and let me think everything is okay then bam I can’t do this, I can’t listen; I’ve changed my mind.  And for the love of everything it would be nice to know and not play the guessing game of whats going on! The knowledge that I am alone is fine, it’s the illusion that I’m not and the reality that I am the breaks me every time. Here of late it’s not the PTSD problems that has me in tears. It’s not what I’ve lost. It’s not how far away I am from my best friend, my siblings, my horses and things that I know that have me in despair. It’s not how unfair the world is, how mean my manager was today or how nasty a customer was. It’s not how hungry I am or the fact that I’ve been sick for months at a time. It’s so small, so simple, I cannot help but wonder why in the grandness of my pain that such little things as words could cause me to break. But they do, they empty ones tear me apart and the ones of truth give me reason to go on.  I don’t understand how this can be such an impact on life, but for me it is. Maybe this why I am weak, because people have the power to break me with simple words not backed up by actions. I don’t want to harden myself to everyone’s words because that is not living. I am not naive or lack understanding so why do I keep having this battle? Why do people keep giving me empty words? Mine are full, mine are real. I mean what I say, I think (often days) before I say something and I try to clear up any misunderstanding as quick as possible. Am I the only one who sees the beauty in truth and the agony in ignorance?

The Horses

So depending on how well you know me depends on how much you know of the horses. I had many and now have a couple that I haven’t seen a long long time (nor do I know when I’ll see them again and if I’ll be able to keep them). I don’t talk or write much about the horses and my life with them. I used to train horses for other people, teach adults and children to ride and even those who truly wanted to learn how to train their own horses and how to teach people to ride and train. I was often called a excellent teacher, a gifted horse trainer and amazing rider. Everyone who ever saw me and in the more recent years just heard about agreed that my path in life was with horses. Right now its too painful to talk and write about such a huge part of my life that is no longer there.

I recently found this bit of writing from when I had to sell most of them and when it became clear my life with the horses was over. Otherwise I probably won’t reference the horses or my time with them.

May 13, 2009

I took pictures of my horses. And some shots of the kids, the trees in the setting light. But it was the horses that really got to me. See I take pictures of them all the time. But this time was different. This time wasn’t so that I’d remember what they looked like when they were younger. No, this time was for two reasons. So I could list them for sale and so I could remember them when they are gone. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to have and later breed unusual horses. It started with the Sorraia horses. My love for the rare Iberian horse led me to the more easily bought Spanish breeds of today. Ever since I was 13, I knew I wanted a big grey/black/buckskin stud. He would be my man. And I’d raise the foals, keep one or two, and sell the rest to pay the bills. And I’d get mares too, oh yes, a 13 yr old’s dream can be pretty big. I wanted at least one purebred mare like my stud. And then I’d have a few other breeds, colorful and athletic. I wanted a Appaloosa, a solid black mare, a grulla, a red dun, so many I wanted, but one or two to start would be fine. I would only buy the ones I “knew” were the horses for me. This dream never changed, only evolved. The Irish Draught got added to the list. And possibly a Frisian or a Lipizzaner since that was Mom’s dream horse. So many great possibilities!

I was 18 when I bought my Stud. He was perfect. He was the one. I had never spent such money or decision time on a horse. I drove with my Father to the middle of Illinois just to look at him. I was the proudest and at the time, I thought luckiest horse owner around. And it was my Mother who gave me the piece of mind to spend such money, for I was investing in my life long dream for the future. By the year’s end out, I was set up for my dream. I had two fillies, a young mare and a stud. Sure they were all young, it was the only way I could afford them. But in a few years when I would be ready, they too would be ready to ride, breed and show. I was following my bliss. Later that year, I helped Mom buy her dream horse. The one and only White Horse of Vienna ~ A Lipizzaner. She talked of Austria all the time, the White horses of Vienna, the brewery’s and anything else related. All these years and she now owned one who would be her life’s partner. I cannot describe the joy, the childlike glee in her voice as we talked about “her” filly. The way her eyes would light up and she would become weightless as the everyday stress would lift from her has she simply stood in the field with her filly. She could already envision the foals galloping around our nicely fenced (also a vision…) fields. Life was better than good. The horses responded to us, the farm and the little training we did do with them, like magic, they improved in leaps and bounds.

Now I list this dream for sale on the Internet. In the paper. I tell people of the dream now for sale, to the highest bidder and the best equipped. The last bit of my life I have in this hellhole. The only bit I even get to control. At least it is I ending it this time. The dream is gone. The life is gone. How fitting that the last straw is cut by my hand.

So I list my horses. My life long dream. I list all the things that I love about my horses, the reasons I bought them. The hopes that I had. The places I was going to go. And I do it so someone else will buy them. My world is hard, cruel, and full of twisted irony. I can only hope they find homes in the world I thought I lived in. The one I used to dream about. The one that Mom lived in, the one full of possibilities and hope. The one full of life and love. The one where dreams can come true. I desperately hope that the horses at least find that dream. So I let them go, ending my life long dreams and hopes. In hopes that they will at least fill someone else’s.

They are not just horses. They are mine. I love and respect them. I hoped and dreamed with them. I raged and wept with them. In them, I saw life, mine, happy and fulfilled days spent with them on the farm. Later, my own farm. Together, my horses and I would teach the world how to dance, love and live together. To dream. And now that is gone. I say goodbye to the dreams and loves of my life. They cannot be replaced and they cannot be renewed. I can only hope that one day I will dream a dream half as big and full of life.

You don’t want to know what happened to my beloved Stud, the beautiful mares and fillies I had and the other wonderful farm horses. Most of them were sold if you call collecting less then what we could have sold them slaughter for sold.. Some were actually given away a attempt to keep them close but only backfired to me getting ripped off and months of problems and headaches. I am beyond bitter. I couldn’t take care of my children (the horses). I failed them. I’ll never attempt to have my own horse breeding and selling business again, the most I could ever do is work for someone else’s business.