Once my mom and I were watching a documentary on the Hindenburg crash. The story was at the end and telling how people survived 38 second plummet of the flaming aircraft and the narrator was telling about a mother of three. She had successfully thrown her two boys to safety but could not lift her daughter to throw her the 50 feet from the burning craft. She then left her daughter and jumped to ground breaking her pelvic bone. When the ship hit the ground and someone came to rescue her, she told them to go and get her daughter. Her daughter was rushed to the hospital but her lungs were so badly burned that she didn't even survive the night.




I was shocked. I couldn't imagine jumping from a burning anything knowing that I had left my child on board. I would continue to try to rescue her and we would die together if I couldn't. I said this to my mom who told me I was insane. She said I had no idea what that woman had been through and at least she had tried to get her daughter help. She told me she understood what I was saying but it didn't make any sense. I told her she didn't understand or she wouldn't even be arguing it with me.



That's the difference in the kind of mother I am and the kind of mother I had. What she said to me without saying it is that her life was more important than mine, that she would leave me to die if it meant saving herself. I think that defeats the purpose of even being a mother, no?

     I've got too much in my head again so I'll leave it here. One of my therapist told me that at the age of 3 your brain is starting to form concepts that decide how you will think for the rest of your life. She said since I was "traumatized" we needed to reprogram my brain. Why do people always find so many words to mask the truth? Raped is a better word. Molested sounds mild. It's true though. I don't think right. I don't think anyone will ever be patient enough to truly love me. I don't think I will ever truly trust a man and as long as my son is so small that he can't take care of himself I will not sleep. I try. He slept in his bed for two weeks and I would wake up having an anxiety attack. My dreams would be so real. Someone would be in our house and I couldn't get to him. When I woke up I would go and get him from his bed and lock us in my room, as always. I don't want to be any of this. I just don't know how to not be. I always quit therapy because I can't look at another person and talk about it. Writing is different. I assume no one really reads this so it's kind of safe. I still can't say everything.
     It shouldn't be called post traumatic stress syndrome. It should be called Self Destruction of the Brain. It's like you try so hard to do the right things, to change yourself, and your brain refuses and reminds you why it's doing the things it does. It's somewhat cannibalistic. Eating at yourself and not knowing how to stop. I wish I could just wake up and decide not to think these things or worry about night. Even if I consciously make the decision, my subconscious has a back up plan. It flips out and the anxiety attacks start. I just don't know what to do. Maybe I'm too old to be fixed just like I was too young to be broken.

i'm losing by minutes. i can not and will not ever be whatever you say i am.

i have thoughts and feelings provoked by the ghosts of experiences past
haunting in our corners. dancing in the reflection of my face in your eyes.

by minutes...
i fall and slip and claw for a freedom i can't comprehend.


i won't win ya know. i'm fighting the only person who can take me, myself.
and all i have is my experience to go on.
i won't win

I made an assumption... Three dark-skinned girls that had on hoodrat outfits that instantly got silent and whispered as I walked up. To me this usually means loud whispered comments about me, rolled eyes, and stink face stares. I am racist. I didn't mean to be. I thought I was right. They kept whispering and giggling and staring at me. So, I turned around and addressed it.
....I was wrong.
I offended them.
I offended myself
I apologized she explained. I could tell I had hurt her feelings and I wanna take it all back. I have no idea why in the shit I am so emotional today but that slightly killed me. I didn't mean to be THAT person and I can't use past experience as an excuse for how I wronged them. They probably don't care about it anymore but I can still see the look on their faces. The look I used to have when I was younger and dark skinned ghetto girls used to call me little white girl as they bullied me. That's what I did today. I bullied them. I was racist.

I'm breakin again. 

Peelin ever so slightly at my edges. 

Runnin full speed at thorny bushes that would evaporate 

If I whispered it. 

Seein all the people go by that don't stop and check 

Check that I'm still here. 

I've left anyway. 

Drifted 
Moved into the space I always wait for lightnin in a bottle.

The place where it's always sunny and rainin.

I wait pullin myself one petal at a time 

"He loves me. He loves me not." 

There's nothin left to love.

A stem swayin in wind 

That threatens to uproot but I stay not thinkin it away. 

No one came to check. 

No one ever knew I was there slightly peelin 

Breakin away in the rain 

Boilin with the sun 

Singin his name cause 

He was the only one who ever saw me but 

He loves me not. 

What is a monument without bein revered. 

What is a altar without tongues in prayer.

It is mournin. 

Lonely sweet slow mournin 

Undoin itself to break its name and 

Prayin that it will be rebuilt again. 

It is defeat 

And the rubble of battles waged in its long forgotten purpose. 

He came 

And so he went

My Dream Soul Mate

I always have the best dreams about my old roommate and good friend. I think of him as a brother but in my dreams he is always my soul mate. Last night was no different. I stayed up way later than I should have in fear that my nightmare would return. Instead, Alex and I were in a Spanish villa like palace with spit levels and huge windows. We stayed mostly near the terrace because guests kept arriving and I was in a panic because someone was missing, the more people that arrived the more of a party it became. Everyone was mingling and dancing and assuring me that he would be here any minute. I wasn't so sure. In fact, I was completely sure that this person I was waiting for was not going to show at all- that my dream would re-direct and I would be carried to some less vivid one where there was no party. I decided to stop thinking about it because sometimes when I think too hard about something my dreams blur and change then I have completely lost the moment. People at the other end of the terrace towards the drive started shouting as if a celebrity was pulling up and I ran to see what all the fuss was about. There was Kyle. He had on a suit and was carrying his luggage. He was surrounded by what looked like security guards or assistants and he had gotten out of a town car. He dropped everything and ran to pick me up. I knew I was happy but I didn't know what I should be happy about. Then he said, "Did you really think I was going to miss our engagement party?" And it was like I already knew that was where we were.

It is always that way when I dream about him. He's saving the day or we're struggling perfectly together. I just don't feel that way when I'm with him. It's like he's my older brother; we play fight, gossip about friends, and talk about our relationships. Other people claim that there is tension there but I never noticed it. Alex even calls him Uncle Kyle. So I guess I said all of that to say that I'm confused with the difference between the dream world and the real one. I don't see or feel any sparks here but there he is Mr. Perfect...seems like my subconscious is pushing me towards something that isn't really there.

My Story Pt5

     My mother's side of the family is hard to describe. She had 2 older sisters and one younger brother. They all had different fathers which in the fifties labeled my grandmother. Well honestly it still would label her and she would deserve it by the standards of any year. To tell about her I must explain that she had no idea who her parents were. She was shuffled from house to house until she turned 5. The people who were taking care of her died and left her land and money. Whoever got her received it all. My great grand parents Snoop and Bootsie were not in love. They married each other as some sort of deal, no one is clear on what the terms were. They were business partners and nothing else. They slept in separate rooms and on Thursday nights everyone knew that my great grand father's girlfriend would come and stay for the night.

     Snoop and Bootsie owned a few nightclubs and drive-in theatres spread out over town. The most notorious of establishments was their house. It used to be an old plantation, someone had bought this and turned it into a hotel. In the front yard sat a tall twisted tree that everyone in the predominantly black neighborhood called the lynching tree. This is where they would sometimes find the body of a young man who had committed some offense upon the white community. Their first act after buying the house was to chop this down. They then renovated the smaller houses on the back of the property into living areas for friends fallen on hard times. All of this paints a sunny happy picture of what type of people they were. Do not be fooled, they were criminals.
      The house itself was used for a number of things, gambling, illegal drinking, and prostitution. Many people have told stories of murders on the front steps and the back rooms. This is how she grew up, surrounded by people who gave in to temptation and celebrated the rougher side of life. In turn, she was self indulgent and unapologetic. She slept with whoever she wanted and often left her children with her parents even if they were one the verge of death. She didn't give hugs or even really care that they were there.
     She had my Aunt Stephanie first. Stephanie is quiet and deadly, literally. I always thought Aunt Fifi, the second oldest, was the toughest of all of them until one Thanksgiving while my grandmother was saying the prayer Fifi leaned over and pointed at Stephanie and said, "Look at that bitch gigglin'. She already pissed me off tonight but I'm not gonna mess with her 'cause I know if I fight her it'll be to do the death." I was shocked because I always thought Aunt Stephanie was the high silent one. I voiced this somehow and Aunt Fifi replied, "Hell naw! That bitch is crazy! She's the only one in this room I would think twice about goin' at." This gave me a new respect for Aunt Stephanie. I knew she carried a .45 everywhere she went I didn't know she didn't have to and that her reputation proceeded her and the bullets.