Heavy

Bring lightness?

But I am so heavy.

The mass of my grief pulls me down

To the floor

To the center of the earth

Gravity like giant hands

Gripping my arms

Gutting me open to grab at my core

Sadness as a weighted blanket

Stretching over my head, my mouth

Sinking me lower and lower

My mouth is too tired to speak

My muscles are too swollen to push

My body is too dense with memories

I don't bring lightness or light

You can't lift me up

I am tremendous

I am so full of all things

I am heavy like history

I am rooted like history

I am strong, forgettable, and solid

I am invisible and sufficient

I am the floor you step on

I am the arms around you when you fall

And I do not need to be light

To be everything to someone

Take

You've taken fingers off.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

You've taken fingers off both my hands.

You've taken gloves off

Shown me what you can say and do

You've taken gloves off and set to work.

You've taken clothes off

Comfortably against my discomfort

You've taken clothes off with the light on.

You've taken off

Disappeared when I needed you most

You've taken off alone in the night.

You've taken

And you've taken

Til you've taken all of me away

Gander

If you

Stabbed me in the chest

With a kitchen knife

And I dripped

"Fuck you"

From my lips

You would not speak to me for three days

You would say "nah, fuck me, right?"

And look right past me

And at my funeral

You would say I was really pretty mean

Then you'd need another three days

To recover from the sound

Of other people crying

And maybe three days after that

You'd have a reasonable excuse

To say things like "fuck you"

Because

Of course

You'd be "griev ing."

TW

I remember when I realized he raped me

And the joke wasn't funny anymore

I remember standing in the front lawn

When he called me a whore

I remember throwing up after the baby

Until my entire soul was sore

I remember thinking I had found hope

Then being punished for wanting more

And yet

When you want me to forget

How I deserve to be treated

Or what I desperately needed

All you have to do is yank away

Anything I try to say

Crumple it

Spit on it

Twist it up until I've lost the thread

Leave me on read

Fuck you

You made me promise not to say

Fuck you

But I have given up on being known

I have given up on being heard

So if all that is left of me

Is a muted TV

The caption will still read

FUCK YOU

Silence

 Silence when I wake up

He's working

 Silence when I bring home food

His stomach hurts

 Silence when I rush to work

He's tired

 Silence when I rush home for lunches

He's napping

 Silence when I leave again

I've left so many of the chores for him

 Silence when I am at work

He's napping again

 Silence when I come home

He needs a break

 Silence when they eat dinner

He needs a break

 Silence when they go to bed

He needs a break

 Silence when they've been asleep

He needs a break

I am alone, pumping my arms through the ocean, day and night. A novel for a brain, narrated to the inside of my skull. A secret logbook that verifies to only me all the challenges, victories, guilts, fears, enthusiasm, ideas, goals, and interests.

One day, if I drown, will my mind be squished down into a bottle, corked, and washed up on a shore somewhere I never had the time or money to go?

Will the person who reads it, years, generations, ages from now, be the person I have been hoping for, the person who will see me, accept me, love who I was, so many years, generations, ages before?

Or will I float into the great pacific garbage patch and contribute my hopes and passions to the toxicity of the ocean.

Dirty

I am a fucking warrior. A survivor. I have leaves in my hair, blood in my mouth, and holes in my clothes. I stand before you with a medal in my fist and more achievements to my name than most will earn in a lifetime. You FORGED ME. You left me out to die and I THRIVED.

And YOU. Have lost ALL CREDENCE in criticizing the state of me, of my scars, or my abilities.

Who are you? Loud aggressor, who not only haven't felt the fires I've walked through, but lit them, kindled them, and pushed me in?

You can't touch me.

I know who I am.

Fever Pitch

 I turned my volume down. Curbed my language. Shifted my priorities. Paused myself. Squeezed into a dress made for a ghost. Who am I now?

You said I offended you even then. Why did you pretend? Or are you pretending now?

Who could love someone so big? So brash? So lonely? So ambitious? So much? There is so much of me. Who could possibly make room for me without modifications? Without trimming the fat of my passions, my humor, my interests, my voice, my attention, my thirst for little droplets of affection? Who could love me without telling me to tone down? Is it dangerous - that I could still grow?

I could swallow the world if it told me I was enough. Just enough. Not too much. The right amount.

I just want to be the right amount.

.

"Put me next to another - they've got gadgets and gizmos, all I have is a torso. A box with a pipe and a shutter; it heaves, it swells, and it sighs and it yells."

Maybe your name was Calliope

 My mind is in 2012 today. My body is in the recovery room, someone yelling over me about not breathing and my lips turning blue. I'm in the day stay bed, a clueless nurse insisting she won't tell me which surgery they did, because nobody remembers anything after anesthesia anyways. I'm laying in bed in a home that isn't mine, scared to look down at my stomach, listening to the song I used to sing to my baby.

I take every year's anniversary off, but grief doesn't stay on its designated day. How long am I going to keep knitting blankets for a baby I never got to hold?

Sunday

You leaned over to kiss me and
I was intoxicated for a moment
The way your stubble felt
Grazing a reminder across my cheek
I turned my head
Hoping
You'd kiss my neck so I could breathe you in
Like a deep fog
Like a rolling evening storm
You didn't

I miss the feel of you

Your skin is earth and
I want to be buried

There Was No Funeral

One of my favorite poems:
"This Woman"
by Alysia Harris

The line that gives me chills and fills my eyes up with tears:

"To all the women who have been

Pried open,

Propped up,

And Jadaposed:

I'm sorry

There was no funeral for the going out of your smile

And the coming in of strangers."

No, there was no funeral. There was no funeral, and for years, there was no recognition. I was reminded that the louder I yelled, the more worthless I was underneath my insistence that I. WAS. WORTH. SOMETHING.

I dreamed about strangers who would quietly peel off my armor, look at me, hold me, and see who I am.

Just see me.

Not tell me who I am. Not define me. Just give me some credit.

Strangers who might love me for the blood on my hands and my clothes, might see my life and aspirations as a work in progress, might offer me the soft, quiet benefit of the doubt, the security, the unwavering assurance and peaceful extended arms that would have allowed me to relax, set down my burden, and rest.

just pull it

i thought i wanted You to do and say things that considered me and made me feel wanted and loved

but maybe i only thought i wanted that, while what i really wanted after this much hurt

was for You to just say you had no intention
that You didn't love me
that You wouldn't consider me
just SAY IT

so that Your words and Your actions could finally line up and it would make sense

LYS

The LYS closed. Not a word on its social media. Phone still goes to their normal voicemail. Google JUST updated today. I had planned on spending my christmas money there for some equipment and accessories.

This is the sense grief makes.

Because seven and a half years ago, I was crying at my spinning wheel until 6 in the morning, working on 4 ounces of rough karakul from them, unable to stand up from the pain in my abdomen. I was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery. I missed the only spin in and fiber bar I had ever planned to go to, bent over and bleeding in the ER. The grief I felt, albeit numbly, at what was going on, wove itself into the disappointment of missing the event. Because even though it seemed frivolous and unimportant - a spin in among friendly people felt like the real world. And I was in some alternate dimension, being infused with morphine, unable to join them, unable to reach their pleasantness or joy. On that day, I was separated from that world, and my grief spun itself a story using the language of something mundane.

A couple of weeks later, I went to a fiber festival and spent the money I would have used on the baby on soft things, pretty things, things that felt like the real world I craved and missed.

That local yarn store was a connection to the life I lost in 2012.

Of course, that's nuts, they are just a business, and businesses close, and I could rarely afford to visit them anyways. I am grateful for the visits I did have.

But I feel alone tonight.

Like my grief lost its voice, and the hum of the wheel feels far away and lonely, and I feel so quiet and just

sad.

The most important building

I was not built

To live in one house

In one city

Watching videos of the outdoors

Looking back at photos of travel

Itching any time I'm behind the wheel

But always coming home

Crying in the driveway

Biting my lip at the feeder light

Hand over the turn signal

Withering away and atrophying

Like a breath dissipating in cold air

Dying like a quiet whisper

Quiet, silence, grace - a betrayal of everything I am

Hushed

Like a cancer

Like a well behaved pet

Like a domesticated woman, in her role

Like a corpse in the grass.

What have I done.

Why have I built this life around me

Like bars on a kennel

Excuses to fade out of the world

While being a good mom

A good wife

A good homemaker

A good leech on finances

A good and distant friend

You can keep without having to maintain.

Look how easy I am to keep!

Look how quiet and obedient!

Unhappy but unwilling to rebel!

Que dulce! Que bien!

Que apropiado.

I Really Want to Come Kick It with You

He stares over my shoulder at his phone while I am curled up on his lap.

He scrolls while I stroke his arm.

I could say,
"I love you"

And he would say,
"But what about me?"

Security

Stability
Safety
Belonging

I'm afraid, all the time. I'm jumpy. I'm alone. I'm scared of all the possibilities. I'm scared of the realities. I'm scared for myself and for mine.

The sense of calm I find here and there comes in brief, lapping waves, that never submerge me.

The sense of peace I seek out is as ephemeral as the seabreeze. As unpredictable and short lived as the spray.

When I think I'm at the shore, my feet are dry.

When I think I'm resting on the warm sand,

I'm in the undertow.

Twist, Grist, and WPI.

There's more to spinning than it would seem.

You can delve feverishly into the intricate nuances of handspinning. The mechanics and measurements. The vocabulary. How to draft, ply, balance, wash, and set it. Dyed vs ecru, fingering vs bulky, roving vs batt vs rolag and so on and so forth.

There is a whole world of interesting textile talk backed by history and tradition blended seamlessly with respectful innovation.

But in the living room, with my feet on the wheel and the roving wrapped gingerly around my forearm like a gauntlet, there is so much more going on.

Spinning is for the senses.

And memory is rooted in senses.

While the modestly prepped llama fiber breathes through my fingers, I watch the twist travel up toward my left hand. I hear the treadles pump, the wheel rotate, the flyer spin. I smell the wool and its wash. Feel the bits of VM flick to the floor.

Part of my mind goes to peace. Smooth, repetitive, artistic motions. In one way precise and monitored, in one way relaxed and accepting of flaws and slubs.

Part goes to the movie on the screen, recognizing that in the gentle motion of the growing bobbin, I am rooted and connected to the space around me and the creatures and people who give me this hobby. To those in the room who watch the graceful cycle with me. To the hum and sounds of the room. Like watching a relative cook on a lazy morning - wordlessly, familiar, with love.

Part of me reflects.

That morning at 6 am in 2012 when I had finished two ounces of karakul, rough, grippy, and smelly. Yarn that felt like straw and must have been strong. Yarn spun in a panic, in denial, in pain. Bent over toward the wheel when I could no longer sit up straight. Crying as I spun yard by yard closer to not being able to ignore it. Yard by yard toward the inevitable. The phone call. The ER. The morphine. The ultrasound. The blood on the ground, on my legs, on the toilet seat, on the gown.

Missing the fiber bar and spin in at the yarn shop.

The bag with the circular needles and handspun that I'll never touch or pick up again.

The two days in fugue.

Thinking about getting back to work. Buying more fiber. Refusing what happened. Too much to process. Just spin. Just feel that peace. Just feel, smell, touch, twist, grist, wpi.

This is my full circle. In the moments that the wheel spins, I am peacefully nodding to those moments and acknowledging that I am still that woman, the wool is still wool, the earth is still the earth. It won't be right. But look at me - I am still.

I still am.

And the wheel spins.

Three Bad Haikus, But

The sound of you
A warm echo
Across my cooling mind
To which I can stumble
When my day exhausts me
More than I have ever conquered it
More than I have ever wanted
You are more
Than I have ever deserved
And I
Am more
Than I have ever been

Moving Is Tough

Moving my fingers, is tough.
Moving my legs, is tough.
Moving my

Things out of a house

I once got excited about

And now I tap my fingers and breathe quickly and rub my hair and feel my throat close

When I turn onto the street

When I pull up to the drive,

Is tough.



Being in this house feels like standing inside the skeleton of a massive, dead beast.  I can see where the heart used to beat.  But it lies, swarming with fruit flies, in the crusted dishes and damaged toys.  I can feel the air that used to push through the rooms like living, pulsating breath, hanging heavily around me.

I feel deeply sad.

Unspeakably sad.

Not guilty.  Not angry.  Not confused or frustrated or lost.

Well, maybe a little lost.

Mostly, I'm dismayed, I'm sad.

I used to survive here.  I used to struggle here.  I made some of my best and some of my worst memories in this old, dead beast.  But maybe it's been dead all along, and we just moved into this carcass, wanting to believe it was salvageable with a little clutter here, a little stain there, a little fighting and screaming over in that area.

The illusion is gone.  The screen is down.  I have a lot of things to pick up off the floor.  A lot of things to push into boxes.  A lot, and I mean a lot, of things to leave behind and slough off like scabs.



Moving my things... is tough.

Moving my legs, is tough.

Moving my fingers

Is tough.

When the Levee Breaks

It takes the smallest, most unpredictable thing to trigger it.

We can be fine. Moving together. I am grabbing the sheets, grabbing at flesh, my mind in the skies, my body absorbed in the feeling, wrapped up in the present and the heat and the friction and the depth.

I feel the walls close in within my mind. My breath comes in short, ragged draws, like I'm drowning and I can't get to the air.  The terror swells up in me.  For a few short moments, I am lucid enough, aware enough, to feel my grip on reality slipping.  Determined and bull-headed, I grab on tighter, furiously insistent on holding on to my surroundings.  I fight it.  I push against the fear.

But it slips over my head and I can't resist anymore.  I'm drowning in a panic, I'm losing the battle, I'm underwater.

I can't speak.  Can't think.  I am underneath someone.  I am worthless.  I am helpless.  I am terrified and useless and nothing.  I feel them using me like a mindless fucktoy.  I cannot leave.  I cannot stop it.  I am a part of it.  I am the cause.  I am nothing, I am nothing.

Weightless under the surface, I float into that realm where I have no control and no perception.  I feel pain.  I feel pressure.  I can't see where I am - the ceiling isn't the right ceiling, the body above me isn't the right body, I'm not the right body.  Everything from the core between my legs, up my belly, down my legs, is screaming.

But I'm not screaming.

I am experiencing.

I am pure fear.  I am nothing but fear.

And as the experience fades, as the sensation comes back in my fingertips, as I begin to be able to move my torso, my head,

I fight

As hard as I can

I scrabble again for my grip on the Real World

I dig my nails into the earth and I pull myself back

With all my strength

And I lay there in myself

Wiped out from simply breathing


I feel embarrassed.  I feel exhausted.  I feel broken
Alone
Ashamed
Misused
Worthless
Ashamed
Ashamed

Ashamed

A Fail to Kiss Is a Fail to Cope

Restless.

Paradoxical.

Juxtaposed.


I want to rediscover my younger self. The passion for dance and art. The trinkets. The unashamed love of horses and you know maybe dolphins and shit. The heady high that comes with staring at pictures of beautiful, bright, photoshopped people wearing beautiful clothes. Music playing constantly. Clipping out my favorite pictures of everything and sticking them to the wall. Doodling on something that no doubt had Lisa Frank on it and at least one decal of a winking cat.

I want to remember that I existed before and I have much more history than I thought I did.  I want to remember that I existed in my entirety before 2012.  I get so focused on trying to live now that I forget sometimes how easy it was to live then.



But, I also want a future of stability, animals, gardening, an office with bookshelves and canvases, a place to put my things where I know they will be safe so I can use them, look at them, touch them, wear them, create them. Where I can cook and bathe and sleep and raise my children. A place where I can be found, reliably.



But

I also want to get into a car and peel away every string that holds me in place like unsticking so many glued on threads from my skin.  Drop every responsibility, be secure in the idea that everything will be safe if I leave it alone, safe and happy and healthy and not let down.

Run, drive, wander.

Experience.

Listen.

Touch and feel and eat and sleep in a different place under a different tree in a different blanket in a different climate over and over until I belong to the earth like I should.  Until the ground and I are family.

With no deadline.

With nothing but love calling me everywhere.



I have somewhere to be.
I don't know where it is yet.
I think, maybe, it's too many places to be in at once.

I know who I want to be.  I know my heart is like dust that floats and spreads and dissolves.

I know the fever is both fear and urge.

I know I'll find peace in little moments as I go.



I need to get to May.
Lift my head out of the water and take a deep, desperate breath.

Until then

I can breathe the little bubbles of the bright moments that get me from second to second, day to day, night to night.



Center.  Margin.
Love.