So the pain is increasingly relevant
Where it is long typically prevalent,
And the numb creeping up my left
Draws the wind quickly from my chest.

No money to be made, none to spend,
Don’t listen to a troubled woman’s wisdom.
She knows forever knot what ‘she do’,
Just when you think you rooted, she move.

Always watching, hoping, preying,
Praying for someone in the making
Who shows up right on time as usual,
When the high up moon sings blues’n full.

Won’t someone come check on me?
Won’t someone look in to see?
Always careful what she wish for,
She careful not to wish anything more.

Waiting is torture.

Thankful for everyone who continues to check on me.

The Nerve

“Ya know,” she said, unprompted, “something about that guy’s tone just pisses me off.”

I have a lot of issues, as evidenced here over and over, but my issues are thankfully maskable enough so that I can still make an honest living. And I do. And I am proud of that.

I am not proud of the way I sometimes (frequently) react like (as) a very angry and confused teenager. What I do (isolate/run away) really does nobody- including me- any lick of good.

So I have been learning how to admit my fears and problems, confront people and situations, learn from mistakes, act on more informed instinct, manuvuer through countless obstacles and sift through the clicks and met genuine, kind folks.

And I have been lifted (literally) off the ground. The ropes were untangled from my body. The mosquitoes (count all 666 of them) were wafted and swat away from me.

Community is something I have cherished nearly my whole existence. I was known to my church family as the helper, a shadow to someone towering over me, ready to make more copies than anyone ever made in a classic SNL sketch featuring Rob Schneider.

And it is true what they say- it took a village.

My village is changing. And I have to accept that I am hated solely because I definitely did not agree with most policies and opinions constantly broadcast over every media outlet for years.

I am beaten. Broken.
Record’s needle. Tokin’.
Love was, is and will forever be
the only thing that lifted me.

I wonder what’s next. Then again, it doesn’t matter.

What was I saying?

Steel Magnolias

For those of you who don’t have a life, or have a life far, far away, Steel Magnolias is a 1989 smash hit movie set in a small town in Georgia, and is actually based on true events. The story was written by the sister of the character played by Julia Roberts, America’s own sweetheart, who, at the time, had only one film under her belt. Dolly Parton was the real star, and with her and the other leading ladies’ incredible performances, the movie was a giant success. It was a movie so many people saw and loved, and that included us.

My family is full of women who we like to refer to as Steel Magnolias. I grew up climbing Magnolia trees, and they will always be my favorite. Steel Magnolias holds a lot of sentimental value to me for those reasons, and more. The Southern Charm depicted throughout the film is something I have encountered my entire life as I live and breathe, and something I both have grown to loathe on one hand, and miss on the other. It seems the South has grown less charming, as annoying as it can be had it remained so.

As I grow older, I, too, feel as though I have earned the title of a Steel Magnolia. I’ve been a single, working mother nearly two decades. I’ve worked to earn my own pay since I was fifteen years old, worked for free- volunteering for the library- three years before that, and worked alongside my mom, helping with the church daycare, as young as the children we were pouring Kool-Aid for. My life has been centered around serving others and doing my best, and despite my many challenges, I still strive to do that. (Special thanks to the assholes who hack accounts and steal from someone who can barely afford basic necessities- you’re scum.)

Most recently, I have been having conversations with one of my friends whose boyfriend of ten years has been unfaithful and- although he promises to do whatever it takes to work things out- continues to be a selfish shithead. Tonight, she sent me a photo of a poem from a book she is currently reading, which goes like this:

The Cure
Albert Huffstickler

We think we get over things.
We don’t get over things.
Or say, we get over the measles
but not a broken heart.
We need to make that distinction.
The things that become part of our experience
never become less a part of our experience.
How can I say it?
The way to “get over” a life is to die.
Short of that, you move with it,
let the pain be pain,
not in the hope that it will vanish
but in the faith that it will fit in,
find its place in the shape of things
and be then not any less pain but true to form.
Because anything natural has an inherent shape
and will flow towards it.
And a life is as natural as a leaf.
That’s what we’re looking for:
not the end of a thing but the shape of it.
Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life
without obliterating (getting over) a single
instant of it.

My response, at first, was silence and calm. I had to respond with words, however, so I wrote this as a reply:
The events we go through- good and bad- become part of our story. They help mold us into our individual self. The lessons we learn from these events lead us to either feel broken or stronger. I still think about the ones I’ve lost- and I still feel them near me, as close as they were when they were physically present. This is my story, though. In a perfect world, we would all feel strong enough to carry the weight of our own book.

She replied: You’re words are poetry.

I replied: YOUR*

She replied: [laugh emojis]

The Steel Magnolias story holds truth for many of us. It certainly feels that way for me and mine, y’all.

Listening to Ever (Foreign Flag) by Team Sleep