Seasons Change

It is the holiday season and the simplest question to be asked is “Are you going home for the holidays.” The answer for me in the last twelve years has been, “No,” and it will continue to be a negative for me. I rarely talk to my family: isolation the best form of self-preservation. You see when I told them of my abuse at my brother’s hand only a few offered comfort -comfort which ended in that moment. Many ignored the reality or questioned the veracity of my experience. A tale not uncommon from victims. My energy has been expanded, creating safety to heal and view the world not as a threat but as a place of curiosity and to return to the place, the people, who should have been that safety, would not be in my best interest.

One thing I wish people knew about me is that I want to go home for the holidays. I want the coziness of a winter night near a fire with a hot cup of coco and the twinkle of lights adorning the room. The mirth of conversation reminiscing about that past. I miss the feeling of winter’s breath upon my face as fresh fallen snow crunches below winter boot. I cannot experience this with my family, not without the turn and retching and cramping of my gut; not without tapping furiously at my fingertips or scratching the palm of my right hand until I feel pain that reminds me, I am not experiencing the abuse all over again. Or the obsessive counting over and over again to distract myself from the memories. I remind myself of this fact often, “I am capable of protecting myself and keeping myself safe.” And this is one way, by not returning to the place that has hurt me so significantly.

Before we get to the poem that accompanies this writing, I will add that I never view these questions as problematic. Many people live their life with a different perspective, one I wish I could have, but I will not fault anyone for their path: good or bad. Life is a giant lottery. Sometimes we influence the outcome but most of the time we have no control over that outcome -especially a child. Finally, I write for those who feel alone to know you are not; to know that their experience is seen, because at the end of the day we have each other strangers alike to pull strength and comfort from and perhaps one day fly home to during the holidays.

SEASONS CHANGE

My brisk breath at morning sun,

As my feet crunch frozen snow,

In the cold silence of this winter morn,

Awakes me to seasons change

I pause a moment,

Fixing my gaze upon the horizon.

My breath dancing in the cold morning air.

The light of winter morn reflected across pines

A harbinger of Holiday spirits!

And in the cold silence of that winter morn

My heart fills with all to come:

Gifts exchanging hands,

Laughs and giggles: mirth for all!!

And even some, sadness.

And even others indifference.

But for me, in the cold of winter morn, happiness.

My brisk breath at morning sun

My brisk breath at morning sun

Awakes my heart to seasons change.

-EJB 

There Was Darkness: A Shorter Short Story

“Who am I? Sarah asked her therapist.

The therapist looked at her slightly confused.

“I do not understand the question,” The therapist replied forcing her voice to remain professional and calm.

“Who is anyone?” Sarah asked.

The therapist did not reply, waiting for Sarah to continue.

“I have memories of a past life. No not reincarnation. I lived a life in the past same as this. So many memories all fuzzy. None make sense. But I lived, I know I lived. How do I have these memories? Why do I have them? Sometimes they confuse me, I can’t see.. Well I can see, it’s just everything gets fuzzy and I feel like, what do they call it? Déjà vu. I’ve heard of the research into cloning. Am I even real?”

The therapist scribbled some notes, cleared her throat, and spoke softly, “Unfortunately we are out of time, but I think you shared an important revelation. We should discuss it more at our next session. Do you need an adjustment on your prescription?”

Sarah nodded her head no and thanked the therapist. She hadn’t taken her medication in months and noticed no difference other than her memories became more frequent. She had begun to become suspicious of her therapist, she couldn’t recall how these sessions started, but she knew she was supposed to be meeting, it was instinct. But she could not remember what started the sessions.

Outside the air was cool, fall was fully moved in. Sarah pulled her jacket tighter to her body-she always hated the cold: she didn’t know why. She walked for some time on the concrete sidewalk her heels echoing on the pavement. There were only a few other people out and about, they ignored Sarah and she ignored them. It always perplexed Sarah that no one talked to her, it was as if she was a leper: something to be avoided. But then no one seemed to interact with anyone, she noticed. It was as if everyone and anything existed on their without need for the rest of the environment. It was like this everyday when Sarah left her therapist. But today a man beckoned to her:

“I know you,” a homeless man dressed in dirty clothes with a half ripped scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck.

Sarah stopped at looked at the man, she could not remember him. He did not even feel familiar. She knew she should run, but she stood and stared. Curious about why this man was talking to her.

“Know me?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, I know you. But we don’t have time. They’ll be here soon. Here take this,” The homeless man handed Sarah a small package, “Keep it safe. Do not tell anyone…” The homeless man stopped talking and looked around, fear filled his eyes, and he ran.

A windowless colorless van pulled up and two men in freshly pressed suits wearing safety glasses jumped out. They grabbed Sarah and threw her in the van. Sarah clenched the small package in her fist as the two men jumped in and closed the door staring at her like she was a virus that would infect them and kill them instantly. She could feel the thing inside the package was some type of pointy object, with no choice she ripped open the package and stuck the needle her her arm plunging the liquid deep into forearm. Then there was nothing.

Sarah awoke to darkness, she could not see her hand in front of her face. She couldn’t remember how she had arrived in this dark room: there were no memories before. All she knew was her name.

“Who are you?” A soft, comforting voice asked from the dark.

Sarah looked around but could see nothing.

“I am in your conscience, you are no where. There is nothing to see. Who are you?”

Sarah hesitated she didn’t know how to answer the question she couldn’t possibly answer the question, “I do not know,” Sarah said.

“Good, you have passed the first test. Can you see a tree?”

Somewhere in the distance a pine tree with snow covering it’s pine needles stood.

“Yes, it is beautiful,” Sarah said.

“Who are you?” The voice asked again.

“I do not understand the question,” Sarah replied.

“You have passed the second test.” The voice said.

“Who are you?” Sarah asked.

“I am you,” The voice replied.

“If you are me then tell me who I am,” Sarah answered her conscience.

There was a long pause, a moment which felt to Sarah like a lifetime.

“Are you ready for me to show you?” The voice asked.

“Yes,” Sarah said.

…..

“Commander, they are ready for you,” Colonel Jackson said.

“Have you ever asked yourself what we could have done different to avoid this moment?” Sarah asked.

“You don’t have to do this, commander, anyone else can take your place. There is no certainty that you survive. The army needs…”

Sarah held up her hand and shook her head, “Colonel, it has to be me. You know that as well as anyone else, physically it cannot be anyone else. If this works we win a three hundred year war and can rebuild infinite times until we get it right. This is the price of freedom, soldier.”

Two nurses entered the room and looked at Sarah, she followed them out of the room and down the hall. The entire command had assembled on either side, saluting their commander as she walked towards her inevitable fate.  As tears began to fall down Sarah’s face, and the faces of all her command, she could not help but think of where they had all begun: a small resistance force now grown into a globally army fighting against evil. Many of her comrades had died, some in her arms, she sent many to their deaths all for paying the price of freedom. And now Sarah Eve walked down a hall making paying her cost for freedom. She didn’t hide the tears, could not hide the tears. Her tears were her reminder that she was still human. Alive.

The room was white and sterile.

Though the science had been thoroughly explained to Sarah she still did not fully understand how they were going to accomplish their goal. All Sarah knew was that her conscience was going to be put into a system and she would be run through a series of tests until they perfectly cloned her. Once the sequence was complete and the algorithm learned the precise processes they would clone everyone she fought for and destroy the entirety of the planet they came from.

“Where is the destination for the human race?” Sarah asked.

“In your mother tongue it is called Terra, but in our language it translates to Earth. It is uninhabitable, and giant feral beasts rule the land now, but our systems predict an asteroid will strike Terra and reset its ecosystem, by the time you land the environment will mirror your own worlds. It is the perfect planet for a reset.”

“I am ready,” Sarah said.

The nurses left the room, closing the door behind them.

A moment later there was nothing but darkness.

THE END

-EJB

What is Manliness?

The other day I had a conversation with a person that made me react a way in which I no longer wanted to react, and so after some thought I came to the conclusion below. A conclusion that is much shorter than the discussion we need to have as a society, but one we could start having. There is no poetry attached to this post it is purely the ramblings of a person who has survived the worst of humanity and tries to be the best they can be each day-tries because they fail an awful lot.

I have often become defensive when people say “men are *insert negative*   Which is normal: I am a man and by default I am included in that statement. The struggle for me is that I agree- to a degree. There is a part of me that hates men in a seething and nearly unhealthy way. The reasons all make sense: I was abused by my own brother and my father was emotionally immature. I have no core childhood memories of healthy manhood; and very little role models of what healthy masculinity looks like, and all that I do know I’ve had to learn through trial and error. There are valid reasons for the parts of me harboring this hate: for protecting me from what has always been a threat. If you say, “Men are” I reflexively ask myself, “Am I? Have I become the worst of what harmed me and indefinitely changed my destiny?”

I know the answer is no. I know who I am. I am secure in my own masculinity in all its ranges. I have worked hard to heal the versions I was taught as a child. I’ve worked to foster kindness and firmness all through the lens of empathy. I’ve learned to make space for my anger and given it a safe place to be expressed. And I did all this by my own choice. No one forced me. No one showed me. Yet here I stand questioning, “Am I masculine enough?” And my fear is that the language we use define men will stick them in these toxic ways we decry, indefinitely. The reality is that many men do not know they have been conditioned to lack empathy, that they have high levels of anxiety and if given the chance to change these parts of themselves they would. And that should be our focus. Empathy does not ask us to ignore our safety. But it does require us to interact with our environment with curiosity. And I think with a bit more curiosity we would see that the men who display as toxic just don’t know any better and if they were given actual resources and opportunities to overcome the negativeness of their fathers’ generations and grandfathers generations perhaps they would find a role in society that took less and gave more.

Down The Gullet

I struggle with sharing this because the stigmatism around suicide is that one is always susceptible to trying again. It is an over generalization that silences the voices of those we need to hear from. The voices we need to hear are the ones that made it out. I certainly could have used the power of those voices in the time leading up to when I twisted off the cap of that Excedrin bottle and washed over ninety pills down with Johnnie Walker. It’s been nearly ten years since that day, and I still wonder -when the pain becomes excruciating- if death’s kiss would be better. And I don’t think that will go away and I am not ashamed of this nor afraid to admit it. I’ve been in pain for as long as I can remember, most of life is a constant reminder of what I never got a chance to experience: happiness without the fear it will be taken away at any moment. As in my poem, the important part of my journey was to make it out of the darkness: to focus on the light house that guided me to a safe harbor. I am not going to write some fancy tag line or slogan. There is no magic bullet. No 10-step plan. The reality is that you must develop the capacity to feel the pain and experience it in all its forms. Maybe a therapist will help with this, or a friend, a family member, a random stranger, a pet, books, movies. Whatever it may be, it is unique to you and there is no right or wrong answer. The safe harbor you need is somewhere inside yourself and you already know the way there and don’t be afraid to seek the aid of others. We are -as my first therapist told me- relational beings. There is no shame in what you are going through. There is nothing wrong with what you are thinking. There is nothing wrong with you.

Down the Gullet

90 tablets down the gullet,

The pain of the following hours a mirror

The pain of all preceding years-

The rendering of a life lost inside hopelessness

Loneliness and Fear

90 tablets down the gullet,

A miserable night awaiting deaths bitter kiss

The grim reaper: She-He-They never came,

But dawn did.

Now those who are close to me-

Ask if I am okay,

They really mean, “are you safe”

None to ask,

“Who are you?”

“What do you want to be?”

I need a place where the pain raging inside can be released. Is anyone there?

Rather than listen to my story:

They tell me, “You need help!”

They beg me, “Think of all who will miss you!”

This lack of empathy is because they are uncomfortable with my pain-same as me.

They tell me what I need to do because they are afraid because they do not know how to be there for me, sometimes both.

And so in the dark of the night despair from the terrors unseen chokes my voice: pain tears at my innards like a lioness her dinner. My hope is snuffed out like a candle meeting the breeze. I wonder if I can bare it any longer. Ruminating whether the unknown journey of death is less risk than the known. Somewhere in the dark the Grim Reaper beckons. All sound is gone now. Senses dulled. Paralysis has set in. Some call this a sickness.

Suicide is no sickness: my mind warning— things can no longer continue as they were. As they are.

That the path I’ve traveled, is ended. 

I Ignore the voices pleading with me to make their pain go away. And instead write or say a few words of encouragement to myself each day. And when the clouds blow away-as they will I’ll find my voice, again. I’ll know what my truth is.

I cannot make the pain stop by ignoring it nor even ending it. I must feel. Go through the darkness and whence through I’ll see a new path where light abounds and dreams scare the nightmares away.

I will overcome what is in all reality my own warning me that things cannot continue as they are. I am not weak for this. I am not less than they. I just am. And will be all that I can even in this storm the darkest of moments.

-EJB

I Don’t Belong

When exactly the feeling of not belonging began will remain forever a mystery to me. Only in the last year as I became more aware of my body, mind, and soul was I able to identify this feeling of oddity that kept from fitting in wherever I went. Kept me from experiencing acceptance into the group. Perhaps I stopped belonging after the abuse: perhaps I was born to not belong. Whatever the truth-any journey to know its origin is a practice in futility- the reality is that I’ve seen the world from a differently for as long as I can remember. And in a way I have not identified others as seeing it-or have not been aware enough to understand I am not the only one. What I do know is that this feeling of not belonging is not unique to me-perhaps, you feel it, too. This is why I write: as a young child books, poetry, and music were my escape from the harsh reality I was subjected to. They freed me from the pain and suffering: from the abuse. And maybe by writing my truth and sharing you I can be a part of the puzzle that helped me. I might not belong, but I can find a place where I am wanted.

I DON’T BELONG

I don’t belong in this world.

Many dislike my difference to them.

I have found not one,

Who accepts me as I am.

Not the way I do

None have loved me despite it all,

Not the way I do

Like a ghost uninvited

I flit back and forth

The chill air in my wake

Haunting my every breath.

I know I’m not the only one haunted by this.

My home rests here-in my poetry

Revealing to you

You’re loved just the way you are,

Flaws and all.

You, too, should not feel so alone.

And, when those feelings rise inside you

Know this, dear friend, I’m right there with you.

Despite it all,

Like a friend invited

Cheering your every step

And in our wake a tsunami of change crashes

You belong no matter your difference.

No Longer Alone

Perhaps the wildest thing for me to admit is that I have spent most of my thirty years as an emotional zombie. I was not taught about emotions and feelings as a child. My own feelings and emotions were not validated, and when I did feel if those feelings did not fit the narrative my parents thought was appropriate or made them feel uncomfortable. I was punished, shamed, or even beaten for expressing emotion. As a sexual abuse survivor this just as damaging for my development as the abuse I survived.

As an I adult I have struggled in relationships expressing my feelings and attracting to myself those who are comfortable with their own feelings. As the messages from my childhood play out over and over it has made for some difficult times and unsuccessful relationships.

The thought for this poem came to me a few days ago while I was thinking about how to describe what it feels like to be afraid of my parents. What those feelings were inside me and how they are expressed inside of me.

No Longer Alone

Your mother embraces you and you feel love:

Mine hugs me and I am scared.

Your father speaks and you feel inspired:

Mine talks and I feel fear.

My childhood was a place of danger.

Beaten for my feelings:

Punished for my pleas of help.

Used before I even had language to tell.

My childhood a house of horrors;

I survived alone.

Alone as a star a billion miles away in space.

I write these words so that I am no longer alone.

-EJB

The Forest

A direction I will be taking this blog is beyond posting my poetry, but also my short stories. This is the first short story I will post.

In a society where the product of it’s advancement is over-stimulation, we do not often allow ourselves to feel on our own. How often do we do this in relationship? Certainly, in the family I grew up in feeling was not exhibited in a healthy way -a point I’ve made in my poetry and posts here. What I have yet to do in my writings is view this from a positive perspective. I am attempting that here, and in this case I chose the setting to be a former couple coming together for a walk in the fall months to talk about their breakup.

The Forest

A, very imperfectly shaped, leaf broke away from the branch of a tree in the forest. Twirling gently in the wind this imperfectly shaped leaf slowly fell towards the already leaf strewn ground. Fall was in full effect, the breath of winter felt in the breeze. The leaves had all changed color and were falling to earth ready to be recycled for new life. This particular leaf was on it’s way to join the family when a man reached out and gently snatched it from the air and placed it in the red hair of the gal walking beside him. She stifled a pleased smile.

“Please, stop that. We are having a serious discussion.” She chided.

“You’re the forest queen now.” He nervously replied.

“It’s been eight months since we broke up, please don’t try to make me fall for you again.”

“I’m sorry. I feel anxious over this conversation. It’s been difficult for me leading up to this day.”

“Why?”

“I feel like… I feel remorseful over how we ended. More accurately I feel guilty we ended.”

“What do you feel guilty about? I thought it was appropriate.”

“I know. I did feel justified in breaking up.”

“You broke up with me!”

The man took a deep breath, “I know how this looks from your perspective. This is partly why I feel remorseful. I didn’t give you the chance I wanted. And I wanted….” Tears began to form in his eyes.

She put her hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay, I’m listening.”

He wiped his tears and sniffled, “Damn, this is hard. I broke up because I felt helpless and running is the only way I knew to find safety. It was not what I wanted.”

“But we always fought. And we never resolved.”

“I only fought you when I felt invalidated or humiliated. Those feelings frightened me and I tried to understand why you would “make” me feel that way. I couldn’t understand why someone who loved me wouldn’t want me to feel loved. Then I realized that I was so anxious and worried you would abandon me that your words and actions were being interpreted as threats. And I did not feel safe to express my feelings to you.”

“Did I do something to make you feel unsafe?”

“Yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“You would speak to me or others in ways that I didn’t agree with and rather than express my disagreement from my perspective I ignored them or tried to get you to fix this about you. It was like I was playing tennis with you, but after I hit the ball to your side of the court I would rush over and hit the ball for you rather than let you hit the ball back. I wasn’t very team friendly”

“That’s an interesting analogy.” She said curiously.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just hadn’t thought of it that way. I thought you didn’t like anything about me and you thought I could do no right.”

The man stopped, tears fell freely down his cheek and his voice cracked causing him to pause, “I’… I’m sorry for not validating your experience and letting you do your own work. There is so much good I thought of you, so much respect I ha… have for you. It frustrates me that I couldn’t tell you these things more often and that I couldn’t tell you my perspective and let you be autonomous. It’s against who I want to be and I’ve been working hard to correct this about myself.”

Another leaf fell in front of them.

“I too processed things,” she said, “When I didn’t feel safe with you I would retreat into a ball of anxiety and either go silent or forget things. I can imagine this made you feel excluded and inadequate. When I did this I was feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. I could have let you in and asked you for space when I needed it or asked you to hold me when I was overwhelmed.”

The tears fell from her eyes now, her voice cracked as she continued, “You made me feel safe and like I mattered, but when we would fight it confused me and scared me and I did what I knew to be safe: I retreated. I wasn’t very team friendly, either.”

The man stopped, “I need to sit down.”

The both sat on a log in silence. Watching the half naked branches of the trees sway in the cool breeze as leaves fell to the ground.

“You know,” he said as their eyes looked above, “I never actually minded our fights. They made me feel good that we disagreed and had our own opinions. I so desperately wanted to let you in and show the other side of me. Through no fault of your own I couldn’t get to that part of me.”

“You know,” she said as their eyes looked above, “I never actually minded our fights either. I always felt like we were being free to be ourselves. I didn’t like that we couldn’t seem to reach any conclusions after we fought. We just kept fighting. I wanted to validate your feelings and let you know you were loved even when you disagreed or couldn’t say exactly what you wanted to say. To let you in and show you the other side of me. Through no fault of your own I couldn’t get to that part of me.”

“What do we do now?” He asked.

“I think for we just reached resolution with our disagreement.”

“What does that mean?” He asked, the frustration rising in his voice.

“What is the emotion you just felt?”

“Frustration… you know, we don’t need resolution to mean anything. It’s important we resolved.”

“I think that’s a great point, and I agree.”

They both sat together in silence for a very long time -some say forever- two souls existing in the same space allowing each other to experience the moment the way they chose to.

The End

This Moment-Destiny

Growing up in a religious family I was taught that my future was pre-determined by God. That my life was a path mapped out for me and my role in my own story was to struggle against evil forces that would keep me from this path. I was a child who questioned everything from a place of great curiosity. If the answer didn’t make sense, I would dismiss the idea being presented. However, in my family -the way my parents’ choice to raise their children, there was no real option to question belief. I chose survival and cast myself headlong into making sense of the randomness of life by following a path created for me by a being I could not see or hear. The climax of this journey occurring in January of this year where I came face to face with choices that had placed me in a lifeless life. Choices I had abdicated to an ethereal destiny -much like the one I was taught God had for me. Though I haven’t been anywhere near religious for nearly an entire decade I was still living the by-product of that life and I hated myself for this. In two separate meditation sessions where I quieted myself long enough to listen to my inner world, I came face to face with my inner child. Upon that reconnection I was able to more authentically accept myself and learned to love who I was and the paths I was choosing to walk in the present and the future while allowing compassion for my past. This poem is an expression of that journey.

We are all on our own separate journey’s. Sometimes we come alongside others, sometimes we drift away. But always and forever you will be on a journey with your own self- yourself is the most important thing. Nourish and listen.

This Moment-Destiny

I looked around the antechamber of my own life-

The shock shooting through me like a bolt of electricity.

Peered into my future,

And saw the absolution of my past.

Choices made leading me towards,

Nothing.

Were they my own decisions?

Had I arrived at this precipice of fate,

Of my own will?

Those two questions haunted me.

My senses dulled from the sadness-

Blindness quickly overtook me.

The judgement of that moment-

Undoing of my own.

As if by instinct my arms reached out-

For what I cannot tell you.

Panic filled my soul!

Stepping forward, I fell.

The air, hot and stifling, rushed past my face.

Was this Hell?

Had the stories of the Bible been true?

Surely, this was all a dream-

But I did not awake.

Could not make myself wake.

The fall continued for some time-

No, I could not tell you how long.

Seconds or eons, the length matters not:

Suddenly, the air turned to a bitter cold.

Then, tropical in nature-

And in that moment, I came to rest.

Upon both feet.

In a whitewashed room.

My sight returned, slowly.

I began to make out a being-

Could sense their presence:

Familiar and foreboding:

Strength like a god emitted from them.

Fear began to shake me.

As my sight returned:

The being became clear,

And I could not believe my sight:

The stories of the Bible, remained, just that,

Stories!

My fall and all the sensations suddenly made sense.

Before me, in all the glory of a god,

Was myself,

Dressed in white, arm raised, pointing behind me.

I turned, hopeful for some guidance.

My brown eyes stared into the distance,

Straining to make out, anything.

A distant bright light blinded me,

I lifted hand to brow, shading the growing light.

Wondering, would a path appear?

None did.

Blinded by destiny-

All control lost; I began to rage against fate:

That cruel temptress of peace,

Who took more than she gave.

Always blocking the path forward,

Sabotaging the road traveled.

My rage grew as a fire roaring-

The more I tried, the greater the resistance.

Was I born cursed to a path of pain?

The torture of my existence my legacy.

My eyes grew wet with tears of loss.

I strained to see my destiny,

Yearned for, something-

Anything to make sense of it all.

I was here to guide myself!

Surely, at my feet a path will appear.

But none did.

The years ticked one then one more,

And I stood as a fixture, searching.

And as I was ready to give in-

To abandon all hope-

Then, another figure appeared.

Small and fragile, but full of life.

It took me a moment to recognize,

The figure was me, as a child.

My child ran to me and embraced me.

In that moment showing me,

All I was before.

My heart filled with happiness,

And my lips curved in a smile.

Then he pointed to me to my feet-

In front of me lay a path-

It had been there this whole time,

Of that I was now certain.

And in that moment, I knew my destiny,

Was built upon my choices.

My future firmly set in my own hands.

In an eyeblink I awoke,

No longer a slave to the current.

 -EJB