I see your children. Their beautiful blonde curls and their long eyelashes. Their dark, thick ponytails and their blue eyes. I see them, elbow deep in Easter egg dye and chocolate smears over giant smiles. I see them, through you. Your love, your frustration your joy. I cry when you cry for them, and want to wrap my arms around you, around them when life seems so unfairly cruel. I laugh when you laugh with them and wish to breathe in your happiness like the neroli-scented air of spring.

I try to stuff down my envy, my emptiness and the hollow, heart-shaped box of sorrow that resides in my chest. It echoes the ticking clock of my body as I watch motherhood happen all around me, but not within me. Childless in Bloglandia. An empty womb, a vessel devoid of her purpose.

When I tell people I have a blog, I am always met with this question “so, you’re like a mommy blogger?”

“No,” I say, swallowing a small lump, “I am not a mother.”

No, I am not a mother.

I never wanted to have children. Even though, if you asked anyone who has known me for any length of time, they would tell you I have a nurturer’s heart.  I am forever mothering those who have lacked. The old lady who lived in the shoe, a scattered collection of wounded hearts, entwined around me like vines of ivy. Their tendrils holding my bricks together.  All the while knowing, that my mothering instinct would just never be enough for a child. So, as is my way when things are too heart breaking for me to process, I gave up.

Then I met him. His love has changed everything. I see our children in every possibility, every story you all tell of triumph or of tragedy. I follow the trail of crumbs that your children leave, grasping up every morsel. The eternal aunt. As I watch my health waiver back and forth between glowing and dire, I see my own motherhood slip through my grasp and I mourn the thought of little spirit children. Souls waiting to be born to me who will never be. They will never hear my voice, but I hope they can hear my words.

Beautiful spirits,

I am sorry this life will pass without us seeing our love come to fruition. I feel that I am leaving you in safekeeping. I just wish the hands that guide you in this life would be mine.

But I am not strong enough.

I can see you, in my mind’s eye. You would have dainty hands like mine, a perfect nose like your father. You would be smart, you would be funny. You would be a royal pain in the ass because you of your brains and your humor. I miss you, already. I miss the possibility of you. I wish for nothing more than to bring you into the world and see you healthy and well. I am not either of those things.

I will never see you write your first words or call me mama or watch you pet your dog-sister. I will never teach you how to be gentle with her and not pull her ears. I will never teach you how to swim in our backyard pool among the flowering plants and the blistering heat. I will never be able to pawn off all of the household chores that I hate to do.

I will never hold your hands.

But your potential, I lock in my ribcage and hope that in my next life I am good enough to flesh you out. Until that time, watch over me and fill me with your spirit.

Love,

The girl who would be your mother

Below is communication, intercepted from my dog to my father outlaw, an attorney.

The poor, mistreated beast attempting to fake me into complacency

Mr [redacted],

My name is Ella Jane Fitzgerald of the Burke-Schrock household on the [redacted] estate. I recently contacted you regarding legal representation. However, it has been brought to my attention that my Humans have been made aware of my request. I am unsure (as I am a dog) if this is a violation of Attorney-Client privilege or if that even applies to canines. I can only ascertain that you have ratted me out because I have not yet paid my retainer.

I find this troublesome.

I am prepared to pay you a handsome sum, in big, slobbery kisses and and occasional, inappropriate dog farts. These are the only forms of currency I possess and I assure you they are highly prized in the Dog World. At this time, I am unable to share my treats as I fear that my Humans may deny me kibble due to their knowledge of my request for help. I think this is duress or coercion. What, you are surprised I know of these things? Golden Retrievers are renowned for their intelligence and I am no exception. Well, maybe when I slide across the tile in furious pursuit of my ball and I crash into the  door, or the wall, or the couch, or the bed, or innocent passers by. Maybe also when it is dark and I stare at that dog in the sliding glass door who looks suspiciously like me, but who refuses to introduce herself through the usual crotch sniffing measures. But most of the time, I am remarkably well educated.

I will contact you through less conspicuous means to discuss how you may represent me in my quest for filet mignon. My need is dire.

Thank you.

Woof,

Ella

It’s a funny thing, fear.  How it carries its weight in the front, all big barrel chest and booming voice. But, if you kick it in the rear how it would tumble ass over tea kettle.

Bravery is its own structure, heavier in the rear, quieter upon approach. It has a low center of gravity and a sturdy stance. You can overlook it if you aren’t paying attention, because fear always causes a commotion. Bravery stands quietly in the winds of conviction. Fear throws the cows and the trashcans and old Buicks in the storm. Bravery cleans the mess, rearranges the front yard and carefully fixes the broken windows.

I am working on my bravery.

For all of these years, I have been ruled by the loudest voice in my head. The one that hair-triggers my emotions and calls out to me embroider my same old patterns with my same old thread. I’ve been weaving this fabric for 18 years, now. Seems I would notice that it has fallen out of fashion. But, I’ve been too busy watching the storm to consider the rain.

I want to be fearlessly, relentlessly present. To appreciate that I will never stand in this space in exactly this same way ever again. Not tomorrow. Not ever. I want to feel the air move against my skin and know that I am meant to be here in this place. As I stand, right now. I am not a mistake. I am not something which was overlooked by a careless fate, rather I am on purpose. Purposeful.

Courage, purpose, presence. A mantra of simplicity which is endless in complexity.

http://www.formspring.me/byflutter

I am curious what you’d ask if you knew I wouldn’t have a clue who asked me. Go for it.

He’s sick.

His heart, I’m sure. But certainly, his body. Frail and thin where once was thick and strong, tall. He had the warmest hands. I used to hold them, thinking cold hands, warm heart. It only occurs to me now, how perfectly he is the opposite. His hands now two palms full of sticks. Dry, lifeless.

They used to create art. Now they create havoc. Or, maybe they always did.

His smoking followed him like a faithful dog. A habit so natural that I was convinced, for so long, that he shit cigarette butts. It kept him from us, and tied like fishing nets to the depression that has wrapped its tumor into his bones. I used to look for him as I was acting or singing my way into a new persona, knowing his seat in the audience was empty. The dust motes from the spot lights filling in his form, a ghost father.

What he’s always been.

In that, he became the architect of my curious desire. Building with his inattention my need to please. My own fixation laying footprints behind me in the sand. My need to grab his attention like the long end of a wishbone. Sought after, rarely achieved.  I watch myself hate him as my years paint more of him onto my face.

His weakness pulls from me no sympathy and I watch as every minor drama lands him back in his home. I wonder if he feels at home. I wonder if he cares. I wonder what will finally make me vulnerable. If that is such a thing to want to be. I will never have him as I want him. Vibrant, joyous, real. I have him as trails  of smoke, smelling stale as I search.

He is marrow and I lack it in my bones. I don’t know how to fix it, or if I can. Or if I want to. My love for him is wrapped in assuring for his care. It is all I can give and it seems so far from good enough.

I have decided that I am in the wrong industry. Rubbing naked people isn’t nearly as lucrative as writing shit ass song lyrics. In one, disturbing commute I was assaulted by the most inane menagerie of songs ever witnessed by man or beast. Observe:
Replay
Remember the first time we met
You was at the mall wit yo friend (wit yo. seriously)
I was scared to approach ya
But then you came closer
Hopin’ you would give me a chance

Who would have ever knew (Oh, may the grammar Gods smite thee with a vengeance.)
That we would ever be more than friends
We’re real worldwide, breakin all the rules (um…wha? what exactly was yo doing wit yo friends at da mall?)
She like a song played again and again (she sho are)

That girl, like somethin off a poster

That girl, is a dime they say (translate, please!)
That girl, is a gun to my holster
She’s runnin through my mind all day, ay

Shawty’s like a melody in my head
That I can’t keep out
Got me singin’ like
Na na na na everyday
It’s like my iPod stuck on replay, replay-ay-ay-ay

See you been all around the globe
Not once did you leave my mind
We talk on the phone, from night til the morn
Girl you really change my life
Doin things I never do
I’m in the kitchin cookin things she like (usually I am a total asshole who will only cook shit you hate)

We’re real worldwide, breakin all the rules
Someday I wanna make you my wife (maybe we can get married at the mall, wit my friend)
That girl, like somethin off a poster

That girl, is a dime they say (yeah, I don’t know)
That girl, is the gun to my holster
She’s runnin through my mind all day, ay

Shawty’s like a melody in my head (do people SAY Shawty anymore? and wtf? I am 5’10″. Clearly not the target audience)
That I can’t keep out
Got me singin’ like
Na na na na everyday (neener neener neener!)
It’s like my ipod stuck on replay (you should get that fixed), replay-ay-ay-ay (ay ay ay is right. )

Ay (and forsooth!), I can be your melody

girl I could write you a symphony (but instead I wrote you THIS!)
The one that could fill your fantasies
So come baby girl let’s sing with me (what? let’s sing with me?)

Ay, na na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Shawty got me singin
Na na na na na na na (also see: la la la or no no no no)
Na na na na na na na (yep, clearly a mind capable of a symphony)
Now she got me singin

Now, I can handle this level of craptastic, because at least it isn’t totally fucking offensive liiiiiike ohhhhhh, I don’t know, THIS LITTLE DIDDY:

Sexy Bitch

Yes, I can see her
’cause every girl in here wanna be her
Oh! She’s a Diva…
I feel the same, (wait, you feel like a Diva? Or you feel like you want to be her? Either way, not particularly masculine)
And I wanna meet her

They say: “She low down…” (…?)
It’s just a rumour I don’t believe ‘em!
They say: “She needs to slow down…” (…!?)
The “baddest” thing around town! (this is just screaming to be on this blog)

She’s nothing like a girl you’ve ever seen before!
Nothing you can compare to your neighborhood whore! (not just a whore, but a whore! Because really, what’s a neighborhood without one? Whores. They are the new Applebees)
I’m tryinna (I call bullshit. This isn’t a word found in nature) find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful!

The way, that booty movin’ – I can’t take no more
Have to stop what I’m doin’, so I can pull up her close
I’m tryinna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch, sexy bitch! (See? that wasn’t so hard! Totally respectful!)
Damn, you’s a sexy bitch!

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you’s a sexy bitch!

Damn Girl!!!

Yes, I can see her
’cause every girl in here wanna be her
Oh! She’s a Diva…
I feel the same,
And I wanna meet her

They say: “She low down…”
It’s just a rumour I don’t believe ‘em!
They say: “She needs to slow down…”
The *baddest* thing around town!

She’s nothing like a girl you’ve ever seen before!
Nothing you can compare to your neighborhood whore!
I’m tryinna find the words to describe this girl without being

disrespectful!!!

The way, that booty movin’ – I can’t take no more
Have to stop what I’m doin’, so I can pull up her close
I’m tryinna find the words to describe this girl without being

disrespectful

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you’s a sexy bitch!

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you’s a sexy bitch!

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you’s a sexy bitch!

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you’s a sexy bitch!

Damn! You’s a Sexy Bitch!

What a mother’s dream. An entire song dedicated to her daughter’s ass, wherein the word “whore” and “bitch” are used no fewer than 400 times. He’s a keeper! Maybe, in a different context  this song is totally acceptable. Maybe, if we set it into another genre? The flutter society for the classupafication of popular music would like to present…..

Damn, You’se a Sexy Bitch: The Aria

Nope. That didn’t work either. Shawty is going to be so disappointed.

* edited to add: I did a perfect take of the aria, the first time only to realize that I had a piece of cheese hanging from my lip. I looked like I had a dairy goiter

I love Facebook.

I know a lot of people don’t. A lot of people freak out at the time-sucking nature of it or that they don’t want everyone to know their biz. It appeals phenomenally to my twisted inner voyeur. I love seeing photos of people looking gorgeous with their families. I love seeing the successes. But really?

I can be one snarky fucking bitch and Facebook is the ultimate in jerk-hiding-behind-a-keyboard equality.

I have found my high school best friend, who is a gorgeous, successful attorney. I have found a dear friend of our family, whose children encompass some of my very favorite childhood memories. My dear friend from Junior High is on Facebook.  My mom is on Facebook. My sister, my brother, my cousins, my fiance.

Then I got a friend request from a dude I knew in high school. He told me, back then that he thought I was pretty. Then he proceeded to piss all over my locker. Therapy has taught me that this is the equivalent of his pulling my pigtails in the third grade. Common sense has taught me that this is the equivalent of him pissing all over my locker. I clicked over to his profile, noting that he has gone into the ministry.

Clearly his guilt over defiling my locker changed his entire life. HIS ENTIRE LIFE. I mean clearly, he was so bereft at the act of using my locker as a urinal, he turned to God to make it right.  Well look,  locker pisser; God may have forgiven you, but I don’t. Friend request, DENIED. It tickled me to no end to be so utterly passive aggressive. Therapy has taught me that this is my way of avoiding a conflict with someone who intimidated me. Common sense has taught me that Monsignor McPissalot can kiss my ass. God bless you.

He and I share many common “friends” one of whom asked me to spy on her boyfriend while we were in Spanish class. She was remarkably popular, incredibly beautiful and terminally stupid. I was not popular, not beautiful and not stupid. Her terrible idea became my mission in life, lest she make my day to day school going completely miserable. I watched her boyfriend like a hawk in our common classes, watching for the slightest hint of his infidelity. There were none. Like all of the teenage guys on campus, he was completely cock blinded to what an insecure psychopath she was. I summoned up my balls one day and decided to put a stop to my subterfuge.

I walked right up to him  and said “Hey, your girlfriend has little minions all over campus watching your every move to make sure you don’t cheat. So, either you want to reassure her that you’re into her, or you need to tell her to get some meds. She’s being crazy.”

I watched his face change in light of this information. Wow, I thought, I am really making a difference here. I started to feel smug in my morality, I was saving him untold heartache. Yes, she was going to make me suffer for it, but wow, he really got it. I watched the rage, then fear, then sadness and finally confusion settle over his handsome face.

Then he said, “Wait, what’s a minion?”

Fuck.

His girlfriend socked me in the cheek in the girl’s locker room and flushed my gym shorts down the toilet that same afternoon. So, imagine my surprise when she found me on Facebook and sent me the following message:

Chris,

I totally forgive you for trying to destroy my relationship with [redacted]. I know it’s because you were pathetic in high school, but it’s totally cool now. No worries. We’ve been married since 1993 and have 3 kids. [redacted] who is 16, [redacted] who is 13 and [redacted jr] who is 12.

Isn’t it funny how life works out? [redacted] and I send our love.

XOXO sweetie,

Scary-ass-psycho-bitch-who-clearly-topped-out-at-17

Emboldened by my laptop screen, the fortress of my keyboard and a healthy sense of outrage, I replied the following:

Dear SAPBWCTOA17,

You’re married! To [redacted]! That’s awesome. Doing simple math, I’ve surmised by the ages of your children that your wedding was either outfitted by Vera Wang maternity, or you used your first born as your ring bearer. Either way, I am sure the affair was lovely, even with the visible presence of a shot gun.

Your love astounds us all and is something to which I, personally, aspire. Tell [redacted] to look up that word, you know, in a dictionary. I remember that big words make his head hurt and clearly that brain is something to be protected.  I would hate to think of him taking a sharp blow and all of the sudden having had some sense knocked in.

Pathetic is all relative, I suppose. I realize I was quite nearly voted “Most Likely To Trip Over Herself While Watching A Bird”, but I am engaged to someone who was voted “Capitalist Most Likely To Own Your Ass” and we have managed to do fairly well. Without the use of outside private investigators in the form of teenage girls. Will the accomplishments never end?

I do hope you’ve managed to instill in your children a sense of self esteem, which prevents them from using people to make themselves feel better.  I would hate to see your ugly cycle continue. But, I am certain you’ve done the necessary work to ensure that this won’t happen.

Hugs and smooches, cupcake. My totally stable, able to complete full sentences and has never suffered from premature ejaculation unlike someone’s husband I know, fiance and I send our best regards.

Actually, no we don’t.

Christine

Strange, she didn’t friend request me. Hmm.  I was so hoping I’d be invited to her daughter’s sure to be upcoming baby shower.

I like Twitter as well. But, there is no chance that my mother will ever “accidentally” see me call someone a shitninja, or a douchejelly, because she doesn’t Twitter. I had to admit that even though I am 34 and I adore my mother, I do sometimes love to shock her. Facebook is such a delightful tool to use to this end.

Facebook is like a pixelated reality TV show. There is drama. Bad behavior. Terrible hair. Moments of poignancy. There is also me laughing hysterically at the friend request sent by the company mattress that I used to work with at the Not-t0-be-named retail establishment. The one who came up with thinly veiled ways of calling me fat. “Sturdy”, “Statuesque”, “Bigger” and my personal favorite “Zaftig”. Except, she pronounced it “Zatfig”. I asked her if that was Zaftig’s illiterate cousin. She stomped off on her little pencil legs, her flouncy skirt bouncing off behind her.

So, no, you twig legged, lemur-eyed nasally voiced little troll. I will not be your friend. Not on Facebook, not in life. I shall make fun of you, and your rat’s nest hair and your yellow fingernails and your teeth that are 5 times too big for your chinless face. I will politely hand you back your friend request with a polite suggestion that you may shove it up your ass. Except, I know that you are currently using that orifice to entertain three quarters of the straight men who work in the company. So, keep my suggestion for when you have a vacancy.

I will, however, look through all of your photos and marvel at the feat of physics which keeps your giant head balanced on your tiny body. Because that is what Facebook is for.

I love an infomercial. The impossibly difficult broom, which will never sweep under your bed no matter how many times you hit the side of the bed frame with it. The only solution to which must be the Uber Super Simple Mop with Rotating Head and Spraying Jets which can Pick Up Dust and Eradicate Allergins ™! I know the magic of $19.95 will garner me a useless item which sprays only out of one jet and is too big to fit into the dirty corners which need the  most help. But, I am rapt in watching, wondering if somehow my witchcraft fingers are the only ones to make this silly thing useful. This is simply the most entertaining of all the things I hate about myself.

Somewhere along the line of childhood, I became convinced that my parents were going to stop feeding me. This was never threatened or implied. It was never even mentioned. But somewhere in the fray of growing, my fear grew in my fibers, a panic which has never left me. I remember my mother asking me if I knew where the peanut butter was. I remember the way the light slanted in through our 1940′s windows, into our drab yellow kitchen. I remember looking at her painted toenails against the dingy, but clean floor. I remember looking her right in the eye and lying.

“No, Mom, I don’t.”

All the while, the entire family’s Skippy was hiding in my underwear drawer with a sleeve of saltine crackers. Just in case. A nuclear holocaust nor irrational fear of parental neglect could touch me with a stash of snacks mingled amongst my “Tuesday” panties.  I would sit in the crowded closet I shared with my sister and eat stale crackers, spread with the thinnest layer of peanut butter, hidden behind a napkin.

Yesterday, I noticed as Clay and I sat in our living room, I ate carrot sticks in small bites, keeping the rest hidden away from him. Not for fear that he would take them from me or that there wouldn’t be more. Simply the act of putting food in my mouth in the presence of other people causes a panic in me, which takes every shred of my resolve to overcome. I hide things in napkins and bags and behind my cupped fingers. The shame of my need, of my fear almost overwhelming. Food is a comfort that cannot be treated like a drug addiction. I will always need to eat. I will always need to fight the shame that accompanies every bite.

I know what you think of me.

I had that thought as I sat in San Francisco in the summer of 2008, with four beautiful women who write. We were in one of the city’s 9.7 million Thai establishments. I watched orders being placed and I ordered my own. Heaping plates of steaming rice and fragrant sauces were placed down in front of them and 6 pieces of cubed tofu in front of me. I ate slowly, judging myself through their eyes. They never said I should only eat tofu. They all tried to offer me food from their own generous plates, from their own generous hearts. I chewed slowly and willed myself smaller in my own skin. The process was repeated at breakfast, at dinner, at lunch. I drank large glasses of water and diet coke and ignored my dizziness. My blood sugar was at 67 when I went on my panel to speak.

This is simply one of the least entertaining of all the things I hate about myself. The extremes of gorge and deny.

I saw my therapist today, for the first time in almost 3 months. I wondered last night, as I tried to fall asleep, how it would feel to see him again. To see his name in my check registry. To admit that I need him. There is a daft shame that accompanies needing anyone, all while just being desperate to feel needed. To admit needing the work to be well enough to love your soul mate in the way they deserve to be loved. Not the sick love of a sick person, the healthy love of a well person. I know I have the ability to give that to Clay. That I have denied it this long is the thing I hate about myself the most.

Clay deserves me. So do I.

paper thin conviction,
Turning another page,
Plotting how to build myself to be
Everything that I am not at all.

I’m one of them.

(sung to the tune of “O Holy Night”. My apologies to the hymn writer and all those who love “O Holy Night” and also, Jesus.)

(further, this isn’t actually my neighbor’s house….but trust me, it isn’t far off)

Oh, Holy Crap

the neighbor’s lights are blinding

the only lights Hubble can see on Earth

Long lay the elf

in the garage deflating

til pumps appeared

and then air filled his girth

the lighted reindeer

in their front yard glowing

as Santa rides a Harley

on the roof

Fall, on your knees!

your retinas are burning

Oh, for the love of God

where did they get all of this crap?

Oh why? Oh why?

Oh why, please tell me why

Fall on your knees

Spongebob is on the front lawn

Oh, Holy crap.

In my interview with Danielle over at Knotty Yarn, she asked me an interesting question involving a theme that she noticed in my writing. She called my blog a poem to my 17 year old self.  I’d never considered what I’ve written here in that capacity. But, as a body of work, I can see how it easily and seamlessly falls right into that description. I wrote myself a letter in that interview, which has been churning around in my mind as incomplete.

I view my life in two very distinct chapters. Before my rape and after. But lately, it feels as though a third, unfamiliar chapter is beginning to take shape. It is begging for my attention. Pulling, pushing, challenging.  It seems to be demanding that I graduate from this long-fought  period of pain and emerge into my birthright. Below is the commencement speech to the girl I am becoming.

Go, with passion. Ever forward progressing with the fire of things which bring you joy, go. In the morning, after your blackest dreams, leave them waiting and fight them again later, with your sleeping mind. They have no place in your waking life, go.

Go, with boldness. You are a shining creature of light. Hiding it serves you no purpose and denies those around you the opportunity to soak up your glow, go.  Write your words and sing your songs. Paint your world with your own perspective. Your brushstrokes are a living legacy to more than just your survival. They are a sequined walkway to your success, go.

Go, attack those things you think you cannot do with the same fearlessness you attack the things you know you can do. Your only failure is when you are too afraid to go.  Go.

Go, love with the fullness of your heart and count on it to be broken. But dance, in the glory of love for whatever time it lasts. When you find it in its permanence, prepare for it not to be easy. But rather to be worth it. So know that you will carry battle scars, but you are a warrior. Go.

Go with confidence. Your past is not your future and is merely a shadow in your present. It is left to you to forgive. Forgiveness is not for the one who is wrong. It is for the peace of the one who is right. Act with mercy, go.

There are absolutes. There are grays. There is a world of absolute balance and chaos. It is not for you to fix, or even understand. It is for you to navigate with grace, with humility. With kindness. You are all of these things and more that are yet to be named, go.