Today I sat in a hospital room, surrounded by the sterile environment I had learned to hate, to fear. In a not so distant past, a childhood not so far from me, I to was in need of cleansing. This though, is different. This, is my child. The heart of my heart. I wanted to cover him with me. I needed that. Tonight an ambulance drove away with my son. To a sterile place. No curtains no string. No guns, razors or glass. No privacy. Tonight he is without me, but also without the means to take his own life. 

For you my son….

Hello. I’m sure you’re not asleep. I know you’re laying there staring at your hands, wondering if you will ever have the chance to hurt the man, once a child, that raped you…again and again. I know that pain. That loss. My words will never be enough to heal you, no matter how many are here…this time, I just can’t do it alone. I heard you. I know you hate me right now and that’s okay because so do I. I have nightmares of you being chased, and I am unable to save you, to give you warmth and love, safety and peace. I can’t do anything. Much like you, I just don’t know what to do or who to be or even who I am anymore. If I was the kind of person who could take a life it would be his, for you. I was blessed to feel your heart beat next to mine, to smell you and hold you as close as one ever could. And for you I would kill, and right now, I wish I was that kind of human being. 

My sweet son, my love, I’m sorry you’re where you are. That I cannot make you better, make you forget, make you whole, is my failure to own. It was never and will never be yours. You are so brave, beyond and measure you are the courage I need now. For you I am still awake. I am here. I am here for you. 

Please don’t die. I know you want to. I know you’re in there, somewhere, under the pain, waiting to live again. I love you. I miss you. I love you so much my heart is truly, and completely, beating for you. I, will always be here, for you, heart of my heart.

Love, Me.

I am angry. I want to hurt him, make him bleed for what he has done. I want him to feel all the pain, to rip his innocence from him and I want him to be wrapped in my sons shame, rage, and fear. I want….I want this to be over. 
There is no amount of surrender I can give to this. I don’t want to. There is no forgiveness. My family is broken. Now, at least, I suppose, we know when the broken pieces fell for our son and where we can begin a new life…unknown but new. That has to be something right? That’s all I have…I don’t know what to say to my precious child. The child who’s photos are throughout our home. Looking at them, I can see when it started, I can see the pain. I feel the pain. I can hear the screams and it cuts me, bleeds me dry. This new and unknown is what I have. I’ll take it. I’ll take it because it means my son is still here, and I will not sit by and allow him to be a victim a moment longer. 


Like wind blowing across hot dry sand my memories are fleeting

But the stones so heavily in place keep the things I want to forget 

As if branded like cattle before slaughter

They are always here

When I thought like a child I had two abortions. 

When I felt like an adult I made decisions that scarred my womb, my heart, forever.
The thought of what I was about to do, the life I knew I was about to end, made me ill. I threw up all the medication they gave me, and because I didn’t show them my vomit and flushed it, they refused more meds and told me I’d be fine. I wasn’t. I felt the life they took on my behalf. I felt the tearing as my eyes welled, and tried to get away. They held me down. They did an ultrasound, and found more of my unborn, and held me down again while they leaned up the mess I had made, and vacuumed out what was left of my aching heart. 

I lay there, and imagined what my birth mother chose not to do to me. For the first time in my life I was truly thankful for the life I had, and thankful that she didn’t have to endure the same pain I was in. 

I was alone.

I took a pill that was meant for abortions at under seven weeks. I went in for an ultrasound. The nurse took my lies while looking at my womb, grey and alive. She took them and made them her own and signed papers giving me permission to abort at home. 

I took the pill, alone, on a spring morning. I sat on a toilet as my body spasmed when the medicine kicked in. I cried. I held my body close. I was alone with my choice. Alone with yet another life I CHOSE to take. My body bore a tiny life, in which I gathered up in a specimen jar, and placed in a bag, in a freezer, in a doctors hands, in a trash can for human waste, in a burning pit, deep deep in my soul. 

I knew the lives I took. I felt their end. I love them even now. 


Write? How?!?

When my anxiety is at peak performance I feel like I am being smothered with bubblewrap. If I move it will pop pop pop and my face will cringe, my fists will tighten, my heart will beat faster.
That’s how I feel now.
I woke up dandy! I feel great! I just don’t want to disturb the force!
I feel like ending everything I type with an exclamation point!!! Because I’m anxious!!!!!
See? Can you feel the stress of nothingness as you read that?
My anxiety has given me writers block.
It’s driving me crazy. The kind of crazy that comes along when you’re weeding a garden and find that never ending crab grass. No matter how much you yank, cut, pull…it’s there, mocking you!
I know this dose of jitters will end when I find the words for what I’m avoiding, or over compensating for.
What am I afraid of and distracted by? Everything or nothing. When I figure it out I am sure the drops of words will turn into the waterfalls of wisdom, words to live by.
For now, it’s just heavy. It’s hurting. It’s lonely.
I don’t feel it. But IT is there.
My inner human is acting like a child. I want to be out in the world, while my take charge brain screams to shelter in place. Beware. Stop. So much happens out there. In here is where safety is found.

The World Is Stone — And now and then an elephant all white.

This is a post I read days ago, but I have read it over and over. There is a point to be made in each sentence about the narrow view we have of others, even if unintended. 

What would the soundtrack of your life sound like? Would it change you as a person if the stories never told by others could be heard through a song? 

I sometimes wonder what the soundtrack to my life sounds like to other people. It’s an odd supposition, I know, but I wonder about it. Do they watch me walk down the street and hear a silly Allan Thicke theme song? Do they hear a sweeping Jerry Goldsmith musical score, or an eclectic Quinton Tarantino […]

via The World Is Stone — And now and then an elephant all white.

For a Heart that is sick…

There is a little girl, not quite three, dying of stage four cancer. Her parents are friends of a fellow infantryman my husband is close with. 

Her heart may be ravaged by this terrible disease, but her smile shines bright when the police officers stop by and visit. Her time on this earth is short and her mom would like to make her a gift…a quilt of police badges, blue and bright, to keep her safe on lonely nights.

If you have a spare or know someone who may give a badge to place on this blanket of love, email me at and I will give you my address. I will then forward it to the family. Thank you friends!

Never Make A Plan!!!

Feeling overwhelmed minions? I too struggle with this little turd called anxiety…I just never know when that riptide of panic will hit, but I have grown enough to know who or what can trigger it…

We went fishing for the Fourth of July weekend, and let me tell you that after all the epic (as in expensive) mechanical failures of the past month I couldn’t make the following up if I tried.

Let’s set the tone with a pre-road trip run down shall we? 

Washing machine leaked all over basement.

My van has a flat tire…damn it

Couldn’t (still can’t) find glasses


***In our SUV we have me, my husband, one man size 14 year old son and our daughter, Little son, baby son, 130 lb dog child, 40 lb puppy child. Packed around us are our needs for the weekend. On top of said SUV are two kayaks.***

Driving to our favorite fishing hole on the Missouri/Arkansas border is about four hours give or take…unless you make plans, as I did, to get there in that time frame. 
First was the traffic which was backed for miles in both directions at a crucial point of our road trip – so we had to take a two hour detour which only got us 33 miles from home. Siri, if you’re maker is reading this – kiss my butt.

Two hours later we reach the famed, nay infamous ‘candy shop’ and baby needs to stretch his legs. While walking around our beloved SUV had over heated AND the oil light was on AND the check engine light was giving off the ‘it’s to late you’re doomed’ glare. In need oil? Yes! Nearest gas station? 6 miles away. Stress level high and pricey! Oh did I forget to mention that as a result of Siri’s flagrant disregard of our schedule said candy shop/gas station was closed when we pulled up? Yeah, it was that kind of night.

We get to our destination at around midnight. SEVEN hours after we’ve left home. Both dogs need to pee, I need to pee, baby is pissed off and my husband looks like he’s about to stroke out. Baby slips on wet floors. I slip on wet floor…because you know…it’s RAINING! Pardon my language but in my mind I thought to myself ‘what fuckery is this?!?’ 

Alas we wake Saturday to find rain but no fish. Our son Jay caught one…just one troutsie…for the entire day. (That was one splendid fish…so yummy, but as a total for the day not enough for a family meal.) We decided to load up our hot-n-sexy SUV for a beer run…which yes, Siri, that bitch, took us on a scenic drive for 1.5 hours to a Walmart we had never seen, past the one we would have had to do an illegal u-turn (on a major four lane road no less) to get to. Sigh. Forget the beer, I bought two loaves of French bread and a bag of cookies. Omm nomm nomm. I love you bread. You heal me.

But Sunday, sweet sweet blessed Sunday…
It rained just enough to keep the fish biting and the temperature pleasant, well, for July anyway!

Jay (man sized child) caught his limit of trout…

Birdie caught hers too!

It was nice enough that we got to swim in the afternoon…so we all got to nap too for the bonus. Yay me!

Bravo caught his limit and met a guy who was a nephew of a man he served with – small world! It made his weekend.

I got to fish ALONE. Peace. Quiet. I even caught a few trout myself! 

My husband Bravo and Jay got to kayak…and promised that next time I get first dibs. 


Where Water Meets the Fire

The worlds gone mad



This is not 

The world

I imagined 

Living in


Stands still

The calm


The storm

My world

Is filled

With joy

And peace

With love

With hope
It runs deep
With hate
Follow me 

Some cry

For me 

I will stand

I won’t 

Sit by

As lives are taken

As my



Fears for

My child with out





Voices of


Who fight

To make their world

A better place

Place me here

Above the noise

I choose 

A life




To my door


The glass

To see 


The window

To feel that


For my children

And theirs 

I say


I say


As Petals Fall, So do We

I do not know how to hate

A person 

For the color

Of their skin

Or their choice of faith

I do not understand

The seething rage

That lies within others

Are we all not woven 

From the same tapestry

One of vibrant color

Each strand a different story

All together creating 

That which blankets 

The earth

I do not see

Your shades of brown, red, nude, tattoos

I do not see your denomination or lack there of

I see what it covers

Not so different 

Never the same

No color

No hate

***My thoughts and prayers are with those who have suffered loss on both sides of the police brutality equation – Those taken before their time at the hands of someone designated to protect them and those who have died protecting us in all the right ways. Bravery knows no color.***

What the Media Takes Away

Please read this post by my friend and fellow blogger Deb. Her perspective of the last few days of violence and the media circus surrounding it has given me perspective. Her words are touching and filled with truth..and I can’t find my own words just yet.

Stuck at the Gate

I arrived home, realizing I’d been avoiding my mailbox like the plague. My life has been busy lately, and busy tends to be translated as anxious x10 to my worrisome mind.

I killed our lawn mower. My husband killed our SUV and my van nearly died. All in that order over a three week period. While I’d like to say I handled this and the heating element of my dryer also dying with grace and patience…I did not. (But I sure thought I did!) It’s was all well and good until I showered a few nights ago. Then the tears fell – over my inability to use the soap dispenser with my ‘write’ hand. I sat down and sobbed, which made it worse, which made me sadder still. (Holy shit it’s been a ride. So glad I can’t repeat the past.)

Air drying towels and jeans should be a sin. There’s nothing I hate more than crispy towels and crunchy jeans. I can only compare it to stale cereal. Just yuck.

Anyway. That’s not what this is about.

In my mailbox was a letter…from my mother. Her cursive writing that spelled out my name and address made me feel heavy, like a laundry basket full of wet towels. I just placed it under my arm, walking inside feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders…

As I opened the envelope and pulled out the card I could see through the light blue background more cursive, more wordy thoughts, more glaring, dead references about my life, because judging is what she has always seemed to do best when it came to me. There wasn’t a bit of space left. Words were everywhere.

Not now I thought. I just can’t. I put the baby to sleep. I did dishes, folded clothes. I could not forget I’d gotten it.

Mom wrote…

Dear Bits, I was in a car accident in December in Portland. I was on my way to see my friend, my best friend since preschool. She took her own life. I didn’t know. It happened in October, but her husband hadn’t told anyone. He sent my Christmas card back, writing on the back that she’d passed. I called him and he told me everything. Just so sad.

I felt like the world had swallowed me up. 

I felt like an asshole.

I felt like a selfish asshole.

I read the rest. Out of guilt, out of remorse, and because my shame compelled me to.

Deep breath. It’s just words right?

My mothers parting lines – 

I want to ask your forgiveness and begin the restoration of our mother/daughter relationship. Let us cross over the bridge together that has kept our relationship apart, and move forward.

In my 35 years of life, not once has she said ‘I’m sorry’ for the things she’s done. Though she raised me to say it, believe it, bleed that forgiveness from every sorry pore.

I’m not ready

Deep breath

I don’t want to put away that list

The one filled with pain

Of abuse and manipulation

That one that keeps me here

Standing at the gate

My mother, filled with religion, with blame

The abyss I see just before the bridge she asks me to cross with her

I can’t

I know I should. I know that. Everything I have ever been taught, by her no less, has shown me it’s better, easier, right to cross that bridge. Everything , every Thing she’s ever done has only led me to a road void of love, and laden with the pot holes of her heavy hand, my burden to lay bare here.

Here is where I admit I hate the things she did/didn’t do. My own seething anger for all the times she beat the shit out of us because she wasn’t stable, able, willing to love – it leaves a taste of bitter fruit. The thought of letting go is at first so enticing, until a bite is taken and the drip of reality hits my palette. I can’t…

…But I will.