November 27, 2014

November 27, 2014

November 27, 2014

what are we     when we fight     alone                like chattel worn
while angered       and bewildered    by forces            we once sworn
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who are we       once we shed   their lies   their dreams     their maze
that inspired us       but defined us        in relation to  their  Gaze
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November 26, 2014

I remember the call, I was at home alone, downstairs, in my parent's bathroom. He said he knew I had seen this guy , that I had fucked up big time this time, and to stay put.   I felt my knees go weak, and I slid to the floor of the master bathroom- shaking, moaning aloud, sobbing, and dreading his arrival home. I felt what dread feels like pulsating in the pit of my stomach.
He had taken a gun out on me before, and had tried to run me off the road on another occasion. My fear probably disproportionately reflected his constant barrage of threats, but at the time I thought I had a reasonable grasp on what he was capable of in a fit of rage. And nothing seemed too fucked up to be ruled out.
His dominion over my space- his worldview, backed by his age, gender, power, and status as head of house- structured my waking life for a time. It wasn't all bad, but when it was bad, it was a stifling, crippling, toxic sort of terrible; a pattern of awful that, invariably, imprinted itself on my psyche.
My last couple years in high school, I remember how much I used to look forward to sleeping. The highlight of my day was the prospect of respite from his overwhelming,  enervating presence, and what felt like an insatiable, irrational desire to control every aspect of my life.
Despite the remarkable stay power of a few painful memories, as early as my early 20's, soon after ending my marriage to this other guy, I thought I had forgiven him for his faults, for whatever negative setbacks to my life I could straightforwardly trace back to his actions, that I wished him only well, and that I was ready to let go and move on.
I used to believe forgiveness was the ideal, as I still do. But I also used to believe it was a conscious choice, 100% in my control. As I get older it is that assumption that I find is increasingly called into question. I see so much of him in me. And I have to reconcile that fact with the better version of myself I fashioned in my sleep.
This Thanksgiving I am grateful for my health, for my family, my sister, my brother, my mom, and my dad, for my friends, for Sean, for my voice, freedom of mobility, freedom over my person, for my students, whom I adore, and I pray for the strength to use my voice, talent, and ability to work to promote the well being of all those in less fortunate circumstances than myself, to forge a space where I can do so optimally. I pray for wisdom, patience, understanding, and grace.

November 24, 2014

to be able to account for myself,     my motives, decisions, actions
to identify with my own voice,       its weakness, strength, content
to be able to predict my own laughter or tears,  to maintain my grip

November 24, 2014

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November 22, 2014

my     wander  aloud    words
immaterial       as they were
i remember      i had thought
were   no match      for  her
material               curves