Whats in my mirror?

Where do I stand when I look in the mirror? My feet lost in the abyss and my mind in space. What part of me should I be looking at? I’m not sure what part to observe.

Do I start with my hair? The mane of a lioness that flows into the ethereal and sheds its warnings to poachers that I, have been here, this Space I claim, and I will return. The nest of knots that have interlocked and woven together with little outside assistance and certainly less time in process of realignment of strands to be side by side. The firey and wirey reachings of keratin and pigment that swirl and stretch, break snap , and grab onto the fury of expressions through the crown. Tendrils swaying lower and peering over my back and softly teasing my bosom.

Do I then follow the lingering locks? Loaded and unloaded, lifted and left empty breasts of past time beauty that will never have the lust again. Mounds of nutrient and nourishment now perused over like leftovers and cold storage. The swaying between sensual and supplementation has ceased yet the sloping has increased. Drippings of sustenance silenced and the yearning for connection screams. Etchings of years of experiences fall off the front lines and lean into a flattening scape of exiting excitement, lowering the gaze to the maze of the puddling of passions passed.

Do I pass through the ridges, over my roughened experiences of readiness? Rafting beyond the wild and untamed rivers that flowed out of the canal of my womanhood, where woman meets child and child becomes woman. The carvings in the rites of passage as the pathway was stumbled upon and often into. Paddling with fervor and full force embracing the waves and then, knocked out of the steady ship. Sinking deep into the plundering of what treasures would later surface to prove the journey is a darker blue than previously mapped. Out of the womb and wondering, now with proof of the seekers and the seers which now navigate the tides of life.

Should I lead with the lead that is in my step? Prying up the anchor of taking a stance and stabilizing with air underfoot I could focus on the pose of disposition. Repositioning the weight of wavering from flying and being pinned down my peddlers wane. Wanting to dance on the light of the angels flight but find the fight bringing the soul back to earth with the soles planted. En route, I am rooted and often rootbound, washing the soil off the arches where it still aches to curve in deeper from all the eggshells found in the gardeners path of composted dreams.

Ah, the dreamer of the dreams. The constant streaming of the “whats and what ifs.” Housed in a hard casing of in cases and protective barriers and screams in the middle of space. Pacing back and forth in the grey matter walking back and forth to the “what matters,” the equilibrium tipping the scale of reality and imaginary. The creasings, within ceasing to end the firing of thoughts full of delusion and fulfilling the illusion that the reflection of which the synapses connect recreate a connection. Direction of the waves dependent upon what is decides to replay. The brain, the sane, the same, the endless game of what is next and how to recollect what was witnessed as life.

Don’t let me forget, there is the life giver. The holder of golden slivers that are made with the dreams and stored as hope in the beating heart. Pulsing with the vibrations from the messages of purpose, proposing a rhythm to play to, sing to, dance with. Its warmth reaching through the entirety and simultaneously halting the course. Coursing with crumbles of ice cubing the cells intended to carry liquid thicker than water and bursting through barriers of self inflicted boundaries. It could be bound by the constrictions or confines of the coldness’ shiver. Yet, still it shimmers the prayers lining of reflections and silver.

And here I stand, in the reflection. The beginning and the end of what end to discover first. Which part interlaced within is the best and which is fraying at the ends as the worst? Through only the gaze of my view can I be observed. The iris interpreting what is pure and intentional or what is purely absurd. Refocusing and closing the lids of reality leads the creation of what could be seen upon the opening of the scope, my self microscope. Wipe the lense from the condensing vision of pleasing all other visions and watching as the singular is perceived as divisions. Left and right and pleading to combine the idea that the ideas are one. The view is changing, and as it is rising the veil too lifts to reveal the gaze back is mine. This is where from all time it ends and begins in self reflection.

Transparent and breakable

More dreams. They only get more twisted. Taking my hopes as hostage and rendering them listless. Making sense of everything’s nothing. And -nothing- makes sense. Rising up, more like a limbo., seeking to find what is it of truth I may know. I feel like I am reaching into a melting pot and the ideas are ripe and the fruit is not. How do I get back to the feeling of elevating where the words spoken are the rhythms validating love. Endlessly. Entirely giving more more more. Still wanting to give more more more. But silence, it is misleading. Gaps are filled with meaningless pleading to an empty space. The wetness is recognized by my face and the facing of history in retrace mode. Please, I beg myself. Do not implode. Not again. Not this time. Rise up and receive the divine. Maybe In Time I will see and we will see. Maybe in time it will all make sense to me. But while time dares to not pass, I stretch my heart thin and it shatters like the glass. The same glass that I built my hearts house with, transparent and breakable in the name of love. Transparent and and breakable in the name of love. Transparent and breakable in the name of love.

This is the face.

This is the face of love. Each time my heart is touched by love it is etched in my soul. It creates a path of proof through the smile’s lines of love’s joy and laughter. Then wanders through the brow’s furrow of love’s wonder. It penetrates the pores pouring from love’s pain. Love looks like this.

This is the face of desperation. Pleading for the pain to process and bring peace. Begging for release from the bindings and shackles of shame from continually feeling this way. Bargaining no more, but blinded by defeat. Desperation looks like this.

This is the face of hope. Recognizing that this is a moment of an awareness of raw experience and reality. Lit up briefly by the reflections of the tears sweet brilliance of beaded reckoning. Relinquishing the idea that I have to keep it festered and vested in the cavity my soul reveals as wounded. Hope looks like this.

This is the face of disgust. Putting too much sacred deliverance into a space already self filled. Giving with relentless effort to offer more just to prove worth to the takers who’ve passed on praise. Inflicting a self imposition and acknowledgement of misalignment. Self, not self. Disgust looks like this.

This is the face of bewilderment. Standing in a cleansed body state of muddled mind. Perceptions shifting and breathing brings only moments of mild mannered transitions. In disbelief with feeling of washed over and sharing poses more as imposition, overlooked and taken for granted. Bewilderment looks like this.

This is the face of strength. Grimace and regrouping, bawling and growing. Perseverance begins to permeate after repeated experience. Going in as a dove, coming out scorched dark, now a raven, yet continually still it flies. Rising to the challenge baffling the deliverer of discourse. Strength looks like this.

This is the face of grief. The sudden onset of not understanding that operations continue. Disbelief of lack of attentive heart compassing language and cognition. Wayside, left in wonder. Sad overcame by weight weighed by a judge of less caliber. Cast aside and left alone in the debris of dismantling. Grief looks like this.

Again again

Guess what? I am grieving again… Again… Again… Again… was silently. The last four days. Grief. Again.

And I’ve been holding it into myself because let’s face it, who really cares?… Yeah I know that we all say that we care, because of course we do. But at the end of the day isn’t it just another emotion, again? Again?

This is not the kind of emotion that you can just not have… Yes you can work on triggers, you can work on breathing, you can work on a holding it and letting it be and acknowledging it,… But eventually it goes away, again. It’s not something that is “Dealt ” with the never to resurface. It does resurface, again. And sinks and rises again.

And I don’t think that people don’t care, because I know in their form of caring they do, we do. We all have our capacities. The closest people in my relationships don’t even ask me how my heart is doing in relation to the death of my daughter. It’s hard to want to go there for them… Again.

I think I have one friend who actually inquires about Archaea specifically. So I know at least one out of my hundreds of friends and even at that the closest people in my life… Someone cares. Which helps phase the day… Again.

But moreover I think the bitterness comes from within. Because the levels that grief touches are constantly surprising me. Over and over I find myself saying… “Am I still feeling this again?” “Am I really at this moment again”…

And again I find myself saying… “No one has ever been here before. Not even you. (to myself) No one has ever experienced this moment in time and space emotion heart and brain. I am the first to navigate this. People are welcome to be on or off my ship, but the captain I must remain, and feel all these waters out… And search for a stable ground. “. …again.

So … confused?

I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what it is with this feeling I don’t want to let go

but I know I’m no longer healing

I can see the happiness congealing

into little pools. …

when I pass by

i see the reflection of only a fool

who keeps trying to jump over the puddle forgetting it’s a river

forcing myself to Drown,

pressing down

into a sliver of hope

waiting for it to Hold my body

and help me Float

Flow freely, I don’t wanna keep repeating these same mistakes

waiting and hoping for love to grow,

but it won’t,

how could it when I raise the stakes every day.

This is loves game to play,

bounce the heart back-and-forth between what is real

and what is my reality,

what is real to me?

I only shorten that time by the time I spend questioning

the time I spend assuring

that deception is luring and

obscuring the clarity,

the hilarity is the severity

of how disparity takes a hold of me

and I see that I can see

but I’m blind to the outcome,

trying to outrun

the inevitability that this journey is done, drug me down turned me into someone that is no longer some one’s

present and certainly not future…

it’s fear is pure.

Born out of hell for the last two years. And now I can see

how I am responsible for these

about to be tears.. .

All the hypocrisy

coming from my broken mirror.

No wonder it all looks mispieced

and no wonder my perception

is not perceived the way that I can, conceptually

this is a malfunctioning plan

if I expect to somehow reflect

these jagged edges

and expect you to understand

and make them smooth

and cut clean like hedges..

still broken and rebuilt

but preferred to stack my brokenness tidy and esthetically,

brick by brick of emotion

as to predict the pattern accordingly, unfortunately

or a misfortune for me

or perhaps it is all jumbled beautifully, but when you look you see

shattered and shredded stories

staring back at you

from your imagery of truth,

and hear from your preferred tuning

in or tuning out of the details

expressed through,

communicating empathy.

and the reply is emptily

offering empty hearts,

easily breaking apart ,

what little is left of loves art

Hate upon hate

I hate myself. I don’t want to do this to my children any more. I don’t want to be the reason that my kids are destroyed. I am destroying them. I am destroying them. I am destroying them and I can’t stop. I don’t want to do this any more. I wish I would have been the one to die. Although I am glad she doesn’t have to live in this bullshit of existence, I wish I would have died with her. I hate being who I am. I hate who I am. I hate my face. I hate my body. I sincerely hate my mind. I want to go to sleep and never wake up. I hate how I can’t find happiness within myself. I hate that I need others approval in order to feel good about myself. I hate that that’s only short term happiness. I hate that I perpetuate hate. I hate trying to love. I hate that I can’t feel love. I hate that my kids don’t listen to what I say. I hate that I’m the one who suffers the most. I hate that I feel like I’m the one who suffers the most. I hate that I am selfish. I hate that I’m selfish because really I hate who I am so it seems superfluous to be selfish for one that I hate so much. I hate that I need you. I hate that I want you so badly to come to me when I am feeling like this knowing you will most likely never come to me when I need you to really be there for me. I hate that I’m not that important. I hate that I am supposed to feel like I am that important. I hate that I have that need. I hate that I don’t want to play or have fun with my kids anymore. I hate how hard it is to find joy in their joy. I hAte that no one can fix this. I hate that I feel so unworthy. I hate that I feel so unlovable. I hate how complex and conflicted and crazy I am. I hate having to be strong and persevere. I hate that people foolishly think I’m good. I hate that I have to keep being something I’m not because I fear I won’t have love yet can’t really feel that love anyway so it becomes all a resentful bitter battle within my mind. I hate that I care. I hate that I want to care or be cared for. I hate that if someone was told to read this that they probably would have stopped after the first several hates because it is irritating to be in the presence of someone who hates so much. I hate that about humanity. I hate that there is so much hate in the world and so much violence and bullshit and yet all I can do is think about myself and my own hate. I hate having hate. I hate me. I hate that when I look into your eyes I can see so much love for me and the instant I look away I think you must hate me. I hate that the silence between us haunts me. I hate that it matters so much to me and I feel like you must be distancing yourself from me but the second you finally reach out to me , I feel love, and now it’s all ok. Or at least for the next five minutes of our communication process. Then I begin to hate myself again for letting that have a hold over my happiness. I hate that I have expectations. I hate that I want a life so bad that I could never have and I watch all the other lives and I wonder why I’m hated so much that I was created to suffer and want and hate. I hate that my life is better than a lot of lives. I hate that their mindset is much braver and stronger and more grateful than mine while they suffer so unnecessarily and immensely and it is all about some self righteous asshole hating that there are people who have less than them or look different than them or believe opposed to them and still those who truly suffer still don’t hate. I hate that you don’t text me first thing in the morning and tell me good morning and you love me. I hate that our love isn’t like the love we had when we very first began, when it wasn’t love but the love of the idea that it could be love. I hate that I’m sitting in a really cold house as I write this knowing that I will never have the ability to possess the means to make this house or any other house my own and beautiful and solid and safe. I hate knowing that I should be grateful. I hate that I’m full of hate . I hate me. I hate that the strength I attain comes from such raging emotion and it boils my soul and I can feel it’s reserves coming to the top and all the pain surfaces and I cannot stop. I hate that it’s my children who are in the fallout. I hate that it’s never something or someone who deserves it but my beautiful formable moldable impressionable, filling hate into their souls, children that are the ones who really suffer on account of my overflowing hate. I hate that I thought I was a good enough being to bring these precious prizes into a world and mother so full of hate. I hate that I feel so weak. I hate that hate breaks me down so far down and crumbles under my own perception of what I hate. I hate that I can’t prove your love for me to me. I hate that I feel like you are just appeasing me or settling. I hate that I think constantly about love and what that actually means and how is it truly shown when I can only see so much hate, meaning to me that perhaps all my hate about the way you love or don’t love me flaws the receptivity of your love. I hate that you do the opposite of what I tell you I need and it makes me question your love for me and I wonder if it’s that you can’t give me what I need but I don’t want to let you go because I love you and my biggest weakness is not hate, it is love.

No one cares

I had a hard day today, none of them are my friends

I had a hard day today, another day of hope and pretend

Things are harder for me now, it’s harder to get through

Things are harder for me now, I struggle through what is easy for you

I am broken now, you just run along and play with them

I am broken now, you say I’m using that old excuse again

I’m struggling, ever since my baby sister died

I’m struggling, please see my brokenness inside

I’m dying, drowning in my brain

I’m dying, yes the – my baby sister died – excuse will remain

he knows

the age of someone often dictates to us what we may think their extent of knowledge is. we are selling the young short. in fact, i genuinely believe that they know more than we – adults – do.
while in the hospital, Solomon’s world got flipped upside down. the only time he had ever been away from me was just a few weeks earlier. my husband and i had an overnight celebration of our anniversary and my in-laws came and watched the children. so although solomon had his first night without me, he was still in the comforts of his home. so this last couple weeks has totally twisted his reality of comfort and normalcy. he has been here, there, and everywhere except at home with his family, going to sleep in his bed.
i noticed while we were in the hospital that he would kind of rub this tip of his nose with his little finger and fuss. i am not sure why, but i really took note of that as it was something i had never seen him do before. his attitude grew into a monstrous amount of squealing and whining, grunting and fussing, yelling and frustration. and we would all say, “well he sees us sad and crying and can see that something is going on,” and we would all agree that he is aware that something was happening, but maybe did not truly grasp the fact that his baby sister was not coming home with us, and that she died.
he met her. he held her hand. he sat on my lap while she shared that same space as we said goodbye to her. he was there for her last breath. he was there for the crying out, the heartbreak, the wailing. yes, some of you might think that it was too much to have a little one there, or any of the children for that matter. but in reality, it is all part of it. they deserved to be there, they had the right to experience all that they could of their baby sister. they needed to share the reason for grieving and hopefully healing. they needed to understand. at least what was understandable.
but did Solomon really understand? yes, he saw and felt all the emotions that we were all exuding, but did he understand that she was now dead and we will never see her again? does he see why his mom cries everyday and sometimes most of the day?
yesterday i began to understand that yes, he does indeed, understand. we were laying in my bed, the same one that i go to sleep in angst in, the same one that i labored in with my daughter when the cord prolapsed, the same one that i have to see everyday in the same room that my nightmare began… and he pointed over to Archaea’s memory quilt. the children all had put their handprints on this quilt that also has Archaea’s hands and footprints. He pointed to Freedom’s hand – “bubby’s”, pointed to his, “mine,” pointed to vaeas, i said “vaea’s,” then i pointed to Archaea’s and asked him whose they are. He said, “sissy’s.” He knew whose they were. He did not ask further about it or her. we put the quilt away. he knows that the heartbeat recording in my pink bear is “sissy’s” but does not ask where she is.
this morning as i was trying to get into the shower, i turned on pandora music. the first time i have wanted to listen to music for over two weeks now (which was short lived – too much pain) it was a christian station that was on there and the song “be held” was on and i just sat on the bathroom floor crying. solomon came to the door and i held out my arms for him to sit with me… he looked at me, started rubbing his nose with his little finger, and tears started welling in his eyes. he started bawling. he started wailing. he sat down in my lap and just cried and cried and cried with me. we just held each other and cried, deep meaningful, painful sobbing. maybe more than i do, he knows.

the call.

warning – possibly graphic and explicit –
my husband says i am doing well. i don’t feel like it.
but i more than appreciate his love and support…
you never know how much you love your spouse until you lose a child together.
you never really know what would cause you to crumble or become stronger.
i have never loved so much in my entire life the way i love now.
yes, i have my three beautiful children that uplift me and keep me going,
my husband is the one who gets me.
he is the one that somehow makes life a little more tolerable and keeps me wanting to live.
i owe my life to him.
my mom has been a solid rock for me, which i am so sorry that she even has to go through this too.
i mean, our parents lost a grandchild, that is no light task to take care of the falling apart souls all the while theirs are tearing too.
they ache each day also.
all the support from our family, friends, community,….
outstanding and has shown us the hearts of many, for which we are eternally grateful. thank you.
please don’t forget us.
please let others know that may not be online so that when we do decide to step out in public functions we don’t get people coming up to us asking where our baby is.
because she is ….
i hate life so much right now. i know its “normal.”
but that doesn’t make it any better.
i hate that my beautiful friends are bringing beautiful babies into this world, and mine did not make it.
i hate that i hate that.
i hate that i cannot find joy in their joy, but still i love them all so much.
i hate that my husband has to go to work and somehow be a normal functioning human while shit gets thrown in his face that make his heart ache. i hate that i am so sad and broken that it hurts his heart too. i hate is such a strong declaration, and something we teach our kids not to say or utilize in expression –
but they have been given a free pass to hate.
i cry everyday.
sometimes little bursts. sometimes an hour at a time. sometimes i just sit around in a stupor and ponder what i am even doing. i am beyond angry everyday.
i try to keep it contained and in perspective, but i am angry.
angry. angry. angry. angry. angry. angry. fucking angry.
i could not bear the idea of seeing a little baby casket being lowered into the ground. honestly, caskets of dead people decaying creep me out.
we decided to return her to ash and dust. but now when i think of it i wonder how that even made sense to me. when i think about the process of how it happens, i am mortified. either way was a lose lose situation.
but i couldn’t….
can’t she just be suspended in heavenly form and her body just become ethereal? have you ever had to pick out an urn?
for a baby?
yeah that is some fucked up shit. standing in this little cave of hatred and disgust, disbelief, and the whole time just saying – what the fuck?- picking out something that is going to be in your home to constantly remind you of the nightmare. yet you cannot dare to not have her close. have you ever had to sign a death certificate the same week you signed a birth certificate? yeah that is messed up. how the fuck is any of this actually real and happening?
my new normal is a fucked up version of me.
a version where right now i cannot do anything but think about it all the time. i cannot yet do much physically to help my mind be busy because it causes me too much physical pain the next day.
another reminder.
my body, ripped apart from the head to my uterus.
torn apart from surgery and angst. physiologically fucked up as i get milk coming in that should be going to my beautiful baby girl and is not. so i await it to go away. i had considered donating it, but the emotional pain was too much to continue. after all, we already gave away her organs. why do i need to give her milk away too. close to 7pm on sunday september 4th our daughter Archaea saved a life. her life was already given away, why do i need to give my milk too? i don’t.
i will maybe forever feel foreign in my own body, soul, heart.
she will be home with us soon.
i got the call.
i thought maybe i was doing better today, until i got the call. i remember now that this nightmare is not over. maybe never will be. the anger resurfaced (as if it was going away) and my sadness consumes me. i cried for a long while and could only apologize to Archaea that I failed her. yes that is the ultimate feeling i have.
i failed her, and there is nothing that can be done about it.
my job as a mother, and i couldn’t do it. – these things happen – that’s right, “it wasnt my fault” but you will never convince me of that.
Archaea Elore –
the Archeia is the female divinity of the Archangels. Elore is from my grandmother’s name Hannelore. A strong purposeful name, that evidently meant she was going to heaven to do her work there.
too awesome to be here on the earth. literally an angel with a purpose that i will never understand.
literally an angel. our butterfly baby. i love you