This again.

I can’t sleep.

I’m searching for an adventure and all I can find is what we used to be. The images of lost love flooding in me. Every rock, every cliff, every waterfall reminds me of every memory.

I feel like I’m stuck in between denial and an acceptance. Please, I’m not really ignoring what has to be my new reality. I’m just begging to not be living in complacency, or coming to awareness latently.

And maybe my healing has had some setbacks, yet patiently, I encompass the path that is crumbling. That means I can recreate a way to walk more intentionally. In many ways I now can step more into authenticity and audaciously embrace a frame of fresh boundaries.

Respectfully, I request that in my presence we exchange more words of empathy, truly a way of communicating respondency. We could be paving more of a path where the only direction is for us to “be free.”

I can taste the healing almost as much as I see, and trust in the knowledge, like the tree, that I am rooted in life as often as it is life I’m living lovingly. This, breathing in and releasing, shifting daily, brings the direction needed in the exchange for the quest of love’s unexpected journey.

Stay Golden

It was kind of an… “you’re worth more than …” feelin’

going through some more stuff and I have been thinkin’

about those who value people who value human livin’

learning how to navigate through is equally sad and empowering.

It was a coming out of the moment of a twisted rejection

those who want to believe bullshit will be a bullshit evaluation

and those that want to know the light… well,…. they’ll stay golden.

Why getting dumped on Woman’s Day (weekend), during Women’s Month, honors the Celebration of Women, Woman’s Day, Woman’s Month, Woman’s Life.

This may seem ironic at first. Getting dumped honors women you say, how’s that? I know, it may be hard to see that as true at first, but the playbill that we have all been watching, was not what I auditioned to be a part of. I think it is safe to say, that a lot of leading women “roles” are actually a monologue of the deflated main character’s hopes and dreams. So what better way to step back into the limelight the woman was destined to play, than by being let go by a director who lost the lines to the script?

Break a leg!!

Oh ouch, I mean that figuratively, because we may need that balance as I explain just how empowering it could be to get ditched by the garbage delivery service. It’s like scoring a vintage Tiffany’s lamp in someone’s “FREE” bin on the curb, that you just got kicked to. Perhaps it can be visualized as a rare recording that just got remastered and goes platinum in a week after being dropped by a “bigtime label.” Actually, if you’re thrifty, it is as invaluable as the Juicy or Coach bag tucked away in the back of a dirty shoe shelf at a Goodwill.

Ok, ok, but why is this such a good deal?

Frankly, because I am, as you are, worth more than the mass produced cheap trash that was being fed into my soul.

The dish that I kept ordering and tasting was delicious though. Like downright made my mouth water. Every single time I sat down back at the table and I waited for my yummies, such a tasty and delectable appetizer. I was hungry though. The chef and I talked and clearly he was still a line prep. I love a man who can cook. So he kept feeding me the little delicious morsels that were filling me up, with an order on the line for the main course. My hopeful chef though, was still picking out other ingredients. He was ordering and eating from other menus as well as cooking really well for personal company. It was as if this prep cook was bringing back some of those leftovers and trying to serve them as fresh and uniquely supplied from his growing garden. I got food poisoning. Every time I bit into the prepared meal, I was dished out more watered down, reused and polished colanders caked of uncooked yolks.

The yolk was on me….

Let me tell you folks, the yolk is runny. Almost as runny-y as I am…..was….back into the shallow end of a pool that I thought kept getting deeper. Deep enough that I seemingly kept drowning in the buoyancy. I like to swim. But here’s the thing. Sometimes my water is really really dark, stagnant and pungent. I think I must be my own pool boy who just came fresh out of the gym, but has no flex. Mostly though, often I am a deep sea scuba diver that cannot navigate the way through a pond of my own wastewater. It is this environment that any sea-goer of my ship must fare at any time the storms roll in. But they are ripples from the rains of tears that were collected from the scorches of the thunderbolts at sea, where my nets have always been cast, since the time I was a Moses in the reeds. A collection of a liquid story.

An open book kind of story.

A story where it can get really difficult to trudge through those rambling rants of agony and loss. A long narrative where the writer has emphasized every letter to its fullest enunciation, giving exclamations to the most grueling grief. I narrated chapter after chapter of disbelief and debilitation followed by triumphs, joys, and reconciliations. But when the readings started reflecting and recording the rips the pages have held since the beginning of the press, the reader suddenly forgot how to read, shut the book. When opened back up to the joy of expression, after spurts of censorship, its an easy read with short stories of love, growth, and excitement. Yet when the next chapter, needs, to have its own title, needs to be enveloped into, co – authored and on the same page about where the rips are from and why they keep ripping, it suddenly becomes a comic book to the reader. Audible laughter became the veto to my voice and the red pen to my memoir.

MY memoir, MY Memories….

Many memories I have that I will hope to wash off the body like a temporary tattoo, where once the image was bright and crisp but the lasting result was a dull residue. Unlike the marring fingerprints from handling a collectible art piece to handily, some of the markings, the scar on my back, will not wash away, scrub away. Thankful I am now aware that I can have something incredibly beautiful braided onto my skin and seek healing in the process. As an artist, what is any better a way to express a scarred and tossed away clay lump of “too much mess,” than to become my own flowing and evolving masterpiece of self allowance and mastery?

A mastery of mind release.

See? It is now to become a release of all that was bound up in reflexes heightened to rubber band reactions. Wound up as tight as it could wind and triggered at its last of elasticity, snapping out of sight, and all that is left is the waves of energy left behind. The reverberations generated have shaken the casing off and created an emergence of what is to come. A flooding of all that has been dammed, from all the damns that were uttered, has come rushing through, ready to cleanse the basin. Gleaming and polished porcelain now, a receptacle of rejoicing once the voice was free to flow.

Flowing freely …

Freestyle forming now. It becomes time to see the freedom in becoming free. Not inundated with the pressures of not being able to withstand the opposition to expression. See now, the hardening chiseled away and reveals the treasure of those pressures. A diamond. Lighting the pathway which has been cleared to lay the new foundation of my Kingdom with the precious gems of the noble build. It becomes time to apply my own masonry of paving the way to a star studded encampment that will encompass all that is glistening in the glory of growth, and no longer held from progress. A lamp unto my pattering feet…

As I finally walk away…

Walk away from the table of poison where I no longer have to wonder who’s garden you pillaged to plate my palette… As I float away from falsity of finding depth in your shallows and shark infested wade pool that just waits for me to emotionally bleed and feast on my fears… As I saunter along into the sunshine and seek out only the growing seedlings found along in salutations of honesty and full hopes… I am upcycled from the bin of bruises you boxed me in and will encase the world in an array of raw and real reverence. I have become the priceless point of existence where all that reflects back to me is an understanding of what I know I am worth. And as far as being discarded in the dump, I realize that you are what you eat. I ate a lot of garbage, I became a lot of garbage. I was fined for wanting to reduce, reuse, and recycle from trash to treasure. So, while the garbage man is still making trips back and forth to the dump, I, a rare and valuable creation of star stuff and bright lights am able to find the value of the depths and rise above the heaps, where there are no more shadows dimming the hope and love I have to shine.

Shine on, me, you, crazy diamonds.

Beat. Seat. Obsolete.

i only wanted you. i only wanted us. i never said goodbye but you said im too much , youre not enough. how do i compete, you made it complete. i am in defeat. i couldnt see the seat. i was trying to heal from the feats of all the beats of the poundings on my soul, voice, heart, and body. i embodied the wounds that swallowed every step of my feet. i could try to be discreet yet the sheet of melancholy music collects the rhythm i weep. man just sweep me away to a time that was sweet and indiscriminately obsolete of the events that now separate you from me. never was my choice you see, but i guess now i am free. should i thank you baby? you must not have wanted me, you never asked me back after you told me to leave, leaving me to contemplate all the different fates that had a serving of all chipped plates. i still would have set the date, and laid out new china, finer than anything we had ever dined on. but i am just whining on, its my song and i can see that all along i am strong, i just wanted us to be forever long, is that wrong?

matters of life and ptsd


Yesterday I received an exchange that I never thought I would hear.


I was in a marriage/relationship that was intense and full of love and very unhealthy. Our unmet childhood needs came out in full force, resulting in lack of acknowledgment, anger, and started the cycles of abuse. Mental, emotional, physical abuse… …. start the ptsd journey in my body, …..in our relationship.


After years of hope, some change, and little soul dirty work, we got “better.” or maybe we just put it away because, Love was on the rise, mandated counseling, and who wants to actually work through the “old” pain when you’re trying to “heal?” We can just get over it, right?


Then, THE worst thing in our lives happen. Our daughter dies. Grief, grief, grief…. and triggers. The ultimate triggers. Everything triggers. Endless ptsd. and the need for needs rose up out of the ashes to burn alongside the fire for peace from the pain….. layered ptsd.


My grief, and my ptsd were scoffed at. My pain and fear of everything that was happening in my life was taken in, never chewed, yet regurgitated with agitation that I could not “get over it,” or whatever was being hoped of me. (just months after our loss).


My grief and my ptsd, turned to resentment against me. The inability to process that I have to process, losing my daughter and all that occurred during this time, created a divide that was digging my grave. I had to start saying goodbye to the idea that I was allowed to feel the Ptsd running through my body as my blood. and when you instantly cut off a blood supply, the result is mortem. so, I was no longer living. At least not the way I needed to in order to actually live. Survival mode kicked in. And within a year, our relationship was kicked out, along with my need to be acknowledged in my ptsd, triggers, and grief.


Grief. triggers. ptsd. and it has been all on me. And I think that at some point you begin to believe that you don’t have the right to hope that another will see it, and you begin to do it on your own. And you don’t stop. And then you do a bit of healing, for yourself. You become “independent.” And sometimes independence turns into…..


Living in this last several years in a place where this has been a priority to me. To heal and work through the triggers. work through ptsd and grief.

It also since has looked like – been living in a relationship of a world that has been incredibly similar to the relationship patterns of before, if not WORSE, in fact. So much intense love…. and so much intense pain,……. and abuse, and ….. triggers. Ptsd. Grief. Unacknowledged. Goodness I am so diligently and fiercely loyal …. patterns.


Why? Because I wanted closure. Closure to the window that let my needs fly right out. and I thought that maybe this time that by shutting the window and staying with it, being with it when it got wild, would help it settle down. But the window was shut from the outside and all that outside observer cared to peek into was the bouncing around of “chaos” on the inside while I sat inside alone with the fluttering failure.


And once again, kicked to find the Independence. One that I was already establishing, still trying to heal, and trying to share the healing. It was one that said again, that my ptsd, my grief, would remain unacknowledged and simmer on top of the burnt ashes to send the message to the gods, that my, our, ptsd, triggers, griefs and traumas that are not worked through, are for the sake of “love.”


this message that has silenced me for years, and a message that has silenced the messenger’s ability to hear their own internal message and acknowledgment, created a platform to continue the cycles of abuse, to themselves and to their, our, partners.


I began to think that this indeed was a silent and unacknowledged journey. But I started to understand that maybe those that refuse to see the course, may never, and I understand that I still have to do my healing with our without acknowledgement. I hoped to be ok with that.


But then something profound happened yesterday, in the midst of all of this.
An acknowledgment. YEARS later.


Patterns and pains realized and processed, or in process, later. Tears in the eyes, understanding now the effects of ptsd are real later. An, I’m so sorry I did that to you…….. 3-5 years of me living out this nightmare on replay, later.
And I realized a few things in that moment.


One, that I was grateful for this moment I had once longed for. Two, that I was so sad for this pain that courses through this man’s being, knowing how hard it is to carry the burden of ptsd. Three, I also felt very stoic. Like I had no emotional reaction at all.


But I felt so proud of manhood at that moment. It was more relieving to me to know that there is maybe some actual hope. Maybe there is an opportunity for more people to learn how to validate, allow healing as strength.
Because as I see it, no we do not have to heal the other person. No that is not our job at all. We can go on life thinking that the person who is open about their issues has issues, and get mad at them for it, only enabling and maintaining a victim mentality. OR..


We can all take a moment to see that not talking about the wounds, makes resentment. The peace in the in between silence is a peace from a graveyard. A cemetery of hopes and dreams. But those hopes and dreams will remain covered until you can unearth the deaths you have hidden within your own tomb, and bury them with blessings and love.


I received an acknowledgment. Finally.


from someone that I once desperately needed it from. From someone that it took years of pain and realization and a loss of all that was precious to him to see.

PTSD is real. Grief is real. It does NOT go away….on it’s own, it sits “silently” while we “live” on in glory. It invites itself to your table and never leaves. Until, an invitation of nonjudgmental exploration with love and empathy is offered and validated through openness and diligence, the pain will always come back and they will always see it as “chaos” served.

I Love deeply. But I am fiercely independent. My dependency lies within the idea that we all feel the same, or should want to feel level and loved.


And while I did receive an apology, and it was real, it was more empowering than I had expected it to be. I only hope that it empowers women and men to sit with themselves, and meet vulnerability now, not 5 years too late.


Blessed be on your journey to healing, loves. We ALL need acknowledgment and validation. Find love in what love actually means. Begin to heal traumas, together, because we indeed, are not alone in this.

Grow or Go

I KNOW YOU’RE NOT READING THIS. I KNOW YOU DON’T CARE. BUT IF YOU COULD DO THE WORLD A FAVOR AND TRY TO BE FAIR. DELETE ME ENTIRELY OR FACE UP TO OUR TRUTH. BE A BETTER EXAMPLE OF LOVE FOR OUR YOUTH. LET THEM SEE MATURITY. LET THEM SEE GROWTH. LET THEM SEE THAT IN YOU, THERE IS A FUTURE OF HOPE. SHOW THE COMPASSION THAT COMES AS NATURAL AS THE ACT. HAVE COMMUNICATION THAT SHOWS YOU DO IN FACT HAVE TACT. WELCOME GROWTH FOR YOUR SOUL, THE KIND THAT MOVES MOUNTAINS INSIDE. SHOW SOME LOVE AND LET DOWN THE HIGH PRIDE. BE WHO YOUR SOUL CLAIMS AND LET LOVE LEAD THE WAY. SILENT DISREGARD IS A FOOLISH GAME TO PLAY. IT PRESENTS OPPONENTS RATHER THAN TEAMMATES OF THIS EARTH. IT SETS LOVE ASIDE AND LEADS ONLY WITH HURT. YOU GIVE TO THE WORLD BUT REFUSE TO TAKE PART, IN OWNERSHIP OF LOVE OR IN THE HEALING OF WOUNDED HEARTS.

WHEN IT COMES TO ACCOUNTABILITY, ILL TAKE IT OVER AND AGAIN. BECAUSE GROWTH IS THE ONLY GAME WHERE WE SHOULD TRY TO WIN. I HAVE SO MUCH CONCERN FOR THE EXAMPLE YOU ARE GIVING AND MY HEART BREAKS FOR THE CONFUSION IN WHICH WE’VE BEEN LIVING. PERHAPS ONLY I AM THE ONE WHO FEELS THE SADNESS AND LONGING, OR PERHAPS IT IS ONLY LOVE THAT I WISH IN BELONGING.

SUCCESS COMES AFTER MASSIVE FAILURE REARS UP. BUT ONLY IF REFLECTION HAS BEEN OBSERVED THROUGH THE EYES OF AWAKENING LOVE

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.

Familiar

I feel vibrations on the ground and tires trembling over the earth. With each rotation and gripping of the rubber onto the gravel, my breath subsides. I track the volume and duration of travel. Little bits of hope escaping the stronghold of knowing better and disappointment. Breathe again. Now I hear nothingness. Hope remembers this feeling and falls away fast.

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

is it?

am i allowed to tell it like it is? i feel veiled and slightly filtered. i feel like i should be able to tell it like it is. but i am not sure if i do. sometimes i believe that i the story i represent of myself is true. like, i really am that fierce. like i really am that brazen. but i dont tell it like it is. i tell the veiled, the filtered version.

if i was allowed to tell it like it is, really tell it like it is, then there would be an intensifying disdain for my presence. there would be an ever present caution of character when i arrived. that might be cause for me to become brazen. but i dont tell it like it is. i tell the version that your ears are hearing.

if it was allowed for you to hear what i am saying, really telling it like it is, then there would be a real genuine empathetic growth in relationship. an understanding of expression and not an attack on what the original interpreter suggests it means. but that would take a miracle, to hear it like it is.

it doesnt feel like i am able to tell it like it is. it is personified through the filter of personal experience and interpreted with a lens of altered perception. though it may be of the same resonance, it is never the same received as to which it was delivered. hear it, but not like it was.

would i be able to receive it like it is. it is a pondering that lingers. i applaud jokingly for myself as i attempt to persuade myself to believe that i would have none of the altering that i accuse generally amongst fellow human. that i would be able to hear what is being told  to me like it is as a genuine expression of their inner heart and world and it is their process that is true and therefore important to tell. for me to help them understand that yes, empathy and love are a real thing.