A New Folder: Therapy

I thought a lot about therapy these last few months/years.

It is hard to go into a person’s space and try and explain what it is like for me to live in my own space which is not my own yet one that this society makes is believe is my/our own

yet not to label people by what they look like

even if they are what they look like

and not to trust our judgments

yet to trust our judgements

and to make our own decisions

and our own thoughts about life

when the thoughts we have are fleeting strings disattached from reality

and we can string together anything.

how does one do this life thing?

I had it all figured out so young

and then I had to fit into this world

and I had to comply with its rules in order to not stand so far out

and be spotted as something so different

and that process wore down my shell which was my home

and now I am not a turtle with the shell on her back

I am more the thing that crawled out of it

like the hermit crab

but I am not able to find the right fit of my shell

I am in a tank with those painted idiotic pieces from some dine store shit hole

and I am stuck with my lot.

Yet, I was;t eaten

I have a home

I am fed

I have a shell - just not one that I like

and I keep trying to make it work

or I keep switching

yet

something just isn;t right

and I can’t find my stuff in here.

Where am I?

I feel like the girl from The Secretary might have had the same feelings.

Who am I with all this other stuff inside

yet

I feel so fine when I am alone inn y room with my secret box of comfort.

And

trying to fit in.

She fights for it

when she feels it

when it clicks.

She becomes a woman 

without that step being defined by society.

It was her claimed moment.

And I?

Where

oh where

am I? 

The Day After

Hooked up Google home
Does this mean I am forever done?
All status of off-the-grid gone
All thoughts and feelings
No longer my own?

NYC

Oh my
how I have missed the churning pavement
beneath my feet.

My pace,
My Own.
Makes for finding me
easily.



***

I was brought to tears by a painting
John Singer Sargent
Mrs. Hugh Hammersley.

I brought my spouse to it.
He was not moved.
He had another agenda.
Understandable.
But my eyes were full
and my heart,
stirred.

Awakened,
to something
dreamy.

Migrant mother, mother we are

I wonder about this mother role that I jumped into without knowing.
After searching this famous photo of Dorothy Lange's for answers within the lines of worry and life upon the subject's face,  I thought about how our functionality of being human has altered us -the current mother having so much choice. ..too much?
We are just looking to have the space and place to make and birth the babies,  right?
Yet now,  so different.  With the competition to be "men" and handle everything.
Brings it's also to interesting launching points for the role of men- when we used too argue that we were just a uterus for the men,  now we can say they are walking sperm.
Swung the other way the pendulum has, no?

And i, sitting with this book of photos,  reflecting upon my own world- what do I have to say?
Where is my space and my place?
Do I get to find it even if I have already had the children?

Procrastination

Some believe that their talents were given to them.
I am not so lucky.
I have to dig around for mine
without using tools
without knowing there are tools
without seeing that there were gifts to awaken within.

Later,

I thought about what brought up peace, happiness, contentment, joy

and it is moments when we were all home

all doing our thing
mother is in the garden
weeding in the rain
father is at the computer
playing - or creating - a game
sister is sorting books
putting them in oder
and I
me myself and I

hover

by the sidelines

waiting. 

All Pointing Signs

All Pointing signs can be avoided rather than pricked on...however, this does not change the fact that they are still very much there.

This, from Galactic Rabbit:

Libra

Every couple of years I notice articles circling the internet describing the passing down of intergenerational trauma. How our fears and sorrows, our deepest sources of grief, are etched into our DNA and delivered into the bodies that come from our bodies. A sadness like a vampire inside you—immortal. These sorts of scientific findings compel me to wonder how quiet pain is measured. I think about the way my mother’s face turns dark at the mention of sex. I think about my father’s bad heart and how, when we were states apart, my body felt him fall to the floor. I fell down too; I cracked my chin open. Unconscious, I pissed myself and was ashamed.

In an essay about Serena Williams, in Citizen, Claudia Rankine writes:

Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.

 Libra, yesterday your body was a living record of all that has happened to you and before you. Today, your body is just a human body—it is muscle, blood, and bone. In order to protect it, the stories that evoke shame must have a different ending.  You must be brave enough to write them.

anyday everyday

I put this blog out in the open in a few places.
because,
well,
dark times reign at certain intersections
and I have read that opening up channels
of any sort
may shed light
of any sort.

So.