Shards of Words

Waves crashed in the background as the kids and I sat down for a scrumptious barbeque. We chatted about our Made-Up Holiday and our bonfire plan. 

All laughed in unison, “AND NO TRASH!" 

Then came the usual question, “Did you get that scar here? On this beach?” 

I smiled.

I was 20.  Freshly graduated, boxes were piled in an apartment. The new job started Monday. My first night of adult independence. My date and his friends picked me up, stopped at a store to buy libations, then off we went to the beach. They encouraged me to pick something.

“We’ll buy it. You’ll be fine! In a month you’ll be 21. It won’t matter!”

I protested, but their arguments seemed logical. I had followed the rules up to this point.

What havoc would one bottle unleash? I picked a fruity Bartles and James wine cooler. 

The Jaunty Jeep parked near the beach bonfire area. We walked until a recently abandoned one was discovered. The guys gathered trash to quickly pile it on the faintly glowing embers. The guys blew full lungs of air on the smoking pile, suddenly flames roared to life. We crackled with excitement about the summer plans and savored those flavors of adulthood.

Near the fire’s edge, an rim of red peeled a paper bag. There lay a capped beer bottle. 

I queried, “Guys, should we take that bottle out of the fire?”

Date said, “Na… it’s only coals. The fire isn’t hot enough to do anything. It’s fine.”

 His logic seemed wise. Girls don’t play with fire, I thought. Boys do. He probably knows better.

The ocean breeze grew cold. Date gave me his ski jacket and took the thin windbreaker I was wearing. Our conversation lulled like the coals. Friend Guy started to kick the capped bottle around the embers.

The glass cracked a bit and foam eased out.

Jeep Driver said, “We should move it. That doesn’t look right.”

Easy conversation continued about our futures, crazy college stories, and again our voices grew quiet.  

Embers nearly cold now, Friend Guy gingerly pulled the bottle into the center with his foot.

Then rolled it around. 

Not too much. 

Just... 

enough, 

to watch the beer foam from the cracks in the glass. They commented on how cool it was to watch the foam ease out of the fissures. The cool science of pressure relief continued. I tuned them out and listened to the waves wash the shoreline. 

POP!

I saw them jump back and brush their chests. They were all over six feet tall, so I was confused. Why didn’t I feel anything in my chest? 

Then I realized my face was their chest height.

I put my hand to my left jaw.

I didn’t feel anything.

But I felt a knot in my stomach. 

“Um…. Guys… I think I’m bleeding?”

With eyes wide, they raced over. I lifted my chin. 

Date said, “Don’t bleed on my jacket!”

"Oh! I’m sorry.”  I rushed to take it off trying not to get anything on it. “Here.”

I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. But... it was his jacket I was borrowing, it kinda made sense.

I shivered a little, “Um… what can I bleed on?” 

He handed me the windbreaker, his tone softened, “Here, you can use this.”

Jeep Driver said, “We should go.”

“I don’t have any insurance. When I moved out my Parentals told me so. If we go to a hospital, they’ll know I’ve been drinking and arrest me. I can’t afford to pay for the hospital. My job doesn’t start until Monday.” I panicked. 

Someone said, “It will be ok. You have to go to the hospital.”

We piled in.

The Jittery Jeep’s racing engine was the only sound through those dark curvy roads. Loud thoughts lectured me about the mess I was in. This was God’s judgment on me for drinking. Now the Parentals would know. What would they do? What would they say? I was terrified.

Well...maybe now he will listen to me. Maybe my opinion will mean something. This scar on my face will show him that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it will be worth it. It could be a blessing in disguise.

At the ER and in the care of nurses and doctors, my face was draped. A gentle nurse held my hand and talked to me because I couldn’t see. A compassionate doctor numbed my jaw and gave me 10 stitches.

My retelling of the scar story was interrupted.

“Mom! How could you think like that?” We all laugh at that young, gullible, innocent girl. 

Now, I can laugh at myself about it all.

I know a Loving Higher Power would not throw a glowing hot glass shard at my face, narrowly missing my jugular vein simply to punish me for drinking a wine cooler a month before my 21^st birthday. Of course, an action like that would never be a blessing. 

 My part in this whole tragedy of errors is the bottle was an issue for me. 

I should have taken it out.

I didn’t feel safe with a full, capped, carbonated glass bottle sitting in embers. I didn’t believe in the value of my own words. I held no value in my own opinion. This scar on my face reminds me that I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t see my own worth. I’ve learned the importance of my words. If I’m going to speak, it needs to mean something to me. I practice confidence in my voice.  If I’m not being heard, I stop arguing, evaluate the topic for either a redirect or to simply drop it.

That scar on my face is a gift. It gives character to every word I’ve spoken since.

A Thriving Monologue

*Trigger Warning: sexual abuse, PTSD, flashback description*

I was cozy there, in my dark little spot of service backstage. I could still see the bright lights from the slit in the curtain. I could hear applause. I could help keep it on track, calm nerves, run for food. straighten tight’s seams and hair pieces.

But those days have passed.

It’s time to figure out how I fit in the Theater world I love so much. This weekend I stepped into those bright lights.

It was an Audition Call for the Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. I’d heard about the play and a preconceived idea. Purity Culture and Evangelicalism didn’t talk about Vagina’s. That was Feminism. If it wasn't Feminism, then it was glorifying Victimhood.

Anyway, I knew what a Vagina was. I learned about it in elementary school. They had a special after school assembly for Mothers and Daughters in Fourth Grade. We watched a movie and they gave me a book to read.

But Summer shifted my life paradigm.

This fall, I had a monster flashback after watching Daniel Sloss’ X comedy special on HBO. I loved the it and thought I was fine...

Until the next morning.

After a night filled with terror dreams, I woke up to what was happening. I checked through my list of questions before I give into the Simmering Flashback:

I had a person close to help me.

I realized the flashback’s agenda.

AND

For the first time I could hear a resolution to the trauma.

So, I let it go.

The Daniel Sloss Special triggered small common threads from every negative experience I had over my lifetime. Tied them all together and plugged them in. As if I was standing in a media room with 20 televisions turned on and each volume was at 11.

The focus of this cacophony: My Vagina never belonged to me.

Each channel played a different owner:

The person who discovered it when I was 6.

Every person who told me belonged to God.

Whomever touched it through Junior High to College.

Authorities telling me It belonged to a marriage.

Meanwhile, I could hear this scene from the Netflix show Sex Education, in faint background muzak, “It’s my Vagina.”

Those words gently repeated over and over. As I relaxed, focused on my breath, the smell of the sheets, the birds outside, the tears running down my face. That concert of trauma began to quiet while a chorus of women’s voices grew, 

“It’s my Vagina.”

I waited until all I could hear was those gentle words. 

Anxiety released my muscles. I was held for a while. I talked about what happened. I felt so light. Each of those memories didn’t hurt anymore. My skin didn’t feel uncomfortable. For the first time I felt at ease within myself, from my head all the way to my toes.

Each day since then, the reflection in the mirror becomes kinder. I almost see what others see, I think. I can sleep, most nights, peacefully.

When I saw the Audition Call for the show. I wondered what else I could learn about myself. What it meant to just be a woman. A Human Being opposed to a Human Doing.

 I was given three parts. I sat quietly in rehearsals and just listened. Absorbed words from women I will never meet spoken by women I just met. No judgment or bias. Free from all assumption. None of those women knew my story, nor did I have to explain it.

All I had to do was be in the room.

I felt warm and nurtured, a healing balm added to what started so many months ago. My body really belongs to me. I am more than my Vagina, yet at the same time, my Vagina is what makes me a woman.

I walked away from the three shows filled with gratitude. The history, the story, the process is a continuing life work. Not only have I been a victim. I have moved through the process of Healing, to Surviving, and into Thriving.

Rosey Magical Migraines

I was six years old. I loved riding my bike on the sidewalk in front of our house. It was a giant rectangle with grass in the middle and houses with gardens along the outside. Big Air Force jets and helicopters flew over all the time.

One day a training wheel on my bike broke so my parents took the other one off. They said it was time for me to learn how to ride on two wheels anyway. I felt scared.

“How do I keep my balance with my feet on the petals?” I asked. “I can’t feel the ground.”

They told me they’d be there, running beside me, helping me with the balance until I figured it out.

I put my feet on the petals. I felt the push and heard the feet running. I pushed on the petals and they started moving. I moved my hips like I was running, and the handlebars wobbled back and forth. Everything went by so fast that I couldn’t see where I was going. My hair flew in my face. The tires were so skinny and wobbly. The front wheel turned as my hands shook.

We slowed down and stopped, unsure how it happened.

We started again. I worked on riding a two-wheeler every day that week. In the morning I practiced with my Mom. At night, with my Dad. We’d go out back where the cars park. The street was wide and made a big circle. I wobbled until I found my balance. I rode fast and far back there. It was better than the sidewalk in front of the house.

Saturday my Grandparents came.  I couldn’t wait to show them! I grabbed my Grandma and Grandpa’s hands, dragging them out front.

I sat on the bike.

Put my feet on the petals.

I nodded, grinning.

Dad began to run. I started to petal.

They all cheered. I was flying. My hair blew in the wind. The sidewalk felt different than the black driveway. I started going faster. It was a little scary.

‘Why is the road so close to the sidewalk?’ I wondered. ‘I’m going to crash into the road. A car will hit me and I will go

SPLAT!!’

‘I will never ride my bike again.’ I whispered. ‘What do I do?’

I heard yelling:

“Turn!”

“Stop!”

“Use the break!”

Nearing the canyon of road, I felt the handlebars wobble. The wheel looked for a direction.

‘Grass or rosebushes?’

The bike stopped at the edge,

I flew over the handlebars, landing upside down in a rosebush.

Everyone was running and yelling. They picked me up as a cloud of questions barraged me. They carried me home picking out rose thorns before bathing me in Bactine and bandaging the bleeding wounds.

That’s what happened with writing and me.

For the first time in five years, words flowed. I had posts scheduled beyond the immediate day. Canvases and sewing projects were planned and completed on a predictable schedule.We got along great.

I felt quite on top of things.

Then the Central Valley February blooms began.

I forgot to calculate allergy season and the joys it stirs up for Migraines and Asthma. This visit from the Magical Migraines stayed for three weeks. Some were a full Migraine, but I’ve learned from previous visits that they also like to form a Cluster. Never enough for me to really know what’s going on, but enough to not really be able to fully function. No pain, but confusion, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, trouble talking, extreme fatigue, balance issues, pins and needles in my muscles, lack of appetite, Eeyore type depression, Sensory Overload type anxiety and occasionally shaking hands.

Kind of like mice throwing a house party.

I don’t consider myself a Migraine Sufferer. I have to look at it as a Migraine Lifestyle. I am grateful for this physical inconvenience because one of the lessons is self-care, pacing, and balance.

I have the appropriate medication that I take. I have a long list of foods I avoid; I rest and exercise. I have yoga poses I use when I am able. In openly talking about it, I’ve discovered a whole Migraine Community. This ability to connect with other Migraine Lifestylers and check what their symptoms are is life-giving. I discovered that Migraine anxiety and Migraine depression are their own thing. Losing time isn’t just my imagination. Often when I can’t talk, I can play charades in public with another Migraine person. Not only do I get what I need, but we have fun doing it.  It helps to see the difference in managing Chronic Illness.

I love the Magical Migraine ridiculous experiences. The silly things I say. The self-deprecating things I do and can laugh at.  It is frustrating to lose time, but I’m grateful for the people I have around me who understand.

Just like finding myself upside down in a rosebush after an epic bike ride.

Obscured Dignity

The air was crisp as sleep melted away.  Within the cathedral ceiling of that momentary bedroom, leaves of towering sycamores began to yellow.  Sunlight sprinkled warmth on her face as a sapphire sky peeped through.  The grass was not too wet.  That was nice.  Sleeping was mostly comfortable and warm in the makeshift bed.  She was grateful for the blankets.

Standing, sleep stretched from muscles as the smells of fall air filled her lungs. She savored the warm morning.  Winter brushed the air with crispness. She bent down to carefully fold her bedding and place it into the shopping cart. The park was quiet.  Savoring the solitude and beauty, thankful no one was around to disturb her. 

She tightened the sage bathrobe around her frame. It hung off her like a child playing dress up. Strolling around the shopping cart overflowing with earthly possessions, she assessed its arrangement. As she placed the bundle of blankets in, she lifted out a carry-on rolling suitcase.  Grabbing the shopping cart with her left hand, she dragged the bag in her right towards a building central to the park.  A musical cacophony of bird song accompanied her saunter into the public bathroom.

She paused at the door, with a determined push, the basket leapt into the lavatory. A dull clang traveled across the park as the basket met with a metal trash can inside.  Head held high, she strolled into the bathroom with the bag trailing behind her.

About 15 minutes later she emerged. Her outfit for the day was comfortable denim shorts, an aqua blue T-shirt and a denim vest- which looked like it had been a jacket in a previous life.  She placed the carry-on bag in the front of the basket.  Walking around the portable home, tender arrangements to her belongings were the final preparation for the day’s travels.

Standing for a moment smoothing her bangs and hair, she sighed.  With a look around she evaluated the temperature.  The air brushed her skin with its chill.  The olive green robe was draped over the top of the basket.  Picking it up and jauntily wrapping it around her shoulders, she slid her arms in, grabbed the lapels of her dapper garment and straightened it.

Fluffing her bangs while she walked around the basket; inspecting it for the last time. Satisfied she stood at its helm and gave it a shove.  It rolled as she sashayed to the side of it. Resting a hand on the old friend's side, they began the day’s journey. They disappeared from the park, the robe’s sash gliding behind her like a royal train.  A private moment of dignity in the simplest form had been hers. 

Homelessness is often something we look away from. We, the Fortunate Housed often judge harshly the poor and Unhoused. We talk about the Blight, the Problem, the Inconvenience, the...etc. 

Jesus said to remember the Poor.

But for the Grace of God, would be I.

One week in 2010. a homeschool week filled with shuttling kids to homeschooling activities. Girly and I sat at in park while the boys attended classes. While she worked on her school I observed a fellow human sister beginning her day.

Finding Sunshine Through Fog

The last life battle happened a few weeks ago. It really was more like a brain cramp than a real suicidal episode. I was super annoyed as I ran through my protocols for the night:

Messaged what meds I was taking to sleep, how much and where I put them.

Messaged when I woke up.

I was getting really exasperated with constantly tattling on myself.

Then I looked at the corner of my room. I realized what happened. The day before I was working through Divorce things. I felt peaceful about it all day. No issues of attachment or wishful thinking. Simply working through the business of conscious uncoupling.

In the corner was a picture. A view I once looked at with inspiration. A cat in a garden with a tree. It reminded me that if I would be okay alone. There was plenty around me to fill me with beauty, love and meaning. To chase things that did not reciprocate was an unhealthy practice. It was healthier for me to sit alone, in a peaceful garden surrounded by beautiful flowers and a tree.

But now.

I needed a new source of sunshine. I needed something to look forward to each day. I hadn’t really taken time to create what that image could be for myself yet. Being a very visual person, I realized I was ready.

Ready to take my “What do You Want To Be” idea and first apply it to me.

Aside from my reason for living, was what I could do for a living. I was exactly what I wanted to be. 

A Wife and Mom. The last kid theoretically off to college, the nest would be empty. I would be able to contribute financially to retirement and travel. Having a job is challenging with Chronic Health issues, so it was going to take some time to figure out what I could do. I never finished my Undergrad. Somehow it ended up being on the “Later” list.

Now the constant question from Well-Meaning friends was, Well NOW you get to do what you’ve always wanted! What do YOU want to do.

I had no answer for them. Many of them struggled with my reply.

My ideas at the moment are, writhing, art, teaching, tutoring, life coaching, social media, a handful of online things. Possibly finding a way to fast-track finish my degree. However, I know the most important rule about change.

That is, that it MUST begin with me.

I found my sunshine.

So, I Arted for myself.

This is now the corner I wake up to every morning.

From this fresh corner flows, a growing inventory in my Frog In Paris Etsy shop.

The ability to write my journey.

The ability to sit and art or write a little every day.

I can hear my own voice. 

I can share it without fear. 

I am able to let mistakes in what I make go and allow them to be part of the work. 

My hope is, as I heal and move forward, I can contribute to the conversation about normalizing Mental Health issues. To help build a bridge of communication between those who struggle and the people who love them.

To continue and share my Experience, Strength and Hope. I look forward to continue learning in this adventure we call life.