Tagged child abuse


The Elements of Loss

I don’t hear you say my name as you ask why it is I let no one love me. I feel something stir and I laugh. This is my way. There’s no room for clumsy. Take me or leave me, I say I’ll give you one chance when I know I won’t give you any. Best to shield before they want to leave. But deep in the infection of my gut I’m saying love me, love me. After my father’s funeral my mother gave me back all the things I’d made her as a child. I sit at home and…

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A Poem by Sharon Olds

This poem by Sharon Olds comes from her amazing book, Satan Says. Let me know what you think.  It’s probably one of my favorite poems out there; I’ll never forget it. TIME TRAVEL I have learned to go back and walk around and find the windows and doors.  Outside it is hot, the pines are…

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Found Myself Today Singing

Well it’s been awhile since I’ve written just a post on what’s up with me lately.  Maybe because what’s up is confusing and yet somehow dull to me.  A couple of great things are happening–I’m seeing a new psychologist who leaves around the bend across the lake and I think she’s…brilliant.  Fucking brilliant.  The first time in fifteen years I felt like, in therapy, “this is the one.  She can help me help myself.”  It’s good dammit.  Good.  I quit smoking.  It’s day four.  My singing voice is already almost fully back!! I’m drinking tea instead of coffee to cut…

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Two Writing Prompts

Writing prompts/Writer’s Challenge from the online lit mag The Write Place at the Write Time Prompt 1: An anniversary can be a time of celebrations or a time of solemn reflection.  Write a story in no more than five hundred words that describes your protagonist‘s feelings about the event being remembered and how it affected their life.  Use words “flashback”, anniversary, “recognition”, and “future”. Prompt 2: Summer is always a special time, and is often characterized as a period of transition in a young person’s life.  Imagine a powerful coming-of-age experience for your protagonist, and in five hundred words or…

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Falling Out and In

My relationship with my mother is a book in itself.  This is not a post about her or me but rather about the deep waters we get ourselves into in a desperate search for love.  All of us–my two sister, me, and my mother–desperate for love.  We fail to remember we can receive it from each other, well at least me and my mother.  You can read my poem about my mother HERE (Mama It Was Too Late) and another, HERE (70s Soundtrack).  OK, one more HERE (A Trauma Theory).  It was like so many moments, so many years, built…

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Red Cape

When I was five I used to jump from the top of the stairs to the landing with a red cape, believing if I kept trying I’d fly I’d be Super-girl saving the world from damage. Many afternoons, my bare feet thudded the catchy carpet as smoke rose up the stairs with the patience of a coming storm, my father puffing a pipe, his big knuckles unharmed from their crack into my cheek; his eyes empty of what he’d done beneath my cape. It didn’t matter that there was no such thing as heroes. At least I could fly.

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Fragile Things

At some point everything becomes clear. That doesn’t necessarily mean a good clear, but fact is preferred over fiction when you’re locked up in a mental ward. Again. And it’s snowing out–and worse–it’s New Year’s Eve and you’re thirtieth birthday is coming and you’re little girl must be looking for you. It’s all you can…

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Mama, It Was Too Late

My Mother Turns Fifty (published in Third Wednesdsay Poetry Journal) It is a sunny afternoon, the light coming in yellow through her curtains that cut through the smoke. Cat Stevens feels like water inside my soul and then she switches it to Bread and hands me a dust rag. I dance across the green and…

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The Nothing Caper

It came in the night. We were all sleeping in the house and I woke to it lifting my sheets; it made my nightgown bleed. My doll saw it all so I ripped out her eyes the next morning before breakfast. Then it started coming in my dreams, and I thought there was a monster beneath my bed gathering my dolls and things. On the scratchy carpet where the sun comes in, it branded my skin with its tongue, so I gave it my voice. Mother and father swallowed it up. They found me in corners and closets and they…

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