Tag Archives: destruction

No Sanctuary

Years ago, I watched a movie called “Logan’s Run.” The message continues to cause a significant amount of introspection and reflection.
I like science fiction and the movie falls into this category.   It has been years since I watched it, but the way I remember the plot, a remnant of civilization exists in a utopian society within a massive dome.  Their enclosed world is experiencing a terrible shortage of food and what is left to them of the planet can no longer sustain life long term.  For this reason, the computer that controls their lives has everyone fitted with a computerized clock to monitor their age.  A police-like military group oversees the city where these people live, enforcing the computer’s rulesand demands.  When a person’s life-clock reaches 30, they are taken to a large chamber where they undergo a ritual called “Carousel.”  During this ritual, they begin to float upward and disappear upon reaching the top of the chamber.  Everyone is told these people are being reincarnated and that they will never have to grow old.  The citizens are told they will all be renewed in this manner when their life-clock runs out. 
What the average citizen doesn’t know is that everyone who reaches 30 is being killed in the rooms above the chamber and their remains are being converted into food.  And this is the food that is being supplied to the remaining people within the dome.  It is keeping them alive.
Logan is one of the soldiers who keeps order in the city and who has terminated those who have tried to escape this fate.  To force him to go on a secret mission, his life-clock is moved forward from age 28 to 30 by the computer.  And he will be required to participate in Carousel with a group of suspected rebels who form a secret society.  They are being monitored and are expected to attempt to escape, as more than 1000 have reportedly successfully done over the years.  This group wears a symbol to identify them and some have been overheard talking about a place called “Sanctuary.”  They are planning to try to find this place of purported safety.  For they do not believe in the ritual of renewal and rebirth.  They are certain they will not be reincarnated, but will instead be destroyed.  So, they are going to run and Logan is to run with them.  Hence the title, Logan’s Run. 
Logan is to go with the group as they attempt to find the mythical Sanctuary. Once found, he is to report back and provide the computer with the location so their rebel fortress can be destroyed.
During his “run,” Logan learns the truth.  He sees what is happening to the people who reach age 30 and who are swept aloft in the massive chamber during the ritual.  Clever propaganda has been used to hide what is being done, but Logan now sees proof that it is nothing but terrible lies.  He realizes everyone is being killed, their remains processed and stored to provide sustenance to the remaining residents.   Disillusioned, frightened, his escape becomes much more than an undercover mission he was forced to accept.  It is now a genuine attempt to flee with the group of rebels upon which he is supposed to spy. 
What he discovers outside the dome is deeply surprising.  In unexpected ways.
Eventually, as he returns to let others know about his startling discoveries, he is recaptured by a fellow “sandman.”  His fellow soldiers, who have become his enemies.  They hook him up to the massive computer that runs all life within the dome and maintains compliance, balance and order.   He is interrogated.  They show him no mercy.  They spare him no pain. 
He is asked if he has completed his mission.  Then the question, “What is Sanctuary?”   Logan responds honestly.  Without deceit.  He has discovered the truth while outside the dome.
“There is no Sanctuary.” 
The answer is unacceptable, so the computer asks again.  Again, Logan responds, “There is no Sanctuary.” 
Again.  “There is no Sanctuary.” 
Yet again, and again, and again, the computer prods.  Logan can only tell the truth.  He can only report what he has come to know…there is life outside the dome, but there is no Sanctuary.  And this response, given while he is tortured, is the computer’s undoing.  It can’t process what it is being told.  Things begin to come unraveled within its circuitry.  Within the dome.  Things stop working.  Vital processes cease.  Things explode.  Seals release.  Cracks eventually develop in thick walls and finally the dome is split apart and crumbles.  Their world is forever altered as life within the confines of that sphere fail and come to a catastrophic end.  Because there is no Sanctuary.
I think I have finally learned this lesson.  And it’s a hard lesson. Not that there is no sanctuary, specifically.  But there is no place of being okay.  No safe haven.  No space where healing is accomplished.  Where all the wounds of the past are finally made well and health is restored.  Where things are put right.  Where the chains that bind are broken and one is set free.  There is no Sanctuary.  No magical spot or time where wrongs are righted and happy endings begin.  Not on earth, anyway.
Life is hard.  It does things to you.  It is harder for some than for others. 
My life has been a hard one.  Abuse…physical, emotional, sexual…riddled my childhood.  I didn’t learn many of the foundational lessons that others learn, so things that come easily to others are very difficult for me.  And the damage that was done to me at an early age goes deep.  It messed me up.  Changed me forever.
No one gets through this journey unscathed.  Or at least most don’t.  We are all walking wounded.  Some of our wounds are ghastly.  Others are relatively minor.  But we all get hurt.  There is no Sanctuary.  No safety.  No place of freedom.  No guarantees.
And once the damage has been done, nothing is going to undo it.
Looking back, it seems so simple.  There is no sanctuary.  There is no healing.  We are left with a cracked, demolished life that will never be what it could have been.  All we can hope to do is go from where we are and learn to live outside the dome.
It’s taken me a lifetime to realize I have spent years seeking something that doesn’t exist.  It’s terrifying to suddenly comprehend that life, the way it is, is what it is and that this is all it will ever be.  It isn’t going to get better.  There will be no sanctuary.  There is no better place, no better day, no moment of freedom, no time of healing. No putting the pieces back together.  No restoration.
I am what my life, what those who raised me, made me and there is to be no unmaking.  The damage resides within my cells.  It’s part of me.  I can only try my best to go on from here as I am.  There is no Sanctuary.  And finding meaning in this wild, terrifying world, a world where we grow old and are not renewed or restored, is no easy journey.

Shallow Lives

‘Tis a shallow life we live without connection.  Without purpose.  Without someone to grieve the loss of us when we are gone.

Shallow.  Without someone to tell us we matter.  At least to them.  Someone who actually believes we do matter in some little way.

Without someone to carry us in their heart.  Without someone for us to carry in our heart.

Bumping along.  Alone.  Reaching out and finding nothing much to grasp a hold of.  And so, we bump.  Along.  Aimlessly.

Isolation is a harsh task master.  A cruel dictator.  Isolation breaks the invisible bones of the soul.  It torments us, tortures us, keeps us bound tightly in a soundless cage designed to imprison us as we serve our life sentence, without relief, without interruption.  No visitors allowed.

I find that I derive meaning only from being a “mother” to my two Schnauzers.  They tether me to this earth because I don’t want to leave them behind, helpless and alone.  It’s a fragile tether, this lifeline they provide.  The moment it is gone, I am sure to drift far into outer space where I am doomed to perish.

Though I have learned to survive without air.  Without a great deal, in fact.

I was led to believe life was rich and deep and wide.  Worth living.  Worth gripping with all of my might, never letting go.  I have found pain to be so.  I have also found disappointment and loneliness to display these characteristics.  But life?  No, not life.  Life has been hard,  It has become a constant struggle that leaves me weary, without hopes or dreams.  Life has left me empty.  Trapped in a shallow grave.  Having shallow conversations.  Shallow encounters.  Unfulfilled.

Mouth moving.  Ears searching for something worth hearing.  Mind seeking something worth listening to.  Tongue hoping to have something worth saying that someone will want to hear.  Heart desiring a connection worth fighting for.  Worth protecting.  Worth living for.

But no one wants to see beyond the mask.  No one wants to view the imperfect face and soul that lies beneath the perfect plastic.  ‘Tis best to keep it light.  Keep it shallow.  Don’t dig too deep.  Don’t dig deep at all.  Smile.  Say the right words.  Move along.

Barely tethered.  Ready to let go of the balloon.  Float from this empty existence to the emptiness beyond.

‘Tis a shallow life we live without connection.  Hard to believe the glass contains more than a few droplets of water.  No question about whether or not it’s 1/2 full or 1/2 empty.   A drop or two rolls around on the bottom as I turn it side to side.  I cannot bear it a moment longer.   I dash it to the floor.  Watching it shatter.  Staring at all the tiny pieces no longer connected.  Fragments.  Isolated.  Capturing a tiny piece of me in each broken shard.

Father

How could you look at me
shivering child
naked
pleading
shamed
and frightened
and not see
and not care
and not
stop

How could you touch me
foul caresses
playing out your perverted fantasies
using me
while I cried
while I begged you to stop
while I trembled
in terror
and humiliation
imploring and beseeching you
for mercy
for release

How could you become engorged
aroused
inflamed
spewing your sperm
on me
in me
as I whimpered
while I shuddered
while I shivered
broken
into a million pieces
beneath your repulsive touch
my air fouled
by your fetid breath
your sickness
controlling you
annihilating me

You used me
taking
until you got what you wanted
until your lust
was quieted
finally withdrawing
as the beat of your
uncaring heart
slowed
no longer thudding
your hideous penis
shrinking
shriveling at last
to nothing
no longer a weapon
your seed
spent
momentarily

How could you simply walk away
and leave me
shattered
destroyed
defiled
alone
to pick up the pieces
to try
to fit
the fragments
of my soul
back together
putting my emotions
in a deep, dark dungeon
because that was the only way
I could collect myself
painting a mask upon my disillusioned face
so I could leave the room
and not give you away

I struggled
to not feel
to not think
to not believe
to not question
until I could leave that room
while keeping your secret
until I could leave the room
and act as though
nothing
vile
had been done to me
nothing
deplorable
had happened
nothing unspeakable
had fatally wounded me

I was frozen in pain
for a very long time
each time
you came
into my room
into me
until you cast me aside
temporarily
sated

I was unable to move
afterward
for a very long time
each time you abused me
I worked so hard
to turn the world back right-side up
trying to find my feet
to stand
to walk from my bedroom
without turning
into dust

I struggled hard
to convince myself
you had not just
shot me through the heart
with your revolting
coagulating sperm
while expecting me to clean up your mess
then smugly walked away
leaving me lifeless and shattered
leaving me
for dead
without so much as
a backward glance

 

Somebody

I thought I would be somebody.  Eventually.

Perhaps not in a big, fabulous and famous way.  But from some perspective.  In someone’s estimation.  In someone’s eyes.

I thought I would have an impact.  I felt I could make a difference.  I believed I had something to say.  Something worth saying.  I thought speaking out would, if only in a trivial way, leave a permanent mark within a few hearts.  I supposed I would come to matter, even if only slightly and insignificantly.

I started writing when I was six.  As soon as I learned about words and how to put them together; to arrange them on a page, I fell in love with them.  They saved me.

My first poem?

My pencil went over the ocean.
My pencil went over the sea.
My pencil went everywhere I wanted to go,
But it always went without me.

It was written on the kind of lined paper that also provided a dotted guide so a child learning to write could gauge the height of upper and lower-case letters.  The printing was crude.  But I used some big words (relatively speaking) for a six-year-old child.  And even then, my struggle with aloneness was evident.  My pencil left me behind.

I was already being abused.  Had a couple of years under my belt by that point.

By the time I turned eleven, I was writing songs.  Pouring my wounded heart out in poetry set to music.  This was around the time I started to think I had something to say.  All those years ago, I saw beyond my childhood.  I focused on the day I could leave.  When I could begin to recover.  Then, finally, I would be able to tell my story.  And surely, telling my story was going to have an impact.  On someone.  Some shadowy unknown person out there in the big new world that awaited me.

I genuinely wanted to touch hearts.  Deeply.  I longed to connect in meaningful and poignant ways on a level that went beyond the ordinary.  Until then, I created poems.  I wrote songs.  I used words in an attempt to expose the indelible damage and crippling pain within my soul.

But the abuse and agony weren’t to be my whole message.  I fully expected I would overcome the destruction.  Find healing.  My journey would be worth listening to because of the positive outcome.  That’s when I would become someone.  Somebody who was whole.

I did survive.  I endured the sick sexual abuse of my father.  I accepted their slaps and strikes and punches.  They knocked me down, but I got back up.  I endured being dragged across the room by my hair.  Being thrown into walls.  They were artists…hitting me hard enough to leave big red welts, but not hard enough to leave suspicious bruises or broken bones.  I internalized their angry, cutting, degrading words.  Words that they used as weapons and fists.  Telling me I was nothing.  That I was a disappointment.  That I had let them down.  I was supposed to fulfill their dreams and rectify the wrongs in their world.  I failed them time and time again.  They repeated their disdain and the message of their displeasure to me with grating consistency.  My anti-vitamin.  Infused in my brain year after year.  I sucked it up, enduring their rejection.  The isolation.  The neglect.  Their unreasonable demands and ridiculous expectations.  I believed every word they said.

But I also survived.  And then, I escaped.  Two weeks after graduating from high school, diploma finally in hand, I fled.

Now came my opportunity to pick up the pieces; put myself back together.  My time to become somebody.

It didn’t take long to find out no one cared about a battered and abused child fighting to win despite starting far behind the pack.  No one wanted to hear my story.

My heart was too disfigured and horridly crushed.  Even though I patched the pieces of my soul together as best I could, instead of a butterfly, I created a Frankenstein.  A monster.

Dreams die hard.  They die slowly and painfully with time.

Trying to be somebody who was loved, trying to build deep connections, led me down dark paths.  Lonely paths.  Desiring meaningful relationships with people who could see the good and bad in me without turning away took me to ugly places.  Because there was no acceptance.  No matter how hard I worked or how much I gave, I wasn’t adequate.  I was intrinsically defective.

I thought I could be a “real” person.  A person who had something to say and give that mattered.  But my message was unpalatable.  I was undesirable.  Deplorable.  Disgusting.  An aberration.

I shut myself up within high walls. Wrote my words and filed them away in folders and drawers.  I pretended to be normal and whole, wearing the mask to spare others from having to look at me.  I denied my brokenness and emptiness, even during the dead of sleepless nights when the truth was hard to ignore.  Being lonely was far better than being utterly alone.

I wanted to be somebody.  I thought I could.  Be someone who had a worthy story to tell.  A story of abuse survived.  Of a life being born from the ashes.  Ultimate victory.  I believed I could provide inspiration and light to others; to those coming along after me.  I wanted to help them find the way.  Point them to a path of healing and love.

But I never made it out of the darkness.  My story is but another sordid tale of failure and anguish.  I never found healing.  Never found love.  I am nothing more than a cautionary narrative that lacks a satisfactory ending.  There is no inspiration in my saga.

I am not somebody.  Even the little I was able to attain is fading away into nothingness.  Drowning in the emptiness of my hollow, fragmented life.  Dust returning to dust.

Still, I arrange words on pages.  Casting them into the cosmos, though they are void of meaning.  Though I am nothing more than a nobody with nothing left to say.

 

Wreck

I had a wreck.  A real one.

The traffic on the expressway came to a dead stop in front of me.  I stopped.  I looked in my rear-view mirror; felt relief because no one was right on my tail.  Looked at the exit ramp, wishing there was some way to weave through the idling cars, but realized it wasn’t going to happen.  Looked forward again, trying to figure out how long we might be stuck.  Then…kablam!

That was the last normal moment I experienced.

With the first hit, which I wasn’t expecting at all, the world exploded.  I was shoved forward into the car in front of me and felt myself being thrown.  My air bag went off.  I think I might have put my arm up to protect my face, but I really can’t be sure.  And then, there was a second hit.  Harder than the first one.  Much harder.  Shoving me forward again.  I remember thinking, “How many times am I going to get hit?”  “Is this ever going to end?”  Because it felt like it went on and on.  Even though it was probably over in a matter of seconds.  It was terrifying.

Glad I was wearing my seat belt.

Thankfully, the third and fourth hit I feared was coming never happened.

I was shaking.  I couldn’t think.  I needed to call someone, but couldn’t remember who to call.   Finally remembering I should probably call my brother.  Looking for my purse, now in the floorboards.  Noticing part of my jewelry, the jewelry I had been wearing, laying in one of the cup holders.   Pulling my phone out.  Trying to remember how to use it.  Searching the contacts for my brother’s name.  The phone ringing.  He answered.  I don’t even remember what I said.  Just, “I’ve been in a wreck.  A bad one.  I think my arm may be broken.”

I needed to get someone to let my dogs out.  I think I called my aunt.  My sister-in-law.  Called a friend at work.  Then realized in a panic, my car could still be hit again.  And I cut off the current call because I HAD to get out of that car…what was left of it…RIGHT NOW!

Then seeing my car.  Realizing I no longer had a car.  My new car; gone.  Broken into pieces and beyond repair.  I walked away.

I stopped like a good girl.  The world didn’t.

Actually, my world stopped a long time ago.  This was just one more time when I had the brakes on, waiting for the path ahead to clear, listening and watching.  Hoping to find a way when there wasn’t one.  Observing.  Waiting.  Trying to be patient.  Only to be run down and destroyed.  Waiting patiently didn’t change the outcome.  Didn’t stop the bad stuff from mowing me down…yet again.  Didn’t keep it from crashing into me and taking everything away.

My arm hurt.  At first, it stung badly.  Then it felt a little numb.  And then the pain came in waves that got bigger and bigger and bigger until I couldn’t think of anything except how agonizing it felt.  It appeared to be broken.  Deformed and lumpy on one side, though, thankfully, no bones sticking out. The medics who left me standing in the grass as they checked out the others who were involved said it was broken.  Said they would be back.  To hold it to my chest.  To please wait.  And to stay right where I was.

I didn’t have anywhere to go.  Or anything to go in.

No option except to go in the ambulance that finally took me to the hospital.  After the policeman confiscated my license.  Which seemed a bit odd.  I didn’t do anything.  I was just sitting there when the world exploded and pain enveloped me.  And everything fell apart.

The day after, my entire body hurt.  Two days after, I felt a little better in some places.  Except the arm.  The arm that may or may not be broken was feeling much worse.  After waiting for hours, after they took multiple x-rays, the doctor finally told me it was too swollen to tell if it was fractured and that I would need a recheck in 10 to 15 days.  This was the instruction I received when they released me around 8:30 from the emergency room, 4 hours after the wreck.  May just be really screwed up, but with bones intact.

The thing I did learn at the hospital is that the first car hit me while going about 50 mph.  The second car never even attempted to brake.  They slammed into the back of my car going at least 60 mph.  I couldn’t quite get my head around it.

Weirdly, the better my bruised and battered body felt, the more I crashed emotionally.

Three days after the wreck, I started crying.  For no reason.  Well, for no reasonable reason.  Too late to cry over crashed car.  Spilled milk.  Whatever.  Too late to cry, but I’m crying anyway.  Sobbing, actually.  Then numb again.  Depressed.  Unable to see the light of day.  Remembering the feeling of being hit and thinking it was never going to stop.

Afraid to drive.  Danger is everywhere.

Just like in life.

Sitting.  Waiting for the next pileup.  Knowing it’s coming sooner or later.  And I can’t get out of the way.  There’s no avoiding it.

Trying to pick up all the pieces, but they’re strewn all over the road.  And there’s no putting them back together again.

If I Could

“If I could turn back time…”  So goes the song.  So sings my heart.  So cries my soul.

If I could…oh, if only I could. 
If I could turn back time, I would not keep secrets.  I would tell someone.  And I would tell someone else.  And I would tell another person and another and another until someone listened.  Until someone believed me and realized I existed within a tortured reality while attempting to act as if everything was normal and safe.  I would shout if I had to and tell the truth until someone heard, reacted and removed me from my parent’s home.  I would tell them about the sexual abuse.  The physical abuse.  The neglect.  The rejection and constant deriding.  The emotional abuse.  I would speak up and keep speaking until someone understood.  Until they took me seriously.  Until someone reached into the darkness where I was trapped and helped me escape.
If I could turn back time, I would do whatever it took to get help a lot earlier.  I would allow myself to believe I was worth the time and the money.  I didn’t believe it then.  I started so late.  So late, it was too late.  The brokenness had calcified.  Cemented into place; impossible to dislodge.  Instead of trying to figure it out on my own, I would find someone who could help me untangle the knots, put the broken pieces back together and mend me.  A gifted professional who could wade with me into the depths of pain flowing from the wounds created by my destructive childhood.  I would let them show me a different reality and how to wade out of that vicious current to the other side.  I wouldn’t put it off, thinking there was time…later.  I would pursue healing relentlessly, with extreme urgency, doing whatever I had to do to make it happen.  Because being healed would have completely changed the course of my life.  In a wonderful way.  It would have taken me into a new and healthy dimension where robust, genuine life was possible.  I would have sacrificed whatever I had to sacrifice early in life to pursue wholeness and not given up until I found it.
 If I could turn back time, I would never have gotten married when I was 17.  I was so young.  I felt old.  I felt like I had already lived a lifetime, battling to survive.  Going back, I would whisper in my own ear, “You have time…let yourself be young!”  I wouldn’t have given my heart to an 18-year-old boy who would ask me for a divorce a mere two weeks after our wedding. 
And I wouldn’t have married again at 25.  At least not the person I married back then.  I let him convince me he loved me and wanted to be with me.  I wanted so badly to be loved!  I took the bait, longing to be filled.  So, if I did again foolishly believe and marry him, when he told me a few months after we wed that he didn’t love me, I would have filed for divorce right away.  I wouldn’t have wasted a lifetime hoping he would someday, somehow come to love and want me.  I wouldn’t have hung on, believing he was the best life had to offer.  I wouldn’t have given him 22 years of my time.  I wouldn’t have allowed him to move into my soul, breaking my heart in the process.
If I could turn back time, I would have gone to college.  When I was young and just out of high school.  Lived on campus.  Had the whole experience.  Taken interesting classes and hung out with friends until I could discern a path that excited me.  I would have worked hard too.  I was always good at making the grades.  But I also would have torn down my walls, raised my expectations, explored, learned, laughed, figured out who I was and moved forward into the light of a promising future.
I would also relocate to one of the places I dreamed of living.  I would move there when I was young.  When it was easier.  When I wasn’t so encumbered with the burdensome responsibilities and debts of life.   I would have made my way closer to the ocean.  And started building my life there.  Not wasting time living where things seemed to fall into place, taking the path of least resistance.  I would move to a desirable location and find ways to stay as I created the existence I yearned for and dreamed about. Even if it was hard initially.  I would carve out a home in that space and finally find a sliver of joy.  I would spend time on the beach, listening to the soothing and calming voice of the waves.  Basking beneath glorious sunrises and sunsets.  Rejoicing in the warmth.  Greeting the day with gratefulness instead of reluctantly waking while bound by heavy disappointment and despair.
I wouldn’t have worked jobs that demeaned and demoralized me.  Not if I could turn back time.  I wouldn’t slave for bosses who didn’t appreciate me.  Who used me all the more because I was too unsure of my value to protest.  I would have pursued fulfilling work instead.  Pursued my dreams. While I still had dreams.  And hope.  And a future ahead of me. 
If I could turn back time, I would save more money and spend more on the things that create memories with those I love. 
If I could turn back time,  I would surround myself with those people…the ones who live in my heart and bring joy into my life by simply being.  I would work harder at staying real – even vulnerable – so I could truly connect with others in a deep and significant way.  I would take the risk instead of hiding and pretending and trying to fit in with the crowd.  I wouldn’t close myself away in darkness or shroud myself with shame that I wore like skin.  A skin I grew into while still very young.  Because of the abuse.  I would seek help.  I would tell myself over and over again that it wasn’t my fault.  I would tell myself until I believed it.  Until I knew without doubt that what was done to me didn’t mean I should be ashamed.  Didn’t mean I was disgusting and tainted.  My past wouldn’t be something to hide.  It’s my reality.  My history.  So, I would stop denying where I came from and what it had done to me.  I would acknowledge that past, embrace the possibilities of the future and begin to connect deeply with special people when I encountered them.  Meaningfully.  I would be transparent, unmasked, open and do what it took to build deep relationships.  Those connections would be my priority.  If I had another chance.  Another chance to do it over.
If I could turn back time, I would listen more to my heart and less to my brain.
I would try more things, even if I was afraid of failing, looking stupid and making mistakes.  I would kayak and kick-box and learn a martial art.    I would dance often.   I would visit the ocean frequently and let it sooth my wounds.  I would live where there was lots of sunshine.  I would ride in a hot air balloon, even if I had to save up for a long time to afford the pleasure.  I would take classes on subjects that were of interest to me.  I would sing more.  Write that book.  Publish those poems.  I would risk and not let fear rule my choices.
If I could turn back time, I would hold on to each moment.  Live it.  Fully experience each day.  The pain and the joy.  The fun and the difficulties.  I would be present in the present and tattoo each experience on my brain for later enjoyment.  For later contemplation.  I would fill my memory bag with experiences so when I looked back, the years would not have disappeared in an unending chain of monotony.  There would be more happy memories and less regrets.  More to recall.  More worth remembering.
I’m sure I would still make mistakes.  But I think I would make smaller ones, less costly ones, having learned some hard lessons the hard way.  I wouldn’t make so many of the huge, monumental errors that erode quality of life until there is no life left.  I wouldn’t let life…or the people in my life…tell me I didn’t matter.  I wouldn’t accept being a worthless object to be used and cast aside when inconvenient or if not operating up to user expectations.  No, having worked hard early on to find a place of wholeness, I would believe in myself and in my own worth.   I wouldn’t be beaten down, settling for simply being tolerated.  I would move on.  Cut my losses.  Find a healthier path.
If I could turn back time, I would understand the value of the minutes that were sifting silently through my hand and I would cling to each one.  I wouldn’t live for a blurry tomorrow.  I would live for today.  Milking each moment for every drop of happiness and meaning I could find.  I would dance in the rain and soak up the sunshine.  I would follow my dreams.  I would refuse to be numbed by the blows.  I would feel each emotion: deep, small, hurtful, joyful.  I would face the damage, tear it apart and rebuild when I was young, strong, more pliable.  And continue to rebuild throughout my existence, repairing, refinishing, refurbishing, restoring.  I would not settle.  I would not sleepwalk through the days.
I would give my heart only to those who also gave their heart to me.  Never casting my pearls before swine.  Understanding that even my broken heart was a pearl.  That life is a treasure.  And I need to spend this treasure carefully.  I would savor each one of those seconds while I was standing within them.
If I could turn back time, I wouldn’t now be sitting in a dark room alone but for my dogs, surrounded by regrets and loss and pain.  I would be a different person in a different place living a very different life.  Silence wouldn’t accompany me throughout my days.  Numbness would not cripple me.  There would be laughter and tears and conversation.  My world would not be empty.  It would be messy and full of all that results from a life well lived.   I believe I would understand so much more clearly what was at stake and would act accordingly.  I would discover the person I was meant to be…before the wounding, abuse, rejection and destruction.  I would be fully alive.  Finally. 
If only I could turn back time.  If only there was such a thing as a second chance.
 
 

Kilroy Was Here

The war in which I fought, the war that left its indelible mark on me, was not a major battle lauded by historians as a great victory or a lesson learned.  It was not researched after the fact, analyzed, viewed from various interesting angles and dissected by great minds with the intent of culling any worthwhile data it might provide.  Nor was it documented with video equipment and reenacted, or detailed in studious dissertations.  It was not noted at all, in fact, by any person alive on planet earth, either during or after the terrible war had essentially ended.  It is actually only briefly noted within a massive list of words and definitions by a single two-syllable word that resides in Webster’s Dictionary.  Just one word to explain the hideous events that changed my world forever.  That annihilated me, though I fought for survival ever so gallantly.  One word.

Incest.

The battle was fought in my own home behind doors that were kept locked with the intent of keeping the boogieman safely outside.  But the boogieman was a resident of the house where I grew up.  He built it.  The locks were pathetically ineffective.  The fox was guarding the hen house.

I had to maintain the highest level of invisibility achievable by a child who was terrified of those who gave her life, only to metaphorically take it away.  I could not draw my name upon the wall to mark my passing.  To commemorate how I had fought and suffered.  No “Kilroy Was Here” left on a board or stone to prove I had been, though I was no more.

I cloaked myself in darkness, but again and again, the darkness betrayed me.  For it did not hide me from my father who quietly sneaked into my room at night and took what he wanted from me, leaving little behind.  It did not soften the impact of being raped, abused and used.  It did not shield me from his warped lust.

I could not leave a mark as a witness of what I suffered at their hands as they used me to satisfy their whims or to release their raging anger.  I could not speak of the atrocities.  Nor memorialize the tragedy.  No one knew of the war in which I so desperately struggled and fought.  I could not tell them.  I was a prisoner of an unknown and unacknowledged war.  People do not want to hear, they do not want to know the ugly truth of the torture such prisoners endure.  Even when the war is supported, they turn their head and shut their eyes.

“Kilroy Was Here” was a proclamation.  It was created as a visual symbol to commemorate the GI’s presence.  He left it behind as a sign for those who would come after.  To let them know he had been where they are now…and had lived to tell.

I have no clever graphic.  I have only words.  I leave them strewn here on this screen for those who will come after me.  And sadly, there will be many more who come after.  More broken souls who start their life wounded by those who were supposed to die protecting them.  Staggering under the weight of every form of child abuse.  And like any soldier who endures and fights in horrendous conditions while attempting to survive the unrelenting attacks of a deadly, disguised, fanatic enemy, we are each one forever changed by what we have endured.

We may survive, but we don’t get out alive.

 

When the Bough Breaks

“Rock-a-by baby
On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall,
And down will come baby
Cradle and all.”

The wind blew.  It started blowing before I was born.  A cold, harsh, unforgiving wind.  Destructive.  It blew. Relentlessly.  Every day.  Without ceasing.  My parents were driven by it; directionless without it.  And the first air to fill my lungs as I cried out after birth was that of the powerful wind that haunted me and cut a vicious path through my entire life.

The wind blew without ceasing.

My cradle rocked.  Wildly.  Brutally.  And the bough broke.  Time and time and time again.

Who takes a baby up to the top of the tree, only to let them fall?

The wind whipped up emotional storms.  Violent fights between my parents.  Hitting.  Slapping.  Throwing.  Leaving.  And when I tried to intervene as a tiny child, the hits and slaps landed on me.  After the storm, when they had both walked out, I held my younger brother, told him everything would be okay and cleaned up the mess.  Picked up the tossed dishes (melamine doesn’t break), the silverware that was strewn across the kitchen and small living room of the trailer where we lived.  Gathered the scattered clothing.  Did what I could to fix the unfix-able.  Did what I could to survive the fall.

Sometimes, the storm hit me full force.  There was nothing to hold on to but the ferocious wind that tossed me to the earth, broken and bloody.  No shelter.  No way to escape.  Couldn’t put the pieces back together.  The bough broke.  I fell.  Hard.

The wind blew in the abuse.  Abuse of every kind, shape and color.  It howled and danced in frenzied glee at the havoc it wreaked.  This is what the wind does.  It tears apart.  It shakes everything that can be shaken.  It destroys anything that can be destroyed.

I was vulnerable.  A child.  I was easy to take down and rip apart.  Easy to destroy.

I lived in the wind, slammed down to the ground, tossed like a weightless feather.  Watching the earth fall out from under me.  Watching my world disintegrate as we smashed to the ground once again.  Standing against the ferocious gale was impossible.  Walking in it took every bit of strength I could muster.  There was no keeping my balance.  Up was down and down was sideways.  The debris crashed into me as I crashed into it.  The tempest never died down.  Never grew tired or lessened in force.  Never lost interest in breaking the bough I clung to with tenacity, even as it was ripped out of my hand.

When the bough breaks, you fall.  You fall through empty air.  And you know it’s going to hurt when you hit the ground.  There is nothing to soften the blow.

When a child is born into the arms of the wind of chaos, even when you run, there is no escape.  It’s within you.  You can’t get away from yourself.

I tried.  I ran when I was 17.  The squall chased me.  I thought getting out of the cradle my parents created, that cradle into which I was born, I oh-so-stupidly thought it would change everything.  But I had been changed by the wind.  I was powerless against it.  When I ran, I took that sadistic wind with me.  It had become a part of the very fabric of my being.

It has been with me every day since birth.  Endlessly raging.

The storm is in me.  And when the wind blows, I break.  Everything I cling to is ripped away.  I fall to the earth, screaming silently in the wind as it rips my breath from my lungs, howling in delight at my  raw, ferocious pain and unending agony.

The Wonder Years

I missed them.  The “Wonder Years.”  The years of innocent, frivolous childhood.  The carefree days.  Believing in goodness and happy endings.  The time before fear.  The time before enlightenment.  Before darkness.

There is pain even then.  And though it seems big and awful, aging provides us with a perspective that allows us to see how trivial were our worries and betrayals.  A best friend plays with an “enemy.”  Someone we have a crush on develops a crush on someone else.  The popular kids seem to have it all together and they always appear to win.  But things are not as they appear.  We are learning life lessons as we play out our dramas on a small screen in our small, but expanding world.  The Wonder Years don’t require those massive, life-changing consequences.  Everything is softer.   We take small steps.  Eat small bites.  Figure things out slowly.  But without the weight of concern.  Without crushing responsibility.  Our course is still pliable.  Anything can happen.  And whatever happens…we believe it will be good.  We believe our course will eventually lead us to the pot of gold.

I missed it…that time of magic and excitement others experienced routinely.  That time before intimately comprehending the dark side of life.  I was born on the dark side.  I lived there.  Knew the streets.  The shadows.  I grew up under the curse.

It is not a place of security or wholesomeness.  Or beauty.

I watched classmates with parents who adored and encouraged them.  I saw the nurturing they received.  The attention.  The care.  And it baffled me.  I saw them make mistakes, yet survive.  They were not beaten or reduced to nothingness for taking a wrong step.  They were not made to pay with their soul.  Maybe with their allowance.  But the mistakes they made didn’t mean they WERE a mistake.  They cried their tears, dried their eyes and laughed again as their parents lovingly watched over them.

I learned very early that those wonder years were just a facade.  A fantasy.  I peeled away the tissue, but there was no gift within the wrapping.   I saw behind the curtain.   And there were monsters there.

I was tightly swathed in darkness and rejection.  I was surrounded by abuse of every kind that came from every direction and I had nowhere to run nor any way of escape.  I walked through the day quiet as a mouse, hiding and running from those who gave me physical life.  Avoiding contact, for they were the ones who sucked dry my emotional and mental life while draining the hope and innocence right out of me.   I lived in fear of things that went bump in the night because in my house, those monsters were real, alive and hungry. They ate my heart and soul and enjoyed the meal.  In my house, the worst did happen.  And in my house, I bore all the blame.  All the responsibility.  The emptiness and dysfunction was somehow my fault because I could never fill them up.

I didn’t feel cherished or wanted.  I never recall a time when I was without heavy weights on my shoulders.  There are no memories of feeling light and unburdened.  Free and unrestricted and alive.  I died young, there alone in the terrible darkness.  Old beyond my years.  Broken before I even got a chance to take my first faltering steps.  Never flying.

I missed the Wonder Years, though I longed for that feeling of lightness and joy.  I wanted to taste it.  I wanted to soar…just for a little while.  To feel weightless and safe and ecstatic simply to be alive with the sunshine warming my head while the wind carried me.

But once you have lost your innocence, once you have had your trust ripped violently away, once you have been violated, there is no turning back the page.  No going backward in time.  Once you have had a bite from the apple, a new, horrible reality is revealed.  Once you have been thrust into the unending darkness and seen the face of evil, the only wonder you know is that of wondering if you will survive.

And mostly, you don’t.  Because life without wonder is just marking time.

 

Wishing on Dying Stars

“I wish I may

I wish I might…”

Do you remember?  The days of possibilities.  As a child, standing in the darkness beneath a star-strewn sky.  Wishing wishes, believing with all of your heart those wishes would come true.  No doubts.  No anxiety.  Just an unshakable knowing that the impossible is possible; inevitable.  Dancing beneath the moon.  Believing in dreams.  Believing in tomorrow.  Feeling the magic.  Touched by the mysterious force of innocence.

Gazing upward, making wishes on dying stars.

The sky seems limitless.  Surely anything can happen.  Everything will happen.  The beauty of those sparkling, twinkling dots of light, visible from so far away, captivates the imagination and fuels the fire.  The air is alive, filled with the sweet perfume of hope.

No need to worry.  Cup the moment in your hands and drink deeply.  The night is enchanted.  Hold it tight.  Do not let it go.

We wish upon those twinkling stars as they shoot across the deep velvet dark of night.  Never stopping to think that we have handed our dreams to a star that is dying.  Falling from the sky.  Its light, in one last spectacular explosion, forever extinguished.

We hold our breath, guided by foolish sentiment and release our most sacred desires into the opaque darkness.  We see through our imagination.  And trust what is vanishing right before our eyes.

We watch the star as it streaks across the sky, believing it has heard, that it carries our wish and hurries to fulfill the desires we have whispered as it falls.

“When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true…”

And so the story goes.  And so our silly heart believes. We wish upon a shooting star and close our eyes in anticipation of the mystical powers that will make all our wishes come true.

Believing a dying star will somehow fill us with light and life.  And guide us to contentment.

But dying stars do not grant wishes.  Nor do they cast enchanting magic spells or foretell the fulfillment of our deepest dreams.  We wish and wait for the impossible, only to find even our most fervent faith can’t forge fantasy into reality.  Though we wish upon a million twinkling stars, be they the first bright star of the night, the biggest and most beautiful diamond in the sky or the one with the longest tail streaking behind it as it falls, no manner of wishing, praying, hoping or believing will miraculously make our dreams come true.

I don’t know when it happens.  Not exactly.  We may still occasionally yet glance upward if the sky is exceptionally clear. If the millions of dancing stars are sparkling especially beautifully that night.  But over the years, we learn to keep our head down.  Our eyes to the ground.  Weighted with the heaviness of disappointment, we no longer search the endless black sky seeking infinite possibilities.  Shooting stars fall without fanfare. Without our acknowledgment.  Our dreams have long ago burned up in the atmosphere as they fell to earth where they crashed and perished.

We spent our youth wishing on dying stars.  We wished passionately until the passion was utterly drained from our body, drip by drip.  Until we were emptied of our blood and life, droplet by droplet.  We lost our hope under that vast black firmament.  Beneath the heavens so gloriously filled with sparkling diamonds.  They tempted us to believe and believe we did.  But time…ah, how thoroughly time has ravaged our soul, consuming our eager expectations.  Time causes all things to fall.  To fall until there is no getting back up again.  We thought we would be the exception.  But time brought us down, down to our knees, just as it brings everything down that is contained within the universe in which we live.  Us and the shooting stars.  Falling.

Time reminds us all things come to an end.  That it runs out far too quickly.  And it runs out long before our fervent dreams come true.

Star light, star bright, I can no longer see your light.

My eyes have grown weary.  I have run out of wishes, here at the end of my time.  I have nothing to show for my youthful excitement and anticipation.  I am but a shooting star whose light has been extinguished.  I carry my wishes to the grave, unrealized and empty.  Another dark and lonely place, my grave.  And if there are stars here, either glorious or dimming, my eyes can no longer see them.