A shooting star dissolved into a million Universes. Icarus too close to the sun. Sunset before Sunrise.
Poisoned amniotic fluid your River Styx. Extremities bubbling in wastewater.
Rachel wept for Her children because they were naught.
He hexed my Womb. Did he? Who knows?
Didn’t want to be a D.V. Child.
My son will never be a Pinball Wizard.
Hijacked by the Spermazoid Svengali.
Charmer. BonVivant.
Your initial false luster did me in.
Your handsome face set with marks of confidence, flecks of intelligence liberally sprinkled with jutting arrogance. Your voice once mellow and melodious became a Raging Storm. Clacking. Cracking.
Uprooting thousand years old Forest. Paving it over with sharp jagged rocks that produced poisonous suffocating vines.
Enwombed embryo sensed futures forlorn.
Traded gray and grainy for silver and gold.
Seed among Thorns.
So twisted that if you Swallowed a nail you’d shit a corkscrew.
Ours was a household filled with Madness and Mayhem.
Normally a walk through the park after a horrendous day at work revitalized and invigorated Coreuline. But today was different. It was as though her feet were made of lead. Each step was like slogging through quicksand.
Each breathe was that of one drowning and gasping for air. After a while Coreuline stopped to sit on one of the many benches gracing the park. She purchased a salt pretzel from a vendor gave him a weak smile along with the price of the snack. Eating was one way not to hyperventilate.
The next day the crowds at the gallery were light until after lunch when the amount of visitors picked up. Then among the crowds she spotted a somewhat familial face. He said Hello and she responded in kind but after her poor eyesight adjusted she recognized him as the one who attacked her in a different set of galleries four years ago.
Instant panic attack. Memory of his huge bloated obese body pressing her against hers. Pushing against her so firmly she nearly thought she would become part of the walls. Spittle of a raving lunatic raining down on her hair and face while he screamed bloody epitaphs. The surrounding audience of co-workers stood frozen still waiting to see the outcome of the battle. Struggling to get free with no rescue in sight she summoned every ounce of courage railing at the porcine demon freeing herself from his madness. Or so she thought. Again as before unanswered calls for assistance because the perpetrator had rights but not the victim.
Yes. She thought once he retired peace and safety would be at hand. But once she saw him she knew her world was coming to an end. On the train ride home she beheld costumed young women laughing and joking after a day of frolicking fun. Thinking back to her youth a slow smile came to her lips knowing her last summer was at hand.
Then came the nightmares. Michelin men crushing her bones. Squeezing all the air out of her lungs. Suffocation.
Then came D-Day. Patrolling the Terrace, observing visitors enjoying the sunny weather, admiring the artwork, listening to clinking glasses filled with fruity decorative drinks, once again he appeared parting the crowd like the Red Sea. Only he was No Moses. Clad in black despite his bulk he moved swiftly towards her and before she could draw breathe to scream his beefy hands were around her throat choking her into oblivion. She felt her life slip away like grains of sand through her toes on the ebbing seaside tides. Lifting her up high enough to fling her body over the Terrace Garden walls.
Lucky for her internal darkness had descended to cushion her fall into the out stretched arms of flowering vegetational branches. Merciful Gaia received another one of her battered daughters into her sheltering womb.
Today I am 55 years old. It is a Blessing to be this age. I have depression, anxiety and panic attacks. I’m also a domestic violence and sexual abuse survivor. I’m the person sitting next to you on the bus, subway, at work and in church. No I don’t want pity just acceptance. Recently I had a conversation on my Facebook page regarding mental illness. It was good sharing with my FB buddy who works in the mental illness field about the obstacles and hurdles faced not only by the mentally ill but their families. The government just seems to put more roadblocks in our way so we wind up taking many detours towards a place called Wellness. My mother Mable Elizabeth Palmer lived most of adult life as a functioning schizophrenic. There is a serious lack of support services for the mentally ill thus we read of all these horror stories in the newspapers but for the most part many mentally ill folks carry on with their daily lives. Despite all that I’ve been through as a child and again as an adult I’m happy to be alive.
Sometimes when I tell my story people who have these “happy lives” meaning a satisfying long term marriage, house in New Burbia, kids, grand-kids, successful careers feel sorry for me, pity or think I’m a walking tragedy living a substandard life. Not true! I live in full life in spite of my numerous desert and valley experiences. Perhaps an even fuller more substantive life than those who eat from silver platters. Mine is not a half-life of only the sunny side of the street but a full life that includes the alleys, back-roads, ghettos, and dimly lit streets populated with voices yearning to be head. I like it that way.
Nothing to be sorry about. Despite all the things my parents went through, especially my Mom’s battles with her demons, she was also an alcoholic, overall I had a good childhood. We have a choice to dwell on the sad past or the fond happy times of the past. I think about the good things. The fun stuff our family did when I was growing up. Of course now being an adult I have a different perspective. I was not so accepting myself when I was younger but age, maturity, experience and time changed my viewpoints.
It’s the government and people’s approach to mental illness that needs to be healed. It should not be a stigma. I readily admit to my struggles with depression, anxiety and panic attacks. That’s my life. It is not a tragedy.The tragedy is other peoples reactions and perceptions of mental illness. My Mom was a good wife and mother. I served my country in the Army, earned my BA in English, held down jobs all my life, went to church, now a full participant in Shinnyo-en Buddhism etc… It would be good if people with mental illness were more accepted. If there was more help for those of us suffering. If people would stop trying to impose their expectations on me of what happiness means. Everybody has a past. Everyone has a story. Life goes on. I’m just happy to be alive. Pitiful prayers, slapping oil on my head, telling me the latest New Age positive thinking strategy 12 Steps to Happiness, and sad sack face looks going tsk, tsk, tsk are an insult to my intelligence as a human being. It is what it is. Raw, exposed and uncut.
I have health insurance so I do have the option of returning to those mind-numbing anti-depressant drugs I took after my mother’s death but I choose not too. I choose the full gamut and range of my emotions and feelings as opposed to being a drug induced zombie. During the high points in life I love my odd slightly off center sense of humor. The times when I’m at my lowest are the times when I’m most creative. I’m a better writer, a better photographer because I know what it is like to live life in the margins, the outskirts of society, to be a misfit and an outcast. I’m drawn to people living alternative lives. That’s why I love Street Photography. I don’t want what’s staged, posed or set-up. I want real. The nitty gritty. The down and dirty. The quirky and unusual. If life was meant to be perfect happiness or total sadness the books of Job and the Song of Solomon would not be in the Holy Bible.
What would the world look like if gave a helping hand to the Mentally Ill by supporting organizations like NAMI, prosecuting men who abuse their wives and girlfriends and pulling the collars off ministers who are rapists. What if we weren’t treated like modern day lepers? Instead of further victimizing people living with mental illness write to your Congresspersons and Senators to create laws that will enable us to receive the treatment and support systems we so desperately need.
No I don’t need to be “healed” but our society does.
This is a great blog on dealing with mental illness and strategies to overcome. Catherine not only discusses her struggles but profiles others in the battle, bringing light to a taboo subject. She is an incredibly strong woman whom I’m proud to call Friend.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 