— for my twin sister —
Do you remember when
we thought you were allergic
to the crab apple trees
at the top of the hill
at our grade school?
I was so mad at those trees
for being so beautiful.
Those delicate petals
falling so dramatically yet
so serenely to the grass below,
the flowers hugging their
branches tightly in hues
of magenta, burgundy, and lilac
between creased pointed oval leaves
and smelling so sweetly.
I did not want the desire to
walk up that hill and
take each future fruit into my hands,
to talk to it gently,
I have manic depression. There are times when I start seeing those red flags that show me I’m starting down the road to depression and I know I’ve got to do something. Maybe I sleep in both days on the weekend. Maybe not enough things on my to do list are getting crossed off. Maybe the alarm has to wake me up too many days in a row and each time I have that feeling of “oh no, Lord, not today”. …
When it comes to understanding truths about myself, I’m a slow learner. It took until I was 30 before I was properly diagnosed with my mental illness and 40 before I knew how to deal with it. I didn’t get sober until I was 37. So now that I’m 44, I finally know how to label my gender. It has taken a painfully long time to learn each of my personal lessons.
Growing up, I didn’t quite fit in anywhere, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on why that was until just recently.
I did write a…
The CD is placed in the player
volume adjusted up or down
the arrow button pushed
and whether I am laying
in a darkened bedroom
to escape the throes of a migraine
or in front of a bright light
for therapy instructed by my doctor
or writing a poem or a blog
to share later with others
the piano music soars floats
surrounds elevates me
beyond my pain
beyond the storm
beyond the dark
beyond the light
I am the rain dripping
on leaves in a vine covered forest
I am a feather floating
through an azure sky
This is a letter I wrote to my district judge after my ex-husband, who I have a protection order, was stalking me. He would drive around the neighborhood where I lived, and stop me while I was walking.
In April of this year, you signed a protection order for me and my two children guarding against my ex-husband. You upheld this protection order in court at a hearing in which he tried to have the protection order dropped. …
My difficulty with labels — in permanent ink, at least
I have a problem.
Okay, yes, I have many problems, and have had quite a few therapists who didn’t know what to do with me, but that may have been because I didn’t know what to do with myself and where to start in explaining myself to them. I digress.
It was brought to my attention in a gentle manner that perhaps I am averse to being labeled in any way. I don’t like being placed in a mental illness bucket. I don’t know what you’d call my sexuality type…
First, I’m going to observe that in writing or saying anything resembling an opinion, one is bound to upset, piss off, or offend someone. This is not my intention. Nor is it my intention to start a big heated debate. Writing is my way of thinking, and if my pondering and figuring things out can help someone else figure something out in their life or make them feel a little less lonely, a little less misunderstood, or a little less sad — then that’s why I share. So that’s my disclaimer. …
The full harvest moon, peeking through clouds
in a pale blue morning sky
watched me drive to my new job today.
You said you want the old me
and his letter searches for the girl
who could paint fairy tales and pretend
the world revolved solely around
my endless energy and the innate ability
to fatally romance every man I chose.
You remember someone grasping at
every moment to be with you,
dressing up to please you, giggling.
I do not know the last time I laughed.
Each morning I wake, cling to a job
that I still do not…
I have not been accused
of being an outwardly adventurous
nor gregarious child
but I enjoyed the outdoors
so the first time my Girl Scout troop
went camping in platform tents
the one thing I remember isn’t
the creeking in old shoes down the riverbank or
the songs around the campfire or
the hikes to discover the forest or
the friends’ hands held fast but
that first night
finally drifting off to sleep in my cot
being awoken with the startling realization
that I could no longer breathe,
my sleeping bag twisted tight around me,
I having fallen off my…
From Nebraska, two degrees in Agronomy/Soil Science, poet and artist, gender fluid queer, mother, twin, manic depressive, sensory sensitivity, PTSD, resilient.