I wrote a list, but I wrote.

I feel like a stranger on here. And have no idea where this will lead, but wanted to put some words on a page. I already feel anxiety--is this writer's block? Not sure. I'm not sure why I'd have it on here, especially. I've been away for 3+ weeks on a road trip...and trying to get back into the swing of ANYTHING is proving to be very difficult. I am out of touch with friends. I am behind in almost everything that deals with this house. I'm feeling a bit BIT overwhelmed and I know I need to write. That is my number one thought..."I should be writing."

My top ten thoughts as they come out right after the other.. (the easiest thing I could think of to get this done.)

1. Homeowning is overwhelming.

2. I shouldn't complain about owning a home when so many don't.

3. Though my friend sent me an article about it being okay to feel down even when compared to others who have much more to feel down about. That just leads to guilt feelings.

4. This needs to take a turn.

5. Ummm...beeen catching up with House of Cards.

6. I do believe they are commenting on Trump.

7. I didn't think he could get any worse. 

8. Sadly, he proves me wrong every day by doing so.

9. When your thoughts are mostly about getting your house in order, it may be time to get a job outside of it.

10. How does one go back to work after 8 years? What does that resume look like???

Okay, a couple more thrown in. But this is the gist of how my brain rolls around these days.

To His Mistress, from His Wife

You feel his sweat glide down,
his heart beating fast.
He loses his frets, his frowns,
his worries fade into the past.

He leaves while the sun still sleeps,
he could be gone one hour or four.
I wonder what time his watch keeps
when he finally walks through the door.

He returns smiling and wet.
He is tired but at ease,
challenged, but his goal was met.
There's not a chance you were a tease.

His shirt sticks to his chest,
dirt cakes his shoes,
he was at his best,
you continue to light his fuse.

You've caused him to stumble, to fall,
but inspired him to keep on track.
You've made his body tremble,
been the warmth on his back.

I want to be in the sunrise,
in the colors of the trees,
to see him as the crow flies,
to be his cooling breeze.

Others make plans to see you,
so he feels the pull to go.
Things he said he wouldn't do
again make me a widow.

I want to be the beat in his heart.
When he finally sees the crest,
to be with him at the start
and feel the heart in his chest.
My bed is empty,
he's gone to be with you.
Once again your worlds collide;
I don't know him the way you do.

I wear his ring,
and our girls are waiting.
So in case you are wondering
your pull isn't everlasting.

I'm not in the group he meets
I'm not there to see his feats,
or all the beauty that they see.
But here's the hope I have in me--

I'm in the sunrise,
in the colors of the trees,
in the crow's eyes as it flies.

I am his cooling breeze.

I struggle with the running at times. Mostly with the time he spends with others...sharing that experience...knowing that I won't have those same amazing moments. They are bonds. Ones that I need to make for myself. I'm working on it.

KJ

You weren't born to me

but I made you my own

Your small beating heart

band aided my own.

You focused

the blurred love

of myself.

You weren't born to me

but I made you my own

Running to me

jumping in my arms

created my self worth

I was a planet in orbit

You, the sun.

You warmed me

connected me

gave me direction.

You weren't born to me

but I made you my own

I was a ghost

no one could see

a cold, empty space

then you sat next to me 

proved me real.

My questioned existence

had meaning.

My abandoned self

newly discovered.

You weren't born to me

but you made me your own. 

Z 2.2.17

Z

Seeing her baby pictures
my heart hurts
my throat lumps.

I miss her breath in my ear
her eyes brightening
as I peered into her crib.

I miss being her entire world.
Not having to let anyone else in.
Not her teachers
or her friends
who teach things
I don't want taught.

Time slips through
the strands of her hair
that grows too long
covering her eyes.

Time slips through
her tears
that I can cause
when my skin is too thin.

Time slips through
my hand
when she pulls away
wanting to steady herself.

I have to fight the fears
that keep her from dreaming
that cause her to doubt
making her say stinging words.

On the days I fail her,
I wish for the clean slate.
To take back all the times
I caused a scratch.

Bring back the baby
that I don't annoy.

Bring back the baby
that I don't disappoint.

The pictures don't reveal
when I couldn't wait
for her to dress herself
feed herself
play on her own
and not need me for everything.

Tired and faded
I became part of the wallpaper.
I lost my name.
forgot who I was before.

I share her with a world
That will see her grow
In ways I will not.

I share her with a world
That will cause pains
I cannot mend.

I share her with a world
And will now and forever
outstretch my hand.

Bring back the baby
that I don't scar.

Character Arc

Am I Allison in The Breakfast Club? The Observer, but hiding behind my bangs?

Am I Ally McBeal with an over active imagination and high expectations that can't be met?

Am I the boy that sees Beauty in a plastic bag blowing in the wind? 

I'm not a Heather...or a Veronica. I am more Martha Dump Truck.

I go between feeling like Sarah crying in the shower to Sarah dancing in the kitchen. 

But I always liked Nick and would've been attracted to him--minus the drugs.

I wanted to be Lelaina Pierce...maybe I just wanted Troy Dyer...

or maybe I just wanted Ethan Hawk and maybe I just wanted to be Winona Ryder.

I wanted to be Carrie in SATC. Or maybe I just wanted to look that way in clothes and live in NYC...and write.

I just wanted to be surrounded my my friends who loved me, who I could laugh with, who I could experience life with and 

then meet for breakfast and talk about it all. I'd binge watch the episodes and revel in the girl talk to feel less alone.

Of course, I always wanted to have the temperament of Felicity. I loved her voice, so calming and quiet. Her fingers so delicate.

I wanted the New York experience (there's NYC again) I wanted that college experience.

She was confused a lot, but she seemed to always hold it together. However, I would chosen Noel.

Especially after the summer before Senior year...

I'm not Susan Sarandon in any movie. Her big eyes full of fury and confidence.

I've always looked like Martha Plimpton in The Goonies...though I always wanted to look like Kerry Green.

But, as an adult, I'd rather be Martha. Fearless, talented, a force.

I don't want to be Meryl in Prada...or Meryl in Kramer. I couldn't make Sophie's Choice. 

I'd want to be Karen in Africa. Or maybe I just wanted to have a love affair in Africa with Robert Redford.

Or, did I just want to be able to have the ability to tell a story that intrigued and captivated.

Story telling also caught my attention of Katherine Clifton...as she told her story around the campfire...

Her love affair with Almásy would begin only a few cuts later. The English Patient is my favorite movie.

I love the language in it and I love the strong women. Both love, fall prey to it, but never lose who they are.

I want to be Sigourney as Ripley. She was the first woman on film who kicked ass. 

I studied the Alien movies as having the first action heroine. 

I want to be Sally in Places in the Heart.

I saw Places in the movie theatre and was in awe of it. She was scared, but came out fighting.

It was watching how strength could come from fear and loss. 

Sadly, I wallowed in fear and loss for years before my strength finally came. 

I should've been under a 2 hour time constraint.

I identified with Jane Fonda wanting to show her (film/real life) dad she COULD do a backflip

in On Golden Pond...always wanting him to like her. 

Wanting him to be proud of her.  

She confronted him in the movie, which she was never able to do in real life.

I get it. I want to be liked. Too much.

It's that feeling that I wanted to change. I wanted to be tougher and less vulnerable.

I wanted to create a self that was interesting and couldn't be hurt as easily.

I wanted to not care...and just be who I am with no excuses.

I sat in front of a screen and tried to put myself together as a puzzle.

Forcing pieces that seemed to fit only to find out, they didn't line up.

I always ended up with me.

I tried to find someone to identify with--

If someone wrote it, then they at least understood it, or had seen it.

To be authentic. How do you do that? To not play a part? 

I am empathetic, to a fault, my therapist says.

I am kind. I am an over-sharer, which makes many uncomfortable. (I've worked on that one)

I get anxiety when I'm not on the aisle...on a plane or in a movie theatre.

I get anxiety when I'm not in control...in a car, of my life, of my emotions.

I get anxiety if my house is a mess

I feel it reflects upon me.

And I know everyone in it needs order.

And I know I'm the one who mostly has to clean it up.

And that's not what I want to be doing.

I get anxiety when I am not writing.

Especially if I'm spending my time cleaning the house.

I get anxiety about having anxiety.

Because it's hard to explain to anyone who doesn't have it.

And those people don't wear signs, so you keep it inside.

The love I have for people over takes me.

For friends, for lovers (past), for my girls...

It terrifies me and clogs my brain with what ifs.

I think about my friends more than they think about me.

Rather, I worry they don't think I'm thinking about them if I'm 

not in constant contact. And if I'm not...then we will lose touch,

grow further apart and I will lose them. 

It's as if they are babies and if I go behind the couch, they think I am really gone.

I think about the deaths of my friends and my loved ones...all the time.

Because they die and have died and they have loved ones that die and have died.

And I know how difficult it is...and I never want them to feel alone.

I don't heal and I don't expect others to heal, either. Not completely.

I want to be loved and I don't want have others afraid of how I love.

I want to connect...to hold on and not float away. 

Because I've become a satellite to my family. 

In space, far away from them, orbiting, but not really connected.

And when I feel disconnected, alone, misunderstood, insecure, scared or my anxiety secret is too much for me...

I return to film and try to find strength in a character that I can adopt or find comfort in.

A world I can escape to. A place that doesn't exist, but one that I can almost make real. 

Finding a good person that is a complete mess. Not a doormat, not a wilting flower, but is able to collapse

after the exhausting collisions of the day. Colliding with people. Colliding with expectations. Colliding with disappointments.

But they learn, they change, they grow, they get stronger and it reminds me that I can, too.

Because that is how the character arc works. 

1.23.17 on being vulerable

I am only vulnerable to very few. Afraid I will be turned away.

My insides are confusing and my non-stop nervous chatter gives me away.

I am 41 and filled with the insecurities of a 13 year old. 

Will they like me? 

Will they understand my ramblings?

Are they lost? Did I jump from one subject to the next too quickly?

Are they wondering if I'm too much to be around?

I have days where I still want to cry and rock in a chair with someone safe.

These days, it's my girls. They love me. No matter what. 

I have to feel loved. I have to feel accepted and understood.

I have to feel as if I can say anything that comes to my mind.

And most can't follow my jumps--the explaining makes me feel awkward.

Not talking makes me feel awkward.

Talking too much does, too.

I leave most conversations analyzing them.

Did I ask them about them enough?

Did I seem to over-share?

Did I come across as too uncomfortable in my skin?

Did I come across as jumpy? Weird? Too hyper?

I want to crawl into a hole. I want to disappear. 

I want to be someone else. 

I started that long ago...

But, even finding that person was a struggle.

Aging Daily...hourly...damn.

So, I haven't written a poem in a very long time. So, I'm nervous and critical...feeling insecure...and yeah, basically everything I normally feel every day. So I thought I'd write this to address it. Of course, I still don't tell people...because of the way I felt when the doctor told me I have it. Ashamed. 



Anger destroyed her day.

It makes her agitated and frustrated.

Anxiety doesn't have deadlines...

It comes and goes. It can stay for days

Absolutely deny having difficulties!

They will look at you differently.

All days have darkness.

-Life is hard, just deal!"

Always dealing...hours, days!

Temper flares, the tears roll

Acquire meds, Hide meds.  (changed that from drugs...it didn't sound right.)

Because they will think you are faking.

-It's not real.

-You didn't have it as a kid.

-It's over-diagnosed.
-Too much t.v., huh?

Anxiety, dear....HURRY DEPART!

-It'll go away, just meditate.

Anger, darling... happy dance!

It's not working.

Absolute despair happens daily.

-Oh come on, really? It can't be that bad.

Argue. Defend. Help debunk...

But I am tired of keeping it a secret...

and taking meds in secret, so no one can see me.

-Why do you need so many?

-How can you have anxiety ALL day?

-Why can't you remember your coffee?

-Why are you taking everything so personally?

Act. Deceive. 

Heartbroken. Defeated.

Actively detaching...hourly, daily.

Aimless, directionless, helpless, delirious.

Thoughts darting here and there. 

The mind multi-tasking without pause.

We can doubt and over-share

Feeling anxious without cause.

Attention. Deficit. Hyper-activity. Disorder.

Educate yourself. Give us a safe place to land.

The only things we make up...

are excuses as to why you don't understand.