Truth-Keeping

I have been petrified to speak and paralyzed to act.

I learned early on that I couldn't trust myself. That the senses, feelings, perceptions and instincts I had were wrong. That my memory was faulty. I was just being sensitive, I was being dramatic, I was exaggerating. I didn't know what I saw, or heard, or felt, or needed. I couldn't believe myself. I had an active imagination. I was a liar. 

I learned early on that my voice was dangerous. That telling the truth was not okay, inappropriate, unsafe, not allowed. That sharing my lived experiences was airing dirty laundry, making waves, stirring shit up, causing problems, getting people in trouble, embarrassing my family, making me look "crazy," making things harder for everyone. 

Something is Wrong

Maybe I drink poison
for the burn of it
you made me
drink milk
you made me
be quiet and
easy to swallow
I want the unease
I want the tummy ache
to tell me something is wrong
something is very wrong here.

I was about 4 years old when I told my dad that a different man - not him - was sleeping in mommy's bed. Their marriage ended. When I was about 7 years old, I told the judge that I wanted to live with daddy because we got to ride horses and take ballet lessons. My mom attempted suicide.    

Children believe they are at the center of the universe. In order for the world to make sense, and for them to feel safe, children have to believe that the world is orderly, and that the adults in their life love them, are capable of protecting them, and will meet their needs. When something unexpected and/or overwhelming and/or distressing happens, then, children often believe that *they* must be to blame. (A child's innocent reasoning goes something like, "It can't be that the world is disorderly and chaotic, because that would mean anything could happen to me at any time, and I am not safe. It can't be that the adults I trust were not being loving, not protecting me, or not meeting my needs, because that would mean the adults can't always prevent harm, and I am not safe. It must be up to me. I am responsible for what happens. When something bad happens, it is my fault.")

Hi

I hurt for the softness in you
that had to harden up
toughen up
be a man
take care of business
get your shit together

Hi, daddy.
Hi means I love you.

Hi means I love you
anyway.

At 14 years old, I told the principal that my science teacher had been sexually molesting me for years. Countless girls came forward over the following months to say "me too," and he was fired.

This is our little secret

(intentionally blank)

He was fired, but the trial had been public, and I was a pariah, and someone kept puncturing our tires at night, and we received death threats, and my mom was scared, and my little sisters were sad to be uprooted from their schools, and we moved away. But not far enough.

Thoughts From The Ceiling

I consider
all she did
to deserve this
being born
a female.

When I was 19, I declared that I was quitting the church, getting divorced, and moving to Los Angeles to live my own life.

Go Back To Sleep

I dreamed of demons
and the pastor gave me
a scripture

I dreamed of demons
and the doctor gave me
amitriptyline

I dreamed of demons 
and no one ever asked me
what the demons look like

my teacher
my uncle
my best friend's dad
my boss
you motherfuckers
the demons look like you.

apologia pro vita sua—an explanation for what I’m doing

I made those vows as another me
and this mouth is not my mouth
and this heart is not my heart
and I am not me so
I do not belong
to you

When I was 19, only a few months after I'd declared that I was quitting the church, getting divorced, and moving to Los Angeles to live my own life, my mom died suddenly and mysteriously. Every phone conversation we'd had during those months, my mom would say she needed me, and plead with me to come back. The last thing she said to me on the phone the day before she died was, "Why can't you just come home?"  

Dead Things Are Honest

when you were alive
you smelled like potpourri
you wore frosted pink lipstick from Thrifty's
you looked happy

The years piled up and the horrors did, too. Zip codes, hairstyles, jobs and romantic partners changed.

One thing remained the same: I wholly and completely believed I was to blame for every bad thing that happened. I believed that speaking up, or speaking out, or acting from the seat of my own will was only ever a terrible mistake that injured myself and others irreparably. I believed that I could destroy entire lives and worlds with my truth. Such terrible power. 

So, for the much of my adult life, I have swallowed secrets and shame. Sometimes I smiled and shined, and other times, I shrouded myself from sight, but always, I’ve kept myself to myself.

I have survived unspeakable horrors because my sacred "no" was stuck swirling in my belly; because "stop," "you're hurting me," "this isn't right," "I don't want to," "I can't keep this up," and "I won't take this lying down" have been buried; because my own deep knowing, my sovereignty and my agency was lost to me. I have inflicted psychic pain on countless people because I've been too disconnected from and at war with myselves to be in right relationship with another. I've done awful things to survive.

Lola, Please Forgive Me

I am sorry
for convincing you
all you deserved
was that hotel room
with the busted heater
and Taco John's
for dinner again
and him

Untitled

I had a daughter.

Can You Hear Me?

If my life had a sound
it would be
a sob

____________________________

from behind a closed door

I have exacted unremitting punishment upon myself, so grotesque and wretched a creature I've believed myself to be, so massive has been my sense of responsibility and remorse. A loud voice from inside endlessly taunting, "You weak, gullible, unlucky, pitiful, sick, slutty, ungrateful, selfish, flakey, bad bad bad girl. You deserve everything you get. You deserve to be manipulated. You deserve to be betrayed. You deserve to be abused. You deserve to be discarded. You deserve to be motherless. You deserve to have your child withheld from you. You deserve to be reviled. You deserve to be sick. You deserve this endless suffering. You deserve to die."

Running

I am running
out of vodka
out of time
out of people
to become.

I Just Knew What I Didn't Know

In that picture I wasn't supposed to see
it was the way her right foot lifted at the heel
her knee turned toward you
hands clasped at her heart

I just knew

and you said
no
never
no
you said
but you also said
you liked to sit in airport bars and pretend to be someone else
just for fun
so

When I was about 35 years old, I was finally *safe enough, and centered in Self enough that a quieter voice became discernable, considering, "What usefulness is there in our confusion? Who and what does our silence serve? How is our inaction benefitting anyone or any thing? Who or what is nourished by our guilt, self-loathing and punishment?" 

The Worst Lie

The worst lie I ever believed 
about myself is that
I didn’t deserve to
be your mother.

I have been petrified to speak, and I have come to speak.

I have been paralyzed to act, and I have come to act.

I hold heavy stories in my cells and bones and flesh, and I guess that's my way of truth-keeping. Life has entrusted me with these, and with the imperative to release the myth and marrow of them on my breath, scatter them lightly like petals on the wind, like dirt sprinkled atop a grave, elegies of loss and proof of what survives. I am to let them go and fall wherever they may—it's not up to me. 

Maybe this is how truth-keeping becomes wisdom-speaking. Maybe this is how death becomes life again. Maybe.

Almost

I’m done speaking curses over my body 
for how it won’t endure anymore 
the pain of living with every thing 
that almost destroyed me

It makes sense that even as I've come to know my own truth and to value it, my voice will still sometimes be too big and loud, or too small and stifled. It makes sense that I will get it wrong. That I still feel that familiar foreboding, and I want to take my truth back. Erase it, delete it, and defer to some outside authority.

I Survive

I am made of desert
cactus and Datura moonflower growing
wild and resolute
in all the places nothing should be
like the pomegranate with tough skin
covering legions of ripe seeds and
holding sweetness still  
I survive
even in drought

It makes sense that every time I move to act from truth, I experience dread and sometimes become physically sick, and I want to disappear. And sometimes I do for awhile.

It makes sense that I have long shirked my responsibility, trying to avoid feeling the fear, and trying to prevent consequences that might be worse than the ones resulting from my saying nothing, doing nothing.

It makes sense that I am wary and I waver, and that I will make more mistakes and I unintentionally cause harm. But, it's okay. Because I can trust myself to be accountable and to repair.

I can trust myself. I can trust myself. I can trust myself. I can trust myself to speak. I can trust myself to act.

My truth is power-full, and I will wield it like wildflowers.