My Shoes!

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I’m finishing and loading up a bunch of things today, because I had that marvelous combination of time, internet access and my neuropathy being veddy, veddy quiet. Enjoy!

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“You can’t understand someone until youve walked a mile in their shoes.”

What a ridiculous idea! I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes for two steps and I won’t let you walk a mile in mine. I wouldn’t even let you walk around the block in them.

This is my path. My pain. My difficult road. And sometimes, it’s my easy street. You couldn’t stand to wear my shoes for a minute. Stop looking at them.

This isn’t some kind of challenge. And walking in my shoes won’t make you more empathetic or less judgemental. You’ll just end up pissed off with sore toes and a twisted ankle.

Oh, it’s possible the whole experience would give you some fleeting respect, a little awe for how I’ve managed to traverse such uneven ground in mismatched shoes for all these years. You might marvel at how most of the scars from my falls ended up on my insides instead of on my knees. But your appreciation won’t last because after you’ve taken your pity tour, you’ll be tottering along in your own shoes again, feeling quite superior. While you’re strolling easily or scrambling over debris in YOUR path, you’ll forget all about walking a mile or a minute of mine, although from time to time it may cross your mind that you’re glad you don’t have to.

I’ll let you in on a little secret because I know you won’t remember it next time we meet. I don’t always walk in my shoes either. Sometimes I kick them off and run completely off track for a while plunging my bare feet in sand or wiggling my toes in the grass. Sometimes I stop and lie flat on my back and thrust my feet into the cool night air and laugh at the sensation of lightness.

Sometimes I think subversive thoughts about not putting them back on again or just buying a new pair. But, no, they’re my shoes. Sometimes; a comfortable old friend, sometimes a particularly cruel bully that shadows me home, taking my refuge. Some days they hurt me to my bones, other days they soothes my soles.

I’ll walk in them until they become ghosts. When they fall off in tatters, I’ll walk barefoot until the sun sets.

LM – 2014 / 2016 /2017

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Some Thoughts About Motivation

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I am, as Carrie Fisher used to say about herself, an over-sharer. I have been jokingly referred to as, the Queen of T.M.I. I share liberally and personally. I process out loud, frequently about my health issues, how I wrestle with depression, anxiety and PTSD, abuse I have taken the brunt of, family, life experiences.

Sometimes people balk or take offense at this. They tell me it’s too personal, that I should keep it to myself, that what I share is inappropriate for Facebook or a blog. This used to be something that occurred more frequently. But now, I think the people who were offended have gotten used to it, given up or it’s just finally sunk in, why it is appropriate.

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I do it for me.

I learned a long time ago that returning the shame to the person it actually belongs to, means no more secrets and no more silence. I don’t have to name names, but speaking about my experience out loud makes it real, makes it less painful and it means I am no longer a conspirator. I separate myself from the person who put me through the trauma and become the person surviving it. Why should I be ashamed for what was done to me (or for the resulting life issues) or worry about embarrassing the perpetrator? I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed and embarrassed about. That shame belongs to them!

And when I do this for myself, I am also doing it for others; as support for those who have been through or felt similar things and also to bring awareness and help those who haven’t been through these traumas to understand.

Much of this is also the motivation for my project, The Empress Dammit, which is a definitely a rough work in progress, and deals with how I started to finally build healthy self-esteem, post age Forty.

A lot of strangers run across things I have written and respond favorably. Lately, I’ve been trying to get more of my personal friends, especially those that have said they appreciate my writing, to follow my writing blog. I think it will motivate me both to write more and to actually post it.

Tonight, I was going through past posts and saw something I posted that underscores all of the reasons for why I do this. There have been people in my life that I will never meet that have saved my life with their art, with their openness and with their shared experiences and feelings that mirror my own. Two people I can think of, immediately are Amanda Palmer and Carrie Fisher. If I can move someone, make them laugh, make them aware that they are not alone, that even if they are damaged that their voice, experience and their very SELF is VALID, then it was all worth it.  

So, here is the post, from a couple of years ago; I can’t recall what post the comment was in response to. :

YES THIS! This is why I air out all this “private,” painful, embarrassing stuff. This is why I blog and this is why it’s worth it. When I get comments like this from readers who are absolute strangers that touch me to tears of my own:

” I am very literally crying as I type. I very desperately needed to read this and see my experience put in someone else’s words (so much validation for so many things). I honestly felt my skin crawl reading your experience. In all seriousnesss, it matched my own so closely that I felt irrationally paranoid…still am a little…Regardless, thank you. Thank you so damn much. May I please share this? “

I hate so many things about the life I have had. It hurt and still hurts so much.
At the same time it is a huge blessing, it is a valuable tool to help others and I am so filled with gratitude.

I guess we are all seeking motivation from without and from within. I write, largely, because I have to get it out. If I don’t, it hurts. That goes for the personal content as much as the poetry, stories and other creative bits. But, that internal motivation is not enough for me. Motivation is usually a good thing. It isn’t always pleasant and it’s not guaranteed to make things easier, but it is a tool that can help you do things that give your life purpose and make it both meaningful and satisfying. At least that’s true for me. When I get a response or a message, even a “like” on a post on Facebook, it lets me know I’m not alone out there. My words have reached someone. And I know for every person that lets me know they read something, there is probably at least one person who read and didn’t leave any clues behind. Dare I hope more than one?

Thanks to those who like, follow, message and comment. Thanks for motivating me to make more content.

Cheers!

 

Not Even A Monday

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Sometimes things get so dark and for stupid, completely avoidable, reasons.

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I believe this illustration is by an illustrator named, Laura Barrett

Too late; you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. Even worse, you followed someone else down the rabbit hole!

Ironically, it makes sense to you now. You know what all the fuss was about and it was ultimately kind of insignificant, but you went there anyway! You dived in headlong, stupid girl! Now, it’s dark, slippery and you’ve got a root wrapped so tight around your ankle that it’s not going to be easy, in fact, it just might be impossible to climb your way out.

Damn! That hurts! Oh, Damn! That was humiliating too.

As you are stuck down there you can’t help but think about how you got yourself into this pickle. You know it’s going to be a good while before you can extricate yourself and scrabble your way up out of the gloom. After a while you start to wonder if you even want to bother attempting to extract yourself. You’re bleeding pretty badly and it just doesn’t seem worth the effort.

This didn’t have to happen. It was a perfectly good day. It’s not even a Monday.

LM 2013/2016

*Since I haven’t been posting in some time I am combing through things I wrote and didn’t post and expanding on them a bit.

Trickle

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I am weary of being scared. Fear is simultaneously very real and just plain pointless. Fear is a bully!
 
Freedom is at once with me and illusive. I would like to be free but freedom without the means to choose my situation is just another kind of trap. I keep thinking there has to be a way; a way out, a way ahead, a way through or even a way to accept, Yes, I keep thinking there has to be a way, but I have not found it yet,
 
I keep thinking if I was younger, prettier, more energetic and able; if I was less ethical I might be able to use those things to my advantage. However, I am not any of those things.
 
I have tools. I lay out the tools I have on the table in front of me but my fingers merely fumble with most of them.
 
I look back over my shoulder into that dark and treacherous place and I refuse to go back. I look forward into the shifting fog. I look up at the blinding sun. I look down at my feet and I can for fleeting moments I can feel my roots. I am strong and grounded. Then the earth cracks, breaks and rumbles to remind me that it is difficult to keep my balance. I look inward at my wounds, some healing, some tenaciously festering and I see where I have been. It is a place and time where angels covered their ears and would not tread.
 
I find myself marvelling at all the brutality I survived with astonishing resilience. How did I manage to keep opening up my heart? How did I determine to keep trying to trust, to forgive, to love? Yet, now my heart finally closes, hardens, becomes wary, cynical over much smaller offenses! The clock is winding down and I have more happiness yet more frustration than ever before.
 
All I ever wanted was to be loved and cared for. All I ever wanted was to give love, to share, to help others by word, deed and through my art and music. I wanted to let all this creativity and care flow to the ocean in a torrent but all I can do is let it trickle through a straw in the hopes that someone who is thirsty will find it and drink.
 
-LM September, 2015

In Memento Mori

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2015-05-27_02.54.55We are all dying from the moment we are born.
So goes the cliche.
But we don’t feel ourselves dying and we try not to think of it.
Those of us in pain
Often say we feel like we are dying
But in some ways we are more aware of our aliveness
Because of it.
I suppose you become
Aware of the feeling of cells
Crumbling apart once you have a fatal disease
In addition to the one we all.were born with
Things make us aware of our mortality
All the time but do we feel it
I think there comes a time when you know
The jig is up
Still, you tell yourself you’re having a temporary setback
Maybe you’re going to be fine but your body
Is just giving you a preview of coming attractions
You tell yourself there’s no way to know for sure
When death will come to punch your ticket
But you know that cells are dying all the time
And suddenly you know that you are in tune with that
And it’s scary
Because it doesn’t feel good
It’s not like drifting away gently
But it feels just as helpless
Irreversible
And you want to go back
Or at least not to feel this
Pulling you under
Slowly stopping your breath
Like a clock winding down
Another metaphor
Another cliche
You can’t avoid

-LM 2015

My Easter Morning Fantasy

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In my Easter morning fantasy I awaken, stretch languorously,throw open the windows to view a beautiful sunrise dancing up from the not too distant ocean, framed by a lush garden below. The vista is accompanied by a delicate birdsong chorus.  I glide downstairs in a cloud of silky chiffon to find a table laden with vases of daffodils and tulips. There is a fabulous breakfast spread, trays of hot cross buns, cookies,easter cakes and a full tea service complete with whimsical teapot and flowery cups. .

When I have sampled everything, feeling warm with contentment, I am presented with a stunning Springtime basket cushioned with Tulle in lieu of that dreaded fake grass. It is dripping in ribbons, tiny bells and fragrant flowers; filled to the brim with rich chocolates and colorful candies all appropriately themed!, Inside I discover more treasures; homemade marshmallow peeps, fabulous hand decorated eggs, exquisite sugar eggs filled with chocolate and even a big one with a diorama. There is a lovely little stuffed rabbit nestled in the middle who looks likely to hop out at any moment in search of a bunny trail!

Afterwards Easter cuddling with my “Easter Bunny” and food comas commence.

In contrast, I made oatmeal with vanilla and blueberries in my rice cooker, enjoyed it with coffee and a perfectly ordinary egg, stayed in my jammies all day and cuddled my cat.

But a girl can dream, can’t she?