When you have bully

When you have a Bully


You only have to hit them once
my father said to my brothers and me
but make sure you do it right.
If you do it right,
you only have to hit them once
and you will never have to do it again.

He would then show us rib jabs
and sharp rises of knees
and the brutality of an elbow
and a place on the throat that could collapse
the windpipe
so don't hit just there.
Go for the belly
the soft flesh
so that the very breath will leave them
and they will understand.
They will know and you will know
and you should make sure other kids
see
because then they will know too.

I only hit my mother once.
My nose was was dripping red and
with a clench of her hair in my hand.
I felt the thick satisfaction
of her cheekbone meeting the white wood
of the door frame.

That day was a tipping along
the rim of our bowl.
What was spilled was
washed
away with ugly words
but never
with her fists upon me
again.

Walt Whitman

“Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you
That you may be my poem
I whisper with my lips close to your ear
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.”

So, I am Bi-Polar

I don't know why I doubted it.
Maybe I just place too much importance on diagnoses.

Steve lost it on me last night because I am being mean and irritable one moment, hypersexual the next, then weird, then needy. He pretty much told me he is sick of living this way.

Who wouldn't be?

But It isn't like turning on a light switch. I just started meds, and they never worked all that well for me anyway. I can't get my head together, and now I don't have support at home. Yikes. But how much support to I have the right to?? 

It became habit over the past few years, while my head was clear, to pretend that the bad times weren't so bad. Or that maybe, when things were really low, that I had somehow allowed myself to wallow in depression. I also tried desperately to blame it all on drugs, alcohol and company I was keeping. And while all of these factors are pieces of the puzzle, the game is much larger. And more simple than all of that.
I am bi-polar.
And I was doing really well for a long time.

But then I read a page about bi-polar disorder and stress: http://www.lifeloveandbipolar.com/stress.html
Chemical changes happened because of the crazy level of stress I was under. Now I have an aversion to going on the computer, no matter how irrational it is. I can't sleep in my bed, rather downstairs on the couch every night.

I feel gross and incompetent and I just can't fake my way through it.

Bad times, revisited

Being crazy makes you selfish, if only out of necessity.

It takes all of my mental energy some afternoons to go to work, to do the laundry, to play with my son... to not curl up, rock and beat my thighs with my fists and keen.

Being a selfish mother?
Doesn't work so well and breeds a really unhealthy house. My whole goal in everything that I do is creating a safe and loving environment where my son will flourish. But, if we are being brutally honest? The only place I can grow and flourish and not log roll back into instability is a safe, brightly lit, loving home. One where I don't have to listen at walls to see if I will have to duck through door ways or run for the hills.
Safe.

S.
A.
F.
E.

I have started taking zoloft because I was no longer safe. Elliott and Steve were not safe from my variable moods, and assured anger at the slightest slight or infraction. Elliott would sob when he spilled his drink for fear that I would lose my shit and tirade while wielding a dishrag and a scowl, cleaning his mess with a dark mood. I have created not safety, but a situation where my son literally cries over spilled milk.

But damn. The side effects. I haven't slept in two days. My feet feel like they need to fly, my hands shake, and I need to go go go, while feeling so drained. I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday, and the sick Carly likes that. But the racing, pacing anxiety IS going. The anger is ebbing.

And here I have sat down to write, self absorbed, selfish in my need to make sense of this. I should have been writing a paper, or doing laundry. I should have been hugging Elliott or mending bridges. I should have been writing thank you cards for the wedding I broke my mind, body and bank account  on but am so sincerely grateful for I want to weep when I look at the pictures.

A friend wrote "sometimes when you are in the deep water, you need your swimmies." Even in the bad times, truth is shining. Safety is not a far off wish but real and here. So flying feet be damned. Let's do this.

But then she would call my name
from behind the bathroom door
with a dark purple pleading
"he is hurting me."
And I would beat at the white paint
of the wood
with my two fists
but I am five
and there is no opening
nor ending
only
those screams
and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Later she would show me the bruising
the house fallen into pallor
and
quiet, she would
ask me to tell her
how will she explain this to the doctors
and
will I let them know that
it was my fault
this time
these welts and breaks of bone
...that I should never have told
nor gone to the carnival
without her

She slapped my mouth because
I offered her the spun candy and
well
there was a cow with big brown eyes
who had a window
right in his stomach
-you could see everything churning and
alive.
And now the taste of blood and
she is choking on sobs
and I can never save her
nor myself
and never stop the
screams.

Wedding

Did I mention I'm getting married? No, I actually started this blog with a mermaid that had begun it's sculpy origins as a wedding cake topper for my someday wedding. And now that day is almost upon us. Well, this August. August 20th to be precise. I got Steve a little tipsy on some bubbly and told him that, for my 30th birthday, all I wanted was to get married. And an Ipod. But mostly to get married.

And now we are.

My dress is being retooled from a vintage wedding dress by Becky Dator. My first fitting was a dream. This whole thing feels kinda unreal. And so soon. Here are some photos from our wedding invite outtakes:

We are registered at Target: 
 013399700672383
(there is even an ipod on there!)

Pregnant in July

Elliott is going to be 3 this July 23. I am going to be 30 on August 3rd. Where in the FUCK does the time go?

Pregnant in July

We sat
stroking our
bulbous, distended bellies
and compared
pains
with graceful turns of
swollen ankle
and grotesque
descriptions of
our bodies’ small betrayals.

As though
debutantes of some
absurd summer picnic,
we fanned ourselves with
sections of old newspaper
and sipped at
tall glasses of lemonade,
wishing for vodka or
gin.

Now in parodies of our former bodies,
we need to be propelled forward
to be pried out of
seats
and rolled
out of beds.
Sweat glistens behind
dimpled knees
and
beads along
upper lip.
We wait
petulantly
for the fruit
of our
labor’s end.

 

Vivienne

I have been thinking a lot lately about a little girl I feel blessed to have known. Her life, and death, have changed me in ways I am only beginning to appreciate. It took quite a long time to think of the little Miss without breaking down into sobs. But looking at her photos doesn't only make me cry anymore. It feels almost as though she taught me how to let go of my expectations of the world and what I try to wring from it and just fall in love with the moment. I need to be present, in the present, and glory in the joy all around me.

That is often easier said than done. I have written two poems about Vivi, and started many, many more that I was unable to finish.This is a poem about "loss", and how trite that word actually is.

Losing Vivi

Vivienne is not lost
she is not misplaced among the laundry
or hiding in a shoe closet
When I open the bedroom door
I will not find her, laying on my bed
smiling a shy smile.

Because loss is for football games
and car keys
and left socks and
marbles.

We will not post fliers
or set rewards-
there will be no teary reunion
or heartfelt thank-you notes
or safe returns.

You lose ambition
and sanity and virginity
and pride and
memory.

Loss is not for babies.
And sometimes there
are no words
in times when
words might help.

But loss is for words
and hope and light and
not
for baby
girls.

Climbing Years

I was able to climb only one tree
in all of my tree climbing years.
It was a Chinese maple
scarlet  leaves and a low V of a crotch
perfect for wide
imperfect feet to gain purchase in.

Climb I did, side by side
with fat black ants in their shiny symmetry,
upward next to Cicada shells
clamped to smooth bark
so still and empty.

Nearing the cusp of my childhood,
I would still climb
a garish red bird
to perch as high as
the branches would allow
-high enough to tempt my daring.

Wearing a vintage silk kimono bright as wet cherries
and frayed jean shorts, I would dangle my naked legs,
point my toes to the earth
and with heavy lids,
stare down cars passing by my parent's house
each gliding lazily out of view.

I imagined one slowing
sleek mirror of a window
sliding down, a disembodied voice
inviting me to go off,
to fly away to another town,
making veiled promises and sweet lipped assurances
that every tree there would welcome me
up high into its bowing arms.

And then I would never be forced to
awkwardly scramble back down to earth
again.

New Carly?

It seems like forever since my last post. In reality, it has been over two months. January finds me with 3 A's and a B+ from last semester and facing down a fairly daunting Spring.

New job
New home
New classes
New Day
New Carly? Let's hope.


Not that I need to be new, per say. It's the need for new habits that is pressing. I have shed bad behaviors like a second skin but wear my heart on the sleeve of a hair shirt. Wow. That was obnoxious in its metaphor, but true all the same. As much as I have accomplished, my fears and loathing and inconsistencies still have the power to fuck all this up.

SO. Here's to positive thinking. Here's to healthy living and healthy dealings. Here's to honesty and boundaries and here's to HOMEWORK. Here's to planning and loving and follow through and serenity. Here's to moving house. Here's to planning a wedding. Here's to planting flowers in my mind. Here's to building my new house constructed of promises kept and attentive consideration.


Here's to the wait and the wait's end.