***Image via Cartoon Network found on Internet.
I am a bunny
hear me roar.
You say that I cannot roar?
That I am too tiny and too cute?
Do you not see the fierceness
with which I protect my heart?
Do you not see
that I am the provider of my family?
I am a bunny
see me soar.
Why do you say I cannot soar?
That I am meant to stay rooted to the ground?
Do you not see the dreams
that I create within this harsh world?
Do you not understand the hope
that I watch each day unfurl with?
I am a bunny
tiny and cute
fierce and determined
ready to embrace
the differences that life will share.
Once I danced along,
streets covered in golden dreams
believing the fantasy
that I built from nothing.
Now I creep alone
through empty concrete dreams
my fantasies but ash within my mouth
as my tears bring no relief.
I rend my heart in bitterness
curse my soul that remakes my wound
the scar marking the damage done;
damage I cannot get away from.
Today is August 28th. In slightly more than 24 hours I will be 45 years old. I did not actually arrive in the world until 8:20 p.m. so am not “really” 45 ’til than.
I am looking forward to turning 45. I am not the same woman I was when I turned 44 last year. I am by far a much better and stronger version of her. I have taken my life and where I could have continued along the path of destruction I was on I changed. Slowly at first. But as the changes became good changes, as my outlook and feelings became harmonized and less disjointed I welcomed the changes.
I have documented my cycle of depression and how I had to claw my way back. I have an amazing support group who have been with me since I started on the new journey to me.
A journey that has seen me rise high enough to realize I was in an unhappy marriage and find the strength to leave. To my mistakenly believing all my problems were solved by the dissolution of my marriage and I went off my meds. I began to rely on alcohol to get me through the days.
My crash, which scared me so badly because I had allowed myself to be tricked into believing I was okay. Our brains are wicked when presenting one with deceptive illusions.
Even after I resumed taking my meds I still continued to self-medicate with alcohol. Finally July 1st I decided to stop. I went six weeks without drinking. And when I did, I woke the next morning disappointed in myself.
I have had some again but there is a difference. One that I can see and feel. It is no longer a need. There is no desire to negate the feelings I did not want to face.
So tomorrow I am turning 45.
I am eating better. I am sleeping better. I am exercising. I have quit drinking to self-medicate and find that I do not miss it.
Best of all I am writing again. I am more secure in the voice I have. I am letting those wonderful words combine and emerge like a waterfall from my finger tips. I believe in magic again.
At 45 I am beginning to emerge from the cocoon of the past. I can see my present but the future….that is a dream still waiting to be dreamed.
I walk through the greying mists
seeing vague shapes
to the right and left of me.
But when I call out
my voice becomes a mere whisper,
slighter than the flutter,
of a Monarch’s wings.
My tears are but shards of silver
pecking away at my heart
Uncovering hidden losses
and the pain I try to hide.
One day there may be comfort.
One day I may be free.
But until that day I shall fight,
to come back from the albatross
that hangs around my neck.
Somewhere in time
fantasies did grow
Over-taking all reality
until no longer
can one differentiate.
Was it madness?
An escape from life?
swallowed in a mimosa of hatred
swaddled in grey.
Beating against enclosing walls
numb with pain.
There is no escape from this truth
no matter how hard
no matter how fast
one tries to flee.
He done broke my heart
the night we said good bye;
he to return to the feudal village,
I to dance across the public’s eye.
“That is not the way to start. It should read, he broke my heart the night we said good bye.”
“Why am I not allowed to write the way that I want to write? Why can I not use the language and speech of my childhood to portray the pictures my words create?”
“Because that is not how I brought you forth! I have taught and molded you to become the top Poetess of all times and you will continue to follow my path.”
“Yet they are my words, my truths why can I not use them they way I see fit?”
“Because you ungrateful wraith, without me you would not have this fame and fortune. Without me you would be back in that village you so long for mired in poverty.”
I lifted my head, greasy hair falling back, revealing pallid skin and blackened sleep deprived eyes. He loomed over top of me, pristine and put together. His suit a navy blue so dark it bordered on black, a piping red tie, winking tie pin, he was everything I had loved and now loathed.
He rested his large hands on the desk, leaning forward, the pungent aroma of his cologne overwhelming me. Citrus notes interspersed with undernotes of vanilla and sandalwood. I could smell my own stench, a mimosa of unwashed body and hair, the perspiration I sweat to come up with my creations. I was not the lovely Poetess revered in inner circles, I was the poet in a small cell, my emotions and anguish how I create.
The thick chains of dependency wound around my wrists, shackling my legs to the desk. Illusionary, yet they retained me as much as real chains would. I was caught in a web of my own making. But there was a choice, one that I had to make.
“It is time for you to leave,” I breathed. “Time for you to take your life and unentwine it from mine.”
“I am your King, your Maker,” he roared. “You will not take from me what I have worked for.”
“You have worked nothing, nothing that I already did not know. You wiped the ashes of childhood away and lead me along the path to stray,” I seethed. “You never meant for me to be this welcome, this loved, but plans have a way of changing and now the time has come.”
I glared up at him, daring a rebuke. Never had I spoken to him in such a way. His nostrils flared with unrequited rage. His body shook with the repressed desire to make me behave. He had lost and he knew it.
I felt my heart break in two
with the soft snick of the lock catching as the door closed;
He who had brought me up, who taught me polish and truth
my betrayer, my warden, a man of circumstance.