***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.
This picture is the only one I have of my dad as a child. I once had more but they became water damaged and I had to dispose of them. My dad is the one on the left. With the blonde curls. He kinda looks like a girl.
My Amma (Icelandic for grandma) really wanted a girl. She had my dad and my Uncle. Did she try to hide my dad’s masculinity for the formative years of his life? Or at least some twisted boy-girl version?
The only children my Amma bore were her two sons. And she so desperately wanted a daughter. Ironically my Uncle had two daughters. My dad had me. And my brother.
I have a couple of stories about my Amma from my uncle. My Aunt was not a fan of her mother-in-law. My mom has different stories and me, well I was her favorite so my glasses are rose colored.
Every time I have a thought regarding this character I am building I write it down. Thus far I have only had the two but I am beginning to view my dad differently. Or rather the fictional version I am building of him.
I must not paint my Amma as an evil villianess. I can only speculate as to what happened in her earlier life. We have no real on her.
My Afi (Icelandic for grandpa) is but a shadow to me. He passed away 1 month and 6 days before I was born. Came home drunk and fell down the basement stairs. Broke his back. Died of pneumonia.
My Amma and Afi shaped my dad.
Were one to look at my Uncle, respectable, looked after his family, never abandoning them to fate, you would never guess the family connection.
My dad? He is not an enigma. Not when I take my own reality of him, my mom’s and my brother’s and meld them.
He was a drunk. He left his family to fend for themselves. Never did he think how his actions affected his children. His wife.
Even as I worked to lower my expectations of him I was continually disappointed. The once sympathetic character I saw is now evolving into one you would most likely disdain.
This challenge I have set for myself is intriguing. I originally thought this was going to be a tale of a father who abandoned his children. Who chose alcohol to be his companion.
And with the turn of a phrase I suddenly found sympathy. Today as I wrote I may have had a small pain in my heart because I do believe my Amma may have treated my dad as a girl for the first while. And she babied him.
The great thing about this….I get to make it all up. But at the same time I am going to pluck my mind, my mom’s and my brother’s for memories and stories. For I realize that I need a clearer picture of the man who was my dad.
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.