15

a burden
a cry left unheard
i look in the mirror and see her

i often wish i was not
this 15 year old girl
tryin' to find her place in this lonely world
never knowin' what to do with all the words left unsaid

tryin' to find who i am deep inside
hopin' that one day i can leave 
this 15 year old's hurt and sorrow behind

it's hard to feel the way that i am 
because it seems like no one understands who i am 
and for that it hurts the most 
being this 15 year old girl 
that noone seems to understand

discovery

what do you do?

hm...what do i do? i write. i draw.i go to the gym.  i watch sentimental movies so that when the tears fall i'm not questioned.

when games are played, do you play them?

nope (although that isn't true exactly, is it?)

why do you do these things? is it to release the emotion?

(nod)

and what happens if you can't do these things?

(shrug) the feelings get to strong.

you're 13?

(head shake)

ok, why don't you tell me so i don't have to rifle through papers?

15.

(mumbles to himself) why haven't you grown past 15? do you remember being 13? 

(nod) i remember forever ago.

6?

(nod)

4?

(nod) look, i remember all the way back to 13 months old?

(he smiles slightly) when you saw kathleen, how were you and marissa there?

how? hm... (shrug)

you don't know?

nope, we just were there.

was marissa gone when you were seeing kathleen?

kathleen was already gone then.

so you were without a therapist?

(head shake)

who were you seeing?

(finger pointing - pow, right between the eyes) you don't remember me coming in here, sitting in this chair only the old chair, inconsolable?

i remember now. when was that?

(shrug) during our first year.

that's what i thought.

i was pretty mad at you, you didn't know the significance of what happened and i thought you should've 'cuz kathleen gave all that whole bag of stuff to nancy who gave it all to you. i thought you didn't even care enough to have read it.

do you remember what was in that bag?


(head shake)

it didn't have a lot in it, a few notes from recent sessions and some things related to that. there was not much at all.

and of course, i'm crying.
as marissa would say if she were here - "you are such a cry baby!"

we have to end for today.

(nod)

we'll have to explore why you stopped growing at 15.

(whispering) i know why?

you do?

(nod) the family left the church

ah. now i understand why.

"Rest Easy"

The Journey is an Adventure; I am an Alien: The Touch Test

As you know, I am a blog seeker. When I stumbled upon this blog I had to share the insights of the author with you - especially since Touch is on the UMW Reading Program list this year.

There are some really good ideas here!

The Journey is an Adventure; I am an Alien: The Touch Test: "Are you familiar with 'The Touch Test'? If you are familiar with Rudy or Juanita Rasmus, then the answer is most likely 'yes'. If not, the..."

Child Still?

The grass is always greener
on the other side.
Unfortunately,
green has never been my color,
and crossing that river
feels less worth it with every day. 

I am searching for hills
of purple and gold
under a crystalline sky
of glowing jeweled hues.

I am searching for lands
of eternal diamond suns,
where smiles lack teeth
and eyes never lie.

I am searching for a place
where our turbid waters settle
and smoothly wind their way
to flow among the breathless stars.

Morning Cures Nothing

There is something unimaginably cold
about waking up, swathed only in hard-edged
blue shadows, in the middle of a very long night.
It feels like the destruction of worlds,
the genocide of thought and reason,
and all that remains is to tremble and hope
for the swift arrival of bright-lit morning
(which, inevitably, comes late and grey.)

It is a shiveringly desolate sensation
that seeps into the lungs and stays
for eons and eternities, until you become
so weighed down with dark atmospheres
that it becomes impossible to get up
when morning finally decides to come.

I have stayed in bed for so long now,
I begin to believe I will never rise.

Episcopalian Years

I remember, long years ago, when my mother
would drag me tired-eyed from a warm bed
and ungently stuff me into Sunday’s sundry frills.
We walked the four dull blocks to the church,
her modest heels tip-tapping across the concrete.

We knelt on the hard floor, arching our hands
in mimicry of the vaulted beam-crossed ceiling.
I would sneak glances, squirming'neath iconic eyes,
to see the stiff edges of Mother’s face softened
by the shifting colors from the stained glass,
soothed by the pale pink of Mary's brow
and the white of wing-wrapped hosts.

I was always a little afraid, at those times,
that the smiling crystalline Jesus above us
would smite me down in a rain of holy fire
because I loved her more, kneeling in church,
than at any other place in the entire world--

She no longer looked like herself.