Sober

I am tired.

No wait, I am at my tipping point, I have passed tired and I'm just running on the pure grace of God, which seems to be my frayed rescue rope. Well worn and stretched out, I don't know how long it can hold me up. It sounds almost silly to think that God's grace is wearing out, but in my head there is very little ability to grasp onto the grace that he has given me.

No poetic words today

I don't think I can muster up the energy to be that creative. I've spent my energy on being a parent, mentor, disciplinarian, friend, confidant, assistant director, and house sitter this week. I'm done with energy! So today is a good ol' fashioned blog post. Emo post, if you wish.

I had a talk with God this evening. It was pretty one sided. Like a venting fight with a good friend who just knows to listen. I shouted for a while, as I put the dishes away. At first it was in pure desperation, throwing my hands up into the air and looking at different parts of the ceiling. Later it became a frustrated, choked up conversation. We talked about the craziness that some people have to deal with in their life. I talked about my issues with wanting to save the world (of course I didn't actually use those words... they're just the words that seem to make sense right now). I found myself walking in circles in my one sided conversation, asking why for others, asking why for myself, asking why in general and back again. God doesn't seem to answer the why questions. I told him I wanted to hear him audibly, that I was tired of simply trying to feel His answers. Then I went back to why.

This conversation with God was sandwiched between two conversations with the same person, in no unlikely cosmic mishap. The starter conversation had actually been the second time I was on the phone with this person today. They had called me earlier in a foul mood, one of those moods that doesn't speak in metaphors, but rather epithets and profanity. After convincing this said person that I could do nothing if they didn't tell me what was going on, I got a little bit of information. In short this person's short temper had backfired and now they were scared. After a little bit of straight talk I was told I would get a call back later. The next conversation, the first piece of bread in God talk sandwich was a follow up. I called to make sure that the person had followed through on some of the steps to hopefully soften the blow of their temper backfire. I was comforted with the unfortunate words "I was stupid, are you going to be mad?" These words I have heard before, they usually begin the I did this last night conversation. Some of them end with, "I'll show you the (self-inflicted in a way) bruise tomorrow. You should see the hole in my wall."
I thought I wouldn't be phased by the conversation, and I prefaced it with the normal, " I haven't been mad at you to the point of not talking to you yet, but if you're starting with that sentence, you might expect me to be upset." Then it came, words that made me more than upset, they put fear back into my heart for this young person. It started with, "After school a whole bunch of my friends went to the golf course..." For some people those words would be the beginning of a great story, how they resisted temptation, but I knew this was not one of those stories. For the next five minutes we talked, I can't recall much of what I said, but when they asked me if I was mad, I told the person that I was scared. They said they would call me back.

This was the time of my conversation. I couldn't just sit and talk, I got up and cleaned the dishes as I stormed around complaining, and laying it out for God. I was pissed at that point, and He knew about it. We talked for about 20 minutes. In that time I was reminded that I can do nothing on my own.

Two minutes after my frustration had defused my phone rang; I prayed until it went to it's last ring, then I picked it up.

The last piece of bread lasted for a while, as we discussed many things. We talked about addiction and quick fixes. We talked about consequences, and motives. Then we prayed, I prayed, then they did. We talked a bit about forgiveness in a round about way, then we ended with what now. It's no easy feat to overcome something that not only seems big, but is big in human standards. It's easy to organize our mastery of our own flesh when we foolishly think we can do it ourselves. Perhaps I will talk to the person in a few days and let them in on this thought. For now I will pray. Perhaps on my knees, as uncomfortable as it may be, I think it's worth it to be uncomfortable and pray - it reminds me that I am too weak to do things on my own.

Again I am left without words in my mind or on my tongue. It is so painful to see someone hurting and you can't think of what to do or say. Suddenly the moment is lost and any hope of connection seems to go as quickly as the first french fry in the bag. This is where God comes in. This is where I should trust that He knows what is best and that His will, in some way, is being done. I may not understand it, but it seems right to have faith that life will make sense in the end. Still, it's hard to see pain in someone's eyes and not know what to do.

Her numbness

Lately I've been effected by the stories I have heard from other people. Not simply stories, but their stories, their pain. The undeniable humanness of their hurt caused by other people, that usually causes me to cry out to God in confusion and frustration. Why does this have to happen? Why does he allow us to hurt so much sometimes? The stories can be even more difficult if they touch a personal chord, suddenly I feel the need to experience with the person, to pull out the their emotions. In all honestly I want to allow myself to feel what they are feeling in hopes to take away some of their pain, hurt, or numbness. I can be left overwhelmed by feelings of helplessness, and I am brought to question God's reasoning and allowance for such anguish. Lately, some poems or free writes that I write do not reflect my thoughts but the thoughts that come to me while entering into others pain. It's a difficult place to be, in the mind of someone else. I don't think I will ever fully grasp their emotions and the words they would choose to use. Perhaps sometime in the future this will become of some help.

Her Numbness

Sometimes I need to stop
and stare
Into the nothingness that exists -
Just below my bedroom ceiling
To let the numbness settle
In hopes that I can feel again -
If I am still enough

I am tired of angry and discontent
They do not cover this loneliness
They no longer make me feel
I wish tears could wash away
These feelings
Clean these thoughts
What I would do for him to
hold me close
So I could yell and pound against
his chest
Would any of my pain go beyond
his hollow shell
Does he still exist?

All that I feel is numb
It circulates through my veins
Incomprehensible numbness

I want out of the mental anguish
This cage
This personal cell
God, why don't he just hold
me close?
Be my father
I need him to be
How can I understand who you are
If I can't understand who he is?

Untitled

I walked the city of oxford
In beat with Ani DiFranco
Letting the words wash over me like the breeze that seemed to never end
The cotton like pollen of the trees tickled my nose
Lost in my thoughts of how strange it was
My past colliding with my present
Contemplating the would haves
The could haves
The life that wasn’t mine
And the life that was
For some reason Ani understood my plight
So I walked to the beat of her guitar
People walked past me unaware of my thoughts
I passed painters capturing the beauty of willows dipping into the Thames
I smiled at childhood memories as the ducks talked to each other
Seeing my sister and I in a reflection throwing stale bread into the water
Bridges felt smaller than they used to be
Throwing pooh sticks and to the other side
One stride to cross the width
Leaning against the cold metal
My eye on the pooh stick as it floated freely down the river
Ani still played speaking of beauty and last night’s mistakes
I walked on
Lost in the time in between
The space that was neither yesterday nor today and certainly not tomorrow
Each step
Each beat
Each sight and smell
Oxford faded from past to present
As I walked between the memories and the beat of Ani Difranco

In my Lane

I feel that this post needs to have a disclaimer. It was an assignment of sorts. I was told to write a reflection on a book called "Love my Rifle More Than You" so I did and this is what came of it. Again, it's not my normal writing and it has some harsh language in it, but I felt it was important to share.

In My Lane

Stay in your lane, I am told!
Neither left nor right
But I will choose what lane I drive
I will drive in your lane
With guns and gas masks
Fatigues and humvees
I will wear what you wear
I will drive what you drive
Armed with intelligence confidence and the same gun you carry
I will navigate my way up your mountain without you
I will earn the respect I demand from you

“Sir, yes Sir”

No! “Ma’am, yes Ma’am”

I have lived my life inside my lane
Unassertive, indecisive, expecting you to lead
Unsure because you told me to be
But your lane does not pull to the side or yield for faster traffic

Damn it! I’m coming over
I won’t be the slut that lets you pass
I will be the bitch that hits the gas
The bitch that won’t sleep with you
The bitch that won’t stand at ease
The bitch that won’t show you her tits
This bitch won’t back down
I will change the oil of my truck
Count my equipment
Maintain positive control of my sensitive items
1) Self confidence
2) Weapon
3) Personal identity
4) NVG’s
5) Sanity and perseverance
All items present and accounted for

This woman, the one you consider a bitch
Is more confident than you are
More aware than you are
Is more sane than you are
And Drives better than you do!
Should I question your masculinity?
Am I more man than you could be?

I will be your subordinate
I will be your comrade
I will be your superior
I will be a bitch, but not yours
And there is no way in hell I will show you my tits

I won’t ask you to move over when I come in your lane
Because I’m tired of yielding
Because I’m tired of pulling over and being pushed over
So this bitch is moving over
Into my new lane
This lane I’ll stay in

When She didn't come home

When she didn't come home

I sat at the window waiting for the sound of her car
I woke to every click of the door
Every chiming of keys
When she didn’t come home

At first I held hope
Perhaps tomorrow
Perhaps next week
Maybe next month
When she didn’t come home

No one gave me an answer
She’ll be by soon
She needs some time
She’s getting clean
When she didn’t come home

At first I cried
Large droplets turning into free flowing streams
Streaking my face
Eyes burning
Blurring
Begging for understanding
My throat strained
Words distorted into choking sobs
When she didn’t come home

Questions ran through my mind
Ones I wouldn’t dare ask aloud
If I’d just tried harder
Been stronger
Would she still be here?
If I’d listened more closely
Kept my room cleaner
Would she still be here?
Was it my fault?
When she didn’t come home

I stopped crying
Stopped caring
Eyes dry
Heart callused
When she didn’t come

I closed my curtains
Slept through the night
Deafened myself to the sound of car engines slowing down the street
When she didn’t come home

I don’t cry anymore
I don’t care anymore
I don’t try anymore
I don’t love anymore
But I still ask those questions
Let them run through my
Could I have been better?
Stronger?
Was it my fault?
That she didn’t come home