Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.

 

Than…

Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.

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I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.

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Windows N Wallpaper N Women

I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.
But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.
And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn!
I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind…

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I don’t like to look out of the windows even–there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast.
I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did?

  • the Yellow Wallpaper/Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Every Woman’s Anthem

Cuz no one knows me no one ever will
if I don’t say something, take that dry blue pill
they may see that monster, they may run away
But I have to do this, do it anyway…

I Can’t Keep…QUIET

I had this nightmare that turned into a victorious dream. I was reenacting things that happened in my childhood, but then I would flip the script in my dream. So, I was getting hit, and there was someone watching me get hit. It was a very theatrical look. It was this black, New York theater. It was like, the spotlight. And the abuser and I were in the spotlight. The observer was on the side. As I was getting hit, I looked up at the observer like, “We have to do something. This isn’t right.” That never happened before. I’ve never said, “This is not right. We need to do something.” And the observer said what I had heard my whole life: “Don’t say anything. You’re going to make things worse if you say anything. So just let it happen and then you’ll be OK in a little bit.”

I looked at her, and I was like, “I can’t keep quiet.” And then I woke. It was such a vivid and violent dream, but then at the end, it was kind of this positive dream. 

MILCK

 

 

 

Anne

Anne had not known abuse, as of late.

That sort of uninsured… moodiness began thirty years ago.

The feel of the tired shag carpeting, as it lay beneath her side.  The texture of the fake wood that held up her dresser.  Had she known it was just a holding tank for pet fur; she would have vacuumed under it more often.  As it was, she would need to make note of the chaotic, shedding that occurred under her bedroom furniture.  She most definitely needs to take care of that issue, before, Gerald, witness the uncleanliness.

Remembering, now, at the ripe old age of, old age, Anne, knew fetal equaled,  ‘misdeed’.  Position equaled, leaving oneself open to suggestion.  A suggestion that was not always wanted.

In the sun-room of the Needles Nursing Home, Anne often pondered,

 

‘What could it have been like for the children to see me like that?  Curled in, closed off, sobbing but not allowing myself to cry.  Hysterical but not willing to make it such a…nervous breakdown!

….

The abuse begin to turn a different sort of turn, approximately, three decades ago.  When she promised herself, ‘I will know longer think of myself as, taken advantage of!’

That is when the cowering and the coward came into play.  Though, still at the hand of her narcissistic husband, Anne began to behave differently.

No longer would she sit and judge, Gerald.  No longer would she stand in the way of his ‘disciplining’ the children.  Anne, slowly became an extension of Gerald’s long armed law.  Neither a promoter or instigator.  Nor, an encouragement or finger pointer.

The sun-room at this time of day, created beautiful crosses on the lavender walls.  And, though the chapel, were down the hall.  It was in this particular room of the aged home, Anne, felt less guilty.

It wasn’t easy being the midwife to hate.  Being the eyes and ears of the Head of the House.  Yet, when her role started to fall into place.  Possibly in her later forties.  It had been then that Anne accepted Gerald for all his faults.  The kids seemed frightened but older and able to head out on their own, soon.  And, worrying less about the abuse, made her full-time job, off sight, more enjoyable.

Yet…

‘How did her son feel when Gerald threatened to kill him?  Chasing him into the backyard with fist curled, and leather belt readied and willing.

What did her youngest daughter think when Gerald pushed Anne so hard into the stonewall surrounding the driveway?  An impact so forceful she had a slight black and blue under her eye and swollen shoulder for about a week.

Why the giving up to give in?

 

The children had their issues.  But, what further damage would she; Anne, have created, had she antagonized, Gerald, further with tears and reprimanding?

As the roll call for four o’clock supper echoed the nearly vacant halls, Anne began to rise.  Aching from new old pains.  Slightly miffed that her younger daughter had not called to inquire of Anne’s health status.  In need of, morphine for the many debilitating illnesses that had nudged Anne’s doctor into placing her at the Home.

Anne gave up all current thought of the past.  As she always did.  Assuming that the past was just the past.  Rehashing old wounds did no good.  It was…

 far easier on everyone to just forgive and forget.

B.W.S from the adult-child’s perspective:

  • Many battered women stay in abusive relationships.
  • Many making excuses or minimizing your partner’s behavior
  • Many have  low self-esteem
  • Many are traditionalist, believing in family unity and feminine sex-role stereotypes
  • Many accept responsibility for the batterer’s actions
  • Many feel that rocking the boat will make the abuse worse
  • Most…

will not live long enough to enjoy Anne’s sun-room!

 

Cut the Shit…News!

Wrong from so many angles…are the abuse of others, bullying and making one feel in anyway, small.

I grew up in a family that endorsed abuse.  I can say, no good came from it!

That is not to say, murder is the answer.  However, when all exits off a treacherous highway have been cut…we are sometimes left with no choice but to save ourselves.

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From the beginning, Cyntoia Brown’s life story has been heartbreaking. She was put up for adoption at the age of 2, and her life after that was a traumatic spiral of verbal abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, and substance abuse.

At the age of 16, she was sold as a sex-slave to a 43-year-old Nashville realtor—Johnny Mitchell Allan. She was subjected to more abuse by Allan, and in a documentary about her life, she described the abuse and how it made her paranoid.

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