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!

 

Canterbury Confessions

Would the matter make any difference if we could turn back time, together or apart?

Remove our granite love letter?

Wear sandals for the steps it took to get us here?

Instead of leaden wear steel- toed shoes…

imageedit_11_8861769255

The anonymity becomes unmasked from time to time.

Transgressions…etched forever in stone.

But with every stride…grave indecision, blindfolds my mind.

Conflicted…there is no joy in the ride.

And, no matter the journeys I take…Canterbury Confessions have nowhere to hide.

How remarkable the steps it takes to bury pride.

 

the Children’s Place

You had to walk, big and tall.

In this, the children’s place.

That is,watchtower 1

if you dare walk at all.

My loose ends, from blankets of downy despair.

Shag, drab, carpeting, coveted the falls.

Baneful comforts arrived such as, gypsies in the night.

Creature comforts mere flukes.

Strings to a grounded kite.

This, my children’s place.

With no saline for the eyes.

Dares for the wicked.

For only the wicked…

Dare cry.

The Gleam in her Eyes

vanity-3

I cannot pull my hair taunt with gleam.

Never wanted beautiful…with picture perfect theme.

No more to place-mats with Irish names.

No, amen, to turned out, cowered women.

Women of porcelain design.

 

As sure as, the red river flows.

A Devil may care.

Of that, I am aware.

 

Two way mirrors, in broken homes.

Little girl games of ‘pretend’ whilst the great divider…

hollow doors,

amasses,

patiently awaiting barren men.

 

How silly,

a slim sow,

to place vanity so high.

How pretty,

the little girl poet,

who begs to wonder why.vanity-2

Intake

Within a tryst, beginning with a cold January morn, came the madness in infant form..

Course, that was long before anything called, love, came along.

Imagine no words exchanged.

No consequences…said.

Luminous, padded, cells.

For dirty deeds, such as these.

And, so, decades later, spawned lunacy takes intervention as a lover.

No accounting for the past…

It is simply a chained window to crime doused with periods of respite.

Mania, is but a word for fateful days.

Eras long ago.

Increments of a psychosomatic weekend pass.

psych-2