What Now

There is something really powerful about Rihanna’s lyrics to the song “What Now.” This past weekend I faced the internal ugliness that comes from coping with PTSD. It’s a strange ugly space when you don’t process or feel emotions in a manner like other people. The experience left me wondering: “What now?” I am hoping in the coming days to have some quiet moments to reflect that may bring some answers.

Stolen Moments

Time roars past us both

wind rattling commuter train windows

those around us focused on newspaper

avoiding threat of human contact

~

You and I are brave

we are the thieves of time 

writing our own novel set in Hemingway’s Paris

we paint midnight in Van Gogh’s colours

~

Savouring our conversation’s natural flow

down to the sacred river cleansing our spirits

a precious liberty bought from mundane concerns

we drink each other in during stolen moments

Unnoticed

Am I your ghost?

Walking down, dark dusty roads

Illuminated by the lone street lamp

Another call disconnected…dead air

My steps slip like silk against bare skin

No sound marking time or movement

Am I your ghost?

You hear me whisper your name

Hairs stand up on your neck

Am I your ghost?

To most I am unnoticed

The Mommy Rut

At 6:38 am, my son’s big grin, bright blue eyes and blond bouncing curls started my early morning routine. Dylan appears ready to take on the world from the comfort of his crib. He looks up at my messy short hair, dragging my butt out of bed and trying to think before my morning cup of coffee. I am not a morning person, but I return his grin with a kiss on the cheek then pick him up out of the crib.

I make my way downstairs, change his diaper and wash my hands. He sees me go to the fridge for his bottle, warm it up and put some cereal into a bowl. There are many parts of my day where the routine repeats itself. This can be both comforting and monotonous at times. Those days where I struggle with the outside world or myself it is generally the former. 

Those of you who subscribe to my blog may have noticed that it has been a while since I posted anything. There is an excellent reason for this. I have No inspiration. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Someone once told me that if you can’t find inspiration then write any way. Bad writing is better than no writing at all. This may be why writers spend so much time editing and revising. Can I dare to write the gritty details of being a stay at home mother who also has a rather messy mind? 

Today was one of those days where I wish that I could shed my body like a snake’s skin and start off fresh. Well, we are at it I would also love to leave all my emotional baggage at the door. I would fill up the car, put my foot on the gas and never look back at it again. Am I the only person out there who has days where I can’t stand myself? The voice inside my head is so loud and fucking critical that I would love to do something drastic to shut her up. 

There is much in my life that I see as blessings. It is difficult to enjoy life when you don’t feel that you deserve abundance, happiness, love, and health. I cannot tell you the exact moment where I went from a small innocent child who didn’t question that I was lovable. Are we all searching for that memory of wholeness? The self-help and new age sections in most book stores give evidence of that desire to return to a state of wholeness.

How does one even start the process of remembering or returning to wholeness? Can we ever be the same after trauma? I would argue no that one cannot be the same person after something happens to you. Experience changes who we are depending on how we choose to react to it. I wasted a lot of time mourning my former self. When I became a mother I grieved my old life before I had my son. We do have some connections that fade as our lives go through transitions. Motherhood can be a very lonely road to be on. We no longer have the community that we once had where children and mother interacted with one another on a daily basis in the same neighbourhood. 

The feeling of isolation and alienation from the outside world pervades my days. My outlet for these thoughts are to write about them on my blog. I don’t even have faith any more that any of you are reading my thoughts. Do you ever feel this way yourself?

 

Shields

what is the nature of your intentions?

grabbing the warrior’s shield

hanging in the great hall

what do you fear more?

the maiden who carries a knife in her boot

knowing her aim hits its mark

or that you cannot protect her from yourself

will you chain and lock yourself in the tower

when the full moon reaches its orb

transforming before the mirror

unprotected by shields from yourself.

 

(c) Amanda Wilson 2014

 

 

One of Those Days

Getting out of bed,

my bare foot lands in cat vomit,

brown water flows out of my shower,

too much on my to do list,

an even greater desire to say,

“Fuck it!”

chuck the list in the trash,

a teething baby when my head throbs,

usual coffee fix isn’t cutting through my mental haze,

oh what I wouldn’t do,

for a smile or a kind word on one of those days.

 

(c) Amanda Wilson 2014

Bittersweet Symphony

Vision springs to mind,

How tea tastes bitter without sugar,

You search cupboard for the sweetness,

Finding nothing there.

~

We cannot escape from where,

We find ourselves in this moment,

Wanting for tea and scones,

Sitting alone at the table.

~

Symphony where notes played out of pitch,

I am not following your tempo,

You are not strumming the chords,

We hear the dissonance.

~

Missing each other’s daily beat,

Most days there is this yearning,

What happened to how you smile,

Hearing now bittersweet symphony.

 

(c) Amanda Wilson 2014

 

 

 

Women’s Locker Room

smell of sweat mingled with feminine mystique

it’s just her who briskly towels off

quick shower aftermath at 6 am

aching muscles screaming after winning against herself

pushing past her own personal best

it’s too early for the crowd

who cluck and peck as their flaws:

” My ass is too big…

what can I do to get a thigh gap…

how many crunches does it take to get a flat stomach…”

she runs the brush through her hair

zips up her jacket before smiling in the mirror

morning secret for just herself