I have a confession…writing poetry with certain constraints has always made me antsy. I have felt like I was somehow not good enough to write following the rules. So, I have written copious amounts of free verse…avoiding the structure of any fotms.
Then, as I grew as a writer and a poet, I found myself saying I don’t write that way too often. Well why the Hell not? Am I a Poet? Or do I just pretend I am?
So, when presented with a form/structure poem idea, I start by looking up the rules. For me, this is my go to site.
Believe me, I feel like a high school student again. In high school I knew the rules and felt my style was better as free verse. I think that if anyone tried to tell me that I needed to follow rules with my poetry I even would blow it off with poetic license.
The rebel nature of free verse still appeals. I will likely never be the next Haiku or Sonnet genius. Poetry speaks from the heart, and mine is often chaotic and unstructured. The meaning remains though.
So, just out of curiousity, what is your favorite types of poetry? Why?
I am learning to be a new person, in order to do that I have to quiet the mental gremlins. That is harder than it sounds. I am a survivor. And I am tired of surviving. No, I am not suicidal. But I am trying to change the direction of my life. I am trying to make it where I no longer am having the string of disasters that my life has been up till now.
What that means for me? It means for to start I let my art and my words flow. I continue to put myself out there. I consider writing the memoir that I have been told was something I need to do. That will probably be some of the hardest words I write. I have shared a few of the stories.
To ease some of the panic, I will say that I don’t know if I will publish it. If I do it will be under a pen name.
This is one of the hardest topics. After all, most days I feel like I am a failure at being a parent. Am I? Many say no. But, still I feel the strain. Today, I found myself angry. Not at my daughter, but at my mother. An old hurt came forth from a new wound.
Now, Since becoming a mother I find myself asking how much of my issues with her stem from normal teen angst. But, somethings….
My daughter is beautiful. And I try to protect her from those with the lack of vision to see her as she is. Today that included my own mother, who sees things no differently than she did when I was a teen. Which is really her loss. Through my anger and misery, I reached out to friends. Friends who could listen to me rant and understand the pain behind it.
The pain of a society that feeds the stigma my mother uses. Big equals unhealthy. The whole situation was that my teen was 250 lbs. She, through healthier choices and adding excersize has lost 20lbs. She also gained an inch. So today when we went to a local health fair, a doctor at the hospital used her height and weight to determine her bmi. She was told it was within normal range.
I tried telling my mom, thinking that she would be proud of my baby. I forgot that my mother was always harshest about my weight. So when my mom responded that the doctor lied and that my daughter was not in normal BMI for her height, my heart broke. Instead of another soul to encourage a little girl struggling with her self image I had found another to tear her apart. I will not allow it. This is where I am becoming the parent I want to be.
To those who would have negative views of her….
I will not allow your issues to hurt her! She is healthy, and still working out who she is to be. Maybe I am overweight, but when I look at her I do not see numbers. I see a beautiful, sensitive child who is already struggling. I teach her about healthy choices and I let her decide how she will be. She is still growing. She has already gotten taller than I. She will reach the stars! And I will not allow your issues to stop her. Your judgement is unwanted, and if you cannot see her amazingness then you are not needed in her life!
A mother tired of judgements
Lately, I have been trying to do an exercise for my brain in the morning called ‘morning pages ‘. Basically brain vomit put in physical form. This helps me to clear the crap that weighs me down, and recognize my problems so that I can address them. It actually is helping. I used to understand the power of keeping a diary… Unfortunately people happened. Said people used those diaries against me. So I got out of the habit. I stopped listening to the internal therapist. And the result? I have a fair amount of issues that bind my self esteem in a knot. So by starting to do this at least one time each day, I am going to see so much of what garbage is buried in my brain. And I will see what I am able to start working through. I will be improving who I am.
Today I found that I was feeling like a failure because I was not juggling the numerous hats I wear as well as I want to. Today I was kicking ass as a mom, but my writing was not going as well as I wanted it to. I rocked as a friend and I even did decent as a housewife. But I was doing poorly as a crafter and small business owner. I was an amazing artist but I felt that I was not a wonderful person…. Now… Read this again. Today I was amazing but I did not feel like it. That is the place where the exercise helps. We have to change how we see the world if we want to change the way it sees us.
What’s something that you can adjust your way of thinking about? And how can you use it to make your world brighter?
How many times have you found yourself thinking about the past? I am guilty of doing it often. We are all a collection of stories, some that we do not tell. The reason why we don’t varies some, depending upon the story. Some we are ashamed of, some we think are going to be boring to the world around us.
I am finding out that sometimes those stories are more interesting than we realize. I try to be open about my history and tell my stories, but some of them do not really sit on the mind as something that I need to tell. Yet, each of them are a part of who I am. I am a unique individual who has seen some of the darkness that lives in the heart of man. I am a survivor who has learned to make do with what I have. And I am a woman who has seen both good and bad, and came through it ready to try to tell my stories. I don’t know if I will ever be able to write all of the stories of a life survived, or even if I should. Not all of my mistakes are ones that any one would learn from… Even me. Still for now, I will attempt to continue to dribble my story in small gushes to this blog, and to my poetry. Perhaps my journey will aid those who stumble across my words.
Dreams are what we build our lives on. They are part of who we are, and eventually of what we become. Dreams that we do not work towards die off.
I am by nature a dreamer. I am doing what I have always wanted to do. I am writing. Is it exactly as the girl I was at nine imagined? No, not really. I am working on making it into what I need it to be.
Over the course of my life I have had other dreams. I have always been a simple person. The biggest thing I have dreamed about is being stable, having a home of my own. Note I said home. For me there is a defined difference between house and home. House is where you live, it is not yours but instead owned by another. A home is somewhere that no one can make you leave. I am nearly able to achieve that dream. And it has been a long time coming. I have been dreaming about my own home since I was fifteen.
The topic came up from a meme going around Facebook. The meme asked if I hit the lottery what is the first thing that I would buy? Well I discussed it with Joe… And he said that the question is a wee bit unfair as it depends upon how much and when. Right now… If I hit for real money… My priorities would be different than they might be in a year. Right now… I would buy two vehicles, pay off my home, and effect some minor repairs. Then I would pay for the utilities for a year and stock up supplies for to help me through. Then admittedly I would stock up on craft tools. ..💜
If you could win the lottery, what dreams would you fill?
I have many stories, I think that we all do. Some of us, the ones who have been through hard moments, we hide the stories. We have been taught to feel the shame of those stories. To feel less because of them. And I refuse.
My memory is still very fragmented. I blocked more of my story out to save my mental health than I remember. Yet, I remember enough. I am a survivor. I was abused. I was raped, multiple times. And when I asked for help I was told it never happened. I was told that I was crazy.
I might be crazy, but it did happen. I have been brave before, I told the man who abused me as a child that I would scream if he came near me again. I was eight or nine. I’m not entirely sure of the exact age. He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there. I believed him. He convinced me that no one would ever believe me. The sad part is he was right. It took me until I was thirteen to gain the courage to tell anyone. To my shame, I was told it was not true.
So much of my life I have been fighting for my sanity and my life. I am in my fourties, and for the first time in my life I am not crazy. I know my truth. I will always be the person who was made from the hell I walked through. But I will not hide my truths any longer. I am not going to let those truths break my spirit anymore.