Mother.

I am not a mother. I am not now, nor will I ever BE a mother. Physically, I am capable of producing offspring. But that would not make me a mother. I do not have it in me to love a human being unconditionally. I do not have it in me to take responsibility for the care of a baby. I do not have it in me to be that unselfish. I am not a mother.

Sometimes, when I let my mind wander, I question what it would be like. The ways my life would (or would not) change. The things I would have to give up - the things I would receive in return. I am one of the few people left in my circle of friends who is not a parent. Sometimes I am envious. I am human, after all. Sometimes I wish it didn't make me envious. Sometimes I'm relieved and glad that it isn't me.

I'm asked that, if I can have so much compassion and unconditional love for animals, why wouldn't I feel the same about my own spawn? The answer is not so simple, though at times I wish it were.

An animal does not stop loving you. Even when abused and beaten to an inch of its life, it will not turn so far that it cannot be brought back. A human being has capability for the worst hurt, cruelty and evil possible. There are no unforgivable acts among animals....it may take time to heal the soul, but it isn't impossible. I can't say beyond certainty that I know the same to be true of humans.

I don't want the burden of being responsible for the needs of a human being. Animals are vastly uncomplicated in their needs. Or maybe it's a different type of need. I can understand animals. I am, by and large, able to communicate them. I cannot say the same for people. I don't understand them and I usually can't communicate with them. Which is odd, since that's what I do for a living.

I am selfish. I do not want something growing inside of me. I do not want to deal with more pain, more health problems and the potential of fucking that up. I don't want to lose the precious little time I have for me caring for some squalling infant. I do not want to put those vast needs before my own. I don't want to. Plain and simple. And being a free woman in a (mostly) free country, I'm entitled to that. Plus, this planet will not exactly suffer from the choice of one woman not to add to the already bursting population. Trust me on that one.

I am miserable with the prospect. If I had a child, it would be a source of contention. I dislike my in-laws with an intense passion. I could not knowingly and willingly send a child into that family even for a moment without the desire to slaughter. My husband would want that child to meet its family....whatever my objections. We have a great deal in common on the philosophy of raising a child. And a great deal that is diametrically opposed.

Genetics alone dictate that I probably should not procreate. With the number of issues I have and the number of hereditary health problems lurking around - it just would not be wise. Especially were that child to be my husband's. Were the coupling different, genetics might, might might just be excusable. I wouldn't knowingly subject a child to the shit he and I have to deal with on a regular basis. It's an almost certainty that any spawn of ours would be genetically fucked from the start.

Above all else, is that selfishness. I don't ever forsee room for a child in my life. I have my life and I have my dreams and I have my goals. When I have my goals, I let nothing and no one stand in the way. It may sound ruthless - it probably is - but I would not let some sappy sentimental notion of "bearing a piece of my/your/our love into the world" dissuade me from the life I want to lead. Ambition has been the downfall of many. One day I may fall. But it will be by my own hand.

I am afraid of my own body's limitations. I have several issues that would make it potentially life threatening to have a child. I have the fear of failure due to past problems. I don't want to deal with that can of worms and that mess and that potential to send me to the edge of insanity. Selfish fear, sure, but I don't care. It's MY selfish fear.

I dislike the intense pressure there is to have a child, from family members, friends, society as a whole. If you're married, or otherwise attached, you're expected to have a child. Be the good wife, squeeze out a few pups and call it a day, resigning yourself to a life of sheparding a brat to and fro from soccer practice and ballet lessons and school and social functions. I could not trade a sword for a sippy cup. Sorry. And that IS my choice. I hate when people say "Oh you'll change your mind when you're older. Or when you're ready. You'll know. You have no clue. It's different when its your own."

No, I will not be changing my mind. And yes, i do have an inkling. And yes, you're right, it is different when it's my own. Make no mistake, I love children. I love babies. I especially love when I can GIVE THEM BACK to mom and dad. I dislike being told that someone else knows what is best for me - and I know, that in any foreseeable future, having a child is NOT what is best for me. I dislike being pressured to pop out a kid because society sees it as the RIGHT thing to do. Sorry, but that's not sitting well with me. If anything, the chiding remarks and the pressure make me rally more to the cause of not having a child.

I have my moments of longing. I see my friends and their children. I watch them grow, and smile, and laugh. And I feel a pang of longing. But it's temporary insanity. It isn't the thought of them being parents that makes me feel a twinge of jealousy. It's the happiness they have that makes me jealous, I think. And there are many roads to happiness and fulfillment. And I know within my heart that their path is not my path.

I am the type of mother who would eat her young because they got on her nerves. That's why I send my mother a card every year on a certain day in May - thanking her for not doing the same. A peace offering, of sorts. A "Thank You For Not Eating Me" card.

There is the maiden, there is the mother, there is the crone. Even my spirituality subtly pushes me toward that path. And yet there is another archetype in the space of "mother". That is the warrior. It is the courage of a mother without the compassion. Mothers are some of the bravest, strongest people I know. I was the maiden. I am the warrior. And if I live to old age without managing to get myself killed, I will be the crone. I am content with this role. It's one I've cast for myself.

I'm going to spend my days in the line of fire, taking heat to protect small, furry, fourlegged babes. I'm going to put myself into danger time and time again, because I know in my heart it is right. I will help, I will heal. At times I will hurt, if necessary. This is the path that feels right.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I Am Not a Victim

Today I will ruminate on a prompt from "The Pocket Muse" by Monica Wood. The prompt states "Write about an ordinary ritual that goes horribly wrong." This is a statement of my life.

I am not a victim. I was raped on the night before my wedding. I had everything I knew and thought I was stripped from my essence. I lost my voice. I lost my sight. I lost my footing. Only now, does the world even begin to make sense again. I have known one thing, even since that night: I am not a victim.

As a recipient of sexual violence, you are told by your family, your peers, your counselors, your loved ones, figures of authority that it WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. And you might know that in your head. But you cease to believe it. You are told you didn't do anything wrong - and you don't believe it. You let it happen, the voice in your head screams. You did it. You could have avoided it. You should have fought back.

I did fight back. I fought back against that stupid little voice in my head that nagged me about everything I did wrong. There isn't exactly a handbook on life, and there isn't exactly an instructional booklet entitled "So You've Been Raped" or "Handling Sexual Assault for Dummies." There are a thousand and one self-help books, designed to step in after the fact. There's nothing, save cheesy drama television, to help you recognize what steps to take BEFOREHAND.

Watch any episode of Law and Order. You go to the police. You scream. You make a scene until someone sees you, believes you. You talk to the nice understanding policemen and you suffer the ministrations of the kindly hospital workers, poking around at what's already been poked.

It doesn't happen like that in real life. Then again, nothing happens in real life like it does on television. I went back to the dorms. I talked to my would-be husband. He was afraid of being caught with me in the room because I had been drinking....it's an offense you could be expelled for. He sends me to the showers. I cry. I jump at every noise. I can't get the sounds out of my head, the smell out of my nostrils, the feeling off of my skin. I'm pretty sure he cries, too, while I'm gone.

I go to the police. They tell me to write out a statement. I wait for months. They tell me there's nothing they can do because everyone else was drunk and high and no one was willing to stand up to Mr. Charismatic Who Said He Was Gay.

And that's that. No hospital visit. The police never suggested it. Not even so much as a kindly counselor provided by the school. Sexual violence doesn't exist here in Southeastern Ohio. And when it does, it's a lie. It's the girl's fault. Just ask that poor woman who had her mattress taken into custody as evidence. Ask her what happened when the defense attorney made her re-create her position on that very same bed she was violated in. Go ahead and ask anyone around here who isn't a "radical" of some sort whether or not sexual violence is an issue. How many rapes are prosecuted? How many end in sentencing?

The day of my wedding I was in shambles. My husband was lectured because he was an attendant at the dorms. He was told to control me, not let me go out drinking, my behavior reflects on him, I'm too wild. I'm on the verge of getting kicked out.

If you only knew. I wanted to SCREAM. If you ONLY KNEW what happened. Of course I have more sense than to come back to a dry campus drunk. Of course I knew what that meant. I was crying in my head that night, begging for someone, ANYONE to confront me, catch me. But there was not a soul in sight. No one to stop me from self-destructing. No one to lend an ear. If you only knew. I pray you never do. Reprimand me for being hurt. Real sympathetic.

I watched it tear apart my life.I watched it tear apart my family. I watched it glaze over my husband, ineffectual and seemingly untouched. I was sad. I was hurting. I was not heard. I was ANGRY. I was MAD AS HELL.

And now, almost four years later, I am still all of those things. But mostly I'm just angry. My family and i got into an arguement over it. I know it wasn't meant to hurt, they didn't know how to cope either. But now it's brushed under the table as if nothing ever happened. I never got to talk to my mother about it - when I needed her most. I never got to talk to my husband about it - when I needed him most.

No matter what anyone tries to say - sexual assault is something you go through completely and utterly alone. And it's maddening. Like trying to put together the pieces of a broken mirror. You might not ever get all of the shards back in place. And if you do, everything melts back into place like liquid quicksilver. And you're stronger because of it. I don't know if I've put the mirror back together yet. I'm too afraid to look. I'm not afraid of my shadow - I'm afraid of my reflection.

Even so, for all the anger and hurt in my heart, I am not a victim. I was violated. But I was not destroyed. I was hurt, but I am alive. I was knocked down, but I'm mostly standing up. I was kicked back, but I am still fighting. There was nothing I could have done to change the course of events, though gods I wish there were.

I am not a victim. And the next person who tells me I am gets a boot to the skull. Because I won't tolerate being made the victim. And I won't tolerate anyone viewing me as such. It's another piece of my mirror, another part of my story. But it isn't WHO I am and it doesn't define ME.

I was raped. I am not my rape. And if you ever found yourself in the same situation, you would understand too.

But I hope you don't. Because you're not a victim either.

In Reply To The Nature of Love

Everyone has different definitions of that ephemeral concept of love. What is it to you? What is it to me? A member of my tribe, that is to say, my extended family of choice, recently made an eloquent post reflecting her purview on love. And while I agree with many things, I feel that for me, they need further understanding. As I've been charged with the challenge of writing in my journal every day, I will attempt to answer that (quite appropriately) mercurial question: What is love?

I love without thinking. I do not love without feeling. My heart sings a song to those I love, in echo of a song heard in their heart. We, as a society, do not love enough: not anymore, and not as we should. We are afraid, I think, of trusting ourselves to one another. We are afraid of being hurt.

I am not afraid of the hurt that comes with love: all great things come attached with a price, and often that price is not realized until much later. Is the cost of loving someone far too great? For me, the answer is no. I've almost been destroyed by the darker edge of love. But I've been nurtured to life by it far more. It's a simple cost-benefit analysis: Is the cost far more than I am willing to pay? It has never been so for me, but even I have my limits at time.

For those just joining -- perhaps new readers, perhaps classmates, perhaps long lost friends, hopefully a literary agent or two -- I feel there are certain details of my life that bear mentioning in order for me to fully speak out on this topic. Some of you might prickle at the thought, but I am polyamorous. I believe it is fully possible for some people to love more than one person in a romantic manner without harming any involved. I love my husband. I love my boyfriend. My husband loves me. He loves his girlfriend. They all weave the rich tapestry that is my life - and for each of their roles in my life, I could not be more grateful.

Have you ever learned to go fishing, reader? Perhaps a kindly figure in your life - a grandfather, as was the case with me - sat you down and told you to be patient. To wait until that fish came to you. And to slowly, patiently crank the reel until the fish was in your hands. You will hit snags along the way, you will catch your line on a million things. Unlike so many tired analogies, I do not liken lovers to fish (although some have, to be sure, been pretty fishy). Rather, love is the elusive fish we're seeking to catch. My grandfather always told me to fish out of need, never for sport, and to honor the gift that the world was giving me, the continued gift of life. Love is not sport, and love fills a very real need in our lives as humans. Love sustains us. Before this turns into a Beatles song, I must also add that love can destroy us also. There are fish in the world that can kill you with a mere bite. There are loves that will do the same.

Like the scales on that self-same fish, there are many who would liken love to a multi-faceted jewel. Many who would seek to put love on a pedestal. But I speak most assuredly when I say that love is not some grand thing to be admired from afar: It is real, it is earthy, it is not always pretty and sometimes it is practical. Love has caring, adoration, passion, lust, desire, pleasure, enjoyment. It also has jealousy, possession, pain, heartache, hatred, disgust and hurt. Love is these things, and love is more. There is an abundance of literature on love and its many facets. I'd be hard pressed to write about love and speak all of these things in earnest. For some, as it is for me, love isn't so easy to speak about, but it is easy to show.

One of the questions asked the most of me about my relationships is how I deal with jealousy. The simple thing is: I am aware of myself and I strive to be aware of my partners. I seek to keep the feelings of hurt from happening before those feelings rise to the surface. I try to smooth out conflict before it begins. By and large, I am not jealous. Love multiplies. I cannot say the same for the money in my bank, perhaps this is why I am a writer by trade. Love sings out to love, and it begins and begats more love. I enjoy seeing the look in my husband's eyes when he hears from his girlfriend. My tears well up - not with anger, but with pride - to see them together, because I truly find love and beauty there. I do not have a problem with physical affection between them while I am present - simply because it is one aspect to the love they share. And why should something so esteemed, so beautiful, so transient in nature - why should that be wrong? Why should I begrudge that? Who *AM* I to begrudge that? It is not my place - because love, in its many forms, is always beautiful. And one small act of love can, and often does, change the world. Even in small ways.

This is not to say that I am never jealous of anything or anyone - I am not a saint. But I recognize where my jealousy stems from, and I am proactive in my attempts to soothe the ruffled feathers of that prickly bird. My own jealousy often stems from seeing real or perceived inadequacies in my own relationships. A covetousness that I cannot control because perhaps I see something I once had, something I lost, or something I crave and may have never had to begin with. This is something I, and I alone, have control over. If I feel I have lost something, I take steps to find it. I would do no less for a tangible thing in my life, why sit and stare helpless like a dopey damsel? If I've lost it, I'll get it back.

If it's something I never had to begin with, I'll turn those bristled feelings of hurt into thanks - if I never had it to begin with, and I am jealous to see it manifest, then it was something I never knew I needed. And if I did not know I needed it, how could I have expected my partner to know it was needed? By and large, with few exceptions, my lovers are not psychic. My relationships aren't some mystical thing, existing in a wholly perfect bubble - they come with lots of time, patience and COMMUNICATION. It can get ugly. It is NEVER pretty and it is usually boring or mundane. But it is necessary.

I love without question and without apology. I strive to love in the light of day, and not hide things about in the twilight hours. Why should I? It's not conducive to anything and I've burned and been burned by more than one clandestine relationship. I'd rather be exposed and laid bare for the world, and my partners, to see. Part of that, perhaps, comes from being a submissive, masochistic exhibitionist - it's as much a part of my nature as anything else - perhaps it is just my understanding of the world. But the core parts of my being shape my understanding of the world, and those two things are so inextricably linked, it doesn't much matter where it comes from - so long as my heart agrees. And it does.

The need to posses someone is not my nature - love is shown through actions, freely given. People ask how it is possible that I can love my husband - people whose sole exposure to love is via monogamy. People speculate how I could "let him do this" to me, as if I were unaware and uninvolved in the prospect of him dating other women - they are often quite unaware that the change in our relationship style was MY idea, and both of our choices. They ask, quite rudely, if I would like to strangle whoever he is involved with. I'm ever sorry to disappoint the bloodthirsty masses, but I've met his girlfriend. She's an absolute pleasure to be around and a delight to spend time with. He worries about me absconding with her, not the other way around. And why not? She's a delightful woman and what's not to love? But to hurt and possess, to conquest for sport, is not my "thing."

Case in point: I know my husband loves me. People place too much on the legal aspect of our marriage. Whatever perceived legal obligation aside, he is not chained to me, unable to ever live a life of his own. There are times when the life you lead with a partner outweighs the ties that bind: that's why there's such a thing as divorce. When we attended our first party, he challenged me to finish a very acidic, fruity alcoholic drink. I have an ulcer and I've had stomach problems since childhood. The night ended with fecal matter and vomit. Barely knowing me and out of NO obligation whatsoever, he tended to me like a family member would. He didn't blink (he may have wretched himself, from the smell of it, but who can blame him?) and he handled it with a love and grace I don't know that I would have been able to pull off. Our relationship has been filled with ugly moments - physical ailments, emotional illnesses, problems and more problems. The fact that he is still here of his own accord is proof enough for me, and should be proof enough for those self-same bloodthirsty masses who have no greater past-time than to wish my love life to go down in flames. And I don't foresee this changing.

Who do I love? Some days, everyone. Some days, no one. But who I love and how I love are not inextricably linked - I love you, unless you prove a reason I should not. And like as not, this has led to me hurting more than once. Like as not, it will happen again. But to say I regret how I love and any result of that would be a falsehood that I am not willing to swallow.

It could be summed up in five little, insignificant words: It is what it is. For anything more than that, go listen to the Beatles.

You Can't Take it With You (Hello from Jersey,Wish I Were There.)

A poem written while traversing the great and much missed state of New Jersey. I miss it already.
I.
I grew up
with the dust of the Northeast Corridor
reflecting grandeur of a thousand untold locations in my eyes.
Rocked to sleep by the rhythms of the rails and
the voice of John Francis Scotti mumbling the eternal grace of a God he knew so well last night.
Words like Secacus, Piscataway, Metuchen
lilting like a lullaby from the voice
of a conductor who can otherwise only say "Yo-
How youse guys doin?"
I can barely hear the distant whistle
of the 10:19 to Jersey City
over the hum of my friend's first Fender strat,
shaking the garage with a fury and a fire
that we'd never know again in the years to come.
And we swore, taking a drag from a stolen cigarette,
we promised over a sip of forbidden, forgotten whiskey
We swore one day we'd get out.

II.
My heart soars over the Meadowlands,
turning wasteland into wonder,
Springsteen was my neighbor, when I was just a girl,
singing songs about the places I knew, the places I'd been
and Jungle Land and Thunder Road weren't just names on a sign.
They were real, and so were we, and unlike Bon Jovi's hair,
we swore we'd never stick around.
And I grew up, and washed the dust of the Northeast Corridor from my hands.
Rumbling once again,
by the Raritan river and the Atlantic Ocean stretching out,
the squish of oil-slicked sand
and the random smell of family vacations fresh on my mind,
looking out over the places I once knew,
and the world that once was mine,
the infinite world within a world of the Pine Barrens,
and the lore of the Jersey Devil hot on my tails,
worse than my conscience, nattling around in my skull.

III.
The sounds have changed - ain't no more Springsteen at the Stone Pony,
ain't no more rumble of the 10:19 to Trenton.
And with the Gaslight humming, singing songs of loss and heartache,
I can't believe I'm standing here again, in all the places I knew and loved,
all the places I shunned and scorned in favor of a "better life."
I was one of the few who got out, for every one like me, more and more still try.
It hurts to say it now, I couldn't feel it anywhere else,
and I'm homesick before the Silverliner ever pulls out of the station.
It kills me to admit it -
I'm home.

Don't mind the weirdness...

...Recompiling poetry into this blog. It's like a scrapbook. Scroll past it all if you don't want to see it/have seen it before/just want the good stuff.

Fruitless Harvest

Squeeze tighter and she
might just disappear.
Her body deep within your
private embrace,
Explain why she wants this
so much?
Strip her down
and view her bare,
are we speaking of the soul?
Or the flesh?
Lead her deep out to the wood,
and harvest the lust
contemplated this season.
Over and over
her cheeks begin to flush
.....And then she wakes up.
Again.
-2007

I Promise I'm Not (THAT!) Crazy

I love you.
I hate you.
You annoy me.
I'm slowly falling apart.
I'm slowly falling apart behind my eyes.
I'm slowly falling apart in front of your eyes, and you don't seem to notice or care.
I hate it when you say there's nothing you can do.
I hate it even more when you say that you don't know WHAT to do.
I hate to admit to anyone that I am infatuated with them.
I love you.
I may act like a hardass, but I need affection.
I want your affection.
I need a hand...can you save me from myself?
Just let me self destruct.
I want to hurt you just as bad as you want to help me.
I want to sink teeth and claws into that pretty little skin of yours.
I want to rip you apart limb from limb.
And I want you to cuddle me,
and whisper all the things you want to say
but can't usually admit,
all while I rip out
Your amazing throat.
I want you.
I need you in my life.
Baby, don't go.
Why are you looking at me like that?
Well, I've gone and fucked that one up. Again.
I'll never grow into myself.
I will never accept responsiblity.
I will never be happy with myself.
All the therapy in the world couldn't cure these feelings.
Just learn to deepthroat life, and we'll all be okay.
Because if you can choke down life, you can choke down anything.
Let it slide.
Let it go.
Let me have someone else.
Let someone else have me.
Will you watch?
Give me a hand, I'm drowning in myself.
Give me a hand, I'm drowning in your eyes.
You feel so warm at night.
The smell of you on my sheets makes me cry.
Not because I don't love you,
But because I know like everything else in my life,
eventually you will leave me, too, if by your choice,
or God's.
Everything expires. I just help it along,
and it will always come to a point where,
you aren't good enough, you can't take enough, you're not
young or pretty or skinny or lovely or smart
or talented or funny or amusing or even just right
enough for them.
Because everybody loves you when you're easy.
And when you put yourself out there, when you put IT out,
You don't have to open up your heart,
and you don't have to show any real emotion.
You can giggle and laugh and flirt and touch
with only the slightest efforts. And you're good at it.
So damn good. Because when you see the desire burning in their eyes,
You know in that moment that they want you. They want to tear you apart.
And use you like a trophy. Another freak fucking lay on their fucking wall of
shame/fame. And that's all you are to them,
But your smile smolders with a nearly dead ember when you realize
that they will never know your secret. That you've stolen something from them.
A photograph in your mind, a glimpse, a moment of time.
Everything you touch passes from spring to winter.
Do not pass go, do not collect money. Go directly to death.
Because everything you touch falls apart.
But conversely, everything you leave falls apart too.
You're like duct tape....no, too redneck.
It's like a threesome. Yeah. That's it.
It's like a threesome, where you've got two guys,
who are scared as all hell to be in the same room with another dick.
You're stuck in the middle, between these two, and you're the only thing holding them together. Anything more transparent than you would be disaster. You're just right. They fit just right. Perfect fucking match.
But when you leave, all hell breaks loose. Because there are two guys. In one room. With both their dicks out.
Face it, chica, you just fuck things up in general.
Are you talking to me, or yourself, or him, or her, or someone else? I don't fucking know anymore. At this point it doesn't matter.
I want you to mark me. To claim me, to make me yours in a way that you haven't even done yet. I want you so badly that I wouldn't give two shits if you carved your name on my ass. So many have done it before.
The names, the initals, fade after time. But catch it at just the right time,
when the air is hot and kind of
dry. And the scars spring to life, and all of a sudden
You're aching for them. No, because of them.
And the painful reminders of youthful indiscretion
flash before your eyes, and on your ass.
And you want nothing more than to be taken over,
owned completely, controlled, used, claimed. And then held.
But you know you're never going to get it.
Because he's just not that into it.
And you can't really find anyone who is.
And you wonder, for a moment, what life is like for the people
in the car next to yours, as you glance down into their window,
and kind of smile to yourself and know that they're not even close
to as miserable as you are.
Let go. Just let go.
Sleep, perchance to dream.
What the fuck, Shakespeare, you didn't know one GODDAMN
thing about dreaming. I've dealt with things for years that would make
your pansy little bardic ass scream in terror and run for the nearest gallows.
Dreams? Yeah. Fucking right. I'd kill for a dream.
Instead of the shit that I'm "blessed"with. Fuck you, buddy.
Embrace it? You don't know what the fuck you're talking about.
Fuck you all.
Speaking in cryptic bits, dead languages, pieces of metaphor and stories.
I don't need the dramatic bullshit. I know what I am.
And I know what I do. And I don't give two shits how you can help,
or how you want to factor into my other self. You had a chance.
But it's past that now.
It's way past everything.
And it's past my bedtime.
I love/hate you all.
-2007