Suicide Note for my Mother

Last week we had to close the hurricane shutters

being suicidal is a little like that

It’s dark

It’s scary and you’re not sure if you should stay or if you should go

It’s loud, so loud, but you only have a rough idea of how much danger you’re actually in

It’s isolating 

There is no way out

Well, there is one way, but it’s difficult to decide

People will tell you all sorts of things

Things that they think you should do

Things that they would do in your position

Things any reasonable person would do

But a hurricane is not reasonable

It’s noisy, and it claws at you just on the other side of those black metal shutters trying to get in

And always -what will people think?

Terrible things, people will think terrible things, you already knew that didn’t you?

They will call you a coward

You will break your children’s hearts

But the only person’s heart I want to break is yours

The only voice I want to stop clawing at me is yours

I wish you would just die

It would be so much simpler to love you when all hope of you ever loving me is gone

It’s the hope that kills, I think

It’s my hope that kills me

When Johnny died there were pages in his journal about the beast in his head

The beast? that was him, the man you let harm your children

The man you let beat us, belittle us

The man who called 10 year me a stupid cunt while he held fistfuls of my hair and pushed my face into my breakfast because he thought I had stolen change from his dresser

I had, fuck him

But it’s not his voice that is screaming in my head

It’s yours

I want you to die so maybe, that voice will stop

I want you to die so that he will be alone, hopefully sitting in his own filth, unloved and isolated

I want him to live a long time like that, alone

But mostly, I want you to die

I want you to die, not quickly, not quietly, or in your sleep, and not at peace

I want you to die slowly and ask for me and for me not to come

I want you to die unforgiven, knowing your only living child did not forgive you

Loved you yes, I fucking hate that part, but I want you to know that I do not forgive you

Your granddaughter is getting married, and she didn’t tell you

Maybe you know this, maybe you don’t

All of your grandchildren want nothing to do with you

The most obvious answer is because you let him say horrible things to me, and to them

You say horrible things about everyone really, except yourself, and him

What kind of a mother does that?

What kind of a mother picks herself and her twenty Talbot cashmere sweater sets over her children and grandchildren?

Honestly, I want to know 

The less obvious answer is because beyond allowing his abuse, you told us we were crazy for even trying to talk about it or heal from it

That will fuck with someone’s mind let me tell you. 

Did you ever have moment when you wanted to protect us? Where you thought about standing between his fists and his words and your children?

Maybe you did, I doubt it, because

what would people say?

What the fuck would people say, mother?

We can’t have people knowing what was happening in our home, can we?

Where would your polished image be then?

What good would the cashmere, dinner parties and shoes be if everyone knew they belonged to a monster?

You were always beautiful on the outside and terrible on the inside

I think you might be aware of this

You let it happen

Over and over

And then would make us tell him we loved him because it upset him so when he lost his temper and smacked us around

That poor man you would say

He loves you, you would say

He didn’t mean it, you would say

You own sister asked you to stop him

She told me that many, many years later, shortly before she died herself

You said no, she told me that too.

I hope that haunts you

I hope you never find peace

I hope how ugly you are on the inside becomes visible to everyone, and that you know that they see it, finally.

I hope when you look at yourself in the mirror you are filled with revulsion at the site

It’s his voice that Johnny listened to on repeat when he killed himself, did you know that?

And we both know it took Johnny years and years to finally die, listening to that asshole over and over

It’s your voice that I will hear

It’s your voice I hear now, it does not stop, it comes out of everyone I see and speak to

It is my whole world somedays and I hate it

I hate you

I hate that nothing will shut it up for more than few moments at a time

It is always there

I think the only reason I’m still alive is I fought back

I punched back, I stole the fucking change from his dresser and spit in his food

Johnny just took it, soaked it all up, and tried to make peace

My baby brother’s desire for peace is what killed him

I hate that I still desperately want you to love me

I think I hate that the most

It makes me feel pathetic

Because I know I come running back to you when you offer even the tiniest scrap of kindness

Like some poor dog who squirms on its belly trying to appease its abusive owner

Tail tucked, head bowed, just hoping that this time will be different

That this time it’s okay, that it’s safe

It never is for more than a moment

You do take exceptional care of your dogs, ironically

always have

Loved them without condition

Would never, and I mean never let anyone harm them

People say people who are kind to dogs are good people, but that’s not always true is it?

It’s not that you are incapable of love

You are simply incapable of loving me

You are not incapable of kindness and care

You are incapable of kindness and care toward me

Unless, of course we’re in public, then you’re the image of a caring mother

The well dressed, socially perfect mother

Ah, but when you do love me, it’s the best feeling in the world

After the hurricane I stood on the beach, waves at my ankles, sometimes my shins

It wasn’t the waves that would knock me over, it was the way they shifted the sand under my feet and I lost my balance

That’s what if feels like when you love me, glorious, powerful, and beautiful, until the undertow shifts the sand beneath me and what I thought was solid is pulled out from under me

I’ve described it as walking on eggshells, holding on to the moments when you loved me, but really it feels more like sand shifting when I’m not paying close attention and then I’m underwater, again

Crab walking backwards to safety, again. 

And I want you know, down in your bones, I want this to be the only thing you hear

That you are responsible, that you have killed me

That I do not forgive you

That I do not wish you peace

That I wish you would just die slowly knowing you destroyed your children because you cared more about yourself, your shoes, your image and that asshole.

small stories

“Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know” Measure for Measure Act 2, Scene 2, lines 36-37 artwork by Jhenai Mootz

I came alone.

the first time, since.
I came alone. today,
the first time
since we were
we, and from my corner
I watched,
us, side by side,
legs touching, and ankles entwined
telling each the small stories,
telling the small stories that
made up our days.
opening,
and then offering
little bits of ourselves,
to each other.
opening,
sometimes slowly,
the little
bits of ourselves,
carefully
removing a brick,
maybe two, from the walls.
a brick, maybe two
from the walls we had built,
and for a time, putting them down,
entwining our stories,
the small stories that made up our days.

Sun fills the doorway, fills
the doorway,
and I see you,
I see you walk in, the sun
glinting
off of those sunglasses
you wore.
I look from your eyes
to your smile
and I tell you my small stories,
the small stories that make up
my day,
the ones left unfinished
the new job, and now,
you tell me your stories, your
small stories, once again
entwining our stories,
entwining,
our stories
once again.

Sun fills the doorway
the doorway that's empty, and
a brick, maybe two, still
wait on the floor, the space
they once held in my life,
the space,
they once held,
still lies open.

Sun fills the doorway
the doorway that's empty, and
a brick, maybe two, remain
on the floor
I hold my small stories
in one hand, lie the stories
one hand that lies open, a hand
that lies open as I
walk out the door.

Ode to a Man on a Honda

Ode to a Man on a Honda

Shall we dance?
just you and I?
take a ride to our horizon’s end…

shall I wrap my thighs
-tight-
round yours?
grasp
your leather hips -
lean into you
as black ribboned road’s vibrations
consume us -
combine me with
your heat.

can I close my eyes -
and feel your lashing hair
lick
my cheeks,
my eyes
into my mouth?
will it taste
of you?
of road-and-wind-and-sweat.

myself, machine and man -
wide open to the sky
as we blister sunny fields of flowers
their faces turned in awe.

chrome keeps flashing
sunlight briefly
while rubber treaded miles are
~melting~
into asphalt,
with our blended beads
of sweat
pressing-in-between-us,
as we race
to
-every-
-heated-
-swaying-
wave~on
our
horizon.

not to touch

I read Neruda with you  
in a dream
worthy of your untamed mouth, 
your heavy eyes 
holding the deep night's velvet,
your hands, impossible  
not to touch 

I woke with you 
my eyelids  
draped, and then 
opened to cold solitude,
an emptiness caressed  
by dawn’s orange fingers 
your touch fleeing on chaste butterfly wings 

my love, a transparent child,
cries soft round tears 
that float up and leave my 
tender kisses in the 
pure whiteness of clouds.

sleep

pretending, I arrange

pillows, I arrange and 

I imagine 

the space

you would fill, your

breath's rhythm, your

mouth's heat

by my shoulder,

in my hair, the

movement on my hip of

a single finger tracing 

my pale skin. 

I imagine

the causal tangle 

of our legs. 

and then

I close my eyes,

lean into you,

and sleep.

opening

I sit here with the dog, and with the cat and I listen. I listen to the cardinal's coquettishly singing, to the woodpecker's percussion, and to the accompanying consort of chickadees, sparrows, and of one mourning dove. I sit and watch as the squirrel, tail flicking, scolds the dog as he now runs round the willow tree issuing an occasional woof as if to say, I didn't want to catch you anyway. The cat, remains asleep in the red deck chair he claimed as his own, with only the occasional half opened eye to indicate his distain.

My coffee has cooled from the breeze that also makes the willow wisps sway and dance. The very first tiny lilac flower has opened, much like a sleepy child awakening from a nap on a picnic blanket on a warm day.

I would sit in this moment, and I never need another thing.

acorn

here we love
and rest our heads, 
here, exquisitely you touch.
here I am unwound,
your lover, and
here our hands unclasp
and now I bid you leave.
and in my hand, one acorn
that you will never see.

dreams to spare

"And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep." 

                                              The Tempest IV,i  

of course it's 'normal',
part of the 'process'
but after 2 1/2 years, or
30ish months, or
about 9,000 days of
living with someone has several 'regulatory dysfunctions' (doctor's words, not mine)
in his brain
with someone who manifests these 'dysfunctions' with difficult behaviour
(difficult, defiant, dangerous, direful, dreadful, deranged - God how I love a thesaurus - behaviour) 
and even though you have been his only constant parent, and support, his sane, safe place
when he asks you, correction,
when after $4,000 in medical bills - this month,
after hundreds of miles and hours of car trips,
after you've read yourself blind to understand so you can be that sane, safe place
when he screams at you,
from his 17year old ego-bound place
"Do you know what it's like to have to give up on your fucking dreams?!"
for the first time, you can respond like that sane, safe person you work so hard to be,
even after the second and third time,
but eventually what you see is all the parts of you that you did give up,
the parts of you that gave up All of the dreams your 17year old self had,
all the dreams your 25 year old self had, and the dreams
of your 34 year old self, your 41 year old self, and the 48 year old self that is looking
straight into his grief, pain and anger
and as you stand there, with all of the lost dreams wrapped around your throat and your heart,
his and yours, because they are same for you,
will all of the dreams for him and dreams for you that you push aside
day after day after day, after motherfucking day
with all the dreams neither of you will never realize because you're certain you'll be in this hell forever
all your dreams for both of you that you don't even peak at, each, every moment, of you life, right now
because it is easier to pretend you don't want them, than to lose them over and over again,
as you stand there with all of your collective dreams smashed and weeping
on the stupid beige carpet between you
you respond "yes" in a voice that is louder than the sane, safe voice
you tell him "yes" you know "what the fuck it is like", no longer even pretending to be sane,
you tell him "yes" and so does everyone else in the world, and then you pick up new dreams,
and then you suck it up and move on and you do you best, knowing as you hear your voice
that this is not your best,
not by a long shot
but this,
this smashed, weeping, broken person is the best you have to give him
right now
and you toss another dream into heap.

shiny happy people full of naught

'... I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children...."
from 'The Invitation' by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

--------------------------------------------------------

it's been one week
and I'm too damn tired to slap on
that bright and shiny plastic smile
and say all the stupid pointless, and hollow words,
to pointless, hollow plastic people - with shiny smiles - who don't,
actually,
give even the slightest of damns,
to whom,
it has never occurred
to give a damn,
about anyone but,
themselves.

it's been one week, and
the best I can do is put my head down
to sneak the odd nap,
and hope I don't drool on my arm.

one week, and I still wish they did,
give a damn, that is
I think,
Really,
that they
Should
Give-A-Fucking -Damn
that we're in so much pain over here,
HELLO.... can you see me?
can anyone see us?
fuck it.

but thinking and wishing
for people to be different doesn't
do anything but make me more nuts,
and today I quit bashing my head
against that glass wall.
today, I walk away.

today, I made myself some goddamn tea
and lit a goddamn candle,
because, somehow that's suppose to help
with
something....
I have no fucking clue what.

and now I'm writing word, after word, after Mother-Fucking Word,
that mean absolutely nothing, it's just my
word vomit on a page,
I'll write till I can't anymore, then
I'm going to draw some really ugly lines,
some terrible pictures,
and doodles, that I will hate, and I'll crumple them all up,
and throw them at the wall

and I wonder
why it is I haven't cried yet (except for that one time).
shouldn't I be crying?
shouldn't I be on the floor sobbing?
I mean really, this is really awful stuff, the stuff of every parent's nightmares
and all I can manage is tired
and occasionally snippy?
what the fuck wrong with me?

I'm just so damn tired,
my stomach feels like cold black stone, and
a boot is stomping down, Hard, on my chest, and I can't breath
but no tears, no time for tears.

maybe I'm tired enough to finally see,
really see
who the love comes from,
who is my tribe, who will hold us, and sustain us.

the rest are dross.


---------------------------------------------------

"What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...."
from Ezra Pound's 'Canto LXXXI'

buy your own flowers

and when you think things won’t get  worse,
that things have turned a corner,
and while it’s not rosy,
at least it’s not hell anymore,
and you dare to hope that there could be a future.

then,
that night when you’d expect to be in bed
you are driving quickly to emergency
you are driving your child
your child with the belly full of pills
and you’re hoping you get there before
it kills his liver, before
it kills him
and in your pajama bottoms you walk determinedly past people
and go to the head of the line
(how very un-Canadian of you)
and you say in a loud clear voice your son has overdosed
and you hand them the bottle
then it’s all motion, and follow me
and take off your clothes and pee in this cup
needles for blood, needles for IVs, stickers for electrodes
monitors and carts with medications
speedy doctors and nurses all talking at once
and you sit, in your pajama pants, and text his father, because
his father who was too fucking upset to do anything useful, because
his father couldn’t even manage to put on his own damn shoes
so, you’re in charge, again
you’re the one who copes, again
the one who holds the family together, again
it’s not that you mind, but
wait, you do mind, you mind a lot
you’re tired, and you’re alone and watching the speedy medical staff
and you have to answer his irritating questions with text messages

later, when it seems your son won’t die tonight,
you go home and talk down his father who is ‘very upset’
and ‘needs to vent’ and likes to
‘process his frustrations out loud’, to you, because he can’t talk to anyone else
and what the hell is he going to tell his family
(don’t answer that)

and when you finally say fuck it and go to bed
3 hours before you get up for work, and
you lay your clothes out on the floor, just in case,
just, in case the hospital calls and you have to rush back
because actually he is going to die tonight
but he doesn’t
so you go to work the next day and do the only thing you can think to do
is write a fucking poem
because that fixes everything
because you sure can’t talk to people about the latest and greatest Swirling Shit Storm
your family is going through

Here are the Swirling Shit Storm Rules:

your son goes to rehab,
no one notices
you drive 700miles a week,
you leave your daughters to fend for themselves
no one notices

your son overdoses,
no one wants to talk to you
your daughters are so tired they don’t want to talk to you
you buy your daughters ice cream and teddy bears and chocolate
but that fixes nothing
their brother is still in the hospital
and they can’t talk about it
they don’t want to talk anymore about it

your son actually dies,
well then, everyone wants to talk
people send you flowers
and bring food
and love, and there is a big get together
and everyone says nice things about your son,
about you, and they actually
talk to you and your daughters
and his father can vent to someone other than you


and there’s the rub,
until your son actually dies,
there’s no one to talk to
you’re buying the fucking flowers for yourself
and the fucking comfort food for your daughters
and talking his father, the fuck down, again,
and again
and again
because you're in this on your own
and you best just get used to it.