Jul 21 2017

Response to: Why I stopped writing

The therapist looked at Brooke and asked, “Did you love her?”

“Yes, I mean no. I hated her, but of course I loved her. She was my mom. She was sick. She was always sick.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she was mentally ill. She always told me how much she never wanted me. She pimped out my sister at a truck stop. She hit us. She beat us. She hated us. However, no matter how sick she was I loved her, because I knew she was sick.”

“hmm…” The therapist wrote in the file. The he looked up and said, “ You know why you feel the way you do?”

Brooke shook her head no.

“Because you are not ready to give up that storyline. That story was written. It is over. For your whole life you were the unwanted, neglected and beaten child. Now the main character is dead and you don’t want to let go. You only know that storyline. That’s the story you are comfortable with, but the main character is dead so the only way to continue to live that storyline is for you recall those bad times. The more you recall the bad times the more you suffer as you always had before your mother died. The good news for you is that she is gone. The story is over. Time to move on. Stop focusing on that story. Start focusing on another storyline. Write a new one.”

Brooke wiped her tears and looked up. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is. The book is closed. The story is over. Now, you can be anything you want to be. What do you want to be?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of it that way.”

“Do you want to be a villain, hero, victim or leader?”

“I want to be.”

“Then find yourself.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“The person you were for the past 40 years, the one who sat here crying is not the person you are. It was the person you once were. Now is time to re-identify with yourself. Once you find the new you, you will never feel like you did as you did when you came in here.”

“Ok, but where do I start.”

“That’s not for me to answer. I’m just your therapist and your time is over for today.”

“Ok, but then how do I find out where to start. Who do I talk to?”

“A friend, go talk to a friend.”

“But I don’t have any. That is why I come here.”

“Then go find one.”

Jul 19 2017

Why did you stop writing?

“Why did you stop writing?”

Brooke sat slouched over with her elbows on her knees and face in the palm of her hands. She said nothing, but shrugged her shoulders.

“I can’t help you if you are not willing to talk. What happened?”

“Stuff, lots of stuff, my world seemed to just fold one storyline after another until I had no story left.”

“Your writing just stopped?”

“No, my world. I was someone. I used to write. I used to have an opinion, and people used to read my writing. It was like I was on a roll at a blackjack table and then it just stopped. I used to feel like something big was going to happen, something really great, but then I realized it wasn’t. That is when my life started falling to shit.”

“So, your writing stopped and your life fell to shit. Is that what you are saying?”

“No, my life fell to shit and my writing stopped.”

“Ok, then why do you think this happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Ok, maybe but I don’t want to say it. If I say it you will think I am nuts.” She inhales a big breath and slowly exhales like she was practicing yoga or Lamaze. “The suicide…” She inhales another big breath and exhales. “ When she took her life, it was like she stole mine too or at least my happiness.”

“Who? Who is she? Who took who’s life?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Tears rolled down her eyes.

“Brooke, we have been meeting once a week for over a year, and I don’t know what you are talking about. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I know. I know, but this is real and it hurts. It still hurts just like it did the day it happened. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to live a happy life and I have done pretty ok. I mean people think I am happy. I do feel happy at times, but deep down she is always there. The sad part is I can only remember her dead body, the bad times, the sad times and very few good times. I just want it all to go away.”

“This is why you should write. You need to write about this. This story is real and people like you can get comfort knowing about what you are going through.”

“Yeah, that is what I thought too. Then literary agent after agent rejected me. I got to the point where I was numb. All The literary agents want from me is to write humor, but it takes every ounce of strength to find the energy to be happy. I am too tired trying to be happy that I can’t. You know what I am?”

The therapist shook his head.

“I am sad. I am fucking sad. I cry myself to sleep almost every night and that has been for ten years, 3,650 day and I don’t want to be sad anymore. The worst part is that being sad in today’s society is just not ok. It is no longer accepted. No one wants to see the tears, hear the cries or talk about the bad in life. I just can’t be fake. I am me and right now that is a sad person. I just want to

Oct 30 2016

Comfortably Numb

Today I woke up with the lyrics of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd in my head. It has been a long time since I have sat down and written from my heart and soul, but today I must.

I stared in the mirror this morning long and hard. I realized one thing, if I am to move beyond this point I must face the sadness inside. The truth is like 90 percent people of this world I have suffered loss, abuse and neglect. Just like the song Comfortably Numb, I had this feeling as a child and now again as an adult.

As I sit listening the song, tears pour down my face. In my head, I see the vision of Pink Floyd’s video and suffrage of the child and father at war. While I am not the child in the video, but I too have felt very similar to the little boy sitting numb. Over the years, have learned to overcome those burdens and grow into the woman I am today by staying the moment and looking towards the future.

The question remains. Why is this song plaguing me today? Could it be the looming media and threats of a new war? Is the election really bothering me? Well, maybe, but the real issue is rejection. I have been and always been facing the issue of rejection. I was rejected by my own mother. I was a failed abortion attempt. I lived. I was her biggest failure. While I forgive her and love her, and her ashes sit in a silver heart container in my home, I still deal with the fact that every day of my life I was rejected.

Now, as my writing begins to take stage I have that same feeling of fear of rejection. Maybe, this is why I have become comfortably numb. While I am not feeling pain or happiness. The distance ships in the horizon is my future success. The moving lips could belong to myself or my mother’s. Even though I have this feeling again, I will do as I have done before. I will weep my tears, listen to music and fight. This is life. We live in world of very selfish and sick people, but I will stand up and keep going. I will not let the pain, fear, sadness or anything else keep me from catching that ship in the horizon.

JCV

https://www.bing.com/search?q=comfortably+numb&form=EDGNTC&qs=PF&cvid=12c1c37bc50e465d916a1c21fe0891b6&pq=comfortably+numb

Aug 13 2016

The first day of Kindergarten is not the same for every student or every school

First day of kindergarten

When the blistering hot summer days have you and your family longing for those cooler fall days, there will be some mothers, fathers and grandparents who will take their little one to kindergarten.
On my son’s first day of kindergarten was and still is one of his worst days in his life. Bubba was very upset. He and I were used to being a solo team. His father left when he was two and half and returned when he was four and half. After for about six-months, but only to leave again. Bubba’s father was in love with another country and did not want to be a father. He and I tried to make it work. Financially Bubba’s father was taking care of us, but the lack of his presence was definitely causing Bubba to have attachment issues.

I did not know how much the abonnement affected him until the first day of kindergarten. Bubba had attended a two-year-old preschool program that was three hours twice a week. Then a three-year-old preschool program that met for three hours three times a week. This fall, Bubba was attending a new school with a full day kindergarten program.
On the first day of school, we woke up on time. He dressed into the school uniform, ate breakfast, grabbed his backpack, took a picture and then got in the SUV. During the drive we talked about the all fun he would have. Once we got to the school, Bubba was overwhelmed at all the cars, busses and children in the parking lot. Bubba took off his seatbelt to his car seat, climbed over the seat, began to undress, crying and screaming he did not want to go. I tried to console him. I got in the backseat and tried to reach for him. Instead, I ended up climbing over the seat and helped him put his clothes back on. Together we hugged and talked about all the fun he was going to have at his new school. He calmed down and together we walked to his class hand in hand. Until the moment he saw his teacher and the class full of 20 plus students. Bubba broke down. He clung to both of my legs with all his strength and yelled, “Don’t leave me!”

His teacher with her big fluffy white hair and long dress bent down to his level and said, “Don’t worry, I am your mommy now. You will see her after school, but for now you can act like I am your mommy.”
Bubba proceeded to scream at the top of his lungs and attempted to climb up my legs. That was when the tears I was holding back began to stream down my own face. I picked him up and took him away from the scene. I could not allow his new classmates to stare at him. I carried him to the office and I made small chat with the secretary and Headmaster. Once Bubba had calmed down again I told him that what his teacher said was not true. I was his mommy and always would be. I would not leave him, nor would I forget about him while he was at school. If he were to ever get sick or have great sadness he could tell the teacher he needed to come to the office to ask the secretary to call me. I would stop whatever I was doing to come to school to get him. The secretary smiled in agreement.

He gathered up his courage and once again we walked hand and hand back to his classroom. He took the last seat in the back corner far away from the teacher.

School mornings were never easy for Bubba, but over time they got easier. My son never abused the privilege of calling home sick, but he knew that he could. I always made it to school early to pick him up so he never had to worry if I would be like his father and just leave. The relationship between my son and his teacher was quite toxic. She reminded him many times that she was the mommy now, and my son reminded her that she was not. After many meetings with the teacher and Headmaster, the teacher stopped telling the kids that she was their mommy.

My son learned how to read, add, count, and to do many more things, but to no avail his teacher failed him on the basis of emotional immaturity. I spoke with the Headmaster and came to the conclusion that my son was very smart, could read, write, add, subtract and more but the emotional turmoil of not seeing much of his father had created some attachment issues.
Summer came and we had our glory days of fun filled mornings, swim lessons, nature walks and long afternoons of movies and staying up late playing with friends. In the fall, Bubba went to a new school to repeat kindergarten. The new school was much smaller with only 10 kids per class. The teacher was a male.
On the first day of school, we walked hand and hand to the new classroom. We said our farewells. My son did not cry. He was timid, but the distraction of the collection of birds, bunnies, reptiles, plants and more in the classroom made it much easier for the kids to detach from the parents. My son looked up at me worried and said, “Will you forget about me?”
As I held back tears, I responded, “Of course not, I will be here if you need me. Your teacher can call me anytime and I will stop what I am doing to come to you.”
Then he asked, “Can you please come eat lunch with me?”
The teacher overhearing the conversation shook his head with agreement. “I think that would be nice.”
“Then yes Bubba, I will be here at lunch.” I was shocked that I was welcomed to be a part of Bubba’s first day at school.

The first week of school I ate lunch with Bubba, his class alongside other parents. Lunch was nothing big or glamourous, but it meant everything to my son and the other classmates as they sat alongside their parents, grandparents and more to eat. As days passed fewer parents to include myself would come eat with the class, but never did a week go by that at least one parent would come eat along with the teacher and kindergarteners.
If I could go back in time, I would have never forced Bubba to go to school at the first school he went to for kindergarten. The school had a wonderful academic reputation, but all the heartaches, tears and sadness he suffered from that tragic first day still linger in his head.
The second school fostered a smaller class with more of an ease of transition and the birds, bunnies, plants, trienniums, and more created an environment of ease to create a sense of wonder in Bubba. It was the acceptance of the parental interaction at everyday lunches, field trips and reading time that gave the children a sense of confidence that their moms, dads, grandparents and more would be there at the end of a full day that made the second school the best.

Thank you Headmaster Brother Garrison!

May 7 2016

Time to be me again

20160507_095654 They always say if you want to see yourself in the eyes of others take a video. Well, this morning I took my first interview video for a new job. The job entails teaching people how to paint or create art. I was ecstatic when I got the request for the video.

I hung all my paintings in my spare bedroom and lined the extra paintings along the bottom of the wall. The display was beautiful. The colors were bright. The images are crisp. Most of the paintings are children’s illustrations with a dog, or child or both. The art I saw was above the level of creativity that I felt I could ever do.

Then in my black slim leggings, yellow t-shirt, tennis shoes and my painting sweater I stood in front and center of my art holding two of my children’s books. My son standing with my cellphone gave me the signal to speak. The first video was full of “ums…” The second was full of “likes…” Then the third video, I calmed down and spoke honestly about my craft. I told about my books. I went over my watercolor paintings and then I explained the slow progression of my oil paintings. The video was complete, simple and well thought.

The problem? I was boring. I was a simple woman in a simple sweater coat. My hair was simple. My makeup was simple. I was simply simple. I remember back in the days when I was anything but simple. I was full of cheer, loud, colorful, energetic, expressive and nothing like the woman explaining the wonderful and colorful art on display. Now, I see my heart and soul displayed on the walls, I wonder if somewhere I lost my soul inside me. Is my spirit broken or is this a phase? I think back to the days of where anything would go and how fresh, fun and energetic I felt. I want that feeling again. I want to be a reflection of the art hanging on the walls. I want to be colorful, crazy and fun. I enjoy the comfort of normalcy but I am I don’t want the dull, boring, nervous, and quiet soul from that video. I want to be more. I want to be me.

Jan 3 2016

What I learned from a marathon of Entourage on HBO

The past week, my husband and I spent our entire time cuddled on the couch watching back to back episodes of Entourage. I am talking all eight seasons. It was easy for the both of us to get caught up in the show, because we never heard of the show before the movie. The show definitely sucked us right in.

As a couple, we both understood how Ari could simply take his wife for granted. It is hard to balance family life with work.

We also loved the way Ari built, clawed, fought and negotiated strategy to get to the top of agents. Ari did not have the best ethics, but he worked hard and never let “no” stop him for getting what he wanted.

Finances of the star Vince and his friends pretty much sums up life. Money comes and money goes. It seems like there is never enough and when you have it life is a hell of a lot better than when you don’t.

My husband enjoyed the negotiations and strategy throughout the show along with the wide variety of tits, asses, hot girls, hot cars and the appearances of real directors, writers, studio executives and actors. For me, my favorite part was the writing. I enjoyed the dialogue. I thought it was a well written show. I enjoyed how scripts were evaluated on the show. I have always dreamed of being a writer, even with the frustration of Final Draft software. I know what I want to write. I know what I like to write about. I even know my limitations on what I can and cannot write. It never really occurred to me that all that shit doesn’t really matter. What really matters is what the audience of movies and television want.

In reality I could write the best movie ever about a cat that can crotchet small hats to be sold on Etsy, but in reality no matter how well that script or novel is written not many are going to pay a dollar to read or see it.

I just want to tell the casts, directors, and writers of “Entourage” thank you. Thank you for letting me to finally understand the business. If it was not for me sitting on my sofa ordering pizza multiple times with my husband for the past seven days, I might still be trying to sell my handcrafted piece of shit. Now, I am a wishful writer with nothing, but hey at least I am not wasting anyone’s time.

If you want to know more at Entourage please check it out at: http://www.hbo.com/entourage/about/video/entourage-hbo-first-look.html?autoplay=true

Apr 13 2015

Broken

“Shut up and get in the fucking car!” shouted her husband out of the car window as she stood on the curb.

She stopped arguing with her son for a moment to catch a glimpse of her husband sitting in the car. She mumbled, “I’ll leave one day. I’ll go somewhere where I’m wanted and loved,” as she was getting in the car.

“No one loves you,” mumbled her son.

She sat in the front seat of the car looking out the passenger window. She silently cried all the way home. She was not mad at her husband as much as she was at her son. He might have not meant it, but her whole life she had felt that way. Teenagers are supposed to push our buttons, but this was more like a nuclear launch.

Lexy had always felt like a piece of shit on one wanted. It could be because her mother always reminder her how she attempted three homemade abortions to kill her, but failed. Her mother found out she was pregnant at four months gestation and was unable to qualify for a medical abortion, so instead they were both cursed for a life a misery.

Back home, her son went upstairs to play on the computer. Her husband sat in the living room watching golf. Lexy went to sit outside on the back porch stairs. She tried silent tears till they stopped flowing. She always knew raising a son without his natural father would be difficult, but not personal. It did not help that his stepfather had a short temper. Lexy and her son were broken but wouldn’t be for long.

Mar 31 2015

Going Shopping

“Whatcha doing?”

“I’m making a budget.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m broke.”

“Oh, ok. Do you want to go swimming after?”

“No, I’m busy.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“I’m going shopping.”

“I thought you said you were broke.”

“Duhhh..”

“Then why are you going shopping?”

“Because, I need to.”

“Oh, ok. Whatcha buying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whatcha need?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you going shopping?”

“Because I need to.”

“That’s stupid. Why don’t you just go swimming with me?”

“Because I need to go shopping and get new stuff.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Noooo, you’re stupid swimming on a weekend with in the heat when you could be shopping.”

“But I don’t have any money to shop!”

“That’s because you need to do a budget!”

Mar 29 2015

Hard-on in the pool

“Did you cause a man to have a hard-on in the pool?”

“What? No, gross.”

“I beg to differ. We caught a man jacking off in the locker room.” I had to send two of my best lifeguards in there to stop him.

“Well, it’s not my fault.”

“Then why is his wife saying different. She said she saw you swim up to her husband at the deep end of pool. Over there in the corner in the lap swim lane with your top hanging off.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Lady, we don’t do this here. This is a public pool for children and families.”

“Listen, listen, it’s not what you think.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“What? Why?”

“For turning tricks in my pool.”

“No! You’ve got it wrong. Really, I probably did that poor old man a favor. Look at him. He’s what 50 plus, bald, with a belly. Look at his wife! She is in a scooter, or Walmart mobile. I was just fucking swimming.”

“Hey, there’s children no cussing.”

“They are fucking in the pool. We are inside this whatever you call this of an office that smells like dirty feet.”

“Respect me and the lifeguard office. I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t call the Po-Po. Listen, just listen. I think you will laugh. I usually swim laps every weekend and a wear a pathetic one piece with a little skirt around it.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Everything, ok. Now shut up so I can tell you my story. I got tired my of 50’s style fat lady suit, so I bought this cheap flimsy bikini in Large. How was I to know that my 5 foot tall size 36B tits would pop out of them?”

“Enough”

“Shhhhh, I got to the other side of the pool and I ask that old man with a ring on his fat harry finger to fix my suit. I thought it was a failsafe. I could’ve asked any of those Army guys to help me, but noooo. I looked for the most asexual creature in the pool and asked. I really didn’t come on to him, and I am sorry about his dick. It’s not my fault.”

“Language lady”

“Yeah, yeah, so you see it was not my intention. I don’t do things like that you know. I go to church. I am married too.”

“You’re off the hook this time, but next time ask a lifeguard. That’s what we are here for.”

“Got it.”

Mar 23 2015

What is love?

Love has many meanings. It can the pride a mother has for a child. It the strong physical and emotional bond between baby and mother. It is the beauty in a flower, sunset, mountain tops or dress. Love can also be the euphoria of tingle when a puppy nestles up under your neck.

Love is the desire to want to know more about someone. To stay up and talk all night. To read the books they love, listen to the music they enjoy. Watch the movies they like. It is looking forward to celebrating their birthday with them. It can be wanting that person to succeed so much that you are willing to sacrifice all for them.

Love can be the tenderness of the familiar. The sight of home. The comfort in your favorite chair after a long day. It can be the excitement after receiving a long desired gift.

Love can be touch. It is the bond of a child nursing on a mother. Love can be a hug from a teacher, pastor, friend, father, mother, sibling, or spouse. Love is the tenderness of ones lips touching your own. Love is physical. It is soft. Love is gentle never aggressive.

Love is respect, care, kindness, sadness, curiosity, happiness, tears of loneliness, tears of happiness, touch and desire to want to know all about the one you love.

When you no longer care to understand the other person. You no longer want to touch, kiss, or hug love is missing. Love that hurts is love that is gone. Love can only be taken away by betrayal.

There are many types of betrayal. The most popular sexual cheating, emotional cheating, drugs, alcohol abuse, lying, physical abuse, gambling, shopaholics, sabotage, and deceit. Betrayal can come from your lover, mother, father, uncle, aunt, grandmother, grandfather, teacher, doctor, friend, pastor, enemy, or more.

What if your lover is smart, has a great job, goes to church, comes home every night, and takes care of you, but constantly betrays you? Maybe your love for that person is so strong that you stay with that person no matter how often they betray you, even if they do it every single day.

Betrayal is the only thing that can poison your love for another. When one betrays you so much that your own self-worth is destroyed it is time to find a new love, a love for yourself.

Love for yourself is the greatest love of all. Be kind and gentle to yourself. Learn about yourself. Care for yourself. Celebrate yourself. Most of all, no matter how many people betray you, never betray yourself. You are one of a kind. Your love should be one of kind too.