Response to: Why I stopped writing

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.”

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

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

 

Time to be me again

20160507_095654They 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.

 

Best Friend For Christmas

I am super excited to announce the release of, Best Friend For Christmas. It is the first book to the series of tales of Promise and Snow-po.

Best-Friend-for-Christmas-CoverTo purchase or preview a copy at Amazon click here.

 

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.

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!”

 

 

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.”

 

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.

The dog that bit the shit out of me

It took time to get to where we were.

Molly, our 17 year old senior dog, was depressed. She laid in bed all day, she would wet in bed. She refused to eat and would bite us if we wanted to give her attention. Life was bad for Molly. The breaking point for Molly was one night I step in the kitchen where she stood with pee all around her. I bent over to tell her no with my finger pointing and shaking it at her muzzle.

Molly could take no more. Whatever reason it was, Molly saw that finger as an opportunity. She watched it like it was prime rib flapping before her chops. That was the moment in a instance that senior dog jumped up and latched on to my finger like a tick on fat warm skin. I yelp, “Help!” I wiggled. I shook my arm up and down and that dog went up and down with my finger holding on for dear life. “Fuck’n shit! Help me!” I cried. The first one down the stairs was my Spanish speaking mother-in-law in her see through pajamas without a bra.

“Javi! Fucking help me!” My mother-in-law stood there with her hands over her mouth. I was still standing in dog piss as my dog hung from my finger. My husband finally came running down stairs to see me crying. My face red. The dog and I both wet from the piss splashing every time I lowered my arm to shake her off.

Javi ran to Molly and picked up her body to where it was level with my finger and she released the grip she had. My finger was torn just a little. The problem was part of her tooth broke off into the skin.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“What the fuck did you do to that dog?”

“Molly? Now you care more about Molly than me?”

“You had to do something.”

“Yeah, I did. I told her no. She peed on the floor and I’m tired of it. I said bad dog and shook my finger at her.”

“Well, don’t. Let her do what she wants. She’s a dog. She’s old. Leave her alone.”

“No. I’m sick and tired of everyone in this house doing what they want. For once I want her to pee outside.”

The blood from my finger was all over my arm. Tears down my face. “You don’t give a shit about me. Look at this blood. There is something in my fucking finger and you’re yelling at me.”

To be continued……