New Poetry

I live my life in happy mediums
My paint and pen transcend any reasoning your science has founded
I, The Artist, have a depth so deep it can't be reached through light years of space travel
And while you're solving probabilities
For the sake of some possibilities
I'm turning the typical 9 to 5 into 4 words:
I need to write.
Need to breathe life into words that would otherwise go unspoken
Need to recite the rhymes that might save the lives that only needed a few kind words to turn those frowns upside down
Turn those square perspectives round
You exist within those boxes
But me, The Artist?
I get out
And when I'm lost in the world
I can't be found
Not in your textbooks or your histories
Or your paradoxes or mysteries
I am as obvious as the light of day
Yet you still don't get me
Come plant your feet in the sands of my soul
Feel my spirit take over you like tidal waves
Let me tell you a story
Of Kush and Mansa and Eve
Michelangelo, Zeus
Let me be louder than deafening silence
Darker than nights without stars
Let me live in your subconscious
And surface only when you're asleep
The only way you can reach me
Baby girl, is in your dreams
My ink is rich as eel oil
My canvas is as wide as the world
You can't rinse me or outrun me
It might not make sense
Because you're thinking too hard
Always becoming, creating, reinventing, getting fine like wine and remaining classic like a picture of your grandma in black and white
All these things simultaneously
that's me
The one with the wisdom beyond her years
The one with charcoil on her cheeks, in place of tears
I am the one who built pyramids from the sweat off my back
I am dance and song and shout and thunder and clap
I am language and love and abstract and subjective
I am opinion and trivial and petty and free
I am as endless, unpredictable and timeless as the sea
Bohemian goddess of light and wonder
Let me be your horizon
Bright
I am the Artist
Starving, thirsting
And I need to write

Day 5: Write a Letter to Your Dreams

Dear Dreams,

For the last 21 years you've been my alternate reality. You've been my truth, my perception, the dictating force behind my crazy, inexplicable actions.

Sometimes I believe our relationship is three-dimensional. Always so vividly and precisely do I see you. Always lurid, I sense you. I feel you in my heart but need to see you conceptualize outside that realm. I need to see the aspirations and premonitions develop beyond what I envision. I need the ability to map out the road to my success.

Looking back, I can barely remember what I dreamed of freshman year. I feel as if I've fallen short of the sights on which I first set my eyes.

Becoming a mother and fiancée in a matter of months shifted my energy towards different things. Postpartum depression clouded my judgment and I lost touch with you all and reality for a second. Realizing the gift that motherhood is has helped new dreams manifest.

Sometimes I feel like my fiancé doesn't understand this, this wishing-washing-jagged in my brain. He doesn't get that my reality has always existed in my head. With his help, however, I've learned to write and let the world hear what I have to say. I've found a voice. I will use it to teach others to find the voices inside themselves.

In many ways, I am like you dreams. Patient, wishful, full of hope and never-ending.

I am waiting to see what happens with us. We've always made beautiful things.

-Court

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Day 4: Write a Letter to Your Sibling

Dear Cercilyn,

What I imagined would never happen did just a few months ago, when I saw our father again for the first time in years and-to even greater surprise-I got in contact with you and Trell. Guess dreams really do come true.

For years I wondered if we would ever speak again, if I would ever see your face before I had passed on to the other side of life. You were only a year old when our dad and your mom divorced. I was nine and I had no control over what happened to our relationship. Heck, I didn't know they were divorced until I was 12. It was a really rough time-those few years they were married-and I was sheltered from the repercussions as much as possible.

Since you can't remember any of it, I won't bother explaining to you the things I witnessed on the outskirts of your parents' tumultuous marriage. You're still young and although very gifted, you'll have a hard time understanding why things fell apart and why circumstances are as they are. I want you to remain innocent, unfazed by all that has happened. I can tell from our sporadic conversations that your childlike wonder has already been spoiled, but I feel it's my obligation as your sister to protect you.

Instead of sifting through certain details, I'll give you the one gift I'm sure no one else can give-a piece of our father. His absence can't be filled with my words but there's a certain peace in knowing. Well, to start, you are a spitting image of our father. Granted you're light-skinned (lol) but you've got his looks from head to toe. Your posture and physical presence (from what photos I've seen) are identical to his. You are smart, you possess this intelligent trait that most of us Glenn folks have. You are gifted with speech and can draw your little butt off. That's Dad all the way. You play basketball, and from what my mom has told me you get that from Daddy, too.

I know life hasn't been easy without him. I know that firsthand. I also know you'll grow up to be a wonderful woman, because you are an awesome girl. Don't let life tell you how to be; make the world bend to fit who you are. Know who you are, and let that definition-your thoughts, goals, talents-determine what successes you'll have. The statistics say that Black girls who are reared without their fathers turn to the wrong men to complete them. You are already complete, you have everything you need (two sets of chromosomes) to be complete. Don't let his addiction define you.

I know it feels as if we're strangers, and in so many ways we are. Regardless of what DNA tests and nonbelievers say, we are family. I miss you and I love you too.

Sincerely,

Your big sis

Day 3: Write a Letter to Your Parents

"Ain't no way I can pay ya back, but my plan is to show you that I understand. You are appreciated." -Tupac

Dear Ma,

There are a million things I can write about you, but to you - not many. We talk almost every day, and when we aren't on the phone we're texting. I love that we've kept an open connection despite my move away to college. Even when I moved further away, we kept our lines open because we knew that if we didn't, it would be our demise.

From day one it's been just us two; Daddy was never there and even Anthony is like a roommate. I loved the fact that you never had anymore children, and grateful when I notice that you never spoke one bad word about my father. We've grown up -and out- together. I couldn't have asked for a better mother. Everything I've been through, you were right there by my side.

At times I've worried about you, about your anxiety and inability to deal with stress effectively. You hold it all in. You aren't emotional in the way that I am. You wear your strength differently, and it's befitting of you. Beautiful. I never thought anyone was prettier than you, btw. Because I know that you are capable of handling whatever life throws your way, I know you'll attain true happiness. You are wisdom and strength, from head to toe. (Get the help you need. Don't feel like you owe anyone anything.)

My biggest concern is not paying you the respect that you deserve. I was oftentimes a disrespectful and talkative child, saying what came to mind first and considering your reaction second. Now that I am able to provide more for myself, I want to give you the world. I know that no matter what I do, you are proud and supportive of me. I want to show you that no matter what you decide to pursue, I'm behind you all the way, 100%.

Thank you for being my comfort person. Thank you for giving me attention and unconditional love, whether or not you felt you got enough from your mother. Thank you for loving Isaiah and Tosin as if they are your own. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving yourself.

With all my heart and then some,

Tweety Bird

It doesn't have a name. I call it 01/10/2011.

Mind you, it's unfinished. Someone remind me to work on it.

Praying to the alter of 20,000 gods
Each body a sacred temple that you've entered through and through
Letting the spirits speak to you and run their ideologies, through and through
As you trekked the labyrinth of their satin, pink soft walls
Do you count the lives you've taken?
Are you akin to human nature?
Were you a Christian crusader, pillaging and stripping the Muslim women of their virtues?
As-salam alaikum
No alaikum as-salum
For strangers
Tell me, can you taste the tears that they have cried for you?
[Can you] speak the words they held so closely to the hearts you broke so mercilessly?
Fear that you would scar them
Knowing you'd escape from them unscathed
I have walked the city streets of Sodom and Gomorrah with you
I have fed on the flesh you massacred
With syrup tongue and teddy bear eyes
I tell you, my friend,
There is no country for old men
Who spent their young boy days
Running through daughters the way a river
Runs over boulders in its stream
There is no room for the cycle of hate and misogyny that men perpetuate to their sons
No room for women in a world that believes corrective rape and genital mutilation will keep their gardens fertile and weed-free
There is no dignity for those men
Now tell me, dear friend
Can you count the number of curtains you've pulled over their gazing faces?
Do you remember the dip of each set of lips you've softly kissed?

Day 2: Write a Letter to Your Crush

This is an engaging task. When I like, I like hard, I get hurt and it seems like forever before I let go. I'm an Empath, a romantic, one with such a nostalgic flair but -what can I say?- I'm a passionate person.

If it were supposed to feel good, they wouldn't call it a crush. - Author Unknown

Dear Friend,

For much of our relationship, you've seemed most like a foe, this evil thing inside of me or perched on my left shoulder waiting for me to make a wrong turn. I hurt for you, an unyielding, smoldering hurt for you like a child who knows all the answers but was instructed by the teacher to sit still and say nothing. Maybe it's frustration, but it's useless in the end because it won't lead to instant gratification. I think that's what you meant.

Don't ask me to remember how it started, or where. What matters is that we were in college. My feelings for you came as quickly as a 16-year-old boy who had sex for the first time. Like me, they were innocent, naive. You were handsome and charming and intriguing. Even when I met the real you, you were handsome and charming and intriguing.

As the semesters rolled on you became beautiful and lucent and almost blinding to me. We spent a semester avoiding what I knew would happen anyway. You wanted to get in my panties, you wanted to feel the very thing that made me female and somehow claim it as your own. I will never understand conquests. Try as you might to convince me otherwise, I know that's what it was. But it's okay to admit that because I wanted to be conquered. Here I stood, all of 5'1" and here you were, 6'3" and stunningly slim. I wanted to be your Jane, your America, your prize.

I won't get too personal. This is not the time, nor the space, where I wish to air out my feelings. Like you said, we both have too much at stake to pursue the wavering promise of loving each other. Rather than say goodbye, we have always let the connection ebb and flow like a tide. It's best that way, although dissatisfying.

I also won't let this letter form the way all my writing does, with some altruistic stance and sentimental tug at the heartstrings. I think I felt for you stronger than you felt for me, but you also said that my perception of reality is skewed.

Thank you for physically being with me when you were. Thank you for being honest, being available, being yourself when you were.

Always,

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Day 1: Write a Letter to Your Best Friend

Dear Jasmine,

I'm a day late and a dollar short with this first letter, which is how our relationship has been for the last year-each having her own thing to do, never calling or coming to see each other until the climax has come and gone. I miss you.

When we were little children we would hug each other and hope and wish that somehow God would make us sisters. It wasn't good enough that were cousins; we needed more than flesh and blood to define us. We needed spirits and holy waters and whatever else that would make us closer. But despite the different sets of parents, genetic traits and birth years, I knew that God had put us together in this perfect little way that neither time nor last names could change.

I was wrong.

By the time we'd made it to high school everything had changed. You spent a lot of your summers in summer school; I stayed at the local library by choice. You were able to hold a steady boyfriend; I didn't keep one long enough for it to be interesting. I started having sex; you were still an innocent, "good" girl. But you have always been fearless, never afraid to be yourself, to love yourself, to be loved.

I tried to tell you when were 12 that Harry* was molesting me, but you were so wrapped up in the TV you didn't hear it. I made a plan then to leave whatever was happening in my mother's house behind and run for college with the fiercest wind beneath my wings. When I turned 18, I got the hell out that house. You were still in high school, had night classes and extra credits to complete because school was never easy for you.

I know that I broke our promises. I'm sorry that I moved to Atlanta and "forgot" about you. I didn't mean to turn my back on you, Jasmine. We had always dreamed of getting our apartment and having fabulous lives and finding love. We were going to get married to twins, live next door and have our children together. I know I broke our promises.

Isaiah was born January 30, 2010. You were the first person I'd told I was pregnant, first person who I told I wasn't ready to be a mother. You saw me 3 times during my pregnancy, and that was hard to bear.

Remember when were children? We did everything together. We dressed alike accidentally, liked the same songs, got our periods 2 months apart, and wore the same hairstyles. We spent the night together almost every night, shared the money I made from chores, helped each other sneak on the phone to talk to boyfriends... Is there anything we didn't do?

Looking back on the last 20 years, I realized that we really were sisters. I came to term with the fact that our paths were inevitably different because our parents' lives were. Time did to us what it always will to people, it changed our attitudes and our emotions. We have so much beneath the surface, too much to tell and share with the world but enough to have and hold in our hearts, forever.

I want to leave you with this. If ever life becomes too painful or too hard to bear, know that when you call or come running I'll be here waiting, with open arms. I didn't move to leave you Jasmine, I moved to lead you. To show you that there's more to our existence than the Flint River and Winn Dixie, more than broken wishes and false hopes for our generation. You are capable of the best. You deserve everything you've ever dreamed of; you're a kind and understanding person through and through.

I wove you widdle Jasmine.

Sincerely,

Court.

Anti-climactic, and unfinished.

I want to be your shoulder
More than just a sack of ribs and bones
And not your spine, to hold you up
or your elbow, to fall back on
But I want to be your shoulder
Your support

Kin to the softness of the dip in your neck
But hard enough to bear the weight of
the world when it saddles itself
on your back
I want to remove the daggers naysayers
chuck at your front and sides

Taking the 30-day Challenge

I ran across Bassey's blog again today, unintentionally. Thought this would be a great thing to do. Decided that I'd participate. (And for the record, I still don't think I'm emotionally/mentally well.) It seems like a daunting task, but if I can play with others' emotions and wellbeing, I can do this. if I can play with my own mental and physical health, I can do this. I need to do this. I need writing exercises that will build skill and I need to talk about my feelings because there's a lot I'm hiding inside.

The 30 Day Letter Challenge

WRITE A LETTER TO THESE PEOPLE :

Day 1 — Your Best Friend
Day 2 — Your Crush
Day 3 — Your parents
Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)
Day 5 — Your dreams
Day 6 — A stranger
Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush
Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend
Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet
Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain
Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you
Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
Day 15 — The person you miss the most
Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country
Day 17 — Someone from your childhood
Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be
Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad
Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest
Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression
Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to
Day 23 — The last person you kissed
Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory
Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times
Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to
Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day
Day 28 — Someone that changed your life
Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to
Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

Write: For Women Who Are Like Me

I would like to show gratitude to Kimberly N. Foster, founder of the digital magazine For Harriet, for her inspiration and support of my recently published article Who Will Cry for the Little Girl? The encouraging words from fellow bloggers GG (of PLPT) and Bethy Pierre that appeared as comments on my WordPress site were light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Although I am sure the path of freelance journalism is for me, I am sometimes discouraged in my pursuit of professional happiness. Seeing other women pursue their passions motivates me to follow my dreams fearlessly. Thank you all dearly.

Why For Colored Girls Wasn't For Me

Twitter Ramble: 12/23 - 12/26

Finally watched For Colored Girls. Wanted to post but haven't used my time to sit down and work the words into comprehensible order. I used Twitter as a digital notepad (what a treasure indeed!). Needed to remember these things.

This movie is literally making me cringe. It's like a horror movie. The cryptic beauty of opera juxtaposed with the ruthlessness of rape.

I feel as if this piece is going to put me in a negative space. It must be written.

My attempt at writing about personal struggles with intimacy has become a character analysis of Thandie Newton's role in #FCG. Go figure.

IMO, Thandie's character (like others) is underdeveloped. All we are presented with is a foul-mouthed, flirtatious whore. No depth.

I hope to gain insight into the causes of my own debauchery while critiquing this movie.

I should be thinking this hard about a Tyler Perry film. I should. Black snobs aren't going to see cinemas; they're on Broadway, at operas.

Who Will Cry for the Little Girl?

For as long as I can remember I’ve been suicidal, paranoid and unnervingly anxious. There are moments in my life where I can barely tell left from right. I have always been an emotional wreck, probably bipolar or manic depressive. The online tests I took suggested I have borderline personality disorder, and I’ve tried to accept the fact that maybe much of this is true. Most of my behaviors are sub-clinical at best; the less desirable byproducts of a dysfunctional social construct. I am ineffectively coping with the traumas that happened to me as a child, but I wasn’t able to attribute my present pathology to things in my past. If it weren’t for my therapist, I wouldn’t see light at the end of the tunnel.

I first visited the counseling and testing center on my university’s campus desperately seeking help for what I thought was mild depression. It was my plea. I had stopped attending my morning classes two weeks previous and was barely able to get my son to daycare before noon each day. I did not respond emotionally to my fiancé, nor did I smile as much when our child played. I lacked personal motivation. I stayed in bed as much as possible and shied away from social situations. Sometimes I’d lie there, buried beneath the comforter and sheets and think, “I just want the pain to go away. I want to sleep, and if I never wake up again? Well hey, that’s okay.”

I sat in the counselor’s office cuffing a Kleenex, barely able to hold back the tears. I was helpless and hated feeling like I was out my mind. The walls were staring at me, and the anticipation building in my stomach made me sick. What’s surprising to me even now, two months after the ordeal, is how fluid and honest I was with a woman I believed could not know anything about me. It understood it was important for me to be as responsive as I was. (It’s important for every one of us to be honest when dealing with our mental illnesses.)

The therapist and I decided that it would be best if I continued receiving services, and assured me that I would find help if I agreed to come. I opted for individual counseling despite the three-week wait for it to begin. Group therapy was readily available but also intimidating, and for some reason I felt ashamed. I wanted to be selfish then, to keep all 15 free hours to myself because I needed to cling to something. It had been years since I recognized what sanity is, and I longed to keep these sessions to myself because they symbolized security. The most significant part of that first consultation was one simple discovery: that I suffer from clinical depression and severe anxiety. It wasn’t a grim diagnosis; it was a bittersweet beginning.

Before therapy, I did not know that depression was a mental illness. I’ve since learned that it is called the common cold of mental illness because it is so widespread. It’s often an indicator of other mental illnesses and, this too, may be my case, because like thousands of other women who seek out therapy each year, depression is a secondary mental health issue for me. Eleven years later, the truth is as hard a pill to swallow as the reality of experiencing it: I am an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse. Although I’m well aware that what happened to me is both real and wrong, it struck me as being unremarkable at best. The statistics, however, take my skewed perception with a striking blow.

The American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry accounts that nearly 80,000 incidents of sexual abuse are reported each year. Substantial evidence says that nearly 20% of American women and 5% – 10% of American men experienced some type of sexual abuse as children. HeretoHelp (a project of the BC Partners for Mental Health and Addictions Information) records that 95% of adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse have a mental illness, and that chronic depression is a common response to the abuse.

Knowing the roots of my downheartedness is comforting, but I realize there can be no method to my madness. The defenses I developed are well oiled mechanisms that allow me to perform most day-to-day functions, but they are crippling just the same. The reality of the matter is that I can neither manipulate depression nor make it disappear any more than I made it surface. Those like Tyler Perry may argue that by faith alone one can muster up the magic it takes to be healed of this affliction, but as a person with a strong belief in God I simply can’t agree with them.

Four months into my pregnancy I found myself clenching a kitchen knife, sitting on the countertop wanting to slit my wrists for the feel of it. I imagined drowning myself in the shower or jumping from the highest ledge I could find, just so I could feel the fear of flying before falling to my death. I needed to feel affection when my father returned to prison again. Needed to feel the spirit when my cousin was shot by local police during an attempted armed robbery. I needed to feel a million things because depression had crept from every corner of my bedroom and strangled the color of life from my deadweight body. Essentially I needed to feel the gift of motherhood when instead I felt burdened by the taut belly that grew regardless of my uneasiness.

I am not angry with God, or even at my abuser. By nature I am self-sacrificial, always offering up my happiness so that someone else’s may prevail. I was afraid to speak about my abuse for several reasons, some which seem unreasonable now. I was afraid to begin the healing process because I knew that in order to heal, one must be hurt first. I did not identify with “injured” or “bruised”, I thought of myself as broken goods. Because I knew that I could not be “cured” of the abuse, I wrote off healing as a lost cause and allowed myself to wander away into a world that doesn’t cater to women. Using what I know now, I will never let myself go through that kind of lonely existence again.

Even though I’m apprehensive about consulting a psychiatrist for medication, I’m still working with my therapist. Depression can be treated, and it is not impossible to get better. There are people willing (and wanting) to help you heal. As far as the abuse is concerned, I’m learning to reconstruct my way of thinking and coping. I’ve spent most of my life dissociated and numb, searching for the inner child who never had a chance to grow emotionally and love. I pray for the day that I can break down crying. Tears, too, allow you to heal.

Twitter Ramble: To Keep or Not to Keep?

I had a eureka! moment on Twitter today. Couldn't find time to write and let the words cohere so I'm posting them here for safekeeping until I return. These tweets were really stream of consciousness that I allowed to peak through. Thanks to Kimberly N. Foster for the seed that sprouted my thoughts.

Yes! Yes! I must write on this. RT @kimberlynfoster: Healing is hard.

For me, healing is hard bc of the words attached to the process. In order to heal one must be hurt first. I didn't think "bruised."

I thought "broken." I became obsessed with being "pure" or "whole" and once I'd convinced myself neither was attainable, I settled for hurt.

I settled for all the bad things because somehow, in my mind, the two negatives would cancel out and be positive. An emotional cutter.

My body, the chopping block. I see now that my body is a vessel. Back then it was an instrument, serving to further soil my name.

Yes, healing is hard, but it is not impossible. A lot of things are. Healing is not impossible.

Making emotional investments without promise of return is avoidable indeed, but the behavior is learned. One must be open-minded.

I've had self-sacrifice down pat for years. Self-service has been learned for me. That's what I aim to teach. Liberate the minds. Change.

I'm almost in tears but I must not stop the momentum. Teach young girls to love themselves, protect themselves, learn for themselves.

Teach them beauty is not skin deep, but in the eye of the beholder. Teach them to use their voices, opposed to their wombs, as weapons. Yes.

Tell a girl beauty is skin deep, she will see only what's in the mirror. Tell her beauty is in the eye of the beholder. She will own it.

*sigh* Felt really good to get that out.

Bad Stab at Poetry

Just some leftover words.

Try as I might to quiet the butterflies in my heart
They still speak to me, sussurously
Wanting to forgive you and move past you in the same breath
Wanting to rid my body of your beguilement
But I'll be the first to attest to the fact
That a broken state of mind is much harder to fix
Than a broken heart
A broken heart can be mended with a
little tender love and care
But a reckless train of thought is too dangerous
To set free on open land

Dear Diary (Why Do I Struggle With Intimacy? Pt. 2)

I've titled this post "Dear Diary" because it's

First off, I will define intimacy in the way it is used in the post as:
a close association with or detailed knowledge or deep understanding of a place, subject, period of history, etc. (Definition provided by Dictionary.com

This ___ from _____ of PLPT provided indispensable insight into my growth as a writer.

Self-Talk: Why do I Struggle with Intimacy?

Maybe I was held too much as a child. Maybe I wasn't held nearly enough. Whatever the reasons for my somewhat withdrawn, at times attention deficit and hogging, tactless behavior, I have reached a point in my life where these coping/defense mechanisms no longer warrant the results I desire.

Two months into therapy I find I am not healing or heading in the direction I would like. Yes, I am making strides toward being the mother and wife I believe I should be. Yes, I am able to understand what taking responsibility of my actions means now. Even still, there are things resting beneath the surface that seem to hold me back from the happiness I've so desperately sought and - darn it - deserve. 

While reading through Kim McLarin's Jump at the Sun I stumbled across something that struck a chord. It was a simple sentence, taking little to comprehend, but it resonated within me. Like Grace Jefferson, the book's lead, "I realized... I slept much better alone in bed. I slept better untouched."

And I did.

But lately I've started to worry that this kind of behavior will be devastating to my children, and already is to my fiancé. When he and I began dating I'd often invite him over to spend the night. Part of me afraid, and the other part alone, I longed for the warmth my college cohorts flaunted while wearing their boyfriends' sweatshirts and Tees.

I did not have a steady college beau, nor a high school sweetheart for what it's worth. I did not play the bases in a slow, calculated way and it backfired in a series of unhealthy involvements. At times I felt lonely. Other times I was completely okay with spending a significant amount of time with myself.

The bulk of these indifferences were intimate involvements that sometimes became emotional malice. My on-and-off again relationship with one guy finally ended in a violent mess that left me hyperventilating and frantically crying. Dramatic, but impersonal just the same. There were suitors who I shied away from for countless reasons. If I longed for comfort strongly enough, I might have let them into my sacred place.

In the case of my fiancé, I tried to forge a love unlike those I had known. Much of the connection we had formed during late fall and early winter. We spent hours on end blanketed in my queen-size bed, snuggled beneath covers and up to our ears in affection. He held me close at night, and even closer when my flashbacks came, sending me into a childlike, regressive hysteria. The nightmares from my sexually abusive childhood brought us together in ways I never would have imagined.

It didn't last long, though.

I ran to the arms of that same ex when my doubts about the existing relationship

Fast forward to the present, where I sit on the sofa with netbook in hand and toddling child nearby.

Advice to Writers: Keep a Diary

Some words of writerly wisdom from Jon Winokur's site: Advice to Writers

Keep a diary, but don't just list all the things you did during the day. Pick one incident and write it up as a brief vignette. Give it color, include quotes and dialogue, shape it like a story with a beginning, middle and end—as if it were a short story or an episode in a novel. It's great practice. Do this while figuring out what you want to write a book about. The book may even emerge from within this running diary.

-John Berendt

60 Days Till His Birthday

When I was pregnant I decided I would write Isaiah a letter so that he could take a piece of my present to his future. If ever times were rough he'd have a piece of me to hold and comfort him.
I never found a way to write down what I was going through.
I struggled with depression during the latter part of my pregnancy, and it would be a while before I realized the depression would last longer than a few months and would carry over into the first year of his life. Nonetheless, I tried to assemble my thoughts into some comprehensive memoir about our journey while he was in utero. I tried to write a letter.
I didn't want to fabricate some fantasy about answering my call for motherhood and birthing this miraculous being. It wasn't all "To Zion" the way I had fantasized while listening to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. It wasn't all "Thanks for my Child" like Cheryl Riley made it seem.
I was reluctant towards maternity and I didn't understand how or why God would give me this fragile, porcelain thing for me to mold and make incompetent.

I was wrong.

It dawned on me this weekend that, however hard the journey may be, it's the destination that counts.