04.04.16 – End of Day Notes

What I did today: Not very much. I slept in until 5 am. Woke up feeling great. So I did the following:

Unfortunately, I did not read any blogs today for the A2Z Challenge. I am still trying to get my Feedly set up and by late afternoon, thanks to Mother Nature being so fickle, I began feeling horrid. Allergies, I hope. So instead of reading, I went to bed around 4 pm and didn’t wake back up until 10:30 pm feeling stuffy and miserable. But I’ve already visited around 40 blogs so far for the challenge, so taking one day off isn’t the worst thing in the world, is it?

What I learned today: my father likes to keep a fire burning if the temps are below 40 at night. It got up to 96 inside the house today. Now my room stayed a bit cooler than that, but it was still in the 70s. I should have left the front door open to let cool air in, but the wind was whipping about. So what did I learn? Too much warmth makes my feet burn *sighs*

What I am most proud of today:  Honestly, I don’t know. My feedly is still not completely set up and I feel like crap. Not much to be proud of today.

What did you do today, dear readers? Learn any lessons? Have a reason to be proud? Share your thoughts with me in the comments!

10 Daily Currents – 04.04.16

It is Monday at 12:18 pm and I am currently…

1. listening: birds singing outside, the neighbor next door doing yard work, the wind beating the screen door against the porch railing

2. eating: not really hungry.. snacked on some french onion dip, pork rinds and an avocado

3. drinking: Pepsi Max

4. wearing: purple pants, black t-shirt with a slasher bunny on it, purple socks

5. feeling: satisfied

6. weather: warm, about 65 degrees… sunny & windy

7. wanting: to finish setting up my feedly list

8. needing: to clear out my email

9. thinking: dammit my ear itches again.. why does it always itch so much?!

10. enjoying: a quiet house.. dad’s gone fishing, brother is still sleeping

I had a thought, dear readers… if you’d like to grab these 10 Daily Currents and write your own, link back to my post so I can share along with you!

Share Your World – 2016 Week 14


for Cee’s Share Your World

If you could hire someone to help you, would it be with cleaning, cooking, or yard work? it would definitely be with cleaning. I *can* and *do* do it myself, but I just hate it.

What makes you laugh the most? truthfully, very little. British humour will do it the fastest though.

What was your favorite food when you were a child? two things – carrots and peanut butter. I could never get enough of either.

List at least five favorite flowers or plants.

  • magnolia blossoms
  • snake plant
  • black roses
  • twisted money tree
  • Bromeliad Scarlet Star

Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week? That I finally got a bit of sleep

and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?  more A2Z, writing my own and visiting others!

Makeovers #NaJoWriMo

(NOTE: This post may cause triggers for anyone dealing with depression and having suicidal ideation. Please proceed with caution.)

For today’s prompt, write about what the biggest or smallest makeover you’ve done in your life so far? What did it involve? What challenges did you face in achieving that makeover? Who helped you along the way? 

The biggest “makeover” in my life thus far has been having the desire to live. I’ve written here on this blog about my bouts of depression many times. Of how it sucked the will to live out of me and left me suicidal. For the better part of eight years, I wanted only to die. I felt like my life had no worth, that *I* was worthless and that I was a burden to everyone around me, especially to my husband who never tired of telling me so.

I have not talked much about the psychosis that I experienced during these tumultuous times. I hear voices all of the time. I have since I was a child. But the voices that I normally hear are from Catharine and Evelyn (my muses) and Stefano (my animus). However, when I was deeply depressed, I heard two other voices. Dark and deadly ones. One called himself Slash and the other I knew as merely The Demon. When I heard Slash’s voice, I resolved myself to cutting and burning my arm with a cigarette lighter. They were the only means I had of experiencing any sensation as I was completely numb. However, the pain only lasted a few moments and I would once again grow numb. When I heard The Demon’s voice, he would tell me that I was better off dead. It was because of those words that I attempted suicide 7 times. My pdoc put me on Risperidone, an anti-psychotic, but it merely masked the voices of my muses and animus and did very little to deaden the voices of Slash and The Demon.

In late 2012, I was diagnosed with Uterine Cancer. Suddenly, I had an out, if I really wanted it. I could have allowed myself to wither away from cancer. Instead, I had an overwhelming desire to live. Luckily for me, during this time, my pdoc found an excellent cocktail of drugs for me and I also began seeing a new therapist. She taught me Mindfulness. The drugs kept Slash and The Demon away and the Mindfulness kept me grounded in the present. I was able to focus entirely on my health and beating cancer.

I still occasionally feel the darkness seeping in. I guess I always will. But I no longer hear Slash or The Demon. I also have the desire to be alive and the tools to remain so.

How about you, dear readers? What was the greatest “makeover” in your life? Share your thoughts with me in comments.

(Note: if you would like to participate in this month-long journal writing activity, sign up for emailed prompts here)

#atozchallenge – Confessional Poets Inspire Me


confessional-poets-sourceLike most young people, Literature in High School usually consisted of the Classics and Romantics. It wasn’t until I was around 15 that I read the first poem that really spoke to me on a personal level. The poet was Sylvia Plath. After devouring as much of her poetry as I could find, I soon discovered that she was one of many poets from a movement called Confessional Poetry. Before long, I was reading Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton, John Berryman, Allen Ginsberg, and W.D. Snodgrass. I was amazed that before these poets came along in the 1950s that no one wrote personal, confessional poetry. How had poetry been around so long and not succumb to this sooner? Their contribution to my poetic education has fueled my own poetry. The majority of which is very personal and often quite confessional.

Here is the poem that sparked it all:



You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

My favorite Anne Sexton poem:

In Celebration of My Uterus


Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They want to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the soul of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
“It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.”
Many women are singing together of this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the ass of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some can not
sing a note.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distances of meteors,
let me suck on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part).
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct

And here is a poem I wrote as a result of reading Confessional poets for so long, especially Anne Sexton:

Pondering My Womb


On that cold, cold slab
they ripped you out
like a dead cold fish
left the nothingness
a black hole
where seeds of life
failed to sprout

Twice I plucked
the seeds from you
the sucking, the sucking
and although
shame followed me home
I wanted
what I wanted
and that did not include
birthing babies

I gave up
for poetry slams
coffee shops
and college
I wanted
the writer’s dream:
3 a.m. muse attacks
midday luncheons with poets
library overloads
and group readings over pot luck

And so I wonder
after getting what
I wanted
why this final separation
of you from me
leaves such an emptiness
and the hushed whimper
of a child

Published in Diverse Voices Quarterly Volume 6, Issue 22

Interesting fact: Out of the six major Confessional Poets, three of them committed suicide: Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton and John Berryman.


Thank you for joining me for the A-to-Z Challenge. If you’d like to see who else is participating, check them out here.
Each day, I will be posting about People Who Inspire Me.