Joy Comes in the Mourning

I really cannot believe what has happened. I knew she had been hurt- harmed in a different way, but still damaged. She remembers my first time being sexually abused, this time by my father, when I was age one. My abuse was physically and spiritually painful as hell. The devils of our family sneaked into her brain, her mind and destroyed her heart. Her beautiful heart turned black, then disappeared into ashes- fumes gone with the wind. Still, she is destroying my peace just as she destroyed my faith in God as she rubbed on me her fat, flushed body when I tried to escape my father’s penetrations every night- and morning.

Morning has taken on a new meaning for me. God promises in the Bible that joy comes in the morning. As for me, joy comes in the Mourning. Mourning all that I inherited as piece by piece it disappeared. My belongings vanishing in the wind, and no one witnessed all of the family photos or my antique grand standing piano magically fly out of almost a dozen storage units. Gone was my wheel of the mill on Granny’s line of the Martin-Hamilton farm-the mill that General John Hunt Morgan held captive during The War Between The States. History vanishes; my memory doesn’t. A flood that never occurred took more of my possessions. Her stealing our dear Mother’s bank card while she was lay dying in a hospital bed and taking thousands out a day and gone was my inheritance. Oh, but, she proclaimed, “I am doing this for you, sweet sister.” I think that she meant doing it to me- again.

Mom was not a DNR. Mom decided that and made us three agree. The doctors hounded us to break our promise. My brother stood firm. On my seven hour break from sitting with Mom, I returned to discover my sister had upped the ante, changed the cards of fate, signed a paper declaring my angelic Mother a Do Not Resuscitate- proving Mom’s life, sacrifices, battles won and lost as nothing, nothing, nothing. In a rage, I flew to the nurses’ station, demanded the death sentence documents and destroyed them with sound and fury.

I have only a picture of my Mother left. All the rest dust in the wind. My writings will be my legacy. I will be pulled into the pit no more. As I stand at the pinnacle of the chasm, I will lift my chin up- as Mom would encourage me where she here. I wait on my God for deliverance. I fall only into the arms of my Lord now. I rest in His comfort and rise through the Spirit. For some, everyday is a clean start, new beginning, blank slate. My heart reopens, breaks free, and begins to shine again. For now, my joy will come in the mourning. So be it.

Witching Hour Confessions

The things that we think of when the lavender and lemongrass essential oils are wafting through the room, and I am half asleep and struggling to see. The smell permeates my brain and acts as a truth serum. These are moments writers beg for and detest. It is our witching hour.

I am thinking on the fact that I am completely and utterly alone. Most of my family are dead. My children passed long ago. I have no friends. Reverend Billy Graham spoke on loneliness in an archived service that I listened to today. He shared a true story of an old woman, 92 years of age, who died alone. Every day, she wrote in her diary, “No letters. No visitors. No phone calls. No one loves me.” I fear that I am a cross between Auntie Mame and a hermit who lives in a house that everyone believes is haunted. And, it is haunted by her memories of past loved ones, past lives, the past everywhere which she keeps alive to comfort her.

So, while under this magic trance and devil dance, I will make the confession that begs me to stay awake. I don’t believe that God ever wanted me to be a Mother. Otherwise, He wouldn’t have taken my children. Taken. And, I have no set of special skills to get them back. Now, I am a barren widow. I am not playing the pity card. These are just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.

Alice and the Real White Rabbit

For everyone wanting to follow a White Rabbit, here’s the real one. I swear that this song is my theme song. If you have to vomit to get to your dreams, do it. I love to write. I love to act. I forget what I am supposed to say or write or think or do before I perform, but, when the light hits me, my inner light turns on. I sweat, get nauseous, hit the bathroom, but I’m really just sick of being afraid. The love of my life called me bunny or rabbit because of the way my nose twitches when I get in my groove and I am on fire. I am tired of just being an encourager. I am ready to shine.