My Pleasure To Bear Your Pain.

Amid the anger and tension,

something I forgot to mention…

just a simple truth or two,

words I’ve spent before on you,

And since I seem to fade away,

things between you and me remain,

always, a thing:

unclean – unchanged…

thunder rolling ahead of rain,

this sense of solid certainty,

on my word, will die with me,

hard-wired deep within my brain,

A treasure chest in my rib cage,

you are woven into my destiny…

A truth at rest inside of me,

Until the Gods show me differently,

You can look for me,

and here I always am,

it’s my pleasure

to bear your pain.

An Ax in the Moon.

Above the planetary jet stream,
asunder, and bellowing,
I hear the heavy dripping,
a reserve blood supply, spilling,
I feel the blackness choking,
so much misery, throttling,
I feel the years behind you,
that drag a weight of fading loyalty;

Above the universal hollering,
beneath, and woven intricately,
I sense the teardrops pattering,
I see through vision, gone blurry,
I see the darkness encompassing,
misdirected, ill-detected feeling,
I feel the loss ahead of you
awaiting your every personal move;

Below the deepest pit of humanity,
struggling to surface, violently,
I hear your poetic story-telling,
I know each word before its ring,
I see distances between, widening,
I see the fractured lines, separating,
I know your most secret of things
I feel every pump to your heart, darling.

Ver Batim.

Two statements made to me today that feel compelled to share for whatever reasons:

#1 –

“Nobody ever notices the teeth of a beautiful soul…”

He doesn’t keep a blog…but I become more and more convinced all the time that he needs to start…his thoughts are often just stunningly expressed between him and me. I’ve written numerous times in reference to my beloved friend who I call the “Shepherd” or “B” or the “Boondock Saint” on my blog; he is someone who is a stationary fixture in my world these days. I treasure our friendship deeply because he is a real-life saint, and not just in the context of me and our friendship – he is a saintly human being who cultivates the gentleness and understanding a “feeler” as well as the logic and comprehension of a “thinker”. These are all parts of his personality, no doubt, as a result of his own lifetime of hardship and traumas stacked up on top of one another; which made this delayed sentiment about my crumbling teeth that he sent to me via text message late last night – all the more heartwarming to me. It’s just a small ray of sunshine that I wanted to share because it was rather profound in my opinion, as the Boondock tends to be.

#2 –

“Survivors unite, together we stand, facing our demons and…. something that rhymes with stand. (I’m not nearly as talented as you are with rhymes, LOL!)”

This is something that one of peeps here on WordPress wrote today in a comment response she made to me on her blog; she is so adorable – open, honest, and die-hard in her own recovery. She inspires me often and has since…well, I’m not really sure who followed who or how long ago it was, but at least since the beginning of last summer. It was so endearing when I read it, because it is HER in a nutshell: she doesn’t necessarily even have to think prior to jumping in to offer supportive information to a fellow survivor – that’s just how she rolls. Anyway, I just wanted to share this little morsel of absolute goodness because it totally made me chuckle when I read it…
You can go check out her blog also at


My Great-Grandmother Tannuea (who is full-blooded Shawnee) is the legendary storyteller of my mother’s family, and has always told me stories and lore that were a macabre mix of her own personal and epically divine inclination towards the “Mysteries”, and the blood and guts and gore of the American Yankee Spirit. She always spoke of Great Spirits that took on the form of animals and men and women, fish and birds and trees and rivers…she is the eldest member of our family, who has told every child in her far-extended family the most cherished and sought out tales to be told. I have blood relatives through this woman whose faces adorn Totems in places I’ve never even heard of, much less visited. Grandma T has bore and bred true greatness in her lifetime, though she would NEVER stake claim to this TRUTH. She has also bore and bred sheer Hell during her years alive, but would not be caught dead in allowing such a thought in her mind. She has the whitest hair I’ve ever seen; she always has, since I can remember. She smiles, and I swear to the Gods it seems as if everything else just evaporated around her – she holds strong energy, even at age whatever she is – she is ANCIENT. She is my GREAT Grandmother!!! She has outlived several generations of her offspring, another heartbreaking truth that she neither leans on or against in times upset. She is just present. Always, ever present, in the moment – alive.

I can tell you that not a single one of her stories was lost on me; I was typically either terrified to the point of tremors, or was intrigued by a thought she had tickled deep down in my cerebral cortex during one of the wild sagas she had us entertaining . I always had the feeling that my brothers weren’t listening; they were hearing the words…just not listening to the messages.

She demands alone time often, always has; she can meditate for hours on end, quite happily.
Sometimes, I would happen upon her during her quiet times when she “rests her mind”; she would be silently sitting: the picture of posture, humming her tunes into the air – with ever-replenished tears streaming down the deep lines in her taught, leathery cheeks.
“Who would make Grandma Tannuea cry like that? And why?”
Humankind makes her cry; because it is a damn shame.

Tannuea hails from the Ohio Shawnee clan that Tecumseh lived amongst and led in the late 1800s; she can recall a childhood full of discomfort and prejudice thrown at her after her tribe’s forced assimilation with the Cherokee Nation in the 1870s; she grew up in its wake. She is a stickler about kindness; I have a funny feeling it is because she was never shown much of it throughout her lifetime. For the young Tannuea who endured her own ‘trail of tears’ as a result of being a native-born tribeswoman during the formation of the present day United States of America, a life of hardship was embedded deeply and without awareness. Still, this woman SURVIVED, still survives to date – to be a solidly founded boulder for others: many, many others.
Because of my Great-Grandmother’s support and guidance, I was able to deliver a very healthy baby girl (Boo, 7 lbs. 13 oz. /19.5 inches tall) in 1997, under extreme duress. Because of the same soft-spoken woman’s wisdom, I was able to find the inner-gladiator that it took to testify in court against the father of that beautiful baby girl for his attempt on my life in 2002. She showed me how to be strong when I didn’t feel strong; even still after all these years, her very presence in a room with me naturally humbles me beyond words.
A human being, who has never seen kindness in the first person, yet knows the intricacies of it as if she created its very essence.
THAT is empathy.

The Training of Bears

Touche, my dear…

Mocking Bird Down

Someone whom I love and trust has named me a Bear Trainer. Those that have known me as I have grown up with chains wrapped around my knuckles and sharp glass ready to spill at will at those who challenge me have always called me ‘The Bear’. The claws and the standing up to roar and stare what I am afraid of in the face, head on.

I am the bear. I am also the bear trainer. The story of my life. Most of the people in the world who I drew close to me were filled with fire and rage and I either trained them, or they leashed me. To be both, is hard. To be both, is and always be – the way I do things.

I cannot be a mother. That physical capability was destroyed by the boots of another bear, larger and stronger than me. What…

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my hero americana

When One of Your Heroes Thinks The Same of YOU…



When I first opened my blog up and started writing about Boo – she was still missing at the time (again, I should say) and I was likely the closest I’ve ever come to pure insanity, there was a person who seemed to reply to most of my heart-achingly honest and obvious hopelessness. In all truth – if I’m going to be honest here with this post – I initially opened my blog because I wanted to write down my own versions of things for my estranged, delinquent daughter to read someday, after I had given up on the entirety of the situation that we are held hostage by and removed myself, somehow. I wrote down all of the most shameful and regrettable parts of my trials in motherhood that I’ve never been able to tell her myself, for various reasons, simply entertaining the idea that one day Boo might find closure of some sort from this blog and it’s content, if she ever comes back around close enough to catch it.

There was this one follower – this Cyber-Saint of a human, who is the type of Survivor that my beloved Triple S is: A Nurturer. This blogger was my third follower, and has been with me (seems like most of the posts I make, she’s there to validate me somehow, even with issues that I was certain no other human being has ever struggled with) SHE’S TITANIUM in my personal blogosphere. Staunch. Solid. Respectable and brutally honest in her own recovery from abuses so unimaginable and long-lasting that I often find myself wondering how it’s even possible that she’s able to offer such unwavering support to others who write of similar experiences and their lasting effects. She was that one HUMAN BEING who SINGLEHANDEDLY got through to me in regard to my hopelessness as the grieving and helpless Mother to a highly self-destructive and unruly teenaged daughter. MANDY has been the one to renew my once-fading HOPE for something – anything – better to look ahead for when it comes to my relationship (or lack, there of) with my only child. A few months ago, Mandy sent me a link to the page she maintains called Heroes in My Garden on her blog; and I was dumbfounded to find my own name among the bloggers whom she’s helping to grow there in that special garden of true Survival.

It wasn’t until last night sometime, as I lay awake in the grips of my beloved insomnia and the zillions of thoughts that it streams through my tired mind, that the garden finally made sense to me – that her intentions behind it are so GOOD and NURTURING – it brought me tears in the dark, all alone.

Mandy is conveying her own projection of healing and nurturing to the many broken bloggers that she stumbles across in her reading here on WordPress; she has created a cyber garden in which she can “plant” people she feels are worth the effort and help them to “grow” through her natural gift of NURTURE.

She is most certainly one of my most admirable HEROES too – in more ways than I could even begin to describe in words. Honestly, she gave me a thread to hold onto when I first arrived in the blogosphere, and she has helped that  thread grow into a thick and calloused vine over time.

This is my THANK YOU to a VERY POWERFUL SURVIVOR in my recovery and ongoing survival process – MANDY of HEALING BEYOND SURVIVAL.

No Mandy, YOU are MY HERO....

No Mandy, YOU are MY HERO….

VETERAN’S DAY REPOST: The Wise of The Skies

My Papa (age 20). Already a pilot headed to War...

My Papa (age 20). Already a pilot headed to War…


It seems as though my very genetic sequencing was created on a battlefield somewhere back in time.
On the one hand (my father’s side, and the side of the family in which I was exposed to daily), my Old School Yankee blood hammers a foothold of ingenuity and aggression embedded in my very DNA. My Danish Emigrant family is littered with highly decorated American War Heroes in each and every generation that I know of, including my daughter’s generation. This side of my heritage historically and willingly puts up a well-organized and strategic fight for the glories it claims, no doubt. This side of my family tree is dwarfed in numbers by my mother’s side; and unfortunately, I believe that is because I have lost too many relatives, both distant and close, to warfare.
My Papa (my Dad’s father, who was my Partner in Crime until the day he died about a decade ago) doubled as my daycare provider since I can remember. This was a guy who was, indeed, a War Hero of at least two major wars in world history, a pilot (and it takes a certain kind for this), a Rosicrucian, a Mason, a self-taught Ancient Egyptologist (because he was compelled to explore alchemy, physics, astronomy, astrology, medicinal tincturing and ancient mysticism since his youth), but most notably and memorably for me: he was a magically wise soul. He was a genuine human being. He was one of my favorite people to hang out with for the entirety of my young life, even when I was a shithead teenager with a pierced face and old English block lettering Tattoos that said distasteful things – he never got boring or became too demanding of my time; my time was something that I always had more than enough for him.
I can write this, because he is dead and I am grown now;
During my teen years, he once rendezvoused with me at my car on the side of a dirt road during the wee hours of the morning (during a period in my life when I was swirling around life’s drain amidst teen angst, the shock and trauma of my Dad’s very sudden death, and in turn – the absolute demolition of my family unit as I had always before, and never again – known it; and was out of control in behavior and illegal activities) to offload armfuls of (totally illegal and extremely questionable in his perception) firearms with a stiff lip and stoic expression on his face the entire time. He drove away with at least ten felonies in his hatchback Celica without saying a fucking word to me about it.
I could never tell anyone about it growing up – couldn’t brag about it to my friends or brothers – because the fact that he never said anything taught me the lesson I’m sure he was shooting for: shame in grace, wrong against right, and dedication to those we love. I held it in for about five years before finally breaking one day over a Scrabble match and blurting out something like, “Papa, you know I’d NEVER ask you to do anything bad for me again EVER, right?…”
My Papa and I have the exact, same mischievously set eyes; upon meeting his gaze, I was always instantly triggered to smile, laugh, or giggle. This time though, when his eyes met mine, they spoke volumes of the disapproval and disappointment that he had been holding in all that time. Also quite noticeably though, was a weight that seemed to lift from his frame almost tangibly…and it came straight into my heart and has been with me ever since that moment.

For Veteran’s Day, I bow my head to any and all who have served my country in my place for whatever reasons.

This gratefulness that I feel runs deeply through the tangling roots of dead soldiers grown from my own family tree, and any other tree on Yankee/ Native soil. It most certainly takes someone with heart to be a soldier; thank you to all of the Veterans out there who may happen to read this post. Seriously…THANK YOU.

A Rare Balancing Act



Today’s a day that the truth doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does – the sun has been high and hot today – blue skies – green trees. It’s been a day that I have felt victorious over my issues with my BAD roommate, a day that’s felt like it will be simple to move on past the plethora of things that define my disgust with my life and the people in (and NOT in) it. I don’t know if this is a form of denial or a coping mechanism I use in order to NOT spontaneously explode – or if it’s what my shrink calls “bi-polar disorder attached to the good ol’ PTSD”; all I can say is that when I wake up in the morning – every morning, any morning – I don’t ever know if today’s gonna be the day that I finally lose my mind and do something absolutely fucking astounding in its sheer stupidity, or – if it might be the day that I wash out enough nuggets of gold to buy my way into a residential library somewhere. My health has been compromised again lately, I’ve been emotionally and physically exhausted and spent, I hit a pretty low point last week as a result of the bullshit going on with the BAD roommate.







Sucks to be him – he’s made his bed…night night, now Simple One….


YESTERDAY THOUGH, something happened that doesn’t happen to me – in my life, in my experience with other humans…and I am wanting to get on my podium about the GOOD as well as the many negative posts I’ve been making.


The “bad” has been (for one of the only times ever) countered with the “good” in my “big picture” of life, it seems. My GOOD roommate has once more shown his true colors to me this past week: extending his truly innate kindness to me for no reason outside of being himself, doing what he does – being a very exceptional human being (when circumstances like to his own experience in life don’t typically produce kind-heated and giving grown men as a result). His humanity never ceases to amaze me somehow, and I count him as one of my biggest blessings in adult life, truly. He’s been a friend for a long time, much longer than the time we’ve been roommates – and he has ALWAYS shown me the utmost faith and support since long before he ever had any true purpose to do so. I so appreciate him as a support beam of my structure, and yet he is unaware of how deeply he has affected me with his nature and his shockingly refreshing broken mold.


Anyway, it’s these VERY FEW AND FAR BETWEEN instances in which another human being displays unselfishness without being prompted to do so by any other outside force, that keep me believing that my own kind nature and built-in empathy will one day be my salvation somehow – as opposed to what it’s been so far: a crippling handicap. There’s hope that it might pay off for me one day – to remain steadfast in my role as genuine and decent human being.