Black Sheep

You should try falling from grace, it feels better than staying neat and acceptable inside that empty outline our lovers draw for us—
The thin shape of our childhood by accident.

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Black Sheep

I see you there with that fat, dumb baby of hers
and something in your eyes…?
That should be enough, except you have to win this don’t you?
I would rather swim through an ocean of mistakes than settle for a world like yours.

Is this what makes us enemies?
When you fall to your knees I stare at black branches.
I am transfixed by how they reach across the sky like wild arms waiting to hold me—
It’s funny falling in love and failing miserably every time.
It’s funny over bottles of beer.

You should try falling from grace, it feels better than staying neat and acceptable inside that empty outline our lovers draw for us—
The thin shape of our childhood by accident. Who knows? Perhaps you have already fallen and landed in front of me half dead, blind to your own ruin.

It’s ghastly when the air stops moving and the smell of everything fills my head and I’m suddenly screaming without sound.
You could never understand that.
While you’re out in the world I can see the fat girls with too tight shirts and too tight bras
and too tight gazes.
I pity them.
I pity you sometimes.
One had blue ruffles like a doll’s dress all down her front,
mascara eyes leaking.
Why this sad reality without explanation?
She was like a stuffed bird—
It made me sick and I had to stare deeper,
past the pretense because I can’t ever let go of the lies people tell each other as if they believed them…
Like a platitude that brings joy
despite an unalterably human condition.

I would rather shrink to almost nothing than fill a space with the absence of what I could be.
I would knock my bones against bars of the cage of my body.
I would press my tongue hopelessly against the teeth that grin rudely keeping words stuck high in my head.
I would fight to eclipse the ballast of you and your enormous face that won’t leave me alone.
I don’t mind floating.

If I left myself as a watermark on paper would you understand then?
No, no, not you and I couldn’t even have that.
Because death is never what it means to be except in movies. Where no one really dies.
It comes down to submitting and God knows I can’t stand that.
I’d rather drown.

You’re a believer in boxes and pieces of stupid little love songs!
You know nothing of love and I tried to teach you but you threw my words away without hesitation.

Regardless—
And still—
My joy creeps up despite all of this. Despite you and your facades.
It weaves through the pores of my skin.
It lives in a different sort of woman staring back at me.
A woman without fear, her heart like a steam train—
Brown eyes like wells as intense as mine.
I am a child again!
This is my space and there is a lock on the door protecting her and I—
Just we,
No pretenders allowed.
We laugh like magicians, like poets…like little girls.
You become a pest.
She’s made you as small as you were all those years ago—
And the relief is almost unbelievable.
Buzz off shit fly!
My time is fleeting and I’m saving my moments for moments without you.

Kimkoa 2012

Happy

It was when I watched you laugh when you weren’t expecting to- then I was held hostage.

Happy

You spread through me like a cancer.
I would be lying if I said I stood my ground when you started misleading.
All of your words are bullets or pearls.

Our friends could see through the pictures we’d been painting like the man and his muse.
It’s a soundless death I stand here facing.
Of course you’ll be okay.
It’s some combination of defiance and ignorance that keeps you safe.
And you are so young.

It was when I watched you laugh when you weren’t expecting to- then I was held hostage.
A prisoner of love and war.

You knocked me back child!
The army of inscrutability.
And alcohol…?
When you considered my words!
And then decided me,
I set my hounds on you.
My voice is my militia.
I use it despite your protests.
I know what my heart will tell me.
Why would anyone run from love?

You’ve left me totally useless.
Yet I wonder if that was God’s work??
In a completely non-patriarchal, western thinking kind of way.
Even when life pins you down there is the shouting
and the why should I give a fuck?!
I would say because mercy for me is synonymous with pain.
I wish I had your moxie.
One day you’ll wish for my patience.
I know for sure they’ll beg me for answers-                                                  Crying what did I say?
And then what did I do to you??

But watching you laugh
when you weren’t expecting to,
still gets me off.                                           Like the sun in my face                                       and that makes me happy.

Kimkoa 2010

The Other Side of Beautiful continued

Her mother stayed home with her, hating every minute of it. Everything about her was cold and disapproving. Everything but her food.

The graceless way her life had developed was not novel. It was not even unusual. Her world seemed to the onlooker like a once delicate, yet slightly tragic garden overgrown and marked by neglect. She thought about how she saw pain and loss in each direction she looked. Her failures sprung up all around her, as the only flowers left in her sad little garden. The petals were colorless and with twisted stems, choked by weeds and sorrow.

Her mother wanted little to do with her, Her father even less. Often as a child she felt like there was some kind of clear partition between she and them. At the dinner table they would sit there, her father reading any one of a number of articles on corporate finance, the rise and fall of whatever company, international trade. Her mother would smoke cigarette after cigarette, her mouth a thin angry line. Sometimes the line would open. “Eat your peas.” Her mother would eye the pile of green orbs she kept piling on top of one another and letting roll back onto the plate. Her mother was an excellent cook. But Arabella was lonely. A battle over peas was better than nothing.

“I don’t like peas.” She would answer defiantly craving the attention an argument would bring. Unfortunately even that was beyond what her parents were willing to give.

“I didn’t ask if you liked them. I told you to eat them.” Later, after dinner was cleared, the kitchen cleaned and her parents watching television in the next room she would kick the table leg rhythmically with the tip of her shoe watching the peas bounce against each other. She would take her fork and smash them into the plate, their sides splitting and green flesh spilling out. “Eat the peas Arabella or they’ll be waiting for you in the morning!” The edges of her mother’s voice sailing through the doorway over the muffled sounds of the television set felt like tiny knives up and down her arms. She pushed the plate forward and laid her head on the table in silent protest, knowing exactly what the cold peas would taste like gulped down with water the next morning and not caring.

Her father ran a consulting firm. He had a head for numbers and a firm grasp on the market. He was well-respected and his firm had netted their clients millions of dollars in revenue from their well-placed changes. He was proud of his work. It was essentially all he cared about. He was not an emotional man. He was sparing with his words, his advice, his affection. Her mother stayed home with her, hating every minute of it. Everything about her was cold and disapproving. Everything but her food. Yes, she was an excellent cook. She made Arabella oatmeal and blueberries in the mornings with a sprinkle of sugar on the top. Sometimes she made pancakes or french toast on weekends, the dough always gold and fragrant under the swirls of melted butter and caramel syrup. A cascade of soups- tomato bisque, cream of chicken, southwest chili- appeared on the table at lunchtime always with a side of four buttered crackers. Her dinners were flawless; tender slices of beef paired with roasted carrots and potatoes steamed from china plates. Bowls of clam chowder beckoned. Crisply fried chicken dripped deliciously onto neatly folded paper towels. It was as if her mother put all of the love she had into the food she cooked. There was none leftover for Arabella. Truthfully she had no need to smile. Her cherry pie smiled for her. She would stare angrily out the window, smoking her cigarettes. Almost as though she were waiting for something or someone to come and rescue her.

When Arabella became pregnant with Luke her mother sniffed and said to her father without looking at him “Well I could have told you that would happen.” Arabella stared at her mother, clutching her abdomen.

“My baby is not a mistake.” Tears slid from the corners of her eyes and tumbled over her quivering cheeks.

“Tell that to the rest of the world.” Her mother spit the sentence at her before getting up to clear the breakfast dishes.

Her father looked at his watch and then back at his article.

“You have always been a liability, Arabella. Twenty-four with no college degree, no job and now pregnant by a man who’d as soon slap you as look at you.”

“He’s rich and smart and he’ll marry me, you watch! I don’t need your judgment or your ridiculous pity! He loves me! He said so! I’ll never come back to you for anything ever again!” She yelled these words even as she herself did not quite believe them. He was rich alright and he’d probably marry her. But Love? That was a whole different story. She doubted he could truly love any woman. Not after the life he’d had. But she loved him. And in the back of her mind she swore she could make him love her back if a thing were even possible. She knew she was THE ONE. It just might take all she had to prove it to him.

*to be continued

Shattered Glass, Mended Hearts

My daughter is a force of nature. Wild and at times reckless, crashing through life boldly and without fear or restraint. She is intrinsically joyful. She doesn’t walk, she bounds.

Alice broke a cut glass bowl that belonged to my mother’s grandmother today. It was early this morning before my coffee had a chance to fully wake up my brain.

I was downstairs getting my robe on when I heard a crash that I knew was glass breaking. Oh no, I thought what broke? 

That bowl had been sitting on my mother’s counter for as long as I can remember. As a child I used to marvel at the edges and how the light was refracted through each one creating a kalaidescopic effect. Tiny rainbows in sunlight. I’d run my finger along those edges imagining how each one was cut by hand. “They’re slightly uneven do you see that? That’s how you know it was made my hand and not machine. It was my grandmother’s bowl. I’ve always loved it. One day it will be yours to pass down to your daughter.” My mother’s words were wistful and seemed full of purpose. I felt important holding that bowl. I would never have let it break.

My daughter is a force of nature. Wild and at times reckless, crashing through life boldly and without fear or restraint. She is intrinsically joyful. She doesn’t walk, she bounds. Because of this I have lost treasures. Others have been broken and had to be repaired. A snow globe with Cinderella and her prince that played the theme from the movie was shattered. Dolls my father gave me as child of 6 and 7 have lost fingers and toes. Sometimes entire limbs. A winged angel my mother gave me for my 20th birthday has one wing glued back on. Several books I’d saved that were favorites of her brothers were torn apart or scribbled in. But she’s never touched the cut glass bowl.

Never having raised a child like this (her brothers were not this way) I kept having to adjust the location of anything and everything that she could possibly destroy. Pictures were moved higher and higher on the fridge. Anything fragile found higher and higher homes as she would scale the shelves, counters and anything else climbable like a tiny monkey. We called her curious Georgina. We learned to grab her paintings and drawings from her before she had a chance to tear them to pieces. We learned to laugh at the destruction she’d leave in the wake of her play. We turned ourselves inside out teaching her to care for the things around her. That she didn’t need to break everything open just to see inside.

Lately she’d been good about breaking things. Too good perhaps. Yes there was the occasional climb on top of the refrigerator to steal candy or the endless glasses of water tipped on their side, but she had gotten to a place of understanding how to love her things while they remained in one piece.

The shattered bowl was an accident. Ironically what she was doing when she knocked it over was destructive on purpose. Trying to pull the leaves off my African violets that were given to me by my Aunt and Uncle when I was in the hospital. My mother told her to stop and she pulled her hand back sending the bowl careening to the floor where it shattered into bits of glass edges and dust. It would no longer make its tiny rainbows. No other child would marvel at its edges. “Go downstairs I cannot even look at you right now!” My mother could not bear the full realization of the loss in that moment. After hearing the glass break I was on my way up the stairs when Alice was on her way down. By the look on her face I knew.

”What did you do, what did you break?” She didn’t answer me and ran for her room. I reached the top of the stairs and my mother was sweeping up the remnants of the bowl. Her expression unreadable.

“Alice broke my cut glass bowl. It was my grandmother’s.” I couldn’t speak at first. “It’s just a thing and she didn’t mean to but I just had to send her downstairs I didn’t want to say something I’d regret.” She began tearing up.

You see there’s more to this story than a wildly curious little girl and a cut glass bowl. My mother’s sister is dying. It’s only a matter of time. After years of estrangement they’d finally begun talking.  My mother’s childhood memories are all around her right now, including her grandmother and the glass bowl.

In addition this is Alice’s first day home from preschool since her father and I pulled her out after we were unsuccessful in getting her school to do anything about an older girl that was bullying her mercilessly. Doing things like telling her spiders will bite her and turn her into a wolf, giving her nightmares. Convincing her to bring her toys to school, stealing them from her and lying about it. Teaching her to say butthole repeatedly. Sending her home with paper fold outs saying things like poop your pants and sit in your poop and cut your pants and many other gross and stupid things. Telling her Santa Claus isn’t real. My husband and I had actually gone to the school together and talked to the teacher after his talk with the front desk did nothing. She assured us they would be kept separated since this child was years older than Alice, in foster care and already a source of problems. I found this little girl and got down on my knees and I told her to stop stealing my daughter’s toys, telling her to poop her pants and swear, lying to her and bullying her or she’d have to deal with me personally. The look she gave me confirmed everything I suspected. My Alice was not her first target and would not be her last. I walked over to the teacher and I said this is the fifth time we have come to you guys about this girl and how she’s bullying our daughter. I’m so angry right now I’m holding my breath so I don’t say something I’ll regret. But you need to follow through on supervision and age appropriate groups. (This school shuffles their preschool children back and forth between rooms of practically toddlers and kids as old as 8 and 9 because they have inconsistent staffing, poor organisation and a whole host of other problems I will outline in a another post called BRIGHT MINDS IN WASILLA IS A SHITTY FOR PROFIT PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A SCHOOL. No I won’t write that post but you get the idea: massive late fees if your child is not there exactly on time despite the fact that you’ve already paid almost $700 that month for her slot whether she’s there or not. Why is this you might ask? Because if your child is sick, even though they’ve already been paid for that day, they will take a drop in for more money. So if you show up late you screw up their ability to charge two families for one slot. And that’s just the tip of the horrible preschool iceberg. And guess what? If you’re late they won’t even let you in the building.

Needless to say Alice starts kindergarten in a month during which I will be repairing the damage done to her by this awful school. Having to re-potty train her. Sorting out behavioral problems. And now teaching her about bullies.

She had a timeout for what she did this morning. More importantly she made her grandmother a picture to show she was sorry. I even had her trace the words. When my mother stopped back home after a meeting to drop off the vegetables I asked her to get she saw the painting and she and Alice shared a hug. The bowl would remain forever broken. But at least their bond was strong. Their bond is forever.

More than just the cut glass bowl has been broken today. My daughter’s trust in an older girl she thought was her friend. My trust in the school system of this rough town, with its massive meth and opioid addiction problem running rampant throughout the community and its non-existent budget for quality public schooling. For profit preschool is one story. Public elementary school is another. I was viciously bullied for years in a school that I fear could be very much like the one my daughter will be attending. You’d better believe I’ll be volunteering in her classroom, keeping a close eye on her progress and making sure she’s not held down by the throat on the playground like I was. God help the child that even tries to to do that to my daughter.

Sometimes the things we pass down to our children are not the things we choose. Instead of passing down a cut glass bowl I will instead be passing down my experience in fending off bullies. How to hold your head high after someone lies to you. How to never forget that sometimes glass breaks. But unlike glass, a broken heart can always be mended.

Yours To Keep

Crack in your heart
Crack in your head
Little lies creep in
And you can’t help it you broken girl
Star-shaped dreams keep you awake at night
A lover with a heavy gaze and fingertips like feathers
Who makes you forget yourself
Who makes the earth fall away
And the sky open
Who éclipses the labels they’ve given you
Can you imagine this?
A world of stars and the absence of the need for reality
Dreams with beating hearts.
All they are…are dreams after all
Lovely at night
Stupid in the light of day.
But yours after all. And isn’t that the point?

Kimkoa 2018

Sent from my iPhone

The Other Side of Beautiful

She watched them head down the hallway and wondered what things would be like if Michael hadn’t left them. She wondered if Maisie even remembered the way things used to be.

This was an ugly time for her. The laundry lay in a messy pile, the sink was full of dishes. Her teenage son slept lankily on the couch, his limbs hanging off the edges. She cursed the tiny one bedroom but it was all she could afford. In fact she’d be lucky to make rent this month. She ran her fingers through her curly hair, grey at the roots, dark brown at the edges. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the salon. She looked at her hands, her bitten fingernails. She sighed and decided there were more important things to worry about. Like yesterday when she saw her son squeezing his feet into his shoes, wincing slightly. She’d have to come up with the money for new shoes and soon. She wondered if her boss would give her an advance on her paycheck. They could eat ramen and hotdogs for a month if they had to but he needed new shoes now.

She shuffled over to the coffee pot and pushed the button. The familiar gurgle gave her some reassurance she could make it through another day working the checkout line. She never thought she’d be scanning other people’s groceries at forty-one but life happens and she found herself with few if any other options. The coffee pot was full enough to pour a cup so she grabbed her favorite mug from the shelf and filled it with the hot liquid. After adding the milk she put it back in the fridge. The coffee was hot and perfect. If only she could stay there in her slippers and threadbare robe with the hole in the side drinking coffee at the tiny kitchen table. If only she didn’t have to change into the formless black polo and slacks, affix her name tag and drive her old, blue camry to greet the line of impatient shoppers.

”Mommy! I peed!” Her daughter’s voice rang out through the silent apartment.

“Did you pee in the potty Maisie?” She prayed for a yes.

”Yep and I wiped front to back!” Maisie’s pride in her accomplishment was palpable.

“Good job baby! Now go start getting dressed!” She looked over at her son on the couch starting to show signs of life.

“Luke! Maisie is up, she’s getting dressed. I need you to get her breakfast. Remember you’re on duty today. I have to work.” Luke groaned and reached for his cell phone.

”Jesus mom it’s Saturday.” He scrolled his Instagram, his eyes half closed. “Are they ever going to give you a fucking weekend off?” His voice was annoyed yet protective.

“Luke don’t swear! And I know what you mean. We’re short people right now you know that. There’s nothing I can do.”

”What about Dad why doesn’t he ever take her? It isn’t fair.” He threw his phone down on the couch in disgust.

”It’s complicated baby you know that.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger. Life was a lot of things but fair was not one of them.

”I love you!” Maisie bounded down the hallway and jumped into her brother’s lap.

”I love you too Maisie girl.” Luke smiled at his sister. “Are you my supergirl?”

“Yeah!!” Maisie began jumping up and down on the couch. “Pow, bang!” Luke started laughing. “Supergirls need clothes Maisie! Not just underwear! Gross go get dressed!” He lifted her off the couch and led her down the hall to the bedroom she shared with his mother. “Go find a shirt supergirl!” She watched them head down the hallway and wondered what things would be like if Michael hadn’t left them. She wondered if Maisie even remembered the way things used to be.

The way things used to be. She almost laughed. She knew exactly how they used to be. She could forget a lot of things but never the afternoon she’d come home early from the caterer. She could never forget hearing the barely audible sighs and whispers from her bedroom as she made her way up the spiral staircase to the carelessly half open door. She could never forget opening the door the rest of the way to witness the rise and fall of a pale, freckled back in a swath of turkish bedclothes. Bedclothes she’d picked out; pale grey sheets and a deeper grey duvet cover with tiny, yellow flowers.  She could never forget that image, that moment. The slender, white back that wasn’t hers stretching and curving with an unfamiliar passion her bed had never known. She watched with morbid curiosity as her husband’s dark familiar hands held the girl’s hips gently, guiding them. They were oddly quiet, serious almost. Passionless but for the occasional sigh. Followed by a hushed reassurance as though they were both complicit in their lie. Their shared pretense that their orgasms held no consequences.

She closed the door gently and made her way back down the stairs. She set her single package on the counter and then her forehead, the cool stone stilling the the fury of betrayal thundering through her mind. Hadn’t she seen this coming? Could she truly say she cared? Their marriage had been dead long before this latest betrayal and she knew her husband cared even less about this woman- not even a woman- than she did. The thought brought her some comfort, but not enough to override the humiliation. She felt broken. It was only a month before that the IRS had started looking into their finances. She had seen the notices on the counter, by his bedside table. “Is everything okay?” She asked, knowing nothing was okay.

“Of course babe, they audit everyone eventually. I got this.” He had it or so he said. She had to admit she knew he’d had nothing. But she didn’t care. She knew that the car, the house…even the endless parade of women was merely a front. She knew he couldn’t let them see that barefoot boy he used to be and still was with his tightly curled afro and overalls two sizes too small getting knocked to the floor by his angry drunk of a father, glasses shattering on the dirty floor. “Get up and clean that shit up, you good-for-nothing excuse for a son!” White foam grew at the corners of his father’s mouth. “You heard me! I said get the fuck up and clean up this mess!” Through a swollen eye he watched his father loosen his belt and head towards the bedroom where he could hear his mother softly crying. He knew she’d be screaming soon after each whip of the belt. He cut his fingers on the broken glass on purpose each time she cried out. It was his penance for being born.

*To be continued*

My Life Is My Own

I suppose, in a way, she has the ideal exposure because the person who birthed her, loves her unconditionally, is raising her, caring for her and teaching her is a person of color.

So I live in Wasilla, which is basically 99% white. I don’t love this, I wish my daughter could grow up with more diversity. She’s at the perfect age to really fall in love with all different cultures and we are living in such a homogenous part of Alaska it’s depressing. Her only regular exposure to someone of color is me. I have to wonder what does this mean? I suppose, in a way, she has the ideal exposure because the person who birthed her, loves her unconditionally, is raising her, caring for her and teaching her is a person of color. I am this multiracial, multicultural human who is definitively unique, artistic and compassionate towards those who are different. I’m an advocate for persons with mental  illness and am committed to fighting the stigma. So who cares if she is surrounded by the same white faces on a daily basis. Her home is not that way and never will be. Her brothers, especially her oldest brother, don’t look white at all so summers spent with them enhance her world view and round out this homogenous little world we’re raising her in.

My last blog was intense. I dug deep and talked about some pretty tough subjects. I’m glad I did, there are so many women who have been through the same things and are ashamed to admit they were abused. They just hold it inside and it literally tears them apart. I need to share something that happened to me after I posted my blog. My ex-girlfriend contacted me and tried to manipulate exactly the way she used to. She accused me of lying and airing her dirty laundry which is a contradiction in terms and interspersed it with compliments about my daughter and my advocacy work. She tried to rope me into a dialogue which I resisted and accused me of cyberbullying her by telling my story, while at the same time apologizing for traumatizing me all those years ago. She then started bullying me the way she always did, telling me what I could and could not write about in my blog- basically I could not write about her. Honestly my first reaction was fear. All these years have passed and I still reacted like a terrified child. Then I was angry at myself for feeling afraid and agreeing not to write about her, because it’s not my fault she was abusive. It’s not my fault she’s as sick as she is and refuses to take responsibility for it. I know plenty of borderlines who admit they are skilled manipulators. That they often find themselves doing it without even trying. I know borderlines who are actively seeking help even though success rates are low, they are there, trying. Fighting their illness. Taking ownership.

Was I perfect in that relationship?  No…but I don’t even call it a “relationship.” She used to make me lay there with my legs spread and conduct what she called “examinations” to make sure everything was “ok down there.” You’re probably wondering how in the hell did I let someone do that to me? Well I had just come from a sheltered cultish belief system and I was only a child when I joined it so I was an easy target. I tried to get away from her in so many ways. I mentioned the first time my poor oldest son from whom I kept all of this loved her and didn’t want me to leave and so I stayed for him. I also knew in my heart I needed a man. In the way a gay person is born that way and cannot change, so is a straight person, so is a bisexual and so on. I needed a husband. I would tell her this and she would tell me over and over I was wrong, I was a lesbian, I didn’t know what I was talking about. At the end I would literally have dreams about men, about being the straight woman with bisexual leanings that I was and how badly I needed my man. I thought maybe if I slept with a man I would know for sure and it would be enough for her to finally leave me alone. So I did just that and it confirmed it for me. So I immediately told Janine exactly what I did hoping she’d understand and finally let me go, but not only did it not work she told me she realized she was transgendered and wanted to get a sex change operation and would I stay with her until she had the sexual reassignment surgery and then we could be a traditional couple which was what I said I needed. My God. I thought. She’ll never let me go. I mentioned in my last post that she threw a bicycle at me. That was her last act of violence towards me and the most obviously violent act. That was the turning point. As soon as the bike hit my legs my mind snapped. I knew things would go in only one direction. It was then that I finally called my parents and told them the truth about what was going on. They had suspected but had no idea how bad things had gotten. I was so desperate to legitimize this nightmare I went through a commitment ceremony with her. Somehow I thought this would make things better. The ceremony itself was beautiful. The truth behind it was tragic.

The reason I’m sharing all of this is for all of the women who have been through this. Who have made these same seemingly crazy choices. When you are in an abusive relationship you forget who you were before your abuser began filling your mind with negativity. Before your abuser began stealing your independence of mind. You forget you once stood on your own two feet. You forget you were noble, beautiful and worthy of love all in your own right. I was so paralyzed by my own victimization that after leaving her I tried to go back to her. I thought I could not live without her. I had forgotten how. Thank God she only wanted to sleep with me. Thank God I was only temporarily under the delusion I needed to keep being abused. Thank God she found someone else to debase. I was forced to heal and heal I did. Day by day. Week by week. Month by Month. A Year passed. Then a miracle. I was working, going to school, running several days a week and I started to fall in love with my life. I started to fall in love with myself. I was staying with my parents when I had my sons, with a girlfriend I had known since we were nine years old so basically my sister when my boys were with Ian and I was having fun. Living the life I never got to live in my twenties. It was one particularly beautiful day and I was running along the coastal trail and I decided to message a guy I worked with at a television station as an intern. KTVA. His name was Nick. And he became my husband.

Of course there’s MUCH more to that story, but the most important part is that he also helped me heal. The parts of me I didn’t realize were still broken. Anyways, before we had gotten married, when our daughter was almost a year old. I invited my ex-husband over to the house to help the boys with their homework. It was a landmark moment. I reached across the divide that was our fighting and extended an olive branch. That was the beginning of what can only be described as a miracle. Now his new wife is my sister and he is my brother. I’ll be taking my daughter to stay with them next summer so I can spend time with my sons and Jaden can work a summer job. If you consider where we began, and where we are now it’s almost unbelievable. This entire story deserves its own post but I’ll at least say, it’s due in no small part to my husband and his wife. Nick and Nicole.

I’ll end this post by saying it doesn’t matter how lonely, crazy, stupid or hopeless you think your situation is you are not alone. Someone else is going through the very same thing. Listen to your friends when they tell you to get out. Let them help you…and above all, love yourself. My daughter may be living in one of the whitest, typical, homogenous cities in America but her family is anything but white, typical or homogenous. Of this I am proud.

Queen

I looked for you in the darkest of places
Where the people had the whitest of faces
Your hands were in the dirt
Your back was bent
I couldn’t see you clearly
But you smelled like victory
You didn’t notice me
I thought
But in truth I stopped your heart
A year later we were running from the grotesque, swords in our hands
Dripping animal blood
Our daughter ferocious asking when can we stop and fight
When can we destroy them?
Soon love. Soon.
I could see their hulking beast-like shoulders just over the hill and above them the white faces of their soulless guides
I suddenly saw heaven:
The entire world was in your pale blue eyes
The warmth of your Scottish beard
Against my cheek reminded me of grace
Our hands tightly wound. My dark one with your light one.
Our middling princess with her fire hair and all the power of heaven and earth at her feet.
I found the last white man who was not a ghost.
And you gave me back my royalty.

Kimkoa 2018

 

Leaving Him, Leaving Her, Finding Me.

I don’t think I stopped holding my breath until I saw their beautiful welcoming house reminding me I was still myself. That yes this was a nightmare but it was one I could wake up from. One I could escape from. 

I remember the day I told Ian I was leaving him. He begged and pleaded with me not to go. He said he’d buy me house. Was it a house I wanted? I almost laughed.   “A house? Are you serious? You had eight years to get us out of this bug infested trailer that is crawling with mice and smelling of shit! Eight years to treat me like a human being you loved as opposed to an inconvenience. Eight fucking years to give a shit about my dreams, my sacrifices. What have you ever done but act like the world’s biggest child? What kind of a man makes his wife chip ice at nine months pregnant so she doesn’t go sliding down the steps in a painful, dangerous heap? What kind of man leaves cords and wires snaking through the hallway and living room and instruments all over the floor for his pregnant wife to trip over? For his toddler son to chew on? What kind of stupid selfish man builds a wall out of manure in the kitchen so he can record HIS music. Not a man at all. A child. A selfish, immature, spoiled child who was indulged, spoiled and catered to by his mother!”

“I can change, things can change!” He was desperate.

“Ian it’s too late. I’m done. I’m done with this whole ridiculous farce. How dare you tell me you’re only married to me for the children! How dare you leave me night after night in this shithole to go play pretend with your brothers like the world’s greatest older brother as though you never left and had kids! I’m sick of your childish bullshit and I can’t take it anymore!”

“I heard what you told Rita. I heard everything! It’s HER fault all of this is happening!”

“No Ian, it’s your own damn fault. You have no one to blame but yourself. You cannot treat your wife like a piece of garbage and expect her to stick around and start to smell. I’m better than this, I’ve been better than this for a long time. I gave you eight years to grow up and you refuse to. So I’m leaving you and there isn’t anything you can do about it.”

“I refuse to be the first one in family to get divorced!” He had stood up by then and crossed his arms.

“Oh really? I didn’t know it was up to you.” I said this and walked out the door.

Of course what I didn’t realize then was that I was escaping. I hadn’t found new love, on the contrary. I found what I thought was a way out. A way out of the cult, a way out of Ian’s crazy family, a way out of feeling like a piece a garbage left out in the street to rot. But it wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. It was a haven for at least a little while. I thought I’d found a friend. And I had. For at least a little while.

I remember the first time I met Janine. There were no fireworks. No indications of what was to come. It was simply a hangout with my friend Rita as was the second time we met. The third time however we decided it would be fun to drink whiskey. After that all bets were off. One drunken kiss and I knew I could never go back to my old life. First of all I’m not any good at clandestine behavior. Secondly It would have felt seriously wrong to have continued in my marriage without telling Ian bluntly what had happened and that it was a catalyst but only a catalyst. The change was already on the horizon. I needed my own life. I needed to make my own mistakes even if they were big ones. I needed my freedom. The fact that Janine was a girl seemed unimportant to me, she was much more of a man than Ian in both looks and attitude. At that time she was what I needed. I told her it might be an entire year before we could become a couple. She said she was willing to wait. I found that charming in an old world kind of way. In the early days she was the easy part. Leaving Ian proved to be a complete and utter nightmare. He had stored up inside of himself all of the petty vicious rage of his entire life and directed it at me. It was like a gust of hatred set to blow me across the globe. Just before the hate-wind he had a few last ditch efforts to try and “win me back.” As if you could win someone back who treated you like a hated sibling instead of a wife. He would literally take the bed sheets and blankets and wrap them around himself and then hold his arms down so I would be forced to hunt for another blanket rather than fight with him. It was that kind of immature behavior I could no longer stomach. That and his relentless teasing. He teased me until I cried on so many occasions. Unforgivable.

Anyways one of his bright ideas to get closer to me and understand me was to watch the movie Brokeback Mountain and hold hands. I found the movie depressing and nothing I could at all relate to. He just cried and sweated into my hand. I felt like throwing up. Another attempt was to take me before his uncle and his cousin who used to be one of my best friends and have them try to convince me I was making a mistake by quoting the writings at me. Yes I sat in their kitchen while the man I’d known my entire life told me I was mentally handicapped for being bisexual and that homosexuality is like alcoholism but can be overcome with prayer. Gee thanks uncle Gary for calling me retarded. Gee thanks Lindsay for agreeing with him. Ian I hate your guts even more get me the fuck out of here. 

I ended up moving out to my parents’ house in the valley which coincidentally is where I live now. My sons love this house, it was their haven in the turmoil. Ian would call me on the phone, cursing and spitting like a lunatic screaming at me that I was a home wrecker.  “Do you know where your soul is?!!” I would just hang up the phone. He would call when the kids were with him, when he knew I would be with Janine. Sometimes I’d just give her the phone and let her deal with him. I don’t like conflict, never have.

I wanted to keep things easy, to work things out without lawyers or fighting or a ton of money spent but Ian made that impossible. He locked all my things up and refused to give them to me. Some things I still haven’t gotten back which I attribute to his less than sane and endlessly competitive second wife. He never wanted me to have the kids as if somehow I had suddenly turned into a bumbling idiot unable to care for my children any longer. He was constantly harassing me, every time there was a transition he had more terrible things to say. Jaden who was four at the time would tell me “Daddy says you’re a home wrecker. What’s a home wrecker?” I would just scoop him up and tell him it’s a grown up word and best left to the grown-ups. The hardest part of that time was not lashing out at Ian in front of the kids. But I knew it would come back to haunt me. Their teenage years proved to be MUCH harder in that respect. Teenagers are in your business and they rarely let you off the hook for anything and will drive you to the end of your willpower. Sometimes the truth just falls out and not necessarily in the best way. But when those boys were little my stock answer when they came to me with their father’s obvious hatred of me was I’m sorry he said that sometimes people feel upset and they say things out of anger. I’m sure when he’s not so upset he feels differently and that type of thing.

After the divorce was long past and we had established week on week off custody Ian remarried. Unfortunately for all of us she was a sick and manipulative woman. I of course had no idea how sick and manipulative she was until they separated and it all came out. I’ll give you one example. The Monday box. The boys transitioned to my house on Mondays. Apparently she had them put all their too small clothes and clothes with holes in them into this box. And then sent them to school in them, knowing I would throw them away and replace them. Who uses a child like that?!! That was just one of her many tricks.

I of course was going through my own hell by this time. What I didn’t know at the beginning but soon found out was Janine wasn’t entirely sane herself. She confided to me she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. This is no small thing and I lived it. There is book written about living with someone who has this disorder called Stop Walking on Eggshells: Taking Your Life Back When Someone You Care About Has Borderline Personality Disorder by Paul T. Mason MS & Randi Kreger. That book became my bible. According to the Mayo Clinic symptoms include “emotional-instability, feelings of worthlessness, insecurity, impulsivity and impaired social relationships.” The behaviors may include “antisocial behavior, compulsive behavior, hostility, impulsivity, irritability, risk-taking behaviors, self-destructive behavior, self-harm, social isolation, or lack of restraint.” The mood of someone with this disorder swings from “anger, anxiety, discontent, guilt, sadness, loneliness and general massive mood swings.” The individual may also experience “depression, distorted self image, grandiosity, and/or narcissism. Thoughts of suicide are common.”

I can say that is an avid and accurate depiction of someone with borderline personality disorder. What they do is entice you with seemingly loving and healthy behavior. To them you can do no wrong, they put you on a pedestal and will do almost anything to make you believe you are safe with them, that you can be happy with them. Then slowly they indoctrinate you into a system of fear and control until you no longer trust your own instincts and rarely does someone extricate themselves because the borderline excels at manipulation. Janine was crafty. She could absolutely control her behavior, she never let the kids see it until the end, when she realized she was losing her hold on me. Some of the things she would do to me: isolating me from my friends. Cutting up my clothes with scissors. Punching holes in the wall. Punching the wall next to my head. Peeing in bottles and leaving them in my car. Cutting herself with knives and razors. Raging through the apartment destroying things while I hid in the locked bathroom with a shaking dog. Throwing a bicycle at me while I sat on the couch. Throwing cans of soup so hard at the front door they stuck in the door and the dog ran away. Throwing herself on the ground kicking and screaming while we were walking the dog so I walked away and when she finally realized I wasn’t falling for that toddler-like behavior coming home and accusing me of being heartless. Scratching her face up with her own fingernails. Throwing fits at my work, lurking around scaring my coworkers. Etc, etc, etc…the list goes on and on and on.

I tried to leave her once and poor Jaden who knew nothing of what was going on and only wanted stability begged me not to so I stayed hoping things would things get better and instead they got worse. She started to rage while the boys were there. I took to sleeping on the floor of my sons room when she attacked me. She was quite simply a terrifying person. By the time I knew I had to leave I was so broken down I needed help. She had erected a tent in the middle of the living room with a padlock on it and I had no idea what was inside. I thought about the stories she told me about how she was part of the black block and snuck illegally into Canada as part of a protest movement. I remembered how she lived in a tent in the woods alone for over a year. I remembered her obsession with serial killers, how as a teenager she painted her walls black and plastered their pictures all over her black walls. I remember her telling me she would walk the city streets with a german shepherd and a baseball bat. Shortly after she set up the tent she took bright blue duct tape and wrote the words BE HAPPY in crooked letters. I knew it was now or never. She’d never let me go. I rented a U-Haul, and two friends helped me throw my stuff in it overnight as fast as we could while she was working a double and we drove it out to my parents’ house in the valley. It was the most terrifying thing I ever had to do in my life. I don’t think I stopped holding my breath until I saw their beautiful welcoming house reminding me I was still myself. That yes this was a nightmare but it was one I could wake up from. One I could escape from.

I don’t like to think about what could have happened to me, to my children had I not literally run for my life. There is so much more to tell, about dealing with Ian’s second wife, about learning to truly be a single mother and navigate the horrors of public assistance. About finding myself amongst the rubble of my ruined relationships. About learning how to relish in my sons, my independence and my own inner strength I never even knew I had until it was put to the test. I have a long and adventurous tale to tell but for now I’ll leave you with these words of wisdom.

You never know how strong you are, until you overcome your greatest failure. Which really is just a stepping stone to success.

Blessings