Now of course this whole time she was dressed in pink tights, a black leotard and a tutu like the most adorable baby ballerina you ever saw. Ironically she was kicked out of ballet for pretending to be a cat; crouching in the corners and meowing and hissing at the other dancers.
Well, here goes…
I’ve never written a blog before. I’ve written poetry, good poetry. I’ve written text-rants to my sister and made her laugh so hard she almost dropped her baby (too much? “she almost dropped her coffee” there, feel better?) Anyways she text-yells at me write a blog!
So here I am, writing a blog and it feels very weird because I’m supposed to be sleeping and I’m writing on an iPhone with a cracked screen that I can’t afford to fix for various and assorted reasons I will go into someday. So I can’t see that well, plus tonight was ridiculous anyways because I was making quiche which was taking forever and my mom was playing with my daughter who was being a cat. Things were rolling along sort of when my mom, affectionately known as Grandmommy by my 4 1/2 year old daughter (the half is EXTREMELY important) suddenly stood up and said “I can’t take this anymore will you please turn back into a child?!” And Alice, that’s my daughter’s name (yes I named her after Alice in Wonderland because I am awesome) just kept meowing at her until she gave up and was mama cat for like 15 more minutes and then she was REALLY done. She told Alice to pick another game or she wasn’t going to play with her anymore. So of course Alice started barking at her. My mom said “I give up.” I said “She’s a method actor, she likes to stay in character.”
Now of course this whole time she was dressed in pink tights, a black leotard and a tutu like the most adorable baby ballerina you ever saw. Ironically she was kicked out of ballet for pretending to be a cat; crouching in the corners and meowing and hissing at the other dancers. Of course she dances perfectly with Emma from The Wiggles. Hey, your kid learns their way, my kid learns from the happy Australians on my television set. It’s a free country. Sometimes she’s a ballerina and sometimes she’s a cat. Sometimes she’s a ballerina cat. Sometimes she’s a cat for a whole day and that’s when I find I myself have forgotten how to form complete sentences. Well, this is only the first half of my evening, and truly a teaser! For the next bit you’ll have to check out my second post. Trust me, it’s well worth the effort.
So as those who know me will tell you I am a writer and mom of 3 diagnosed with bipolar 1 with psychotic features. My mission in life is to eradicate the stigma associated with mental illness. As part of each post I will be including a poem that I feel reaches through the void of falsehood and touches the realm of the heart. God bless.
The shells I pick up are bits of who I was.
This expanse of beach with its white, twisted limbs and water rounded rocks is the vast and lonely world my mind has become.
I gather the bits of shell and bramble, desperate to build the husk I used to wear. That they all wear.
I plaster a smile across the face of it thinking there’s no way they won’t notice this shabby, thrown together version of me with its wide fake smile: my teeth too white, my lips too red; cracking at the corners.
But I’m wrong.
I leave the desolate beach of my mind and it’s as if that husk reassures them.
They greet my clown face with their own false cheer. Can it be that no one notices I am a collection of forgotten, broken beach glass and fragments of shells cast off by creatures freer than I’ll ever be?
I try to focus on their words but all I can see are their jaws moving and their teeth like angry warnings.
I am suddenly hit by the ugliest truth: what I see is nothing more than their cobbled husks and I can see past it into a well of confusion and fear.
Their teeth give it away. Angry, rebellious. Cruel.
So I run. I run away from their fake leering curiosity masked as concern. I run, my chest heaving, the shells and glass breaking away and crashing to the frozen, unyielding earth. I run until I can see the beach. The beach of my mind.
I run tripping over sticks, cutting my naked feet on broken shells and rocks. Then I stop. My husk a distant memory. Like a snake I have shed my skin and I stand there naked and new under the cold sun watching the waves crashing against each other, the delicate sea foam riding the water’s crest.
I marvel at the beauty of this moment. My feet bleeding into the cold sand. The pools of red waking the dead ground. I race forward and jump into the waves leaving only red footprints.
I am a mermaid.
Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton