Here’s the deal. The human soul doesn’t want to be advised or fixed or saved. It simply wants to be witnessed — to be seen, heard and companioned exactly as it is.
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For Joey
IF I Should Have to Go 10/28/16
If I must leave this earth, I want you to use my death as your rebirth. Take my breath, take my strength, take my smile and determination use it to nurture yourself. Carry on my son.
In your depths of grief and in your joyous moments of memory I do not think you shall ever know how much I loved you. I hope from beyond I can give you even more of that love. To the moon and back, deeper than the deepest sea, wider than the eye can see, more than the space shuttle and all that stuff. I have loved you. Pass love on.
More than anything I want you to know that LIFE IS WORTH IT. Even when it does not feel that way. My life had many ups and downs, that’s just part of the ride Keep your eyes open and your hands in the air. Feel it all… because feeling is living.
What my life brought me was you, my beautiful son, who taught me so much and brought me such moments of joy that I carry with me from here and beyond.
You, and your amazing father, were my life’s main purpose. I was here to bring you into this world and to be by your father’s side as he had to leave this world. Those two things have been my great privilege.
He and I are together now in another world. Continuing to shower you with love and eager to watch you share that love with others.
The purpose of life is just to share. Your love, your gifts, your time on this earth, with others. In whatever small or grand way God has chosen for you to do that.
There have been so many amazing people in your life that came through both your father and I. And other people that I have met for an hour or shared a whole lifetime with, within my lifetime. Reach out to them. They matter and they care. Share love with them every chance you get.
So, fly my giant “Sunday bird” fly. Make me proud. More than that make yourself proud. My life was never in vain… because I was your Mother. You were my gift from, and to, the universe. You were born to be great. Share with the world all the love you have been given and all the love you can create. Be happy my son.
My Friend Hope
Lighten up, my new friend says,
Please don’t bring me down.
It’s her first day here, she’s new in town.
Unaware of what awaits,
She wants to play,
She’s at the gate.
I blow her off.
I run away.
She doesn’t get it ,she wants to stay.
Her name is Hope.
Her smile is sunny, she likes to laugh,
She thinks she’s funny.
I don’t want her here.
I want to wallow.
Where I like it, full of sorrow.
But she persists.
She makes me grin.
She builds me, up I cannot win.
Oh well, I think.
I’ll let her stay, just for a while,
Just for today.
The Surfboard
On my 49th birthday my brother bought me a very impressive, very expensive pink surfboard. A few months later he died alone on the floor of his filthy apartment. He laid there dead for 5 days before someone found him and I received the phone call from the police.
You see I was not a surfer and he was not rich enough to be buying me such a frivolous gift. I was a struggling widow trying to pick up the pieces of my life by moving to a tropical island and he was a struggling alcoholic newly divorced and pining for some contact his 3 children.
This was not always our lot in life. We had like many people ridden the rollercoaster of life with gusto, had many ups and downs. We kept getting back in line and buying more tickets though hoping maybe one time we would get stuck way up at the top. From there looking down at the world it was breathtaking and anything seemed possible. We always held each other’s hand up there but let go, and threw our hands in the air, for the belly twisting descent.
Well I took that surfboard and bought another ticket to ride. My dear brother did not, and chose to roam around like an old carney down below, this is where our paths diverged. I tried desperately to talk him into another ride. Buying him tickets, pleading from above. Screaming about the ride and reminding him just how fun it could be. Enticing him with dreams of cotton candy and giant stuffed animals. But he had been duped just one too many times and his dresser top at home was full of cheap, useless little trinkets.
The carnival of his charmed life was packing up and moving on and I, well I joined the circus. Yearning for the big top life, I left him behind.
Not that things may have turned out any differently but it was a choice I regret to this day. The big top life was hard and without him to talk to, to ride with, life was just not the same. I never bought another ticket for the rollercoaster I just went around, and round on the merry-go- round too scared to even let my grip go to try and grab for the golden ring.
Some days at the circus I had chosen to live in I would be overcome by fatigue and then grief would set in. I had lost my husband and my brother, my two-favorite people in life. Sometimes I would look up at the sky and rage at them. Other times I was truly jealous of them. Imagining them seated together on a fluffy cloud, laughing, free from all the strife of life.
I continued to muddle through my new life, I can’t say it was the paradise I had imagined. The days were long I was working hard just to get by. There was little time at first to even go to the beach let alone try out the shiny pink surfboard. It just taunted me from the corner of my porch. On my 53rd birthday, a blustery October day with the tropical winds blowing, the surfboard fell over, it cracked. I cried…hard.
Enough was enough I grabbed the board and stalked down to the beach. Fumbling to put the leash around my ankle like I had seen other surfers do so deftly, I continued to cry. The angry tumultuous waves crashing near my feat drowned my sobs. I mustered up the courage to enter the water and threw myself on top of the board. I floundered trying to get balanced and paddle my way out. It was hard, I wanted to turn back. From the corner of my eye I saw a fading rainbow to the left. Just the remnants of its beauty… the remnants of my hope. I kept paddling.
I remembered the story of how my brother got the board. It had been late in the afternoon; he took my 7-year-old son with him to get me a gift. I thought that was sweet and was looking forward to the wilted flowers from the supermarket and maybe a card or balloon. I was just happy to see my brother trying to teach my son, that you must at least try to make an effort on your Mother’s birthday, never let it pass unnoticed.
They were gone for over an hour and although I hated myself for it, I was worried that I had let my son go off with his drunk uncle in a car. He hadn’t been so drunk that day, just maintaining. When they returned with the enormous surfboard with a giant bow on it I was stunned. A surfboard… I had always wanted one. Always wanted to learn to surf, but shit I was almost 50 now. They were giggling and so proud of themselves that it was infectious. I was thrilled.
They told me about getting to the surf shop and the doors being locked. My brother had pounded on the door and begged the owner to let them in. How he had to use a mix of his two credit cards and all his cash to make the purchase. How the guy gave them the giant bow to adorn the gift for free. How it was all worth it now just to see my happy face. It was a beautiful day in my life. So, on this day that memory kept me paddling forward.
I was finally able to get past the breaking waves and out to the lineup. I was exhausted from being hammered by the surf. Out there among the real surfers, I straddled my board and sat proudly. They all knew me from town but had never seen me in this venue. We chatted, they gave me pointers on how to catch the wave, how to get up quickly on the board. When the swell came upon us they cheered me and shouted “Paddle, paddle, paddle!” I did, and the wave took me, swiftly. I didn’t even try to stand up, I just rode that rush of white water straight onto the shore, screaming wildly all the way. Screaming thank you to my brother for the board, to the universe for another day, for another thrill ride.
I did learn to surf after that, not well, but surfing the waves none the less. Every time I stand up on that board, hit the drop of a wave and get that squeamish feeling in my belly, I think of all the roller coaster rides of life my brother and I took together. I imagine him up there on his puffy cloud cheering this old lady on.
Arguing with Sobriety
Arguing with Sobriety written by Deidra Ciolko
I wasn’t going to drink tonight…really. I say that all the time. Well, almost every morning anyway. But by 5pm or sometimes I make it until 9 or 10, then I say I will just have one. That never works. One always leads to many. No big deal, right? I don’t pass out on the floor, or trip down the street. I still wake up to take my kid to school. I still work every day. I’m not an alcoholic or anything. Well maybe I have rationalized that. At least I am a functioning alcoholic. I come from a long line of that, and of course I know and associate with plenty of people who are worse drinkers than I am. For God’s sake, at least I only drink beer. I do dream of vodka, tequila or lovely gin & tonics…but I never go there. I won’t slide down that slippery slope. So, I am maintaining, right?
Except I know that I am, in fact, an alcoholic. That’s the bitch of it, because I am not stupid. I have always hated being smart. I even blame my intelligence for my drinking. Most days I just can’t take it. All the stupidity in the day wears me down. I am constantly surrounded by bullshit. I think I am better than this crap, except I am not. I have held out a long time put up with shit, struggled, made excuses, stayed strong. I am in my 50’s now. Isn’t it enough. This shit has been going on in my brain since I was twelve.
“If you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em.” Right?
I dumbed myself down first. I lowered my expectations. I succumbed to the stupidity. I played the duck, trying to let it all roll off my back. I have prayed, journaled, sought professional help, seen psychics, tried religion, positive thinking, denial, exercise. I’ve tried yoga, meditation, played ignorant, smiled valiantly, cried shamelessly, reached out, bottled it up. Really nothing has worked. I just gave up and finally went for the slow burn of alcohol. Now I can’t kick it. I have watched, first hand, my own brother kill himself with the same poison end up dead on the floor, alone in an apartment by the sea. With everything to live for. Me desperately having tried to talk him out of it, to save him, to reach him. I couldn’t, I didn’t understand it…now I do…I get it now Johnny.
I watched my father, my first husband, my sister, my second husband, scores of boyfriends and colleagues struggle, give in to, or beat alcohol or drug addiction. Yet today I am in the throes of it, I am sinking, and nobody is throwing ME a lifeline.
The problem is, I don’t want to stop. In the moment that I give in, right around that 3-beer buzz, it feels so good. It’s like nirvana, heaven, ecstasy. It is my friend, my confidant, the best lover, the comforting breast of a mother. A listening father, a perfect day. It’s a great golf game, the perfect wave, the excellent turn of a phrase…fuck at 12 AM it’s like winning the lottery or getting perfect scores on my SAT’s.
Except it’s fucking not. It’s the devil in disguise. Alcohol is a lying suitor, a broken promise, a poor excuse. It is a fucking rampant tragedy. It is history repeating itself. It’s ground hog day. I can’t break the cycle, I can’t escape. Its grip is so tight on me I am suffocated by its overwhelming love. But it is a form of love none the less and that is all I really need. It is an unrelenting lover, a best friend, a mother’s arms. I hate myself so much that I need that validation, unconditional acceptance, forgiving support… give me something. I am not finding anything in the bright hours of the day that fulfills me. I have not lived up to my own expectations. I have given up on redemption. My life is waning. Time is slipping by and I have just been existing. I am disappointed, disillusioned and angry. I am wallowing in the bitterness of my own personal failures. The only respite I find lies in the warm cocoon of an amber bottle
No one else is coming to save me from myself and I am too tired to do it alone. I am a pathetic cheerleader, forlorn and used up beneath the bleachers. I have no energy left to shake my pom-poms. Take me to the courtyard with the smokers and druggies. I don’t need the letterman sweater anymore. Gone are the days of Rah Rah. I am left saddled with sadness and remorse. I have been deflowered and unceremoniously tossed aside just one too many times. I will never be the homecoming queen, the valedictorian, or the “most likely to succeed” of my own life. I am the balding, overweight ex-jock of my high school reunion. The rode hard and put up wet mare in the pasture. The beauty queen in Mom jeans.
It’s fuckin over man…really over, and I know it. There is no hope left to be the phoenix rising. I just want to curl up with a bottle and let it all pass me by. Just give me a pillow and a quilt. A day filled with soap operas, sad movies, a bag of chips and a broken-down trailer. I am home… knock knock, let me in. Take my battered psyche and let it rest on your worn brown couch. Feed me canned spaghetti and dress me in K-mart clothes. I give up. There is no amount of fairy dust, motivational seminars, self-help books filled with reveries of second chances, that can help me build wings strong enough to fly out of this deep pit of negativity. Do me a favor and buy me a beer. Don’t laugh at the maudlin hackneyed application of my so-called lipstick…I am still a pig. A pig with lipstick. Whatever remains of my good breeding, my past successes my ability to be well spoken and well-mannered will disappear in the next few hours.
Because if it is after 10 pm…I’m done.
All you will get from me now is sappy stories, drunken dancing and the promise of a great blowjob. Maybe a half assed ear for your own laments. I am done, washed up, incapable of actually caring. I might talk a good game, I may even still be able to fool you for a while. I might woo you with my past successes. I might impress you with my imaginary dreams for the future. You might be tantalized by my abandon or tricked by my intelligent wit. But I am nothing. Nothing but a sad aging drunk with an amazing past and a fruitless future. No grapes will ripen on my vine. The roots are dead. Overwatered by the gallons of ingested alcohol and saturated by my salty tears of my despair.
Take me to an AA meeting. Look beyond my bravado. Realize the potential but don’t talk to me about because it I won’t believe you. Offer me a buoy in the dark sea of my psychosis. Bring me a coffee in the morning. Remind me of others that have beaten a fate worse than mine. Tell me you will hold my hand, be there for me on the other side. Recognize my potential and offer me an alternative to the dingy apartment my mind lives in now, crawling with the cockroaches of my own discontent. Over run by the rats of my fear.
I am afraid…. utterly terrorized, of you, dear SOBRIETY… but more importantly of myself. What could I possibly become now? Who would I be if I wasn’t the junkie of inebriated joy? Some pathetic AA groupie? A crunchy granola health nut? Some righteous reformed bull shitter? Show me who I can be now. I cannot fulfill the dreams of my past. That door of opportunity has closed. What do you have to offer me other than the Lord’s Prayer and a bunch of Hail Mary’s on the way up the twelve steps? Can God really grant me the serenity that has so long eluded me? I doubt it…know that I doubt sobriety more than I even doubt my drunken self. I am safe when I am drunk. Safe from myself and any inclination of struggle.
It is easy for me now to wake up and hate myself. I am a pro at navigating the terrain I currently tread. I’ve got no sea legs for abstinence. I cannot function on that even surface. And what will I do when the road gets bumpy? What will I do on the bad days? Go for a run, cook a gourmet meal, and write a few pages of my book? All of that I know how to do so well already…under the influence and with the help of my partner, Mr. Alcohol.
Even if I was inclined to stop the madness it wouldn’t be today. I have a fridge full of cold ones and a fistful of dollars. I HAVE NOT REACHED ROCK BOTTEM and no life changing tragedy has befallen me. (Really? What am I demented?) I am still whole, right? Well maybe not whole but well pieced together. Not today please I am not ready. Where shall I wait for you sobriety? In the street, by the dumpster, or sleeping on a bench in the park? Things are not that bad. I have a few more good highs in me, don’t I?
What???…my child, my spouse, my business, my aging parents, they’ll all be alright. I am still maintaining… until the day I am not. Maybe it won’t be too late. Maybe my novel will be done by then and I will leave them well set up, posthumously caring for the people who have loved me. Isn’t that enough? Won’t that be a tragic marketing ploy? They could forgive me, right? After all I made it this far. I played the game. I followed the rules. I faked it. I’ve kept up my responsibilities. Isn’t it my turn? Isn’t it my time. Don’t judge me.
Do you think abstinence will love me unconditionally, like the liquor does? It never judges me. It leaves me to my own devices. It has long nourished my neurosis. It is a long-lost friend in these deflated days of the autumn of my life. Alcohol has picked up the pieces, spurred me on during the times of trouble and eminent pathetic self-reflection. It has fed me in my frenzy of confusion, lulled me off to slumber when I COULD NOT SLEEP FOR all MY WORRIES AND STRIFE.
Doesn’t it deserve some recognition? A grandiose farewell party. Don’t call my curfew. Let me dally in-sub ordinance. I never really got to be a teenager. Grant me some sophomoric indulgence. Just a little longer. I am about to make out with the star quarterback. And everyone will soon see I am the prom queen of my own dreams. I will be vindicated at the homecoming and everything with be rosy and bright, everything will be alright. Won’t it? Don’t be the angry dad and call me home. I am finally starting to enjoy myself. Don’t take away my bottle…I’m just not ready.
Until I am, then I do too beg the universe for a second chance. Every sweaty, panicked dizzying morning. Head pounding and day looming. Yes, then I pray. I worry, I cry, I promise… my own blurry eyed reflection in the mirror…
“No more drinking. Just cut back a little. Don’t you have any will power?”
“Of course, you do. Today will be the day…” I tout to the angel on my right shoulder.
Every morning I wash my face and go forth into the dawn with some renewed hope. Oh, the ever-elusive hope. By nightfall it has eaten away at my morning strength until it is in shreds. Even the scotch tape and Elmer’s glue of my fortitude is eroded. I take a sip. Just one I think, just one drink…
Then it becomes one day more lost to intemperance. All day I have been scouring the shops of my mind for the cloak of abstinence, but it has eluded me like the perfect shoes. Instead I put on my feet the well-worn moccasins of my current state of inebriation, they don’t let me down. Maybe one day the dogs of my soul will chew them up and bury them in my yard never to be seen again.
Until then I take a sip, I throw my future into the still… of the night.
I am Here
What if I was no longer living here?
I mean, with my feet on earth
What if you could not see me smile
Or even hear me curse
Look, I know I’ve been no picnic.
Not a real bundle of joy.
But I tried to make all the every days,
Comfortable for you boys
So, when I do escape this realm,
And hover close above
I need you to know all was not lost
On cleaning with a white glove.
I wanted to give you perfection,
Make your life as easy as pie.
So, when you are sad do not wonder
Never wonder why.
Why I had to go away, why I am no longer
At your beck and call
I am still a hovering and watching over all
I will never be far from your side.
Nor will I ever you forsake.
So, on those lonely dismal days,
Please do from my soul partake
That I was strength and I enjoyed,
Every single minute.
And though now I am free and at peace,
No world has worth without you in it.
So, from the clouds and from the trees,
I am still pulling those puppet strings.
And in the wind, you’ll hear my voice
Whispering all those annoying things
I will not cease to love you, and never stop to care
About your needs and dreams
No, my loves, I will always be near.
So, hear the birds and watch the clouds
‘Cause you will find me close.
Never for my departure should you ever be ramose.
Remember me and all I taught,
And all still you have to teach.
And think of me every single time
You are walking on the beach.
That’s it!
Few ideas for good weekend!
By Edgar Alan Poe
Few things u would like about him will show up shortly
Why I Resumed Smoking
Quitting smoking is hard, everyone knows that. But everyone also knows that it is bad for your health and often times leads to an early and/or painful death. So I decided after 35 years of smoking to quit.
Of course I needed to quit. It had been suggested by doctors for several years. I had high cholesterol, arterial heart disease, shortness of breath, stomach problems and I had had a small stroke. But none of these very real threats to my health caused me to decide to quit.
I quit out of a sense of love and responsibility towards my 17-year-old son. Having already lost his Father at a young age. It suddenly dawned on me how unfair I was being potentially shortening my own life. Didn’t I want to be there for him. Help him, guide him, support him? I mean didn’t I want to see him graduate college, get married, have kids, be successful. Yes. Didn’t I want to revel in the love of my grandchildren? I did… so I stopped.
I really struggled with the loss of my cigarettes…really. I went into a deep depression. I was anxious, angry, I couldn’t sleep, I gained weight and I was constantly jonesing for the nicotine long after the physical need had passed. I screamed at everyone. I ranted and raved. I was a total bitch, and believe me I did not need any help in that department because I already had been proven to be a “REAL” bitch.
So I should not have been surprised about the comment I came across on my son’s computer screen. A confession to a friend that his mother was a real bitch, always screaming at everyone, getting upset. Yelling at him etc. What I was surprised at was that despite my herculean efforts to show my son how much I loved him every day, my actions, my words, my personality made him feel bad about himself. He felt I was putting him down, blowing him off, not very caring of his feelings. Yes, of this I was shocked. Shocked and hurt and sad…so, so, sad. I really wanted to smoke a cigarette, oh and drink way too much, oh and maybe run away for a while and even maybe kill myself.
Because these few words set me to thinking about myself and all my other relationships as well. What everyone else must think of me.
Now I was under no delusion that I was “sweet”.
I’ve hoed a tough road, made my own way, worked hard and pulled myself up by the bootstraps more times than I care to remember in life, and I am aware that my personality reflects that. But I have my moments. I am fun, sometimes funny, caring, super generous, forgiving and empathetic and solicitous of people’s feelings. I am this sometimes with everyone but mostly I reserve my “good” moments for my son. Trying to brush aside my fatigue, anguish and irritation in order to enjoy our time together. But I guess I had not been very successful in that. Or conveying to him just how much I loved him, how much I cared, how I would go to the ends of the earth to make him happy. How amazing I thought he was and how eternally proud of him I was. No I had failed.
In the hours that followed coming across his comment I became aware as well of just how many times I had failed with other people, not just my son. Actually as the picture emerged it became clear that NOBODY actually “liked” me. So what the hell was I quitting smoking for. Why was I depriving myself? To live longer for the people that hated me. To continue torturing them with my presence in the world. Jesus that is hateful…so I lit a cigarette and cracked a beer and let lose the floodgates of my inner sorrow. Yes, as I took those first drags, I felt right, I felt relief, I felt this…this is your salvation, your fast track to death, get it over with you loser and enjoy the fucking ride.
Puff by puff I rationalized my decision. I started with my long suffering partner in life and in business. He fucking hated me. In the last years it had really come apparent. Frequent fights, carnal straying’s, snarled lips and cruel looks. Sometimes it was behind my back and sometimes right to my face. I knew how much he despised me. My decisions, my bossiness, my arrogance, my ability to make him feel like shit with just a one liner. While I was lashing out at what I perceived to be his lack of love for me, I was actually causing him to hate me even more. Despite everything I provided him with, all I added to his life, my loving of him unconditionally. It was all apparently all lost in my delivery. Or maybe he just didn’t like me.
So that covered the two people I spent most of my days with. But also my staff hated me, I did not have many friends in our town, business colleagues disliked me, vendors, grocery clerks, purveyors, were all “afraid” of me. And that power was no longer funny to me. There were several places I could no longer go, because I had made some kind of a scene related to their bad service. Yes, it was true… my reputation did precede me.
My siblings, hmm… that was a big one. At 50 some years old. I was on the outs with all of them. The eldest, after years of being the protector, the provider, the confidant it seems they to hated me. Found me brash, bossy and unlikable. This is not the time to go into all the little things I felt they did to me to tarnish our relationships; the reality apparently was that it was not everyone else… my son had confirmed it…it was me. And it took that, my own blood stating that for me to see it. I took another drag. Even my dead brother who had been my soulmate had not apparently liked me, or so I was told after his death by his bitter ex-wife. But was she bitter? Maybe it was true. Maybe he had talked about me behind my back and not enjoyed my company. All those years of banter had only been a banal ruse, to pass the time while he endured my presence.
Only days ago, during a severe nicotine craving I had launched into my own two-hour rave against myself in the mirror, about what a loser I was. How nothing had ever worked out for me. How I refused to give up and give in to the fact that maybe I was destined to just be a loser. How I had no friends, no close family how my own mother had hated me just because I was born when she was only 18 and ruined her life. Well maybe that wasn’t it, maybe I ruined her life just by being me. Maybe she had never been bitter…maybe just straight from the womb I had been unbearable, unlovable. Yes, that must have been it. I lit another cigarette.
Smoke rings like halos over my thoughts, the room dense with exhaled residue and my brain fogged with alcohol it was all coming clear now. It was me not them…
Thankyou nicotine for clearing that up. Thankyou cigarettes for hastening the end… and to the rest of you that have been poisoned over the years by my venom I am sorry, sorry I could not have smoked more and put you out of your misery or the misery of me… sooner.
P.S. JOEY-
it’s just a story, just a moment in a day, that made me feel a certain way. I know you loved me then and you love me still today.
Happy day
Today was a happy day for me, cause I’ve got good grads at school