Played in the background as I sat w my tea n bagel at my favorite writing place—Panera Bread. I do more eating than writing, but I like to think of writers like Patti Smith sitting in her favorite cafe writing. It gives me comfort n helps keep me focused. I read Just Kids in Jail, I don’t think I would have made it through wo her book. Some parts were difficult, their life wasn’t easy in NYC, but it reminded me of my modest success. I avoided the “Starving Artist” years mostly. I had worked in the Corporate sector n had done very well, so well in fact I was set to retire at 50, w a freelance business I had just started n loved, but life had other plans—in reverse! I would live the starving artist part now I thought.
I’ve been procrastinating writing. I get a little more nervous because it’s harder to write this way then to pour out my feelings on a page. I would write 1-2 pages long-hand every morning b4 work. I loved that kind of writing n had 4 huge black plastic bins of 20yrs of writing. Writing a blog is different n I put it off, feeling not good enough sharing at times, plus there is so much going on just surviving being homeless. Emotional writing doesn’t have n audience, so u can get let it flow. I miss that in my life. It’s hard to carry much now, so carrying around journals isn’t really n option anymore. I’m glad I transitioned to the iPhone, but it’s different. Something about paper n pen, it just flows easier than the computer, but I’m getting better. My Grammar is always a problem, but I’m getting better. I have so little time to edit—it just has to go if I want anything at all. Just shut up n write I tell myself. I feel out of sorts if I go too long wo writing. It’s like I have to clear my internal house n writing helps me do that. It’s one of those things I fell in love w dealing w the abuse in my life.
Home! is what I want for Christmas, I thought. I thought of the home I had often now as it started to get cold again, but not as much as last Winter. I was really cold last Winter, but it was because of all the grief I had been dealing w too. The loss of so much had to b let go of in order to make room for other things. I spent mornings crying from the cold, nestled in my mummy bag, thinking about all the losses n how I was going to go on. How could I get on my feet when everything was gone? even my faith had been pretty much been lost. I struggled to pray as I usually had; offering only grace when I ate or managed to make it to the restroom on the other side of the plaza, but God n I were missing in action. I still felt somewhat lost, bewildered, unable to still truly make sense of everything that happened n I felt resentful towards God. How could he do this after such n awful childhood then finding out my 20yr marriage was all a lie—what was real? What could I keep? Was there anything left? Who was I now? What the hell was I suppose to do now? God wasn't too forth coming.
Things had always moved along. I loved college n after college started working. Loved starting a career, living in a broken down, but lovely old brownstone in Albany NY, driving my old bomber car, n falling in love. I got engaged n like many do, thought my life was moving along meeting those goals so many of us set; Marriage, Home, family. For me, having work I loved n a fiancé was success. I felt on my way working towards my goals, but this transition wasn’t like others I had been through. This one seemed too traumatic, destructive—death. The death of everything I held dear. I felt empty, hollow, abandoned by God. We were not on good terms, I joked, but I felt a profound existential crisis; dark night of the soul, only it felt like this was permanent. My life was basically gone, the life I knew; the me I knew. The person I had worked so had to become had been destroyed like being in a horrible accident n u wake up n people tell u ur not who u were. No, u don’t have that new car u just bought or the home u worked on for 20yrs or that Vacation property on the lake. No, u can’t retire u have no money n forget that career n business—it’s gone! The shock kept me buffered from the worst of these awful feelings, but now they were ready for their due as it wore off n I had survived.
“Home is where the heart is” wall art that had hung over my bed when married, but my heart was so busted, I felt like I didn’t even have one anymore. I was rough sleeping in the Winter where ever I could. Mostly places I could get food, shower, n use the restroom, which doesn’t leave too many places. People believe as I did u can live anywhere, but u find how untrue that is when ur homeless. Spending hours trying to find a restroom is not fun. I learned to make a home anywhere. I had made it through the Winter n felt empowered when I emerged in the Spring still alive. I didn’t freeze to death, thank God, nor did I die of hypothermia. I was ok! It hadn’t been n awful Winter as far as cold, but I sobbed most mornings. I could not spend too much time doing this because the cold kept me moving—I had no choice. There isn’t much time to give up if u want to keep warm u have to keep moving, which I did. Writing kept me moving. Tea, bagels, n soup at Panera Bread kept me grateful that somehow God had a plan even though there were mornings I was so angry w him I thought I would never have faith again. How could we do this again! I thought. Didn’t I have enough abuse in my life?
God was having none of it. When I got too down sheriff’s accused me of being suicidal. I wasn’t but it forced me to confront my core beliefs about survival. I had so many “survival items” at the end of my 20yr marriage n yet I never felt safe! I had never been safe, n it wasn't just because my ex-husband had never loved me, it was a core belief I realized in the woods last Winter rough sleeping. I slept in n old falling down barn. Many times thinking of the horses there from so long ago. Their ghosts keeping me company. They weren’t free I had thought like Wild horses. I imagined the one in this barn so majestic, he kept me company. I thought of his life of training, racing—being confined, but safe. He was safe. He ate well, many Wild horses starve. I thought of my own confinement. As much as I wanted; safety, privacy, n security, in my life—I had none of that even though I thought I had it. Yet, I was constantly terrified at the end. So terrified, I remember being afraid to even get wood from the wood pile stacked by the well house. Alone at the end of my marriage living there, I wouldn’t even make a fire outside by myself at night. It wasn’t that it was that dangerous, it was because I had lost something so precious it’s taken me awhile to know what it was n then to get it back! But, what was “it?” I was to find out n that’s when I fell back in love w God, w life, w trying to put another one together.
Christmas songs continue to play as I write n chastise myself for putting it off; feeling good to write—feeling safe! which was very odd. How could I feel more safe w so much less? Or remember always wanting to travel. My favorite song when my best friend n I played “Rockstars.” We were singers putting on plays n would pick our favorite song. I loved being in plays at school n would often act out these plays w my best friend. My favorite song was by Peter, Paul n Mary, Leaving on a Jet Plane. I imagine I would have a couple cool bags n go. After I married, we bought a Lakehouse n our 2-family home, I started to accumulate so much more than those 2 suitcases n it unnerved me. Success had been a surprise even though I worked so hard. I was of the generation that if u did what u loved u never really worked—it became true for me. My ex complained all the time about how he hated his job. He was old school that way. You worked a job u might not like that much, but that’s what u did, especially if it was a decent one. He had decent benefits, belonged to a Union, but it was a Mill, similar to assembly line rote work watching a machine, n he complained bitterly.
I worked in Photo-finishing for years n loved that. It was repetitive, but those days were easy days. I also did color corrections, which I also loved, but this required more thinking. Some days it was so nice to just sit for hours printing. It was meditative in ways. You would click in the corrections periodically n let the film run through. Most rolls didn’t need much. Then in the afternoons I would b tasked w specific corrections to photos that came back. This was all b4 digital. It was a cool job, but I loved moving on to Graphic Design, more responsibility n I missed being a manager n the perks, benefits that went along w that. After I got into Information Technology n managing a network, doing help desk, training people on software, no day was ever really the same. I was teaching myself, learning on the job, n reading constantly to teach myself new computer skills n often taking night classes, which I loved to move forward w my skills, but each day was so different n often so hard figuring out those challenges. It was exciting heady work. IT was a very cool field I loved n found it came somewhat naturally. I was changing jobs often, but that was normal in the field at that time. Often by passing not being promoted from within to b given bigger titles or more money by moving on. Corporations were downsizing often; mergers, restructuring were going on all the time. The field seemed wide open n I had found my way once again even though at the time I didn’t know so much sabotage was actually going on behind the scenes towards me.
Promotions, decent money; homes, new cars, investments, savings, but why wasn’t I happy? What was so wrong? Why didn’t things feel good? Why did I feel so scared, anxious—terrified even! In the woods, I learned w all that it had been a much deeper wound than my divorce. It had gone all the way back to when my parents divorced, my father left, n we moved in w my mothers new boyfriend. She was pregnant, hated being my mother, n let me know repeatedly I was not wanted. Because she was always the victim, I never came to terms w how terrified I always was. “There’s the door, don’t let it hit u in the ass,” she would yell all the time. She could b so angry, enraged, fists flying along w whatever else she picked up, only to collapse in sobs telling me how awful her life was. I would often swing between being her enemy to comforting her. Forced to understand the complicated things she would talk about. Today knowing most of it was dramatic drama for not wanting to do what she was suppose to do; namely b my mother, which she hated. She hated being a mother, being home; cooking, cleaning, n of course her constant hatred for my father or so she wailed, but knowing today that was another lie!
I never felt secure except w my Grandmother, “Gram.” She didn’t want to b called “Grandma,” it was Gram or as I sometimes thought Graham, she was so cool! Her cool apartment was always clean, quiet, serene. White sheets, soft pretty bathroom, calm colors—love. My mothers home was violence, chaos, confusion. I never realized how frightened I had always been looking 2b safe until the woods; alone, cold—rough sleeping. I collected survival items instead of Knick-knacks n things like jewelry. I build my secure life until it became a prison I almost was killed in. My ex became ever more controlling n in taking responsibility for my part, I needed to see that as I became so consumed w being safe, I abdicated way too much to his ability to control me even more. How could I have so much to feel safe n yet b terrified all the time? I hadn’t even realized how my agency had slowly been taken away, but also relinquished. I hadn’t been that way as a girl. I stood up to bullies, managed to keep my mother from seriously hurting me even though her beatings were regular, n generally moved forward in my life acquiring n doing things for the most part kids do growing up, but some small profound empty part of me went along unhealed.
We all have wounding as children. We learn as we go n most come to terms w our parents mistakes, things that didn’t go our way; regular childhood stuff. The problem w abuse is that there can b trauma that was never dealt w but that fights for expression, awareness, nonetheless. I thought of the time my mother had me thrust up on a horse to ride, bareback no less. I was about 5yrs old, loved the movie, National Velvet w the young Elizabeth Taylor, but after the experience never wanted anything to do w horses again! I hadn’t really thought consciously of this because later on in school girls in 4th 5th grades loved horses, but by then I didn’t n wasn’t sure why until the old barn in the woods. I also refused to ever have anyone pick me up.
Watching boyfriends pick up their girlfriends playfully was cute n all, but mine were not allowed even though they were big guys that could—I was always afraid. Afraid, I thought of being dropped, but I had no idea it was connected to this traumatic memory. I had thought it was because around 14yrs old when my best friend became pregnant at 16yrs old, I had put on weight n continued w the college 20lbs they used to say most girls put on freshman year. I felt fat, “thunder thighs” one bully that tormented all through High School called me. I would b too ashamed if they thought I was too heavy to pick up or really did drop me. It was trust too. I thought of that horse n how funny my mother thought it was as I cried—petrified. I never talked about horses again n only recently understood why I felt a calling to take riding lessons or photograph the ones I saw or my growing love for the Wild ones they were trying to rescue.
This memory came flooding back! How did I forget I had at one time loved horses. My horse ghost in the old barn was letting me know. I imagined he was there waiting for me each night I bundled up in my mummy bag, grateful to b back home. Home? in n old horse barn? Yes, I thought not only home, but safety. Not safe like a house, car, n trappings of success, but inside very, very deeply from so long ago that I can fight back, regain a part of me that had been lost n stand in my own truth again—not another’s control. A fake safety, a secure sense of lies basically, but nothing more. Certainly not the safe, secure, feelings of being loved because I had not been by my ex-husband. I had mistaken control for love because I wanted so desperately to feel safe. He was older, more established, had stable family n was always talking w such confidence I mistook it for knowledge, but it wasn’t. It was all deception I wanted to believe because I was terrified; running from something inside. Today I know, the pain of those losses, that insecurity. The constant unstable way I was forced to live that anytime was going to b destroyed by whatever innocuous things my mother raged about. My safety that precious n I never understood until in the cold woods in the old historic Horse barn. Champions, I’m told n started to read about. I was no longer afraid. I cried, I wailed, I told God we were done! That was it! I knew he hated me n we weren’t even going to discuss it anymore. Not that he ever answered, but considering my life was in such a shambles, I felt he had made his decision. Everyone else I knew was doing great! It must b u! just like my ex always said. How could I argue w that now? It seemed like he was right, but as the days went by, n temps fell to wind chills of 14 below I would pray thinking I would not make it only to wake up in the morning cold n knowing I had to get up.
What the hell? I would think bitching, ranting at God on my way to get something warm. Cursing I could not stay in my mummy bag n keep the warm inside a little longer. “Get moving,” would b what that still small voice would intone. Seriously? I never had such anger in my life! Incensed that this was continuing n I had to deal w it. I didn’t want to die, I had always been grateful for something, n I had so much to b grateful for it got me out of whatever blues I would feel, mostly about my ex-husbands increasing abuse. I would go to the gym, which always defused whatever anger I felt, but this was getting harder to do because I was often deeply fatigued even though I slept good at times. I read if u have a phobia, sometimes repeated exposure helps. It’s been the case for me, home became that sense of security deep down. I could fight back again, something I never did in my marriage except to plead or placate or walk away. I was now fighting, swearing, telling people to fuck off! It wasn’t always pretty, but then again neither is dying because people r consistently lying to u n want u to b homeless w nothing—destroyed.
I emerged from last Winter healed in ways I’m only now somewhat understanding. That deep down in that place that holds space for u as a person—human being, welcomed, wanted. You belong, we wanted u, we love u was never there even though I had my beautiful loving Gram. Deprivation by my parents had been constant in ways today I see as part of the ongoing abuse that certain phobias held clues to. Traumas that after healed opened up space for this love to rush in n fill this empty place that had been empty I had been looking for my whole life n it wasn’t the actual post n beam of a house, it was something much deeper. A love that went beyond my immature parents unable to love me. A love that kept prodding me to find it. Calling me, pushing me, making me so angry I thought I would die from the strength n overwhelming power of those feelings. Ones I had repressed for so long thinking they would kill me if I ever gave into them. Of course, I was angry! but I took the high road, I forgave, wasn’t that what u were suppose to do?
I laugh now grateful God didn’t give up on me. I really told him off quite a few times. LOL but he’s God, I figured he could take it. I wanted to b honest n if I was upset w someone I always thought it better to say my peace n not hold a grudge or walk away. Problem was that’s as far as it went. I learned to let things go too much until I was a shell of myself—agency just about gone. I liken it to desensitizing what ur afraid of until ur no longer afraid, until u slay the demon; call its bluff, which I did! It’s not that I don’t have healthy fear now, but it’s a core belief I can fight back now. I felt helpless on that horse so long ago. He seemed huge n he was—I was 5yrs old. I looked to my mother, but was already learning she was never going to help me n told me all the time she wasn’t going to. I didn’t know what I did then to compensate for this, but today know all those cords of wood, stocked pantries, home-made candles, electric heaters n hot-water baseboards, continuous learning of survival skills n I was always feeling anxious n unsafe meant something. I didn’t feel safe deep down in my own self. I had to relearn to feel safe. Not the kind from someone else, but myself. I had always had no problem being alone, but this was t that. It was knowing I could fend off danger. It became more psychological than real danger. My mother recently drew back n punched me in the face. I was unfazed n yet it wasn’t the physical threat that terrified me, but something else. It was her abandonment that facing left me petrified like a baby might feel when deserted knowing it will die wo mother, but I was 59yrs old for goodness sakes—I was a grown woman. I was terrified, but determined to see this through. What lesson did it hold? I knew from past transitions that pain accompanies growth. I never shied away from hard work preferring to always do the hard stuff first when it came to chores or goals. So I wanted to know, but not believing really that wo all I had life held anything more.
Christmas this year still finds me homeless, but I’m “Home” in myself this wonderful time of the year. While things r still very hard, I’m hopeful things will all work out again. I have me! It sounds cliche n it took me quite awhile to get here, but Gods not so bad again n life holds all the wonder it once did n more. It’s amazing when u fall back in love again even deeper than before even w it all broken n busted up—beautiful. As n Artist, we often make due w nothing, making something out of nothing, seeking new ways n means of putting things together over n over again, failing over n over again too, connected to creative vision that moves us, pushes us to keep going ever deeper, which is how we also learn to love. Clearing out the failures n learning from them to move into n even better creative dance w that divine intelligent source of all that is.
May you all find that bliss dear readers this Holiday, Holy season—Thank you all for being here w me.
Namaste 🖤
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