The birds chirp today, sky blue, acacia blooms bright yellow. It’s chilly still, but beautiful and even warm under the sun. I finally feel a bit of calm, even with my relentless insomnia. Sleepless nights, every night, when will I sleep again? The house is quiet except for my dog breathing and the refrigerator hum. I spent a few moments in my studio today, but it needs a major cleaning and purging so I can begin my work again. I’m past yesterday and sit still in today. I let my worries off the hook for now and will practice recognizing the here and now. I take charge of things, do what I can, continue to study ASL, work on myself, my practice of mindfulness, my art practice and my writing. With this practice I am not looking for a quick fix or answers, I’m only looking for a softer approach from myself to myself. That’s all. I will be as open as ever, as giving and honest as ever, that is me. But I will practice direct communication and assertiveness and confidence in myself. I’m not going backwards and feeling sad about my difficulties of the past several months, if not years. The difficulties manifested as I tried to do the best I could. At first glance I feel upset I missed my last art opening but when I look at the details surrounding the incident, I will give myself a break, I am still learning to be assertive and confident. Things are going to change for me, I will change. My problems will not disappear, but I can learn to live without so much fear. I will, I can, I am. I am strong, smart, creative, and I care deeply about my family, my community, my world. I used to say I wasn’t made for this world, this time period, even though I’m so tough and have lived through so much trauma and hardships, most people who know me now would be shocked to hear what my life has been like. But I’m sensitive and live in fight or flight most of the time. Or sadness and depression. Or I’m super excited and optimistic. It’s all O.K., it’s who I am. I will no longer let others stifle me or scare me. I can’t. I know I can do this.
Category: a letter to me
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“Why are you talking like that?” Jack asked me.
He had just started throwing pillows of the futon during story time. Tears had started rolling down my cheeks, my voice quivering.
“Because I’m tired Jack, it’s exhausting saying No, don’t do that all day long” I said.
I gained control of myself and finished the stories.
I went to bed and Jack and Fiona came in several times for several hugs and kisses. Jack was extra sweet and since it was Ice Cream truck day after camp, things went swimmingly all day.
Fiona was so happy when I picked her up from camp and she even told me she met a new friend. There was no hitting after camp and I’m hoping today can be as smooth.
I’m so tired and need a break. I might skip my Spanish class to get a few hours in my studio. I feel bad because I only have three Spanish classes left. Its a tough choice but when there’s only a few hours of alone time each day I have to make these tough choices.
I need to have some down time. Breath in breath out time. I’m tired of all the politics and being bogged down by the injustices of our world.
The constant fight is exhausting. I’ve been working so hard and find myself here on an island totally isolated.
We were practicing fingerspelling last night at story time, Jack was sweet there too and he’s really good at fingerspelling and his ASL alphabet! One of the exercises was to spell our friends names front and backwards and practice numbers by doing our friends phone numbers.
Again I can’t even think of a friend I have I could call up and invite over! Is that crazy after all this time! People are so busy, and my dhh playgroup ain’t panning out!
Crazy! But I love my alone time. And I’m looking forward to fall spending more time in Berkeley.
Maybe it’s Marin. It seems hard to make good friends in Marin. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.
I’m gonna get back into meditation. I’m gonna do my ASL program in the fall, keep painting and writing and raising my kids.
Try to relax and have fun.
.
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You were so young, maybe fourteen and a half, maybe fifteen. You just started ninth grade at Clairmont High school. A world away from Spring Valley, the place you lived your whole life, a slow paced, dusty, border town. Now you found yourself in an urban environment for the first time. You came with knowledge of the life the kids who were bused in from East San Diego had, but you had no experience with the other half of the kids who were students at Clairmont High, suburban kids. You were always a brave kid and made your way as best as you could.
This day though, something happened to you, an awful thing that took you down a lonely path that lasted your whole high school life. No one knows this story, you’ve never told anyone this story. You were wearing a pair of jeans, they had started to feel tight around the waist. You were working on an article about the cheerleaders for the school paper. It was after school; the hallways were empty. All the activity was down on the athletic fields. You felt a sensation in your lower abdomen, maybe you did hold your pee too long, maybe you should have gone to the bathroom long before you did, or maybe this was a cry for help, a cry for your mom to notice something, even though you didn’t understand what was happening to you yet.
You ran to the bathroom, through the empty halls, trying to hold it, but as you are pulling down your tight, thick, non-stretchy, eighties jeans pee came pouring out. So much pee, it’s hard to believe. The jeans stick to your legs. You can’t pull them up or down. Thoughts run through your mind, how to sneak to your bike and ride home. But you want to tell your mom, you want to call your mom even though she’s at work and you’re usually so independent. I think you had a sweater or long sleeve shirt to tie around your waist. But I remember the wetness stretched down to your knees, nothing could hide it.
You rummaged through your too heavy backpack full of books for change to call your mom. You stood at the pay phone and hoped no one walked by. You were crying, humiliated, and scared. Your mom made an appointment at the urologist, she was concerned you had a kidney infection. You remember sitting on the examination table, feeling comfort that people were listening to you talk, were concerned about you, but there were words in your mouth that wouldn’t come out.
“I’m not a little girl anymore” you felt, or you said to yourself, but you wanted to be that little girl they were treating you as. You wanted to go back and take away all the actions you took that led you to this place, where they thought you had a kidney infection, but you were pregnant. All you felt was shame and regret and sadness and despair.
You were alone, and your path would only get lonelier and scarier and the feeling of shame would become almost unbearable.
But you fought through these awful years and these awful feelings. For this you deserve a trophy. You deserve a trophy that I am going to make for you out of gold sculpy clay. I want to acknowledge you and your suffering and thank you for being so strong and making it to this point in our life. You lived so I can live. You suffered then so I would suffer less now. You felt shame then, so I would understand shame better now. You taught me to be strong and brave. I thank you for giving me these gifts and I present you with this trophy.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 