Seen, but not heard

My parents believed that children should be seen, but not heard.

I was a prop. 

A doll they could dress. 

A robot that they could program to fill their needs. 

No interest in my core being.

No space for my feelings.

No care for my heart’s desires. 

Punished for asking questions.

For challenging.

For disagreeing.

They demanded dominance.

Deflected and blamed.

Destroyed and conquered.

I fought to have the right to exist.

To have space held.

To matter.

In my dating life- I have been sucked in by [faux] interest. 

Captured by [performative] adoration. 

Glued to [grooming] charm. 

Time revealed its true nature.

A web of manipulation.

A pit of lies.

I was trapped.

Suffocated.

Consumed.

My childhood trauma on repeat. 

Again.

And again.

A provider of visibility.

Of affection.

Of constant attention.

A body.

A checkbook.

A punching bag.

I know my worth.

I demand better. 

I move forward.

I will be seen.

I will be heard.

I will matter.

Or I will leave. 

"Monster?"

You called me a monster.

I internalized that to mean that you thought I was unlovable. Unwantable. Unworthy.

Then I realized that we just had different connotations.

You meant that I was the kind of person whom you couldn’t control.

Who wasn’t manipulated by you.

Who stood up to you.

Whom you couldn’t conquer.

Who refused to be your puppet.

So you deflected.

Lied.

Name-called.

Created false narratives.

Tried to throw people off your scent.

I think my boundary-setting caused YOUR internal monster to come out in full force.

Your uncontrolled demons taking over.

Causing harm to yourself and others.

Your unresolved trauma coming out sideways onto everyone around you.

And, perhaps - just perhaps- when you called me a monster- 

It was because I was holding up a mirror,

And you caught a glimpse of your OWN behaviors.

Stepford Witches

I couldn’t believe my luck: Charlotte was everything I wanted! Smart, beautiful, supportive, a pet lover, and an English teacher! Just like me!

And I knew in my gut that she was the one I had been looking for: one of my beloved soul-partners. I saw her in my mind’s eye the moment I decided to leave the city to move across state lines to live in a small town near Lake Michigan.

Two months after I arrived at my new home, I saw Charlotte’s photo on a dating app and knew it was her. I already knew that we had had several lives together. The most impactful one being when we were witches together in France in the 1500s. Unfortunately, in that life, we were publicly humiliated due to our status as female lovers (we were forced to walk naked through the town square). Oh - and the being burned at the stake thing. That wasn’t awesome either. 

But I remembered our life together. Living in a small cabin. Dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. A warm and loving home. A cute loft area where we held on to each other as we fell asleep every night. 

And after a LONG Pandemic of living alone and feeling isolated, here was my chance to [re]connect after hundreds of years of being apart! And we were both still Pagans! (She was also still part Christian. A paradox that was challenging for her to navigate.)

We immediately connected - FB messaging, texting, talking on the phone, and meeting in person when we could (we lived 75 minutes away from each other). When we met for the first time, it was powerful. But also confusing. I both recognized her and didn’t recognize her at the same time. The familiarity was comforting. But I could sense a divide right away.

Charlotte and I were able to chat easily and connect about a lot of topics, there was a palpable spark, and we seemed to really enjoy being in each other’s presence. I met her wonderful daughter and her family. It was exciting and natural. But I could tell there was a steep wall - one that was impossible to breach.

A lot can happen in hundreds of years and multiple lifetimes that makes you not compatible with your soul-partners anymore. I have spent this lifetime trying to heal from my past traumas, but she has spent this lifetime trapped in religious totalitarianism. The six years she spent in a Christian Cult - followed by living out the tenets for over a decade in her personal life - really took a toll on her.

My therapist taught me how difficult it can be to have healthy relationships after living in a cult. Charlotte was thoroughly trained how to be a Stepford Wife for ministers. She seemed so supportive and nurturing at first, but these attributes ended up being a performative side effect of her training. In reality, the need for her to reclaim power and control was so great that she couldn’t bear to share it with anyone else. And it went to the other extreme because after she left the cult, Charlotte transformed from being the oppressed to being the oppressor. 

It makes sense. When you have had all your decisions made for you, it is probably difficult to “give up” (or compromise) any of your choices ever again. Her agency was everything to her. But she was unwilling to accept that my agency also mattered to me. Codependence was a requirement for her; she needed me to sacrifice my needs for her. But I wasn’t interested in that dynamic anymore. I desired a relationship that was rooted in equity.

Charlotte told me the week after we first met that I wasn’t allowed to question or challenge her. About anything. Ever. And I soon found out that she didn’t ever want to be disagreed with. About anything. Ever. Nor was I to tell her about what I needed or wanted. And I was NEVER supposed to reveal if she ever did something that upset me.

At first, I just thought it was about emotional consent. A concept that intrigued me - understanding that not everyone wants a mirror held up and/or to be fully “seen.” I am a curious soul who embraces critical thinking and questions everything. I value authenticity and vulnerability. My favorite quote (from 1984) is, “Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood,” and I am aware that this is not everyone’s jam. She wanted to remain a mystery; she needed to remain hidden and I tried to create space for that. I think she would have preferred for me to remain a mystery, too. But hiding is not healthy for me.

It took me a bit to realize that what she actually wanted was a watered-down version of me. She wanted us to be Stepford Witches together - with her version remaining performative and mine being the “real” deal.

And her sideways-spewing self-shame made me feel like my thoughts, feelings, and needs didn’t matter to her.

I, embarrassingly, chipped off parts of myself to be what she wanted. I erroneously assumed that my concerns with her hot and cold behaviors were due to my own insecure/anxious attachment disorder and that something was wrong with me. I didn’t trust what I had learned in therapy and continued to get smaller and smaller - attempting to take up less and less space. I threw all my self-esteem-building-work out the window way too quickly. I was constantly walking on eggshells - worried that I would trigger her verbal lashes. And my desire to connect with another human overshadowed whether that human was [still] good for me.

There were things that felt good about the relationship. The companionship. The chemistry. The love of literature. It kept me engaged - until it wasn’t enough anymore and I realized I was starting to disappear. She wanted me to be more light and playful. Less intense. Less of a critical thinker. Less me.

Ultimately, her Jekyll and Hyde act, her consistent lies, her inability to maintain her performative act of empathy, her criticisms of who I was at my core, and her gaslighting and punitive ghosting - proved to be too much for me. Our pull was strong, but my desire for emotional health was stronger. And after two months of an intense roller coaster, our adventure ran its course. I would like to say it ended peacefully, but it didn’t. It was more peaceful than being burned at the stake, but, oddly enough, it was significantly less connecting.

I don’t regret our time together because there was an important lesson that I needed to learn: just because you were connected to someone in a past life, does not mean you are meant to be together in the present one. A sad, but real truth. And she gave me the opportunity to practice what I learned in therapy - learning how to listen to my gut and not allow myself to be consistently mistreated.

And I now know that I can’t prioritize a past connection over a present dysfunctional situation. My therapist calls that Radical Acceptance.

And, sometimes, healing hurts.

Waiting for MY Great Pumpkin

Linus and I are waiting for our Great Pumpkins to Arrive

He has taught me about the importance of sincerity  

Patience, hope

And Faith

Linus is hoping for toys and presents

And he doesn’t back down from his beliefs 

Even with the threat of being beat up by his sister

Or isolation or judgment from his haters

Sally is the one who holds space for him

Her love helps her to truly see him

Never doubting his intentions

Or his truth

My Great Pumpkin will be a kind woman, like Sally, who is emotionally safe

Someone who is willing to work on her stuff because our relationship is worth it

She will see my sensitivity as a gift, not a burden

She will want to grow with me

I will stop staying with partners who cause me harm

Attempting to survive their sideways spewing rage

I will have clearer boundaries and not be afraid to ask for what I need

Increasing my self-confidence will draw my Great Pumpkin closer to me

Linus and I will be courageously vulnerable together

Believing our heart’s desire will arrive

Never giving up

Waiting in good company

The Great Pumpkin [Will Arrive Any Day Now]

I grew up with a strict mom who did not let me out of her sight very often. There were very few friends with whom she allowed me to spend time. This often made me feel lonely and isolated. So I made friends with my toys and my cartoon characters. Snoopy was one of my best friends. The Peanuts Gang felt like my family and I actively engaged with all of their adventures. 

Thirty-five years later, I sit on the couch after my 2nd divorce. I am, once again, consoled by my group of fictionalized friends as I watch The Great Pumpkin. And I am struck by Linus’ faith. Linus explains to me (again) that the Great Pumpkin will rise out of the pumpkin patch that he thinks is the most sincere. He is trying to convince the Great Pumpkin that his patch is the one to visit because, “you can look all around and there is not a sign of hypocrisy.” He claims that his beliefs and actions are in harmony in his pumpkin patch, so that the Great Pumpkin needs to show up. And Linus is content with waiting for him. As long as it takes.

One year ago, my nine year old stepson, Fred, wrote a letter to Great Pumpkin. Every year his mom allowed him to exchange some of his candy for something non-edible and longer lasting and this year he asked the Great Pumpkin for a mini-trampoline.

I was given the directive to locate and purchase Fred’s new toy. And I was told I had to have it ready in two days. I voyaged out to the only place that had one in stock. Walmart. This did not excite me, but I did not want to let my 9 year-old down. I was thrilled to find one with a jump counter because Fred had fun competing against himself and others. 

I came home after a long day at school and put it together while Fred’s mom was with a “friend” [I later realized it was most likely a date - we were allegedly monogamous]. I set the mini-trampoline up in his room with a note written from the Great Pumpkin. I used my left hand to throw him off my track. 

He woke up the next morning and was ecstatic. He asked if I was the Great Pumpkin: I softly denied it and he chose to believe me. He was not ready to give up on magical beings in his life. I think he needed them so he could feel hope in what was otherwise a very painful childhood. He could not wait to tell me how many times he could jump in one session. 

At 11:07 AM, Fred ran to his dad’s car. He was eager to start their weekend together. I felt the pit in my stomach grow and I could taste the sour acid at the back of my throat. I looked at Fred’s mom, my wife, and judging from the look on her face, I knew it was going to be a long and unpleasant weekend. She immediately started to yell at me about how distant I had been all morning. How she couldn’t rely on me. And how upset she was that I didn’t leave enough lights on for her when she arrived home the evening before. She was also furious that I had already gone to bed before she got home. I tried to explain that I was tired from my week and she had not communicated with me all night nor given me an estimate of her arrival. This set her off into a deeper rage about how I don’t care about her and I never put her feelings first. This went off and on for most of the day. I wish I could say this was not typical. And even though I now realize it was her trauma coming out sideways onto me, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

I finally fell asleep after she had exhausted herself into a slumber from all of her rage. I celebrated the relieving silence and was grateful to give my brain a break. But then I was jostled awake to the sound of loud noises from the first floor. I took off my sleep mask, looked at my phone, and discovered it was only 2:34 AM. I put on my robe and stumbled down the stairs without my glasses on. My dog, Walter, was at my heels. The smells of popcorn, olive oil, and chocolate filled my nose. 

My wife was bouncing and bouncing and bouncing on Fred’s trampoline. She informed me that she had eaten too many calories that day and needed to burn them off. When I requested a break from the bouncing because it made it difficult to sleep, she responded in a rage. She threw something at me (not the first time), but it was a misfire and, instead, it hit Fred’s trampoline and broke off his jump counter. His prize gift had not even survived 24 hours in our chaotic house.

At the time, I was unaware of how my heart, like the jump counter, was also starting the process of breaking off of my body. I tried to fix both my heart and the trampoline with glue and tape, but these were poor adhesives for items that were beyond repair.

Fred came home the next day and was, predictably, devastated. I tried to console his tears the best I could. I was sincere about my love for him, but my love toward his mom was breaking off harder than the jump counter did. My disengagement became difficult to ignore. I could no longer pretend that her punches to my body and to my heart would ever heal. I had nothing left to give. So I went through the motions, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. My empathy and compassion were drying up as a result of her continued violence toward me. 

This meant that the chances of the Great Pumpkin ever visiting our house of insincerity became less and less.

Months later, I finally built the courage to end the relationship. My 2nd wife and her kids moved out and I started to build my own pumpkin patch. My therapist and my friends helped give me the necessary tools to increase my self worth, so that I could avoid abusive relationships and stop recreating my childhood trauma. I battled my co-dependent upbringing, and I learned the difficult lesson that sacrificing my needs for other people did not actually help anyone. I had been raised to take care of emotionally abusive humans, so I had to begin the arduous task of rewiring my brain. 

I know if I remain patient that the Great Pumpkin will bring me my true love. And since I won’t allow myself to stay in abusive situations anymore, I know that, someday, the Great Pumpkin will finally give me the healthy and consistent love that I deserve.

Linus and I will wait for as long as it takes.

Offline (fiction)

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. She had so much promise. So much potential. She was cute. And had kind eyes. Our politics matched. We liked the same books. And she seemed sane. Or so I thought.

Online dating is challenging. Scrolling through profile after profile after profile. Looking for possible matches. Online shopping for my life person.

I really thought this might be the one. Man was I wrong.

It started out innocently enough. A few messages online. We exchanged cell numbers and texted a few times. Then we decided to meet for coffee.

What happened next changed my life forever.

I got to the coffee shop 15 minutes early. I had brought my notebook and wrote down some story ideas while I was waiting. I heard my name and looked up. She was beautiful. Glowing even. Her eyes were kind and her spirit was gentle. Or so I thought.

We talked about our lives. Shared stories about our exes. Started to feel a sharp chemistry growing between us. After an hour of hanging out, she asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I hesitated because she was still a stranger. But I was starting to get sucked into her web and I already didn’t want to disappoint her. So I went.

This was a mistake.

I left my car at the coffee shop and got into her front seat. She had to move food containers, notebooks, and styrofoam cups to make room. She tossed everything in the back seat on top of some blankets. 

She aggressively pushed on the gas and we jerked forward. My stomach sent immediate warning signs upward. But my brain ignored them.

I asked where we were going and she said it was a surprise. I don’t like surprises.

We got on a highway and her aggression increased. She was speeding past cars, moving in and out of traffic, and ignoring traffic lights. I asked her slow down and she laughed. I asked her to let me out and she laughed harder. She drove faster and faster while turning her music up louder and louder. And she was smiling like a woman on the edge.

We got to the Choir’s Bridge which was the highest bridge in the city. This is where the people who can not take life anymore come to jump. My stomach dropped. She bobbed and weaved through traffic until we made it halfway across the bridge. Then she slammed on the brakes. Multiple cars swerved to miss us, but two of them collided. I heard the screech of twisted metal against concrete.

She twisted the wheel so that we were facing the water. The cold abyss felt like it was one million miles below us. And then she looked at me. There was fire in her eyes. And she began spewing venomous words of hate. She accused me of hurting her best friend. She called me a monster. I had no idea what she was talking about. Before I could ask her the name of her friend, she reached her arm to the back of the car and removed the blanket. My wild-eyed sister was bound and gagged. Dried tears were glistening on her cheeks. She told me she was going to destroy the person I loved the most because I had broken her best friend’s heart.

My brain was temporarily unable to process the words coming out of her mouth. She put her foot on the gas and started to push down. I locked eyes with my sister and felt a strange sense of calm wash over my body. I turned back to our captor and told her I was intrigued by her passion, her cleverness, and her drive. She put her foot on the brakes and looked up at me. Her eyes were confused but enthralled. We were now teetering near the edge of the mid-level concrete divide. We were inches from plunging into the winter depths.

I held her gaze and pulled up my hand to caress her face. I slowly inched toward her and placed my lips on her lips. I gently used my left hand to put the car into park. I picked up speed and with one swift movement I reached around her to open the car door and push her out of the car with enough force to clear the concrete divide. Her body bounced once on the edge and then toppled over into an icy death.

I am writing this three months later. My sister and I are sitting under blankets on the couch and watching a movie. 

And I am never online dating again.

Ashes

What are ashes to us?

How much of the being is still in there?

We keep them in urns on the hearth or in shoeboxes under the bed

We visit them, talk to them, cry near them

We wear them in necklaces

Sprinkle them in yards 

Run our fingers through them

What are we hoping to get?

A familiar feeling for the loved one whom we lost?

A repressed memory?

A message from wherever they are?

Is it better to keep them contained or to set them free?

Maybe this depends on the one who died 

Maybe some souls need a container to feel safe

In a warm room

Surrounded by soothing voices

But maybe some souls feel better if they are spread back into the world

Finally and completely untethered from their bodies

Separated into pieces and parts 

Riding in the wind

Landing on flowers and sand and dirt 

In creeks, on mountains, and through valleys

But if you let them go-

Do you lose any of your connective power?

Does the complete and utter absence for their earthbound shell heal you or hurt you more?

Like grains of sand being pulled out by the tide 

Never to be seen again

But you know it happened

Because you were there

Praying their disappearance does not erase their existence from your mind’s eye

82

Don’t think about stuff.

Shove it down. Don’t feel. 

Just do what has to be done.

Get up. Get dressed. Feed the dog.

Pat the children on the head and go to work.

Review the invoices. Call the clients. 

Check. Re-check. Repeat.

Every day.

They gave me a watch when I retired.   

Eighty-two years old today. Took the ferry to the city to get a meatloaf sandwich. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my wife standing next to me. 

Holding on to the guard rail.

But I am mistaken,

Beth was buried years ago under the apple tree in Lloyd's cemetery.

Lost her fight to uterine cancer. The kids came to bury her. And they never came back.

I didn’t know how to talk to them. So I didn’t.

I didn’t know how to talk to my wife. So I didn’t.

People think I am simple. 

That I don’t see the complexities of human emotion.

That I can’t appreciate the beauty of a moth.

That I don’t notice the single tear in the corner of a windblown child’s face.

But I can. And I do.

My father never asked me about my feelings.

My wife never asked me about my thoughts.

My children never wanted my opinions.

Eighty-two years of ideas. 

Eighty-two years of passion.

Eighty-two years of hiding who I am and what I desire.

Eighty-two years of not telling people I loved them.

Eighty-two years of never feeling the caress of a hand on my fevered forehead.

I fear it is too late for me.

“Structure” and “Moving On”

Structure

No matter how many times I rearrange the furniture,

No matter how many times I change the art,

Get new carpets,

Sweep and mop, clean and dust,

Wipe the smudge off the windows,

Change the curtains,

Re-paint, paint, and re-paint again;

This is the House built on pain.

The House with the unresolved spirit in the basement.

The beaten down boy who wanted to be a girl who took her life by the washing bins.

Feeling her pain across the hairs on my neck,

Adding to the chaos and torture of living with domestic violence,

Trying to change appearances with band-aids,

Trying to fix the hurt feelings with burnt sage,

Trying to heal the past by lighting candles and helping spirits escape this House. 

This not-quite-home. This structure.

But the memories remain. 

No matter what I do to cover them, move them, heal them, and kick them out. 

They don’t leave. 

Forever attached to this time and place. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Moving on

I remember seeing you online. 

You had potential. 

There were not a lot of choices available, and I had already checked out the other options.

And you were not the worst.

You were kind of cute. 

And in the right place at the right time. 

Not exactly what I wanted. 

Not exactly what I dreamed of. 

Not even, perhaps, what was best for me. 

But you were available. 

And ready. 

So I chose you.

Packed up my stuff. 

Got rid of the baggage that would not fit. 

Said goodbye to my 10 year relationship.

A relationship I shared with others. 

A relationship I cherished when on my own.

A relationship that was calm and peaceful. 

A relationship that was consistent and kind and soothing. 

A relationship that was painful to leave.

A relationship I shouldn't have severed for you.

But I thought you were new and unpredictable and exciting. 

I was wrong.

I didn’t know.

How important it was to not sacrifice my hopes and dreams for another.

How much work you would be. 

How much you would cost me. 

How unstable your base was.

How your beauty was only cosmetic.

And how I would drain every resource I had to keep you going. 

Time to go.

To say goodbye. 

To separate our effects.

To leave behind what was never mine. 

To shut the door and NEVER see you again.

But I have to wait.

Until the time is right. 

Until there are sufficient choices. 

Until I am moving toward something better. This time.

Until I can rid myself of this painful House in search of a loving Home.

Muffin (fiction)

Frances could not believe her luck. She had been praying for a kitten her ENTIRE life and now, in front of her on the sidewalk, was a black, white, and gray fluffball. Frances scooped up the kitten and told her that she would now be known as “Muffin.”

She put the kitten in her backpack (but left the zipper open so she could breathe). She snuck up the stairs trying with all of her might to not alert her dad who was napping on the armchair. She slowly creeped up one stair at a time. Finally making it to the top where she did a mad dash for her bedroom door. 

Once inside, she took Muffin out of her hiding place and placed her on the fluffiest blanket she owned on the bed. Muffin sniffed around the bed and then turned three circles before she curled up on the blanket. Frances went to the bathroom to get a bowl of water. But what should Muffin eat for dinner? Where would Muffin go to the bathroom? She realized that she had reached the point where it was necessary to ask her dad for help.

She gently closed the door to not wake the sleeping kitten and went back downstairs. Her father was slowly starting to stir when she got to the first level. He woke up to a child with big eyes and an even bigger heart. This is what he loved about his only child. Ever since her mom left them four years ago, he wanted to protect her sensitive soul more than anything. When she tentatively told him what she had found and that she wanted to keep her, he felt his heart melt. There is no way he could turn her down. He told her they would go to the local pet store to get supplies and that he would call the next day to make an appointment with the vet.

Frances awoke the next morning to a purring kitten on her chest. She got up, got dressed, ate some Cheerios and got in the car with her dad to go to the vet.

They took a seat toward the back of the waiting room. Muffin was in a brand new, sparkly cat carrier that had been purchased the night before. With her turquoise collar and purple leash, she was looking pretty sharp. She licked Francis’ fingers through the metal, gated crate door. 

“Muffin?” The vet tech called her new kitty’s name and she stood up to take her into the exam room. Her dad was beside her. All of a sudden she felt nervous. But she didn’t know why.

The exam room was cold and sterile. There was a silver, shiny table in the middle of the room. The vet tech took Muffin’s temperature (Muffin did not like that AT ALL) and got her weight. She left the room and Frances and her dad waited for the vet.

The door opened and at first all they could see was long, blonde-hair attached to the back of a head who was looking at a chart. The vet looked up, started to ask a question, and froze when she saw who was in the room.

“Mary?” My dad tentatively asked. His eyes started to tear up. And then his tone shifted, “What the hell are you doing here?”

His tone alarmed me. The only other time I had heard him like this was when I rode my bike in the street. Who was Mary?

Mary looked at my dad and then looked at me. She stroked my hair as she gently said, “Hello, sweet Frances.”

I quickly looked at my dad. Who was this woman?

“Frances. This is your mom.”