Check Yourself

Posted in Uncategorized on May 27, 2016 by Chanda Marie

There is a raw truth we must all face at some point in our lives.  That truth may come at any time, but it is particularly poignant after we have wronged someone. It is critical to self-evaluate  for selfishness, arrogance, pettiness, mood swings, resistance to change, resentment, and uncompromising and unforgiving ways.  I try to remain cognizant and ask myself questions such as the following:

  • Have I ACTIVELY listened to the person with whom I have turmoil? We can often listen and not actually hear what another person is saying.
  • Did I dismiss their emotions in some way?  The worst experience is to have someone make you feel as though your reaction to their hurtful ways is invalid.
  • I try to think about my actions and determine if I have harmed someone. Often we can harm others in ways that are emotionally scarring.
  • Have I taken accountability for my actions?
  • Do I blame others for things that are actually MY responsibility?
  • Is there a way that I can make amends to someone that I have wronged? Sometimes offering a genuine apology can start the healing process.

Today, I start with me; from me to YOU.  I have hurt others by word or deed.  I may have said or done things, unintentional as it may have been, that were harmful to others.  The point is that it was harmful, not necessarily whether there was ill intention behind it.  I know I have lived a life of hurt and in those trying times I have lashed out at those around me, particularly the closest to my heart.

I SINCERELY APOLOGIZE FOR HURTING YOU. I AM SORRY FOR UNKIND WORDS, DISPLACED BLAME, ISOLATION, STUBBORN WAYS, ANGER, AN UNFORGIVING SPIRIT, TALKING INSTEAD OF LISTENING, ALWAYS NEEDING TO BE RIGHT, AND ALL THE STRESS THAT THESE THINGS CAUSED YOU.

I pray that God will help me change my path to live better, love better, and treat others as I want them to treat me.  I pray for a more compassionate heart that will allow me to view things from other perspectives. I pray for understanding, a tongue that is tamed by GOD Himself, and patience.  I pray you’ll forgive me. I pray I forgive myself.

This blog post was inspired by a candid and heartfelt conversation with my favorite author, Nikki Michelle; not only a gifted writer, but a true and very wise friend.

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Sorry Ass Daddy

Posted in Uncategorized on May 23, 2016 by Chanda Marie
Something I saw tonight prompted me to share this old poem I wrote around 2004; roughly 12 years ago. I learned a few years ago that my father died. I wasn’t sad. I was angry. I had questions and the answers went to his grave with him.  You don’t miss what you’ve never had. You miss an idea of what you could have had. It is what it is at this point. There’s a story that goes along with my father’s death that really made me feel some type of way, but I’ll share that with you some other time. Tonight, just the poem….
A Letter To My Father

HOW IS YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD A BURDEN TO YOU?

DON’T CARE IF I LIVE, EAT, OR DIE, OR EVEN HAVE SHOES?

 HOW DID YOU EVER CLOSE BOTH YOUR EYES

AND SLEEP SO AT PEACE UNDER BABY BLUE SKIES?

WHEN YOUR DAUGHTER, YOUR FIRST BORN

WAS LONG LOST, ABANDONED

NO DADDY TO HOLD HER

AND EXPLAIN WHAT JUST HAPPENED

WHY’D YOU DRINK ALL THAT POISON?

AND RAGE LIKE A MONSTER?

YOU WERE JUST SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME

AND BE MY DAMN FATHER

BUT YOU BLEW THAT, YOU KNEW THAT

YOU BEAT ON MY MOTHER

LOST MY LIL BROTHER

YOU BEAT HER SO BAD

SHE STILL AIN’T RECOVERED

THEN YOU RUN AND TAKE COVER, BURDEN ANOTHER

SO YOUR ASS WON’T SUFFER, WHILE YOUR KID’S IN THE GUTTER

YOU A SORRY ASS COWARD

A PUNK MUTHAFUCKA

WELFARE AND FOOD STAMPS

I NEVER HAD SHIT

I BLAME IT ON YOU CUZ YOUR TIRED ASS QUIT

POOR, TEASED AT SCHOOL, USED TO CRY EVERY DAY

I HATED MY LIFE, SO ASHAMED JUST TO WAKE

I WAS RAPED OF MY INNOCENCE, DROWNED IN THE IGNORANCE

FILLED UP WITH BITTERNESS

AND NOW I’M A HATEFUL BITCH

I GOT A SON YOU’LL NEVER SEE, A DAUGHTER ALMOST 3

AND YOU AIN’T EVEN GOT THE BALLS TO CARE

IF FLESH AND BLOOD STILL BREATHES

MY KIDS AIN’T GOT NO FATHERS

THEY WALKED OUT ON BABIES TOO

I’M NOT ONE BIT SURPRISED THOUGH

I LEARNED THAT COWARD SHIT FROM YOU

Chanda Marie @ Untamable Productions

Copyright 10.01.04

(I do not own this image; borrowed from http://www.zcool.com.cn)

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Painting with Words

Posted in Uncategorized on May 19, 2016 by Chanda Marie

Finally outside!! I inhaled deep and let the fresh, crisp air inflate my lungs. Fragrant flowers with invigorating perfumes calm me. Bright, refreshing sunshine and the vibrant colors of nature give my senses the opportunity to be free.  You can almost feel yourself there with me, can’t you? Close your eyes, imagine the warmth, and accept the promise that summer will soon arrive.

It was so gorgeous outside that I took my camera out and snapped a few shots. They are beautiful! I did some editing and I can’t wait to share them with you at the end of this post.

I talked to a friend into the wee hours of the morning, recently.  She encouraged me to continue with my writing and to consider writing a book. How flattering for someone to believe in you and your potential to successfully undertake such a feat.  I am humbled.  I am also considering the possibility.  Anyone that has ever known me on a personal level knows that writing has always been my first love. I began writing poetry as early as age 9. I was blessed with a publishing opportunity in 8th grade.  It was one poem, selected for The Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans.  It reinforced my love of words, though, and the belief in myself that other people could love MY words.

Words have always been close to my heart. The nuances of language excite me! Semantics, context, grammar, spelling, stories, poetry, spoken word, journaling on my art work, reading, the art of painting with words, wit, humor, sarcasm, puns, limericks, onomatopoeias, acronyms, lyrics set to song, foreign languages, and even the art of penmanship are absolutely amazing!

WORDS. ARE. LIFE.

They can dance on a page and stimulate your brain.  They can tease the most repressed memories from intricate hiding spots.  Words can waltz with your soul, causing a long forgotten smile to kiss your lips.  Think of a lover who whispers coveted syllables in your ear.  Those sounds are chained together with meaning, with love, with pieces of their own spirit.  They move you.

Think of a child, heartbroken and sad; a frown on their precious little face.  Words of encouragement can bring light to their darkness.  A dose of humor can dry their tears.  You can change their perspective with some carefully chosen, genuine words of love and wisdom. A changed perspective is often all that is necessary for a changed life.

Here is a poem I wrote, about WORDS, many years ago:

WORDS 10/22/04

SILENCE RINGS IN MY EARS AND STINGS MY EYES

LINES LAUGH AT ME FROM THE COMFORT OF THEIR BLANK PAGE

STOP LAUGHING! I WILL MURDER YOU WITH A WEAPON NEVER FOUND

NO FORENSICS ON THE GROUND

YOUR INVESTIGATION’S BEEN CLOWNED

SO WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?

SLAY YOU WITH THE FIERCE FURY OF TALENT UNLEASHED

AS A BEAST RIPS THE FLESH OF HER FEAST

YOU CAN’T FOLLOW, FIND ME, TAKE FOOTSTEPS BEHIND ME

OR EVEN SUCCEED WHEN YOU TRY TO DEFINE ME

SLOW DEATH YOU ENDURE AND YOU’RE NOT REALLY SURE

IF I’M TAINTED OR PURE

BUT ONE FACT FOR CERTAIN YOUR SOUL’S BEEN LEFT HURTIN’

WOUNDED AND WEARY. YOU’VE GOT WHAT ANSWERS? WHAT FALLIBLE THEORY?

HAUNTED AND HATEFUL THEY’LL DRAW THE FIRST BLOOD

THEN WHAT’LL YOU DO? YOU’LL DROWN IN THE FLOOD

OF VIVID DEMISE AND DON’T DARE CLOSE YOUR EYES…

THE IMAGES SUPPLEMENT HARBORED INTENT

AND WON’T BE CONTENT TILL YOU’RE RAPED BY TORMENT

SURRENDER IS FINAL AND STRUGGLE ALL CEASES

YOUR HEART HAS BEEN RAVAGED , RELENTLESS DISEASES

I SWORE, TO STOP LAUGHING, HEED NOT MY WARNING

BUT HELL HATH NO FURY , CREATION CAME STORMING

Chanda Marie Carte’ @ Untamable Productions  copyright 10/22/04

 

What about the ugly words? Yes, those are equally powerful.  Negative words are dangerous blades with the ability to destroy someone from the inside out. Shame, slander, defamation of character, embarrassment, and all those evil lies almost always do irreparable harm. People never forget the trauma that a whirlwind of ugly words creates.  Hateful, hurtful, degrading words break spirits. They are the equivalent of a natural disaster in an individual’s body, mind, and spirit. Hate affects people on a cellular level.  Hate is a toxin that gets injected straight to the heart.  It claims lives.

I love words and I also struggle with keeping all mine positive, life affirming, encouraging, powerful, and loving. I’m human. We all struggle to do the right thing, say the right words, be politically correct, spare the feelings of others, foster healthy relationships, and put our most balanced foot forward.

In the midst of all our good intentions and great efforts there are emotions, frustration, mental health issues, family drama, unexpected circumstances, shock, trauma, physical pain, disease, financial distress, death, and tragedy.  LIFE. HAPPENS.  People act and react. Forgive yourself when you’re not perfect, and move on. The most important thing anyone can do daily is be self aware, remain cognizant of the power in your words, and make a concerted effort to keep that power positive.

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don’t wish me dead

Posted in Uncategorized on May 18, 2016 by Chanda Marie

I have had this blog for roughly 4 years now. I have been re-reading some of my entries and it has been quite a ride. I have had some great days where I was grateful and high on the beauty of life! Most of the entries, though, reek of a dysfunctional childhood and despise for the very life that has kept me going for 38 years now. I just read my December 28, 2012 blog entry. It made my breath catch in my chest. My face contorted with fear, anxiety, anger, and sadness simultaneously. Scars were ripped open and my heart spilled the blood of disappointment.  Read for yourself, then we’ll move on…

blank spots (december 28, 2012)

” Some people drink to forget.  I don’t drink, so how do I forget? I can’t. Even sleep doesn’t let me forget.  The memories are even more vivid in my nightmares because I have to live through it again. I don’t want to remember these things anymore, but I guess if I don’t, I’d probably lose most of my childhood years.  I spent most of my time living with my grandparents growing up.  I either lived in their home with them, or my mother and I lived upstairs in the duplex.  Either way, I absorbed all of the interactions of my family and I couldn’t wait to get out.

When I was 9, my mother got involved with her husband.  That was 25 years ago.  I couldn’t stand that muthafucka from the day she introduced me. I had a child’s intuition, if you will, that there was something sneaky and ugly about that bastard.  Oh, how right I truly was.  He beat the hell out of my mother all the time. He told her, if I can’t have you, nobody will, when she threatened to leave. He was a closet drinker, trying to fool everyone into thinking he was such a clean, great guy. He’s a fuckin snake. I couldn’t deal with the abuse, the alcohol, the drugs at home anymore and I went to live with my mother’s parents.  Little did I know I had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.  My grandparents were alcoholics, rest their souls.  My grandfather beat my grandmother on a regular basis.  Most of the hope I had in life was crushed in those years. I lost all respect for my grandfather when his nickname for me went from “little one” which I adored, to nigger lover, which ate through my soul.  See, my grandparents were one of 2 white families that lived in the hood within a 10 block radius as far as I knew.  I liked black boys. I had all black friends. I wanted mixed children one day.  Black was so beautiful to me. I loved the culture, the values, the families, the style, the dialect, the food, the entire atmosphere.  My family hated it, and therefore they hated me.

I remember one night like it just happened a minute ago.  My grandfather was pissy ass drunk off of grape Mad Dog 20/20.  That was his “medicine” as he called it.  My granny was tipsy off Canadian Club Whiskey and beer.  I was in my room with some music on. I sat on the bed, trying to drown out the fighting and arguing escalating in the other room.  My stomach hurt.  My palms were sweaty. My heart raced.  It was late at night and I was scared to run away.  I didn’t want to call any of my family because I’d disturb them and that wasn’t my style.  I was going to get up and turn the light off and try to make myself disappear in the music, but before I could make a move, my granny flew backwards through my bedroom door.  She cut her arm on the edge of my dresser and blood splattered all over my mirror and the wall. She laid in the floor and was clearly dazed at what the fuck had just happened.  My grandfather started into my room and I shoved his ass right back out.  He was a man of small stature, but immense strength.  I stared him straight in his fuckin eyes, lookin clear at the devil and told him to get the fuck out.  He stumbled to the living room.

I don’t really even remember what happened after that. I know I helped my granny clean up.  I know it was fairly quiet the rest of the night. I don’t even remember if I called my aunt that night or the family found out the next day.  It doesn’t matter, I guess.  What I do remember is how loud the tv was in the front room.  My grandfather always turned the television way up.  I think he did it to irritate my grandmother.  I remember the stench of whiskey in the house. I hate that shit to this day.  I remember the quiet in the house the next day when everybody would tip toe the fuck around like NOTHING HAD EVER HAPPENED!  Abuse wasn’t talked about in my house.  The fuckin drunk was never confronted and asked what his fuckin problem was.  Alcoholism was NEVER a word that EVER came up in my entire childhood.  Shameful.  That shit added salt to my wounds. I was expected to shut up and accept it all.  I was expected to mind my own damn business even though I lived that shit every moment of my fuckin life.  It WAS my business.

I want to know why no one ever called children services on my mother.  I want to know why no one ever saved me from that hell hole where I lived.  Neighbors knew about it all.  Police were never called when I lived with my grandparents.  EVER.  It was hush hush, let’s not talk about it.  Let’s not tell grandaddy the truth that the horrible bruises on my grandmother’s arms were from him beatin the hell out of her and kicking her through doors.  I wanted to give him a fuckin reality check so bad, every day of my life.  I was even disgusted when he cried at her funeral.  What the fuck are you cryin for?  You told her you wished she was dead every muthafuckin day.  Careful what you wish for.

It’s amazing how you can start with one memory and trail off into branches of others.  It’s amazing how one thought, one scent, one sound, can trigger floods of psychological bullshit.  Blank spots aren’t so bad after all.  ”

 

As I made my way through the second to last paragraph I focus on what I said about “I was even disgusted when he cried at her funeral. What the fuck are you cryin for? You told her you wished she was dead every muthafuckin day. Careful what you wish for.” Those words are haunting because I relived that sentiment at my mother’s side when I watched her die, while her husband cried his eyes out, begging her not to go. I felt no sympathy for that man and I most likely never will. I sat stone faced, holding my mother’s hand where there was no longer a pulse; no life.  I was numb and I didn’t cry. I had an unbelievable, divine peace settle in my spirit.

Several months prior to my mother’s death she had suffered a major stroke. She was  in the hospital but refusing to stay as an inpatient. Mom was being difficult, she was erratic, upset, uncomfortable, and understandably so. She didn’t want to stay in the hospital and she signed herself out against medical advice. She and her husband got into an argument and in the heat of the moment he screamed at her “fuck you bitch, I hope you die!”

He was removed from the hospital but that scene and those words will forever be etched into my soul. Fast forward to my mother’s frail, broken, lifeless body laying in the ICU bed after just having been removed from life support. Her empty eyes black from physical death. Her haunting, gaunt face displaying the 61 years of suffering she endured, 30 of them at the hands of this now pitiful man, sobbing uncontrollably at her side. Don’t cry now, muthafucka, be careful what you wish for was all I could find in my heart. I didn’t speak it and I didn’t need to, because I know God allowed that man to feel the bite of every single one of his own words.

{image borrowed from http://www.windoweb.it/desktop_foto/foto_dark.htm . no copyright infringement. I do not own this image. }

 

 

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I am mentally ill

Posted in Uncategorized on May 17, 2016 by Chanda Marie

Oh my gosh why would anyone openly admit to being mentally ill, and on social media, no less!?  That is crazy, right? Well, if I’m mentally ill then I most certainly must be “crazy” so it follows logically that I would behave in such a manner. Do you even know what mental illness is?  According to the Merriam – Webster (2016) online dictionary, mental illness is defined as : “any of a broad range of medical conditions (such as major depression, schizophrenia, obsessive compulsive disorder, or panic disorder) that are marked primarily by sufficient disorganization of personality, mind, or emotions to impair normal psychological functioning and cause marked distress or disability and that are typically associated with a disruption in normal thinking, feeling, mood, behavior, interpersonal interactions, or daily functioning” (p.1). WOW! That is a very broad and inclusive definition of mental illness.

Mental illness is negatively stigmatized because some people like to disillusion themselves into thinking that they are perfect, flawless, whole, well rounded, quality individuals with pristine coping skills to handle all that life throws in their direction. Well kudos to you and your imaginary ideals. It is astounding, baffling, and utterly ludicrous that people sit on their self appointed glass thrones and condemn the peasants, us ordinary folks with mental illnesses; the plague of humanity. Clearly sarcasm, in case it was elusive.  Cut the bullshit already.  How dare you point the finger at someone else who has a medical illness beyond their control?  What gives you the damn right to condemn and judge when you are just as much a sinner, a mistake maker, a struggling soul inching your way through this thing we call life, on your hands and knees feeling in the dark?  OH, you’ve got it all figured out, huh?  You made a plan, set some goals, followed through, and everything went accordingly?  You always made the smartest decisions? Miss me with the bullshit, get the fuck out of here with that unreasonable nonsense. We all know better.  You’re just as fucked up as the rest of us.  You’re human, it’s inevitable.

So when I say I am mentally ill, I mean it. I own it. I live it.  I have emotional disturbances that may very well be a chemical imbalance in my brain; I take medication for that. I also have natural emotional responses to the overwhelming, dramatic, traumatizing things life notoriously serves. Life is unpredictable at best and a relentless chamber of misery at worst.  We have to find the delicate balance of good and evil in life; the enigmatic yin / yang sentiment. I write to say that yes there is clinical mental illness such as defined in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.  There are also just average, every day people who are following the rutted, jagged, broken yellow brick road  that will hopefully  lead them home; wherever that may be.

Reference:

Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary (2016). Mental illness. http://www.merriam-webster.com/medical/mental%20illness

 

The Death of my Mother

Posted in Uncategorized on May 16, 2016 by Chanda Marie

April 7, 2016 my mom passed away.  The events leading up to her death were a nightmare, to say the least. I have been on the proverbial emotional rollercoaster since then. I have such a long history of dysfunction with my family and a complicated mess that I called a relationship with my mother. I had just reconnected with my mom after 5 years of estrangement.  Estrangement that I initiated due to toxicity that affected my children adversely.

I had more quality in the year or so after my mom and I reconnected than I’d had in the previous 37 years total. That’s sad to me.  It is disappointing and it hurts my heart because things could have been so different. Hindsight, what a concept. Things appear so much different now that my mom is gone. I find myself questioning whether I made the right decision to distance myself from her in 2010. Situations from the past, I suppose, will always have a new light on them in the aftermath of death. There are plenty of things I am sorry for, so many things I wish I had said or refrained from saying. You never expect that the last words you say to anyone will actually be THE LAST words, literally.

The last words I said to my mom on Monday were I love you, I’ll see you later. I didn’t lie. I had planned on seeing her Tuesday and Wednesday to take care of some paperwork.  The next time I saw her was in the wee hours of Thursday morning around 4:30a.m. and she was already on life support, in a coma. She never recovered. I forced my hand to have my mom removed from life support Thursday night. I don’t remember what time it was exactly. She had coded already and her husband and I agreed not to have CPR performed but mom was still on the ventilator and having epi pumped to her heart. I wanted to finally see my mom without tubes up her nose. She’d been on oxygen 24/7 for as long as I can remember. I didn’t want the doctors cutting on her anymore, giving her anymore medicine to force her weak, frail body to go on. She had just survived, that night, the removal of the majority of her intestinal tract, including her spleen, due to ischemia and necrosis. I wanted her pain gone. I wanted her spirit to finally be free from the torture of being trapped in a body that was falling apart at the seams; hands that dropped everything, eyes that could no longer see properly, blocked arteries, missing lungs, a titanium infused spine. I was tired for her.  My mom had endured enough, stayed long enough to take care of everyone else, had 61 years of a not so enviable life. It was a gift of peace that I am relieved God finally offered her.

I miss her dearly.  Nothing, no one, not any amount of positive memories or love from others will ever replace my mom.  She never got the things in life I feel she deserved like peace, quiet, a happy marriage, someone to love and protect her unconditionally.  My mom was dealt a very difficult hand in life. I watched it. I lived most of it with her. It was ugly. She deserved so much more. I know the Lord has blessed her with all she deserves and more, now. I miss my mother but I would never wish her back on this ugly planet even if it meant one more moment with her.  I would rather suffer without her and know she is resting in heaven.

RIP Deborah Lynn Burton June 2, 1954 – April 7, 2016

I love you, ma.

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Damned

Posted in Uncategorized on October 20, 2014 by Chanda Marie

My hands are shaky. Tremors. Side effect of Prozac. I’ve been on Prozac for 9 years now.  It doesn’t seem to be helping anymore.  I am so tired all the time.  My depression is worsening.  The desires of my heart seem to have been snuffed out like a tiny flame in the midst of a storm.  There is a dim haze through which I tolerate my own existence  The most innately beautiful things are at best, mediocre to me anymore.  My eyes close at every opportunity and my consciousness desperately clings to the comfort of darkness, limbo, nothingness..  I wish I could stay there permanently.

I would be less drained if I ran marathons. Life is smothering the life out of me; how ironic. My senses are sometimes heightened and even the whistle of the wind irritates me.  Headaches, body aches, upset stomach, ringing in my ears, throbbing eyes, a desperate need for silence and darkness.  Other times I am numb, staring at nothing in particular, limbs heavy, minimal energy even to expand my lungs.  I can tune the world out and listlessly work through the motions on autopilot.  Either existence is painful in some manner, exhausting, endless, worrisome, and wholly pointless.  For 27 years I have experienced this gut wrenching curse.  Consciousness is like venom that tortures the psyche with slow, deliberate taunting.  No matter how many tears get cried in the hopes of cleansing the poison from within, there is always a haunting residue.

Long Time No See My Friends!

Posted in Uncategorized on May 21, 2014 by Chanda Marie

SO……it’s been quite a long minute, right?  Six months went by so quickly.  We’re headed into summer already.  No complaints here.  I had to drop in and share my fantastic day with all of you.  It was so beautiful. I’m so in tune with nature it’s like I am addicted to being outside every day.  I absolutely love it.  I bought myself a new camera and have been tinkering with it.  I adore landscape photography and I hope to invest in auditing a class one day to learn the technical side of photography; more than just point and click. 

Today was especially warm and I’ve had so much on my mind. I just wanted to sit among the trees and absorb as much of nature as I possibly could.  One of the most frustrating things I experience is when I find a place in nature and people pollute it with noise. I almost left because an obnoxiously loud conversation was trailing from close by, echoing in my ears.  I found a delicate, out of the way place; sacred, among the trees.  The birds were particularly chirpy. The squirrels scampered around digging, finding, foraging.  The wind was gentle.  The sun was playing hide-n-seek with cotton candy clouds.  Plush green grass shimmered, blade by blade as the breeze persuaded.  It’s amazing how trees are content to silently co-exist with you.  Fresh, fragrant blooms perfumed the air.  Rustling branches danced in the tree tops.  Cool blades tickled my toes.  You could taste the vibrant, crisp beauty of it all; freshly mowed grass, pale blue skies, rich reds.  The sun kissed my pale skin and my body drank up the nourishment.  I was still.  I just…was. 

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E is for Empty

Posted in Uncategorized on November 24, 2013 by Chanda Marie

E is for empty and P is for prozac…..that which there is not enough of in this world to make my difficult daughter any easier to deal with. I am absolutely exhausted from having to sort through, deal with, analyze, worry about, process, guide, understand, and endure HER emotions.  I’m at a breaking point today. I can’t realistically give anything else because I’m on empty. Her miserable, irritable, inconsistent, fluctuating, manic, frustrated, hateful, hurtful, confusing, obnoxious, unmanageable, consuming moods have broken me down completely. It’s getting worse as she gets older. I was much more understanding when she was 4 and 5 years old. Now, at 11, I find myself angry with her almost daily. I’m relieved when she goes to school. I sometimes sigh heavily under my breath as her school bus returns her for the day. I know what my evenings will entail.  I have support groups. I have friends with their own children who have special needs. I have a wonderful aunt who is amazing at encouraging and supporting me. I have prayer. I have God.  All of that is fantastic and I’m grateful. I’m still on empty, though. I don’t want to look at this little girl sometimes because she says such hateful, hurtful things to me. I want to lash back out at her in return to make her realize what she inflicts on me. It’s not fair but she’s still just a child so I grind my teeth down and silently scream inside. I cry when no one is looking. I sleep in the hopes that maybe I won’t have to wake up next time. I’m trying not to resort to cutting again. I’m about 7 months clean. I don’t know how successful I’ll continue to be about that. There’s only so much breathing and praying I can do.

Imagine an unsharpened pencil. Stand that pencil straight up so that it stands erect. Imagine that you can ever so carefully balance a glass on the end of that pencil. Drip water into that glass, one drop at a time, Sometimes the dripping water is so rapid, it’s a trickle and sometimes the drips are much slower. The dripping water never stops, though. It is always consistent. There is forever an uncertainty of the circumstances changing for the worst.  Which drop of water, shift of the wind, or tremor will cause the system to collapse?  The physics of the demise can not be calculated. Imagine all the emotions…fear…anxiety…apprehension…contemplation…paranoia…unrest…exhaustion…worry…unanswered questions…isolation…heartache…tears. 

7.29.13 Sharing My Shine With The World

Posted in Uncategorized on July 30, 2013 by Chanda Marie

I have realized that writing is more of a chore for me when I am NOT depressed.  Most people I know or have read about that suffer with Bipolar Disorder, prefer their mania.  They say it helps them create.  My most creative times seem to be when I’m imbalanced or VERY depressed.  I learned to embrace the darkest sides of my emotions at a young age. I am drawn to the dark side of life, in general.  I fully understand SADNESS, ANGER, GRIEF, SORROW, ABANDONMENT, DESOLATION, EMPTINESS, DESPERATION, DEATH, UGLINESS, SUICIDAL TENDENCIES, BREAKING POINTS, REJECTION, DISAPPOINTMENT, TEARS, BLOOD, PAIN, SUFFERING, HEARTBREAK, LONELINESS, SILENT SCREAMS, HOPELESSNESS, SHADOWS, FEAR, WORTHLESSNESS, HATE, BITTERNESS AND HELL. 

I know my compassion for darkness is part of my journey.  I can relate to humanity in their most disturbing experiences.  My heart can truly feel their urgency.  My spirit can genuinely comfort and love others.  I am yin and yang, in essence.  I strive for positive but my footprints have been carved through the stones of negativity.  The fires of iniquity and nothingness have created a priceless diamond in the rough. I WILL share my shine with the world.

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