Sometimes I don’t want to brush my teeth, sometimes I don’t want to wash my face. But cavities and zits I never do want, so brushing and washing it is.
Sometimes I don’t want to talk, sometimes I don’t want to smile. But hurting ones feelings I never do want, so my mouth keeps an upturned display.
Sometimes I want to run. To a place far, far away. But being a deserter I never do want, so I stuff it and here I do stay.
…I went to bed, last night, with the above nonsensical rhetoric running through my mind. I awoke in the middle of the night, creating more stanzas. And this morning I cannot seem to escape the monotonous drone of the opening, “sometimes I don’t…” Yet the way my mind works, which is a way that always connects music and lyrics to my thoughts, I now cannot stop singing the song, by The Cure titled, Charlotte Sometimes. And even though you might expect me to leave a video clip of the song, because I often share ‘YouTube’ videos of music, I am obstinately not doing so. Only because we both expect me to….oh the rebellion within!
This piss poor attitude, from whence does it come? An overstressed mama, an emotionally tired mama, and a worn out mama. Period. And last night I abstained from the facial wash and the brushing of teeth…my reckless abandon. I reckon it a fairly sad story when the product of rebellion lie only in a hygienic form. But hey, it’s all I’ve got at present. Oh, and writing useless poetry of a repetitious nature. Let us not forget the above stanzas.
The full and complete details of how I have gotten to this place are unnecessary to the message at hand. Thus I will control the evil tongue, or in this case, computer keyboard to keep certain happenings under wraps. It is more the results of said, ‘mystery happenings’, in which I care to illuminate. The results being fear, hives, more fear, and more hives. They aren’t real hives, for there is no sign of rash. Only incessant epidermal itching. And fear, is never to be indulged in by offering it a title of “real”. Yet fearful thoughts are weighing me down. One such thought, “will the energy and emotional strength I invest into the life of my son eventually prove to be a worthless endeavor? After the countless hours of pouring forth love, compassion, care, and time into his well being, will he still choose to throw in the towel of life?”
Itch, itch, itchy, itch
After the many hours, days, nights, and years invested into the teaching and encouragement of my children, will they still rebel against the good path? Itch, itch, itchy, itch. (Oops, I just rubbed yesterday’s eye makeup into my eye ball…the detriment of rebellion.) This type of questioning is not profound if connected to unfounded doubt, but my thoughts are not unfounded making the doubt quite profound.
My son, last week, dropped a familial A-bomb off in our life–and the next day left town to visit with family for four days. The emotional fall out is wreaking havoc upon my tired soul (not to mention that of my husband as well). The bomb? A grudge against his father he confessed to holding onto for roughly ten years. Now granted, his intent for sharing is to cleanse a relational roadblock with his dad (he and I were unaware it existed). And sadly, the details of his ten year mental strife are concretely based. Now how do I take this filth and get to where I want to go with this writing? Well similar to the charred ground at the site of destruction, the chosen ammunition wiped out the living species within its midst. All living species, or in our case, living memories. The good and the bad. My husband’s only question, as he undertakes full responsibility for the injurious effect of his own fear-based actions which inflicted the emotional pain for our son, is: “but weren’t there some good times as well?” The answer of course is “yes”, but a bomb was dropped and nothing lives in its wake.
Thankfully we are not so daft as to miss out on the understanding that with a charred soil comes new opportunity. And in the case of a parent-child rift, having a new opportunity to plant new seeds–together, and forge new directions–together, is a gift of goodwill bestowed upon the undeserved. A gift given from our son, for which my husband and I are (more than) profoundly grateful. Funny thing is, at the start of this year, our ‘Bent Motto’ has been “fear begone!” It dons on me now, as I write, that our motto is in motion. Why else would our son feel safe enough to divulge his angst? Because fear is being ‘taken down’ and we are battling against its control. Which is why my own insecurities, rooted in fear, are not allowed to flourish. Not on this new waste land expanse. Not in this nutrient deprived soil. Not now.
…my son is lying on the couch next to me, sharing the details of his current physical experience, as he is detoxing from the prescribed anti-anxiety medication and narcotics. Amidst his utterings he says to me, “I’m so tired I am just going to sleep until noon.” To which I reply, “Good. Then please stop talking to me so I can write!” We laugh together at the ridiculous exchange between us. And it dons on me once again, as I write, that my son feels safe. He is weaning from the mind numbing effects of the meds that he felt he needed to keep him calm. His choice. An action which reflects there are nutrients present in the soil. I am encouraged by the possibility of new growth. I am not in a waste land after all.
“Fear begone. And come again no more. Not even sometimes. Not even, Charlotte Sometimes.” …I am back to square one, The Cure, though the mysterious hives have subsided for the moment. Thank you, my readers, for providing me a therapeutic path. A ground of expression, a medium of release. I am grateful.