Large percentages
of my days are spent steeped in
self loathing. Coats of
Shame, comparison,
persistent embarrassment.
This torment I’ve bought.
Oh vanquish all signs
of vulnerability!
Hide and abide pain.
My mask transparent.
Miserable, I trick none.
Excepting the times
I’ve fooled me. “But you’re
gullible, no more can be
expected”. Those words
that imply certain
stupidity. I nod and
accept, I’m branded.
Turn inward and add
a fresh coat. The Shellac is
sure to fill the cracks.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Friday, April 18, 2014
Dear Mrs. Morse - "you're never going to amount to anything"
Dear Mrs. Morse or any other god damned old school teacher,
God damn it, I hate you. I hate what you represent, I hate what you spew out without a thought or a care. I hate the voice you left in my head for 45 fucking years. Oh but the grown me wants to be compassionate. And look there's the child me who still just wants to crumple into a ball and hide. Good god, thanks a fucking lot. I don't want to be compassionate or crumple. I don't want to give a shit about you. I don't want to be compassionate about your frustration/disappointment in me as a student. I don't want to think one more second about your off handed remark that I'm sure you never ever gave a second thought!
The one gift that those words gave me is a candle to hold up and perhaps light the way for someone else --a child or another hurting person. I've spent years trying to blow out my own candle and the tiny shred of me that knows differently about myself. I don't suck, I have amounted to something and plan on amounting to more. Throughout all of this I've guarded one small speck of love that keeps me getting up every day and shelters this candle from my very own breath. That speck is one fucking strong speck to battle off the likes of you. I've spent years cohabiting with your one short sentence. The thing about that little sentence is that it gave birth to a shit load of different negative ones. I've a tome of vial ones in my head. Diagram all those Mrs. English fucking Morse. No wonder I have a knee jerk response to fellow teachers who behave in your vein. The idea that to destroy someone with words is founded or justified makes me want to scream. Oh believe me, I know how tempting it is. I've been an awesome tongue lasher. I've done my best to try and tear down the one person I've committed myself to. He used to jump on your fucking sneering band wagon and go for a ride dragging me along kicking and screaming. But with him it was safe to scream. What I needed to do was to find you and scream. Yet thanks to you I do not have it in me to spit some angry vial at the most obnoxious of kids that cross my threshold. My patience is a thing of beauty, shiny steal like. I will not succumb to cruelty. I do not want my words to live in another child's head, tripping them up throughout their life's path. God fucking damn it Mrs. Morse, the time has come for you to retire. Your style of teaching is not the way things are done anymore. Go rest, stay away from kids or better yet take a mindfulness workshop. Good luck!
God damn it, I hate you. I hate what you represent, I hate what you spew out without a thought or a care. I hate the voice you left in my head for 45 fucking years. Oh but the grown me wants to be compassionate. And look there's the child me who still just wants to crumple into a ball and hide. Good god, thanks a fucking lot. I don't want to be compassionate or crumple. I don't want to give a shit about you. I don't want to be compassionate about your frustration/disappointment in me as a student. I don't want to think one more second about your off handed remark that I'm sure you never ever gave a second thought!
The one gift that those words gave me is a candle to hold up and perhaps light the way for someone else --a child or another hurting person. I've spent years trying to blow out my own candle and the tiny shred of me that knows differently about myself. I don't suck, I have amounted to something and plan on amounting to more. Throughout all of this I've guarded one small speck of love that keeps me getting up every day and shelters this candle from my very own breath. That speck is one fucking strong speck to battle off the likes of you. I've spent years cohabiting with your one short sentence. The thing about that little sentence is that it gave birth to a shit load of different negative ones. I've a tome of vial ones in my head. Diagram all those Mrs. English fucking Morse. No wonder I have a knee jerk response to fellow teachers who behave in your vein. The idea that to destroy someone with words is founded or justified makes me want to scream. Oh believe me, I know how tempting it is. I've been an awesome tongue lasher. I've done my best to try and tear down the one person I've committed myself to. He used to jump on your fucking sneering band wagon and go for a ride dragging me along kicking and screaming. But with him it was safe to scream. What I needed to do was to find you and scream. Yet thanks to you I do not have it in me to spit some angry vial at the most obnoxious of kids that cross my threshold. My patience is a thing of beauty, shiny steal like. I will not succumb to cruelty. I do not want my words to live in another child's head, tripping them up throughout their life's path. God fucking damn it Mrs. Morse, the time has come for you to retire. Your style of teaching is not the way things are done anymore. Go rest, stay away from kids or better yet take a mindfulness workshop. Good luck!
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Swallowing a Pro-Biasha
"What if you were okay without a passion," Basha said patiently. These words coming out of the most passionate person I know. Basha
lives to paint. Her passion keeps her painting outside everyday
throughout the winter, no matter the bitter temperatures. She paints
like it's an ultra sport. But being okay without a passion, it had never occurred to me. How absurd? Yet this news felt oddly comforting.
"It's a very American thing --to have a passion," she continued. Ugh, the curse of being American. And yes likely true or else there wouldn't be books out there like Finding your Element. I spent last year working with a coach using that same book as a guide to unearth "my element" reveal my hidden passions to discover this?!? Honestly we did arrive at this together, my coach and I, but without giving it this label. I am without a passion. "You know, not very many people have one" Basha added. A glimmer of hope filled my chest as I imagined a possible posse of passionless cohorts gathering together for comfort and support. I've been quietly and not so quietly beating myself up over my passion deficit forever. So, here it is out there and out loud, a notion to be okay without one. Yet it breaks my heart and so I write, sob and then feel better.
"It's a very American thing --to have a passion," she continued. Ugh, the curse of being American. And yes likely true or else there wouldn't be books out there like Finding your Element. I spent last year working with a coach using that same book as a guide to unearth "my element" reveal my hidden passions to discover this?!? Honestly we did arrive at this together, my coach and I, but without giving it this label. I am without a passion. "You know, not very many people have one" Basha added. A glimmer of hope filled my chest as I imagined a possible posse of passionless cohorts gathering together for comfort and support. I've been quietly and not so quietly beating myself up over my passion deficit forever. So, here it is out there and out loud, a notion to be okay without one. Yet it breaks my heart and so I write, sob and then feel better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)