America has a sickness. Not just America. All over the world there are children keeping secrets. Secrets too horrible to confess to anyone. Secrets that influence a lifetime. Secrets for which too many children and adults believe they are responsible. That secret festers like a virus slowly suffocating hope, killing our ability to love or trust and blinding us to our dreams. It cripples us at the deepest, most sacred part of our being.

The people we love the most hurt us the deepest. The people charged with protecting us from harm injure us the worst. The people who should be shaping our future steal it from us. Instead of pulling us up to be our best they tear us down to believe the worst. Abuse, whether emotional or physical is an incomprehensible betrayal devoid of conscience.

Some people will pay a psychologist to chip away the years of suppression…

I finally forced myself to go for a physical, stirrups included. Yee-haw. It was embarrassing when the receptionist announced I’d have to fill out new patient paperwork, since it’d been nearly 6 years since I’d last shown up. After a flu last month kicked off a party of hot flashes and inexplicable pains, I forced myself through the door of the clinic.

As they reviewed my information, I stood there stiffly, until I blurted “I’m having an anxiety attack.” My heart was pounding so hard I could barely focus on what the woman behind the desk was asking. Age? 48. When the nurse took my blood pressure, it was through the roof. She chuckled knowingly about “white coat syndrome”. All that damned meditative breathing did nothing.

The doctor was a woman about my age. I do what I usually do under stress, which is to start cracking jokes. I did…

…..

We’ve only got a few magic beans left, remember, Love?
We sold the rest for a stray cow and a song. If the tin
-tinnabulation of her dwindling bell tells
you nothing else, let’s recall that
here there be giants, and we are Lilliputian small.

Huff out that angry fear all you want, Love. The
sky’s still stoned with our madness and our tears.
Come, play connect-the-dots with me, in stars;
perhaps Orion’s got some answers on this belt.

Let’s claim a midnight cloud for our own,
wait around and watch the moon melt
from period to comma. Maybe our story’s still written
here somewhere, in inky haze and days of un
-held breath. Maybe we’ve actually won. May
……………..-be our once
upon a time has just begun.

…
Prompted by Quickly in September, day 24.

Linking up to dVerse Open Link Night, February 2016.

So today is my incubators birthday. It will be turning 58. There are no cards or well wishes sent and certainly no visits from one of her children given the fact she tortured her from the moment she was born. All I hope for is pain loneliness & misery. I hope that she is ridiculed with some painful disease which leads to a long miserable life ending in a painful slow death. If I had my way she would have her womb ripped out without any anaesetic. Still what goes around comes around and no suffering will be enough for her.

This poem was written on Mother’s Day. It’s just as applicable for her birthday.

Happy Mothers Day
to the woman who gave birth
who ensured my coming years
would be nothing but hell on earth
Happy Mothers Day
to the woman who I had to trust
to meet my…

Those rhymes I sung
When I was little
Front bells I rung
Before running away
Shouting top of my lungs
Old anthems of brave
Bees who stung
Anywhere I could touch
On those trees we hung
As days passed away
Bit by bit I am losing you all
Memories where art thou
Where else dear old fellow
Just on the tip of your tongue