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Refuge of Brass

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Growing up, I slept on a beautiful antique brass bed. It had been my great grandmother's bed and was handed down to me because I was her namesake, Sarah Ann. I loved it because it felt like a princess bed- tall off the floor and so stately and shiny. There were so many things I loved about that bed. Of course, because it had been my grandmother's, I loved that it helped me feel connected to my family. All of our antiques were special to me, but the bed in particular.  I also hated having hot hands and feet when I slept and loved being able to touch the cold brass and cool them off during the hot Las Vegas nights. My mom wasn't a fan of that habit because my hand and footprints would be all over the bars she had to painstakingly polish with Brasso (a chore that became mine as I got older). But my very favorite thing about the bed was having my own personal hideaway. Because it was such a tall bed, it had a sizeable space underneath. From as far back as I can remember, I love...
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IMPOSTER

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The Imposter   Smiling. Laughing. She has a joke for every occasion and people love her.   The caregiver. The reliable one. Dependability is her middle name- count on her to do as expected.   She is strong enough to handle anything that comes her way. Her resolve will not be shaken.   “I don’t know how you do it.” “You inspire me.” “I admire you.” These are the words she repeatedly hears.   To the world around her, she is an absolute force.   BUT THEY SEE WHAT SHE WANTS THEM TO SEE.   Inadequacy. Fear of failure. Anxiety. These are the things that keep her mind running for hours on end as she tries to settle into bed.   Stifling sobs into her pillow, she cries herself to sleep, afraid to show anyone her weaknesses. For this she hates herself.   She knows she isn’t real. Keeping up the façade is exhausting.   If only someone would call her bluff and see her for who she truly is…   an imposter- a fraud.   Maybe then she could fin...
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I'm a Stranger

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  (Poem by me) You know what I'm discovering? I'm discovering that I really have disconnected from who I am. I don't know my favorite food. I don't know my favorite color. I haven't got a favorite movie or even a favorite type of music (although I'm not sure I ever will because ALL of it is my favorite). I don't know if I ever knew any of this. My whole life I have been living out of obligation and trying to fit in specific boxes that I thought were assigned to me. If what I liked didn't fit in the boxes, it was discarded.  So, here I am now, kids grown for the most part, boxes chucked aside, and trying to figure out the things of my soul.  I've reconnected with the girl that loves to write and realized that I like to write poetry. I was always so nervous to write it as a girl, thinking I could never achieve the beauty of the words of my favorite poets. But now I realize, I don't have to. The beauty is in the writing. I feel a connection to the w...
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A Place to Start, I Guess

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Reflecting So, it hasn't been as easy as I thought it would to come up with things to write about. Every subject has me double and triple checking myself, wondering if what I type will offend someone or cause someone pain. I guess that shouldn't be surprising since I have spent most of my life living for someone else. Rarely have I done things of my own volition- it has usually been to please or impress another person.  My mom told me I had an ulcer at 3 years old. Why does that seem totally appropriate for me??? I had to be perfect from my earliest years. Always striving to be the smartest in the class and when I wasn't it was like I had completely failed. I was voted to be the Wise Old Owl in my elementary school play. It made me so proud that my classmates would have voted me in for that. I was pretty cute, too. The ulcer got better as I grew older because then I was more concerned with getting the boys to like me. It was replaced with eating disorders, but whatever.  I ...
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New Beginning in the Middle

When my dad passed away, it broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. And apparently it also drained my pen. The emotions were too much to process and I had always processed them through writing, whether that be blogging or journaling in my personal journal. I couldn't do either.  I had to be strong- for her, for them, for everyone else. And that meant I couldn't be weak. Showing emotion is weak. I needed to "Cowboy Up" as he would tell me. "Crying never solved anything." I only cried late at night when no one was watching. Maybe sometimes alone in the car. Then I got tired of crying. I became numb. Broken inside. The grief counseling was ineffective and medications seemed to numb me more. I felt I was on my own with this, so I just pushed it all down.  I couldn't write anymore. I have had a 12 year case of writer's block. But now, I realize, I need that to end. I feel the keyboard calling me and telling me it's time to heal. I decided to create...
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