Giving It Up To God

You are not making use of the course if you insist on using means that have served others well, neglecting what was made for YOU. Save time for me by only this one preparation, and practice doing NOTHING ELSE. “I need do nothing” is a statement of allegiance, a truly undivided loyalty. Believe it for just one instant, and you will accomplish more than is given to a century of contemplation, or of struggle against temptation.

To DO anything involves the body. And, if you recognize you NEED do nothing, you HAVE withdrawn the body’s value from your mind. Here is a quick and open door through which you slip past centuries of effort, and ESCAPE from time. This is the way in which sin loses ALL attraction RIGHT NOW. For here is time denied, and past and future gone. Who need do nothing has no need for time. To do nothing is to rest, and make a place within you where the activity of the body ceases to demand attention. Into this place the Holy Spirit comes, and there abides.

He will remain when you forget, and the body’s activities return to occupy your conscious mind. But there will always be this place of rest, to which you can return. And you will be more aware of the quiet center of the storm, than all its raging activity. This quiet center, IN WHICH YOU DO NOTHING, will remain with you, giving you rest in the midst of every busy doing on which you are sent. For, FROM this center, will you be directed how to use the body sinlessly. It is this center, from which the body is ABSENT, that will keep it so, in your awareness of it. – ACIM

 

This is one of those excerpts from the Course in Miracles that always shakes me. It’s entirely appropriate for me to find this passage now. I should have it blown up and plastered to the ceiling over my bed, so I can remember first thing when I awake and be reminded as I drift off to sleep.

There are so many things outside of my control – things that I am not entirely happy about. And I know that I cannot change a situation, or another person – I can only change the way I think. And so, this is that process.

There are things that I would like to change, but cannot. I have to let this go. It’s keeping me stagnant and my brain is working overtime trying to sort it through, but it is an insane task, and I’m wasting precious time and energy. I can change how I feel about things I dislike. Doesn’t mean I have to all of a sudden be happy about it, but I can make it not bother me so much. It’s a process I suppose. 

It’s a lesson in acceptance and faith and patience. I have to accept what is, even if I don’t like it. This is incredibly difficult for me, considering I’m the creator of my universe and all. I typically feel very connected to all the happenings around me, but lately … it’s like watching them on a big, fuzzy screen. And I’m thinking, “I didn’t direct this shit!” …but I must have. Because here it is. 

And so, I lay down all my worries and fears and hurts and sadness down. I give them up, I don’t need them anymore and they’ve never served me in the first place.  I need to make room for positive creation, happy thoughts and forward movement.  All this drudgery is making me sick, literally. And so, as easily as I took on all these burdens, I set them down now. 

Ahhh, that’s better.

 

 

Making that Skeleton Dance

Spending time with my family is always a grand occasion. There’s a lot of us, and when we get together it’s a loud, festive time. We all get along pretty well. We like to play games and laugh and catch up. Holidays mean massive quantities of food, creating quality moments with the ever-growing kids and reminiscing. 

My family is crazy. Seriously, insane. If I like you, I promise, I won’t leave you alone with them for long. If you’re not “one of us” then you’d be scared and nervous and looking for the nearest exit. And I wouldn’t blame you. I do the same thing. 

I love my entire family. But I will be totally honest and blunt when I say, I don’t necessary like them. At least, not all at once, in the same space for hours and hours and hours and hours. That’s pretty normal, I think (I hope). It’s the whole “I love you , now go away” thing.

We pick on each other in a harsh, but loving way. We tease and joke, but typically it’s harmless. Lately, though, there’s been an odd undercurrent of true aggression and malice. I don’t much care for that. Perhaps it’s just my perception, but I don’t know where the jokes end and the serious jabs begin sometimes.  Maybe I’m getting too sensitive in my old age, but I’m not down with the intentional hurting of feelings or trash-talking family members who have left the room. It’s odd, considering we’re all adults, but we’re behaving like spoiled children who need a serious time out.

I’m the youngest of the 7 kids and I’m typically the butt of many a joke, but I can take it and I’ve gotten quite skilled at dishing it right back. It’s a game.  Hey, I grew up with my brothers farting on my head … and I lived through that, so I can handle just about anything. It’s a strange form of love I suppose. They wouldn’t poke fun if they didn’t.

Lately I’ve been noticing just how varied we all are in our disfunction. We all have them. But the odd thing is, for as much as we love and care for each other, we never talk about the stuff that really matters. This infuriates me sometimes. The skeletons in the closet hang there, all dusty. We all know that there’s LOTS of really important things to talk about, but all we do is talk about the weather, our aches and pains, our travels, our work, our neighbors. We never talk about US. And I think we should. 

Well, we talk about the family members who aren’t present… we do that a lot. But if that person were in the room, we’d never touch the subject and go on about the warm weather or the last movie we saw. Very, very sad. 

I have 3 brothers, who were all present this holiday weekend – and I can honestly say, I didn’t get to talk to any one of them about anything of importance. I sure did try though. Seems like a waste. Well,  I did get to know them better – but in ways that they’re unaware of. Actions speak louder than words, and I was rather disappointed in some of the behaviors I witnessed. 

One brother of mine, who I see very rarely, let slip that his wife is a noted and self-proclaimed alcoholic. I took this as an opening, an opportunity to talk to him about his life … but he preferred to ignore my questions, take another toke and spew on about his favorite internet games. Wow. Considering he’s a few credits shy of a Ph.D in Psychology, I wonder what he would think of that, if he were sober. I don’t need a degree to realize the depth of his denial. Makes me sad. So, I listened for 3 hours about his online gaming and even pretended to be interested like a good sister … figured it was better than nothing. 

And then there’s my sister, whom I love dearly. She’s been battling severe depression for years, but doesn’t talk about it. She’s always smiling and laughing and does a very convincing job at pretending everything is absolutely wonderful. But I know better. Hell, I lived in her house for 6 months, I know. Her daughters know, her doctor knows … but she doesn’t do anything about it. It’s affecting her physically, and her body is breaking down from the stress of it all. How many times have I begged her just to talk to me, but then she just smiles and changes the subject. Oh, a lovely trek down Denial Road yet again. 

I could take a few guesses as to why she’s so unhappy. And I’m not afraid to say I’d be correct on at least half the time. But I’ll never really know, because she won’t open up to me, she’s emotionally shut down. Ahh, but you’d never know it. 

Her husband hates me, and I don’t know why. I don’t like to use the word “hate”, but in this case, it seems to fit. He doesn’t acknowledge me, even when I’m standing right next to him. He looks past me, he doesn’t speak to me, he won’t greet me or say goodbye, he accuses me of things I’ve never done – but never directly – and I have to handle the burden of his distant, incorrect judgement on my own. And it’s painful, knowing that I can’t just sit down and say, “Dude, what’ is up?” … cause I’ve tried and he is a stone wall.  And he’s a lively, fun guy – and nobody else in my family seems to notice his complete disregard for my presence. But I do the dutiful thing, I put my arms around him and say “thank you for inviting me”. I kiss his turned cheek in greeting while he rolls his eyes. But I do it for my sister, and for me. I don’t know why I’m so unlovable to him, and I may never know. Because my family doesn’t talk… and that makes me really sad. The last thing I want to do is make my sister more uncomfortable than she already is, and trust me, I’ve told her what’s going on … and all she will do is stand by her man. 

For as many of us as there are, you’d think we’d know one another a little better. For as intellegent as we are, you’d think someone other than me would catch on say, “Hey, this is the most important support system any of us have, let’s use it!” … but alas, I seem to expect too much.

But there are good moments, when I can put all the bullshit aside and connect with the young ones that are changing so fast. They are our family’s only hope. Seriously. And I’m proud of all my nieces and nephews as I watch them grow into capable, loving, creative people. My siblings are good parents, I will say that. And it gives me faith that if our generation can’t work through their shit, that hopefully the kids will do as I did when I was young, sit back and watch and learn from the errors of those that came before.

The Sound of Silence

For the past 3 or 4 months I’ve been living with a faulty smoke detector. It was been beeping non-stop, day and night. 

I’ve been getting out of bed 5 or 6 times a night to push the little button to reset it. It lasted a couple hours at first, then the time between beeps decreased, until finally, it was just a constant whine.

It frayed my nerves unlike anything I’ve experienced. The constant noise and interruption was almost too much to take.

Of course, it was a dead battery. I knew this – and I tried my very best to pull that sucker down to replace it. As it was plastered to the ceiling and jammed against the wall moulding, I had no idea how to make it stop completely. So I just kept pressing the button like a good dog.

Months of this beeping. Months. I seriously thought I was going to lose my mind. 

I had my step stool permenantly placed under the bugger, and attempted in vain to pull it down, to twist it off, to hack at with with the vacuum. I needed a man, someone strong and knowledgeable to just make it quiet.

I’ve lost sleep, had a constant headache and been irritated more than I care to admit. But the beep! beep! beep! didn’t stop, and neither did my annoyance. What a massive pain in the ass.

Until, at last, I post photos on Facebook… and Yamel gives me a bright idea. And it worked.

God be praised! Allah! Buddha! Christ! Jehova and all his witnesses! Ja! Krishna! Mother Earth! Father Christmas! There is peace in this house once again!

And now all is quiet and I can hear myself think. I can hear Echo’s dainty footsteps on the carpet when she tries to stalk me. I am quiet inside and outside. I am sleepy and know I will slumber interrupted. I am so grateful for good ideas that I don’t even know how to express it.

It’s like love. When all the noise stops, the love just flows so easily. And that, my friend, is exactly what is happening. And it’s been held up a bit … so it’s rushing in fast and strong. Oh, peace, what lovely, soothing, comfort you are. 

It’s like hearing blue and green and lilac all at once. If they made a sound, it would sound like this …

 

Washing out the Red

Why is red associated with so many negative things? People “see red” when they’re angry, we’re “in the red” when we’re in debt.  It’s fire, it’s danger, it’s a stop sign. Red.

See, I’m more of a blue/green person, but I’ve been seeing a whole lot of red these days. And I don’t really like it.  Thankfully, I know it’s temporary.

If I were happy all the time, then I probably wouldn’t really appreciate it. But it’s when things are difficult and stressful, that I can forget my own harmonious bliss. Bad shit happens all at once it seems. Bad afternoons turn into bad days that turn into bad weeks … and before I know it, I am the dreaded grumpasaurus. 

I have one thing on my side: I’m aware that it’s all me. It’s not you. Not you, or you, or you. I try SO hard not to take my bad days out on people. Well, ok, I’ll be honest. I don’t take it out on people I like. If I’m having a crapola week and someone who naturally just annoys the crap out of me starts poking me… I get aggressive.

Not angry, loud aggressive. No, if I’m going to unleash on someone, I’ll do it in looks and in words. I will calmly unleash the honest truth at that moment without a single care for censorship. And I’ll look ya in the eye when I do it. I don’t even need to curse. I’ll just make you feel really small and stupid.  Then I smile a satisfied, evil smile. 

I’m scary. I’ve been told that I’m intimidating. I’ve made overgrown men cower and apologize for things they never did. It’s a skill. 

But I want to use my powers for good, not for evil. See, that’s why I’m glad that it’s atypical for me to be confrontational or blunt or curt. The people who know me, know that I’m just human and having a shitty ass day. And those who don’t know me, will eventually get an apology in one form or another. I’m aware when I’m being a bitch, I just hate having it pointed out to me.

So, I’m going to soak my body in a hot bath scented with rosemary and chamomile and lavender. I’m going to put on some soothing music, Liquid Mind, perhaps. I’m going to pour a glass of red wine and read my favorite book. And I’m going to let go of all this red and anger and frustration and wash it all away. 

Tomorrow is another day. Another opportunity. I’ll get it together…

Love is Impatient

I have endless questions about love. But right now, I’m wondering … is love about having faith or is it about letting go?

Ok, a little vague, I know. But it’s hard to describe. If any one of my three sisters would actually pick up their phone, I’d be talking this out instead… but alas, everyone else has a life.

So, I’m in love. He’s a good man and completely worthy of my love. But he has habits, deeply ingrained and comfortable. And they stand in his way. They stand in our way.

We’ve talked about this, him and I. And we both agree he needs to do some work. I’m already blessed by the fact that he’s willing. Not only for himself, but for us. And so, I wait. 

And wait. And wait. And wait and wait. 

There are months that go by and very little gets done, as far as I can tell. We agreed on a “to-do” list. And while he has taken steps, he’s accomplished nothing. In four months, not a single thing can be fully crossed off that list.

Does this realization make me impatient or observant? Am I rude to point this out or realistic? Are my expectations too high? Am I full of illusions that he’ll actually do what needs to get done? Is he just full of ideas that will never come to fruition? 

You see, I want to believe. But my belief is not based on fact. My faith is based only on what he tells me. And he says a lot. But I don’t see much action from here. 

Does that make me a bitch for saying that? 

They say, give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day – teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for lifetime. And all I’ve wanted to do was help him learn to fish. But he hasn’t even picked up the pole yet. He keeps talking about it, he wants to, but there are always reasons not to… money, time, other people, etc.

So I wait. I believe he’ll actually pick up that fishing pole and get to work like he says he will. 

But he hasn’t yet. And I’m concerned for my faith. Do I keep standing here, waiting? Or do I turn away and hope he’ll get it on his own.

Oh, love, don’t you know patience is not my forte?

 

The Evolution of The Grumpasaurus

It’s not just legend folks, the great grumpasaurus does indeed exist. I see them everyday. You probably do too. They’re not as rare as I once thought, and when I come across them, I’m really unsure how to handle these creatures.

You know them by their negative attitudes, their complaining, their endless frustration at life. The littlest inconvenience makes them crazy and loud and bang things around. They “hurrumphff” and sigh audibly, roll their eyes constantly and say profane things about people who piss them off.  In fact, just about everyone pisses them off all the time, and repeat offenders are subject to obscene hand gestures.

Now, I like to calm nervous animals, but these grumasaurus’ are wily and seem to be unsatisfied by any positive, reaffirming words or help that I can offer. To me it seems, they like being grumpasauruses.  Even a high-strung kitty can be soothed by a soft pat, hushed reassurances and a treat or two.

I did have success once, cohersing a large grumpasaurus to smile with an oatmeal raisin cookie, but the effect was short-lived. And I can’t keep such a supply of cookies with me at all times … just think of the ants (and other crumb-loving creatures) I would attract.

Anyway, now I just give them a wide berth … space to roll and stomp in their own misery. What else can I do?

My only problem with this species is their effect on the people. You know, those who have a relatively good handle on happiness. Granted, they have issues of our own, but they deal with them. And sometimes, they deal with them alone and quietly. But when the grumpasaurus comes around, their problem is everyone’s problem… and often, that becomes too much to bear for the quiet ones. 

This is when I become like the grumpasaurus and puff up, all angry and righteous. But I have no real power to challenge a true, seasoned grump. I just don’t have it in me. But I feel bad for the people they trample, the waste they leave behind, the feelings they hurt and the idiocy of it all.

But then, I get over it and go on my merry way. But really, what can be done? Isn’t it about time these ancient grumpasaurus’ evolve like everything else on the planet? 

Oh, bother.

Before I was me

I remember being a baby, not having words or full control of my limbs. I remember laying in my crib, seeing the colors and furry creatures surrounding me, trying to focus on what was beyond the bars.

I remember I had the same voice in my head then as I do now. And I remember remembering before I was there, in that crib. 

I don’t bring this up in conversation a lot, but it’s something I want to get out, only because it has been a constant image in my mind for as long as I’ve had one. And before I get too old, I’d like to illustrate it, before my synapses lack their firing skills and it’s all gone. I may have written about it before, but that, I don’t remember… funny how the brain works. 

An interesting question I like to ask is, “What’s your earliest memory?” I ask, selfishly, wondering if anyone else has pre-birth memories as I do. And if they ask the question to me, depending on how they answer, I may or may not divulge the exact truth. 

Because my earliest memory is of not being “here”. And when I’ve said that in the past, I’ve gotten a lot of “uhh-huhhh’s” and sad, sorry looks. But it’s the truth.

I don’t know where it was that I remember being. I do recall not being alone, but not visually seeing anyone either. I couldn’t see with my eyes, I don’t think I had eyes per se. But I was safe and loved and being called. 

I remember feeling very alert and keenly aware that I was to go. And I was shown exactly where that was. And my vision was granted, and I saw people. Lots and lots of people kneeling and praying. There was a large room, red velvet and gold and the tops of bowed heads. 

And then I could hear quiet voices, offerings, pleadings, whispers for forgiveness. I didn’t hear so much words as feel emotion.  And I knew where I was to go. I saw my Mother before she ever saw me.  There was no time in that space…but I knew she was where I was to go, and I knew exactly why.

I don’t remember actually being born, but being diaper-clad and immobile I do. I remembered that red place, the feeling of the “before” and I’ve carried it with me all my life. 

My family was Catholic and I can recall my first reaction to going to church. I don’t know how old I was, but I was being carried. It was the incense and the dark wood, the red velvet and gold that jogged my little brain. Here, here is where I met my Mother. I loved that church.

I didn’t understand the purpose for going to the church. I figured it was all for me, so I sat and felt the connection with my memory. There was a choir and I loved the music, the priest spoke in gradually ascending tones that sometimes scared me, but I was messmorized by the feeling of just being there. 

I ended up going to the elementary school attached to the church, and at the end of first grade, that church burnt down. I was sad. Even though we had a short year and no more school for months, it was like a part of me was gone. 

I didn’t ever believe in any of the Catholic teachings. I never took the bible as anything other than a book full of stories. I aced all my tests and kept high grades and repeated what they wanted to hear. But inside my heart I knew that whatever they considered God just wasn’t out there. The belief that we are all born sinners never appealed to me. I knew quite the opposite. But I didn’t tell anyone that. I knew this man named Jesus didn’t want to be worshipped.

I knew I was not going to hell for thinking so, and my soul wouldn’t end up in purgatory if I wasn’t baptized (even though I was).  I didn’t believe Adam and Eve ever fell from grace or that women came from the rib of a man or that the devil was there at every turn daring you to sin.  I didn’t believe in the devil or hell or evil.

Despite the religion classes and daily masses, the memorized prayers and forced penance, I always kept in my heart the knowledge that all this pageantry was just that – a show. And I played my role, but kept what I knew to myself. Even though I didn’t understand exactly what I knew,  I was sure it was much larger than could be contained in words or a book or in one man.

And life goes on, a new church is built, I’m being banged over the head with rulers from overzealous nuns for non memorizing my times tables. I’m surviving my parents divorce and a mother in rehab. I’m introverted and stuck in my thoughts, every time I open my mouth I get strange looks, so I speak very quietly, very little.

They tell me I’m “special” because my vocabulary is off the charts. I’m smarter than they think I should be, but I never felt special in any way. Just confused as to why all the adults in my life did the exact opposite of what they wanted ME to do. I withdrew into myself for many years, and I held onto one thing: my faith in my source, God. Whatever you want to call it. 

And we had conversations. I spoke to him a lot and he replied. Sometimes is it was a her, or a them… but it was always there to answer the questions I had. It was always there to remind me that I had purpose. But I couldn’t remember what it was anymore, and I felt lost. And I was told time and time again, “Patience.”

I’ve never been very good with patience…

But then my mother comes home  sober, Dad leaves and things being to even out, in an unsteady but forward-moving way. I liked my mom this way. She started to call me her angel at the most odd times. She’d get drifty and quiet and say these things and at first it made me self-conscious. I didn’t like too much attention. But soon enough, I remembered that I was her angel. I was sent here for her. To be an integral part of this familial process.

I wasn’t even 9 when I realized how important my role was, it blew me away to know and to remember that I chose to come here. This family, this time, this body, these circumstances. 

I couldn’t handle it. Seemed too unreal, too “out there”, even my above average word choices couldn’t describe what I felt. I let myself get weighed down by self-imposed responsibility. It almost broke me. Thank God for time… give time, time. And indeed all things will be clear.

And I aged and life goes on, and I’m older and full of new freedoms, but faith and god and remembering is always with me. I went on a quest for many years, delving into multiple religions and faiths to see if any one had even a fragment of what I had in my heart.

I took a piece here and bit there, for there have been a lot of good words written on faith and humanity and the nature of man and the universe. But none of it compares to the volumes that i have stored in my memory …if only I had complete access to it… there would be no need to write.

But it’s all still there to this day, my conversations with god, mother calling me her angel, me being overly verbose and slightly withdrawn… and the memories of before here. All still here. And the quest is still underway, only now, I don’t have to go it alone. Thankfully, communications as they are, make it much easier.

The Great Awakening

I wasn’t always aware of my role in my own life. I always thought life just happened to me, and so I reacted to it. I didn’t know I had the power to choose differently, I didn’t know changing my mind was the most powerful tool I’d ever be given.

When I was about 19, I was given a copy of “Awareness” by Anthony DeMello. I read it straight through one sad night when I was at an emotional crossroads. I didn’t want to feel like shit anymore. I was tired of bad things happening to me. I hated my life. But that thin, little book really made me think, and his writing was so entertaining, that I didn’t feel like I was being preached to. He wrote: 

Suffering points out that there is falsehood somewhere. Suffering occurs when you clash with reality. When your illusions clash with reality when your falsehoods clash with the truth, then you have suffering. Otherwise there is no suffering.

And so I began my journey on finding truth, weeding out all my false beliefs and taking control of my thoughts.  I realized, I didn’t have to be unhappy just because things don’t happen the way I want or expect. I began to open up to the possibility that things happen for a reason, a good reason. And even if I’m not aware of that reason at the time … eventually I will. 

And on any journey, you meet like-minded people following the same path. And when we recognize one another, it makes the journey that much more fulfilling. I don’t have to do it alone, in fact, none of us can do it alone.

I find there to be so many more people taking this course lately. This makes me incredibly happy. We’re waking up, we’re feeling our connectivity, we’re finding our commonality and we’re working through it together.

Even in the smallest ways, every choice we make creates something. The awareness of this powerful creative potential makes me careful, but not hesitant. It keeps me vigilant. And when I forget, there is always some guide to remind me. And when you forget, I’ll remember for you.

 

You got it?

We’ve all had conversations where the person talking says, “You get what I’m talking about?” or “Do you understand what I’m saying?” … and we’ve all nodded and said “oh, yeah”, even though we had absolutely no clue. 

We say yes because we don’t really care to understand and want to change the subject, or it was just way over our head … and we don’t have enough interest to ask for clarification, or we pretend to be smarter than we are. I’ve done it, you’ve done, we all do it.

But what if that person was trying to tell us something really important? What if we zone out on a really integral lesson, being placed right at our feet – but we’re just too lazy to pick it up.

Every single day holds potential to learn something new. It’s out there, all we’ve got to do is pay attention.  Wouldn’t it be nice if we always went about our days and nights with open minds and hearts?  … but we don’t, we’re human. 

I am a student and I am a teacher. All I can teach is what I think I know, and I am hungry to learn things I didn’t even know existed. Unfortunately, I am consistantly faced with the same lessons over and over. 

I guess I’m just not “getting it.”

And I’d really like to get it. I want to understand. I’m open to changing the way I think and what I believe, if it would advance me on my path. But there seems to be so  little guidance sometimes. And I find myself trying to work with what I have, but times like now, it isn’t enough. 

I ask for help, but that hasn’t turned out well. I think I must live in a very strange bubble that nobody can relate to. Because I’m not interested in advice that involves any kind of revenge or anger or retaliation. I just want help processing difficult emotion without causing more harm.  I think I’m asking for help from the wrong people. 

But where are the ones I need? Where are the people who can listen to me without judgement or debasement? Who can I speak my truth to that will look past my words and just see me and my desire to heal the situation?

It’s really kinda sad. Thank god for god. Because right now, that’s all I’ve got.

The Beating, Chapter 1

I am only human afterall. For as much strength as I have, I am just as weak. 

I tend to bear the burdens of others better than my own. I am the listener, the mender, the inspirer. I mend the broken bits and make them whole again. I’m quite skilled at doing this for others, not so much myself. …but I am learning.

There are things in my life that I have done that I am not proud of. I have sad memories, but I’m happy to say that most of them have been resolved. I don’t like when things fester and bubble over. I want a solution, and even when I am mired in misery, I focus on that. 

I’ve always wondered why I’ve always been such a good friend and yet I haven’t had many to return the kindness. I’ve worn this, like a badge, for years. It’s the story of my life.

I give. And I give. And I give. And just when I need a friend, I am turned away, judged, demoralized, crushed back into the very grave that I was reaching out from.

When I was in junior high, I had very few friends. And those I had, many where carry overs from elementary school. I didn’t participate in a lot of social activities, shy as I was. But one sunny afternoon, I had a chance to go home with some childhood friends after school. 

There were 3 of us. But I soon learned it was 2 against 1. And I was the odd man out. Even after all we had shared years ago, even though our families knew one another through PTA and school events and church, they still duped me into coming back with them so they could kick my ass.

Funny how I was so naive. I thought we were friends, we had shared history, we even laughed and joked together as we walked. Her mother served us chips and soda before we went upstairs to do “girl” things. 

And then they started pummeling me. They punched and kicked every part of my body except my face. I recall the kicks to the lower back especially, how they make my legs go numb and I fell to the floor. I didn’t ever see it coming. And when my cries became so loud, her mother ran upstairs and dragged me into the bathroom, where she tended to me. And begged me to tell me what happened. But I didn’t know. I had no idea. For some reason, I was the object of anger and fury and I sat bleeding and bruised and sore. And I refused to tell her that it was her darling daughter and her best friend who just kicked the shit out of me for no reason.

I went home, I limped home and tried not to cry, but I did. Mostly because I didn’t understand the cruelty or where it came from. I suffered alone with that. Never told anyone. I avoided those girls for the rest of my schooling, which was another 4 years. 

Strange, just when you think you’ve made a friend, they’ll kick you down. I don’t think I ever did anything to deserve the beating, it just happened anyway.  The pain remains, but the questions do not. I don’t care why. I just don’t want it to happen again.