Oh the phrases you’ll go...

Lately I’ve been thinking about two expressions which have tested my mental health and, most likely, everyone that is familiar with them.

When you REALLY think about it, there is tremendous power in words. Then place those words together, to make phrases, repeat those phrases enough so that the words, and what we associate with them, becomes commonplace and BOOM. Houston, we may have a problem.

Now that I’ve set the stage, and maybe have you thinking, I’ll elaborate.

“Thick skinned” and “Wearing your heart in your sleeve” are like mental juxtapositions, each fraught with so many hidden dangers.  The nature of each expression pushing us to be one way or another.  Both insults. Both compliments.  Both completely unhealthy.

Let’s look closer.  

“Thick Skinned”.  Have you ever thought this about someone or had someone said it to you?  What does it mean?  Basically it means you aren’t sensitive, you can handle what comes your way, you’re not emotional, life doesn’t get to you.  Most people will say that about someone as a compliment.  “Wow, you’re really thick skinned”, which means they, themselves, don’t think they are.  Or, based on tone, it can be insulting.  “Wow, Michelle, you’re REALLY thick skinned”, which basically means the person is heartless.  

The opposing term, “You wear your heart on your sleeve”.  What does that mean? “You really wear your heart on your sleeve”  If being used as a compliment about another, or to ourselves, it means we are sensitive, open with our feelings and emotions.  Or, “You REALLY wear your heart on your sleeve.” The negative use would be that you or I are weak.  Vulnerability equals weakness.

But perhaps the thick skinned are those who have suppressed their emotions and are in a lot of pain.  For one reason or another they equate vulnerability with risk, uncertainty with failure. Their thick skin hides much below the surface.  

And those who wear their hearts on their sleeve are exposing their underbellies at all times.  Loudly, or silently, screaming their pain.  It’s as if their sleeve is their skin, turned inside out, the raw, bloody side exposed.  Vulnerability equals weakness.  Weakness equals shame.

Neither extreme is healthy, if we look at it through a negative lens.  Instead of lifting one another up, we use words as weapons.  The words expose our own realities and insecurities. We’ve been “trained” to think of these words as ways of using them as daggers towards others and/or ourselves.  

The healthy path, as usual, is finding the balance between the extremes.  To think of our skin as the protection it’s meant to be, but also what holds us together.  And one of the many things we all have in common. Perhaps the key is to be more aware of our intent and to choose to be kind to our selves and one another.

To Say My Name

The last person to say my name

Carries the final burden of memory 

How I laughed

Who I loved

How I loved

Cereal

Who didn’t love me

my joys, my passions

My gypsy butterfly hair

All. 

The flaws and beauty

The ferocity of my feelings

How I never gave up or in

Who I was to them

The last person to say my name

Carries the final essence of me

After I will wither into a yellowed image

 A photograph gathering stardust

 in a vintage shop, just like the others

So don’t be gentle when you say my name for the last time

Yell it, laugh with it, please make it dance on your tongue as it lingers in the air 

for a final bow

Mara

Yes. Me Too.

I have never written about this, but have spoken about it.  I’m going to cut to the chase: when I was in 6th grade I was sexually molested by two boys my age.  One I had had a crush on. The other just was there, maybe initiating it, maybe not. If that wasn’t enough, it happened again when I was fifteen, by a friend of the family. What I do know for sure is that I suffered and the ripple effects have lasted my lifetime.  As I matured it helped me to be a kinder, more empathetic person, but for a long time I just quietly paid the price.

As a young girl I loved nothing more than walking to the library every day.  On one of those many days I decided to take the elevator down one floor to the YA section.  Two boys, saw me and hopped in the elevator. Within seconds one of them stopped it. In the pitch dark I heard them laughing, while I was frozen in the corner, terrified.  Before I knew it I felt their hands all over me. I didn’t scream, I didn’t move. Before this I never even held a hand with a boy.

Finally, eternally, one of them started the elevator.  I got out. They got out and followed me around. One of them said he was sorry and would prove it to me if I would just trust him one more time.  I did. I got in the elevator again. And it all happened again.

When I got out my shame was etched into my soul.  I allowed it to happen. Twice. And so I lived for years, believing it to be my fault.  Tony and Adam walked away. Did they ever feel regret? I have no idea.

At fifteen I was in high school, involved in all kinds of after school activities.  I didn’t have a car, so I had two options: walk home or take the late bus. One day while waiting for the late bus, “Uncle Jimmy” stopped and asked if I needed a ride.  He was a custodian at the school and a good friend of my parent’s. Of course I said yes. Him I could trust. Wrong.

We got to my house and he asked me for a kiss goodbye.  I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek and he turned my head and stuck his tongue down my throat.  I pulled away, jumped out of the car and ran into the house.

I told no one.  

Weeks went by.  My grades were crashing, I lost weight and I was constantly shaking.

My dad came into my room one night and asked me if I was taking drugs.  I told him no. He asked me what was going on. I told him I could only tell my mother.

And I did.  I am lucky. My parents believed me and the next day we went and reported what happened to the school principal.

Me too, everyone.  I kept silent about the first attack.  I don’t think my parents have ever known.  I didn’t report it; I was a young girl, victimized, taken advantage of and shamed.  I believed there was something about ME that drew monsters to me. It was my fault.

So I don’t ask why women don’t report.  I get it. I hope you will too.

~Blood of my Blood~

~The 36th Righteous One~

There is no name to be inscribed

 in ink or stone

for an almost forever

It’s a loss which circulates in the blood

from time to time
but more often than not

Can be felt down to the marrow of the bones

at unexpected moments
each step like walking on shards of sea glass

The almost promise

The almost happy ever after
The almost perfect sky

The almost absence from grief 

~Murmuration~

I watch, captivated

Unspoken and untethered they rise

a white winged blanket 

snow geese taking flight

from their camouflaged harbor

of frosty farmland

Hundreds in unison fl-fl-flapping

Whoosh                                           up

Tip-to-wing-tip they soar up up up

                                                              merging with the white clouds

                                                              safely cradling in against the sun

Knob Hill

We were the gatekeepers of Knob Hill

our secret hideaway

nestled in the small valley 

between the dunes of 13th and 14th 

Halfway from the pavement 

and the shoreline 

where seashells and sea glass

clustered like precious jewels 

Binding us home

Binding us to this home

Eating popcorn, drinking Coca Cola 

watching the sun set

Laughing at nothing

was everything

Howling back at the moon

Counting the ways we could draw

lines between the shooting stars

the magical shooting stars

We built a fort in the sand

under the waxing moon

Chasing the waves as 

they ebbed and pulled time

through our fingertips

We thought we’d live forever

with our youthful salty kisses

Lingering on the storybook pages

we wrote on the walls 

in our memories

In our memory

Time is a curious tease

I still hear your voice

breathless with excitement 

calling me 

to come play outside 

outside