Failures

That necessary evil,

failure.

The body breaks down,

Crying childishly

For a bottle.

No more sweet

warm milk to

pacify. Thumbs down

Because you see

copper pipes

those sturdy ducts

dried up, stolen,

sold.

A single bed

on a dark dirty floor.

No braided plaited

rug, primary yellow red blue green

black and white, cover less.

The books, naked and open.

A diary, open a empty

Inkwell, a pen without

A quill. Wait for more.

A hand slaps

A label .25 cents under

candy apple cheeks

Born of tears and

Screaming

Learning

Recreational lying.

Running away

from home

My growling hunger

Turns to fear.

Where carelessly

Boredom hides

Its face

Mistaken by death.

Nothing to burn

yet on my body. Dirty

Electrical storms

And outrage

For the empty

Breasts of

Disgust. Shame grows

Beside a weed

Garden where the

Soil hardens

Into rusty clay.

Glowing up worthless

Deep in alternate

currents rides

a tight head.

My hair once

bubbled with curls.

Now straight as

a cactus prick

a crown of

new cowlicks

spin around my

head with the

shock of shame.

On the rocks

peeling open

a rattle snake

Molting to expose

anew. Skin burns

in moonlit

Curtain less rooms.

It’s time to move

Again.

Everyday failure:

Unthreaded and

without a needle

To sew the holes in

a ripped pair of

stockings, darning

Instead

Stay Positive, stay.

Sometimes my mistakes

Reach you and yours

And others myself, me and

Mine. Lead the dense ore of expectations leads

Not to gold, not to diamonds.

My pick axe and

Shovel, sieve and

Headlight

Mocking the brave

Fish that live in the

Darkness so ink black

They willed themselves

A headlamp on

Their hard hats. Darwin

Had his way of

Plumbing the reaches of

My Grace in the name

Of the father who

Died with experience

My tribe hid

It’s treasure from

My failures.

Broken bird-

Sized bites

My genes unzipped

Now simply read

She bred.

Lead her away

She deserves

No less than Expulsion.

10 Years Gone: How things change, yet how much they stay the same

I want to give you a small gift from my heart- it’s actually a re -gift but worthwhile to share as it is a letter written to the younger of my two stepsons. By his 10th birthday we’d shared three together as a family. I met their father a year after his divorce and met them six months after that. We’d decided that year to move in together and by then shared custody of the boys 50/50. My boys remain a part of my life – a miracle to which I’ll share some insight with you as to the dramatics you might’ve conjured from the connotation of this Christmas/ Hanukkah miracle.

Stepparents: Failure Representatives

Christmas hadn’t seen a tree with gifts underneath for each of them for many years. If I added any value to their lives at that point, it was lost on me. Stepparents, especially stepmothers, represent a failed family and a failed marriage to the children. A reminder what once was. I represented the collapse of their entire world. No need for discussion of fault, of who did what to whom. But unfortunately their mother suffers from borderline personality disorder and the kids a conduit to financial gain. My husband should get an award for fathering with a horrible wall of dollar bills between the well-being of his kids, and our relationship teetered in the balance for many years. He still suffers from depression and parental alienation syndrome.

I will survive

After reading every book on stepparent best practices, listening to every podcast, and seeing a family counselor, the redundancy of the high possibility of an end result sounded and felt much like applauding with dog shit in one hand. I didn’t want to hear or feel it again. The thunder of the shit storms echoed such like the screams you’d hear from one trying steer a leaking canoe with one paddle missing a stick on level five rapids. I’m not exaggerating. If you’re looking at marrying a partner who has kids and a mentally messed up ex, and you’re on the fence – get off the pole. I do not recommend it.

Yet I do have some wonderful memories – and a lot of canceled vacations, lies, deceit, broken plumbing, yelling, drama, crushed hearts, skinned knees and so on.

But for the most part I remember a lot of love, because that’s emblematic of what it takes to survive.

What are the odds?

It’s not as bleak an outcome as metastatic breast cancer which has a 100% chance of death. Second wives stand a 25% chance of success when children are involved versus a 50% chance when no children come to the party.

And as far as doing what’s right for the kids, setting boundaries didn’t stop any of the outrageous and cruel behavior, rewarded when they returned to their mom’s house greeted by their grilling of the time they spent with us. All activities, backed up by photos, audio and video recordings all the better, and as much money as possible either in the form of stolen or given. What made their time with us most nightmarish and would certainly break up your average couple, drew us closer in a United front and although she fleeced us for any penny, it forced us to find smooth conflict resolution between one another. In hindsight I don’t know how we still have a shared life – with the kids. The boys are 22 and 19 now. It’s a long way away from 14 years ago. Hair curling doesn’t come close to describing the situation. But here we are.

Part of the reason exists in the body of this letter. It’s the holidays and as a gift I’d thought I would share this with you. Craig said there’s a lot of wisdom in that letter. But it’s an outline of my own personal philosophy.

The Letter

And now why you’ve all come to read this post, the letter of 10 years ago to my then 10 year old stepson:

June 27th, 2011

Dear C,

10 years old – think about what the world was like back when you were born… One whole decade of your life makes up your history, and your future waits to unfold for you like a story in the decades still to come.

Can you imagine yourself another decade older? 20 years old, just 10 years from now. Thatʼs a huge leap from here if you think about how much youʼll do in the next 10 years. Think about what that might look like… lotʼs to learn, see, do, love, hate, win, lose….

Perhaps 10 years from now, youʼll be in college listening to some professor lecture on about math, and think of your dad. Heʼs a really special person. Heʼs someone you can always count on and who will always understand you. If everyone had a dad like yours… I believe that kids would grow up to be happy people and there would be more joy in the world and less anger. Look how happy you are hanging with dad and your brother. I can see the way you look when youʼre just being yourself and how much you like to smile. Your dad always smiles when he hears you laugh. I bet you didnʼt know that, did you?

So, when I was thinking about all this and decided to write to you this year because youʼre my very special friend and one of my favorite people in the whole world, I smiled too. I thought back to when I turned 10. I was still me. I still look like me.

When I thought really hard I wished somebody would have told me some things that might happen or just stuff in general that only experience can give a person. So, I thought Iʼd write those things down for you – and only you. If I had a good friend who cared about me when I was your age, this is what I would have wanted. Some of the things are just what I wish Iʼd done differently, some are things I am really glad I did, and some are things that have helped me get through some tough times:

    You are only as good as your word. You are born with it (itʼs the cry you make when you come out of your momʼs tummy) and you die with it (everyoneʼs got something to say before they die, and some even put it on their gravestone.) Thereʼs no clothing on your back when you come into the world and none when you leave it, but you scream at everyone when youʼre born and whisper when you exit. So, keep your word and the world will come back to you because youʼre a trusted soul.
    Travel.
    Do one thing REALLY well. Like skateboarding. Or playing guitar. Or even knitting. But practice and become an expert. I wish I had stuck with one thing long enough to be considered an “expert.” Hey, thereʼs still time.
    Treat others how you want to be treated, even if you donʼt think they deserve it.
    Go for long walks alone and think.
    Write in a journal or even on your iPad. Look back after some time and reflect on how you felt. Quite often, the things that made us mad or happy or sad a year or two ago, donʼt make use feel like that when we look back.
    Try everything within reason – I mean food, and sports, and walking around naked in the snow, or seeing how long you can go without taking a shower (oh, right you tried that last week 😉
    Tell people who you love how you feel. Affection helps everyone.
    Be sincere.
    Love what you do for a living. You must. Youʼll come to define yourself by what you do. So you better love it.
    Make peace with your brother. (I wish I did this – but you have to make peace with yourself first as to why youʼre angry with him. I wasnʼt angry at my brother, I was angry at my mom and my dad for messing up our family.)
    Hygiene matters and practice it whenever and where ever you get the opportunity because you never know what might keep you from getting that next shower or who you might meet walking down the street. And if you travel this is extra important. Ask me about Hurricane Wilma – I didnʼt get a shower for 10 days. Ew.
    Volunteer regularly. Giving to people in need will make you humble.
    Love yourself. Thatʼs the hardest thing to do. You may not know what I mean now, but you will. We do things in our life that we look back on and we donʼt like the people we were when we did them. But forgive yourself. Because when people donʼt forgive themselves they become ugly and bitter.
    Save your money but donʼt be stingy.
    Think about something good when you get up in the morning and it will take away any bad feelings that might ruin a perfectly good morning.
    Allow yourself to make mistakes.
    Allow yourself to be competitive. Victory dances are good in moderation.
    Learn to tell jokes.
    Donʼt be racist or sexist.
    And, last but not least, to yourself be true.

Happy birthday.

I love ya.

Ilene

Post Script to My Readers:

Nearly 10 years later, i wouldn’t change anything about it.

Peace on earth.

Good will towards every living thing.

May we heal from this plague and may we find ourselves released us all like doves into a clear blue sky, free from the shackles of fear and uncertainty, isolation and illness.

May the coming week bring you love.

I love you very much.

You my friends, my readers new and long term, my support sisters and brothers. And a sad goodbye to some very beautiful women who did not deserve die nor to leave their families behind, who will mourn them forever.

Every 74 seconds a woman dies from MBC. Fuck cancer. Fuck whomever tells my kids I don’t have cancer and you know who you are and if you’re reading this I don’t actually give two shits or a handful of dog shit either. You can’t make my life miserable so quit making your kids miserable instead. With NPD borderliners it takes nothing to lie about anyone to get more out of their sources using flying monkeys in the form of kids they birth from their golden uteruses don’t even love. They’ve no capacity and my mom had a slight case of NPD so I know of what I speak first hand and lots of therapy later.

And I want to say to every one of my followers, friends and my family thank you for your support without which I’d be a statistic.

The Accident – Ellipsism Crashes into My Metastatic Mind

Psithurism – the sound of the wind through the trees. That’s why we moved here – away from the crash of cars on the shorelines of garage doors, away from the rage emitted by the people you meet by “accident” – accidents don’t happen on purpose so why get enraged?

It’s your blood boiling. However automobiles can be fixed if the crash of metal on metal at high or even low speeds wasn’t catastrophic. So why burden your soul with these objects? Granted one must get from here to there. But it can always wait. Oh, there will be those who hit you purposely, but it’s because they’re in so much need they chose you correct the directions to their destination.

One shouldn’t leave the scene of any accident without apologizing even if it was not you at fault. You arrived there, too. The attention of the driver of the car at fault wasn’t on you. However, don’t let anyone curse you for being in the way or driving slower than they’d have liked.

Have you ever noticed how drivers who race to get in front of you are always at the same red traffic light three blocks away?

This is the sound of the wind through the trees. Accidentally meeting on platforms or roads with unintended consequences. We are polarized by them, yet also congealed into a single warring faction against one another. Why when we know something is untrue can we stand around and shake our heads, “yes” in unity around a false value. It’s not valuable to anyone. Can you hear the grumbling of the loneliest people in the world? The people who seem to be the most popular have no idea who really loves them. Give them a test and ask if they’re loved – and can they really say the sycophants around them define love? I haven’t the time to pray for the preyers.

You may on that day, with an accident in the way of your progress, experience ellipsism – that sense of sadness you might experience when you realize your life’s term will not include the future. And as I hear the psithurism, the rustle of the leaves in the trees, or smell the petrichor on the highway, the scent of oil coming up from the road after the rain, I realize nothing accidentally happened that day.

Getting in the car that morning, understanding things would change, my chemotherapy, my appointment structure from in person to telemedicine, my driving habits, my nutrition, my entirety of existence, that I’d fall not far and get up again.

Here I am five years gone maybe five to go of course if I am to continue to be so lucky, and see the true resilience of myself and this planet. Neither of us have long to go so I inhale the oil, feel the breeze and think of how long I might sit waiting for the case number and how it all really doesn’t matter to me in the long run because there’s no long run. It’s been a short one so far, and I feel some sadness that this may be my very last accident, like 2020 may have been my last new year’s eve.

Or maybe not. Hope. That naughty word I love to taste as it delicately rolls through my lips like a kiss or a whistle. Hope became an endangered emotion like a species of animal. The fragile ecosystem, the human mind, may be the last place I see bit isn’t that true for all of us?