The last line of the dream names my hunger: “She seems lonely for someone to talk with about real life.” Other parts of the dream identify behaviors I might want to leave behind, and a few unexpected personal capacities and resources. This post focuses on my hunger, and describes how things begin falling apart. Read the rest of this entry »
Hunger. A fierce, relentless presence. Sometimes for food when I was a child, later for sisterly conversation. Not friendly polite talk, but safe, open, honest two-way conversation about our fears, agonies and dreams as we were growing up in the 1950s.
It wasn’t that we consciously chose not to talk with each other as sisters; it just wasn’t safe. Besides, back then I wasn’t aware of being hungry for this. I focused instead on staying out of trouble. Sadly, I didn’t pull that off very well. Read the rest of this entry »
My father set out to attain one goal: to break my will. So did he? Back then I would have argued that he most certainly did NOT break my will! See how much spunk I still have in me? Just listen to the angry voices in my head! I might be sitting down on the outside, but I’M DEFINITELY STANDING UP ON THE INSIDE! Read the rest of this entry »
When did it all begin?
When did I enter your supply chain?
When did I become a commodity, a disposable object
not for sale but for use on demand,
with or without pay?
When did I become your toy
to imagine as prey,
to stalk, hunt down,
toss around and torment
with or without warning? Read the rest of this entry »
cascading waves break
in calm rhythmic procession—
fiddler crabs scurry
* * * * *
I loved trips to the beach on Tybee Island Read the rest of this entry »
house-bound dog peers out
at park space green trees people–
front door closed locked barred
* * * * *
I grew up with a fierce need to be right,
a heavy dose of fear and Read the rest of this entry »
Daddy, Mother, Elouise. Until I started blogging, I was interested mainly in the meaning of my name. Now that I’m blogging I’m getting questions about the way I use other ‘names’: Daddy, my father, and Mother. I’m also thinking again about my name. Does it matter? Read the rest of this entry »
First day of 7th grade, 1955. A giddy day! All the girls are furtively checking in with each other: Did your period start yet? Yes! (much quiet applause and excitement); Are you wearing a bra? No. (oops…). Definitely a less than stellar report. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s spring 1953. I’m 9 years old and in the 5th grade at a Christian grade school. Because I did 3rd and 4th grades in one year, my classmates are a year older than I am. Right now my teacher, Mrs. Wilson, is making an announcement to the girls. “Be sure you bring your signed permission slips with you tomorrow.”
What permission slips? What’s she talking about? My classmate tells me it’s for the film. Read the rest of this entry »
For years I knew Daddy’s beatings and rules didn’t give the full story about how I was groomed to be a victim. Yet I’ve never spoken publicly about the full story. I didn’t have a clue how to talk about it safely. Besides, who would believe my report? Especially if they knew my father. Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth 