My hope was to give you a great life; free of disfunction, full of hope. I pictured us standing on beautiful oak hard-wood floors playing with Legos on a Sunday morning. Holding your tiny hand while we had adventures at the local parks, made new friends, and adopted our first puppy. I imagined a tire-swing in the back-yard where I would watch you play while I washed dishes, and planned our healthy meals for the week. I believed that one day we would purchase your school supplies together, and I would rush home from work elated to hear about your first day of school.

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Not-Suicide Note

The first time I remember thinking about killing myself I was eight years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. I had just moved to a new house the year before and I was in a new school. At the old school I had felt like, a star really, teachers liked me, they thought I was going places, They would give me little gifts and things, you know, look out for me. They were talking like I would be a scientist, or like, a mathematician or something. They knew I had problems, but even the problems it was like they were a sign that I was some kind of genius. They talked like maybe school was too easy for me or I was bored or something but I wasn’t bored. I liked school, I was into it, I wanted to succeed, maybe I had some problems with my attention span or whatever but for the most part, I was good.

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Compassion Bridge

What if, instead of building a Wall, we built a
Bridge? Not a literal bridge, but a Compassion Bridge. What if we reached our hands across a divide and asked each immigrant, “what is your need?”
“What is it you are searching for when you choose to make a thousand-mile trek on foot with your babies to make it to a world you barely know. I read a quote once, which said, “A person does not leave their home to enter the mouth of the whale unless the home they are leaving is more dangerous than the mouth of the whale.” What does it hurt to ask refugees what they are running from, and what they envision they are running to.

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The Body Remembers

And then something shifts.
All yesterday I kept saying to myself and, out loud or in text, to anyone who would listen: I just don't know what happened to me. These words were said about my appearance and my overall miserable feeling; my loneliness, my ache. I do and do not know how much I've contributed to this atmosphere of myself.

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Eden Elsewhere

I am running naked down the hall. I am so small, the door knob to the linen closet before me is above my head. I am headed to it, the towels are there, my child feet leave footprints on the wooden floor, droplets fall from my body and leave a trail of splatters, surrounding the mark of toes and heel of a child, naked, dripping, gleeful, emerging from the tub. Now to fetch the forgotten towel, forgotten yet again! Did I forget it in order to take once again this euphoric walk of no shame? My hairless, porcelain child body, my head of wet, wavy, dark brown hair, my eyes on the prize, the linen closet!

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Taking Back My Childhood

Finally being out on my own with no partner and getting my own house at the age of 45 was certainly overwhelming. When I moved into my house over two years ago I immediately decided I was not going to paint over the clouds in what had obviously been the kids room. I said I wanted to "take back my childhood" there. I didn't really know what that would entail at the time. I'm realizing now there have been a lot of things that I've done in that room that may have been spurred by my subconscious, and definitely have to do with nesting and nurturing myself.

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