Words form and stop, quivering at my lips I say nothing. A rush of warmth rises inside my throat leaving me choking on my own emotions. A battle ensues between my psyche and my gutteral instincts. I divide my shivering heart into portions like raw meat and pack them away making sure they are placed so far away from resurfacing, breaking free and falling out of my mouth. I am the keeper’s key, the guardian of truth and I am aligned with no one, not even my own conscience. I see from behind, from above, below and further within Her, that is, Littleme. I see in my mirror ROCK and turn away in denial, never wanting my scarred outer skin to acknowledge it’s own shedding. I have heard among many other words of advice to let sleeping dogs lie, a rolling stone gathers no moss, somethings are to be put to rest; I lick my lips drenched in salty tears and feel sewn up with my secrets. I know that my only chance of survival is to let go of the words begging to be spoken, to follow in the steps walked before me and keep my head down. To be truly seen is not going to happen. No magical wand will be given to me so for now, for Lm I raise a white flag and surrender to the unresolved, the pointlessness of words that are chained within.
Littleme, that is Lm, has a very bad drawer full of horrible, never released from her grip memories. They come from so far away but changed her entire life entirely when three words were said to her, “I love you”. By now she’d moved north to the east coast, the Mason Dixie line and Maryland’s capital, Annapolis. She was so stuffed with emotions, drowning in her regurgitated pain and felt smothered. She hoped this move would save her from hiding in the closed gymnasium during lunch, standing on toilet seats quietly, stealing cigarettes and never eating without self punishment. Sit ups and runs and more sit ups and excuses to hide her body from an ounce of flesh. It was her last chance at control. When walking along the city docks she loved the ting-a-ling sound of sailboats moored in neat rows, the fisherman pulling up baskets of crabs and the liveliness and freedom she’d not known before. Walking shop to shop, discovering alleyways and for once, even if BaDDaD had no time for her she was breathing calmly. A solemn walk around the historical homes, perfected gardens and boys eyeing her felt good. She was registered into a Catholic school as it was nearby and she could walk there in the morning sun or fog from Elle and BaDDaD’s home and her soft and sweet smelling sister that Elle had blessed her with. She loved her uniform which made her fit in without much judgement but make-up was frowned upon. Only three other girls wore make up in school and they were pushing buttons and perimeters. She didn’t want to push anything, just be loved. The one who got her attention was sly. Not that great of a young man but his younger brother was in her class. He was a straight A student and she had been also until she stopped caring. One sunny spring day, late March, perhaps it was St. Patrick’s Day, two older guys were sitting drinking canned beer from a small boat at a prime spot to see all the passersby. Lm walked past and a guy called out to her with messy blonde hair with eyes that looked like shiny blue gems. He asked her if she knew his brother and introduced himself. Both of these rowdy over twenty- one year old guys were brothers to a boy her age in her religion class. She presumed they could not be dangerous and obliged them with coy and polite conversation. The tornado of events and fucked up-ness that was unleashed from that point changed her entire life, her belief in Love, yes, the one with a capital “L” ; shame was all she felt. Her father was sometimes trying to keep the two apart but what could he do really? Parenting is a full time job and he couldn’t hold one down in his past so it was obvious he wouldn’t have the answers. The boyfriend pursued and among one of the places he lived was on an old fishing boat with his best friend at the time nicknamed, “Mo’. Lm hopped off her bus often just before her own stop over the drawbridge downtown. She had a craving for Love and he was meeting her needs even if he was a lying predator and a drunken druggie whom she obliged on a sinking boat. He always had weed and every drug imaginable. He told her how he liked her hair, what clothes suited him the best and mostly how to satisfy his sexual needs. What she didn’t know was he kept an entourage of young women to keep him happy and his demolition of Lm’s mental health would benefit him and confuse her for years to come. Nobody was stepping in or up to save her. He gave her an STD of some kind and she was terrified of seeing a doctor. She was absolutely nothing. Ruined. Used. Lost and lost again and again. To this very second Lm has not forgiven him or his friends who lied and withheld his sexual meanderings. Not even now can she let go. He soaked her in lies and words so tender yet he was the true definition of a monster. BaDDaD and this guy were much more alike than she realised. Within she had this desperate pleading need for her father and soon she would transfer all of her attachment issues onto this very bad man. She began failing classes, running away from her BaDDaD’s often to see her very unhealthy “boyfriend”and she would lose many opportunities for fun with good friends because she was always afraid of losing him. Eventually she did; his father intervened and he was sent to Maine for his Captain’s license and planned to join the merchant marines. She wrote letters, called often and even took me of BaDDaD’s credit cards and flew to Boston and then took a bus to Maine. The sheer vulnerability she carried was taking her down. She was on the Titanic and no one was going to throw her a life vest. It was one of the most pivotal changes she would go through and at her lowest point she had no one to talk to or see her suffering. BaDDaD just wanted her to be beautiful and continue to idolize him, which she did for many rocky years. Putting this drawer away so Lm doesn’t dare to dream of the nasty, cruel boyfriend. There will be much more on the wild, unreigned years of her life. No one knew, NO ONE how bad she felt inside and she would learn much later that men hurt you. The nice ones didn’t want her. A sweet friend paraphrased her redundant lack of genuine suitors as, they perhaps felt “out of their league” and intimidated by her beauty; she would carry a sense of a strange faithfulness to the horrid sleazy guy who used her nativity for his personal gain. The #METOO movement has brought Lm to her demons door and she will forge straight on telling her TRUTH. Rock will help her from swirling down the drain.
I really don’t like when I am lucid, full of clarity and on target and someone I love or care about is so far out in the left field that words are just as meaningless as a bad pitch in baseball; the batter walks to first base and it is glorified in an underdog way. To hit the ball and it land in the outfield without a doubt means a good run, sometimes third and the best of times a homerun. How do we manage our relationships with outfielder’s and there seemingly purposeless positions. Batter, batter Swing! The crowd cheers and everyone has a home team. What happens when the home team turns sour and distances themselves from the bigger picture? One snores, the other stays up writing and wondering how her major league Love and homerun hitter becomes so distant, callous and seems to just be playing the game for his/her self. I don’t need a homerun, just certainty that I am loved from base to base and cheered on even if I am the one who usually sits in the dug out waiting for a chance to make a grand slam. Baseball is so nostalgic especially on the radio. It makes me long for warm summer nights and a play by play commentator. It makes me feel safe even if I am a terrible player. My all star is asleep and I’m listening to him breathe; I guess tonight is 0-0. I am sad but know he will eventually be on the bench with me. I hate going to sleep with the score unsettled. Morning comes and the sun offers us a new day, one with new intentions, forgiveness and our love as always is anew.
Where are you? Woman2woman, war2war ; are we joined in witness to our crisis now? Is your wild and ancient spirit stirring up old hearts and graves of lost lovers? Will you whisper sister2sister and save our children tossed in the air by the same God that damned you, not once but over and over again? Shall our wisdom remain sacred or are we just comforting our egos with mythos and buying time against a world turning inside out. Did our feminine power ever reroute greed and spare room for the meek? I am ready to sacrifice my vanity, security and comforts for all of the suffering arrogant men who have bestowed division upon us. I will howl at the moon, drink from the battlefield’s trenches full of blood to save one true Varalisa. Our seeds are sown, yet our fields remain barren until peace and solace is restored. We were one in another time. Can we become together now and face the new world with keen eye to eye contact, hold the reigns of our villains and prevail. Oh, Vasalisa guide us to stability and give us back the stars to show us where we went wrong. Can we restore Unity? May our bravest of spiritual warriors tackle the beasts that rapes our own.
It’s not right! Wrong! You’re lying! You do not know what you are talking about. You are a fool! Your truth or mine? We use many words to express our anger because the one in front of us does not believe our words. Maybe, we do it because their words do not agree with our reality rather they’re influenced by the eschewed abyss presented by film makers and social media, marketing and societal comparisons.
Regardless, ROCK knows what’s true and hammers on, not leaving one piece of Lm behind; he will never give up on telling her story, and the stories minor or major and the one’s seemingly unimportant will all give her the ability to be whole, to split and peel away from him and he will let her go. She will fly and be heard, safe and healthy. Lm is not even close to being understood. She is so buried and hidden that to get near her, really into her heart, someone must work very hard to prove they are worthy of her trust. When her father’s lies spilled over into her life, he reinvented her world without her ability to change his scheming; she could not stand up to his bite so she surrendered. It took her fifty plus years to do so. Now, she is not going to let her story be his to tell nor to fill with his polluted nonsense and she will expose every single detail about him. He may never know, but that’s not the point. Her story will be set free and she will soar above it all and for the first time in her life her wings will not be glued down, clipped or tied. To get there we must trudge on through the small things and the big events so she can be felt. She after all, was his golden daughter until she began to open her eyes and see him for what he was. A user, an abuser, a scam artist, a sociopathic liar and pervert; damn he could have been a winner for his performance throughout life is worth more Oscars than all the stars embedded on the sidewalks in Hollywood. He still has no clue that she has her sword sharpened and is ready and ROCK will be with her until she is prepared for her flight.
There was a game she played as a child, it was a night time scary, silly, giggling tradition with Lm and her cousins. With a flashlight on and one kid holding it upward under his or her chin, the bedroom or basement doors darkened and it would start. Announcing in the scariest voice one could muster up, one would call “I’m on the first step”, giggles in the dark, then the imagined curmudgeon would say in an even creepier tone, “I’m on the second step”, then more squeals. On each step this creature would say something to the likes of “I’m going to eat you all up” or “I hate little children” and maybe let out a growl. Blankets were pulled over each head and huddled together everyone felt safer. Once on the top step, the door would swing wide open and the tickling began. How do we get ourselves worked up into a frenzy over someone we know, playing a spooky game yet when real life frightens us we clam up? Lm opened door 26 without thought. Who would help her through this real life game of truth and fiction? Inside the door the sun is so bright that sunglasses are needed. This memory is from the Bahamas where the evening breeze was welcomed. The shutters to her and her father’s room stayed wide open, screenless and at street level she could see crowds of white pale tourists clashing with the beautiful brown and deep chocolate skin of the Bahamians. The ocean burst upon the shore and the heat made Lm doze in and out while her father went out on the streets, crowded with laughter and accents she’d never heard. He bought her a stack of postcards with a pen. He said they were going to a fancy dinner show. The man’s name was Milton Berle that was to make them laugh and drinks and such were served at the table near an aisle. Lm had been to a lot of interesting places but this sounded much more exciting than a trip to the drive in movies or a ride on the ferris wheel at the county fair. When they arrived they were seated close to the stage with Lm near the aisle where the busboy’s catered to tables and BaDDaD although laughing a lot, also drank a lot. She knew by now this was the good side of BaDDaD, as long as he was kept happy and the drinks kept coming he’d get them back to the bungalows lining the beach. None of what Milton Berle said was funny to her but she was certainly the youngest person in the crowd. He had a sweet face and big white teeth, a tuxedo and shiny dark hair that was combed back with what she would guess to be “Dippity Do”. She consumed several Shirley Temples and watched the young men rush up and down the plush carpeted rows, from table to table they bowed and filled their trays and took away all the dirty dishes and uneaten food. Suddenly, a bus boy tripped on a step and his tray went flying toward Lm and landed by her feet. She scrambled to help him and picked up cracked plates, rolling grapes and chunks of melon. All at once a bright white light shone on her and all the people stared. Milton Berle asked the audience to have a good look at the sweet and helpful young lady helping out with all the clamour made from the shattered mess. She looked at Milton Berle and he blew her a kiss. The audience was cheering and BaDDaD was beaming. Afterwards, he would take her to a place where machines were rolling with cherries, lemons and people were using up coins to spin them around. She was weary. BaDDaD told everyone about her being spotted by Milton Berle that night. Someone who worked at this noisy place full of adults came up and said Lm couldn’t be in the room. Lm saw his face turn red like the cherries 🍒 rolling round and he called a taxi to send her back to the bungalow. He gave her a key and said for her to go to sleep. She climbed into the cab and he sent her off, through streets unfamiliar, a country unknown to her and she tried the key. It didn’t work. Luckily the shutters had been left open and she climbed up and over into the now cooler room. She felt scared and closed the shutters and latched them from inside. The fan hanging above the bed was whisking around and she watched it spin until she fell asleep. In the early morning when light was creeping in through the shutters she opened one to look for BaDDaD. Soon he appeared and gave her a smelly kiss and too tight hug and fell onto the bed to sleep. She was quite hungry and fished through his pockets for some change. She found a little bit and went out and straight to the street where dogs ran about barking, people were stirring and saw the cart where a happy faced dark man with a straw hat sold things and called out to tourists to come see him. In his rich Bahamian accent he asked what he could get the “little miss” staring up at him. Lm asked for breakfast and he laughed. “Oh, I don’t have breakfast miss, but I do have some cola!” She put the coins up and he said he needed more. Lm explained her father was asleep and told him all about Milton Berle, the busboy, the new word, “casino”, the spinning cherries and the taxi all by herself. The man softened and then handed her a cola and a small cup of lemon ice. “This will cool you off.” She took the lemon ice and her cola and went back to the bungalow. She sat on a stool and got out her postcards and pen and wondered how she could write all of this down and to whom she should send the cards. She finally laid down next to BaDDaD who was sleeping with pillows over his head. He always did that no matter where they were. Lm knew it would be a long day waiting for him to wake and resolved herself to watching the people stream by and finally her eyes closed as the sun and sky slowly changed to yellow, orange and pink.
LittleMe will be referred to as Lm now. She is unable to dig so deep or pour out more from her soggy memoirs alone. To cope with her existance she must remain in her stairwell where one step is cozy, padded with warm blankets and her grandmother’s heart and love still embraces her. ROCK has always been here and is going to walk her road leading up to NOW slowly. She must have quiet, a safe space, love and mostly her story must be told so she can trust herself to move forward. I am ROCK, sound and steady; Lm has leaned on me for decades and you will hear only TRUTH. As a young teenager Lm was beginning to sink into a very dark and sad place. She had so many reasons to do so but noone noticed. She changed from an awkward thirteen year old with an overbite and bowed banana legs to a beautiful girl over one summer. When she returned to middle school she quickly gained much attention and had no idea how to handle it. She knew how to joke and that is what she used as her mask to entertain her friends and get through the dramas that unrolled each day both at school and with her own family. I don’t think she even knew she was in rocky waters and her friendships had been split between groups, the nerds, the jocks and now the “heads”. Heads was the slang term for a wilder gang, they smoked cigarettes and weed and some were rumored to have “gone all the way” in their relationships. Her passions for her roles in the drama club, the school newspaper, track and maintaining honor role status began to waiver. Girls traveled in pairs or clusters and the wall flowers who once were her closest pals began to disperse. From a slumber party with the highest ranking girls in her class in 7th grade to being called a “Fox” and whistled at in the 8th grade was something she did not know how to handle. A boy from Battle Creek, Michigan had moved to her town in Tennessee. He had instant popularity with the “heads” and was also on the football team. He started the beginning of her popularity and although she did not feel good inside, the attention from other students was both positive and yet a disaster. In her heaviest box marked “teens” each year seemed an eternity; a haze of bad things fired off like a war between Lm’s need to be loved and wanted and her desperate attempts to have a supportive family. She wanted to feel anything, something good and escape the hellish thoughts accrueing from her childhood. A hell that is only to be told for what it was, not to place blame on anyone particular. It was just fucking rotten, non stop self abuse and a sheer struggle to survive in a world she knew little about. It was 1978 and girls were called “hot”, “smokin'” and “ripe”. Lm felt no difference inside; she still longed for BaDDaD’s visits and stopped talking to her mother and step-father all together. She also began to run miles a day and eat just enough to keep her mother off her back. Her weak point was Doritos; she would consume an entire bag then do 200 sit-ups on her sky blue carpeted bedroom floor. Her room was so tidy that her friends and family were shocked. This was really Me, ROCK taking control. I kept her from remembering the drunken nights and awful memories with her father so she could get out of bed each morning. She began to don copious amounts of make-up, had Farrah Fawcett “wings” which she sprayed heavy with Aqua Net so they wouldn’t move all day. She could actually lift them up on each side of her scalp as two seperate pieces and they indeed looked like the wings of a bird, stiff yet flightless. Lm was in a church youth group which pleased her mother and being in the southern “Bible belt” this was not uncommon amongst her friends. It is actually here where the mischief began and the church itself is where she would first be hit on by someone other than BaDDaD. She began babysitting a lot and loved children very much. One of her regulars was a couple from church with two little ones and they would stay out late and she often dozed off on their sofa. One night the pair came home and the mother smelled like alcohol as did the father. They paid her and he said he would drive her home as usual. She was nervous because of her experiences with BaDDaD’s drunk driving and almost called her mother but he said, “No, why wake her now?”; the window was cracked slightly and he smoked a cigarette and as they came to her street he drove passed her house and went to the dead end circle. Lm told him he’d missed her drive. He threw the cigarette out the window and then leaned over and put one hand between her legs and the other on her shoulder, pushing himself closer, he leaned in to kiss her. “Stop!” she yelled and he retreated, apologizing saying she was so irresistible as if it were a compliment. His name was Mr. Bradbury, a regular member of the First Christan Church. When she got home he put his finger over her mouth and said, “shhh”. She nodded and ran up the wrought iron side stairwell to her back door, slipping in quietly she peeked out through the curtained window for his car to drive away and sat with her beloved dog Bridget-Marie on the kitchen floor. She felt dirty and sick. Her mother came out of her room and said how late it was and that she’d left some cling peaches for her in the fridge. Lm kissed her mother’s cheek and slowly ate the peaches and then drank the sweet syrup from the bowl. Her dog followed her to brush her teeth and into her room and into bed, curling up beside her as if she knew Lm felt sad. Days passed into weeks and autumn was often very warm in Tennessee. Her new youth group leader lived in an apartment complex not too far from her house and she could have easily walked but her mother insisted on driving her there in the dark. This apartment complex is also where the new boy from Battle Creek, Michigan and his family lived. In school he had talked to her often and she knew he liked her. She had never been liked and pursued as much except by one church boy Jimmy. Once while talking outside of the church one night he reached out and grabbed both of her breasts and smashed his braces into hers with a slobbery unwanted attempt at a kiss. It was grotesque she recalled. He had also on Valentine’s Day had his mother drive to her house with flowers and Lm’s mother had to force her out of her room to the door and smile as she politely received them. Her mother waved at the other mother who sat in her car chatting away to her and Lm reluctantly took the flowers. He was a nice boy. He was a good church boy and her mother liked him. The Battle Creek boy was not a small suburban boy from a church going family. He had sandy unkempt hair, wore cut off jean shorts and no shirt and had shown on the front steps over the summer and asked to see Lm and her mother just said, “where are your clothes?”. He asked Lm if she wanted to go on a bike ride with him. She explained to him that she had plans with a girlfriend for a sleepover and mentioned her church youth group was now being held in the same apartment complex he lived in. It had been moved from the church and would start up again when school started. She invited him. He said he would think about it and to let him know at school when she was going to be down his way. On one warm autumn evening her Mom drove her down after supper and her church pals all gathered around the front entrance to the youth group leader’s apartment. Just as they were to be let in Battle Creek came running up to her and asked her to come see his fish tank and he mentioned his parents weren’t home. Her friends looked at him and she decided to follow him. She asked her friends to not say anything to the others and off she went. The apartment wasn’t bad, it was clean and it had windows overlooking a pool. The glow of the fish tank was a warm goldish hue and she sat cross legged on the sofa. He brought out a tubular shaped object and asked if she had ever used a bong. She said she had not. He asked if she had smoked weed and she lied and said, “of course!”; he explained this was hash and really good stuff and that when he lit the bong the water in the base would make a bubbling sound as she inhaled. He did it first then handed it to Lm. She took in a deep breath and began to cough like she was choking. Battle Creek said that was normal. Within minutes she began to stare into the fish tank and see each fish more closely, in detail, their tiny fins flapping, their unique colors and it was soothing. She then began to worry if it showed on her face that she now had officially become stoned. She looked into the mirror in the entry way and her eyes looked red. She felt heavy and her mouth was dry. Battle Creek said, “you’ve got cotton mouth”. Cotton-mouths were snakes who lived in the the lake in this part of the south. Ick. She began to worry others would notice, especially her mother. Battle Creek assured her that no one would know unless she told them. She looked at the time and realized she must run to the youth group pick-up point and he wanted to follow along. Lm said no way; her mother had already made it clear he was not approved of. At the white pebbled courtyard her church pals asked where she had been and she told them she had gone to see a fish tank. Each week they were to bring a donation to youth group for snacks and she had ten cents in her pocket. Ironically called a dime in America, just like weed was sold, in the school yard, in dime bags. She dropped the silver coin with some president’s head on it down amongst the gravel. She begged her friends to help her find it as she feared she would get into trouble somehow. Lm always had this feeling of being bad, in trouble and not good. As she crawled around on her hands and knees and scowered anxiously for it, her mother drove up. “What are you doing down there?”; Lm nervously told her mother she had lost her dues for youth group. “That’s okay, leave it, just a dime dear.” Stoned for the first time, heavy headed, thirsty and hungry her mother asked questions about who was there and such. Lm answered cautiously all the while fearing her mother would somehow detect she had inhaled from a bong. Up the side stairs they went into the kitchen and there sat a plate of freshly baked peanut butter cookies, her favorite with the criss cross fork mark her mother always imprinted on them. She gave her some milk and she ate and ate and her mother laughed. “I guessed you’d want something since you barely ate at dinner.” Lm usually didn’t eat. She pushed food around on her plate and went running or for long walks after she swallowed anything. This night she went to her room and curled up with her dog and felt new. “I am very, very bad” she thought. Her actions that fall night affirmed her feelings she had carried for years; “I am very terrible after all. Really bad. I am not worth shit”. She fell asleep in her clothes and did not remember her dreams. When she woke for school the next morning she thought about Battle Creek at school. Would he tell? She perfected herself and caught the school bus and when she got off, standing right at bus 31’s spot was Bong boy. He made a squealing sound and his friends watched from the side and he said, “Foxy”. Then he came closer and leaned in and asked her to be his girlfriend. She looked around at all the eyes on her, then back at the sandy haired, brown eyed boy with pimples and said, “yes”. Then he took her hand. The guys looked envious and the smart girls looked bewildered and disapprovingly at her. He was a “head”. He smoked pot. Everyone knew she had crossed a line and she was both happy to be adored by him and confused as she had felt so awkward, alone and sad every minute and now she had her first boyfriend. Why then did she feel so bad? She felt bad because of all that happened from her birth up until then; she was not valued or special. She had a rap sheet that would be miles long if printed out. One bad happening after another and now she could be loved, maybe. This would make it all go away perhaps. Battle Creek opened the school doors for her and she entered feeling completly different than the day before. She felt as if everyone could read her, see her dirtiness and her hash experience in her eyes. New girls who had boyfriend’s began to befriend her and soon they all were couples in training for a very rocky, drama filled year. From there it would escalate so far that she would sink into depths of nothingness where she would no longer care about herself, just be a drowning girl longing for security and someone who would never ever really be there for her. BaDDad. She would fill in her empty heart the holes he’d made with drugs, alcohol and much more. This was the beginning of a broken fairytale. She knew nothing about who she was and became just a needy beggar for love. Her head began to get squirrelly, she didn’t know how to save herself. Lm was on her last good step before she quit eating. Starving for acceptance and afraid of her own life she controlled the one thing she could, her appetite. This was when Lm put me, “ROCK”, forward. I would hide everything for her from then until NOW. I protected her so she could keep on course in her pursuit for belonging, for feeling good and escaping her so very bad, sorrowfully sealed experiences.
Will you stand beside me on my last days here; will you lean into my bed and whisper in my ear? All the days I asked for you, to call or write my dears, the letters never came to me and the telephone was clear. I had no busy signals, or something else to do, I only felt in my heart how much I have loved you. I wish you could have been here on the days that I could sing, I wish the phone awakened me with a “just I love you” ring. Before this life is over I long for you to know, we may slip away, but my love will never go.
Like a school girl I climbed into bed with my mother tonight, my head on her chest, her arms around me and felt her love. I felt her sorrows, her journey, her grief and strength and in each thump of her heartbeat I was resurrected and know that no matter how hard I love others, how consumed I am with compassion and hope I can not save anyone. I can lose friends I trusted and move forward, I can be disappointed in my children and still care but somewhere in this goulash of mothering and SELF I need to save a bowl of soup for me. I still have a long way to go to know how to put my own needs and mental health out there as a priority. Being, living TRUTH means no stone will be unturned. I still need ROCK and I am sliding along the moss covered stairwell head first to reach my safe place. I have to go back and check on LittleMe as I really am all she has in the end. The quiet of the night is surrounding us. I will tuck my mother in, quiet LittleMe then ROCK will be sure I get to bed and sleep. Before my dreams begin I will pray to everything good and kind in the deep black sky that nothing will hurt me, you, and my family despite knowing it doesn’t matter. I prayed for years and the wrath of Life still held me back, the holiest of spirits and church stomping grounds never saved me. I can’t save me. No one can do the work or put in the time to assess my 59 years but me. I must pull LittleMe up to the top step. ROCK believes in all of me. I honor my roots, my traces of good memories and I am very ready to be WHOLE. The thought and emotional sensation of LittleMe and NOW merging is exciting and extremely frightening. I am guessing no one knows how long it takes to heal unseen wounds and I am very sure I know absolutely nothing…even though I am something. Someone. Somehow. Trying. Try. Try. Going. Up and down. I am Matter. Atoms. Celular bits of life and I didn’t choose to be. I just AM. We are living the best version of “US” that we can. Or are we?
The stone is silent, not mute. It was buried deep within my being, awaiting it´s truth to be heard and seen. I am ROCK solid. The one some cast away at sea or try to hide. I carry Truth. Truth that is gritty makes some turn away. Are you strong enough to stay?