dead pork-graphic scene.
woman raped in porta-potty.
vow to do no harm.
barbecue fest – memphis Tn
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Category Archives: sexual abuse
recalling childhood
Sick. I must go to
school. Afraid to be alone.
Daddy will be there.
March 28-One Year, One Day at a Time – sis, please help me
The title says it all. I have for as long as I can remember wanted to write about my family, my family of origin. My grandma, my sister, my mother, who left when I was a year old, my Dad, the pedophile alcoholic, my four brothers, but I need help. I need her help. Carrie, please, let’s do this together. We can do this. We can tell this story. This is a story that needs telling. Others will benefit. We will heal. I never want to have cancer again. Please help me put the pieces together. I have to do this before i die. I must. I know I must do this, to write this story. It is not just our story. So many others are a part of this. Not just our family, but many others that we have never met. They know this story. They have lived this story. Maybe, just maybe if we shine a light on it, the light will grow brighter around the world. We can do this. I want to do it. Do you?
gottcha
sex cancer murder
rape is blogging different from
yellow journalism
should I
write the memoir of
family betrayal abuse
children on the streets
Riding the Bucking Bronco – Repost.
Wow. I wrote this two years ago. Things have changed so much. No more thrill seeking. No more anger. Not much sarcasm. Lots of gratitude.
Yippee. I lurch back, hollering my head off. I am Debra Winger riding a bucking bronco in the movie, Urban Cowboy, hoping that my love, John Travolta is watching (which of course he is.) How many years of my life did I spend trying to get a man’s attention. Not just any man mind you. No, I chased the hard to get ones…the guys who never called back, never spoke when spoken too. My heart smashed into my chest with the idea of not being wanted. What a challenge! Just give me a challenge and I am all over it.
Don’t you see. I yearn to ride the bucking bronco of life. I thrive on attention especially that derived from thrill seeking. I straddle the beast, hugging my inner thighs tight to his sides. I feel his beating heart in my loins. Now this is living.
I am proud to say my Daddy taught me early on to exploit my own sexuality. ” Need a new pair of sneakers, do you? Come on then my Little Princess. Sit right here in Daddy’s lap. “Oops, what is poking up between my thighs? I kiss Daddy on the cheek and jump right back down. The next day, he comes busting through the front door with a box of Keds in his hand.
I never sold sex for money, but I traded it for attention, for what I like to call “added value.” At James Whitcomb Riley High School I made a habit of walking between classes with one arm around a letter-jacketed, football player. Honey, I was stylin’. With a stud on one arm and straight A’s tattooed on the other, I garnered a movie stars gallery of spectators.
Like Debra Winger, I drank with the bad boys, dated the jocks, and when no one was looking, hung out with my good friend Tom. Tom, the go to guy…the one that comes when you call; who gives a girl a shoulder to cry on. I can see him idling his woody wagon up my driveway on Donmoyer Avenue. I slip out the front door and into the bench seat of his beat-up car. He’s got a six pack of Schlitz beer and Marlboros in a box. We are ready to ride.
Physically, we never left the drive, but in our hearts we traveled to the far corners of the universe. We were determined not live our lives under the smoke stacks of South Bend, Indiana. He will forever be my link to God in, what I then considered, a Godless world. His family of 11 children was, no surprise, Catholic and Tom exemplified the Doctrines of the Church. He never pushed me to have intercourse. We dabbled in sex, as teenagers do, eyes tightly shut, groping one another, but never consummated our relationship. He wanted a commitment, one I could never give. I was not a one guy girl.
Tom didn’t really “do it” for me. He was no bucking bronco, just a “steady Eddie.” He was the one you could let get away because he would always come back. Kinda like a rescue dog. There’s a great line from a song. Can’t remember the artist. Goes like this. “How can I ever miss you if you won’t go away.” That was Tom,good through thick and thin. Not much of a challenge. Boring.
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January 25 – One Year, One Day at a Time – Miraculous
It is that time of day once again. I am here, at home, watching the Grizzlies beat Houston. Half time. Wiping the smudges off my I-phone trying to think of what to say. Lack of drama in my life. Our society loves a little drama. Strange how my life is just going a pace. No drops into oblivion, no high-flying. Life goes apace. Odd that I am not jonesing for something grander, something about which I could write that would be sure to draw your attention. I.E. Child abuse, depression, alcoholism (got some of my biggest hits on alcoholism), fear, struggle and generalize doom and gloom. What else gets the world’s attention? Pornography. None of that in my life. Murder? There is a lot of that in Memphis but not around me. adultery? No. Love my husband. Not interested in anyone else. Angst. Not really. I am sure I could dream up something to cause turmoil. NO, I choose not to do that. Shit. I got nothin’ to complain about. Why would you want to read my blog?
Okay, well reporting in as promised. Got up, drank coffee, meditated, posted a blog, taught a private lesson, and then the high light of my day… I want to the First Presbyterian Church in Memphis to help with a craft’s day organized by Choices of Memphis to make decorations for the annual Condomonium fund-raiser, held this year on March 1 at Playhouse on the Square. Here is a sample of our work.
Condoms, condoms everywhere. What a treat for me. Out of the house, away from the computer, with other women , laughing about how great it was to be pasting condoms to paper lanterns. Priceless.
Wow, maybe what happened after was even more wonderful. Came home to an empty house. Jimmy want on a long bike ride with his friend Ward Archer. I had my first marathon TV afternoon in as long as I can remember. I watched Law and Order, SUV, and then went through all three new episodes of Chicago P.D. Loved it. I sat on the floor and cut out pictures for a new image board to high light novels, completed and published books,and the possibility of teaching yoga workshops across the country, I include images of meditation. I will paste it all up tomorrow. I did hip opening poses throughout the experience. My hips are so tight. I attribute this to spin class. I am having chronic back pain. I know that i have to work to remedy the inflammation. I do feel better, less back pain, more openness. Yoga works. What a concept.
Jimmy came home with Ward who stayed a drink. We visited for over 2 hours. Love Ward Archer. Jordan came just as Ward was leaving. I made him an omelet with sautéed brussels sprouts. Always so glad to have him here. Wish I could also see more of my wonderful daughter, Katie Nichols Cook. She will be bringing our grand-daughter, Amelia over tomorrow afternoon to spend the night. Amelia will be with us Monday too. Very grateful..
So we, Jimmy and I, ate dinner, roasted chicken and brussell sprouts, with red wine and chocolate covered almonds for desert. The Grizzlies are still beating Houston and I am finishing a day, not so different than any other day writing this post. Miraculous in its normalcy.
Amen, Amen
Janaury 23, One Year, One Day at a Time-Breaking Out
Time for change. Time to move on. Time to relinquish my hold on anything old, worn out, used up…detritus. I learned that big word from my husband, whom I must say is a heroic word slinger. He often uses words I do not know, have not heard and have no idea as to their meaning. So I ask, “What did you just say, peripatetic? What the Hell does mean.” He says, “Someone who shows up everywhere.” My response is, “you mean someone really annoying.” and so it goes.
Funny, after writing that last little anecdote about my husband I feel better. It is easy for me to turn in on myself, to tell myself I am not doing enough. Today, after working hard all week, writing, teaching, seeing clients, teaching private lessons, taking yoga classes, going to spin class and therapy as well as an advisory board meeting and all the other things we do to stay alive, I hit the wall. Not to mention that I have spent the past several nights coughing and blowing my nose, which, by the way, does not make for restful sleep.
So I did something good for myself. I got a wonderful massage from Tom at Midtown Massage. I highly recommend him and the place her works, calm, inviting and soothing. Well, I left there so relaxed it was impossible for me to get worked up about anything. I watched the most recent episode of Downton Abbey. So sad. Tons of unrequited love. Painful to watch Anna pushing Mr. Bates away because of the rape and her fear he will retaliate if she tells him what happened. I, of course, am a big fan of the truth so throughout the episode I am silently urging her to come clean. No such luck.
Then off to Kerry Jackson’s celebratory party at Fish and Associates. Kerry passed her CFP exam. Go Kerry. I’m impressed and so happy for you. Best wishes as you navigate this new career. May you make lots of money for others and in so doing do well for yourself. Love you Babe. Had to add that last bit. I think the world of this young woman.
Now at home, here, at my computer, where truly I am the most happy and the most at home. I have found my heart and soul here writing these words and so many others. Today, after sitting down and putting down what I see, what I feel, what I did today, I am more grateful than ever to be who I am.
I must say in closing that there were two huge highlights to my day. My son, Jordan, who, by the way, will be opening in Monty Python’s Spamalot, came over for lunch and actually stayed for a visit. Love that boy. So grateful that he is alive today. Hope you can see the show. It opens tomorrow night, January 24, at Playhouse on the Square in Memphis, Tn. Ya’ll come now.
The other was my dear friend, Cyndi Lee, honoring me this morning by asking me to co-teach a yoga retreat with her. Thank you Cyndi.
What? What the World Needs Now
That is a good question. What? What is your name? What do you do? What are you feeling? What is the weather like today? What’s going on? What have you been up to lately? What did you eat for lunch? What color is your daughter’s hair? What do you think about unemployment benefits for the long-term unemployed? What is the impact of a global economy on the wealth of American businessmen? What makes civilization? What is anarchy? What makes democracy better than socialism? What long-lasting scars linger in the hearts of the children of Hiroshima? What did you do last night? What amount effort are you willing to put into getting healthy and staying that way? What happens to your heart when you lie? What does it take to get a book published?
What do you want to be when you grow up little girl? What do I most miss about the world of commerce? What drives me to write? What right do I have to think I am good enough to be a writer? What was my mother thinking when I told her I had remembered being sexually abused and her response was, “Get over it. Everybody has a bad day.” What do I think about getting older? What do I still keep hidden under lock and key? What am I still afraid of? What do I long to do? What precipitates depression? What drives a mother of three to walk into a lake and drown herself? What is mental illness? What about the library of congress? What does retirement mean? What is sin? What is redemption? What is Soul? What is moderation?
What is the source of my eternal longing, my need for attention, my desire to be noticed, my drive to be seen and heard? What crosses the mind of a poet like Mary Oliver when she sees the refracted light of the sun cast upon her bedroom floor? What makes ice cream irresistible? What complex sequence of events causes two people to fall in love, marry, have children, build a life together, and then, after thirty-two years together, divorce? What happened to all the sea shells in Destin? What drives one person to adultery, betrayal, vengeance, remorse, revenge, and retaliation, and another to loyalty, forgiveness, empathy, compassion and sympathy? What is love? What is the difference between the alcoholic and the social drinker? What draws one man to God and religion and his brother to crime and misfortune?
What is enough? What for? What if? What he bleep? What difference does it make? What did you say? What’s that? Now what? What do you mean? What do you care? What do you think? What do you have to say for yourself? What is it? What now? What, why, where and when? What do you expect? What else? Now what? What for? What the heck? What do you want? What do you like? What did he say? What are you saying? Say what? So what? What ever!? What ….wait just a minute? What works? What I mean is….What can I do? What’s the use? What does it matter? What do I want? What do you want? What’s left? What goes around, comes around. What else? What’s up? What the world needs now is love sweet love, not just for some but for everyone. What more can I say?
Why I Write
I write for myself and for my friends. I write to say things to my family I cannot speak aloud, to clear the clouds of misfortune. I write to elevate my own thoughts and the minds of those around me. I write to speak the truth. I write to proclaim that each and every one of us has a right to be heard. I write because I want to be honest and clear. I write with earnestness and joy knowing that sometimes, often, I do not make sense. When I write I know I am alive. If I do not write, I feel like a failure. I write so that I can hold a candle to the world as I see it and not as others depict it. I write for my grandmother, who could not or would not speak. I write to play. I write for fun because it is like frolicking in a flower festooned valley. I write because I dream and I know there is more. I write when I don’t take my anti-depressant, out of fear and desperation. I write to make sense of the world and to illuminate my world. I write as if I were playing a fine violin, bowing my way across the pages of time and space. I write to tell my story so that others may live. I write of wonder and pain and fear and joy and confusion. I write, when I write, because I believe it is what I have always been meant to do. I write for all the survivors of sexual abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction, cancer and the like. I write my pain in hopes of touching yours. Writing is like playing with fire knowing that any moment I could go up in smoke. When I write I walk the tight rope between what I know to be real and what the world tells me is real. Will I fall? Is that why I do not write? I write to love others and myself. I write to express anger, hatred, revenge and loneliness. I write to become a dagger that will pierce my father’s heart. I write, screaming at my mother, demanding she tell me what really happened. I write pleading for understanding and reconciliation. I write so that I will not forget that my son died and yet he lives. I write to bring chaos into the world in hopes of restoring it to sanity. I write to cry and laugh and joke. I write to pretend I am someone who I am not and to be more of who I am. I write for God, for the Divine mother in me and for the women of the world. I write to spin a yarn. I write like a wolf howling in the night hungry for love and companionship. I write to be alone but not lonely. I write because I am a writer and that is what we do. It is our language. It is my connection to my soul and to the universe. Writing is my life.
Writing into the Light 