in my veins

Sep. 8th, 2016 09:40 am
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)

			in my veins

horton was a white supremacist
grandma told me that he was kkk
	so i’ve put together a composite of him hooded in white
		throwing rocks at Paul Robeson and Pete Seeger

my great-grandfather was before my time
	my father only remembers something about beer refills
		about magic

and his blood runs in my veins
	just as easily and smoothly as my puerto rican grandmother’s

through the grapevine i’ve heard nothing good of horton
	only bad
	only anger
	only violence and race warfare

i am not proud of this heritage
	but i claim it
	because just as my lineage seems to whiten through the generations
	we become more accepting
		more human

grandma was raised in his house
	she was an only child
	she learned that they all look alike
		and that she was 

		       that they didn’t belong

but years later she learned to love Jessica
	 she learned that sweetness and kindness can come in black

and my father married my mother
		he dated a black woman
		and married a muslim

and i stand with Black Lives Matter
	i preach equality 

i am pretty sure that i can hear horton rolling in his grave
	and dead

		an era to leave behind

eeyore_grrl: (eye)

	       i am from	
         (the hudson, part I)	

i am from a city on the hudson 
          trees envy me
  because i walk with the legs they dream of

this river is like sap in my veins
   rooting me
                  to this land
   touching me
                 with beauty
    chaining me
                 with invisible threads

my prayers go out to the river
dropping like child thrown pebbles
       and then forgotten
               as waves devour the ripples
                      of my concern

i envy the trees the simplicity
     of their capture
  they need the land until death calls
  there is no question
                               only dreams

i have the possibility of distancing myself
   the physical        foot     follows    foot    ability

but my roots dig far into this soil
clenching at bedrock
refusing to give me wings


an old poem. a friend made me think of it. i'll try to record it in the next few days.
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)

		the revolution 
                          (will be televised)

the revolution will be televised
bodycams and cellphone pics 

i see it.

you  see it.
    it’s everywhere

    bodies bleeding out
	on our streets
	in our cars
    young black men
    over skittles
	and hawking cds

we live in a world
    of fear and hatred

	of the thin blue line
	of the people wearing their dark black skin
	of bullets
	of bullets
	of bullets
    piercing bodies
	    D E A D

and i don’t worry for my son 
    in the same way my friends worry for theirs’
	       chances are
	my son will survive
	walking the streets with skittles
			        and hoodies
			        and cds

and truth be told
	i hide behind my whiteness
i pass
     my grandmother’s beautiful darkness
	bleached to bone white through the generations
     her eyes
	married Wichita, Kansas
	and mine blaze blue
     generation after generation 
			we have whitened
	and lost our powers of speech
	       lost our spanish tongues

i pass

so it’s time for me 
	to speak   UP

to mention the thin blue line
	and dark black skin
	and of the bullets 
	           the bullets
	           the bullets
			that pierce the bodies of our kin
			that pierce the bodies of dark skin

the revolution will be televised
	and here it is caught on cell phone video
     we watch snuff films from the 
			of our laptops

     we cry our tears

and it’s time to say 
		 	 E N O U G H
because it is well past time
and i don’t want to have to explain this much death
				         this many bullets
				         this much pain
				to my six year old son
			i want his innocence to remain intact
				i want Travon’s life to remain intact
				and Alton’s
				and Micheal’s

the revolution 
(will be televised)

49 dead

Jun. 26th, 2016 08:22 pm
eeyore_grrl: (Default)

                     49 dead

maybe their names don’t matter
	maybe i should just call them all by my own name
     49 carey’s dead
would that make you feel something

but this is not all about me
	this is about Andrea and Mercedes
	this is about Geraldo and Jerald
		          this is about Luis
			because four of them died that night
				when their pulses were firing full blast
				wrists and jugulars throbbing in time to the dance floor
			hearts watching 
		because here
				here it was supposed to be safe
						safe to love, hold hands, dance hip to hip
					and be
	a dance floor is sanctity 
		latinx night at the club
			49 dead
			49 dead
			49 dead
			49 dead

let’s dance

let’s writhe to the beat of drums and guitar
	let’s feel our heritage dancing in our hips
		movement is safety
		says the rabbit
			says the prey

		movement is safety 
	and i’m going to stand here
	and tell you that love must go on
and tell you that i grieve for my siblings that died that night
	and for Matthew Shepard and Harvey Milk
	and for my friends that were broken for their gay
			broken for identity
			broken for love

let love prevail
	49 dead
	i light this candle for you all
		for Luis
		for Luis
		for Luis
		for Luis
eeyore_grrl: (kiss kiss girl girl)



















































I wanted to write their names, but I can’t bring myself to read them. I can’t even double check the death toll. Or add Bangs for the injured. I wanted to write a poem to say how I feel about the Pulse Massacre in Orlando. But the poem that is on my lips, in my fingers, etching itself into my heart is one that requires details. Details. I can’t deal with details and won’t make myself for the sake of art; Right now I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the Big Picture. The fact that this happened. I can’t handle the details right now, and that’s ok. I don’t have to.

This is self-care.

I wanted to find the times. The time started. The length of time. What time of his life led him to hate the







Community. What time of day was it when he planned this massacre. When will we outlaw guns like this? When will we outlaw guns like this? When will we outlaw guns like this? The length of time it takes to create a monster?

I think that I need to be more queer. More loud. More political. I have been busy with my husband and child; living the suburban dream and being ok with it. But this time I’m really going to write letters to my elected officials. (In longhand that they can think of me as a person, not a printer, not a chainmail.) And I’m going to be more vocal about my beliefs. I’m going to challenge others. I’ll do it calmly. The fact that this was specifically perpetrated against the queer community makes me want to go about kissing women in public. In photographs. To reaffirm my solidarity. To normalize. To show that we are indeed here, we are indeed queer, and really, you best get used to it.

When I can safely look at the details I will ingest them and digest them. I will turn details into stardust and record names into art. I will help the future look back and weep for us, with us. I will help explain this in emotion. In heartsong. In the delicate language of a wrist’s pulse I will speak my pieces. I will check and double check the facts that I use. The spelling of names.

I will exude love. Or, at least, I’ll try. Then I will try harder. And, so very importantly, I’ll remember that anger doesn’t nullify love. That sometimes sheer anger is the most useful reaction, because every reaction causes an equal and opposite reaction and the world needs more love.

One day

I will write their names.

eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)

fingers poised
            .   .   .
                       and nothing
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
Let’s talk about chronic pain. It sucks. Like, sucks tacks through bendy straws. It’s constant. It hurts. It’s not going to go away.

Now let’s talk about opiate/pain pill addiction. That also sucks. Like, for real. Like down and dirty real suckitude.

One of the above can kill you outright, the other can make you want to die; perhaps even leading you to suicide.

There has been a lot of talk about opiate addiction in the wake of Prince’s death. Right now we don’t know how he died, but we do know how he lived. We have his amazing discography. We have an artist who defied being button-holed. We have a black man that many people respected. And we now have a death that may or may not have been due to an overdose. It’s been documented that he had chronic intense hip pain and likely had opiates for pain relief.

That’s where I come in. That’s where I have an opinion about this. So now let’s talk about me. I have had chronic pain for the last six and a half years. I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia about 3 years ago. This means, basically, that I hurt all the time. Sometimes it goes to a dull pain that I can ignore and go about life without added problem. Sometimes it roars and stabs and makes breathing and thinking and being hurt to a level that it is all I know. I can’t think past the pain. A couple years ago my pain all but disappeared for a few months and I was able to go backpacking and sleep in sleeping bag on the ground and hike miles with a backpack. It was great. But the pain came back. Lately it seems to be all flare all the time. I’m exhausted. I hurt. I can focus past the pain during the day to get what I need to get done done. But then I pay for it at night and live in painsomnia (insomnia caused by severe pain). And some days I can’t get past it and I feel like all I am doing is languishing.

It’s a pretty miserable way to be, way to live. I do all the alternative therapies that help and try new ones on a regular basis. Yoga helped but currently my knees are shot (working on that in PT). Chiropractic. Deep Tissue Massage. Hot Tub or Scalding Baths. Ice packs. Stretching. Meditation. Capsaicin. Lidocaine patches. TENS unit. Voltaren Gel. See now we are getting into medication territory. I’m on one of the three fibro approved meds plus another page and a half of medication as needed for fibro or depression.

So when I am in so much pain I can’t parent or sleep or do what needs to be done I have prescriptions for NorCo and Soma. And half the time they barely touch the pain. But they do calm it enough that I can go on living. That I can get past the moments where all I am is pain. All I am is these misfiring nerve cells telling me that I hurt. So my doctor gives me scripts for 45 NorCo and 30 Soma. I pee in a cup now for the privilege of hurting less. For the privilege of being able to walk my son to school. Or the privilege of standing in line at the DMV. Or the privilege of being able to get myself to the doctor to talk about my pain.

I am not an addict so why do I have to be treated like one? And if I was an addict just taking a prescription away would not “cure” me. Let’s talk about rehabilitation (and not just the cult of AA). There have been studies showing that many (most?) people will not become addicted and/or can walk away if they have a happy place to go to. You can read about Rat Park here: So instead of shaming everyone maybe we should help our fellow humans. Those in chronic pain and those who are addicts. Even those who are both.

The main point here is this: someone other than me telling my doctor that I don’t need any opiates for my pain is not fair. “You” don’t know my pain and if my pain gets out of control and I am incapable of getting past it to get things done I will historically self-medicate because fibromyalgia can hurt. A lot. So, sure, I’ll try yoga and TENS units… but that isn’t enough.
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
You ask Why

Why do girls, born of beauty and grace, born with opinions and the will to say no, born with the ability to stand up for themselves, become victims of domestic violence? Why do we allow such a thing to happen to us?

Because our world is toxic to women. For this entry the video I’m linking to isn’t mine. It’s not the words that I have written and my voice reading poetry at my kitchen table. It is a video called #DearDaddy that I came across on facebook. A video that brought me to tears because of the painful and simple truth behind it.

I have known a remarkable number of women who are, or were, victims of domestic violence. Sometimes verbally, sometimes financially, sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally. Quite often, all of the above. I worked in a domestic violence shelter for several years in my early twenties. Before that I volunteered at a crisis hotline throughout college. I have met so many women that are ashamed that they had become such a statistic. And so many other women and children who knew nothing else and thought it was normal.

Truth be told, it is normal, but that doesn’t make it ok. It starts so young. It starts with Tom Sawyer tugging on and dipping Becky Thatcher’s braids in ink because he likes her. It starts with schoolyard shenanigans and well-meaning adults telling the little girls with skinned knees that the little boy only pushed her down on the playground because he likes her. It starts with advertisements on our screens, magazines, and billboards that treat women as objects or suggests that their life is not important or suggests, sometimes with subtlety, sometimes not, that it is ok to spike a woman’s drink. ( It starts with images of women who look dead being used to hawk everything from clothing to cars ( We are objects. We are owned. We are chattel. At least that is what we are being sold and told.

Add to this “Boys will boys;” which teaches boys that only their masculinity matters. That they have to be strong and tough and violent. That disrespecting girls and women with language and jokes is just par for the course and necessary for socialization.

This feeds and feeds on itself. The girl in #DearDaddy is well educated and raised to be strong and independent. The abuse creeps into her “perfect” relationship. Like the frog that doesn’t know the water it’s in is being boiled until it’s too late. Many of the women I have met grew up in violent homes. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it---

NO NO NO! STOP THIS! I’ve seen women I love beaten by men I love. It’s hard to wrap your brain around. But these are people that were in my life all along. Some of them helped raise me. They didn’t know any better and 40 years ago victimization was something to hide. We didn’t have the language of SURVIVOR. The language of hashtags and public campaigns against domestic violence. We often believed that she deserved it or asked for it. That he couldn’t help it.

She doesn’t deserve to be abused. He can help it.

You ask why? Culture. Habit. Low self-esteem. Embarrassment. Having nowhere else to go. Thinking, or knowing, that your father made the same jokes so maybe this is just the way it is. Feeling trapped. Thinking maybe I did ask for it with my skirt so short and my breasts so big. Toxic masculinity that doesn’t allow for men to be kind and gentle.

I’m going to stop here. I’m going to ask that you watch #DearDaddy. That you really listen to the message. I’m going to ask that you share it all across social media and ask your friends and family to listen to it also. Why? Because we, as a global society, allow it. And that has to stop. Help me stop it. Don't allow it to come out of your mouth and don't laugh at others who do. #DearDaddy, I'm going to ask you a favor.
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
		        Isadora Duncan

tears no longer worked
	nor silence
	and dance was no longer saving her soul
rumor has it that          she begged
				she begged an italian sculptor for another baby
					another chance for that love
	 	for the streaming of wind against her mind
								her soul

barefoot dancer across the stage
	her movements natural
	borne of one another

      the child could not hold 
		its soul conflicted
			death hours after birth
				its soul streaming along ley lines
					her wishes and magic foiled
					leaving her childless 
						yet again

loss is so final
this child joins his siblings
	playing ring-a-round the rosie 
dancing with small bare feet in heaven  

there is beauty in dance

music moves through the air
bodies sway, skip across the floor
arms and legs akimbo
loose tunic streaming behind as she moves 
across the dance floor
		she is beauty and creation
		she is a force for change and joy

	three griefs weigh her heart
the world is cold and unforgiving
she danced for life
	stories told through barefoot movement
	her styled blossomed
breaking form 
toe shoes and leotards left at the ballet barre
grecian tunic 
	leaping, short hair streams in 

a gift of beauty
	a silk scarf long and painted
a gift of friendship 
freedom is always peeking from the next destination
	a promise of hope
		  of solace
she rides towards freedom top down
	the wind pulls at her skin
	long scarf flowing, streaming
		adding beauty to the invisible air currents

drive off towards beauty
	the past is streaming behind
		taking its tears
		          its loss with it	

	be careful, my friend
	all dances end
		be careful, Isadora
	you can use your scarf to swaddle your children 
                                              in heaven

Watch me here:
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
Voting is here:


i look at him
sandwich in hand
slowly eating
and see blood
not much, but enough for us to look more closely

five and three-quarters and there goes tooth number one
number two followed in the same manner the next day

take a bite of lunch
swallow a tooth

his big CHEESE smile has a gap now
two front teeth, the ones on the bottom,	
ready to ride this rodeo again

he doesn’t seem to notice

my son is growing
my baby is 404 not found
he’s learning a new world
he’s living with technology as if it were a friend
	his tablet may not pass a turing test 
			but it will suffice
		red and black case in hand
	gap-toothed smile
	videos on repeat  
	legos and paw patrol
	grown-ups unboxing toys
	(i don’t get it, don’t comprehend this magnetic pull)
	shopkins, blatant consumerism to be collected
	playdoh before the colors have been used and browned

he smiles
	a space ready for grown-up teeth
      he smiles
	a space the size of my child

a baby no longer
we smile at each other

the moment is past
not found any longer

See it here. Hear it here.

eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
Please go to the following link and VOTE. About half the group I am in (the last one) is being left out of the game. Your vote counts.

"All lies and jest still, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest."  simon and garfunkel

			hear me.

listen, let my knees sing to you the songs of their people
 	crackling like fire
		      like gears with no lubrication
			moving ever forward
				    ever aging against themselves

	my toe heals from being cut open
	bunion surgery at 40
		I age with a false smile
		I age with an awkward pain scale
the doctor says I’m fine
	just a little physical therapy 
	lose some weight
		lighten the load i carry
		lighten the load that is me

he sees me as

    a magic diagnoses

		size 18

my complaints no longer matter
i am diagnosed         f a t.
	fibromyalgia is real
		but the pain isn’t

i am told no opiates
	      no muscle relaxers 
	      nothing to calm my nerves
	       or sing me to sleep
i am told that even ibuprofen should be more limited

chronic pain is long term 
	learn to wait it out
	learn to b r e a t h e past it

i learn that my grimaces
		 my yelps
		 my eleven thousand steps a day
		 my massages and my psychiatrist
		 my 7 on the pain scale fall on deaf ears

	diagnosis complete my thoughts are released to the still air

he hears what he sees
	he thinks he understands

my doctor thinks I am fat
my laughs fall like tears
my pain is more than bmi
my pain deserves to be heard

	I  deserve to be  heard

And you can, of course, watch and hear me read if you prefer:

go here to read more entries:
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
If you would like to vote for this or any of the other fine entries go here:

The other day my son's school had a Shelter-In-Place due to a person brandishing a weapon nearby. I have dealt with these before, but as a teacher, NOT a parent. I am much more calm and collected when I am in charge of students in such a situation. As for the jackass that kidnapped his girlfriend at gunpoint - I am very glad he was caught and, as far as I know, no one got physically hurt in this incident, but I have choice words for him. As a parent.

Below are two videos: 1: The poem I wrote for this week. 2: Dar William's song "Flinty Kinda Woman" which kept coming to mind when I was journalling, thinking, or writing about this. There is also the poem I wrote, in letters.

(For the record. I don't condone violence. Not violence towards the innocent or the guilty. But this song does speak to me. Having worked with so many people who have been hurt so badly, in so many ways, this song sometimes gets played very, very loudly in my house or in my head.)


we wait
stunted conversation
hot chamomile tea with honey in front of us
	hot enough to burn tongues
	just too hot to hold
		but we do

the police perimeter is fuzzy 	
	but i live nearby 
	i walk my son to school
	i pick him up on foot
       i don’t know if i should leave my house

she sits with me
	tear streaked face
	we try not to worry
	to be rational
	to know the odds of harm are slim


our children are five years old
five years innocent
	their hugs are tackles
	their worries do not involve	
		domestic disputes, kidnapping, and guns
	their knowledge should not have to  include 

	the suspect is in custody
	there is no longer a police perimeter

happy to see us and innocent they run to us
	allowed freedom
	allowed safety
	allowed to open their classroom curtains and see again
they are ready to go home
	we are ready to take them
	to wrap them in our arms
		keep them in this pupa stage
		between caterpillar and butterfly
		between innocent and worldly

i don’t want him to be naive
but i don’t want him to know about domestic disputes 
	and kidnapping at gunpoint
      i want his innocence to last just a little bit longer

butterflies are beautiful but only live for a month

can i keep him in this chrysalis
protect him from the world of anger and violence

we watch as their wings emerge
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
You can vote here:


If wishes were horses this beggar would drown. Wait no - scratch that - if pennies were horses this beggar would ride. Though upon further recollection that’s the wrong proverb entirely.

A penny for your thoughts.

A wishing well to toss pennies or for golden balls to fall into.

A penny saved is a penny earned.

Are any of these true? Adages and habits like these are the unseen losses of inflation.


The Frog Prince was performed at my wedding. A puppet show to entertain the guests before we met on the stage to exchange our vows. The self-centered princess dropped her ball down, down, down until a frog brought it back to her and traded it for a kiss. There is more to the story, a moral of being true to your word and how wishes sometimes come true in a roundabout manner. The bauble of a princess; So much more than a penny. Is the death of the penny going to ruin wishing wells; making sure only the 1% have wishes; Only those of us with golden ball baubles to throw into watery deep? Will I have to throw my grandmother’s wedding ring into the mall fountain in hopes of world peace, pain free days, and health for all people? Will piggy banks across America go out of use?

The dollar bill seems to be on the line, too. Inflation stealing it’s ability to buy a candy bar. Will the grade 3 and under set turn to Apple Pay and Google Wallet; being given their allowance and birthday dollars from grandma via email and smartphone? Email our Sunday Schools folded up bills once a week to teach us giving and support our churches? What excuse will college students and lonely hearts have to come within kissing distance of a dancer… a dollar poorer and lonelier still?

What will we do? What will we do?

Well, for sure, we should nix the penny. The truth is out there and it’s not in favor of our copper-plated friend. It costs more than it’s worth, literally, to manufacture. People hoard them in bottles and closets without spending them. We drop them into wishing wells by the handful… wishing for more money to pay our bills, magical houses, and love. But somehow we don’t spend our pennies. We, as general rule, don’t even think these coins are worth the energy it takes to bend down and pick them up from the sidewalk as we rush this way and that. Even if there are several in the same place, strewn across our path, we just continue on.

The penny has seen it’s last days. Or, rather, it should have. This country has enough monetary issues without sinking into a well of debt where we continue to romanticize this coin because we remember our childhood wishes and savings so fondly. My dreams and hopes are worth more; maybe I should pay face value -- childhood dreams adjusted for inflation.

For now I stand strong for the dollar bill. We can still gather enough bills to make a realistic purchase without bogging our purses and pockets down so much that we can’t walk under the weight of the load. One dollar tips at the Starbucks counter still add up to enough for baristas to divvy and buy lunch or put in a wallet until it is time to buy gas or groceries.

A nickel for your thoughts? Will a Snickers bar be as satisfying for five dollars? Will our wishes finally be free?

just maybe

Dec. 28th, 2015 04:15 pm
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)

			just maybe

i ain’t no panglossian pollyanna 
i fall into the muck and mire that surrounds me
my eyelids 
	show christmas past 
	mixed with the nightmares of a child grown

i ain’t no mother theresa on my way to sainthood
	having dedicated my life to helping, to saving, to giving
	i am too jaded to be always optimistic
        too fallible to walk the road to sainthood 
		or to become an american classic of sweetness and naivete

i am so very, very human

maybe i should meditate more
	practice my sun salutations to greet each morning
	drink smoothies made with kale harvested from my garden
	sing songs of hope while i dance naked in the bone-white light of the moon
maybe i should reach deeply in my psyche to find peace and a smile
	a smile so big, and so honest, that my troubles will crumble 
		the corners of my mouth will be so sharp that my fears will run and hide
		lips so plump and soft that adversarial words will use them for pillows
			and become no more than a wisp of a bad dream

or maybe i should decorate my christmas tree with throwing stars
	arming myself, protecting my family 
	drawing blood from those who trespass
	breaking limbs of those who hurt us
	(defense, defense, defense)
everything is a threat when hatred glosses my eyes
everything is dangerous when ptsd blinds me

i ain’t no panglossian pollyana believing that all is good
		 that all bad happens for a reason and so much good is on the way
			so very much good

but i am armed with a smile of hello
	arms to enfold you in comfort and warmth
		and the will to create a better future

maybe there is some pollyanna in me after all 

just maybe

This was written for LiveJournal Idol, Friends and Rivals mini-season. This week's ridiculously difficult topic had several ridiculously hard topics to choose from. After much thought and false starts and staring at blank page and blank screen my muse caved. The above is what you get. Barely making the deadline. *phew*
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
(Please go to this link to vote:

			fatherhood in anger

they cling to fatherhood because of duty and love
but they hate
	and they hurt
		and they don’t know what or how	their role models
		--- OUR role models were broken for generations
		and now we look into this shattered mirror
			ancient and lead backed
			it seeps into the air
			 	  into fingertips that search for meaning in broken glass
these men, these cousins, i weep for their children
				        for them
because they don’t know how broken the mirror is
		how poisonous the lead leaking onto their images is

and I have forgotten how to love them.

i am forgetting the young men i loved as a child
because now, now they are poison
	following their fathers into hatred
		into anger so deep that it defies simple definition

another generation lost to darkness
as they cling to angry images of fatherhood
	ghosts that whisper, “follow me” in their blood
	their heartbeat a connection to the past they once decried
	“follow me” a directive they shout with bared teeth
		and wonder why women and children
				back away
				run seeking safety

This was written for LJ Idol Mini Season for the prompt "Follow Me."
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
           trust everyone
         (but cut the cards)

i could walk through life with no trust
	second guessing every smile
			     every gift
			     every kind hello
i could walk through life finding fault in every raindrop
	     i could believe in the goodness in your heart
						her smile
						his handshake
i could open my arms
		reaching for the humanity within
i could watch the sky for rainbows
		for the promise of the sun’s return

i choose to trust in your embrace
	in the words of love and friendship
i choose to smile at strangers as i walk the streets
		hoping to find reciprocity
		hoping that smiles breed smiles
			that kindness is paid forward
				that love wins

believe in goodness
	foster the tiny embers of that fire

join me in this holy quest 
	in this fostering of the souls that make humanity
	show our children that not everyone is to be feared
			that we have smiles to share
			that we are good

(but lock your doors at night)

eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)

		the giving of thanks

today i am thankful that i am alive
for my friends and family that are still breathing
i give thanks that the maniacs with guns are not on my doorstep
that i do not have to walk into Planned Parenthood
	to be bullied and yelled at
	to be threatened and shot at
i give thanks that i do not have to make choices
	between getting medical help
		and a distinct fear that getting that help could end
			with a bullet in my body

i give thanks that my four pregnancies were wanted
	for the access to resources and help when three ended
	far before full term

i give thanks to the heroes of Planned Parenthood
	to the doctors and nurses
	    to those who file papers and those who volunteer their bodies as escorts

i give thanks that i am alive today
that my d&cs were done by my doctor
	not on a table while looked at in scorn

and i weep
		in fear
	because this world is being held hostage
	by terrorists hiding behind religion
		tearing holes in humanity
		creating us versus them

abortion is never an easy choice 
	      never what little girls dream of
	      never something to assume about

I stand with Planned Parenthood. I believe in the freedom of choice. That my body is my own and my choices are not for politicians to make. That these choices, even if someone 
disagrees, should not put me in danger of being shot.

eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
I opted for a broken toe. Like, I actually CHOSE for this to be done. The story is simple and medical - I had a bunion. I’d always heard about bunions and how they hurt, but I had never really thought about them. Apparently, I also never really knew what they were or how they were dealt with.

My big toe was crooked and pushing into its neighbor. This push caused its root to push out and that caused a bump and nerve pain and swelling. While walking I would suddenly have quick, intense pain that would often cause me to yelp and stop moving.

I found a podiatrist. The fix was not particularly easy: he could break my toe. Yup, elective surgery that involved my doctor shaving off part of my bone, breaking my toe, and putting titanium in there to hold it back together and in the correct angle while it fuses.

It’s been just shy of two weeks. I can put weight on my foot again, gently and slowly, preferably with a cane to steady and help. I’ve barely left the house since the surgery. I love my house, but am going a bit stir-crazy. What is wonderful is that I have friends who are utterly awesome! My husband has been walking the kidlet to school each morning. He took over almost all of my household tasks and chores while I have been healing. A couple of friends have been picking up our son from school and bringing him home or to swim class. Another has brought me lunch with leftovers while my husband works.

I may hurt, but I am so blessed to be given the time and resources to heal. Who am I? Grateful, loved, and ready to write!
eeyore_grrl: (carey purple streaks)
and therefore, so am I! It's a mini season. You can almost certainly expect some poetry and videos of it.


eeyore_grrl: (Default)

September 2017



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