All posts by madgemidgely

Mandie Shattuck is hidden in plain sight. She is self taught painter, writer and performer currently living in Cheyenne, Wy. Her art is a response to our shifting consciousness in our ever evolving world. Her topics revolve around self awareness and empowerment. Sometimes it is goofy- there are links to other media platforms if you seek supplementary mental entertainment.
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Experience the Paranormal

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At this point in my life I have embraced the extraordinary, and now it’s pretty ordinary.  I suppose, if your eyes are open to see; then you will.

As a child, I loved to read.  I loved mysteries, and chose your own adventure.  I pined for the newest R.L. Stine books.  There was so much to be left to the imagination, and I had no lack of that.  I loved the practicality of Nancy Drew, and the hint of macabre given in Christopher Pikes writing.  I wanted spooky, heart racing adventures.

In the fourth or fifth grade, my class went on a field trip to the Fort Laramie.  A rustic old fort, maintained as a museum.  We visited several buildings, examining the living conditions of a soldier versus an Officer.

The building I remember most, was the Captains Quarters, originally designed to be large and decadent housing, it was later split with a wall down the stair case to turn the building into a duplex in order to house more people.

Each Room was walled off ceiling to floor with Plexiglass.  You could see the staging of the room, but you couldn’t touch anything.  The tour guide had just regaled us with the story of the Woman in the Green Dress who haunts the Fort.

On the bed, on the top left hand level of the Captains Quarters, was a beautiful green dress laid out on the bed.  As all of my peers filed out of the building down the stairs, I just stayed there, staring in that room… until the rocking chair began rocking with out assistance.  There was no airflow coming into the blocked off room.  The tour leader hadn’t mentioned that this specific building was said to be haunted.   Upon further research, it has been documented as having haunted activity.

Haunting at Fort Laramie

I immediately left the Captain’s Quarters feeling very chilly on the hot day.  When I got outside the hair on my arms was still on end, and one of my friends asked if I was okay, because I looked pale like I had seen a ghost.  I responded with, “I think I might have.”  Everyone thought it was a joke, but I know what I saw… that rocking chair should not have been moving on it’s own.  I couldn’t find a tangible logical solution, so in my mind, it must have been a ghost or some dimensional residue.

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The Shadow People

So, people didn’t take my ghost story as real.  They probably thought I was being over dramatic, and since no one was with me to legitimize my claims… perhaps they just thought I was a liar.  Who knows?  The weirdness over the years didn’t stop there.

A couple of years later, (I was probably about twelve or thirteen), I went to bed like any other night.  I would shut my door, and go to bed.  My head of the bed was at the west window, and I could see right out the door, as the bed was right in alignment with the entryway to my room.

I felt myself relax, and at some point I feel like I am laying there on my back, and the door is opening.  I feel like my eyes were open, because I could see the nightlight outside of my room.  My door opens all the way, and slowly these tall shadow figures start filing into my room, one after another.

They have no faces.  They aren’t completely opaque.  They are just indistinguishable human forms. I am paralyzed.  They completely fill all the space in the room, and it feels like they are all looking down on me… but they don’t have eyes.  Their shapes remind me of a person wearing a cloak.  My body fills with a panic, and I try to yell for help.

My younger brother comes into my room, from his, next door; and he proceeds to try and get me to wake up.  I can’t wake up. I am not even aware that he is there.  He goes and get’s my parents, and they also struggle to snap me out of it.  It takes a while.  When I finally come to, I am shocked to see my three family members in there, looking distraught.

For years I would ask people if they knew  of the shadow people.  No one I knew had experienced anything like that.  I didn’t start finding stories from others about this phenomenon until about 2006.  Now you can easily search the web for the topic of shadow people, and how others have experienced their presence.

This was my only contact with the shadow people.  Some people only experience one shadow person… I had a whole room full of them.

 

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The Day I Probably Should Have Died

or Did Deja Vu Save Me?

 

The summer between my sophomore and junior year, I was life guarding at Municipal Pool and Sloans Lake.  Occasionally I would be sent over to Johnson Pool, if they were short on guards.

On such a day, I was sitting at a red stop light on Lincolnway, in the turn lane to get on the overpass to head to the south side.  I was on the inside turning lane behind a Napa Auto Parts delivery truck.  As the light turned green, I made a quick look behind me and shifted into the outside turning lane. (Knowing the rules of the road, I knew that I shouldn’t be doing this, but I was hit with the feeling that I had to do it.)

The rolling door on the back of the Napa truck was open, and just as I switched lanes a huge rolling dolly came flying out the back end of the truck.  It would have flown through the drivers side window, had I not taken that lane change.

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My Jesus Moment

In the fall of 1999 I was attending a private Christian College in Kansas.  I was feeling kind of boxed in with the rules, and I wanted some adventure.  One of my new friends and I decided to stay in Kansas City, Missouri for my birthday weekend.

I was not disappointed with the adventure, the whole trip provided some unexpected turns; most notable was my Jesus Moment.

Being from a small town, and living rural most of my life to this point; I was unaware of the plight of homeless veterans.  We were two freshmen in college, looking for a place for the under 21 crowd to dance.  No such thing was available on a Friday night.  The streets were busy with bar hoppers, and clubbers, and the homeless.

As my friend and I wandered around, looking for something to do, we saw some college age guys harassing two homeless vets begging for change.  They had a ball cap upside down on the sidewalk where people would throw them change.  One of the harassers, kicks the ball cap into the road and the coins go rolling in every direction into traffic.

One of the homeless men looks defeated as he gets up to dodge cars and retrieve the coinage.  I am appalled by these college kids surrounding me, and I snap.

I feel an overwhelming calmness come over to me as I walk up to a vendors window called “By The Slice”.   A young man named Jude is taking orders at the window.  I say to him,  “I’d like two large pizzas.”  Jude says, “I’m sorry, we only sell pizza by the slice.”  So I say I need two large pizzas  worth of slices.”   I spent over $80.00 in pizza and a large Mt. Dew.

I returned to the two men who had their change kicked around, and I asked if they were hungry.  They looked afraid, like I was taunting them.  I say “Here, have some pizza, I got it for you.”  One man shyly opens a box, and pulls out one slice, and hands it to the man next to him.  “I say you can take more, I got it for you.”   The man in front of me, begins to get tears in his eyes.. and he says “Are you mad at me?”  And at this moment, I don’t even feel like I have control over myself, but my eyes tear up as well, and I say very honestly “No, I am not mad at you; I love you.”

On that trip, I felt very imbibed in the spiritual nature of who ever we think Jesus to be.  That I was over taken in that spirit in that moment, and it was pure and beautiful.

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Premonitions

The earliest premonition I remember having was a dream that I had at 3 years old, that the Wicked Witch of West was trying to kill my mother.  My mother died less than a year later of Ovarian Cancer.

The second premonition I remember, was around 8 or 9 years old; I told my parents “someday, I will be able to travel all over the world, because I will have friends there.”  How real that is now that we live in a digitally connected world.

Around the same age I was obsessed with the idea of mind over matter.  I knew at a young age that the secrets of illness and healing had a lot to do with our mental states.  This has later been confirmed in neuroscience and quantum physics.

In Elementary school, I had to wear glasses and a retainer.  I had premonitory dreams about breaking them both at various times.  I remember getting mad at myself, because I knew better.  I knew the manner in which the object would get broken, and how ultimately it was my irresponsibility that would lead to their destruction.

In high school, I wrote A LOT of poetry.  I would just free write, go with one line and not think about it.  Many times I would read back my writing and it wouldn’t feel relative to my own experience.  Often those poems were picked up by a friend who needed it in the moment.  The writing was for them, not for myself.

In my adulthood, I have had premonitory dreams about the death of my brother, grandfather, and aunt.  As well as knowing my sister was pregnant with my first niece.

I also have a keen connection to weather.  I know exactly when to travel when weather is imminent.  I listen to my gut, when it says ” take this road.”

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Strangers From NoWhere

Have you ever had a stranger, pop out of nowhere to tell you something you needed to hear at the moment?  I have.

I was in my early 30’s, I was having a bummed out day.  All of my friends were busy, and I was feeling artistically defeated.  I was walking around downtown Corvallis with my dog; wandering up and down the silent alleyways when we popped out at a main intersecting road.  Just as we come to the outlet, this dark haired lady walks by.  I had never seen her before.

She stops in her tracks and looks directly at me.  There is no one else around on the street.  She says, “Don’t stop painting.  I know you are feeling down about it right now, but don’t stop.  You don’t know who it’s going to help yet.”

I felt the emotion rise in me.  “Thank you.” I say, and she continues to walk south down the sidewalk.  I turn to walk north, and think “Who was that?  I should get her name.”  So my dog and I turn around and I run down the street looking for her, but she vanished.

In my mid-twenties a similar thing happened while working at a coffee shop in the high altitude of Nederland, CO.  It was early morning, and I was bantering with my friend who was our baker.  I said “You know what I was thinkin’, if you had an appointment or a job down the canyon, and you didn’t feel like going in, you could just call them and tell them you have a bear asleep on your porch, and you feel it’s better not to leave right now.”

And we laughed at that.

We had one patron in the shop, who wasn’t a regular.  He was a black man who had a large stature, and he was dressed very differently then most of the black men you see in the mountains.

He excuses himself from involving himself into our conversation to ask ” Are bears a big problem up here?”

“I mean, they can be, if you leave your trash or food out.  We get some that wander into town, but it’s not usually a big deal.  Why do you ask?”

He says, ” Well, I have been trying to get some creative work done, and I live in Denver.  And it’s too busy out there, so I prayed, and I heard  ‘go to Nederland.’  I didn’t even know this place existed, but I looked it up, and saw that I could get up here by bus.  And on the front page of your town website it was all about bears.  Ya see, I am from Florida, and I ain’t been to the woods since I was like twelve.  Last time I went to the woods I was chased by an alligator.  So, you see when I came up here I made sure to wear my running shoes.  I thought ya’ll might have bears at your bus stop.”

My friend and I are cracking up.  I tell him I want to hear more about how he prayed and it led him up here, so he ends up hanging out until I get off of work, and we go have a chat.

He tells me that he speaks with God, and God leads him, and he is there to see me today.  He says he needs me to know that I am a “Spiritual Mayor of the Rocky Mountains.”  I tell him that I find that idea interesting because I tend to be either the first person new comers talk to, or the last person they talk to on their way out.

We spent a few hours sharing our own strange experiences with each other, and that was it.  We didn’t communicate again after that.

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What Are The Chances?

I think people from Wyoming, are inherently attracted to each other when they are outside of Wyoming.

Wyoming boasts of being the least populated state in the US, with just under 600,000.  Cheyenne, at the time of my graduation in 1999, was around 50,000.

In 2000, I went to a massive rave at Candlestick park in Oakland.  The estimated amount of attendees was roughly 40,000.  In the first couple of hours, I found one guy named Orlando, from Wyoming.  I thought the statistical odds of that happening were pretty slim.

Wyomingites, are kind and friendly people, in my experience.

In 2006, while visiting friends in Oregon, my car had some radiator issues, and I was leaking coolant all over.  Due to parking limits in down town Bend, I had to move my car every couple of hours, but I was trying to limit how much I was driving so that I didn’t drain the radiator.

I pulled into a parking spot near a candy shop, and a couple stood on the sidewalk in front of my car.  When I exited the car, the man excitedly unzipped his jacket to expose a University of Wyoming Ladies Basket ball shirt.  He had noticed my Wyoming license plate, and he and his wife were excited to connect to familiar relation.

We get to chatting, and they wonder what I am doing in Bend.  I tell them that I use to live here and I am back to see friends and get some tings I had in storage, but that I was having some unexpected car trouble.

These people made a few phone calls to people they knew in the area and set me up an appointment with a mechanic.  I was so moved, I asked “Why are you doing this for me?”  Their answer, “You remind us a lot of our daughter.  She is wild and nomadic like you.  We would hope that if she was in a similar situation that someone would help her out. And besides, we are all from Wyoming, we look out for our own.”

This was just another case of statistical improbability in my mind.  Out of all the spaces I could  park in, out of all the people out on the street that day; that I would be met with such connection and kindness based off of a location we both shared.  Strange, but beautifully true.

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A Loose Conclusion

These are just a few shortened stories of my life.  Some people do not believe in magic, or energetic connection, or the paranormal.  Perhaps that is why they don’t experience it.  I do believe in phenomenon and I find it curious.  These experiences are precious to me as they connect me with life and death and everything in between.

I would encourage you to examine some of the weirder stuff you  may have experienced over your life.  You might see a silent hand in there, stirring the energetic pot of your existence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art

Hoping The Message Isn’t Buried in Layers of Fat; or My Fear of My Meat Suit

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People ask if I was nervous to give my TEDx talk.  I answered “no.”  Which I suppose was only partially true.  I wasn’t worried about speaking in front of people. I wasn’t worried about my message.  I was worried as hell, about my ridiculous weight gain over the past five years.

I have always struggled with dysmorphia.  Wikipedia says this about it; “Body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) is a mental disorder characterized by an obsessive preoccupation that some aspect of one’s own appearance is severely flawed and warrants exceptional measures to hide or fix it.[1] In BDD’s delusional variant, the flaw is imagined.[2] If the flaw is actual, its importance is severely exaggerated.[2] Either way, one’s thoughts about it are pervasive and intrusive, occupying up to several hours a day.”

I don’t believe this to be a mental disorder, of my own accord.

Even when I was a strong and muscular child, I endured the taunting of “being fat and ugly.”  I was taller than many of my peers, and larger in body structure.  I was healthy, I was some what athletic as a swimmer.

I use to wear a one piece racing suit, almost everyday as a life guard.  I still felt fat.  Clothed or not, I was constantly comparing myself to the females around me.  Even then, I didn’t see myself as I actually was.  It wasn’t until decades later, through photographs, that I realize I was spinning with worry over nothing real.  But those words from others, seemed real.

There was nothing wrong with me.  But now, when I compare myself to that person… I feel, “I have let myself go.”  I feel gross, yet I no longer have people telling me I am fat.  When I see pictures of my current self, it’s all I see.  I have conditioned myself to fixate on that one thing.

When my talk goes live, online… I put myself out there to the wolves in the comment section.  I put myself out there for friends to critique my physic, whether vocally or mentally; and that scares me shitless.

When I had a youtube channel, I looked hot.  I got off on seeing how my farm living lifestyle changed my body for the better.  I was far more confident showing it off.  I don’t look like the same person today.

That is what scares me, most of all.  That my message will get lost in my layers of fat.  That I will re-attract those people who live off of taunting others for fun.  That some random people I don’t even know are going to cruelly judge me.

Despite my self knowing, that this sedentary lifestyle is temporary.  Fat doesn’t have to be forever… at the moment, it’s hard to face myself in the mirror.  Despite all that I have triumphed, my own body is no longer on that list.  It’s scary to know I have so much work ahead of myself.  And I admit, it is SO hard to do alone.  I want someone to hold my hand through it, every step of the way, because I have a really hard time self motivating out of the dysmorphic mind set.

I just want to get to a point where I spend less time obsessing about this meat suit.  I know that my body doesn’t represent the totality of who I am, or what I have to offer.  I believe if I could just stop worrying about it, that I could retrieve some of my lost energy and vitality.

I want to be adopted by someone who already has a solid routine that they can pull me into, because I admit to having a hard time doing that for myself, and in my current situation that aspect of change doesn’t have many support systems.

Sometimes, I think, after my grandma passes, that I am going to have to fully immerse myself again in a lifestyle that requires a lot of physical movement, because that is what works for me.  I don’t enjoy conventional gyms… I would rather be hiking or throwing sheep, then standing in a stuffy gym full of mirrors, or waiting for a moment to do exercises prescribed by a youtube exercise guru.  It just doesn’t hold my interest.

I like exercise, that masquerades as “work” and “function.” I get shit done, and burn some lbs.  I wear myself out, I sleep better.  My tendency toward fresh foods becomes more noticeable.  People spend money, going to gyms; when just living an active lifestyle can give you similar results.  If your job is active, you actually get paid to help your own physic; which is awesome.

If there is one thing that I could manifest soon, it is some how some way, to get babied to some degree, into weight loss.  To be assisted in keeping up the motivation.  It is so much easier to agree to drinking beer, then it is to set up a schedule of walking partners…

 

 

Art

Relating to Relation

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As I gather myself together to take the second annual TEDx Cheyenne stage tonight, my body is flooded with energy.  How auspicious that I get the privilege of performing my own material on the full moon in June.

I get to tell my own story, while immortalizing my grandma.   I get to share my love and pride of her with an audience who is excited to hear the story.  I have the amazing opportunity to share some valuable insights about life, and death.  I am allowed to speak candidly about a topic many people would rather not discuss.

I feel like crying right now, because I am so overwhelmed with excitement and feeling.  I have a strong feeling, that this moment might change my life in ways, I can’t even fathom at this point in time.

The story I tell, is not solely my own.  My story is about relation, and that my dear friends is something we all seek in various ways.  My gift of using words to convey relation, is so priceless, and it’s been a while since I used my whole body to express them to an audience.

I get to stand again, on my favorite hometown stage, with my own work and I am elated.  I will be surrounded with peers that I have met over the years.  To them I will bare part of my soul.

Though my grandma will not be in attendance, I hope that she is proud of me.  I hope that I honor her through my talk, because she deserves it.  If I didn’t come back for her, I wouldn’t have this wonderful opportunity.

The thing I want most in the world, is the ability for humans to spend more time working at relating to each other.   I want us to move beyond our differences, and see where we are most alike.

For generations people kept their truths, and pains hidden.  I find that it is the time to draw back the curtains and expose those lost gems to the sunlight.  To embrace ourselves and each other, despite the cracks and shadows.  Story telling, is one of the best ways I know how to do that.

I am thankful for every lesson that brought me to today.  Thank you to all of you who listen, and participate with my growth and my life adventure.  I look forward to new experiences, and new stories to share.

Art

Write to Make Yourself Right

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I am 36 years old.

I have twice as many journals as my age.

You know what they tell me?

Almost everything, and I am sporadic writer.

But one of the first things I can tell you that writing will help with, and work you through, is cyclical pain from past trauma. The time, the season, the trigger. It will show you your insecurities, your triumphs. It will remind you of what “good” feels like, when you feel bad.

It will bring back vivid detail of times, people and things of the past.

It will beg you to question yourself and the world; your perception and acceptance.

It will take you to new heights, and hold the burden of your losses.

And if you love some one like a daughter, a niece, or whatever; the gift of passing it along is priceless.

Write, even if you have always told yourself you are a bad writer. You are under no obligation to share it, unless you want to.

If you want to know yourself better, do it.

Usually I have 3-4 notebooks going at one time for various things… charting territories of my personal observations, feelings, and evolution.

Our world so badly wants relation, but we hide in cyber hibernation under status updates, while our internal worlds spin with no outlet, like a plugged up washing machine caught on the spin cycle with no outlet.

We want to purge. We want to connect. We want to remember. We want to be remembered. We want to know all is not for naught. We want to learn and grow. We want a road map.

Writing can provide all of that and more. Leave self judgement at the door, and pick up a nice pen and some strong paper… it is willing and able to hold the weight of your soul.

Art

I Have to Write About This, Right Now

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I’m not big on “excitement.”  I try and keep even keel.  I suppose I am more obvious with my disappointments, than I am with my excitements.  I have always been afraid that I would get too excited, and then, someone or something would squash it, or take it away.

My response to this, has been to assume Resting Bitch Face Mode, and act as unimpressed and neutral as possible when it comes to things or situations that I should be looking forward to.

I stuff it down inside myself, I make it a reason for motivation… but heaven forbid, I actually outwardly show pride, or excitement in regard to myself.  It sucks.  It’s such a weird reaction to accomplishment; especially when you don’t hesitate to gush over the accomplishments of others.

I mean, what is accomplishment to you?  The word is really subjective.

I have come to realize, that to me, accomplishment is making a positive impact wherever I can.  It is the art of relating to people, and helping each other navigate over the hurdles life puts in out paths.  It’s knowing my intentions are pure.  It is the satisfaction of shared experience with personalities different than mine, but similar in soul alignment.

For you, it may be your kids, or your law degrees, or the fact you own your own home.  I didn’t really want any of those things, so what we may have most in common is a successful paper trail, documenting our so called accomplishments.

I want to mark today as significant, for myself.

I am embracing change and opportunity.  I am flipping a proverbial page.  I want to bring everyone with me.   Today, was effortless.   The work that made today happen, is years old.  I am getting the privileged to see some of the seeds I planted and watered so long ago, grow.

I have reached a new level of understanding Fruition.  And I know, that I am just getting excited over a sprout-ling.

Like I said, I don’t get very excited, very often.  I keep it to myself.

But, today, right now, I want to share it with you.  I want you to know that I do feel, and deeply.  I have just conditioned myself to maintain this grounded neutrality.

I want to share this feeling with you.   I want you to share your feelings with me.

Maybe today sucked for you… maybe you are in an awkward place, and you don’t have it in you, to meet my excitement.  Maybe it even pisses you off as you are reminded of how you don’t feel like that right now.   That is okay too.

Sometimes part of my reserve, is because I don’t want to make people, who already feel bad, feel worse.  So I commit to self censorship. And maybe you say nothing at all, because you are on the worse end of today.

It’s okay.  When I feel up, I want to channel that to those of you who feel down.  I am so accustomed to being mid-level-down with no outlet; that me feeling up, leaves me more energy to be present with your down time.  It’s a give and take that I enjoy participating with, because rarely is it that some one walks away from me, feeling worse about their current circumstance, than they did before we talked.  And you may not know it, but that fills me with a strong joy that is hard to describe. Those who know me, know I don’t blow smoke up their ass.  If I say something hard to take, it’s because it is honest, and I don’t censor myself much, around those of mutual love and respect.

The thing that sucks most for me… is how rare it is that I get these bursts of glow… and I find they fade so quickly, overrun by the regular mundane part of existence, that they rarely get the time or honor they deserve.  So I needed to write this down now.  I needed to document a day, where almost every hour was a new and pleasant surprise.

I needed to document that it isn’t all just “repairing fences” in life.

I have been working at starting a nonprofit, which I feel will positively change my home towns’ social landscape.  We sent off paper work to the Secretary of State to lock in our name today.  This is a dream that is over 10 years old, ready to come to fruition, and because it is  Cheyenne, and Cheyenne is ready, and I was blessed with a beginning team.  More details soon.   (But, I am excited.)

I locked down on my memorization today, so that I can give a heartfelt, and engaging talk at Tedx Cheyenne, in a week. I get to (again) take the stage in a theatre I call home, a place with rich history.  I have been  gifted the chance to talk about life, and my personal observations.  My heart is full to the brim because I am allowed to share my personal work, my personal story.  A story, which wouldn’t be the same with out my support systems and experience.

Today I was offered an opportunity to paint the hanger facade at Cheyenne Regional Airport… just think; Arrivals and Departures… a portal to a new place.  I am familiar with the experience of coming and going.  I want to create something that captures the essence and tone of those chapter changes.  I want to leave another mark on this place.  Imagine, 30 years from now, they repaint the hanger and someone comes back to visit, after leaving at 18, and they say ” Oh, they covered it up.  I remember when there was this cool mural up there….”  And I can be woven into the memories of people I may never meet.   ( A constant striving with my art in all regards.)

I feel a confidence that I am flipping a page to a new chapter.  I am excited to see where it leads.  There is no shame in it. My pride is not boastful… it’s more akin to surprise.  I am always surprised when I feel or experience surprise; I translate it as a reason for excitement.  Something to look forward to.

Thank you, to all of you who share my excitement or surprised, surprise.  Thank you, to all of you who bring me back to ground level.  Thank you, to all of you, who help me dig deep, and trust in my council.

Today was undoubtedly a good day.   Thank you for letting me share it with you.  Thank you for sharing it with me.  Thank you for allowing me to share.

 

 

 

Art, insight, life

Uncomfortable Conversations

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Just now I slipped into morbidity and thought, maybe my eulogy or my headstone, might say ” She got too mentally involved with shit that didn’t relate to her actual life, and missed out on a shit ton that was awesome.”

I promptly went outside, pulled weeds and watched the sunset… Who the hell does Future Mandie appoint as their sponsored voice in something like a eulogy or a head stone?   Hopefully, they are more poignant than my reckless imagination.

I have been thinking and talking about death quite a bit in the last couple of weeks.  It brings my attention to the ways I avoid administrative type tasks in my adulthood.  The shit no one wants to deal with.

A couple of weeks ago, my uncle forgot to tell me that he would be late coming over in the morning.  He basically has consistent “AM Grandma (or in his case MOM) duty.”  He is single, without kids, and structured, but creative.  He understands I stay up late, to capture some hours with out responsibility.  It works out well.

Anyway, he forgets to tell me he will be late, and at 9:30 am, I walk out into a dark hallway, and hear my grandma’s dog scratching on her door.  I get the dog out to pee, and open the curtains, and immediately ponder why the hell my Uncle isn’t here yet.

He is anal retentive about making sure if one of us has “schedule changes”, that the other one is up to date on what the what is.  So… THE FIRST THING that comes to my mind is ; “How long do you wait to do a welfare check on someone who you see everyday, but lives alone, so far as you know single and basically shares little to nothing about their personal life?”

I mean… “He seems healthy, but what the fuck do I know?”

I tried calling.  I send a couple of text messages.  I got grandma up, and made breakfast… He finally got a hold of me around 11:30, saying he was “on his way.”  I didn’t bring it up.  He didn’t offer to explain.  But, since then, I have been going through some adult administrative mental anxiety starting with that question… how long do you wait to call for welfare checks?

Would one of his friend/bandmates do it before me?

How exactly does he structure his time to commitments?  Who relies on his reliability?  (He is really reliable, but sometimes unexpected.)

Who are his Emergency Contacts?  Should I at least be acquainted to them?

What do I do about……..?

He holds the vault for my grandma both financially and medically…  I buy the groceries, but I am not on the bank account.  I make sure my grandma takes her PM pills, but I don’t know what they are all for.. though I know I could google it easily.  He attends her appointments, and fills prescriptions that don’t arrive by mail.

What if?  What if one day, my Uncle is driving to band practice down the road from Cheyenne, into Colorado, on the highway, and he is in a fatal accident?  Worst-fucking-case-scenario; am I able to step up or in, or do I have to just pass administration over to the last surviving son, who only shows up once a week and never seems to bring anything helpful to the table, when it actually comes to CARE?

Then I think about HAVING to force communication with a person who has no respect for me as a human, and has done just about everything possible in their power to treat me like I don’t exist; all while training his family to act in accordance…. and I damn near shit my pants.

That’s it.  That’s all.

I need to have some serious and uncomfortable conversations with people who avoid conversations like this, at all costs.  Fuck.

Art

A Subconscious Heavy Weight: Twelve Years of Running

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I’ve been running from myself since June 21, 2005.  That was the day I went to court, and stood in front of a jury for Domestic Violence and Assault charges in Bend, Oregon.   That was the day I was branded guilty by a bunch of people I didn’t know.

It didn’t matter that he hit me several times before.  It didn’t matter that he was emotionally destructive.  I took the fall.  The thing is, I don’t think that is the totality of who he is, and I know I am a challenging person to deal with. I basically chalk it up to, two passionate people with incompatible support skills. I’d invite him to tell his side, but I am sure he has no desire to rehash.  And since all boyfriends move on, it’s kind of better to just get the hell out of the way, unless their current person/wife, is curious about you, and makes the initiative.

We were young and emotional. I will accuse him of not wanting to meet me at the level I need for communication; and because, as my readers know; I am kind of wordy,  I want to break it all down to get to the grit.

Anyway… That day I had a woman judge.  I hoped the cop wouldn’t come to testify.  Neither one of us had support to back us up.  It was just “us” against “us”.  Two people in love, but failing at making it work, being represented by strangers.

Later he told me, that while he was on the stand, he was secretly hoping I would do some Basic Instinct flash under the table.  Little did he know, I thought about it.  We were really attracted to each other.  And when stuff was great, it was amazing.  He was far more in his body; and I was far more into my mind.  Neither of us lacked heart, communication was  a huge issue, despite how much we had in common.

I don’t recall any of that coming up in court.  Verdict by Jury, Guilty of one count Domestic Violence, One count Assault and Harassment.

I felt very strongly that this was an improper representation of who I actually am, as a person, and the majority of my actions.  I knew what was on the table ahead of time, from the police charges.  I did EVERYTHING and MORE, than the Court could have asked for with out going back to jail as a sentence.  I did it ALL before the Court asked me to.

Shortly after my arrest, I went to the Court Assessor, and I asked, point blank “What is the most the Court will want from me?”

He said, “Drug, Alcohol, Domestic Violence Classes, counseling, and Community Service.”

I got on it immediately.  I had insurance through my job, and I found a Mental Health provider. I payed the co-pays of $25 dollars a visit.  I enrolled in the DADV classes, and paid $25.00 for each of the twelve classes (max sentence).  I found a lovely non-profit art gallery, and volunteered my time, and met some really lovely humans.

I “paid my dues” in full, without request.   I asked my boyfriend to come to the DADV classes with me (because they encourage it, ) but he wouldn’t go.

In my free creative time, I kept performing Slam Poetry, to meet people, so I didn’t feel so isolated.

The Judge and I talked “off the record” after the verdict.  She asked “Were you two living together, despite the mandated restraining order?”

I replied with, “Yes, your honor.  We are both, kind of, all we’ve got, here. We have only been here a year.  I actually wanted to defend myself, and the Court Assessor, really discouraged that idea… but I am a writer, and I do feel this situation doesn’t really represent who I am or what I am about;  I wrote a poem shortly after the incident, that I wanted to use as my defense. I wanted to share with you that I do take responsibility for myself.  Can I share that with you?”

She says “Yes.”

And I recite this piece of poetry, that I had been performing for months at Poetry Slam events.  Reveling in being raw and vulnerable, because my boyfriend never went to the events, and no one really knew who he was anyway, so I was somewhat anonymous.

She is moved to tears.  “Can I get a copy of that?  I work with a lot of women in domestic violence situations.”

I tell her, “It is my pleasure to give you a copy, right now.”

This is when she basically tells me that if I don’t fuck up again; I can have my record expunged.  And she makes note on my PERMANENT Record.

Inside, I know I have learned my lesson, and this kind of thing WILL NEVER happen again, under my watch.

And I liked the idea of it.  I felt somewhat empowered and emboldened.  But I also felt kind of fearful, because, many times in that relationship, the only thing I felt like I did wrong, was trigger emotional reactions my boyfriend wanted to avoid.  I was guilty of asking intimate questions to a person who wanted to keep secrets, and assumed I was keeping secrets as well.  I was an open book, willing to be torn apart, just so he could make sure I was legit.

That didn’t keep us together.  Shortly after the trial, he said he needed to think things over, and get some space. He rode his motorcycle back to Colorado to celebrate his birthday, and see his friends. ( I always felt like he met his wife, on that trip.  My intuition is rarely wrong, but he never owned up to it.)  He didn’t come back on time, and I got worried, and then I got angry… He was back for maybe a month, and then I went and did something to piss him off.. and he was done.  He packed his car, and planned a date to leave.

His chosen departure date was my 25th birthday.  He asked,  “Do you want me to stay around for your birthday?”  I said, “You don’t want to be here, and you don’t want to be with me.  I know that.  Staying isn’t doing me any favors.”

So he left, and I threw myself a birthday party with co-workers from the pizza shop I worked at.  I felt sad, and independent.  Our lease was up a few days later, and I closed a chapter of my life, with my longest (admitted) serious relationship to date.

In the meantime… maybe I felt like I needed to hide a little bit.  I couldn’t stick out in a bad way.  I couldn’t be in a relationship, because I started to believe that I am too volatile and I lead people to anger, aggression, and violence.  And how could I be loved if I was such a beast of a human.

So much pain for a three year relationship- 2000 mile move-one year of living together in a foreign place-kind of situation.

Turns out he moved on quickly.  Now he is married with a child.  I hope he is healthy and happy;  we don’t keep in touch.

His life went on, emotionally.  While mine, kind of stunted.  He was the only person, I felt like I was really willing to lay it out on the line for, and he wasn’t willing to take it, or give it back.  I felt like, I broke him in, for some other woman.  That I got nothing out of it… and what am I?  Just some set of training wheels for men to use, in order to learn how to respect and communicate with women?  Then they get to go on to have loving, intimate relationships with other people, while I exist as some sort of emotional Dakini?

If so,  so lame.  I want a long lasting love, too.

So, I did what anyone who wants to guard themselves from further emotional disaster would do; I further reinforced the fortress around my heart and my intimacies grew even more casual, short term, and brutally honest.  I refused to be anyone’s girlfriend.  I would hook up with one guy for a month or two (tops) seasonally. I didn’t like the idea of  being with many people at once… so occasionally, I would give some one a chance, and “feel it out.”  I would get bored or frustrated easily.  Occasionally the men I was interested in, were not very interested in me.

With every one I would try to be with, I kept feeling this dissonance, like “I shouldn’t be with this person”, but I would let it “run it’s course” until things got awkward, and eventually just faded into a “somebody that I use to know” situation.

I kept running.

Four years, before I could expunge my record… Mugshots.com uploaded my mugshot to their website.  As did a couple of other sites.  Four years, before, I could just pay the court eighty dollars for an expungement and seal off my records… Some dumb dotcom is out to make money off of people with public criminal records.  I was horrified.

When I googled my name… my horrible head shot was the first thing you would see.   To have it removed I would have to send proof of expungement ($80.00), and then send proof of the expungement with an additional payment to the website of $237.00 to take it down.  The catch?  I read the small print, and it states , “that there is no guarantee that it wouldn’t be re-uploaded” because it is PUBLIC RECORD.

Welcome to the times.  Public Records are all over the internet.

What the actual FUCK, people?

My record, and mug shot were now potential internet fodder.

So I went to my mug shot page, and I left a comment, saying that the picture is ME and how I feel about the whole matter, and that if anyone felt like discussing it, I would fill them in.

I took on the moniker, Madge Midgely Laycock.  I created a personality, so that I could release my artistic stuff, and not have it directly tied to the top google search of my name, leading to that humbling mug shot, my criminal record.

If I do say so, I honestly did a really good job with redirecting myself, from myself, to “protect” myself.

I haven’t checked on my appeal.  I haven’t paid for expungement, because now it is already out there on the internet, and the court won’t be responsible to make sure all public accounts on the web are sealed.  I have written about it more than once.  As open as I have been, publicly, for myself… I have continued to run.

I’ve been running for almost a dozen years, because of one night.

I don’t want to run any more.

 

 

 

 

Art, Cheyenne, insight, life, Writing

Mother Pluckin Mothers Day

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I’ve never really thought about being a mother, or what it actually means to be a mother.

I suppose more likely that I have given it some severe criticism over my days.

You know that moment when you just submit to how things are; how you are sure they will always be in the midst of knowing, while STILL trying, somehow,  to make it better – perhaps over compensating in some mentality that had served you for a good long while; but has become such a self identifying characteristic, that letting go is hard, and humbling and tough to move beyond?

Yep.  That is me.

I could blame the anti-mom game on my early life; social programming, feminism, Disney, and the World In General… but I won’t.

I made a choice of self preservation due to trauma in early life… and I have unabashedly  stuck to it.  I empowered myself by it;  I gave it life and definition.  I fed it by ignorantly and fyoulishly adhering to my trauma blinders.

HA!  Like I think I have always known things!

When I was a child, I wanted to be a Grandma, above all…but, I also knew I never wanted to be a mom- so being a grandma, was probably out of the question.

I grew out of attempting to age quickly, and clung to the idea of being “The cool Aunt.”    My tag line is “When you can’t handle the transitions, save your sanity and send them to me.”  I believed I could be the bridging gap between generations, despite being a decade older than my sister.

Somehow, being single and childless, in my mind, equaled freedom which directly translated to “more room to comprehend and connect.”  It also meant “choosing ones own connections” aka “being exclusive and reclusive, mysterious and confused.”   “Appearing more purposeful than I actually feel.”

I have been, successful.

Successful at avoiding certain responsibilities by “opting out.”  Successful at using the word “No”, even when it’s too much, going too far.  Successful at building a very strong fortress around my totality of being-ness.  Successful at giving out selective passage with time limits, to those who dare venture these walls.

But hey, what is your definition of  “Success”? Is it at all defined by your MOM?

Mothers, just…they just aren’t suppose to just leave, ya know?

I don’t know… I mean… based off Disney, they are bound to. Moms exist as a memory with Disney.  Why is it all the girls and boys who love Disney movies the MOST, still have their mom‘s?

Right?!?  They not only HAVE them… they are CLOSE to them…

I guess, I should admit, I never really “bonded with my step mom in a way that  would ever give me a real “Mommy” vibe.  In the same breath, I will admit, I gave that woman hell with solidified child thoughts.

“You AREN’T MY MOM!”

“Why did you choose HER?”

“She WILL NEVER understand me!”

What wasn’t childish, and I didn’t understand back then, was the fact that I was unknowingly competing with an adult woman for my fathers’ attention.

Whoa, right?!?  No one tells you that at 9 years old, even if you are going to a therapist who is SUPPOSE to help you navigate shit exactly like this; why?  Because you are STRONG, you are RESILIENT, you are SMART, and if an adult explains it properly, YOU WILL COMPREHEND AND OUT DO EXPECTATIONS!

On the other hand, you can still carry all those attributes and go on like a bumbling fool because the adults around you are afraid of breaking a child who has already broken.  A child seeking security, and finding everything around themselves a suspect.  A child adapting, but never REALLY feeling like they are trusted or heard.  Ho, Hum.

I don’t blame the effect of this on any one but myself these days.  And, I am hard on myself, so I ask myself things like  “Why didn’t you see this and understand this dynamic earlier?  What is wrong with you?  Why do you continue to fixate on things that are more easily accepted AS IS, instead of ruminating solutions to the past free-will decisions and actions of others?  If that is what they would have thought was best, they would have.  You know they are doing their best just like you, but you STILL SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT and KNOWN.”

UGH.  Someone please bring me a 2×4 to beat my own head in.

That has been my life on repeat in variations for TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!

Coincidentally, my step mom married my dad at the age of 28, in May, nineteen years ago this year.

I had just finished up my first grade year.  And let me tell you, it was an EPIC year.  I went to Ireland with my grandparents, my brother and my dad.  I felt like I landed in a place made just for me, except for my sensitive stomach.  We traveled in a rented van and stayed at B&B’s and I felt like the magic of my heritage was upon me. During the school year  I had a beautiful and kind first grade teacher, Miss Rolfe, who was super nice and magical.

Then The End of The Year came.  A week before the last day of first grade, I found out my Miss Rolfe was getting married, and on the last day of school we made a celebratory field trip to Brimmer Park, down the road from Baggs Elementary.  I remember my grandma took me to buy  a gift, and I chose two silver candle holders.  I was excited to show her how much I adored her.

We had a child like bridal shower in the park.  We all brought gifts, and over sized white t-shirts for her to sign in magic marker. On mine she drew an eye + heart+ you.  I felt that inscription in my heart.  She was beautiful, she taught with kindness and I thought she would be there forever.

At the end of our picnic park party, Miss Rolfe broke the news; the man she was marrying had something happening in Arizona.  She wouldn’t be at the school the next year; she was moving.

My heart broke, and I am sure my attitude showed it. My grandpa picked me up from school and we walked the three blocks home.  I was miffed.

I remember being home a while and my dad came in.  I was in the kitchen, and he knelled down to me sitting at the table.  He asked me something like “What do you think about me marrying Karen?”

And my heart sunk lower in my chest, but given the opportunity to express, I said “No…No.”

I received an answer that culminated in “It’s too late.”  I had no “real choice” in the matter.

So finding out I was getting a “new mom” with no choice, and realizing I wouldn’t be returning to Baggs Elementary; I was hit with the realization that  I lost a teacher, a school and all my friends; but, hey, I was gaining a step mom and a move to the country west of town, to a new school and house.

I stayed mad for two decades, and anything I deemed my step mothers doing in my misery, went into my brain archive.

How DARE you ask me, what I think and feel, if in the end, it matters, not?

I have always fallen victim to my observations and opinions.

How does one become malleable?  Roll with the punches and keep your mouth shut.  Make up your mind and keep it to yourself.  Suffer in silence.

I looked for my dead mother until I was fifteen; thinking somehow, someway, she could get away faking her death and continue living with another family in the same town.  I looked for her in the aisles of stores, and in the  clouds when I flew on planes.  I thought, in my youth, that you could just put a bouquet of flowers on the roof on birthdays and Mothers day, and she would just float down and get it.  It all continues to give me cognitive dissonance.

But… you know what pulls me out of that dissonance?

I am THIRTY SIX FUCKING YEARS OLD!  This shit is old hat.  I graduated  high school half of my life ago.  Life has moved on.  Everyone is moving on in their own way.

If I am honest with myself and my observations, these truths are undeniable… I have kept myself stuck despite knowing the evolving truths….

My dad has someone who loves him, and her loves her back.

My sister has an attentive mother that adores her, and she deserves that.

They all have done the best they can with me, but I kind of scare them.

Everybody is fighting to comprehend the day to day, and it’s changing swiftly.

My step-mom has always done the best that she can with no guide book, she is brave and resilient; but most like me, adaptable.

I wish I came upon all this alone, but I didn’t.

I have been really blessed in my adulthood to have surrogate mothers.  Women, regardless of age, whose lives seemed to somehow collide into mine.

I haven’t had the same “call and check in every day” or “pop in unexpected” or “care for you when you are sick” kind of relationships; but I have had some eye opening realizations and some heart felt growth.  But honestly, I mean, in my own experience the one thing you have to face about a surrogate is, they will always be there MORE for their own in the most natural and organic way.  You are not really the Fruit of Their Loom, er Womb.

Kind of the same thing with my “step” situation.

She has my sister, and my sister has her; and in no way would I ever wish a woman to grow up motherless. They have a pact I will never truly understand.  And I would never do anything to keep them from it.

I hypothesize that maybe if you have enough surrogate moms, you can actually plan that into your schedule and hug more frequently, and have a reason to make lots of handmade cards?  I don’t know.   What I do know, is, they are there when I need them,most times.  But I don’t ask for, or expect much, and that makes it easier for everyone.  Life is like that.  Sometimes, you have to just figure it out on your own because no one is there to pick up the call or rescue you.. or just soothe you.

And that is okay too.

Some of us have to learn to “Mother” ourselves.

My surrogates and my step mom have taught me more about themselves and myself in regard to the life around me by their unique perspectives and my willingness to listen and observe.  They present perspectives I don’t have on my own, unless I really try.  They DO HAVE birth children! They understand love on a level that I don’t They have  and continue to ride that roller-coaster which may not be ending soon when it comes to life transitions and need.

Rumor has it, “You always want and need your mother… no matter how old you are.”

What do they want in return? These Mothers?  Proof of existence?  Proof that their pain and turmoil and worry isn’t in vain?  Proof that their best attributes can rub off and be impactful and important through progeny?… Justification to a certain degree, that the risk was worth it?  The worry has worth?

Honestly, I don’t fucking know.  I am not even going to pretend right now.  Tell me.

The best I can come up with, is, they are like me; care taking spirits.  I took a different angle, and I know that the out come will be different.  I have no expectation than to have to deal with the most gruesome parts of mortality alone.  They probably expect or at least hope their children will be there to hold their hands through it, when it is their time.

I need to work on honoring this, because quite honestly I have previously just shat upon a Mothers purpose, Their purpose.   We don’t have life without Mothers.  We do not have balance without Women… and care taking humanity would be a lost cause without that energy.

But, I’m not a feminist…?!?

I don’t have to be, because regardless, Mothers gonna keep Mothering.  I apologize if I wasn’t appreciative before.  You all impact the totality of the past,present and future.  We need your love and attentiveness.  We need your kindness and structure.  We need your support, and your presence.  We need your fearless protective nature.

You are a TREASURE.

Thank you.

May all you Mothers, have a Mother Pluckin Mothers Day.

Art, life, Writing

Trials and Tribulations of Being a Single Woman in a Man’s World

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It was more than just the nausea. More than indigestion, vomiting and sleeplessness.  It was more than just a time of high energy, in which those who are sensitive (such as myself) may find themselves transmuting what ever the world around them, was unconsciously throwing off.  It was way more intense than any other PMS episode I had ever experienced.

Sore tits.  Constant cramping to high heaven.

It was more than not being able to eat for two weeks; daily emptying my bile reserves.  Food wasn’t staying down, nothing sounded good and weary was I.

Yes, it was more, so much more.

I finally called an emergency trip down the canyon, to Boulder yesterday morning.  After arriving home the night before at 11pm, falling right to sleep, only to awaken at 2 am with previous said symptoms in addition to profuse sweating and dry heaves that kept on until 7:30 am.  At which point, I couldn’t take it any more.

If I wasn’t suffering from ulcers and irregular menstrual cycle again, I would think I was pregnant… but I just bled.  I stayed in bed all of Tuesday, my day off; I stopped bleeding, assuming it was because I was supine all day.  I began bleeding again on Wednesday… I figured I must be in the clear, I mean I am no stranger to morning nausea from the ulcers.  I know I haven’t been eating the best lately, due to stress.

It was the swollen breasts and soreness that was causing the confusion.  My breasts have always felt uncomfortable before and during a moon cycle; but this time, even I noticed I looked more “filled out” in a couple of shirts I normally wear.  My tits looked better than they ever have before.  I needed to know for sure, I wasn’t pregnant.

I found a free clinic that does testing and counseling.  I arrived at 9:36 am, but they were not yet open.  Located in a some what ghetto strip mall, “Real Choices Pregnancy Center” was neighbored by a check cashing/ advance pay check place and a bead store.

As I approached the front door, a white piece of paper attached with scotch tape to the winds announced that Real Choices, would not be open until 9:45 am, today.  “Okay, only nine minutes to go.”  I scramble back to my car as the air is heavy with fog outside, and seemingly more cold than the higher elevation I drove down from.

I feel somewhat unprepared.  I expect this feeling to pass.  It doesn’t.

9:45 comes and goes.  9:56 a silver car pulls next to mine.  A very conservative school secretary type exits the vehicle with a large yellow folder fill with urine sample cups.

I wait three minutes before enter Real Choices.

Mickie, introduces herself and apologizes for running late, I tell her I have nothing but time today… what a long day I am in for.

Mickie sets me up in the restroom with instructions to pee in the dixie cup and bring it to her when I am done.  I have been holding it now for over a half hour, so letting that yellow river flow, seemed quite the relief.

My anxiousness wants results, and I am being less conscious to detail in response to the emotional place I am currently at.  I am distracted by  my own uncertainty.

Mickie invites me to sit, and I am instructed to use a disposable dropper to pick up some urine from the dixie cup and to place a few drops on a pregnancy test result screen.  I do just that and then Mickie asks me some preliminary questions.  Name; date, birth, last period.  I tell her December 19, but that I have had bleeding since then.  I explain how I have had painful and irregular periods for as long as I can remember.   I tell her I had read Black Cohosh can help Amenorrhea ( a period that doesn’t come.)

I explain my cycle is usually waivers between 32-52 days; this cycle was nearing forty-eight, one of my longest ever.  I had no concern of pregnancy.  (Perhaps just my hopeful thinking.)

At this point, Mickie drops the bomb… I am pregnant.  These tests are 97-99% accurate.  My body has enough of a specific hormone to confirm, yes indeed, I am pregnant.

I tell Mickie the truth; I have no desire to have children.  She reflects upon me her beliefs.  At this moment I realize this free pregnancy test and any counselling that they offer at Real Choice, is funded by some Christian organization.

A look of fear and concern crosses over Mickie’s face.

“So you DO believe, at the time of conception, this is the beginning of life, right?” she asks.

“I believe life may have begun, but the soul personality, has yet to be attached.”  I respond.

Mickie casually pull her delicate cross necklace from beneath her collar.  “Well I am the mother of four children, ” she starts in and immediately I zone out.

“She hasn’t a clue!” I think, “She is only a volunteer here.  She is just here to represent her religious organization.  She isn’t some young vagabond in the mountains. She doesn’t exchange hours of her time for room and board from those she works for!  She doesn’t live in this paradigm.  She was probably supported through all of her pregnancies by her God fearing husband… She probably didn’t get pregnant from a random one night stand with a stranger just because she was horny and wanted to get laid, and the situation was there.  She probably never got pregnant from a condom breaking while having sex in her car during a blizzard and a full moon…. or maybe she did.”

At this moment though, that seemed like a very far off reality and since I zoned out most of her story, I guess I couldn’t be certain.  She was now telling me, how she has met “so many women who have chosen abortion” and how they end up feeling so horrible about it for the rest of their lives.

In my mind, I think ” I wouldn’t feel that way.  I know I wouldn’t.  I am so adamant about NOT having a family, unless I feel it is circumstantially ‘right’.  I can’t take nine months to have a kid for someone else, when right now I have to change things within and around me.  Even adoption wouldn’t leave me that choice.”

Mickie and I chat a while longer.  She attempts to get me an appointment at a free clinic for an ultrasound.  I have no money, and no luck.  She offers to take me to the Emergency Room, but her religious organization doesn’t want her to shut down the center for her to escort me. I don’t want to go to the ER with her anyway.

I am shocked.  I am unsure of how to proceed.

Mickie expresses concern that I might have an endoscopic pregnancy because of my bleeding.  She urges me to seek care very soon.

I finally leave; paperwork of confirmation in hand.  I need to smoke a bowl.

I drive back up the mountain in silence.  In my mind I am bargaining with the Universe.  I do not want pregnancy.  If abortion, by means of a tube, being shoved into my uterus, is the only way to go.. I’ll do it.  I don’t know how, because for someone with no money, three hundred or more dollars is expensive.  I feel I am early enough in the game, that there must be another answer.

Perhaps more Black Cohosh?  It could create uterine contractions.  I have more.

I recall hearing about a drug that induces labor in a few minutes by putting it inter-vaginally.  Or, what about self administered tappomant (percussive massage) on the lower abdomen?  Jumping jacks?

I get to my town, and I keep driving.  I need to see friends who understand.  I need to know if my clairvoyant friend senses anything about my situation.  I arrive at their house, but no one is home.

Shit.  I need to talk about this with clear people, NOW!  Finally I call a mutual friend who passes along a cell number for the friend I am looking for.  I call and find out she is over an hour away, and had just arrived at her destination.  It sounds as if she is in a bit of chaos when she picks up the call.  She tells me to give her a couple of minutes so that she can go outside and call me back.

I wait about twenty minutes before she returns my call.  I give her a run down of events, and she offers to drive back up the mountain, to take me back down the canyon to the ER>  It would be over an hour before they would be there.

Sleep and nutrition have been rare for me in the last few weeks.  I decided I would stay, and rest on their couch until they arrive.

I find myself in somewhat of a daze; not asleep, not awake.  I am half way nauseated.  She arrives an hour and a half later.  She walks in with her baby, explaining that her husband is concerned about her unnecessarily taking the baby to the ER, which is bound to be rife with sickness.  Her mother in law will take me alone.

Another hour and half of highways later, we are amidst the smog of Denver.  Lutheran Hospital; unbeknownst to me, one of the busiest ER’s in the the Denver Metro Region.

My stomach is feeling stronger now.  We sit among the sick and injured.  I fill out admittance paperwork.  I get my stats taken.

I wait for six hours in the waiting room.  The TV is tuned to CNN.  I am fully up to date on the Anna Nicole coverage.  I know I am going to have to sit here a longer while, so I eat a Snickers bar.

A man enters and throws a fit about the length of the wait. He is raising his voice.

The ER attendants reaffirms, “There are NO rooms!  There are NO beds!”

The chaotic man seems drunk or drugged, or just damaged.  A breezy Malibu type shirt hangs half open on his beet red chest.  This is not a small man.  The ER staff swiftly admit him.  To where, with the lack of beds?  It’s unknown, or perhaps unspoken that there is always room on the Psych Ward.

Various small dramas proceed with brash interactions, including a bitchy blonde ER nurse and an injured, low-income white guy.  I am among some of Denver’s best and brightest, today.  To each of their benefit, I am certain it is hard to think, when such pain and sickness impede your life…  The ER staff do not have it easy, especially in Denver’s busiest; still, is it really necessary to have such a sassy attitude with those who seek their care?

Six hours later, I receive a gown, a room and a tasty IV with anti-nausea medication.  YAY!  The cool fluid flowing into my arm, is easing away the sickness of reality.  It’s about time to really find out what is going on.  There is yet, more waiting.  I read magazines that I would never purchase.  I breeze through the gossip in regard to Brangelina and Britney… who looks how, in what?

Honestly I don’t fucking care.

They draw my blood, which leads to more waiting.

A silly tech wheels me to radiology for an ultrasound.  We are on the precipice of finding out exactly how far along this train wreck is.  Thank God for pain meds and anti-nausea.

A lubed belly and an ultrasound later, I find out I am eight weeks… TWO MONTHS?!?!  Oh yeah, that broken condom in the car episode.   Brilliant.  Some silly dread who happened to be in town for the weekend, over from Leadville.  Silly.

I endure the ER for another two and a half hours.  Fully re-hydrated and drugged, I am free to leave.  It’s now 11:30pm and everything is closed.  All I want is Chick-Fil-A ( avid pro-life, gay hating chicken.)  Actually, it’s all I have craved for weeks now.

Sleepily I laze in the passenger seat as I am driven back up the mountain.

The next few hours are used in mental formulations.  I will take more Black Cohosh, I will perpetuate my own bleeding.  I will find a loose pill of Misoprostal in the cabinet of my birthing nurse employer.  I will stay with my friends for a couple of days, to ride out the nausea where I am allowed to smoke cannabis.

I arrive home to find a dead cat in my room.  It seems to me, to be a sign of things to come.

I conspire to find and take the Misoprostal vaginally; causing me to bleed chunks later.  I am feeling smart, maybe too smart for my own good, as I am sure this will cause a miscarriage. In my mind, this is decidedly a pregnancy that WILL be terminated, whether by force or effect.  I feel a stress of unknowing, burden my ovaries.  The pain goes through waves of increase.  A sort of feeling, like my uterus is being ripped from me; and yet it stays placed inside, only to be positioned in pain from unknown origin.

I tell myself that this isn’t a “safe” pregnancy.  This is not a “conscious” pregnancy.  This is not a continuing pregnancy.  How am I going to end up paying for all of this; monetarily, physically, spiritually?

Word has it of “Emergency Medicaid,” but no one I talk to has much information.  My circumstances seem applicable, to me.  Will the State of Colorado, agree?  I rationalize that it would cost less for The State to assist in the cost of termination, than it would cost to assist in the long term raising of a child, from a no income young woman.  I learn The State has it’s own ideas as to what It believes our money should be allocated to assist.  Most of it, seem illogical.

A small bit of paperwork for an ongoing, onslaught of more paperwork and phone calls.  I could have allowed myself to be attached to the system for weeks!  Whatever hard earned taxable dollars I had previously earned, were deductible from the over all system; so for those weeks, I could get the best in medical help, if I so choose.

Painful wisdom teeth?  Fuck it!  They will pull them for FREE! (No tip required.)  Just provide proof of pregnancy, and you too, can have a free first class ticket to any medical predicament.

In the right wing tradition of Pro-life, our male dominated system, peeks it’s head into our State and Federal run programs.

Women considered irresponsible for multiple births out of wedlock contributing to our supposed over population are somehow supported… but abortion is only legal in a few states.  Women are demonized for having children out of wed lock, with various men; yet our system is seemingly aligned with the idea that “man SHOULD spread his seed.”

It seems it is economically easier, to live in a life of unwanted, and avoidable circumstances, than it is to independently make a decision for oneself;  to have to  ultimately live in a state of shame perpetuated by a political and religious agendas.

Sure, sometimes men get slammed with child support, but in reality, less than half of them actually pay. Even then, somewhere out there, under the radar; out of the political and religious eyes; we learn that abortion is the most common surgical procedure performed on women in this day and age.

Silently we are speaking back.  This topic will not be spoken about at your local church group, in any light manner.  In fact, the topic will most likely be avoided all together.  The topic is too, taboo… a product of bad taste.  Despite it all; when those groups gather, there will be at least one woman in the group who will have done it, or considered it, depending on their personal beliefs and situations through their life.

Male domination in the world, will cause them to question their choices.It will only be conversations that are whispered among sisters, that they will find commiseration.  Otherwise, they will be left to feel, that they didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, because  ironically,”Life must go on.”

Weirder yet, conception is another touchy subject especially when it occurs outside prudential expectations..  The way conception unfolds, apparently happens on it’s own terms.  There isn’t always need for attraction or permission.

One in three women will be raped at some point in their lives.  How many of those, become pregnant from the rape?  How does that rock a woman, emotionally; especially when unprepared  and un-wanting for such news?  I have met a man, who is a byproduct of such an event. Conceived from rape. He survives his adulthood caught in child like delinquency.  The man is desperately talented, yet he is lost in a search for something meaningful  in all the wrong places.  You might say he has a lot of loose ends.

His mother committed suicide.  She was never able to cope with the past pain that brought her son into the world.  He was twelve and committed to juvenile hall, when he got the word his mother killed herself.  They wouldn’t let him leave to go to her funeral.  Ten years later, he was dealing with the effects of not being in attendance and the violence of his beginnings.

When is self preservation an act of higher intuition?

My step mother is in disagreement of my choices, yet  I feel confident.  There was a time when, what she thought may have mattered to me, enough to affect my decision making. Not today. Now, it’s all about me.  The question, exactly, is how?  I keep going back to the idea of self preservation.

When we took that drive up the mountain and  I was running groggily through my thoughts.  I was thankful the Vicodin was easing my pain.  I thought about the ultrasound, and how I was able to see the beginnings of a being, forming inside of me.  At eight weeks it was only a grain of sand, only sort of visible in it’s embryonic form.

Seeing the beginnings of life, had changed nothing in my mind.  It had only reaffirmed my self preservation.   This being was bringing my attention to what I have avoided; my own body, my own ability to procreate.   I realize how I had abandoned my own system. Secretly, I felt somewhat cursed from the beginning of my own life.  My pain was likened to the feeling of rotting from the inside out, right through my reproductive organs .  A feeling as thought the ligaments holding everything in place, were being ripped directly from me.

Lately, I feel new to anything feminine.  Maybe it’s been about four years or so, that I have actively tried to assimilate myself to societal ideals of womanhood.  Everyday has been a struggle.  I feel covered in a facade of accessories.  I suppose, I have mainly attempted to be more feminine through ways of appealing to others by physical perception.

If there is one thing I hope to learn from all of these experiences that I have gone through; I hope one day, to find an answer to the question that stands strong for me; “how does one truly become womanly.”

So far, it seems I am finding out first hand, the hard way.  Regardless, I am thankful.

Art, insight, life, Writing

December 8, 2011-Jubal @ Whistlers (Chicken Cordon Bluez)

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Often times, when I lived in Nederland, Colorado; I would go out alone, and check out whatever music may be playing, and hang out with friends that were bound to be out.  The night of this show, was a little gathering while I was back in the area in transition; house sitting and dog sitting for local friends.  This is the last time I saw Jubal play.  I am honored to find this in my notebook.  I am glad that I was able to record my perceptions in the moment.  It makes me feel good. I hope it does the same for you.  

The night may be one of those, High Altitude type nights.  The weather is cold, snow is on the ground, and those who choose Whistlers this Thursday, are primarily there for the entertainment and the suspended menu.

Tonight, I have some early bird jitters.  I feel there may be conflict.

The Thursday night football game is on the big screens; Jubal is on guitar and vocals. The audience seems split.  I figure, there must be room for compromise.

Jubal begins his set, almost as a warm up.  He is playing his less played set list. He emanates a desire to own the room with his music.

Jubal, is an inexhaustible well of music, the type of performers most towns wish for.  But, tonight, We, Have Him.  Knowingly in this moment, he has his competition; be it the football or those few patrons who would prefer their Chicken Cordon Blue in silence, he denies them their wish with gritty growling and harmonic strums.

Tonight we are all somehow the embodiment of this well, that Jubal is.  Some may be dry on the surface, but they are rich and deep, below.  The well is not purely a wood base on the ground, or a metal pipe with a pump.

One could consider a tree, a living well; pulling water up from the depths through it’s roots up to the leaves above, into the branches.  This is how Jubal and his music holds some capacity of the humanity around him.  They rise to him to be with each other, seeking some sweet soul nourishment; finding their call is answered.

If one becomes too dry, they turn to dust and fly away.

When one is fertile and hydrated, one grows and shares their steady beauty to those around them.

Sometimes, we become dry; and we don’t know exactly why or how. Was it the weather, or failure in the roots?  Does a tree, or a well, ever ask?

Sometimes, the well is muddy.  You have to drop the bucket through scum to find the spring.  You have to dig deeper for the clarity.

What really matters?  Perhaps in this journalistic opinion; it is the beautiful clarity that serene submersion brings, seeking the purity.  Jubal holds the perfect sound track for this; somehow every song begs the question, “What really matters?”

Is the game more important than the player?  Is the player always the star of the show?

“Perspective.”  A wise woman, once said.

The room is almost full, and it seems we are on some 24 hour precipice of a Full Lunar Eclipse that will be visible locally.  I wonder if the lunacy of the moon tonight, is reflecting back humanities lunacy.  What is the symbolism of it’s momentary shadowing?

I suppose we are all a little creative and crazy; especially when humbled by seeing the shadow of ourselves, in the midst of lunatic confusion,we still have just enough of a grasp on who we want to see within ourselves that we can find some reconciliation.  We find at times, even lunacy can be overshadowed by a strong desire for realization.

Jubal Thompson passed away August 7, 2016. You can read his obituary here Jubal Obituary.  You can check out his original music on Reverbnation here  at Jubal’s Songs .

I dedicate this writing to all of Jubal’s friends, family and musical admirers.  I apologize, if it wasn’t more about him, or his specific music; however I honor the fact he was a strong participant in a community I was apart of and love.  I was honored to spend time and conversation with him, and I feel this piece touches on a deeper part of our understanding each other in friendship.  If you want to do something in Jubal’s honor; buy a kid an instrument and encourage them to express themselves through the tool of music and words.  And always, listen closely to the truths expressed therein.