The Surprise (or Learning How to Be a Friend)

Aleathia says:

     A few weeks ago I was asked by one of the people in my writer’s group to go to a concert. No big deal, right?

     Wrong.

     Let me lay the groundwork for you. I’m nice, but awkward. I have a hard time making friends because trust is a hurdle for me. I am nice to everyone and I can carry a conversation if you start it. I understand the basics of friendship, but in my life I have had about 5 true friends. These are people that get me. They put up with my social ineptitude time and again. They make me feel worth it.

     Anyway, the concert. So on the outside this woman and I don’t appear like we should be friends. Read that sentence again, it’s petty, I know. As you may have seen from other blogs, I am working on shedding a life based on body image. I’m not there yet. I have spent a life handing out forgiveness for being too awkward or too fat or insert-something-that-annoys-another here. You can teach an old dog new tricks, but it takes time. I’m middle aged and overweight. She is younger and a Cross Fit body builder. I’ll give you a moment to make the image.

     The take away from this concert for me was huge. We could’ve seen an orchestra or Liberace. It wouldn’t have mattered. It was the time in between the music that held the most meaning. On the hour drive there, we talked about our lives in trauma and with writing. Underneath our exteriors, under the skin, we slowly found that we were of the same tribe. Over the years, I medicated with food and she medicated with lifting. I didn’t ask her outright if that was the reason for the intense workouts, but from either point of view--food or weightlifting--it’s about control. People of trauma crave control, and as she put it, certainty.

     We shared our recent journeys in love and how we arrived at the present moment sitting in my car, splitting the countryside with our collective pain. Many times she apologized for speaking of her traumas on our first outing as friends. I didn’t acknowledge the apology because it wasn’t necessary. Car rides are the best place for people of trauma to spill demons, because the other person can only listen. There is no fixing, only understanding and clarification.

     Once at the venue, we went to buy water. She was going to buy mine because I drove. I refused and grabbed my wallet to pay for my own because it is what I do. Owe no one anything. I have lived that motto for my lifetime. She looked at me and said, “Let me buy this. This is what friends do.”

     Imagine standing in a lobby of humans and being invisibly struck by lightning.

     We talked some more as the first band came on, sitting while everyone else was standing. This was less trauma and more writing. When the band she wanted to see took the stage we stood, side by side, and something happened to me for the first time. Amongst a sea of young college students, next to this woman who is physically one of the strongest people I know, who is beautiful, and I found myself not caring about my body. I stood surrounded by beauty not worrying about how old I was, how fat I was, or whether or not I deserved to be there. I simply, was.

     The music was good. The light show amazing. The life lesson, priceless.

     In the land of healing a lifetime of traumas, these small wins feel like gold medal performances. This connected me to another human who has run a similar path, who is still working on healing and trusting and moving forward. I thank her for reaching out to ask me to do something, for noticing me, for making me feel like a valid individual. Score one for the home team.

     Thanks for reading. Be kind to each other. Write. Read books. Share your world.

Aleathia

The Lock on the Inside of My Door

Aleathia says:

      Often in life we require the unabashed courage of others to be on display before we can look inward to find our own. This happened to me this week.

      Yesterday, I finished the audio book of "Hunger" by Roxane Gay. This was a raw book about sexual assault and its lasting effects on the body and mind of a woman. Telling this story to the world had to be an excruciating, difficult task. The general public doesn't want to read about the ugliness that has happened to women, men and children. It makes them uncomfortable, and maybe, it should.

      Gay's story was preceded by the fact it was story about her body which she has struggled with since her sexual assault. She spends a lot of time drawing attention to her body and how others have treated it and still continue to treat it as a woman of size. But as I listened, I spent most of the six hours nodding my head. The trajectory of her life was oddly familiar to me.

     I have been suspicious all my life that my step-father (now deceased) sexually abused me, but I have no distinct memory I can reference. There were outward things he said like "you'd be really hot if you lost 20 pounds" or how he'd stare at me from across the room like I was a trapped gazelle he was going to rip apart with his teeth. There was his making a point to be naked around me in the common areas of our house or trying to get me to go to the nudist camp as a teenager with "the family." I did go, but I kept my clothes on in defiance. There was the eating disorder I developed and the hatred of my body that grew each year as it got bigger and bigger. There were later thoughts of suicide, body dysmorphia, and a distinct dissociation with society on a human level. There was the time he threatened the life of my brother and mother if I left the state. These were some of the things that shaped my life.

     I wanted to fit in at school. I wanted boys to like me, but in order for that to happen, I would also have to be simultaneously attractive to my step-father.  When I did bring boys home to meet my parents, my step-father would come down from his bedroom, dressed as Rambo, complete with a Bowie knife between his teeth as if he were marking territory. When I was fifteen, my own mother placed a lock on the inside of my door. This action, though a safety measure, crushed me more than anything because she knew what her husband was capable of and would rather risk my safety than be alone. I buried myself in food, books, writing and work. I joined every club I could so as to not be home because it wasn't safe for me.

     When I left home I became reckless with my body sexually and physically. There were several times I risked being raped or killed because I didn't care. I couldn't see any worth in myself beyond being a sexual object. I learned quickly that how I looked mattered to men. If I were willing to give up some of my morals, then I was worthy of their time. Except for the man I married and later divorced, I chose men who were not always kind. If they were kind, they were alcoholics and so severely depressed that they took up all my time. If I cared for others, it followed that I didn't have time to care for myself. Self care? What's that?

     I never spoke up because like all children, I didn't think any adults would believe me. When your own mother turns her head to look away then you figure the options to share your truth are very small. I wish I would have had someone to tell me it wasn't my fault, someone to save me.

     My last long term relationship devastated me. Living with a narcissist is not recommended. He still haunts me around unexpected corners, but over the last two years I have nearly exorcised him from my life. He took away my trust of men, but what he gave me was an unexpected openness to my own self. Surviving a man like that woke me up to learning how to find my voice and stand up. Through all of the personal traumas in my life I have always tried to find the lesson or the silver lining. If I had to suffer through something so scarring then I better damn well learn something.

     Several times during Roxane Gay's "Hunger" I found myself in tears. I was empathetic to her story though I feel my trauma was so much less than hers. I know trauma isn't comparative because they are personal events, but I still feel mine is less. Her story lead me to look at how much a person can achieve after such a damaging event. She says she is still healing herself in her 40's. I'm still healing myself as well. She is helping us all heal. She is making us visible. She is standing at the front of the line giving a voice to those of us who have been quiet too long.

     If you need help, someone is there at the National Sexual Assault Hotline

     Thank you for reading. Be kind to each other. Write. Read books. Share your story.

Aleathia

Come to the Light, Carol Anne

Aleathia says:

     After my vacation in August I returned to work. Back in the ER for the 13th year. To say the least, it has become monotonous save the time I get to teach new nurses how to work in the ER. On my vacation, I enjoyed doing yoga and meditation daily, writing and sewing, and various other creative endeavors. My life has been about self-care and this journey to do something more meaningful.

     Going back to work in the ER felt like a prison sentence. I'm good at what I do and it isn't like the work doesn't have an element of excitement, but it is also very taxing emotionally to be "on" 12 hours a day, so I applied for a new job at Planned Parenthood. In my 20's, this organization saved my life when they found pre-cancer of the cervix and I was able to have surgery to remove it before it spread. At the time, I was working two minimum wage jobs with no insurance and had put off going to the doctor for five years until my boyfriend at the time, dragged me down there because he was tired of seeing me in pain. I had been looking for a way to repay this debt for 20 years.

     There had been several coincidental signs that pushed me toward applying at PP. I set about inquiring about financial things to see if I could even afford to make a change. I would have lost a substantial amount of money, but what I thought I would gain was time everyday to do yoga and meditation, daily writing time, a chance to participate in local things on weekends, holidays off, less driving and shorter shifts. This was all appealing. The only thing I thought I'd miss was my writer's group on Thursdays because I would have to work late in Hornell that night.

     I sent a resume and was emailed in an hour to set up a phone interview the next day. By the next week, I had a face to face interview. This interview changed my life.

     Let me set some background. I have been a Buddhist since 1997. I have been a nurse since 2004. Both of these things lend to the betterment of human kind. They are in service of uplifting life and having compassionate care for other human beings. These are distinct choices I have made in my life. I did not go in blind to this interview about the nature of abortion at the clinic. But I have long been a firm believer in women having the choice over their own bodies. Who am I to stand in the way of that based on my own belief systems? No one. I thought that I could handle such practices with all the death and tragedy I have seen in the ER in my lifetime. I said I could handle it, but there were a few things said in the interview that sat with me funny.

     I would have been responsible for things I could not have lived with in the termination of a fetus at 24 weeks. I'm not going to get into details because this post isn't about abortion, it's about choice and realization of limits. One of the interviewers said that helping women through that particular procedure was "rewarding." Excuse me? I don't know. Maybe the writer in me frowned at that word choice, but it jarred me and I couldn't get it out of my head. But they also asked me what I liked about my current job and I talked about this role I have as a Preceptor of new nurses and students. One of the other women asked me why I would leave that? I didn't have a great answer.

Here is what I learned:

Though I am tired of the daily grind in the ER, it is still important work. WE SAVE LIVES...as a team.

The stress of being on point all day is less heavy than the stress of knowing you'd taken lives instead of saved them.

I have a moral limit to the things that I am willing to do professionally. My heart is bigger and more tender than I give it credit for.

If I need to, I can live on less, but I don't need to.

I can make my life more simple by not running away from my responsibilities.

I could not have lived without my writer's group. They have given me back my love of writing. They teach me things both as a writer and as a human being. They are my friends. They are a second family.

I am a lucky and blessed woman.

I have an amazing boss who let me spread my wings towards a dream I thought I had and didn't try to stop me or make me feel bad. And when I found it wasn't the dream I had thought, she welcomed me back into the fold, knowing, someday there would be another dream.


This whole process was extremely emotional for me, but sometimes we need to take bold leaps to get a good look at the place we were just standing in. Sometimes we can see our nose in spite of our face.

Thanks for reading. Be kind to each other.

Aleathia

Unapologetic Inquiry #2: The Comparison

Aleathia says:

Can you recall an occasion when you compared yourself to someone? How did the comparison impact your self-esteem and self-confidence? How did it impact your ideas about the other person?

     I have to admit that I snickered when I read this question. I can’t remember when I started comparing myself to others, but I know I was very young. I compared myself to every woman I met, especially if I found them attractive physically or mentally. Each time I was in the room with someone I felt was the prettiest girl in the room, I would start down a head to toe comparison list. Each line on that list I’d find myself inadequate. To be honest, I thought I was never pretty enough, smart enough, or interesting enough to be in the same room as them.


(Image by Laura Callaghan. I do not own this image.)

     As I got older, I knew I had some desirable qualities and I could manifest understanding of them, but only if I wasn’t in the presence of other women. I didn’t have any confidence about my gifts and abilities. I was always overweight and I narrowly believed this excluded me from being truly loved and desired. It caused me to have bulimia in high school and though after high school I did not partake in that practice exactly, it did give me an aversion to dieting. Restrictions were never safe and threw me into an obsessive nature. A year ago I tried to “just watch calories” and my child told me to stop because he couldn’t stand the person I was when I counted calories.

     Sadly, the woman across from me became an enemy of the state with her beauty and talents which I didn’t think I measured up to. I have spent a lifetime without very many close female friends and these relationships require a significant amount of energy from me. I have to fight myself to be nice and kind and not think the other woman is out to get me. It sounds insane and on some level, it is. I’m sure these reactions developed out of my relationship with my mother, but that is another story for another time, I’m sure.

Thanks for reading. Be kind to each other.
Aleathia

The Body Is Not An Apology: Unapologetic Inquiry #1

Aleathia says:

     Here I am again, random, as always with a topic that falls from out of the blue. I’ve had a week off from work and instead of going places like originally planned, I stayed home. This was no lazy week off. I have been cleaning out my house of the remnants of my toxic boyfriend. I have been cleaning out my soul. Personally, I am still reeling from the Philadelphia trip and it is hard for me to shake the feeling that even when I thought I was being still enough to unpack my lifelong luggage, I was still running. I am definitely afraid of the ugly I will find and have to claim with a flag of my country. No one wants ugly.

     I took the rare Sunday off to take my son to the Ithaca Market. When I had weekends off we would go all the time. It was a nice little trip to share coffee and a pastry, conversation, and sometimes a walk. We’d soak up the sights and smells of an open air market and feel good about life for a little while. Our usual bakery wasn’t there and it gave me a little panic because things would not be “like they always are”. I scoured the market three times for them each time hoping they would appear until Kai pointed out that a place we passed three times had perfectly beautiful pastry. This meant I had to step out of my comfort and try something new. I’m not opposed to this concept at all because I love new things, but I had been testing my mettle all week and looked forward to the comfort of sameness. The pastry was delightful. The time was not spoiled.

     We went to the Commons and walked around. It was hot and we were overdressed with the hope of fall. We were sweaty and getting cranky. We stopped in the DeWitt Mall because Kai wanted to go to the guitar shop. He is dropping chorus this year in favor of guitar lessons. He wanted an instruction booklet to help him along at home. I picked up one for my Ukulele that sits sad and underplayed. I took a cue from his playbook. I need to dust off my life and make time for all things. We stopped in the Buffalo Street Books. I don’t go there often and I’m not sure why. It’s a very lovely shop. I also have been trying to not buy too many books since I have shelves of unread wonders already.

     A book immediately caught my eye: “The Body is Not An Apology” by Sonya Renee Taylor. It’s colorful and flashy but something in me made me tiptoe to reach it from the top shelf. I opened it and saw things in myself that made me cringe and I put it back on the shelf. I walked around looking at other things. I found a pencil sharpener for my specific pencils I found in Philadelphia. I found a poetry book. And then, I was standing in front of this book again with a feeling of dread and panic. Then I was at the register buying it.

     In the quiet of my house, I read the prologue and sobbed. Do you know that kind of sorrow that is mixed with the realization that you have been so cruel to yourself for a lifetime? Yes, it was that sort of sobbing. I recognized myself. I had forgotten what I looked like underneath the shame.

     I’m in chapter one and Sonya professes that she is not going to fix my problems with self-esteem or self-assurance, but she is waking me up to myself. She calls it radical self-love and maybe this is what I need after 40 years of putting myself down, hiding who I am, being something for someone else, harboring abuses not meant for me, and being quiet when inside there was screaming. There are “Unapologetic Inquiry” bubbles in this book. Questions to be answered honestly without worry of shame. Normally, I would keep such things to myself, but I feel like this process needs a wider opening. My average post gets 30-40 visits. That is wide enough. So without further ado, here is Unapologetic Inquiry #1:

“We all live in multiple intersections of identity. What are your intersections? How do your multiple identities affect each other?”

     I am a middle aged white woman, divorced, and single. I am a product of childhood trauma. I am a mother of a transgender son. I am an emergency room nurse, an artist, a writer, and a Buddhist. I do all these things living with a thyroid and an ovarian condition, arthritis, depression, anxiety, and adult onset ADD.

     The childhood trauma informs all my other identity intersections. It was the base of my life. It was how I learned to do everything. It steered me to choose a career that is filled with trauma everyday from strangers. These traumas change the way I look at the world as an artist and a writer. These traumas give me something to meditate over. The combination of my health issues help me with my self shame for being overweight. There are wheels that spin so fast I can’t get off without feeling like it will send me into a depression, so, I stay on the wheel. The childhood trauma made me strong and allowed me to stay alive and achieve, but it made me go about it in the wrong way. I have achieved goals without letting people in my life, without sharing the best parts of me because I don’t trust them to not break them and walk away.

***

      In the last month, I have started to see how these intersections behave with each other and this might be the key to recovery if I can be brave enough to keep looking. I am not going to profess that I will be any less random on this blog, but my hope is to share these Unapologetic Inquiries in case you can’t find the book or you don’t have access to it. Ask yourself the same questions and see what comes up. I’m tired of living in a world that is defined by others who don’t know me or care about me, and who think I should look, act, feel like something that pleases them. I’m not sure how many years I have left in the world, but I would like to know at least some of the time I staked claim to them.

Thanks for reading. This was a long one. Be Kind. Love each other.

Aleathia

I'm No Architect, or How I Looked Myself in the Mirror and Cried

Aleathia says:

     This week I returned from the Trans Wellness Conference in Philadelphia. My first inclination was to write a blog about the happenings there, and this may still happen. There is some great information to share and thoughts about Philadelphia in general. Since drifting back to this sleepy town I live in, I've had time to decompress the city from my bones and try to get back to "normal" living, but the emotions that were dredged up during the trip continue to haunt me.

     Tuesday, I awoke with the distinct need to do yoga and meditate. I'd done neither of these things in a long while, at least not with great intention. Afterwards, I got dressed and gathered some books to stroll and read on Market Street. One of the books I chose was Molly Bashaw's poetry collection "The Whole Field Still Moving Inside It." There were a few lines in the poem "Who Will Remember What This Looked Like From Above?" that staggered me into falling down a rabbit hole:

Had she ever, on a Sunday afternoon after the matinee, I wonder, run with the antique dealer up this hill and looked down, too?/And were they standing underneath the same tree?/ Did they kiss, or did he whisper to her earring first, words that made her soften in her dress?

     My rabbit hole started by asking myself questions like "Is this the sensation I've hoped for all my life and does it happen in real, consistent relationships? Is this reserved for chance happenings and literature, but is always unexpected?" From there I thought about the Tarot Card spreads I had been doing each month that were filled with signs of love. There has been none in sight, or at least none that I have let myself see.

     This is a barrier of my own doing most of the time. Individuals are not generally attracted to someone who is not comfortable in their own skin and this has been my state of being for most of my life. Ply me with alcohol and you would never know that part of me existed, but in my natural state, you get an armored version of me. I have always been curious as to how to legitimately shed this wall I've built around me. I have seen therapists. I have done self-help books. I have meditated. The barrier has remained stronger than the bullets I throw at it.

     How does this have anything to do with the Trans Wellness Conference? I knew you were wondering. I did say it was a rabbit hole. My first workshop on the first day of the conference was in the general track and it was about how bullying affects transgender kids at home and at school. What I didn't expect from this workshop was for them to review the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) Study. I had read this years ago after watching a TED talk on the subject. I cried then and I cried again in front of all these people. It was how I started my weekend. My ACE score is 8 out of 10. I am a product of childhood trauma, this is a fact. I have lived with it, meaning I generally stuff it way down where no one can see it and move on with life. But have I really moved on? On the outside, I look successful. I have an amazing job, a nice house, comfortable living, and a few wonderful friends. I have the means to be creative and travel. What I don't have is the capability to have a meaningful, lasting relationship.

     The conference was like watching the barn I built around the armor, burn to the ground in the face of the poverty and oppression I saw on the streets, observed gender phobia, the re-emergence of childhood trauma, and the notion of my CIS, white privilege. I took in all the information from these workshops and felt it change how I looked at gender and healthcare. For a few days I understood what it was like to be a minority in both race and gender. The conference was 95% transgender/LGBTQ people and professionals. I strangely felt like I didn't belong or even, that I was an enemy spy. It's possible my writer's imagination gets away from me at times.

     I felt out of my body almost the entire trip. I cried several times to strangers, sometimes in the bathroom, and sometimes with myself in a corner. I felt existent and non-existent at the same time. I'm not sure if this is what is meant by "living in the moment," but it was frightening. I don't do well with the loss of control on any level. I felt raw and exposed and I longed for the comfort of my small town despite not feeling like I belonged there either. At home, I at least know the streets and recognize faces, which provide some comfort.

     In the past, I have been to many cities: New York City, Ottawa, Toronto, Atlanta, Seattle, Phoenix, Kansas City and so on. I have never felt afraid like I did walking down the street in Philadelphia. It was unnerving. I have worked in the ER for over 10 years. Not much phases me, but I was literally shaking afraid. I was overcome with the sense that I didn't belong anywhere in the world. I knew then that something had to change. There were a lot of things to face, so many things that had never seen the light.

     Once home, I felt the need to deep clean everything in the house in order to deal with my personal chaos. This isn't the answer, but what I saw while cleaning is that I let things go and called it being "too busy." In the past, I used food to build my armor and decided a few years ago that it would be the quickest way to kill myself adding to obesity and a family history of diabetes. So instead of dealing with the problem that caused the armor in the first place, I threw myself in to "projects" which ranged from sewing and fabric art to writing a novel. Add about 50 more side projects to fill up the spaces in between and you have my life. If I keep busy and keep moving, I never have to stop and take a true stock of my pain and suffering. I am intelligent and I know this isn't the way, but it is what I do.

     What I have robbed myself of are the most important things: sitting still, meditation, yoga, blogging, reading, and honesty. Avoiding all of these things keep me from making friends and falling in love because I am unwilling to let go and open up. This is what childhood trauma does to you. It makes you trust no one. It makes you a builder of armors. It makes you lonely. It makes you never able to ask for help because of what you might owe in return.

     The Philadelphia Trans Wellness Conference showed me that I need to be alive. I need to peel back the layers and trust that someone will love me for who I am, not what I look like. It showed me that I am lovable, kind, smart, and funny. It showed me a passion for social justice I didn't know lived in me. I have a lot of work to do at age 46. I have to stop telling myself soft lies and believing them. It's time.

     As always, thank you for taking the time to read. My only hope in sharing these things is to let you know that if you've suffered in these ways, you aren't alone. We have to stop thinking of ourselves as islands with contained damage. It is what keeps us apart as a society. The human condition is a shared thing. We all have a part in it and a responsibility to stand up, speak up, and be heard. The world is constantly changing and if we want to survive, we have to change with it. Have an amazing day. Do something nice for someone without the need for return.

Love,
Aleathia

30 in 30 Week 2: Changes to Come/Waking Up Elsewhere

Aleathia says:

It's been a busy week, but I'm still making the deadline. Enjoy a short story and a photo. Thanks for reading.


Photo: Changes to Come:

Story: Waking Up Elsewhere:

Elsewhere

      Darla’s head pounded and her vision was occluded by thick, congealing blood from a gash in her forehead. Her eyelashes stuck together, leaving her blind. The more she woke up, the more she realized her predicament.

      A sullied rag was pulled tightly across her mouth leaving her impotent in her attempts to call for help. Who am I screaming for? Darla had no idea where she was or how she got there. She quieted her body and listened. The sound of steel wheels against the rail, with its rhythmic thumping, could be felt as much as it was heard. Rain splattered against a tin roof and she could smell stale, moldy earth mixed with the iron from her own blood.

      She attempted moving her arms and legs, but both were bound tight. The rope cut into the tender flesh of her inner wrists causing them to burn with pain each time she moved. Darla knew she had to get out of there, wherever there was. The last thing she remembered was walking through Page Park to get to Sarah’s house. They were supposed to go out for drinks. Sarah was perpetually late and since the night was beautiful, Darla had decided to walk the short distance to save time. 

      Now, she was here.

      It became harder and harder to breathe with her mouth gagged. Her nose was half crusted over with blood blocking one nasal passage and her belly pushed into the hard dirt. Every inhale lifted her body off the ground slightly and the gravity of her weight expelled the air too quickly. She grew increasingly tired with each breath. Darla worked in a rocking motion to get her body tipped onto its side, but was careful not to go too far. She was trying to avoid the turtle on its shell problem. She’d never get up from that post.

      Once on her side, she used her elbow and her core to get upright onto her knees. Darla nearly cried from excitement. In that position, if she leaned backwards, she could feel the rope beneath her fingers used to confine her ankles. There was something glorious about the knots as she touched them. She concentrated and worked with numbing digits. Just as she got the first ligature untied, she heard a man’s voice:

      “Now where in the hell do you think you’re going?”

Aleathia Drehmer 2019

30 in 30: Week 1: Obsession/The Moment You Stopped Being a Child

Aleathia says:

Now I know you are shaking your heads. Right Drehmer, a post every day for 30 days? I have lofty goals!! I am prepared to make this more realistic and say that I will post once a week for the next 25 weeks. That fits better with my life which is full of novel writing, poetry manuscript arrangements, writer's group, and summer!

I had originally thought this series would be all about fiction, however, this week's post requires something more personal. Weaved in the next 25 weeks you could find fiction, non-fiction, and poetry along with the corresponding photo challenge. As always, thanks for reading. Share if you find something interesting. Follow if you want to read more. Enjoy.

Photo: Obsession

Story: The Moment You Stopped Being a Child

Shortly before I turned eight years old, my brother was born. He was premature by a month. He whacked his nose on the way out and looked like a prize fighter who could fit, stretched out, on an album cover. And boy was he pissed, all the time. This kid could cry full volume for hours and nothing my parents would do could make him stop. His scream became white noise. His scream cause my mom and step-father to fight out of frustration.

My mother was 22 years old when he was born, only 16 when she had me, so she herself never had a childhood to speak of. There was inexperience in parenting involved as well as alcohol and drugs and each with two jobs. I was mature well beyond my years at eight and eventually they realized I was the only one who could make my brother stop crying. They would put him in my arms and in minutes he was cooing, snuggled in my neck. The only way he would sleep was lying in the groove of my legs with his limbs draped over, face down. He was peaceful there.

They began leaving me alone with him when they went to work. I was eight years old taking care of a 6 month old. I fed him, changed him, and loved him. I taught myself how to cook my own dinner, to make his bottles, and get us both ready for bed. I stopped being a child that year. I was a surrogate mother for not only my brother, but for myself. The rest of my life was about caution and control and doing what is right over doing what I wanted. I never learned the meaning of freedom. When I tasted free will years later, it was disastrous. This early responsibility shaped the rest of my life and I am thankful for it, but I wish I had lived a child's life.

30 in 30: Day Five: After Dark/It Starts with a Ransom Note

Aleathia says: 

Please enjoy another one-page story. This one turned out a little different than I had planned in my mind. I was going to attempt something funny, however, sad pushed its way through. Please feel free to share if you like or follow the blog. Have the best day.


Photo: After Dark:

The  Story: It Starts With A Ransom Note:

The Note

dEliVeR 50,000 In unMarKeD BillS

tO ThE corNer oF 17th anD CrUz

By MidNiGht ToMorRow or The GirL

gEts it---GoOd!

Sarah held the ransom note in her hand as if it were covered in Anthrax. She’d had a strange feeling that morning as if the universe were “off”. She’d had these intuitions her whole life and though one might find them useful, they weren’t unless they contained specific information. It all seemed a little woo-woo to her, so she never mentioned them to anyone. Sarah kept an eye out for clues the entire day, but nothing presented itself until her daughter Melinda didn’t come come from school.

Melinda was in the 3rd grade and precocious. The school assured Sarah that her daughter was placed on the bus home at 3 p.m. Sarah didn’t meet her child at the bus stop three blocks away because Melinda had insisted she was a “big girl” now and could manage the small stroll alone. Sarah had to admit that she was a clinging sort of mother and sometimes she held too tightly, but she only had one child and she meant to keep her safe. She felt very lacking in this department currently.

The note, yes, she thought, where the hell am I getting $50,000?

Standing on the porch in the dusk of coming night, Sarah dialed the police to report Melinda’s kidnapping. The sunset reflected onto her skin, the air crisp. Her arms heavy at her sides with one hand gripping the phone, the other, the note. Her body shook as she cried silently. The feeling in her gut now, the intuition, was telling her this would not turn out well. The regrets piled on top of her head. Did she tell Melinda she loved her? She couldn’t remember. Tears rolled down her cheeks, the fading sun glinting in the salted water, showing her heartache. The note slipped from between her fingers floating to the dirty porch floor. Sirens blared in the distance coming closer.

“Melinda”, she whispered, “come home.”

30 in 30: Day Four: Something Green/Please Don't Die

Aleathia say:

So, the 30 stories in 30 days is going to have a loose meaning. I definitely tried to produce stories during the work weekend, but after 12 hours in the Emergency Room there is little juice left for creativity. Tuesday through Friday will have stories until the challenge is done! Enjoy some weird today.


Photo: Something Green:

Story: Convince a plant the reasons it shouldn't die:

Crazy Plant Lady

“George?”

“George!!! You can’t leave me.” She cried to the fading plant

“Don’t look at me that way. It isn’t your time, my dear.”

Betsy paused as if to wait for George’s reply. She stared intently. His leaves twinged every so slightly. Betsy gasped drawing her hand to her mouth.

“Seriously George, I’ve done my best. You know I’m perpetually forgetful, but I’ve watered you and loved you, haven’t I?”

Nothing. He was incommunicado with her. She felt he was giving her the cold shoulder. She’d have to lay it on thick.

“Darling, you must stay. If you go, who will I say Good Morning Bitch to in the morning?  Who will I say Good Night Sweet Baby to?”

George’s leaves twinged again, but with vigor this time. One leaf stretching towards her as if to touch her cheek.

“If you leave me George I’ll have to get a cat. Please don’t make me get a cat!”

His leaves lifted high. He had a purpose, a life. He was needed.

“Oh George---you do love me.”

30 in 30: Day Three: Clouds/Storm Sky

Aleathia says:

On a roll! Enjoy another one page story. Each of these stories have to fit on one side of a sheet of paper written by hand. This exercise is in part about working with the connection of the words in a more analogue way. Everything is about screen time anymore, even this blog, but know that there is still validity and scrawling ideas out.


Photo: Clouds:

Story: Storm destroys the land and kills a boy. What does the sky look like?

Los Angeles to Oklahoma

     Victoria had come to Oklahoma to visit her brother Jed and his boy Ronald after his wife had left him for another woman. He was devastated. Back home in California this was a daily occurrence. People moved on quickly to the next shiny person down the road. It was a free society, but her Oklahoma roots told her deep down it was more a lack of morals than freedom.

     Oklahoma was flat and hot in the summer, but it lacked the hazy smog of L.A. and she soaked up the blue skies and fresh, clean air. Victoria sat on the old porch swing of her grandparents house. Jed had inherited it when they passed years ago. It could have been hers, but she had no desire to stay. Ronald played with the dogs in the yard. She wondered how he didn’t feel small in the expanse of the land, but he wrestled and tumbled with the dogs as if he were 16 instead of 6.

     Jed was near an out building fixing the mower he planned on using that afternoon. When he was finished, they were going to grill food and have a nice picnic meal. For now, Victoria sipped her lemonade and gently rocked back and forth in the swing like she did with her grandmother and mother when she was smaller than Ronald.

     Something caught her eye in the distance. The sky turned the color of black pearls. Clouds contorted as if in seizure. Some remained white and fluffy while others darkened and pulled thin. They merged in a war. 

     This felt familiar to her, but Victoria couldn’t place it. She’d been gone too long from this wild land to recognize the change in pressure. She’d forgotten the feeling of impending doom living in the dog-eat-dog world of L.A. where feeling that was way normal.

     Ronald waved at her, one hand on the dog’s head, and smiled. Victoria had no idea it’d be his last.

30 in 30: Day Two: What You Wore/Something Stolen

Aleathia say:

Here we go with day two! Enjoy and share with someone if you like it. Thanks for reading.


Photo: What You Wore

Story: Something Stolen

The Good Thief

Frederica clutched the package to her chest. It was still warm, pulsatile. She cried silently in the field heading to the tree line of giant oaks and full maples. She had to escape their angry grip. In darkness, she stumbled. The moon was both her friend and enemy this night keeping its light from the ground so she couldn’t see the path, but also keeping her hidden.

The creatures in the woods called out their warnings until it crescendoed through the hills. They told of her presence, smelled the fear rising from her skin, and the blood threatening to leak from the bundle cradled in her arms.

“Shhhhh,” said Frederica to the forest, “Or they will steal from you too.”

As if they understood, the chattering of species grew softer. Frederica needed a small miracle she wasn’t sure she deserved. A quiet prayer passed from her lips almost imperceptible. Only the insects buzzing around her head knew her words.

In the distance, shouting cracked the night air like a whip. Fire torches blazed a path, the sky now alight with orange hatred. She did not turn to see their faces. Those horrible, evil faces.

Frederica’s toe caught a root and her body sailed forward with the precious cargo in her hands flying out as she reached to brace herself from the fall. She crawled through the detritus on the forest floor to object a short distance from her. Frederica sat up on her knees, hair and clothes soiled with nature, and unwrapped the waxed paper.

“My heart,” she cried, “I’ll never let them take you again.”

30 in 30: Day One: Selfie/90 Seconds

Aleathia says:

Here I am, the world's laziest blogger! My intentions are grand and my follow through, meh. I have been working diligently writing a novel which is in part why this blog has lagged this time. I have been writing poetry as well. Art projects fill my house. Walking. Pokemon. Getting healthy!

This project I am calling 30 in 30. Each day I will be posting a prompted photograph and a prompted story. Sometimes they are parallel to each other, sometimes perpendicular. The stories are flash fiction as I am allowed one side of a sheet of paper to write a story. Challenges folks, you have to put the screws to yourself once in awhile. Enjoy!

Photo "Selfie":

Story (what can happen in a second):

90 Seconds They ducked into the stoop of the closed cafe a second before the sky opened up with the wrath of an unseen god. The ferocity of the thunder rattled Cynthia’s bones. Next to her, George didn’t seem phased in the slightest having spent a lifetime amidst the cornfields of Iowa. Storms there meant life and food on the table and he never gave them a regretful thought. The two nearly strangers were tucked in close, elbow to elbow. They had “talked” for months through various social medias. Cynthia regretted this was the only way people like to meet anymore and longed for the bygone times when people met in all their awkwardness in person. It was easier to weed out the weirdos that way. Electronically, the two had investigated each other. Lists were checked off, probabilities weighed, before they decided to finally appear in human form. They both knew they were more gregarious and brave through the glowing screens in front of their noses. They could be themselves without fear of rejection or ridicule, however, they had not planned on reality. Cynthia found George incredibly handsome and rugged, but in person his charm was lacking and his conversation skills stunted. She spent much of the dinner driving their exchanges and waited for him to lead, just once. It made her feel like she was boring and that whatever interest he had in her virtually had been squandered sitting across from him. Huddled under the awning, their bodies close, but with so much silence between their mouths. When George leaned over to whisper in Cynthia’s ear he felt his heart rip out of his chest onto the sidewalk with the rain washing away his blood and courage. He was trying to find a shadow of his bravado he had online to tell her how much he loved listening to her speak, watching her mouth form words, and they way she bit her bottom lip when she was nervous. He liked her, a lot. He choked on his words as his mind went blank. Now, he was just a weirdo breathing heavy. Cynthia felt something strange in her ear and turned her head quickly. Her skull collided with George's nose and blood rushed down onto his clean white Oxford shirt. “Oh, god. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Cynthia said as she tried help stop the hemorrhage. He clutched his nose, embarrassed, and knew he had ruined any chance with her. Great, she thought, I mortally wounded him. There goes that.

***

Check back daily for more photos and stories. Note, I do work so there might be a lag on those days. As always, thanks for reading.

Aleathia

2018 in Review

Aleathia says:

Here were the highlights of 2018 in no particular order:

Started making more fabric art and having ideas about it. Became determined that someday I would have my own show.

I tried bullet journaling and failed,but did have some cute take away ideas

Read books:

The Princess Bride by William Goldman
The Shell Collector by Anthony Doerr
Mouthful of Forevers by Clementine Von Radics
Walking by Henry David Thoreau
A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson
The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt
Taking the Leap by Pema Chodron
Bird Box by Josh Malerman
Misfit Manifesto by Lydia Yuknavitch
Braving the Wilderness by Brene Brown
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Hiking with Nietzsche by John Kaag
Dust on the Tracks by Nora Zeale Hurston

Tried preparing for a possible Appalachian trail hike in 2019, but failed. I did gain knowledge about hiking and camping and my body’s limits.

Started making my own oatmeal concoctions and continue because it is delish.

Bought myself flowers almost every week of the year

Learned that my child had been trying to kill herself in my home, while I was there, because she felt so alone. Since the age of about 6 she had felt like a boy, always seen herself as a boy, wanted to be a boy. In our home we did not provide gender stereotypical toys and clothes. You play with what interests you and you wear what is comfortable. At most I thought she was a tomboy. Around 4 th grade I could tell something had drastically changed, but I didn’t know what. The sparkle from her eyes had died. I kept watch, but there weren’t any real outward signs of what was wrong. School grades stayed high, continued to eat, participated in family activity...but something was off.  When I fell in love with my ex I became less aware of these differences and I own that as a mother. I should have dug deeper. February of this year I learned that not only had my darling daughter wanted to kill herself, but also wanted to be my darling son. This was a journey so miraculous and so painful and so life changing. The thought that my child would think I wouldn’t accept them because they wanted to be a boy, that it would be to hard for me to think outside the box, that I would spend one minute less loving him. This year has been about learning who he is. It has been learning about who I really am after a life of being what others want me to be. It has been a year of building my home and deciding exactly what sort of friends and family I want in it. For 16 years I had a daughter, and now I get to have a son without going through childbirth. Sweet sassy molassy this is great.

From this journey, I started being friends with my ex-husband again. We have known each other
half our lives….since we were 19 years old and now we are 45. For the last decade after the divorce, we didn’t talk much and only at exchanges of our child. But when we thought we had lost him we decided to be on the same page about everything and that meant keeping communication not only up but making it better between all of us. This is hard work. But from this hard work, we found our friendship again which to me had always been the best part of our relationship. It is funny to see how well we know each other in some places and how little in others. I am thankful for this friendship. He knows my life and I don’t have to explain it to make a point.


I did my first weaving project. I did my first applique/beading project.

We went to many concerts:

Red Hot Chili Pipers
Mountain Jam x3 days (Alt-j, Portugal the man, The Record Company, The Felice Brothers, Jenny Lewis, George Clinton and Parliament…..and so much more)
Weezer/Pixies/Wombats
Lake Street Dive


I started reading comic books again and love it.

I made many new kinds of food.

I had so many fun laughs with my kid.

I finished my first every crocheted blanket for my son’s queen size bed

My love of succulents turned into an obsession. I went from 8 to about 50. I took a class on propagating them. I joined an international group about them. I’m a crazy plant lady.

I embraced my CD collection this year and made it grow. I don’t even know with what. But god I love music.

I really got into MBTI thought. I got back into Tarot after not doing it since college.

I went to a beach in the Delaware Bay for the first time and stayed with friends and ended up losing those friends. Life is weird. I learned that I love the bay side of water rather than the ocean side. There is so much life to see in the bay.

I bought my first ever pair of Vans...light and dark blue checkerboard.

I made a cake for my ex-mother in law for her birthday...a 2 layer. I had not made one of those in a decade.

I started playing Disc Golf and got addicted. I didn’t play in the winter as planned, but I still love it.

I began writing a short story collection. I wrote two poetry collections. I thought about my novel for a minute.

I left a job I had for 15 years. I changed hospitals and shifts suddenly and it was the best decision I have made for a career. The work is challenging and rewarding and for the first time ever in my life I feel like I’m touching my patients lives in a positive way.

I painted a bunch of river rocks and left them on Market street to make people smile

Eventually figured out at the end of the year that drinking isn’t really my thing. I still have a drink now and then, but it is out of desire not out of escape or loneliness.

I played on a Music Trivia team and we won!

I collected aphorisms for my daily boosting. These were things that lifted me up and near the end of the year I knew I didn’t need them because I was lifting myself up without them.

I started making scarves for the needy and blankets for end of life comfort. These are part of my service goals at work, but also part of my heart. I am learning that this part of my life is about giving, about making smiles and getting nothing back but the feeling of joy.

I tried doing Inktober again and didn’t make it. I like drawing but not as much as I used to. I did do some fun drawings but realize that is not where my talent lies.

I hand made a Blue’s Clues costume with my son this year in 3 weeks. It was rad.

I got new glasses….horn rimmed glasses. I look dashing.

I ordered Lunarly box for fun. It’s nice to get surprises in the mail.

I learned my uncle Mike will probably die within the year from a glio. So damn sad.

I started making the coffee shop my haunt rather than the bars and I have met so many people. I feel more part of the community than before.

I got to experience the joy of my friend having her first baby after many years of trying. He’s so damn cute. I love his little face.

I went on my first ever wine tour with people from my new job. I played paintball for the first time ever in my life.

I put my christmas tree on the porch this year so it is the first and last thing we see when we come and go from the house.

We saw The Sound of Music live. Squeeee

I bought a ukelele and started playing….and then stopped.

I helped my son get his first ever job. Yay.

We did a reduced Christmas this year and it was the best one we ever had.

I got my hair dyed for the first time in 20 years by my best girlfriend’s daughter.

I have been purging the house of all things not of value. It is still going on but this house will be whole soon enough.

I started getting acupuncture again with great result.

I got my first every bonus from a job $850 take home.

I wrote my first every proposal to get a conference paid for to a Transgender wellness conference in Philadelphia.

I'm looking forward to bigger and better things this year. As always I do have good intentions of keeping up with this blog. I'm going to shoot for once a month since live is so much busier than it ever was. So here I am sliding in on the end of January. Have a blessed life. Keep your eyes open and your heart bright.

Thanks for reading.
Aleathia