I can’t fix what’s going on in her head
Reliving nightmare days pass, in bed
Wrist suspended from the wall above
Zip-tied by ghosts, false tortured love
Mute tears, a scared girl’s past world
Post-traumatic tragedy sleeps curled
Knees tucked, frail skin, hunched over
Medicated isn’t much better than sober
One scarred arm rests arm over her head,
Memories play back, first-person cassette
Until the arm comes down, wait at her feet
Just soothe her back, ‘till the terrors abate
Date, location, dog, husband, home, bed
Words can’t reach her, repeat them, yet
She looks up, trembling big, brown eyes
Love? She asks, strokes the puppy’s thigh
Lazy tail thumps, content squish-face sigh
Love. All is right. Yet a moment, she cries
Unraveled another thread, unbound lies
Love has no need of noble hero to fix her
Gentle arms heal broken hearts better
5.4.20 - #coronavirus2020 VIII
I miss my wife. I hate it when she’s gone.
Sounds like the lines of a country-western song.
She’s on the road with the girl, again. I’m alone
On the couch, eating feelings and worrying about
All that might go wrong. Even the dog is gone.
Before she left, she hugged me tight and whispered,
“I promise to keep this marriage safe.”
Even though I don’t want to, I wonder,
The inner demons start to play
I worry that she’d rather be in other company
Though she’s the one who begged me to stay.
I want to believe her so bad, I need to
What other choice do I have?
I love her, let her lie, let her go, live a lie?
We hope for something better to grow
Dressed the wounds and sank down below
Layers of sheets and tree, fog and breeze
Even if it hurts, even if it’s the worst outcome
Of a million ways I can see our story going
At least for me, it was worth it to know
Love deep enough to get hurt, live through it
Do no wrong, try to pass no judgment
Tell them you love them, though the hurt shows
Be a better man, do the best you can
Let them know you love them, every time they go.
Anyone else scared out of their mind about how bad it’s gonna be by June? Asian killer bees, a likely explosion of pandemic cases in Georgia. People out like everything’s fine, not wearing masks. In a few weeks… Jesus. It worries me. Seems like the worst possible sci-fi plot.
I think my money is now on “Rushed Vaccine Causes Zombification,” at this point. Or we go to war with China over the lie of who manufactured the virus? That puts the Red Dawn scenario at play. But I’m lucky, able to arm-chair speculate from the relative safety of a back porch. Crickets are in the background. Some people aren’t so lucky. The virus is ravaging minorities at a savagely disproportionate rate, evidence of a medical system in need of desperate and complete reform.
Maybe it’s the fatalist in me, but I’m trying to make sure I tell my family I love them. Even when things hurt. Even when they hurt.
2.13.20
It’s been a while but that’s what happens when the 8-to-5 puts you in a panic attack that has you screaming for your wife to call 911 because you’re sure you’re dying and the only way to keep living is to not say the words-
“I don’t exist.”
When you’re that fragile and the thought of going back into a room to do the same job the next day makes you wonder if it isn’t worth it to continue existing, that maybe it’s better if your heart did give out-
”Something has to change.”
It can’t be more of the same, this career isn’t for me anymore. Maybe it’s an impossible job. We lose teachers midway through the year, they just walk out the door and don’t come back and I stay, thinking-
”Why am I envious?”
So it’s time. I’ve never been more scared, anxious, or afraid of what’s to come because I simply don’t know where I belong in the working world. I want to write, I know that, and I work daily, but it’s still just a dream-
”What do I do now?”
Job applications are going in for things outside my current career, things I think I can do and do well. It’ll take time for things to fall into place and thank the universe for my blessed wife who is endlessly supportive-
”We’ll figure it out together.”
I know I’m not the only one and it hurts. My mentor went to the hospital thinking he had a heart attack, it was anxiety as well. Everyone is afraid of what is going to happen day in and day out and that’s no way to work-
”This is happening everywhere.”
How do we sound the alarm, that something is seriously wrong with schools, students, and the relationships between parents, administrators, and teachers? No one listens and it seems like it can only get worse-
”Until the pendulum swings.”
I know what I think the answers are, and I firmly believe education is the most important career anyone can pursue, but at the same time, one of my former kids told me I’m why she’s going into teaching-
”Oh God no, don’t do that.”
I’ve got former students, now in college, that come by because they’re working through serious trauma and somehow this household is a safe space for them. My wife, a former victim of abuse, is amazing-
”We’ll get through this.”
To fix education? We’d need a drastic change of understanding. The popular mentality is to provide excellent customer service like we’re selling a Buick or a set of stainless steel knives.
”The customer is not always right.”
But who dares to tell the people in charge that education is like healthcare. There’s going to be hard news that has to be told. Sometimes the medicine is brutal, and sometimes the patients don’t make it-
”But the truth is harder than lies.”
Until that realization takes hold nationwide, education will be a broken system, with solutions that only break it further by treating the symptoms and not the cause because we can’t say things like-
”You have to be a better parent.”
”You have to say no.”
”You have to let consequences play out.”
But who wants to hear that? I want to say it because it’s what needs to be said, not because it’s easy, but because it’s right and true and the more we placate, the worse things get.
”I just want to see you succeed.”
And I just want to succeed but I don’t think I can do it here. The question is where, how, when? And will I make it long enough to find that joy again?
”The hard phone calls tomorrow.”
One to a parent to own my mistakes, one to a therapist to set up an appointment. And one to a psychiatrist to start attacking this lifelong anxiety and sadness that I can’t seem to shake free from.
”It’s time to change, and that starts with me.”
If I can’t change the world, I can at least try to change me. There’s a Writer’s Conference in May to prep for. At least I’ll start putting myself out there. It’s time to come out of that cocoon of anonymity and find out-
”Do I have anything to offer?”