It guts me sometimes how perfectly innocent children are, especially my own. Not that they’re more innocent than other children, I just spend far less time contemplating the emotional and intellectual maturity of other people’s kids. Mine have so much to learn, despite being two of the smartest children their age I’ve ever met (not that I hold any bias). They’re wide-eyed, open-minded and overwhelmingly receptive to absorbing any particle of new information that floats their way. But they are still so new.
He took her hand in his as she stepped into the street. It was warm, hot almost, and softer than she’d imagined. It distracted her for a moment and she stopped walking as she felt his palm with her thumb. He stared at her stoically as she looked down to see if it was real. She didn’t try to run, she didn’t yell for help, she didn’t fight. That’s the thing with this job – they never do.
“Is there anything…,” she cleared her throat and licked her lips. “Is there anything I can do?”
I’m so weak now. It surprised me every time I try to raise a glass or sit up in bed that I don’t have the luxury of independent movement anymore. That I need help doing the most simple tasks like holding a magazine and turning it’s pages. It’s these nurses jobs to help with me with things, but asking for the help never gets any less embarrassing. I’m a grown woman; I shouldn’t need someone to hold a sippy cup for me.
He brings the kids around to visit on Sunday afternoons. I told him long ago to stop, that I don’t want them remembering me like this, but he keeps bringing them. They’re old enough to know she’s sick, even that she is dying, but they don’t need to see what she’s become. A shadow of her old, boisterous self, skeletal and helpless. They should remember her full of life and vigor and joy, not like this. The man never did know how to take direction.
She lies on the cold concrete floor, damp from urine and sweat, slick with mildew. There is no light but a thin ray which has escaped from a crack in the plywood covering the window ten, fifteen feet above her crumpled, near-lifeless body. She breathes, but with great effort, slow, shallow, laboured. At last count, she’s been here for twenty-four days, give or take a day or two spent unconscious. Twenty-four days in the dark. Twenty-four days standing, then sitting, then laying on this cold concrete floor.
The dress she wore on the night she was taken, once perfectly pressed delicate chiffon, was now ripped and stained. Blood from her tortured, weathered body, ravaged and pillaged by her captors, torn and battled, worn and tested. They left her clothed, but her heels were taken, leaving her feet bare and vulnerable.
I always say how bullied I am, but no one listens, what do I have to do so people will listen to me?
– Jamey Rodemeyer’s final post to Tumblr
July 19, 2018
Jamey Rodemeyer, aged 14, killed himself this weekend. At 14, Jamey was just a boy. He had endured years of bullying, at school and online.
We, as parents, are responsible for our children. We are responsible for feeding them and sending them to school and making sure they’re healthy and clean. We are responsible for loving them and teaching them how to love others. We must treat them with respect and teach them to treat others with respect. We can not control their behaviour, but we can, must, teach them what is right and what is absolutely unacceptable. We must own this responsibility.
It’s so much easier to just stay inside. It’s warm in here and the air is still. Outside the wind is cold and it’s too much. Too much muchness. I like the walls. I like how they shelter and protect and keep the muchness away from me. I can sleep inside.
I’ve been over this so many times. Not sure if just in my head, or if I’ve actually written about it, but it FEELS like I’ve said this A MEEEELLION TIMES. And here I go again:
A little driving lesson for those who use the four-way stop outside my work – if I am crossing, you wait AAAAAALL the way over on your side of the stop until I have completed my cross and am safely on the sidewalk. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. I cross, you wait. While I am doing the crossing, you are doing the waiting.
PMS is loud with fury and rage and frustration. We suffer, but not in silence. It screams inside our head and pounds its fists on our skull until we let it out. It grabs hold of the reigns and makes us do things and behave in ways that we wish we wouldn’t, and then whispers in our ears, telling us we’re terrible, worthless people. That lump in your throat, the burning behind your eyes, the ache in your head – that’s PMS, taking up space, uninvited, ungrateful. Bastard. Your temper is quick, emotions are sensitive and raw, your patience is run dry. You are anyone but you. And yet you are.
“Look. Behind you. No, don’t look. They’ll see you. Just turn your head in a minute and you’ll see. But don’t let them see that you’re looking.”
Carol’s eyes sparkled. She delighted in scandal and gossip and lunch with Sandra was filled with heated whispers and darting, mischeivous eyes. They did their best work when they were together.
“What?! Ok, I’ll pretend I’m getting something out of my purse.” She’d perfected this technique after a lifetime of practice. “Oh. My. God. Can you believe they’re here? It’s disgusting! How can she be with him? It’s so unnatural. Imagine what her mother must think.”
Share your efforts at something you don’t think you do well.
There is no debate here. I won’t try to defend myself, I won’t argue, I won’t come up with excuses. I not only don’t think I do this well, I whole-heartedly admit that I am absolutely terrible. Given my lineage, I should be practically prodigal, it should be in my blood, coursing through my veins, sweating out of my pores. And yet, there is no denying that I am simply horrible.