The Psychic Blockade

I heard it, in my head, every day. Often it resonated hundreds of times a day. It was said by a well-meaning teacher, who had no idea the weight of a few simple words. As a nine-year-old, broken-hearted girl, I took those words as wisdom and gospel. Simple really. “Don’t cry,” later coupled with a dollop of guilt, “…or you’ll make someone else feel sad.” That’s it. But what I heard stuck with me like a mantra and eventually transformed over the years. Continue reading “45 Years a Slave to Two Words” »

Today is April 21, 2014. You would have been 80 years old today. You have been dead nearly six years. You had never expected to make it out of your twenties. I have snippets of memories of you from when I was age four through six. Like the time you kissed me goodnight and I inhaled the residual scents of Camels and Coors; the time you played classical music loudly in our tiny livingroom your arms waved about as if conducting; the late night visit when we worked hard at waking up my baby brother and you laughed at his sleepiness; and that morning you cooked me tortillas and fried eggs and casually asked me if I liked Tabasco sauce (no, I did not). I think I was seven when you left for good. It’s a foggy line because you were not ever really home. I don’t know when you left, I don’t know when you had ever stayed either. I only have one clear memory of you sleeping in our home one day. Continue reading “Camels and Coors” »

The year was 1978 and by virtue of my pigheadedness, I was homeless while still attending high school. Trouble was, I turned 18 in December, which meant I considered myself an official adult. I had my clothes, my crappy pea-green Plymouth Cricket, and my job at Marshalls. My take home pay was $60 a week which I considered a richly sum and enough to set me on my goal of independence. Continue reading “Miss Sandy and My First Brush with Polio” »