three or one

2 04 2012

This is the worst time of night.

Papers are due. When I try to write them, all I think is—


When I close computer, curtains, eyes, I cannot sleep but am besieged by thoughts of home. Where I will be. Wednesday. Where the battle is brewing. Where Father is finding daily new and creative and vile ways of making life miserable for Mother. With his HR smiles and puppydog eyes and lifelong practice in the arts of blaming others for every despicable deed done; ever and always turning his back on those who need him to be someone else.

On me.

I had a dream.

I was picked up at the airport by Mother and Father. We were in the car: Father driving, Mother in the passenger’s seat, and I in the rear. Mother and Father had no details to them; they were silhouettes within the bound of windshield frame, shadows cast upon the background of C-470 – the road not yet Home but close, the gateway between wherever-I-have-been and where-I-belong. Of course, it is a toll road. You can never go home without paying the toll.

Mother: We’re so glad you’re here, Tom.
Now that the three of us are all together, there are Things we must discuss.

Father: Three? There’s no three here. There’s One, and one, and a therapist – and now he’s going to fix you.

I raged, in the dream. My heart was left behind, dropped from the car, skidding on asphalt, pulped beneath tires of passing cars. All that was left was hate. My words spit like acid, demanding to be known by Father as anything but a tool for controlling Mother. Possibly even as myself.

Awake, I don’t even have that much.

I am a stone. Push me from this mountain peak; I will crash into the valley, there to lie and never be moved again.


stand out

25 01 2012

Never have I had such an intimate knowledge of how cheap words can be.

Thus, a pact: my words will be significant, if for no other reason than their rarity. I will count the cost of every syllable uttered.

I am intimate with the words of others. I am consumed by them, making love to their uses and missuses. I am tickled by a turn of phrase. I laugh and weep and cry and hate the countless thousands I turn passed and into.

Their stories no longer make an adequate stand-in for my own.

Safety Asparagus

26 11 2011

I’ve been watching the show Terra Nova lately. It’s not the greatest storytelling ever, but it has dinosaurs. RAWR!

This week they surprised me with a simple – but remarkably well written – segment on safety planning in the family (one of many topics that has skyrocketed in importance to me after the Domestic Violence Advocacy class I attended a few weeks ago). I want to recreate some of that scene here, both to celebrate a rare instance where primetime television encouraged positive family dynamics and to inspire myself in my current project: writing a children’s book that would be of value to a child after witnessing violence in the home.

Read the rest of this entry »


6 07 2011

Well, well, well.

Over the past few months this blog has seen lots of pretty, pretty words and even more tears (mine and, apparently, others’)

The next few months will see those pretty words thrown into the crucible and melted into slag. The shit has officially hit the fan, people, and my world–my family’s world–my family–will never be the same. Every story I have to tell has taken on new and sinister overtones. I am unmoored (and I miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight have broken a toe yesterday in an epic sledgehammer rage).

Lord, have mercy.

Friends, have mercy. And know that I will be


relying on you more than ever

My Hermitage

18 04 2011

They were nothing more than people, by themselves. Even paired, any pairing, they would have been nothing more than people by themselves. But all together, they have become the heart and muscles and mind of something perilous and new, something strange and growing and great.

Together, all together, they are the instruments of change.

The Bone People, Keri Hulme

I know I’ve stumbled across something great when the prologue leaves me thinking, “This book will tear my soul to shreds.”

Book Art

9 04 2011

Just got my confirmation email saying this little slice of wonderful is in the mail on its way to me. If this is what self-care looks like, I might just hop on this bandwagon more often!



Love & Snugglies

Blogging through writer’s block, rd. II

4 04 2011

I have no desire to craft anything of my own, yet I’m hoping the act of typing will provide me with the necessary momentum to finish off this paper. Without further ado, an excerpt from IS PSYCHOANALYSIS A NARCISSISTIC ENTERPRISE?

The vulnerability…is shame vulnerability, the failure of analysis to measure up to its grandiose self-image. Thus, we are brought back once again to the recurrent link between shame and narcissism.

I am uncomfortable with attributing narcissism to the psychoanalytic situation, method, or movement because, in my view, narcissism can rightly be ascribed only to persons…I think it more correct to say that the analytic method, with its idealization of the transference and its emphasis on transference analysis, permits the analyst to freely indulge his narcissism. Although the patient may be talking about some interaction in his life outside the analysis, the analyst listens to find himself in the material (emphasis his). Were he not engaged in the narcissistically gratifying activity of examining the material for references to himself, he might not be able to listen to patients hour after hour, day after day, with the same quality of attention without drifting into escapist reveries of various kinds.

I view the situation as follows: the analyst is gazing into the reflecting pool of the patient’s material to find himself. Although ostensibly he is looking to find himself as a transference object, I believe that on a deeper, more unconscious level he often looks in the hope of finding his “true self”..’in the last analysis the patient is searching for and reacts to the kind of person that the analyst really is in the depths of his personality.’ I believe that the analyst, like his patient, may be searching for the kind of person he (the analyst) really is which means that often there may be this hidden agenda operating behind the task of analyzing the patient. Looking at it this way, analysis (and much of analytic psychotherapy) could be described as an elaborate, unacknowledged game of “hide and seek,” in which the analyst hides and both parties then seek to find him.

Francis J. Broucek, Shame and the Self

Here’s to the game.

Love and snugglies!