Haiku, Part 2

You are my best friend.

My broken heart you did mend.

We’re friends to the end.

 

Whisper in my ear

Words that I’ve waited to hear:

“I love you, my dear.”

 

Look into my eyes,

Does it come as a surprise?

This will change our lives.

 

Moonlight touches us,

Shifting shadows are a plus,

Kissing both of us.

 

Take me in your arms,

Let me feel all of your charms.

Inside, my heart warms.

 

Skin against soft skin;

Opening, I let you in.

Our lives now begin.

 

~*~*~*~*~

If They Could See Me Now

“If anything happens to the baby, I’ll kill you.”  Those were the words that I heard upon coming to, after my former husband had choked me.  He had also punched me, kicked me, and threw a TV on top of me.  I was 5 months pregnant at the time.  He was addicted to drugs, had lost his job due to a random drug test, and was mad because I wouldn’t give him any money for crack.  Are you asking yourself why I didn’t just give him the money?  Well I had a 4-year-old to feed and was the sole payer of the bills; so I didn’t have any money to spare for his newly acquired “hobby”.

People always wonder why someone stays in a relationship that has deteriorated to that point.  Misdirected loyalty?  Thoughts that they will change?  Nowhere else to go?  Paralyzing fear?  Well I can tell you that I stayed for none of those reasons.  Mine was more practical: I stayed because through my job, my medical was already paid for my baby.  I wanted to move back home to my parents but I didn’t want to burden them with the cost of my hospitalization.  That’s the reason why I stayed; but I knew as soon I had my baby I was going to make like a tree and leave!

I maintain a sense of humor about it although it was a rough few months.  He didn’t beat me again; but he managed to make my life miserable in other ways.  One of his particular favorites was he’d take his pistol, put 5 bullets in it, and play Russian roulette with the gun pointed at my head.  I began to suffer a breakdown; to the point where all I wanted was to have the baby, take my children to my parents, and then die.  I had a 4-year-old to take care of, and a child on the way, and that became my only impetus to live.

But this post isn’t about me as a victim: it’s about me as a survivor.  In spite of what happened to me, and I won’t bore you with all the gory details, I managed to maintain a very small circle of “friends” who were able to support me during this horrific period in my life.
 
The first was my ex-sister-in-law, Ruth Ann.  She knew what was going on, and I appreciated the fact that she confronted him about it since the rest of his family was afraid of him.  This caused a riff in their relationship, but she continued to babysit Brie and do other little things for me. 

The second was an older couple I met at a little neighborhood church.  They were childless and even though I never told them what happened, God must have put me on their hearts because they took me under their wing.  I had lost my very nice job and was just temping, so funds were scarce in my household.  They would feed me, or give me money for transportation.  Of course: I never let my husband know about that! 

Another person was one of my husband’s best friends: Darrell. They had known each other for years and worked together.  He was a very nice person, which made me wonder why they were still friends, ha ha.  But on those evenings or weekends when my husband would be out doing God knows what with God knows who, Darrell would stop by to visit.  We’d talk, and he’s the one who convinced me to tell my parents what was going on.  I didn’t want to, because by that time my husband knew I was planning to leave and had told me if I did, he’d follow me to my parents’ house and set it on fire.  What with the escalating drug abuse, I really thought he’d do it.  But with Darrell there I called Marie and told her everything. And you know what?  Marie, all 5 feet nothing of her, said, “You tell him to come on up.  He’ll be in our territory then and that will be the end of him.”  It took me a minute to get over the shock of that, but once I did I knew I was going to go up there as soon as possible.

To make a long story short: I had baby Kitty on July 3, and was at my parents by August 2.  The older couple, the McKinneys, had given me the money for bus tickets and a little extra; and told me to not worry about paying it back.  

The last person who was a big help was my landlord.  When I told him I was leaving but Raymond was staying, he asked why.  After I told him, he said the day I left would be the day he would evict Raymond.  Then he told me to call him when I got settled in at my parents’ house so he could mail me the deposit check!  I guess God don’t like ugly, does He?

So I moved back home from Long Island and the rest is history, as they say.  I wish these people could see how far I’ve come since that time.  The last time I saw Ruth Ann was 16 years ago, when she came to visit for Brie’s graduation.  She was ecstatic with how things were going for us; and I talked to her in 2007.  She’s still in Long Island and we’re friends on Facebook.

I called the McKinneys when I was settled.  They were so happy for me; and I really wish I had kept in touch with them.  I don’t know if they’re still around, but a little piece of my heart belongs to them.

I did call the landlord when I was settled and he sent me the deposit check.  That was a blessing; and he said the eviction process had been started.  There was my little bit of satisfaction!

As for Darrell: unfortunately, he died just a few short years after I left.  What I didn’t know at the time of our friendship was that Darrell was a heroin addict; and he died of AIDS (from sharing needles)  in Florida.  That was a very hard pill for me to swallow, since I had never had a chance to talk to him and let him know that things were A-Okay with me.

I know that I wouldn’t be where I am today without the help of those very special people. I just hope, in some small, inexplicable way, they truly can see me now.

Fashion Backward

The other day my co-worker Amy and I were working a little late. As we were talking, she mentioned that after work she was going to do something similar to a “read-through”. She belongs to the renowned improv group the Mop & Bucket Company (MopCo) and it has opened a lot of doors for her! (free plug: they perform in Schenectady, New York at the Proctor’s building, the Underground, on Friday nights J.)

This conversation led to me telling her that I had done the play Sorry, Wrong Number in Junior High. What was interesting at the time was the director took hundreds of pictures of the cast so instead of us performing on stage the photos were projected on a big screen and our voiceovers provided the dialogue. I really enjoyed that at the time, especially what I wore. I played a medical office worker, so I got to wear a suit: blazer, skirt and nice shoes. Being only 13 at the time, I didn’t have any clothes like that so I had borrowed the suit from my mother. She had a lot of them because she knew many wealthy ladies who sometimes gave her gorgeous clothes. So I decided that I wanted to dress like that all the time.

So picture this: I am 13, in the 9^th grade, wearing these ladies’ suits from probably the late40’s and early 50's: short fitted jacket, white blouse, mid-calf-length skirt with the little flare at the bottom, and pumps. I had a cream and black colored suit, a lavender one, a black one, a hunter green one and a blue one. My question is: where in the world did I think I was going, looking like Lois Lane??? I was 13! Add this to the picture: my mother wore stockings, not pantyhose, and I wanted to wear stockings too. However, I knew nothing about garters and such, so I used MASKING TAPE TO HOLD THEM UP. I can’t make this stuff up!

I really thought that I was a stylish trendsetter: not realizing I was fashion backward and not fashion forward! But I think the piece de resistance was the outerwear: it was this long black velvet Victorian coat. It was cinched at the waist and then flared out from the hips and came to just above my ankles. You couldn’t tell me I didn’t look spectacular! Well, maybe for the 1840’s…

I don’t know who was laughing harder: me or Amy! I hadn’t thought about me wearing those clothes in a lot of years. Maybe I had purposely blocked out those memories: who knows? But I hadn’t even mentioned to her that when I outgrew my mother’s suits, I had switched to sometimes wearing one of my father’s blazers. During college, I still liked the androgynous look because of my love for David Bowie, so sometimes I would even wear a tie.

Then one night when I was out with my friend Lynne, I was talking to this girl at the club who knew my brother Keith. Afterwards, he came up to me laughing. “What’s so funny?” I asked him. He said, “That girl I was talking to asked me if my brother was single. I said my brother wasn’t here. Then she pointed you out!” Needless to say: that was the last time I wore my father’s suit!