Risking Survival

Moon Shadow

riskingsurvival — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 01:50:41 +0000

Old Lady at Full Wolf Moon

Bitter crackling cold and the wolves gone with the killing of so much that might matter.

If only she had known.

There is the moon shadow cast by the fence in dark lines.

But, what of the horse standing by the barn?

She is the horse, only standing and only still in the light of what is left.

Argue with me

riskingsurvival — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 19:51:09 +0000

My mother worries that I started this blog. If I am responding with anger, then I am giving in and paying any attention.

I think, but, Mom, I can’t always be your “good girl”. Sometimes I am angry. Sometimes I want to spit and slam doors and chomp gum until it drives everyone around me crazy.

After all, I want my own daughters to snarl once in awhile.

See, there it is…

riskingsurvival — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 01:34:53 +0000

It’s like a haunting.

The space, this blog, was where I intended to begin exploring the complications of surviving domestic assault.

But, I received a letter from him tonight. It is another covert threat.

Risking survival is to be haunted. I’ll make more posts here. Risking survival is sometimes terrifying. Sometimes, the healing stops.

"The caboose stopped here."

Chickens at Dawn

riskingsurvival — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 16:16:21 +0000

It’s not just recounting the little things that counts. It’s the breathing. It’s the canary singing in the silence and the dawn over the chicken coop. It’s my daughter who looks at me with a smile that says she knows she is stuck with all the love I can give her.

Trust broke for me when the last assault happen. The worst part about that sense of unreality, of feelings erased, was in my relationship to others. Here were my children and though I could act, I wasn’t feeling. I could reason that they were maybe hurting worse than I and definitely needed me more than ever before, but, I couldn’t feel. So, I acted. Acting turns to realty, if only one tiny moment and then a few more at a time.

And, now, I sit here with a handful of pictures from when my children were little and I grin at them, even though noone else is in the room.

riskingsurvival — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 01:46:09 +0000

Lake Michigan

Lake Michigan…always changing and always with me.

Starting little

riskingsurvival — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 00:13:02 +0000

If I start talking about the little things, maybe then I can get to the big ones. Or maybe the little things add up to the big things or, maybe, size isn’t relative. I’m laughing at myself because I sound like AA Milne who is great, I think, at talking about the meaning of life and the significance of honey at the same time.

Here, I want to blog about my experiences with spousal abuse. It’s been a long time since the last assault, but, I still find my ex’s name out here and he still is somewhere throwing out harm into the world. If I blog, can I throw a little good out there with someone?

Little Things

riskingsurvival — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 01:03:29 +0000

So, there in my memory is a picture of my ex, when he wasn’t my ex, walking through the door of our home after work. He, the psychiatrist who the world seemed to venerate, and me watching, the wife trying to assess his mood. It wasn’t just being afraid of his physical violence, it was this herculean effort on my part to create some kind of normalcy in family life.
Those little things built up, like guiding him into greeting the children who were standing at his pant leg so happy to see him or waiting for the moment when I could tell him that the washing machine was broken without CAUSING (I did believe it was my responsibility) a two or three or more day rage. Sometimes that rage was complete withdrawal, but, nonetheless, there was not being able to let the children play with their friends at home or not being able to take them out without his permission. And, now that I am writing these words, there was the sullen rage that could suddenly turn to outward acts, like smashing my arm with the car door (one memory that haunts my children). There was that tension that palpably rose from the basement room where he had holed himself up.
The little things.
That were never little when I lived them.
And don’t seem so little in their haunting now.