Silent Crevices

I’ve witnessed many things that I will never be able to unsee.

Not with the strongest eye bleach on the black market, nor any cheaply made cornea wet wipes ordered on Wish that take two months to arrive.

There isn’t a strong enough medication available to erase these disturbing images from my mind, for they’ve been deeply seared into my memories flesh, until the day that I pass on from this world.

No alcohol, by volume or proof, would ever be capable of forever eradicating the series of traumas that I’ve been exposed to.

For all it would accomplish is rendering me unconscious for a spell, only to wake up many hours later, discombobulated, with everything a blur, yet still unfortunately intact.

The only way forward towards survival is to allow myself to feel it all, to absorb it into the core of my being, by somehow (with sheer determination and prayer) continuing to live with all of the heartaches, the sorrow, and the multitude of crevices that are now permanently a part of my infrastructure.

I’ve learned that it is indeed alright to cry, to feel sad and to just stay quiet if you need to, even though these are behaviors that are mostly undesirable, unwanted and not socially acceptable.

I’ve been very silent lately, finding myself unable to put my thoughts or feelings into action, the way that I’m accustomed to and which makes a lick of sense.

I’ve had to remind myself time and time again that it is alright to be this way right now.

Deep inside my ever-churning brain, that’s always been riddled with ideas, where my words and creativity used to flow so free like a water faucet, is now dried up.

Hopefully just temporarily.


Watching my cherished dog as she passed away recently, then looking on at my daughter’s pure anguish (and now her regret and guilt that she didn’t spend enough time with her best friend while she was still alive) has sucked up the last remaining droplets of moisture on my tongue and fingertips.

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I love you, my sweet Maggie May. Thank you for everything.


I’ve learned many things during my grief journey and I plan on sharing them here this Wednesday, on what will be my mom’s 1st deathiversary.

Until then, stay safe and well. Thank you for reading.

humor from the bowels of darkness

I’ve been suffering some major writer’s block…I suppose that’s the correct term for it. I think about writing something but then I decide that it’s just the same thing, rehashed.

I miss my mom.

I hate asshat.

I feel like a turd sandwich.

I’m anxious again and sad.

Those are my themes, my issues, my major problems. And we all have those, don’t we?

Like, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

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Is funny, no? 

Being funny nowadays isn’t impossible for me in real life although it’s still hard work.

But how can I explain the pizza dance that I did the other night to crack my daughter up? I kept it going, adding more crazy moves (that my fibro body would allow) until she finally threatened to start taking a video of me.

I stopped, of course.

How do I tell you about how my boyfriend laughs just by the way I say something?

“It’s not what you said, it’s the way you say it!”

I’ve always relied on my sense of humor for survival, to make friends, to get through tough times, to relieve the pressure in a stuffy room, to make myself feel special. I think we all like it when someone tells us that we have a knack for something and from the earliest memories that I can recall, mine was being humorous.

My favorite thing in the entire world was making my mom laugh.

Although I have finally retrieved most of my humor from the bowels of darkness, applying it here on my blog is proving to be a challenge. It makes me question whether or not I’ve begun the slow, downward spiral of blog abandonment.

Honestly, what’s going on in the world right now isn’t fucking funny and it’s breaking me down, bit by bit, on a daily basis.

How can it not?

Plus, next month is May. It used to be that I only hated August.

It’ll be my first Mother’s Day without my mom and then a week later, May 20th will mark 1 year since she passed away.

I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I’ve heard her voice, seen her, touched her. This grief is unlike anything that I’ve ever experienced before. My mom was special, she was my best friend and damn it, my life will never be the same. Accepting that is the hardest part, I think.

I never thought that I’d find my path again but somehow, I have. It’s a much more lonely one without her and oftentimes confusing.

I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I bought a ticket for an online reading last Friday night from a popular medium named Matt Fraser. All week, I seriously expected to be chosen for a reading, I just knew that my mom would come through with a message for me.

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Thankfully, I don’t.

Well, she didn’t. In fact, there was zero chance of that happening since over 700 people were included on the Zoom panel. The 90 minutes went quickly and by the end, I was extremely disappointed and felt like an asshole for wasting the money.

No offense to Mr. Fraser but he’s doing another online reading this Friday and urging all of the people to buy another ticket. In the end, it’s all about making money, quarantine or not.

So instead, I pray. I talk to my mom (and dad) directly. I’ve found my faith again and now without asshat blocking my path, I can openly display my religious artwork and speak of Jesus in my own home without ridicule.

Did I ever tell you guys that he was a guitarist for a black death metal band?

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My mom watched Judge Judy every day.

Yeah, I sure picked a good one, didn’t I? He’d always claimed that it didn’t have anything to do with who he really was but like almost everything that came out of his fat mouth, it was a lie. Over the years, he got some Satanic tattoos and had an upside-down cross on one of his amps.

I shudder now when I think of all of the things that I allowed.

Well, this post has been all over the place but hey, it’s something.

Stay safe and stay well.

Also, Happy belated Easter.

a compassionate letter to myself

One of the assignments from my class, which was quickly revamped from in person once a week to online now due to the virus, is to write a compassionate letter to myself

I’ve been struggling with the meditation part of the course, I feel like I can’t just sit and focus on my breathing for more than a few minutes before I need to get up and do something productive.

It’s more difficult than I had imagined.

So I’ll write this letter to myself and post it on this dusty, seldomly used blog of mine.


Dear Mer,

Damn, girlfriend.

You’re still alive and kicking, kudos to you. It must be some kind of miracle that you’re going on 5 years since your suicide attempt.

Few people have said this and since you’ll probably die before hearing it (haha!), I’ll do it myself…I’m fucking proud of you.

Yes, I’m talking about removing that waste of space ex-husband from your life and sparing the kid from his increasingly unwell, subtle abuse. I know, it’s a subject mostly avoided by others and so you keep that specific season of horror to yourself but it does deserve to be acknowledged.

It’s also fair to note that at one time, you loved him. That’s what made it so damn difficult to let him go, to let the entire 15-year relationship basically dissolve into the nothingness of the void.

I know that you still dream of him and sometimes, it really hurts because you never in your wildest imagination thought that he could be so cold and cruel.

Because you thought that you knew him, that he was deep down a decent man.

And it’s okay that you were wrong. You must forgive yourself eventually.

But now that time has had its way with the entire ordeal and has somewhat lessened the trauma, look at how far you’ve come.

I don’t think that you’d be as mentally strong if you had stayed with him because that was the easier thing to do.

To turn the other way and pretend that everything was just fine like you did for a spell there until you finally could no longer tolerate living a lie.

If you had stayed, well, perhaps you wouldn’t have been able to survive almost an entire year now without your dear mother.

You would still be trapped in that condo like a wild animal, desperate to be free.

You would never have met your boyfriend who showed you that you might have fibro but you’re not dead yet and there’s so much more to experience in life.

You are a strong woman.

You are brave.

And you’re fierce when the need arises.

When you need a reminder of why you need to keep pushing forward and continue trying, just look up into the sky, whatever hue that it may be at the time.

Your mom is watching and she loves you, girlfriend.

And because you took the harder road and came out of the other side with your heart and soul scratched but healing, you know for certain now that God is good.

Even when life isn’t fair and seems to not be worth the effort, God is good.

Love,

You