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Category: love

Bruised Loser

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Dissecting the frogs in my throat,
Viral disease transmission,
Unloading the chamber,
Confessing sins to my friends,
All Sunday morning - easy.


I already know
that money can't buy hope.
Witnessed the devil in me,
Honey, even that ain't scary.


But, Sweetheart,
I did more than hope for you.
I prayed to any Lord that would listen.


I'd been so tired of singing the blues;
So, I prayed for you.
Promised I'd never ask for anything else;
I put old hopes up on the shelf.


And there you stood.


Finally, I believed
Without the need for proof.

Now,

The only thing painful
About loving you is knowing
That one day
It's your life I've got to learn to lose.



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An Ode To My Grandmother

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My grandma remains etched into my heart for these reasons: she is compassionate, her prayers never cease, and she always sees the best in others.

Her hair looks as though it has always been grey; she has eyes that resemble the juxtapose of life, bittersweet.

Happy, inviting, but also somber.

Greener than rural pastures in the Springtime, the safest place for the livestock to return home for a meal.

She smells of a woman who has only known home – Worcestershire sauce, dish soap, damp wrung out dishtowels, and the faint scent of flowers to balance things out. If warmth had a smell, she has it.

 

A voice that is soft yet convincing, the kind of voice where any question she asked no matter what it was, always resounded an “Are you okay?”.

 

We played games like Go Fish and Stealing The Pile (though maybe this was a name easiest for a child to comprehend, as I have never heard it anywhere else).

 

She let me win quite a bit.

When it was time to for her pray, she sat me down with a notebook and scissors and I’d cut paper into shapes I had made up, or draw a house with the triangle roof where smoke was billowing from the rectangle chimney;

She taught me to draw when I was three.
I’d wait for roast and do things toddlers did.

 

Safety was not scarce back then.
Rosary in hand and roast in the pot, she paced as she prayed at three each afternoon.

The pads of her fingers were tinged bright pink atop her light skin, like Saint Nick’s cheeks in Winter.

They donned tiny craters from being pressed firmly against the rosary’s beads.

Meticulously they crept from one bead to the next, not quite pouncing, and not gliding.

 

 

Repetition never looked this much like art, not even the Louvre could captivate me as much as my grandmother praying did.

 

 

Novenas and pleading whispers of love and well-wishes, devout fails to encompass her in her entirety.
In the NICU, she sat by my incubator day and night doing the very same pleading she does today.
The doctors told my family I would be deaf, dumb, blind, – invalid.

On to her knees, she dropped and refused to accept that. She tells me of the day when she bargained with Christ, The Virgin Mary, and His Disciples on my behalf often.

As fate would have it, in the NICU, there was a nurse who dropped an item made of glass within earshot and lo and beholds; it scared me!

This was her sign from above, that yes, I could indeed hear.

 

Though I have no memory of this, perhaps this is why her praying looked holy to me, for it was probably my first image of her.

As I grew older and lost my mother, I lost myself and so I lost others. Where others were quick to suggest foster homes, even as she aged she would say, “No, I can take care of Carla.”
She loved me through every cuss word I hurled in frustration.

She remained calm when I bared defensive fangs and rabid snarls.

She accepted my apologies quickly and then forgot that she had any reason to forgive me in the first place. I was undeserving, yet she never condemned me; She loved me, anyway.

She prayed and she was warm, and slow to blame if she ever did.

To me, she is love. It is with the same compassion that my grandmother extended to me that I shared her with you.

My grandmother is still living, steady as a slow gong, but she is somewhere else inside of herself due to dementia.

If she does not already have a first-class ticket to Heaven, it will look like less of a place to be.

Categories: love poems

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Forget the Numbers, Remember Your People.

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Most of us who are full-time artists are go-getters.

 

We’re ambitious. We’re talented. Some of us are perfectionists, and some of us are fueled by tangible results. We should be. It’s wise to pay attention to what propels us and to take note of what knocks us back a few spaces.

What about when we see nothing?

 

How do we respond when there’s little harvest yielded from the seeds we’ve sewn?

Perhaps it’s hard to remember that you don’t need to automatically measure your capacity and strengths by how many lives you’ve touched, or how many hearts you have (or seemingly have not) mended solely by the numbers you are presented with.

 

For entrepreneurs, self-starters, coaches, trainers, surgeons, volunteers, anyone who is driven by positive results, it can be hard to realize that numbers are only half the battle. Sometimes, we unconsciously wrap up our worth into the results given back to us.

 

The loud, the proud, the bold, all of us who will not be silent, can accidentally forget that because we are the voice of the voiceless, our audience, our dear friends, our readers, our students, are the quiet ones.

 

They matter most. We are fighting for them. We raise our voice for them, and they will, of course, not be the first in the room to clap, speak up, or reciprocate the verbal praise that we’ve extended to them.

 

But, their silence does not measure their level of gratitude.

God is also silent.

 

No amount of SEO, analytics, or traffic, can measure the gratitude someone feels in their heart when they feel truly heard, valued and recognized.


So, when you think about giving up your counseling career, your podcast, your book (for the umpteenth time) gently bring your attention to the quiet souls in your life. They are cheering you on. They need you, and their value can never be measured in numbers.

Keep going.
If not for you, for them.

I love you. You’ve got this. 

 

Welcome home.

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Real Odd Love

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It’s 2:39 A.M., people. This post is an attempt to sort things out in my own head. First things first. I’m a volunteer crisis counselor for Crisis Text Line. (You should really check them out. There’s never been a time since I started that I’ve regretted it.)

Second of all, I’m married to a transwoman, who I had known as a man for almost five years before they came out to me. We are still together. We also previously had a child together which, unfortunately, I miscarried. HRT prevents biological children like 99% of the time, and for quite some time I was inexplicably angry, especially after I had gone through this entire transition with her and then was barred from going in to see the doctor with her.

Honestly, that’s the only thing that still really devastates me to my core. I wasn’t mad because I wasn’t allowed to go in. I was mad because I was treated like ‘the red-headed stepchild’ rather than her fucking wife who had recently carried and lost their only biological kid. I felt insecure because a lot of people see us as some scandal or a bad joke. I felt as if I were a beard, a ploy, a decoy, a means to an end. Now that I’m more secure of who we are, things have gotten better. We’re in group and couples therapy and have literally the greatest MFT I’ve ever been to. In August, we’ll have been married for five years and I would not change a single one of them.

WE ARE REAL. WE ARE VALID. SHE HAS NOT ‘HAD AN AFFAIR’.

I do not care that she’s trans; I only give a shit about whether or not she’s a good person. She always has been. I know that seems hard to believe, but she has literally wiped my ass for almost a decade now. I can’t reach my butt all the time ’cause I have, like, T-Rex arms. You can bet if she ever got sick I’d do the same for her.

Oh, yeah I forgot to mention, I’m also in a wheelchair. I have Cerebral Palsy. I moved around a lot when I was a kid. We found each other and she never left my side. Day and night since August 18th, 2012 she’s been, my hero. She bathes, clothes, cooks and cleans for me with zero complaints. We’ve each been a handful to each other but she is still without a shadow of a doubt, the best person I have ever met in my life.

LOVE EXISTS. REAL UNCONDITIONAL LOVE EXISTS AND IT IS MAGICAL IF YOU MAKE YOUR OWN WANDS. 

If you are trans, you are not unloveable or any other negative thing those shitty people, who aren’t right for you, made you believe about yourself. If you are physically disabled, you also are not unloveable; you are more than your body. You are mind. You are a soul. You are already made to love and be loved in return. There are people in this world who will be absolutely devoted to you, even if you think you resemble a potato, okay? You are not too broken. You are not too flawed. Who you are is exactly who you need to be.
Own. That.

Also, holy moly, the number of people waiting for us to get divorced is quite appalling. #StillDon’tGiveAShit
You see, I don’t give a shit because I realize that people are people, and, they can do whatever it is that they want or need to do to better themselves.

Also, I haven’t asked her to pray anything away. I’m saying this in the nicest way I possibly can: If you are asking someone to pray an essential piece of their being away, God will never answer in the way you want him to. God understands you, and he will give you the strength to change perspective if you wish to do so. Before you start throwing bricks through my window and all that nonsense, let me say this:

I am a Christian. I believe in God. I love God just as much as you do. However, in my opinion, asking God to take something away from another person is unjust. You cannot intervene with God’s will for that person. God knows his child is trans – that’s between that person and God. It is not your battle.

If your argument (or someone else’s argument) on why trans people are sinners is because “God doesn’t make mistakes” then… that kind of falls apart on itself because God doesn’t just peace out because his creation, his fearfully and wonderfully made creation needs to make some changes to feel better and to be better. If he does, then that’s no God I would choose to put my faith in.

God will meet you wherever you are, and he cares for you no matter what your situation is. The amount of depression and anxiety that my wife has been freed from since beginning HRT is astounding, okay? She had lost her will to live. If she had kept on living as a man, she would have taken her own life. You cannot serve God if you are dead on the inside as well as the outside. Now, since HRT has put her feelings, thoughts, and spirit in order, she can serve God better than she could before, because she doesn’t spend her days in a mental fog with crippling gender dysphoria.

In fact, the only thing I’ve ever felt the need to pray for her about was that people loved her and accepted her as much as I did. I did not ask God to make her a man or to stop her from transitioning. Instead, I talked to him. I told God that I was scared for her and that if this was truly the road she needed to go down, that he walks beside her and grant her clarity to make her decisions. I prayed that he keep her safe. I prayed that he provide her with the strength she would need to travel down a seemingly lonely road. I prayed that if this was not his will for her, that he help her make a U-Turn.

We all have lost nearly all support, save for a few long term friends. We have lost almost everything including our jobs, our routine, our life as we knew it. It is only now that we know the meaning of losing our lives in order to find them. Though the world seems to be crashing down around us, we know a carpenter. 😉

If loving her is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

YOU ARE LOVED.
YOU ARE SUPPORTED. 
IT REALLY DOES GET BETTER.

If you are a trans person who is struggling, please reach out to https://www.translifeline.org/
If you are a family member/friend/ally who loves a trans person, and you’re looking for help coping, please reach out to https://pflag.org/.

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