Trauma Sandwich

I have been so busy with work. Right now I am juggling two jobs as I continue my regular public health role and then split that with being a Disaster Service Worker for our COVID response team. Been thinking about trauma and how much more some humans have to bear than others. How this affects every corner of our lives. I know now that trauma doesn’t have to dictate my path in life nor is it a determinant of my potential. But having trauma, understanding the bruised parts of myself that have healed and those I am still nurturing allows me to be kinder to others. And even more than that, it allows me to see the potential in even the most hurt souls. (Except Trump— fuck that guy!)

Fifth House

“I want to be a writer,” I told the moon.
And the sides of her lips twinkled against the depth of blackness
in an anxious abyss
This sheet of blue-black midnight illuminated my skull
and carried my message like winter turning to spring
And the adult who wished for better childhood memories
vomited failures until the liquid turned clear as the moon
Our reverie was here in the wood shed,
in the grass sprinkled with dog shit,
on the deck suckling obliteration
I realized I wanted to live and
grown-up words, like “be sensible,” had slapped me across the face
Thrusted silly wishing into molds of sacrifice and safety

I left the chill to nest inside a green electric blanket
Fed of its warmth and effortless comfort
Eased into sleep, into a familiar daze
of success and never-ending contentment
with green pools of grass and smiling moons
In the summertime when I was a child
with screaming hands
and a dangerous mouthful of dreams.

pic by my mom

The Path

The path to myself has had, and continues to have many, many detours. But I am working on being the one I choose, every time.

we had

we had a date
and i took a long, hot shower
and i mingled w/ soap & shampoo
and i let the hot water melt my anxiety
and i dried myself w/ a fresh warm towel
and i bathed in cocoa butter & shea

i waited

we had a date
and i called you first
and we made it together
and i was looking forward to your eyes

i waited

we had a date
and i tried on every tight sexy thing
and i thought of your eyes
and i tested my stay-put lipstick on a pillow
and i read poems by june & audre
and i sat to meditate
and

i waited

we had a date
at seven
we had a date
an hour ago
and i read more poems
they were not about you

i waited

we had a date
and i thought we made it together
and we laughed & told story
and i thought you were kidding
when you called me intimidating

i waited

morning came
and you called
and i was glad i had meditated
you said you weren’t ready for me
you called me intimidating
again
your voice quivered under magnetic signals
i could see your eyes watering
i could see them shifting
and darting away from the receiver

i listened
and i waited to understand what you meant
and i stared at my hand
calmly resting on my knee
i got up to look in the mirror
and studied the shape of my teeth
no fangs
i examined the length of my nails
not sharp, not too long

we hung up
and i read poems by lucille & walt & joy

we had a date
and you offered your number w/o me asking
and you were glad i called
and you asked me where i’d like to go
and we talked on the phone for hours
and only exhaustion could get us to hang up

we had a date
and now we have space
space between your fear of my inspiration
& my desire to inspire you
space between your story & mine

this morning i smell my own delicious skin
i feel its smooth, buttery-ness
i hear poetry & love & resistance
swirling through my mind

i want to make love to myself

and i do
and i do

work in progress

Growth, whatever you want to call it, “the path”, our journey, ascension to higher consciousness. No matter the name, when you’re in the shit, it can feel unreal and even unbearable. Lately, compounded grief has led me to an unexpected soul awakening. “Am I living or existing?” Depression has haunted me in the past, but lately, I see life as a gift transmitted through experiences of love, deep sorrow, bliss and frustration. I do not judge anyone who beams while flowing through life and enjoying what there is to enjoy, but my soul craves growth, magic, and the gentle pursuit of fulfillment. Whenever I am feeling the weight of the world asking me to be emotionally brave, a butterfly pays me a visit. No matter where I happen to be, in the city, in nature, or sitting in the park talking to my therapist, a butterfly appears as a reminder. Metamorphosis is my modus operandi.

sputtering butterfly

I don’t know what to do with it
the hollow thud between my ribs
In the place where air is supposed to flow
a tunnel of fierce winds
   spitting monsters of doubt

The bomb of birth
searching for safety whatever the cost,
until we can no longer be fed

Then drop our bags, begin again
Try not to fall through the slats in the everywheres

Plunging towards the ocean on my way out of dirt
where thirst avoids the stream of evolution
with scorched tongue–create the words again
I am trying

Migration

WordPress is a lovely tool, no doubt, but requires a bit too much thought and effort when all a bitch wants is to write. This year is teaching me to own who I am and to celebrate my strengths and my weaknesses. My shadow is as deserving of love as the shiny person I project to the world. Thus I have decided to migrate my writing over to Substack. I have been wanting to write more than poetry and felt my current theme wasn’t quite right, but I just haven’t had the bandwidth to “WORK” on it and unforch… it is not easy, nor for my brain — intuitive. As fate would have it, I discovered an ad for Substack (likely from Google reading my mind) and the rest will be herstory at montrescher.substack.com. I invite you to follow me there, as I will likely be taking this site down by the end of the year. Starting fresh in 2021 seems apropos anyway. Onward and upward! ❤