She holds her pendulum over my open palm. A small quartz point in an open silver cap dangles at the end of a chain. The silver is ornate, the chain wears small colored beads. Maybe I see a small feather there, or something like. I am too interested in the silver cap to note the rest. I don’t see well and it’s like a magnet for my mind and eye, so I stare at it. Of course…
Her hand passive, inert, the point swirls softly in a loop, more an oval. I don’t even have a thought for her somehow making it move; I don’t really care. I am in my shop, and people come there, all kinds of people. They tell me things. If they’re telling to do harm, I get them to leave. If not, I hear them and at the very least. It beats talking about the weather.
She has been in the shop at least an hour, with the rocks. Gemstones, crystals, rocks, fossils, spheres, and she has studied each one and maybe had a conversation with a few as well. She’s laid three wands on my counter. Two smokey quartz, one that I am instantly smitten with but have never seen. Another Chalcedony with bands of soft color. She’s asked if she may test them and then hung her pendulum above each. Both of the smokey quartz seem favorable for her but the one I like and the Chalcedony are a draw, and she continues the “conversation” with each. I can’t stop myself and express my mysterious love for the larger of the smokes. As she silently queries it again for leaving with her, it says no. Then no again, firmly. It appears it wants to stay with me. I don’t ask how she knows. But I smile. She chooses the Chalcedony.
She asks “May I?” and reaches out her hand, and I instantly extend mine. I am not uncomfortable; she is the most pleasant person I have met today, peaceful like cool water. I wait while she lets the pendulum talk to her. As even and quiet as she is, she breaths in once as though she has seen a painting that moves her, and says: Lovely. You have lovely energy.
And then she says: Circular, it runs circular in your hand.
I am unsure what to think of my circular energy, and only think: Yeah, my whole life is circular.
Somehow the rest of it just happens and I don’t know how it starts, but I tell her what I don’t mean to say. I see into things and people. Sometimes. More than I want, more than I ask to, and I ask not to. It goes deep, and sometimes the seeing is really a hearing. I hear the words they hide. See the pictures they don’t show. Smell things. Feel things. Know things. And often people sense that I know. I’m not inflating; I’m not proud of this. I actually don’t feel good about this. I don’t see the purpose. I feel burdened. I know there must be some kind of responsibility attached to this and I don’t think I want it. And it’s disturbing. It’s not all good; I don’t always see flowers and sunbeams. It’s strong with some people, but can happen with places and things as well. And then there are dreams.
I never say this much and I don’t to her either, but she’s got me in her beam and she sees me and is calm as still water. Don’t be afraid, she says. It’s a gift. You’re protected by angels.
She goes back to the rocks and brings the Celestite to me, a nice, hand sized geode that is good enough to eat. Asks me to hold it in my palm, with my other hand cupped above it, not touching. Asks: Do you feel it? I just nod, because of course I do.
This one brings the angels. This is your stone.

It is the prettiest of the bunch. It is still in my shop, some five months after this original writing. It has stayed and not left with a soul, even though the Christmas shoppers ransacked the gemstones. I just noticed this a few days ago. The smokey quartz I coveted of course, was for someone else. But without me wishing it so, the perfect little Celestite stayed. And everything else has been circular, as it always is and as I always forget it will be.
Don’t be afraid, she said. It’s a gift.


It wasn’t just any one thing. I was already sliding away. There were so many events in a row, and my mind tries to order them now, to make some sense of how I started falling apart. Was it a perfect storm that might have played out differently if one detail was removed? Does it matter? Why do I still try to figure it out?

It doesn’t much matter, because it’s what happened. Understanding will never turn back the clock anyway. I don’t have to understand; I don’t have to explain; I don’t have to apologize. I did the best I could and I still got hurt. Still, my mind returns to IT. Less often, but regularly. My mind wants to understand what I can’t. But there it still is.

It’s been over a year now, a whole year last May, and I still can’t talk about it. The Tipping Point, The Event, The Bad Thing That Happened, That Shit Last Year, What ***** Did. I call It so many things. See, I can’t even name it. Not even when it comes up with the most trusted confidante and we talk around the events that came before, that came after. I still make these references. Because it’s so ugly. Yet somehow, it is not ugly enough.
Were it far uglier, perhaps with a trip to the hospital, a police report, an arrest or charges; maybe dramatic bruising, an actual rape or beating or something involving a weapon, THAT would be so ugly that I would know; anyone would be traumatized. My trauma reaction would seem more legitimate. But it wasn’t any of those things…
Instead, it was something insidious, personal, and terrifying. Physical? There was that. But mostly, there was the kind of thing only someone extremely close can imagine to harm you with. Someone that knows your insides, your gaps in coverage. Your holes, your missing parts. Your ghosts.
Everyone has a kryptonite. Something they are helpless in the face of. There’s always something, even if you can’t admit it. And someone knew mine. My darkest place, my worst fear, my deepest wound and terror, my nightmare; the thing I find myself defenseless against, no matter how I try to whistle in the dark and be brave. They knew everything. And they knew because I trusted them.

I am changed. I know I will never be the same. Some part of me that always was, and I am not young; it’s just gone. I hate to say that at my age I had any innocence left at all, because it sounds silly, but there was a little. I suppose I needed hope on my side to keep me strong for so long. I didn’t know some of my hope was misguided, didn’t know I was so idealistic, didn’t know I was looking for something that would only ever buy me some more ruin, and didn’t want to examine it either.

It’s been over a year. To be exact, it’s been one year, eight months, one day. By the calender year now, the year before last. Not that I count, it’s just that now that I have, I’m surprised to see that this much time has passed. This last paragraph? It’s really a post script, because I wrote most of this many months ago, and I just don’t remember doing it. I was peeking out, but not quite ready for more than a peek. I wrote a few words, and quickly slammed the door, barred it, boarded the windows. I was still regrowing my skin.
I found these words again by accident. Or did I? A blog friend caught up with me today, out of the blue, and sent me a message that inexplicably keeps reducing me to helpless laughter; “Crazy is the new orange”, he says. With a bright orange wacky emoticon. Who knew it would bring me here again? Some people always say the right thing.
Crazy is the new orange. I’ve got everybody saying it now. This is how I know I’m getting better.

Do funny things to some people.

Almighty dollar…
Don’t let money fool you.


Hey Bitches

I finally saw you again today. Or should I say one of you. I could have done without it, since most days I don’t think of you at all anymore. But there you were, and for one moment I considered stopping and offering you a piece of gum, just to say “Hey, I was JUST thinking of you, and what a sorry BITCH you are.” And then I just kept going, because now you’re kind of dead to me, and you wouldn’t get it anyway (but you would have liked the kittens on the box of gum. They’re cute and adorable and fluffy, and you like all things cute and adorable.)
Sometimes being called a Bitch is something like a compliment, but in your case, it’s just the least offensive thing I can call you. Poor Bitch is actually the official term. Your Poor Bitch heart wore a smiling face that covered up Jealousy, Misery, Envy, and stabbed me in the back while telling me you’d pray for me.
That’s some of what I didn’t say to you the day you dropped your little bomb on me and my life, my business. I forgot to tell you to fuck off, since I was so busy trying to keep my composure and take care of business through the tears I couldn’t help but shed. Yeah, you saw me cry. I’m ok that you saw it, because I never did break down and I never did stop taking care of business, even though you thought I would freak out and act badly. Even though you told everyone that I would and even that I did. Even though you might have gotten some kind of sense of satisfaction from having chopped me down enough to make me cry. I’m ok with it, because I told you exactly what I think. I was a lady about it, and the words I said struck a chord in you. I saw it on your face: You did wrong. You screwed a friend.

“Your enemy won’t do you no harm
Cause you know where she’s coming from”

I’d have had a little more respect for you if you’d come right out with it; said you were cutting me and hey, just owned it. Plenty of women don’t mind owning being a cut throat, lying, scheming, manipulative bitch. They own it and wear it like a crown. Oh, but not you. You are too “nice” for that. Easier for you to blame me for what you did, and then pretend to feel sorry for me. Disappointed in me. Blame me, who is not as “nice” as you. But you know you just did exactly what you felt like doing, and didn’t care about the lines you crossed, or about my livelihood, or the so called “relationships” you were destroying.
You are a snake in the grass.
You’ll find out. Gains gotten by subterfuge, betrayal, lies, and skimming away the work of others, somehow always come back to haunt you. You may succeed, for a season. But I can’t see how you will ever be blessed, the way you pretend and profess to be. Someday, maybe sooner than you think, you’ll be sorry. Maybe not to me, but you will be sorry. You’ve got some bad juju now.
I may yet fail, but I knew right away that I’d already won. Without meaning to, you gave me something on your way out of my life. I thank you, because if not for you, I would not know what I really should have already known: my instincts were, and are good. You see, I knew. Maybe not what exactly, but I knew something wasn’t right with you. I had a warning, way back, and more than one. But I listened to who you told me you were, who everybody told me you were, instead of listening to my heart, my body and my soul. My mind? It was afraid to be wrong, to judge, to keep you at a distance. I needed to believe all that good you were pouring out, and couldn’t understand the niggling internal alarms that went off, the small tugs of resistance I felt in your presence. And then I had the dream about you. It was an ugly thing that I told myself was random. It wasn’t.
Of course, it all makes sense, too late. You got the knife in my back before I could turn around, and of course you kicked when I was down. My bad; I ignored the quiet messages inside myself, because I lacked confidence in my own powers of discernment. I won’t make that same mistake again.

“Beware of the pat on the back
It just might hold you back”

I’m still cleaning up the mess, still regrouping. But I am smarter than I was, and smarter than you. I haven’t had to use any deceit to leverage myself into a better place, and yet I have strong and loyal and beautiful people around me. You have a pack of rats that will march off a cliff with you, because you told them stories. Good luck with that. I am free to move in a new direction of my own choosing, without the hindrance of forces working against me behind my back, and I’m going to fly, whatever happens. You are free to play the same old tired game of duplicity, maneuvering for the seat of control rather than excellence. Because it’s all that you can do.
I will never listen to the likes of you again. And I will never, ever, doubt my instincts again, no matter what anyone says, and I don’t care who it is. Thank you, for making this so crystal clear for me with your smiling betrayal and sneaky actions.
Especially, thank you, and I’m laughing at this part; thank you for the out of place and backhanded compliments about my clothes, including that I “have the body, and the attitude, to pull that off” that puzzled me more than the reality of everything you had done. What a truly bizarre and inappropriate commentary given the circumstances of business at hand that last day.
I must have been doing something right, after all. Apparently it’s pretty powerful because you sure have paid a lot of attention to it. I don’t intend to change it one iota anyway, but the veiled and slight disapproval I always sensed from you about my looks, was revealed to be simply jealousy and resentment in the end. I neither criticized nor falsely flattered your mom-jeans ensembles, but accepted you as you were. I see beauty in most people. Sadly, if you see it in me, you resent it. I’m fucking sorry for you. Real women don’t think other women are “up to no good” because they look good, or because men like them. But I know you needed to see me that way. I’m not changing a thing I do because it makes you uncomfortable about yourself.
I’m done with you and your ilk. I won’t pretty it up and pretend we’re still friends, and I won’t try to hug you like you did me. It’s so much easier this way.


For Moonlight…

What happens when the monster in your life…just dies? What do you do when you have hidden, when you have watched out, held out, held back, survived…but always known the guard must remain? How do you begin to think a different way? But then…
There is no need. There is no Monster. There is no one coming for that part of me anymore; The She The Monster made.
Never. Ever. Again.
Monster? Hey Monster, She died with you. Cause guess what?
She wasn’t me.
I didn’t really know.

But still…I might have screamed. A few times. Mostly silent..a grimace mask of jaw gaping horror with no sound. Eyes straining with disbelief…maybe another Ruse, perhaps The Ultimate Pose. Even maybe a Conspiracy. You did yet have a few Fans left, Poor Morbid Souls, and you were good at Pulling Strings. Who dares wonder What It’s All About? What Monster Game. You always had one.

Hey Monster! It’s Over. Even the Miles of Youtube Last Words, that will never Go Away, can’t touch me anymore.
I’ll Admit, I subjected myself. Yeah I watched it. You knew I would. Ironic. That’s what did it. I only could picture the Wizard Behind the Curtain in Oz…Nothing There. I really thought for sure, being The End and all…but Nope…Nothing At All. Just a Dude Pulling Levers. And some Smoke. So scary. Right?

What do you do when the monster dies. Mmm-hmm. A part of me dies. But it’s the part you made. She was never mine. I just didn’t know. I wasn’t a monster, I didn’t deserve you at all.
Having another chunk of me fall off the bone, sure it hurts. I can feel the tearing. But I can take it. It’s just a husk anyway. One you made me wear, a long time ago, like a bad dress. I didn’t know I could take it off. But now I’m not fucking around with it; It’s not my size. I’ve already burned it in the wood stove.

Monster? Maybe Somewhere, there’s Something Better for you. I always believed you Chose. But maybe some of us Can’t Change. It’s just Who You Were. So, Monster. Just…



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 87 other followers