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This is prose

Dear Sandy,
Another day dawns, what have you done? Is today a better day than yesterday or merely a continuance of the sloth you’ve become? Look inside yourself, unwrap the layers in which you’ve cocooned yourself. Delve really deep … into the depths of both body and soul. What ails you? The melancholy of sameness births laziness, doesn’t it?
Life’s journey hasn’t been on level or paved roads, has it? You’ve always scribbled notes, here and there, because the journals you sought to keep were seized and burnt when your mom found them. Why? The negatives outnumbered the positive things you wrote (Mom hated that) but, still, with their burning came some relief as the ashes flew upward for the angels to read.
As a child, you often closed your eyes to ‘talk’ to the dad you lost at age five, then you penned letters to him because Mom thought you ‘weird’. You couldn’t talk to her about anything without her yelling at you. “YOU’RE WRONG!” “YOU’RE STUPID!” “YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!” You were always ‘the rotten child’, ‘the bad apple’ but, then, you were your ‘father’s child’. All the time? Of course! Who else but another severely hearing-impaired person (your Dad) could help you cope with ‘normal’ people … especially when your mom called you a ‘freak’?
You could, DID, integrate the schools—the first handicapped child—but it was hard. Not only did some of the other kids call you names but you were stoned—in the sixth grade a group of kids surrounded you on the playground and threw rocks at you until you fell to your knees begging them to stop. One friend, Sharon, broke though and covered your body with hers … while she screamed bloody murder. You hadn’t yelled, screamed or cursed. Your mom beat you; yelling only prolonged and intensified the beating.
It bothers you still, the word ‘freak’. Some folks never understand how hard it is for those with impairments to survive among ‘normal’ people—people with moustaches, beards, accents, low voices, etc. You can’t lip-read everyone and dare not trust the world with your secret as it makes you ‘vulnerable’. You, instead, allowed everyone to assume you were ‘silly’ and then, strangely, became a clown so you could laugh (with others) at your mistakes. They pile up—errors do—which annoys you to no end!
Depression bugs you, huh? Yep! Everyone you’ve ever loved unconditionally seems to have died.
“YOU’RE A JINX!” Momma’s voice hovers ever near and frightens you, wraps you in layers of cellophane.
Your dad, your pets, some friends, your ‘surrogate’ dad, your older sister … but, mostly, it’s the brutal, grotesque murder of your only son that haunts you. If only he could’ve HEARD, could Doug have lived? Hey, you didn’t blame your deafness on your dad! Maybe Doug did blame you … when he was angry … that he inherited your deafness; “I didn’t ask to be born this way!” No one asks for handicaps; they’re accidents that often befall the most innocent of all humans—fetuses!
Friends are God’s gift to help us when we feel abandoned; when His presence isn’t enough to get us through trials and tribulations. But, alas, you falter there too. Scared of losing them, you don’t keep up with your end—don’t correspond enough, say the wrong things, etc. What if they die? Death happens, you know. Besides, you’re overwhelmed with a multitude of friends and simply can’t keep up with ALL of them.
Why? You’re getting older plus you’re raising a ‘high-needs’ child who is blind. THAT is a BIG responsibility! You’re his ‘best friend,’ he trusts you completely to help him adjust to this ‘injustice’—the loss of ALL his sight. It hurts that sometimes nothing seems to be going forward. You take two steps forward and slide back three … or four.
Everything needs to be relearned! He’d begun making his bed; now he doesn’t care—can’t see it. Doogie used to keep his room picked up; now it’s usually a mess as he’s always searching for something; sometimes he doesn’t even know ‘what’ he’s searching for! You help him organize it; he, again, reorganizes. No one can find anything in his chaotic reorganization!
Totally frustrated at times, you used to confide in your older sister, Helen. She died and now you confide in no one. It’s hard keeping things to yourself without exploding so you write and draw like a maniac—knowing that you have to ‘get it out of your system’ one way or another. Seven books in six months is pushing it, yet you’re already nearly done with number eight. Helen always told you that when you wrote, she was there in spirit reading over your shoulder. You know she’s reading but you can’t hear her laughter, her suggestions, anymore and you cry … alone. She’s gone and you can’t bring her back … the same applies to Doug. You miss them daily, dearly. They both were comforting souls.
Healing takes time and often occurs when you’re playing with your grandson. Hopefully, your friends will understand and ‘be there’ whenever you’re ready to talk, socialize again. True friendship doesn’t need daily maintanence—they just need to know ‘what’s going on with you’, ‘why you don’t answer’. Small talk helps, forwards don’t (too many crashes have occurred when you’ve opened forwards and Al doesn’t like having to fix your computer).
Okay, smile, e-book #1, A Little Hope, is finished and available at Mystic East.
Be thankful for that, your friends & family, plus no major health problems, no financial problems, and your faith’s unfaltering. All that GOOD stuff far outweighs the bad … the loneliness.
Heads up, girl! Get on with life! Don’t bed down in the muck—it’ll make you reek ! Know that I, your spirit, am lifted most by faith, hope, laughter and charity, and get on with those things.
Go with God, family and friends—those are good hands to be in!
Love,
Your Spirit