Category Archives: heartbreak

Trauma is a bitch…

Have you ever heard how our bodies can carry memories of our trauma within them?
I’ve experienced it a little before, crying during deeply effective yoga, or a really good massage, but having this abdominal surgery is stirring up all sorts of trauma.
Why?
Well the last abdominal surgery was smack dab in the middle of one of the worst years of my life, and I really didn’t get to deal with much of it at all.
So here is today’s podcast. It’s a healing step taken selfishly for me, one I should have taken ages ago, but haven’t because I hate to do anything that could remotely upset or hurt people. That isn’t my intention here, but it might be a side effect. Even knowing that has made me doubt doing this all day.
I have to stop impairing my own healing on the off chance my voice could upset someone, especially when I am only speaking my truth.

It's ok to not be ok, or so I'm told. SavvySpoons – Living a life of limited spell slots.

I'm not doing so hot on the keeping it together front. My German farmer ancestors are rolling over in their graves at my lack of stoicism but I decided to talk about it with you. The world. Or, you know, the 9-10 of you who listen to me. So join in, settle down, and share in some not okay action.¬† — Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/savvyspoons/support
  1. It's ok to not be ok, or so I'm told.
  2. Uncut and in pain
  3. Of birthdays and teenagers…
  4. Touchstone Tuesday and My Tummy Wombat
  5. Crafty Crap on a Sunday

Home is where the heart aches…

It hits me the hardest when I put down my luggage.
A stillness settles over me as my heart remembers you are no longer here to promptly sit on it while I try to put everything away.
I am defeated.

I will carry the memory of the loss of you with me for several more days before it settles back into the reality of my existence and the loss begins to be normal again.

You aren’t sitting on my lap and incessantly demanding I lie still to make up for the time we lost when I was away.

You aren’t rubbing against my face when I try to use the computer, insistent that all attention should be paid to you.
I’ve never had an easier time writing.

You aren’t tripping me on the stairs.

You aren’t batting my face in the night.

You aren’t.

Broken, not broken enough…

My broken is not broken enough
to get the help I need
to stop the bleed

of endless co-pays and medical bills
of supplement costs
of specialist fees.

any adventure I manage to have
any life I squeeze
any pleasure I tease

from this tattered body and shattered dreams
becomes the reason You see
to refuse the need.

my broken is not broken enough
i should be deteriorating more
lying prone on the floor

or screaming in torment and pain
unable to enjoy a thing
enterally suffering.

my walk with the dog around the block
isn’t a sign that I’m lying
i don’t have to be constantly crying

to need help and support
from my village
it isn’t my intent to pillage

i would work if I could.

You would see the food thrown to the crows
rather than let it slip
through my lips

because it might have been earned with your labor
and You never need a favor
everything You have You worked for.

You personally paid for the street that was laid
for your car to traverse
on your way to work.

And the water You mindlessly drink
from your kitchen sink
comes from your well

dug with your own hands at your own cost
You got nothing from us
never even rode a bus.

My broken isn’t broken enough
to stir empathy
in your heart

You lack the sympathy
to understand
You won’t lend a hand

You are your own man.