Many of y’all have asked me before, “What the hell are you talking about when you say you’re running out of spoons?” This article should help explain things for you in ways I can’t.
I have an undiagnosed autoimmune disease & fibromyalgia. Everyday is like this.
http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/wpress/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/
Here’s a PDF download of “The Spoon Theory.” http://db.tt/HhtWtiod
First, there was Mama.
My heart breaks every day, a thousand times a day, because I miss my mama. She was my best friend. She knew everything about me, loved everything about me, was proud of me, helped make me the woman I am today. I miss her so much.
I lost a string of uncles and aunts. I don’t have pictures of them. I wish I did. They look like Grandpa, though. And I miss him, too. He was a wonderful, sweet, wise man.
My big brother’s best friend, Bill, died. He was like a second big brother to me.
Then, my littlest sister, Melinda, died of heart failure.
I lost more cousins.
Today, my cousin Carolyn.
Also included throughout these past few years, I’ve lost more uncles. More aunts. More extended family. More loss. Please excuse me if I haven’t pictured someone or listed someone individually. I’ve been incredibly ill the last few years, and I have lost a lot of people.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
We are all stardust.
Speak your truths to your people now, while you can.
After a long, dark year, my doctor and I have stumbled upon a new-to-me medication that is actually working for me. Instead of just existing, I’m starting to come back to life. Here are a few paintings I’ve done recently. Love the burst of creativity that has come with my reawakening.
Winter Birch. Oil pastels on canvas.
Downcast. Acrylic on canvas.
Night Fire. Acrylic on canvas.
Today is my 34th birthday. Tomorrow is Camilla’s 4th birthday. We got Mama and Mia manicures at Hair, Body & Sol today. We had the GREATEST time.
This just became “our” thing. I have already been told we are going to do this for our next birthday. Mia had the best time talking a mile a minute to the wonderful ladies at Hair, Body & Sol, and picking out the colors she wanted (she wound up with a bright pink base with a warm purple shatter top coat). She asked what everything was, at least once. She asked for water. She said she needed her hair moved out of her eyes. She asked for a fan so her nails could dry faster. She asked to get her feet done, too, but that was not on the schedule for today. Camilla definitely has diva in her blood; it’s good to see that my girl knows what she likes and isn’t afraid to ask for it. 
This birthday diva was pretty damn happy with the whole thing. I love that I’m making such happy memories with her, and setting up a fun new tradition. I loved my manicure, and I’m certainly eager to go back for more services. Happy birthday to us!
She holds it close
clutching
wrapping it around her
a blanket or a favorite sweater
a hot cup of coffee
enveloping her in swirling steam
the sound of her lover’s voice
seductive and promising
this bitterness that is taking over
a clever parasite
attaching, attacking her nervous system
replacing her soft brown eyes
making all the edges sharper, lethal
the brightness glaring, darkness deeper
her skin bristles, sensitive
recoiling, anticipating harm
coursing through her veins
heating her, boiling her alive
words sparking off her tongue
dripping napalm, fiery, explosive
displacing oxygen in her brain
thoughts breaking, raging, racing
turning her against herself
turning her into herself
disguised as truth, warmth, familiarity
she holds it close
clutching
this bitterness that has taken over.
You sit there across from me,
Your eyes speak hunger, loneliness, anger.
We pretend to talk about the weather
Or something equally inane and unchanging.
It’s been a good day, perhaps,
Or else it’s been a bad one.
They’ll all be mediocre in hindsight.
There’s chatter of lost lives, suspended,
Like wash on the line waiting to be remembered,
Brought in, put away neatly.
I wonder. Maybe you’ve never done your own laundry.
We sit around coffee tables,
Recanting stories to any willing ears,
And we take turns listening –
To ignore what we’re missing,
That which we see behind our eyelids
And all the vaporous smiles.
I nod, mutter something soothing.
It’s all complacency.
I know what you want because my eyes look like yours.
We’re filling silence with words forgotten
The moment they cross our lips,
So we don’t smother each other with these shared
Unspoken desires that threaten to suffocate us like shadows
Or murder us in our sleep for our negligence.
Perhaps we should stop talking.
You’ve heard of Schrödinger’s Cat.
Both dead and alive at the same time.
I believe we’re each like that kitty.
At least, I can see it in my heart.
Every fork in the road leading to
A different life, a different world,
Lifetimes playing out before me
In an instant, whenever I close my eyes.
One, where my mother kept me.
In that, I am small, trapped, destroyed,
While she still ends up dead drunk
On the floor, only I had found her instead.
Another, my youthful innocence
Remains intact, pure, unbridled.
I can’t see that world so clearly.
The lights are too bright, colors too saturated,
Shifting everything a little out of focus.
Over there, I never make it to the stairwell
And things play out with new characters.
But here, I got on the plane, and I see
Laughter, veils, fights, passion, tiny feet,
And improvisation. Apartments, jobs, travel,
Bourbon on the floor, temper tantrums,
And something that looks like love.
Then I open my eyes, as always happens,
And all of the elements remain the same
But our roles are so different and identical.
Eyes open or closed, the cat is dead and alive.
I just wonder if you see it all too.
Copyright © 2007 - 2013
Crystal S. McDonald
All Rights Reserved.
