Give me salve for the wounds

Of your children.

They are tortured

And silently scream for help.

I know they cannot heal alone.

They use bandages to hide

And change them from time to time,

But the wounds!—

The wounds are infected

And will not be forgotten.

I am a helper.

I march softly.

I will uncover the gangrenous mess

And offer Your antiseptic.

Cleansing brings pain—stinging pain—

But heals from the inside out

Leaving only a scar of experience

Reminding us to flee danger.

Betsy

My mind is deep fat fried,

Dropped into a bowl of tepid water.

Watch them rise— the morbid bubbles of grease—.

Like flotsam they bob—

The wasted lifeboats

Of a sunken ship.

Portia

With no premonition,

No thought of tomorrow,

Suddenly it comes near: a dream.

I see me, but yet not me: it is a new person.

Me— walking with strength,

Me— walking with confidence,

Me— in a shining garment.

Justified.

I look down at my past for a long moment.

I pick up my ragged cloak

And follow Faith.

Fear leans down to whisper,

You?

But I smile,

Because the Power is on my side,

And I say,

Yes, Me.

As I walk

I gaze into the setting sun—

Give me a part of your brightness

To hold in this dark, lest

My limbs freeze and shrivel:

Restoration is a long painful process.

I raise my face into the wind—

Blow away a part of the anguish

That pinches and twists

And makes me to walk

Like an old, old creature.

I turn my ear to the falling water—

Come wash away a part of the grime

That is always on my window!

I want to look out—past this day—

Where Truth waits in a sunny spot.

Betsy

So it frightens you. And to me it's not- anything. It's just stating how I feel on an everyday basis. Well- you see what happens when I mention it.

After a friend talked on her blog about facing her feelings and pain I was impressed; I am not that brave. But it comes down to this: even when I can face it, others can’t.

I do need to acknowledge my feelings as I am able. Since I can't do that to those around me I have this blog I haven't shared with them. Listen to this: "...Who really knows you at all if you cannot talk of your greatest thoughts?" -Blue Roses, 'Greatest Thoughts'

This is who I am; Mildred is not. A lot of the time I have to be Mildred to cope but I need to be understood, not seen as Mildred only.

I’m not demanding answers from anyone; I'm not having a "rough time" right now: this is the usual. I avoid certain people I would otherwise hang out with because most of them see me as Mildred and I can't keep up with that. If everyone knew the truth I wouldn't have to skulk around anymore. It was all different in the circle I was in last fall and winter; everybody knew why I was there and treated me accordingly. I wasn't afraid to go to social functions.

Here I am the first one out the door after church and don't do any socializing during the week. They apparently have no clue why I am suddenly here instead of my own home far away. As if I moved because I got tired of my home and I'm living it up here and looking for a job.

I know I don't make much sense; it doesn't to me either. And I am demanding and easily upset and and and. I am sorry for everyone around me that it is this way; I just can't wrap around everything and be balanced. I feel better after writing this all out to you. I wish everyone could read it and be comfortable with it.

Hazel

I had long hair once. It was past my waist, and soft? You have rarely run the back of your finger over hair as soft as that. Dorothy had a hissy fit about washing it all the time and Sylvia got all excited and one night- one night at 3 AM they took the biggest pair of scissors I had and hacked it off at the top of my shoulders.

Those two girls together are scary: Dorothy will bite your head off and Sylvia is too loony to do anything but laugh hysterically and gnaw her knuckles. She holds them up to me and points out the smiley face of teeth marks.

Olive

That's how it is:  I live devoid of emotion. It takes care of any "secrets" I might otherwise record and leave behind when I’m gone. I cannot even honestly face the question, Will I ever get well?

I can't go into emotions: that's playing with fire.

So I be Mildred-

and be Mildred-

and it's not me.

And I hate it- I really do- if I would think about it.

But then I panic. I must not panic: it wears me out. So I be Mildred.

I just want to knock her face in. Going around like that, pretending to be me, laughing and telling everyone I was only being dramatic.

Does everyone feel stuck in their life like I do? I didn't always: I had things going there for a while- but they fell flat when I lost my energy and mind, again.

Pressure. There's so much pressure in my head. I panic.

I feel like posting this whole mess where Mildred’s friends could see it. In a fit of rebellion, of course. But that would cause such upset for everyone, which makes me panic. They ask questions I can't answer and I am consumed with guilt for not having answers-

I have to be calm. I have to be calm. But I am not anything really: I am not living; I am not dead- and nobody knows me.

Dorothy

Heavy grasshopper lands on my skirt, yellow and strong.  It is September. Soon we will hear the rustle of silk ball gowns with every sudden start and stop of the Wind in the old oak tree. A million voices rise and fall. One, just one leaf screeches across the sidewalk, reluctant to begin his descent into deterioration. A crowd overtakes him, sweeping him into a waltz. The world is filled with the wonder of coldness creeping into the evening air, clutching us with iced fingers, filling our hair with fallen stars-

I laugh.

I sing with them: the stars, the wind, the grasshoppers. They must not leave me behind! I too, want a Backward Glance before we move on. I must celebrate before saying goodbye.

Sylvia