Biological dreaming
May 9th, 2013 | SonjaSquared
One of the very last dreams I had, of someone who died. A man who gave me life. A man I never knew. A man I said goodbye to through voice medium. And died shortly after.
The dream was of him…holding back his current family. They had the most ferocious looks of hatred, vile feelings on their faces.
At the time, my interpretation was of him protecting them from me. But I knew different in the dream. My feelings deep down of loss, abandonment refused to believe. The truth of the dream was him, protecting me.
Just as my mother had protected me from him my entire life.
He was protecting me from the things he had created. A hatred of me, that he formed and made. The truth of the dream…
He was using every bit of his power to keep them from affecting who I am as a person. Which as the days go by. And communication is small. I see. I am the better product of all of his sperm and my mothers egg. Combined. No matter what he did after raping my Mother.
I am better off letting go of the namesake. And the people formed from it.
The small minded. The false beliefs. I’ve played the rounds of that life before. And it’s okay to let it go. Let them hold on to the vile images of who I am.
In the end. He did me a favor. Thank you biological father I never ever knew. For that vivid dream. I have needed it more now than I could have ever imagined.
You are I am sure, paying for your deeds in life. But so are they. But because my mother protected me from you, her rapist. And you with that dream you sent me after your death. Are now doing me a favor. And protecting me.
Thank you life.
I am okay
April 14th, 2013 | SonjaSquared
I’m okay with being odd, making you uncomfortable, and annoying the fuck out of you. I’m okay with my loudness, my sexuality, the fact I am not a perfect wife, not even close, or even remotely the best mom. I’m okay with the scar on my face, how big my nose is and the fact it is funny shaped, I’m okay with my smile and the fact I hate showing my teeth even though they’re perfect. I’m also okay with my body, and the things I do to it and what it’s done for me. I am okay with admitting I am wrong, and asking for direction when I need a bit of help. I am okay with my stubbornness, my fucked up sense of humor, and my odd sense of style and the fact that I find it impossible and infuriating to please all the people I want too, I am okay with admitting I am hurt, I am okay with my past, the partying, the sex, the drugs, the completely irrational moments of off and sadness, I am okay with being really pissed off at you for things that may not be a good enough reason in your mind for me to be pissed, I am okay with the life I have chosen, I am also okay with you judging me for it, I am okay. And I still love life. It’s almost 4am on a Sunday morning, and I’m absolutely fucking okay with being me.
Again and again
March 4th, 2013 | SonjaSquared
While you’re all finding god and going back to school. I’m pushing the limits of my own life. Never bored. I may not live to see my grandkids grow. But at least I did what I wanted.
Month 2
February 13th, 2013 | SonjaSquared
It’s almost 3am. And I’ve read so many book series to keep my mind off of the fact that money changes nothing, I feel lost in the land of writers.
Back to the subject of money. It really changes nothing. You pay off debt. You buy all those things you never could. You take care of medical bills and pet bills. And the next thing I know. It’s gone. And we still don’t have a home.
I’m not angry. I get it. But it sure would be nice to be able to afford a home.
We made the decision to stop trying to have another kid. His words. “I just want to focus on each other. And grow old together.” It made my heart leap.
He loves me. And nothing else matters. So I’ve accepted that. But back to the money. We still have nothing material.
Just each other.
So how could I be angry?
I must learn to let go. Just let it go.
Day 7
January 7th, 2013 | SonjaSquared
I’m feeling caged, and stuck. I want that to change for me.
I want the man who claims to love me to not say things like “to get access just take a hot friend!” And realize how shitty a thing that is to say.
I want to stop feeling so worthless and sad.
No picture today. I can’t even look at me.
Day 4-5 officially 6
January 6th, 2013 | SonjaSquared
I want to stop taking comments that are out of line anyways, so personal. This is my life, my loves, my surroundings. I want to embrace them to the ultimate degree. No more self doubt.
Day 3-going in to day 4
January 3rd, 2013 | SonjaSquared
This is going to take some practice.
Today I wanted to change fighting and hating my anxiety.
Day two….
January 2nd, 2013 | SonjaSquared
I entirely forgot about you…the whirlwind of daughter demands and family date night…I lost you and it’s now past midnight!
Just know I thought about you and intended to give you as much attention if not more, as day one….
Day one
January 1st, 2013 | SonjaSquared
It is day one, January 2013. Every day I will take a picture of myself. And every day I will post an entry of the emotions and physical feelings I am having. This is day one of recovering from hating and being scared of being me.
Things I would like to stop.
1. Feeling as if my face is inaccurate with out make-up to hide the sheer imperfection of it.
2. Stop being ashamed that I love burnt fries and burnt popcorn.
The one letter that stands out to me from: Letters Home from Vietnam, Dear America…
November 4th, 2012 | SonjaSquared
Marion Lee Kempner
This is a letter I refer back to in times of great stress….I am in love with the man who wrote this. Even though he has been gone from this existence for 46 years. I still find his words inspiring, beautiful, and utterly astounding. To be in the midst of such fear, and stress…and still be able to articulate the existence of a flower….and so much more.
October 20, 1966
Dear Aunt Fannie,
This Morning my Platoon and I were finishing up a three-day patrol. Struggling over steep hills covered with hedgerows, trees, and generally impenetrable jungle, one of my men turned to me and pointed a hand, filled with cuts and scratches, at a rather distinguished-looking plant with soft red flowers waving gaily in the downpour (which had been going on ever since the patrol began) and said, “that is the first plant I have seen today which didn’t have thorns on it.” I immediately thought of you.
the plant, and the hill upon which it grew, was also representative of Vietnam. It is a country of thorns and cuts, of guns and marauding, of little hope and of great failure. Yet in the midst of it all, a beautiful thought, gesture, and even person can arise among it waving bravely at the death that pours down upon it. Some day this hill will be burned by napalm, and the red flower will crackle up and die among the thorns. So what was the use of it living and being a beauty among the beasts, if it must, in the end, die because of them, and with them? This is a question which is answered by Gertrude Stein’s “A rose is a rose is a rose.” You are what you are what you are. Whether you believe in God, fate, or the crumbling cookie, elements are so mixed in a being that make him what he is; his salvation from the thorns around him lies in the fact that he existed at all, in his very own personality.
There once was a time when the jewish idea of heaven and hell was the thoughts and opinions people had of you after you died. But what if the plant was on an isolated hill and was never seen by anyone? That is like the question of whether the falling tree makes a sound in the forest primeval. when no one is there to hear it. It makes a sound, and the plant was beautiful and the thought was kind, and the person was humane, and the distinguished and brave, not merely because other people recognized it as such, but because it is, and it is, and it is.
The flower will always live in the memory of a tired, wet Marine, and has thus achieved a sort of immortality. But even if we had never gone on that hill, it would still be a distinguished, soft, red, thornless flower growing among the cutting, scratching plants, and that in itself is its own reward.
Love,
Sandy
On 11 November 1966, less than three weeks after he wrote this letter to his great-aunt Mrs. Louis Adoue, Marine 2Lt. Marion Lee Kempner, from Galveston, Texas, was killed by a mine explosion near Tien Phu. After he disarmed one mine, another was tripped by one of his men. Although wounded by shrapnel, Lt. Kempner ordered the corpsman to take of the other wounded man first. He died aboard a medevac en route to the hospital. He was 24 years old.