it’s nearly hurricane season Spring is rushing in with her hands flailing wildly among the trees the sky is hovering in wait it spits violently from its mouth
we are huddled in safe spaces keeping away from windows and finicky doors meteorologists plot and plan and untruthfully dictate when to expect the worst I flit from channel to channel praying for validity
I can hear the wind howling a loud and present reminder for me to remain patient the sun is eager to shine again and we’ll find ourselves gathered out in the open to feel something more than the enclosed spaces of our homes
crows caw and boast from building to building mocking each other during their calls to mob the other birds their means of survival strikes me as terrifying but what would they say about us
I press my fingers into my right palm a stress reliever a gentle and surefire way to calm my nerves this weather won’t last and one day we’ll emerge from the comfort of our homes happy to greet the sun again
Jernee Timid Loadholt in a Poncho. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
A Tribute Poem
We are both aging bones creaking, sight deteriorating finding ourselves slower than we once were.
I look at the brown globes for eyes looking back at me and remember how I felt the first day I lifted her to my face, nose full of puppy scent, she saved me.
I crawled outside of myself and into her heart — we’ve managed to keep each other alive for nearly thirteen years and as much as I’d like it to be, another thirteen will not occur.
My safe harbor, my boss *my wife, my everything that’s perfect and whole . . . sadness breaks away from the edges of my spirit when she lends me kisses and I feel freer.
I let those professionals within my organization shoot my body up with the first dose of their cure-all and could barely use my left arm for three days she knew . . . she understood . . . she did not expect more from me.
We’re “takin’ it to the streets” now that the sun’s decided to shake a leg with us and the pep in her step gives false hope for a decade more of her love.
I am taking what I can get, I’d be a fool to let go of this love, even when she’s gone, she’ll still be here with me.
I have grown in love because of her and because of her, I’ll give this love to someone, anyone else who may need it.
*My mom calls Jernee my “wife” at times. She typically says it like so, “You better get on back home before your wife gets mad at you.”
November 2018, post-wisdom tooth removal. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
It wasn’t self-hate. I wasn’t trying to torture myself or beat myself into non-existence. I just wanted a break away from who I was, the things that happened to me, and the success that I couldn’t seem to attain. I wanted to fade away, to leap into the body and mind of someone else other than me. I wanted my freedom — to be unhinged and removed from the only person I knew better than anyone else. But guess what? Here I am. Here is where I’ll always be.
“And remember, no matter where you go, there you are.” — Confucius
During my pre-therapy days, approximately two years ago, I would soak myself in negative thoughts. Sure, I could drum up positive feedback, words of affirmation, terms of endearment, and spread love to others —at my core, I was rotting — wasting away. I didn’t have the energy nor did I want to salvage the me hidden deep within.
Much of my adult life has been riddled with me trying to outdo my previous accomplishments then shaming myself when I couldn’t.
I left home when I was eighteen years old. My parents had been divorced since I was twelve and my stepfather wasn’t my favorite person. My mom wasn’t either — not at that time. During those years and several prior, she’d been on drugs and a violent alcoholic. So when college called, I went running toward it.
When someone you love deeply threatens to chop off any of your usable limbs while holding a machete simply because you stepped in to initiate peace between them and their spouse, it’s time to go. My mother became the person I ran away from first.
I wanted to fade away, to leap into the body and mind of someone else other than me.
The one person I loved the most, regardless of how quickly and viciously she changed, was the person who physically abused me, stole from me, left our home for days on end to be with other people (forget the fact her own children were at home, fending for themselves), called me various unsettling and belittling names, and said on more than one occasion “I just want to have fun” was the one person I begged to see me — please see me and love me. She couldn’t. Not during those days. Not without help.
Smiling Baby Tre, 1981. Photo of a photo.
Running away from my mom meant, in a sense, that I was also running away from myself. And I would do so for at least another fifteen years. Whether you want to believe it or not, there are pieces of you you’ve inherited from your parents and some of those pieces are the remnants of them you hate the most.
Anger built up in me. I was pessimistic. I had a condescending remark or rebuttal for everything. People lost interest in being around me. In all honesty, when I think back on those times, I don’t blame them.
Some well-respected and beloved relationships had been severed. There was no going back. I could only move forward.
I didn’t have the energy nor did I want to salvage the me hidden deep within.
Inherited behaviors are behaviors that are passed down genetically. Our genes control things like our hair type and color, our eye color, and our height—but we don’t usually think of them controlling our behavior. That’s partly because most of our behaviors are learned, rather than inherited.
No one tells you when you’re a teenager you will probably go through a phase in early adulthood where you recognize the hated behaviors of your parents and what’s worse, by yourself, you cannot get rid of them.
I was blooming into the person I couldn’t stomach and the world around me silently judged me for it.
As I grew older, I was able to point out the behaviors that needed changing and focus on how to do that. Genetically, there was and is no changing me, but various actions, those could be altered, finessed . . . they could be poked and prodded and shaped into better actions.
Mark Manson strongly believes in this method. He posits — a person cannot change who they are, it’s impossible, but that person can change their actions.
You can’t change. Like a thirsty man in a desert chasing a mirage, or a fat man peering into an empty fridge—there’s nothing there. So stop chasing it. Go do something else instead.
As I pressed forward into my mid-30s, various behaviors were noted, addressed, and have been and are being altered. I had to see myself for who I was in order to work on becoming better. I had to face myself, lure myself in, tackle the actions and pieces of me that broke through to the surface, and put in the work.
You will always be you. The parts of you you’ve avoided that need shifting or “finessing”, you will have to address. You will have to get knee-deep in the muck of who you are, dig for gold, and once it’s found, shine it to semi-perfection.
Attempting to run away from the very person you could always be may possibly lead to more damage. The weight of your very being is a hard one to carry but think about the outcome it could have if you run toward who you can become instead of running away from who you are (not genetically speaking).
I hope you will be able to give it a try, that is, if you are ready.
My mom also found her way to the person she was struggling to become. Her journey has been a long and arduous one — one I am grateful she had to experience in order to see the person she buried deep within herself decades ago. Ours is a story built on patience, strength, and forgiveness. We will always be working on us but it is much more beautiful now.
She’s a love I am happy to have.
I used to look in the mirror and see a woman I wanted to look away from. I now see a woman I want to run toward — I want to hug and hold her and settle into loving her forever. It was a long row to hoe and tilling my fields warranted a necessary harvest.
I have my past with me when I capture images of the world’s intense measurements of weather and all its inconsistencies.
we gather in the small belly of brooks and creeks, carrying misdeeds and moments of judgment with us. to unveil the depths of our weakest acts, I snap the places I’ve been and the things I see.
everything is a solid reminder of what has been and of what’s to come. I know you remember who I was but do you know who I am?
the broken twigs of a lonely tree send spry memories to my brain and I weep in the winter wind.
you have found your place in my heart; etched into my mind, permanently placed on the folds of time and I cannot offer you a pass or release you from your current imprisonment.
you once had all of me but now you own a few months out of the year and I am battling two different versions of myself to get those months back.
winter came for her just due and all I have is a trite recollection of your lips on mine and fingers hidden in places called private and alcohol singed split ends that never found their home on your pretty little head.
I walk with the wild breeze and talk to the sleeping sun. you were my once-upon-a-time and while I do miss you, I still have these photographs to keep me company.
they’re a much better replacement than that sly and witty smirk that never seemed to leave your unforgettable face.
yes . . . I said it — I miss you, but let that be our little secret. everything else was.
A Cornered Gurl 
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