Month: June 2021
The Lingering Effects of Parental Divorce
It Changes Everything
He used to call me baby, that was his way, until . . . Until he had to leave. I was twelve. Twelve years old, wondering what I did wrong. No one could tell me. I wasn’t old enough to be in the middle of the conversations birthed between adults. And as a Southerner, you listen to your elders. You heed their advice.
So, I thought my light had faded — if Daddy wasn’t calling me baby anymore . . . Who else would? Who else should? Was I even still deserving of that term of endearment?
My mom had been piecing together our puzzled lives. We had become the church feature — the company billboard for broken homes. They wanted me to tell the boys. To let my brothers know our family had collapsed. But how could I? I was still trying to figure out who was going to call me baby — still trying to find the reason why he had to leave.
I had an inquisitive mind so naturally, I wanted to know what went wrong and if I was it—the wrong that suddenly swarmed our home . . . was I it?!
I turned to my mom as I so often did during times of distress to perhaps pull the truth out of her . . . “Mom, what did I do?”
In the funk of a lead-ridden home, my words were useless. They did not exist.
I did . . . I did.
I still lived amongst the shadows of decrees and halves—“You’ll get them on this weekend, I’ll get them on that weekend . . .” And so on and furthermore. We were split in two. Halves of a whole. Soon to be halves of a half. Quartered. We had been made into pieces — cracked instantly on direct impact. No one would put us back together again.
I wasn’t old enough to be in the middle of the conversations birthed between adults.
Time shifted — we all grew up and out of our old selves. When I was nineteen years old, another girl was born. This one, you know very well. When she was sixteen, I realized, you had more years with her. You don’t forget her age. She doesn’t have to remind you. You’ve been to every recital, every honors night school function, and every church-affiliated soirée. I’ve often thought, it is better this way. She gives you purpose. She doesn’t question why you left — she doesn’t have to.
She could turn a corner and find you right there — waiting . . . waiting to hug her. Waiting to hold her. You had been the pillar in her dreams — strong enough for her to lean on — safe enough for her to discard her fears. I wish I had that. That . . . security and assurance. I dream of it to this day but it is not within my reach. That ship has long since sailed — I stand at the dock battered by the untimely waves.
I wandered far away, lost myself in the clouds above my head, searching for the years before the when that stultified my efforts in loving you and scattered all of us away from what was concrete. Nothing has been what I hoped it would be. Growing up without you—salty taste lingers in my mouth, a hint of envy . . . A bit of jealousy.
She had the traditional family unit— nuclear . . . Functional.
I’ve often thought, it is better this way. She gives you purpose. She doesn’t question why you left — she doesn’t have to.
The funny thing is, I say I am grown — I am mature. But truth be known, I still can’t talk about this without breaking down into a tear-consumed toddler who isn’t getting what she wants. And this, I am told, is normal or expected. Divorce. Divorce. Divorce squirms all up in my bones. I twirl the words on my tongue and the tears fall. They fall . . . I wonder if it does the same thing to you—it does not. It cannot.
And maybe, that’s why we’re estranged. That’s why we’re still holding on. No . . . That’s why I’m still holding on to pain and the moment you’ll once again call me baby.
©2016 & 2021 Tremaine L. Loadholt
This essay originally began as a narrative poem that had been published in In Two Minds on April 24, 2016. Its revision is now hosted at Age of Empathy via Medium. Thank you for reading.
Why I Write and Why I Need To
It Is Air
When you step outside and breathe in the
world around you, do you not feel alive?
Living and breathing and embracing a new
day is a tangible gift we often fail to unwrap.
I love this present. I love its presence.
It would be easy for me to simply say, “Writing is the air I breathe” or “I can’t not write,” both would be true, their cliched existence notwithstanding, but there are other reasons why. I am a person who believes in expressing herself in the most honest way possible. Oftentimes, writing is the preferable method for me.
I have been in the deepest, darkest holes and have written my way out of them.
I have found, over the years, that words when harnessed tactfully and with the proper intention, can persuade, uplift, entice, coerce, engage, hurt, destroy, and magnify. We have to choose how we use them — why we’re using them.
Writing moves me toward positive outcomes. It pulls me out of dark spaces and shows me the way to those where the light shines. I have been in the deepest, darkest holes and have written my way out of them. This isn’t to say that everyone can do this, it is my testimony to you about what I have done.
A pad is my canvas. A pen is my brush. Words are the masterpiece I paint. The outcome is art. I can choose to be intense, shy, witty, actionable, lifeless, desirable, and so many other things in my writing. I design the beginning, middle, and ending. This is a freeing reality and I hope I never lose the ability to do this.
I need to write . . . My mind is a busy place. There are characters roaring loud enough to move me toward sharing their stories. There is no way of silencing them — they demand to be heard. My own voice stomps its feet occasionally, reminding me that if I think it, I should probably write it. After devoting time to the characters in my head and my own voice, I am often relieved.
And what a great release it is.
A pad is my canvas. A pen is my brush. Words are the masterpiece I paint. The outcome is art.
I find solace in writing — in making my thoughts known in a more public arena — unleashing them only when I deem the timing to be right. Just as one can escape within stories or a plot found in their favorite book, I can escape via writing.
I wave my writer’s wand and I can be a shift-shaper, a bodybuilder, a princess, The Vice President of the United States, or a violent wave landing ashore. I choose the setting. I set the tone. I maintain the props. This is my favorite world in which to live.
When I am writing, everything seems peaceful. Nothing is amiss. There is a divine pull that creeps in and within its grip is where I can be found. What better place is there for a creative who dabbles in literary pièces de résistance?
I choose the setting. I set the tone. I maintain the props.
At age forty-one, I still have it in me to share what words can do and have done and have done so since I was nine years old. At this point, I believe it is safe to say writing is definitely my air and I am grateful for every breath I take.
When you step outside and breathe in the
world around you, do you not feel alive?
Living and breathing and embracing a new
day is a tangible gift we often fail to unwrap.
I love this present. I love its presence.
This essay is in response to the C.R.Y. prompt, What’s Your Relationship With Writing? hosted by the one and only, Kern Carter via Medium.
Foghorn Leghorn Six-word Story
Rooster roosting,
unfavorable character;
defeated d a i l y.
watching the fallen (revised)
nine-year-old girls aren’t
supposed to walk
in on their mother
losing her mind
they aren’t raised to
bear witness to the fallen
but she watched
and she knew her
mother would never
be the same
this became her gift
learning what to avoid
an adult before
her time
yet still engaged
to a world that
overlooks her and
neglects her efforts
she’s grown but not
mature enough to
understand the ways
of this world
“You can love someone
for years and never
truly know them.”
she thinks this to
herself often
is she giving too much
is she taking too much
who will accept
all of her knowing
she’s been through
hell and back
knowing she’s watched
the fallen and
has tried her
best not to fall too
A Cornered Gurl 
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