a stranger cupped my hand in hers at the curb of the crosswalk, and looked at me pleadingly.
I am funny about touch if I don’t know you, and sometimes even when I do, but I knew something was wrong when I saw her eyes dancing like they were running away from terror.
I tilted my head and leaned into her personal space and smelled fear. caution warned me not to turn around, so I didn’t, but I could hear him breathing.
a cop–woman, stood by her cruiser a block away, and sitting shotgun was her partner. I looked at her, raising my tethered hand, and then looked at the silent woman, and the cop knew.
the man started running as soon as their eyes locked. the silent woman sat in the backseat, and closed the cruiser’s door.
I walked two blocks home, dangling my hand at my side, twiddling my fingers, feeling the lonesome lack of the woman’s grip.
I prayed for her safety as my pulse quickened.
This was my dream from last night. I hope it isn’t a premonition or a vision into what will happen.
Pieces of Me by Maggie Watson. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I started reading this book directly after The Keeper of the Keyby Nicole Willson, and I read about fifteen pages then. I wanted to start fresh the next day without remnants of gothic horror on my brain, and this is what I did. I like to give the books I read my full attention. This occurrence was no different.
I will never understand the mind of an abuser. I will never know how someone can knowingly attempt to damage another. Maggie shares a bit of her experience through poetry inPieces of Me, and reading through some of the poems . . . I know it took courage to do so.
Here is the review I shared on Amazon and Goodreads for it:
“It Takes Courage To Free One’s Pain
And then share it with the world. That is exactly what Maggie Watson has done with her collection of poetry, Pieces of Me.
There are many poems within this collection I could highlight, and since I am old-school, I literally highlighted phrases and made comments/notes in the margins.
Reading one’s triumph over their abuser in the form of poetry is a testimonial experience. I felt as though I was watching the writer release her pain with every poem shared.
Starting off slow, a few of the poems in the first section didn’t hit me nearly as hard as the poems in the second and last section. But I most definitely felt something–it stirred up emotions within me I thought had been buried.
I commend the writer for being vulnerable enough to share with the world a traumatic life-event that didn’t ruin her outlook on how she lives, but instead gave her the strength to fully live.”
If it were up to me, the world would be rid of abusers in every form. A book of poems such as Pieces of Meshould not have to be written. Still, I am glad the writer/author shared her experience as a form of testimony and also included other instances not directly linked to her that so many people have experienced.
The world in which we live is a horrible place under the surface. But there is always a spark, a glimmer, a modicum of love and care waiting to spring forth. I believe Maggie wants that for everyone–love springing forth. And I also believe her writing will help facilitate that.
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.
Locked in the basement of their home, she waits. Years of feeling used and unwanted hang at her side. He has a crazy way of showing he loves her. She feels love, though. Is it indeed that? When he caressed her cheek lightly after she cooked his favorite meal . . . When he held her close to him in post-coital bliss . . . When he showed her off at public affairs . . .
This is their life. A back and forth of safety and danger and defeat and peril. She is at the center of a damaging storyline. Can she turn the page? Will she shift the plot?
He doesn’t like his story yet he carries it with him.
He is a burly man. A tall, lumberjack with a thick red beard to match his thick red hair. His voice is a boombox set to the highest volume. He bleeds disruption. Deep inside, there is this gentle boy who spent hundreds of nights trapped in a closet — put there by his drunk father who didn’t like the way he breathed.
At the age of ten, he was tasked with being the man of the household. A paper route and bottle cap hunting became odd jobs with little pay. A breadwinner. A means to an end.
His mother wrapped herself in blind intelligence and sulked her life away in the folds of a Tempur-Pedic mattress while her children played house. She died on his fifteenth birthday.
He makes sure she’s fed. The fattened calf. The precious lamb.
He doesn’t like his story yet he carries it with him.
She pulls the small window latch towards her, calls the winter breeze inside to feel something other than the pain stuck to her bones. She knows he’ll come downstairs soon to offer a plate a food. Maybe spaghetti tonight. Or stewed beef.
He makes sure she’s fed. The fattened calf. The precious lamb. He was a chef in his former life. She fell in love with his alfredo sauce. It was bait.
There are no children. Her mother said to be thankful she did not have the extra baggage. She can leave without tethers. She can bolt upright and out of her life with the right tools. Does she have the right tools?
He weighs the rice before plating it. A cup full. Steamed broccoli. Baked chicken bathed in homemade gravy. Scratch honey cornbread.
He walks the plate down to his wife. His prisoner. His catch. He loved her deeply. He hopes she knows this. This is for her own good. No one else will leave him. No one else can try. She is all he had.
“I made your favorite tonight, babe. Be careful. It’s hot.”
The scent of the food overpowers the fresh breeze outside. She closes the window. She looks at her husband. He stands before her with sad eyes. An even sadder smile. He places the food on a tray five feet away from her.
“I made your favorite tonight, babe. Be careful. It’s hot.”
Was she careful? Could she be? It isn’t love when you start thinking about throwing a hot pot of grits on another human being. It isn’t love when you imagine their face melting off right before your eyes.
She tastes a spoonful of rice with gravy. Her body remembers the comfort she was lured to in the beginning.
“Tomorrow, I’ll leave,” she says under her breath. “Tomorrow.”
A Cornered Gurl 
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