Tag: Tears

The Parsimonious Me Returns and Other Thoughts

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 2 Comments

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(A collection of thoughts for a writing project)

The unpleasant events of an old woman living in modern day times can be fearful. Everything around the world is being destroyed by fire, smoldering lava of a volcano, buildings are imploding and exploding by the work of foreign or homegrown terrorist. Tsunami’s wipe out shorelines and far inland, earthquakes swallows everything in the path of its deadly fingers opening the earth. Global warming is real, our weather and the results of it leave broad paths of destruction to prove it.

If we compare our inward selves to the unpleasant events of the times within the family, friends and acquaintances, our deep secrets and the truth of the spirit and soul are no doubt warring. Yes, the outward looks and smiles get you through those needed moments, all the while the turmoil is griping you inward with you pushing it to the edge of doom and no return. Of course, what does this have to do with aging; I am certain all ages go through the insecure components of their sense

Yet, all the time we are aging, in those winter years it becomes scary, there is so much to do with less time to do it. Time will not stand still. The family “rock” must be strong, able to withstand anything. I have lead life as best I could. Outside the family, I had role models, my Aunt, a teacher, and when I became an adult, I had work mentors.

I live with depression, anxiety, all of my life and with thoughts of suicide, and during those married years, I thought of it more often; but I had too many responsibilities as an adult to act upon my thoughts. All of these debilitating feelings started in childhood. When I was not in school, I was at home alone to roam the woods surrounding our home. We had no phones, and my mother told me how to act, to live, what to say…be seen and not heard, she was not a woman who beat children. She was a woman that tore her children down mentally, telling me I should be grateful to be living and have a mother. Well that statement and its answer, is far too long to place in this post, it will have to be covered as a topic all its own.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

*A collection of thoughts for a new book

 

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Everyone has a past and everyone has memories. I am currently working on a project of a series of five books, a biography of the lives of myself and of those that are relatives. This post and others will consist of my thoughts on many subjects. My poetry will have to sit on the back burner so to speak, as this is an undertaking that will span a year or more.

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The Ticking Clock…

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The Ticking Clock…
A weathervane stilled under a glowing moon bares to the moon its raven wings, in predicted circles it swings. Fishing boats rise and fall behind the jetty wall, the old man mending his netting can hear the sea call.

Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman’s mind rushes like the tick of a clock. Time for one more catch before winter freezes the shore; the nets have taken too long, an overwhelming chore.

He sits remembering his world, its ghosts that the ocean has taken, the young men that God had forsaken. In the beginning the ancient winds brought the fish to earth, they filled the sea to give birth.

Our ancestor’s footsteps imprinted upon the pier, late in the night their sorrowful cries we can hear. Hurry, hurry the time is growing near, soon your boats will freeze in their moorings, the winter winds are what you should fear.

Look upward at the weathervane and its circular world, around and around it whirls. The daybreak will quickly be gone and you will ask God…where did I go wrong. Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman mind rushes like the tick of a clock.

 
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The message in this poem is live moment by moment, live today, yesterday is gone, tomorrow is unknown.

 
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The Passing of Time…

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The Passing of Time…

What can one say about growing old? The loss of shape, hiding beneath many layers of clothing, sparkle gone from one’s eyes. One is no longer beautiful in the eyes of others. The function of one’s body grows weaker, sitting in that doomed place with little human contact. The sunset-glow felt in the beginning of each day is gone. Dreams escape the demented mind, as does the ordinariness of each day.

There is certain knowledge within the fog of the mind of the aged; those long ago youthful days may flitter across the closed window of the mind. Nonetheless, the prison door never opens the walled-in prison unknown to most. It is the last stage of life, frozen within and quite, a phantom of themselves, a hollow ghost.

No longer, a figure of delight, no longer surrounded by the sweet smell of life. Like the snow-covered winter landscape, life is stilled; a shadow of one’s long ago self. Life from the womb begins a painful story, a stormy world like summer storms, winds and rain. Beauty spent and done, despite Hells rage now silenced by the passing of time. With the eyes looking pass what lies ahead, bondage no longer a threat as the mind realizes it will end in death.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Aging
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Flying with Broken Wings

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Excerpt: Flying with Broken Wings

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A Journey into a Life of Bipolar, Cerebral Palsy, Depression and Schizophrenia Disorders

All Copyrights © 2017 Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

“The Demons”

[Mom] Flying with Broken Wings is the story of my daughter Charlotte, her journey from Heaven to Earth and the “unexpected” return back to Heaven when she was fifty-two-years old.

Charlotte was born on July 13, 1958, she would soon travel a path through life carrying the special circumstance of conditions that she did never denied, bipolar, cerebral palsy, and depression and schizophrenia disorders.

This is her story through my eyes, heart and mind. The many conversations agreements and disagreements with her, the outwardly life that I knew she lived, all that would be part of her life. In addition, the inter struggle that she would know. Her life, much like a rushing river, that entwined with my own and that of her family.

My memory is long and vivid…most of her demons arrived in her mid-twenties; in the beginning Charlotte was a happy child and young girl whose problems were mental and physical challenges in life, her school, yet without the demons of the mind.

When she became older, any typical day was as one in the fall of 1997; I was leaving for work and Charlotte was sitting in the middle of her bed talking in the voices of a man, woman and sometimes a little girl. She never gave these personas’ a name; however, I knew the tone of their voices, all too well.

This behavior was a red flag for me; before I went to work, I gather up all the sharp knives, everything sharp putting them in the trunk of my car. I knew what might happen when I got home.

I arrived that night standing by my car staring up at our living room windows. Yes, Charlotte lived with me for thirty-nine-years, I pretended not to see her look out the window; when suddenly the lights went out I knew that she would be in her dark bedroom. I knew when I walked in the door that, the Charlotte I knew when I went to work that day had gone away.

In her place was the persona of the man and woman with evil minds whose intent was to control her and harm me. The little girl seems to be there for Charlotte’s protection, she always talk kind and sweet, begging Charlotte to stay calm and not listen to the other voices.

The first words I would hear upon walking in the apartment was that of Charlotte’s own voice begging the man to go away, and then he would speak to her with a low menacing evil sound coming through Charlotte.

“Get up, you know what you should do”, his voice almost a low growl.

Suddenly she was standing in the kitchen, towering over me. I tried to show no emotion, I ask how her night went, my usual patter before I went into the bathroom. My own voice as calm and normal as I could make it sound. I showered, turned on the TV while she pace from kitchen to her bedroom, stopping occasionally to stare irately at me. I took my car keys and handbag into my bedroom; closed the door placing a security stick under the doorknob.

I went to bed secure that she could not get to me. I was not afraid to die; I did not want was for Charlotte to live out her life with such a heinous act hanging over her. It was then that I heard the man voice calling from the other side of my bedroom door, the man with no name.

“Better not go to sleep, I’ll cut your troth.”

The personas that developed over time were deep within Charlotte’s psyche; he and the woman could take over her thoughts and actions any time that they wanted too. I had tried to talk to him and the woman before, begging both to leave her alone; they would curse me and say they were going to kill Charlotte and me too.

The incident is only one of many that she and I would have to endure. I am in hopes that Charlotte’s story can help others who live under the same conditions to learn that living with these children is a forever changing pattern, one did not know where to go or what to do to help their child in those days, they were usually medicated to a zombie state.

That is not true of today, the twenty-first-century; there are many avenues of help for the children and their parents. I want parents to stay strong and let their children young or adult know that they are not alone!   Love them and hold onto them.

Rise and Kill the Beast…

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Rise and Kill the Beast…A Micro Short-Short Story

She woke, rising from her bed; the next stop in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. My God, she thought; there in the mirror was an old woman thin lip, long gray hair, crevices lining her face. She watched the face turn pale, fear rose from the pit of her stomach closing off her breath.

Suddenly she grasps the sides of her face stretching her cheeks upward until the face was smooth. When had this happen, it was her face in the mirror! Was it during the dense darkness of the night that this happen? She open her mouth to say something, the words’ fell upon her ears, anxious, a sham, her heart beat faster and fear hung in her mouth like hot lava. What is next, hopelessness, death? This is the stage in life that people pray to their God for their sins, or whatever they have done wrong, the end could be near, was this fear.

Where did the time go, the long dark braids, the nimble fingers and graceful body? The body that played tennis, rode a bike, skied over rough waters, time was so short. She was a person that shields her spirit from the darkest, deepest pits of the Hell and learns to tolerate life. Someone, whose body gave birth, lived with the Devil’s own spawn until her escape. The one who refuse to cry or shrivel in fear as she waited for the feel of a fist.

Someone who waited for the long fingers to clutch around her neck, then in the light of day hide the truth and lies, live in mystery so no one would know. She trembled but let out no sign of fear. The body allows tears to fall after the evil thing had gone away. She tried to flatten herself upon the bed made of stones, her mind fled before she could breathe the stagnant air before the extravagant retreat.

These pains were hard to bare, the Devil’s spawn wanted groveling, her throat already like splintered wood, why had fate brought her to this doomed place, imprisoned her to live and be lost forever. To live in torment and dire despair, her spirit continuous crawling through the fires of hell, and wailed her doom to the pits darkness. Never knowing a peaceful life, a loving or genteel life denied. Her mind always filled with wisdom and untouched by the suffering. Sure, she was defeated, but she promised herself that someday she would rise and kill the Beast.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Creating Fear

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