Archive for March, 2017



They say every sin will have a thousand eyes
To guilty fools with guilty minds
But I most be cruel to be kind
Deep within a my head of stone
Could I be – of stone – could I be – of stone – could I be

Oh how the birds forget to sing
Do they know where I have been?
Oh how I will leave you there again
Deep within my head of stone
Could I be – of stone – could I be – of stone – could I be

You are my only one
You are my only one
You are my lonely one
You are my only one

Oh for the trees did grow there, and the plants did spring
Oh for they know a lovers sin
Ain’t made of paper or of string
It’s cast into a head of stone
Could I be – of stone – could I be – of stone – could I be


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I am sick.  I have been sick off and on for a very long time. Not really the kind of sick that you can definitively define with a diagnosis and move on… but with the kind of unusual achiness and the uncomfortable pain and swelling and feeling like a very old woman kind of sick.

Upon facing my mortality recently… I started thinking of my story.  My life. The things that have happened to me and the things I have overcome.

I wonder how much of these stories I should write down, and how many of these stories I should take to the grave locked securely in my old woman heart, for nobody else to ever know.

I wonder if in the telling of these stories to the only people that would care to know or read them, my children, if in reading these things they would change their opinion of me?

I was not a good person for many of my young adult years. I now know it was a response and a coping in part to my past child abuse, but it still doesn’t make it any easier to see written out the brutal and ugly things I did.

I was not a very nice girl.

Mainly I wonder how much of this tell-all would really matter to my children? Do they really need to know about all the men I slept with? Or all the drinking and stealing I did to escape the pain?

Do they even need to hear about my past? Do they need to know the terrible things my mom did to me? My mom, their grandmother, that they loved very much and can’t remember ever seeing this behavior. Do I really need to change their opinion on one of the best grandmothers ever?

There was a quote in the movie Titanic, something about a woman’s heart being a garden of secrets… my heart is a parched land filled with rocks and cacti, do they really need to see this ugliness that I have kept hidden from them so very very well for so very very long?

I think its best to use this history as a plot for a book, or for blog posts that will go unseen by 99% of the world… I think my children should remain protected from who I really have been, from who I really am at times. I don’t want them to see me as anything but a good, kind, loving mom. Because that is who I am now… and that’s all that matters.

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