Baring It All/ Writing In Undergarments

I am too tied up to just say underpants, whoever would have thought that an old biker chick like me couldn’t say underpants to total strangers! Oh, I meant uptight. I have had a traumatic brain injury, TBI, so you can expect bizarre phrase-ology from me. Spellchecker be darned! (ooh, bold…)

Anyway, Many moons ago, when I began my blogging endeavor, I promised you (my dears) that I would tell you my story.

“The Eel and I”. I was injured in a fall soon after that promise, and many things have delayed my revelations. I am now a week or so out from right shoulder surgery at this time, but I feel that if I don’t tell you I may burst. So, there you have it. Or, at least, you will.



                       The Dark Unicorn                      c. S.T. Martin2014

The anthill always held my rapt attention. The red and black ants were so industrious, so methodical, so busy. I would rush home from elementary school each day, throw my books in the house, and hurry out to lie belly first beside my anthill. The neighborhood kids already had me pegged as a nerd, so they played ball in the street 20 feet away, but generally left me to my observations.

Inside, my Mother slumbered heavily, she would rise at 3:30 to her coffee and cigarettes, waving my older brother and I away if we dared to interrupt that 1st cup. ( She was known to refuse to speak until she had fueled these addictions.) But right now I had some time before Dad got home. I pulled out the pickle jar, pushed a couple ants in, sealed the lid and dashed into the kitchen. I  placed the jar cautiously in the freezer and washed my hands. My experiment would have to wait till after dinner.

Mom had taught me to prepare simple meals for the family since she worked the graveyard shift at a local geriatric hospital. She would be home with us till our bedtime, as we fell off to sleep her shift began. When we woke up Mom would be getting home, preparing our breakfast, and then climbing into bed herself. Dad would head to the specialty Steel Mill down the road, and my brother and I would hop on the school bus. Because we came home to what was basically an empty house, we had our own keys and fended for ourselves frequently, as did almost all the kids in this area of Pittsburgh. We  were poor, but I remember being happy sometimes.

One thing that made me very unhappy, though, was my Daddy. He was very hard to please, and very impatient. He would holler and yell at us all, and he would hit my brother. I would scream and cry when he did this, but I yearned desperately for him to notice me. The few times that I remember basking in his love an attention were once when I remember him pulling me around the floor while I grasped his ankle, and once when he held me up in the air with his feet. I can still picture it, and I can still picture my mothers face, scowling in disapproval while he did it. I remember him stopping then, and never doing it again.

She was always unhappy, I can never remember them happy together in my childhood. Yelling, always yelling.  Berating, belittling, bellowing, insulting. Slamming doors and angry faces.

I would go outside to my anthill. My quiet, orderly anthill. I hope I didn’t tell you all this before, because now I am very sleepy and my story has only begun. My shoulder is hrting, and I must quit typing and lie down. everytime I talk about how they fought and treated each other, I become SO sleepy. Since I fell in the hole at the restruant I can only write for a few minutes. My head starts to throb and the screen seems to move. I will at least post this. Goodnight.

Hi Mom!
Hi Mom!

Author: ST Martin

I am an Artist, Poet and Author. A Survivor of Violent Sexual Abuse and Rape, I have lived thru Severe Domestic Violence, Twenty Three years of Addiction and Alcoholism, Family Dysfunction, Chronic Pain, Dependence on Opioids, and 2 Venomous Snake Bites...I have Been Stabbed, Shot at, Tied to a Tree and Choked Unconscious. A Quarter Horse Rolled on Me, as did a Lawn Tractor. I also Wrecked a Harley into a Tree! I also have PTSD and Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder, and spent my 18th birthday in a Locked Psychiatric Ward. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color...

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