Through the Eyes of This Poet/Artist

Many of you who have reached this far in my writing content, out of sheer curiousity, are probably at a point of still wondering, why I'm delving into my whole personal life, dirty laundry aired out in text. I'll put that in my last paragraph. For now, I'll continue where I left off. Yes, there are things I've skipped over. Would you like me to write a complete book?

I had gone out, dancing, flirting, drinking, and just trying to have a good time, like most young women and men do. After graduating from High School, I had decided upon staying with my aging grandparents, helping them with cleaning and running to the stores for anything they needed. I had taken some home study courses in Fine Arts to attempt furthering my education, and illustrating was my love. It was also an outlet for some of the things that often bothered me. Minus the clay figures of little people in coffins of course! My biggest fascinations were buildings, especially older architecture and churches. I met my husband while out having a good time. My grandparents did not want me to move out, but understood. He did a lot for me, and was really a good person, but we had other differences in our marriage that could not be worked out, and should have been discussed long before the concept of tying the knot. He was 14 years older than me, which to me wasn't an issue, and only really became an issue when my doctor had discovered a health situation that could prevent me from having children. At first, I tried to analyze it all to myself. We could adopt if necessary. We were a couple, we were not without the things we needed, we both were working rather decent paying jobs. As an older man, the idea of having a family was not something he wanted to even really consider, and it left me confused, as in my mind, I thought that was what people did when they got married; worked, maintained a good home environment, and started families of their own.

Many other things started happening around this time period also. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, between stage 3 and 4. Her going through treatments, and watching her lose her pretty fine hair, saddened me, but she stood up so strong, and continued doing the things she normally did. Sometimes I felt she pushed herself way too hard, but it was for good reason, and I believe why she is a cancer survivor. She's earned the title.

My pain, sadness, anger, and every other emotion, directed itself in the form of poetry, as well as illustrations. The poetry was a venting outlet, and still is. I would say writing can be nearly as good as counselling. (I wouldn't truly suggest it, unless it really works for you, and then every individual is different)

My grandfather's health had started to fail, and between jobs, and the life I was spending with my husband, I would visit, and try to get time in everyday or every other day. I started to discuss the situation more with my husband about having children, and then it became more a settled option: separation and divorce. The issues between us were bigger than us, and we both knew it. We did it all at an amiccable level, and still remained in moderate contact following it all on good terms. I dated, sometimes I let myself get used, wearing my heart on my sleeve, thinking this could be "the one", and then sometimes in bittersweet bitterness I became the "user", because I was not wanting the heartache, the commitment, to only find out later that person couldn't truly commit to something long term with a future in it. I wrote. I wrote continuously in every emotion. I have stacks, maybe thousands of poems with every emotion in every one, from many moments that passed. From passion to heartache, from happy memories, to sad and angered ones.

Some feelings of helplessness came over me with my grandfather being ill. My mom's battle had seemingly been won, at least for a time. For me to watch my grandpa, a man whom had to quit school in the first grade to provide himself a meal, like a big kid, who was so giving, and fun in my youth, with his harmonica playing, and bicycle fixing, and yes even the embarrassing times of him collecting bottles to acquire spare change at the redemption center from the trash cans in our local park, with other kids yelling and picking; that man I loved so very much, it hurt, a lot. I did foolish things during this period of my life too. I suppose to redirect the pain of feeling like the only thing I could do was try to cheer him, make him laugh. I couldn't make him better, and needed to face facts, he was getting old.

My family and I found him, on the floor, in a spare room where he slept the night before. My mom and I had a strange feeling hanging over us. Though he had piped up to us saying: "Turn off that F*N light, its burning my eyes!" We stayed there until about 3 or 4 in the morning. My grandmother discovered him around 7:30, and we ran quickly, because she wasn't sure what really was happening. I touched his shoulder, his eyes were closed, and blue, on his knees, in a prayer-like position. It was probably 45 below zero outside and the shock of seeing him that way, really messed me up. I ventured into the park and sat on the old bandstand. The cold didn't phase me outside. I needed the time to think and get myself back together. Not just for me, but for what would come next, for my grandmother, and the rest of my family. I quit my jobs to follow and help my mother with my grandma. The house was sold, and we ventured off to upstate New York, where my mother had purchased another home. A place my grandmother wished she could go back to, and hadn't been in 70 years. It was good for her and her well being. She regained herself to some degree for a while. She had fun, and we had fun with her. I knew that the inevitable was around the corner, I just didn't know the whens and the hows. She loved the same man I met and fell in love with during our time in New York, because he happened to be a short Irish man, and a bit on the comical side, with things in common with her when she was young, and they laughed a lot about it together. Eleven months after being there she fell. I helped my mom in her care. She hated not being able to do for herself and at times thought she was a burden. She wasn't. She was just like me when I was young and my mother was sick, needing someone to help, love, and guide. We put our all into her care, and hospice was there to help assist in ways we couldn't, and ensure our emotional states were going to hold up as a family after her passing. She left this earth 4 days before Christmas in 2004. It was hard to get use to her being gone, for everyone. We still celebrated Christmas that year. It was her favorite holiday, the giving season. It was somber, but we managed to acquire some smiles, and spoke of her life rather than her death. Some funny moments when her hard of hearing made her interpret some words out of context my grandfather had asked her about. "Catherine, do you want a can of peas?" and out it came from my grandma, "NO, the dog don't have no F*N FLEAS!!!", and my grandpa, "April, make her stop, she's being mean to me." Or another funny moment of my sister asking her to pass the butter at Easter dinner, and she unwraps the square and just sets it into her hand directly. Or eyeballs my sister's breasts, and says, "Oh my, Peg, those are as big as my head, you need to do something about that!!!"

My biggest points in all of this is, pulling some laughter from the tragedies, some smiles from the pain. Get it out by talking about it all or writing about it, or even both. In my youth admittedly I did not vent enough. Don't let certain circumstances in life, or losses prevent you from moving ahead. I still have my moments, and I'm sure there will be many more to come, but I'll get through them, or over the hurdles, or if I even have to crawl under them, I will. Find the better answers that surround the situations, instead of misdirecting that pain, because in misdirecting it, it will only double it.

At this point in my life I have to come to realize, that some things probably won't ever change. There will still be tragedy, heartache, and ill-treatment of others misfortunes. The ones who cause pain on purpose are the ones who are the saddest of all. Don't let it break the good inside of you. Don't let it ruin your life. Who am I to speak of all of this? Just a simple poet/artist with a goal. Writing in emotions that can be direct venting, or in between the lines of it all, with some imagination, like painting a picture of the world in a perfect calm state, or like my poem, "Lets Pretend". This is the heart of who I am. The best that can be done is to pass forth wisdom from generations gone to my child, to let her know its okay to cry, to not allow herself to be stepped on, to discuss everything that is on her mind because it is important, and most of all to believe in herself and know that she is worth it, to understand that death is inevitable for us all, but the body is a vessel that carries a soul, and those we've had the pleasure of being around can also leave with us the most wonderful memories that we can tell our own grandchildren about, and maybe in turn they will do the same. For now I will continue to write the poetry I have in my heart, on any given day, illustrating the things I love seeing surrounding me, and hopefully it connects to others in the heart of it all, in any emotion (hopefully it will contain some laughs in it, some bits of sound advice, or maybe it will inspire another in a similar situation.)