Speak Your Fear

Do not crawl inward

And hide within your walls

Reach out with your spirit

And boldly stand up tall

Speak your fear and pain

Open up and cry

Provide it not the shelter

To hold your soul inside

Fear will eat your beauty

And swallow words up whole

Pain will clinch you tightly

And never let up hold

Speak your fear and pain

Draw it into light of day

For in the dark it holds you

And keeps you far away

Diffuse that power o'er you

Boldly cast it out

Hold not your lips silent

Open up and shout

Speak your fear and pain

My love, I beg you try

I promise only comfort

Speak, shout or cry

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Suicide Stalks Me

Suicide is a loathsome stalker who has haunted me most of my life.

My first attempt of suicide occurred when I was 14 years old. I've had 4 serious attempts since that time and thought of it often. This is not something I want to have in my life, but unfortunately, this is the demon that tracks me, attacking me at my weakest moments.

Make no mistake; I want to live. Suicide is a voice in my head that begs me to end the pain from which I find no shelter. He speaks into my ear when I am hopeless.

"No matter what you do, this pain will return. You can change everything about your life, but you'll feel this way again at some point. You'll never be able to completely avoid this. Your only escape is death. You may as well do it now."

This is the demon that follows me from which I long to escape. This is mental illness and while it is treatable, there are no guarantees that it won't return. I make no promises that I won't take my own life one day. Just know, this is not my failure, nor the failure of anyone in my life. No one can prevent this other than God, or me, and only me if I am strong enough.

If I take my life it is because Demon Suicide has caught me and dragged me under and only he is to blame.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I deal with suicidal thoughts. Certainly a societal taboo, this is what keeps so many of us sick and struggling, and often results in death. When one is afraid to divulge this "sinful" illness, one is locked away with only the voice that begs us to take our own lives.

I know he waits for me to stumble. Upon my next emotional crisis, he may be lurking, hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce on me. My only hope is to fortify myself in the good times so as to be as prepared as possible when he returns. I have no doubt this monster will return, as he has so many times in my life. I am resolved to give him my best fight when he does and I hold out hope that one day I will oust him for good.

It has only been my motorcycle which gives me hope that I may outrun him yet.

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Conversations Overheard at Hotel Breakfast

"In 1975 when I worked as a manager at UPS, we had to have a certain amount of minorities on staff. Keep in mind, these two would be part of that, as minorities. . ."

He motions to the two women at his table of five.

"We HAD to have at least one black guy on staff. Can you believe that? We HAD to! I would have rather have 5 white women working for me than one black guy."

The entire table nodded in approval.

"I saw my first black when I turned 18 and took a trip out of Minnesota," the woman said.

"Yeah, yeah, I was nearly 21 when I saw my first one. . . " another replied.

Talk went on to discuss the weather, Harley Wide Glides, tree huggers, what's in the barn, and that cheatin' Mexican man that Martha married.

"For some reason our John Deere had dirt all over it. Like someone had dumped dirt on it."

"I was watching this thing on TV about the Hells Angels last night and Sturgis, and how his own gang was trying to kill him for stealing drug money, and about these women who rode Harleys back in the 1970's and their role in the gangs. . . " she went on and on.

Welcome to South Dakota.

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Getting Hurt at Sturgis

I wear this gear.

Because I've been,

Hurt before.

I won't let any,

Thing or person,

Hurt me more

I like my gear.

Have you not seen,

All my scars?

I hate it here.

The damage has,

Gone too far.

I don't wear,

Gear for you.

I wear gear,

Because of you. . .

(Spawned by a comment made by Vespa Steph about her gear, I found it poignant and timely, here at Sturgis. You don't see many people wearing gear, but most of them are doing plenty of damage to themselves on and off the bikes. It seems that's what Sturgis is about.)

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Sweet Sweepers

Lavender asphalt in graceful sweepers float my spirit high.
Minimal input of handlebars releases my state of mind.
Blind corners fill me with faith, in the moment I create
The present; that is all there is. This curve carries my fate.
I don't know the other side where others have gone before.
I fear not my tomorrow, and I feel care no more.
Because sweeper, sweet sweepers, do carry me away.
Carry my spirit into the blind curves, living for today.

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Disappointment

Overwhelmed.
I'm overwhelmed,
With the expectations of others.
I don't want to hear that it shouldn't matter.
That doesn't translate in the real world.

Disappointing others is never easy.

No matter how I try, or don't try, or how honest I am,
With myself, everyone around me, to my loved ones, somehow,
I'm a disappointment.

I can't please others.

Every time I hear I've disappointed you, it becomes less painful for me.
I cannot continue to care when I know inevitably I will hurt you again.

I'm not ever going to be enough for you.

Because I'm not ever going to be who you want me to be.

I've tried to please others,
In hopes they would try to please me.
It doesn't work that way.
We all just end up hating whom we've become.

All I have left is my integrity.
All I have left is my desire to please myself.
All I have left is what I came into this world with. . .
One life to live.
My own life to live.
I must please myself to find happiness, because I'll never find it in you.
You will never find happiness in me.

Your happiness, your expectations, you disappointment, your joy, your achievements, your fears, your life. . . they all have one thing in common. You.

I will not hold those things for you. I'm busy with my own.

Every time I hear I've disappointed you, it becomes less painful for me.

Say it again.
Say it over and over.
Say it until I can't feel any more.
Say it until I'm released from my pain.

Disappointment.

I've become your disappointment.

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Ancestral Bohemians

As a child, we were nomads. My mother was constantly moving us, from rental to rental, never permanent, never stable. I made friends quickly everywhere we went because by nature, I'm very social. I wanted to live in one place and have a home, like other people lived.

As an adult, those days came. I owned a home, tended my yard, swept, cleaned, took care of my husband and children. I would lie down at night so tired and wondered, "Is this really what I wanted?"

My ancestors were nomads, travelers; but not by choice. They had once been farmers and occupied their ancestral lands for hundreds of years. My Great Grandmother Minnie Burke Rogers was a member of the great Choctaw nation. The Choctaw signed nine treaties with the United States Government, the first being The Treaty of Hopewell in 1786. In 1830, the United States seized the last of the Choctaw’s ancestral territory and relocated the tribe to Indian Territory west of the Mississippi. The Choctaw were the first to walk the Trail of Tears. Nearly 2,500 members perished along the way.

My husband is a nomad, a bohemian too. He understands the longing in my heart to keep moving. Perhaps we are wanderers. . . still looking for a great place that no longer exists.

Bohemian: noun
1. a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices.
2. living a wandering or vagabond life, as a Gypsy.

The less I own, the less I am owned by my property. I want less, not more. While this seems unconventional in this society of consumerism, I am comfortable with the thought. I'm more comfortable in my skin than I ever have been. You can keep your BMW's, your boats, your giant furniture and enormous homes. You don't own those things, although you can't see it. Those things own you. Be a slave to your paycheck, your payments, your bank account. I would rather go hungry than to spend my life working for "things". I long for freedom.

On my Yamaha V*Star Tatonka I am alive and free. I'm ready to roam again. On Monday we will pack a few items, load up my motorcycle, and drink in the lined concrete and become a blur in the broken landscape. I'm going back home, if only for awhile. Back to the road.

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