Kallisti

There was a nervous energy to her, always fidgeting, tapping the wheel.
The kind of woman who woke from a dead sleep, three hours early.
Who anxiously browses missed connections for a flitter of inspiration.
History’s Bend. Love letters to ghosts. To angels.
Countless hours spent studying the stars, mythology, metaphysics, physics, trying to find a connection.

Just then a moment of true serenity envelopes her busy mind, a pause for beauty, a deep breath in.
An oasis in an empty parking lot.
In that moment, shoulders loosen, hands fall from face,
and focus shifts to grace surrounding, exhale.
Fixations in solving life’s mysteries fade, she looks around, smiles.
A silent humming floods her mind, it seems these moments never last long enough.

She checks her Facebook, watches Youtube, or types in her favorite astrology website.
Curiosity expands as eyes ingest more knowledge, filling an exhausted soul.

Why?

Is it Neptune? Jupiter? Pluto? What’s declination have to do with it? Or is it all of it?
An answer for her awkwardness, the hunger in her soul,
a quenchless thirst for knowledge.
Certain relief is just around the corner.

Or is it?

In matters of the heart, she’s less skilled.
Pushing those closest to their limits.
Overstepping boundaries.
Assuming hers, is the only truth with logic.
Until it crushes him.
Tears stream down her lover’s face, now truth seems less important.
What if this knot in the back of her throat never goes away? Or the fire in her belly?
What can she do when he’s got nothing left to say?
When he runs out of reasons to stay?

Her eyes get warm.

A moment returns, and as quickly as it arrives, off she goes.

Yellow lines and tire marks...

His name is Clayd.

He lives in a cream and yellow striped mobile home off of Sunderland, near the correctional facility on line 70 in Portland Oregon.

He has five cats that he treats like queens, I could tell he didn't often speak about the loneliness he'd feel without them.

I asked for their names, "Crazy legs, Baby mama, Shanty, Bruiser, and Princess." He smiled.

Normally I have about thirty minutes to hang out at Milwaukie Transit Center, plenty of time to grab a snack and use the restroom. Today I met up with a road supervisor and a passenger to discuss healthy boundaries, for example waiting in the same spot every week to take my photo, with or without my permission.

When all was said and done I'd have fourteen minutes to make it happen. Instinctively I located the closest restroom nearby that didn't require a key, because let's face it, I don't where the hell mine went.

ABC Chinese food, my trusty fall back from my first preference had failed me by closing an hour early. Looks like I'll be buying some spring rolls. This especially irritated me because I had twenty bucks until payday and I didn't want to spend five on take out, but I couldn't justify using their restroom without compensation.

When I arrived at Sunderland Clayd was sprawled out under a bus shelter in a Carhart Jacket and pants, I knew he was displaced by the look in his eyes as I pulled up smiling. A displaced heart lives for eye contact, a reminder that they're not invisible and there is a connection to the conventional world. A sense of belonging previously denied to them. Home.

The last I chanced the opportunity to learn someone's story, we shared a couple spring rolls. It was amazing and filled my heart with a feeling I can't describe with accuracy. The realization that we'd experienced a rare connection, warms my soul.

We discussed alternative options for upward mobility, the power of perception, and capitalism. In a new age sense, we totally vibed.

I'd dropped him off with the impression he was off to stay with a friend for the night.

My last trip out I picked him up in the middle of Columbia River Highway, he flagged me down and looked like he'd been walking for a while based off of how wet his jacket was. He asked me to grab a drink with him, his tone changed. I politely declined but I felt a completely different energy off of him and it honestly made me sad. I stepped back and listened to his statements. He was rambling on about finding another part that might fix his trailer, that maybe this one would work. As if he had found his wings. Initially I'd asked him what kept him from ditching the trailer and embracing a free lifestyle full of untraveled paths, he explained that he had cats to take care of.

Clayd helped me identify the one thing we've all been guilty of in this life experience, allowing others to serve as a hindrance to our ultimate happiness and expansion. Placing our personal power in the hands of another so they could fail and we could have someone to blame for our lack of bravery.


As I dropped him off to his trailer he shook my hand and stared deep into my eyes, all I saw looking back at me was a defeated spirit. He recognized that look and shifted his face away from mine.

"Don't forget about me okay?"

If only he knew how impossible that would be.

http://youtu.be/s6nB--66DtI

Opening up...

Borrowing an eight year old's mattress and floral sheets, can make even the strongest of character's question their decisions.

Shoving one of countless unfinished journals into the bottom of a hot pink Victoria's Secret bag, I started to wonder if I have the dumb.

At this point, I openly admit my faults, and chuckle at the chaos that is my life.
Every belief system I'd accepted to be true, questionable at best.

My daughter would tell you this stinks.
My son would update the current number of broken promises, to the decimal.
My husband would suggest I checked out a long time ago.

The truth is they're all right.

So, where have I gone?
Fifteen minutes down the road.

I currently wear two masks, crazy mommy and bus driver guru.
I struggle owning that last part, because I'm fairly certain a guru is a master of sorts.
Judging the proverbial flames licking the ceiling of our home life,
my shit is anything but together.

Let's get back to the mattress.

Often times I flitter around this city, observing people from all walks of life.
I take them to work, I take them to school, but secretly I take them to new levels of consciousness. It was only a matter of time before my own consciousness evolved, and with that comes major change.

I remember a fight I'd had with my husband months before I packed my bags, he was bent down leaning into the passenger side window.
"You talk about all these changes you're going through, but I honestly don't see anything different about you."
"Statements like that evoke change Brent, the problem is I'm growing at such a fast pace I'm terrified you wont be able to come with me."
"Come with you? Come with you where?!"
"Through life." I drove away in tears.

Fast forward three months, my children live with ghosts. My house is filled with a dark energy and I can't seem to shake the feeling that something has gone horribly wrong. This is not the way I envisioned my partnership. I want to share and laugh and play, but instead I'm hiding behind the keys of my iPhone and he's locked in a gaze on Youtube. We'd argued over everything, how to raise the children, how to put the silverware away, who's spending more money, who's making more money, but the truth is we were hiding from a painful truth. I'd woken up. He preferred the comfort of an organized life. Our paths were not headed in the same direction. Was that it for us then? I refuse to accept that.

Our children require so much attention, the amount of meditation I needed to overcome this storm was never going to happen. My partner was so comfortable he refused to move forward or expand his consciousness, while my consciousness had evolved, but not enough to tolerate our differences. I started scrolling craigslist. Room for rent. Single white female preferred. How about separated Native woman? Seemed easy enough. I tossed around ideas, counseling didn't seem viable considering we work opposite schedules and the times we had attended our therapist forgot our story. Perhaps it's time to rewrite ours. Many people assume separating from your partner is a pit stop on the way to divorce, the death of a marriage. For me it was about ending disillusionment, because we could achieve greatness, we have everything inside of us as people and all the love needed to kill it. I refuse to watch this fizzle out, to go down without a fight, to walk away. He had no idea it was coming.

October 30th, 2015. That was the day I found my roommate, an old friend from high school texted me. Apparently I'd answered her ad on craigslist. My whole spine tingled. I'd just found the sign I was on the right path, the only thing left to do was deliver a ball of pain to someone I've loved more than air for a damn near decade. That's all. Needless to say I waited. Initially I told him I would move as soon as I found a roommate, but the universe works faster than that and literally provided a safe comfortable place to rest my troubled mind as well as a ridiculously supportive mother to help afford such a large life decision. This is temporary, a time for reflection and care for my heart. I return to our home three-four days out of the week and I struggle every time I leave. Each residence holds part of my soul, I'm torn between self love and love of family.

Throughout this process I hope to construct a bridge, it must be firm, timeless, and carry me across the threshold of life.

If I had to...

What would I miss most?

It's not a secret this change of perspective has riddled our life with times of uncertainty, and while I'm sure my husband doesn't enjoy my honesty I don't know any other way to be, yet alone write.

So when the fight is over, and the silence floods our home, everything and everyone is still, my thoughts are exempt from this scenario of course...

I find myself wondering.

If shit hit the fan, and he couldn't stomach my crazy anymore...

What would I miss the most?

I'd miss the way our room smelled.

Maple syrup.

I'd miss the damp pillow next to mine.

I'd miss the way he'd give it to me straight. No soft edges. Truth. Hard.

I'd miss my best friend. Brittney spears song lyrics. Road trips to Redmond. A forgiving laugh.

His sixth sense of when to bounce the fuck out.

The way he talks in his sleep, yells. The way he's never remembered his dreams.

Asleep and awake.

The way he grabs me, and pulls me close. As if to breathe me in.

I'd miss his interruptions while I'm in deep thought. Over shit that makes me roll my eyes and sigh. So polar opposite.

Yet it seems we fit.

I'd miss everything about him. 

From the way he smells in the morning-syrup, and before bed-syrup, to his midday smell of burning pine.

My lumberjack.

I'd miss the way he pays no mind to my glamorous Walgreens run, the heavy sigh let out when I announce my intent to go tanning.

The declaration that he can't change no matter how much I have, and the frustration filling those words weighted in fear.

I'd miss the tear filled eyes.

The realization that we are on different paths.

I'd miss the dedication. The will to see it through. To watch our children grow. To find a way. To love.

I'd miss everything, but most of all I'd just miss him.

Loving a crazy bitch...

Elephantjournal.com posted an article titled, "Loving a Fearless Sensitive Warrior" it's heading picture featured a handsome man, crouched down like a tiger, ready to pounce. 

(Link posted below.)

To be honest, I was skeptical. However this was actually a well written article, seriously, I enjoyed every paragraph.

The topic they covered should be discussed AND embraced. Society has an unrealistic interpretation of the divine masculine in connection to gender roles, the stigma placed on the brave few who wander outside of the designated comfort box feels heavy, and who wants to carry a bullseye strapped to their back? 

Like a lone tortoise on a beach of seagulls.

Of course it didn't take long for my brain to sit and ponder this spiritual warrior's counterpart?

The other half to this fearless warrior, (assuming this particular warrior is heterosexual) where's his lady, what's she like? If he's so awe inspiring, what kind of heart captures this spirit stud?

I tried playing with strong feminine titles, ones accentuating a woman's sexuality, intellect, and determination. As I researched strong woman titles, each one had a negative connotation attached. Then my favorite song came blasting out of a passing car. Buck cherry just delivered my title.

It feels like the sensitive warrior gets a positive spin, but the same can't be said for a woman in touch with her spiritual side, apart from the crowd, falling in love with herself for once. 

She gets the charming name crazy bitch. 

At first it eats at her, she fights it, and then she does something totally different, she absorbs it. That's the only name they could come up with? 

The woman who isn't afraid to stand for truth or those she loves. For a soul who accepts all the beauty life has to offer, while simultaneously embracing the reality that we may only perceive fractions of what's truly out there, in a way some find contrary, well fuck it. 

Crazy bitch me.

When she hides alone in the women's room at work to meditate, crazy.

When she relishes in delightful conversation with a homeless man yet rejects the admiration of a well dressed asshole, bitch.

When she parks her car on the side of a desolate freeway to breath in the full moon, and they ask where she's been. She doesn't lie. And she's crazy.

It's not glamorous, but it's definitely a life worth living.

So how does one love a crazy bitch?

The same way you love the ocean.

She'll come in waves, emotions run deep. Her soul comes crashing in, powerful and alarming. At first you may stumble and fall, caught off guard by the power her love possesses, but if you fall back and observe from the shoreline you'll never adjust to her temperament. Eventually you'll grow weary from running. 

You must dive deep. Run to her. Jump in.

Appreciate the energy she generates, the fluidity in her movement, the way she loves the moon. Don't try to change what comes so natural, marvel at her flaws. For they're raw and amorous. Admire a dangerous beauty, and never forget the men who underestimated her, the men she swallowed whole.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/09/loving-a-fearless-sensitive-warrior/

Check your compass.

A few weeks ago I made the decision to be more perceptive of synchronicity and understanding true meanings of repeated symbols/numbers in waking life. 

I have a dream dictionary, (written by Rose Inserra) which I've kept by my bedside for years. 

For the first time, I put it in my backpack and headed out into the world. The messages I got from it (the universe or whatever energy I put into it) were amazing, Everything pointed to my journey of discovery. For my desire to learn, create, inspire, and connect.

Ironically enough, doing this created a disconnect from me and my current reality. Things I'd once found entertaining now seemed like bothersome distractions from a true conquest.

The  conversations I'd been having seemed so light. I needed something heavier to keep me grounded, otherwise it felt like I might just float away.

My belief systems underwent extreme makeovers. My concept of reality and time? Obliterated. 

Essentially I'm transforming my whole life and that can be terrifying for anyone. The moment I started honoring my true self I began feeling like I'd pulled at an inseam holding my world together. The second I questioned my life purpose, I could hear my heart ripping from the inside out.

So where do I go from here? 

Look for repetition Kayla.

Just got a Jeep Compass from our Bff.

I met a man on my bus one day, who gifted me a  healing compass. 

My mom drops by with coffee wearing compass earrings.

Okay universe I get it. 

Time to check the compass, does it serve a purpose to remain in a frozen state? 

Stagnant waters generate nothing but a reflection of the environment surrounding it. 

Rivers create canyons and supply life to creatures everywhere. 

Yesterday I was a great lake and today I'm a wild river.

I'm a wild river and honestly, it kinda blows.

Why couldn't my soul be happy surrounded by beauty, stationary? 

Raising a family seems easier without the chaos of a meandering river, always shifting, overstepping boundaries and offending the bedrock. Carving a new pathway through the life it sustains. A painful transition, roots are washed away, a community once gathered now disperse for fear of being washed away with it.

Like my soul.

Ebbing and flowing through a path I once had...shifting through the rubble.

So what's next?

Yesterday my friend told a fib about bees swarming a playground to keep her sick child away from the play equipment.

Two days ago I swatted a bee off the shirt of a young boy I'd never met. 

Today? I get in my car to take the kids to football practice, a bee is trapped in the front seat. I capture it in the paper bag under my seat and fling it out. 

I turn down Vicks road and reach down to check the time on my phone, only to find a completely different bee on the seat next to me.

The signs are there. 

The universe will guide me. 

I just hope my heart can keep up.

Pearls of wisdom

A thousand deleted sentences. A million edited words. Number of successful times I've illustrated my true self? Zero.

Okay there's more.

She renamed herself Shona(one who dreams) at thirty two years old, leaving Cathy Jean behind in Oregon. She set out for Alaska in search of her true self, and a nursing degree. This has every bit to do with who I am, because this is the woman who raised me.

She'd always been an artist, in earlier years her paintbrush the pen, her journals the canvass. She revisited childhood memories on the beaches of Hawaii and California, broken hearts in Eugene, and femininity in Anchorage. These books were never intended for fame, they were honest, raw pages of self reflection, preservation, and discovery.

Pearls of wisdom, journals found in an old box.

Before you judge me, I want to note that I'd never intended to violate this woman's privacy, I sat staring at a tan flower printed cover for what seemed an eternity. I contemplated boxing these books back up and forgetting their wareabouts. The name Lester rang through my mind, this man had been a complete mystery my whole life, however brief. I couldn't overcome the curiosity of discovering this man. Half of me was missing, if I could find it by flipping through a few stolen pages...I was sure she wouldn't mind.

Three hours later.

I have a sister.

Tears welled up inside the pit of my stomach, the realization of a childhood friend lost through time. Countless wishes wasted on stars, for someone who'd always been.

Two pages later I had a brother.

One book later I had another sister.

I remember feeling so out of place growing up, just different. We moved a lot, always surrounded by beauty. Sandy beaches in La Joia, a picturesque view in Arizona, Oregon Rain, Alaskan snow. These places built me. She was a wild woman seeking out all that this world had to offer, and I was along for the ride.

It was my third school in two years, I ran home crying. They didn't get me. Why were we so different? I was angry. I felt alone. In essence the pity partying started young. She held my face, ran her fingers through my long brown hair, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Sugar as long as I'm alive, you'll never be alone. Hang in there, mama never steers you wrong."

So why would she lie?

She was protecting me, in the only way she knew how. Running. I don't think she'd see it that way, but it fits.

In fairness she's not the type to victimize herself, she doesn't want anyone's pity, and she values self respect in a way most could only dream. With that in mind I reasoned that she kept me apart from my siblings out of respect for their mothers, and fear from my father. He wasn't a bad man, but he had his demons. Some things you can't hide from forever, and unfortunately his caught up with him.

Lester Donald Anniskett. He died on September 23rd,1987. He was twenty-nine years old. Car accident. Not before he made our little sister Grace, her mother Susan was still pregnant. Lanie was nine, I was a year and a half, our brother Troy was almost three. These ages are relevant. All of us would forever feel the emptiness of a father. We'd stumble through this life trying to figure out how relationships worked and identify with the roles society has chosen for us. Needless to say we're probably the best looking bunch of crazy hot messes you'll ever meet. We are connected in the most beautiful way, raised apart always yearning to belong, to relate, to obtain the special bond denied to us by kids on the playground. Likeness. Similar traits. Anger problems. Food weaknesses. Depth.

There's more but I'm not certain I can write that yet. She's out there. Jenny, we're connected in a different way. I will find her.

Who I am and where I come from relies heavily on the pearls of wisdom my parents left behind, whether they meant to or not.

The rest is up to me.

For my unexpected muse...

She's probably one of the most beautiful women I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Soft features contrast her true nature.

She represents many stories, an unplanned blog, unexpected healing...

Simple words grouped together, describing the most complex form of art my mind has ever developed.


Creative therapy.


No woman ever plans to marry an abusive man, a life only for the broken spirit.

Strong women don't have that problem.

Strong women wouldn't allow someone to waltz in and take over their life.
Strong women laugh at the thought.

Until they fall for a fucking psychopath.

Of course the tell tale signs aren't always evident at first. For the most part anybody can pass for a genuinely compassionate individual, as long as there's an audience, and when the audience is a strong woman, the show could go on for months. Until one day the audience isn't as much of a challenge, until the audience is a real life person with thoughts and feelings of their own.

Until that audience requires more from the performer than just a show.

Suddenly the performer becomes the director, the narrator, and the crew. Before she realizes the show has taken a drastic turn, she's alone, a captive audience?

For the most part I count myself lucky. I got away quickly, with the help of some angels...a few audience members themselves. No longer captives. Wiser women, who saw what was happening and offered up advice, guided me through the guise of a fucking mastermind.

My freedom angels.

As I'm not inherently religious, I still thank whomever for their presence, for the AppleBees off of Western Boulevard in Jacksonville, North Carolina.

The months following my escape aren't ones I'm proud of, normally I wouldn't admit to anything until that woman possessing such contrasting beauty wrote me a very compelling message. She opened up her life to me. I scrolled down the page on my phone at 5:00 AM reading only what I could describe as my potential story had those aforementioned angels not intervened.

I was the lucky one.

She described those following months as self medication. Only aiding in further self hatred, breaking a spirit once whole.

My heart ached. The lump inside my throat grew larger and I cried out, "You're not! Those things he told you..."

She never shared.

I knew so well the words he spilled on her like acid, because I too had felt the sting of a hateful love.

She spoke of her first love since she left.

She described him as just what she needed, "However it works out."

I could feel the hope she has inside of her, to see her child bond with the heart of a good man, perhaps not the right man, but a really good man.


I didn't want to tell her how it may turn out, how much she'd put on him, how no man could ever carry that burden and how ultimately the only peace she'd find after all of this is within herself.


I couldn't tell her because I'm still searching for that peace. I don't know if I'll ever find it. Perhaps I'm not meant to.


Perhaps I've still got some more writing to do.

Ptsd isn't just for soldiers of war

Last night I was triggered.
"Maybe you should check your meds."
A simple text, sent from my ex husband who decided it was time to pick a fight over the lack of a relationship he has with our son due to him living out of state, that and strained phone calls by two people with nothing in common other than one's intense desire to bond and feel love, and another's to exploit for notoriety.

This was his favorite thing to say to people, that I was crazy, to discredit me, or any statements I may potentially make about the abuse I suffered while with him. This was the most offensive part, that I couldn't verbalize how he'd hurt me without stooping to his level. The amount of mind fucking that went on is unbelievable. I actually believed the shit he came up with. That I was crazy. That nobody else would be willing to deal with me. That he was the one for me, at eighteen, pregnant before I graduated high school, thrown out of my home for being a "slut" and shoved into his father's house while he went off to serve our country, my fault of course, I was the pregnant wife he had to take care of and this was his only choice, the abuse he endured was all for me, I was ungrateful, I was selfish, I was the crazy one to ever question his motive.

I never realized he used sex as a way to demean me. As a way to control me and make me feel unworthy. A way to cheapen me. To devalue me.

A road trip across country to our new home in Camp Lejeune, brand new baby in the back seat, he insisted we have a quickie over the front console sometime after our son fell asleep. I developed a bladder infection the next day because I couldn't use the bathroom immediately afterwards. We spent 3 hours driving around a piece of shit town looking for an emergency room/pharmacy because I had no way of knowing how to handle a bladder infection without a doctor's prescription and was in an extreme amount of pain. He screamed at me the whole time, called me a pussy, told me I was holding us up. Drove like a maniac going 50 in a 25 mile an hour street. I kept crying and blaming my bladder, but the truth is he made me feel like I didn't deserve medical treatment. He made me feel like I'd done this on purpose to gain some type of attention. Both are untrue. I realize now that was his own selfish nature, he wanted the quickie and couldn't be bothered to pull over so his wife could use a restroom to clean up afterwards, then was furious with her for getting an infection. Kind of like when an owner beats his dog for peeing on the carpet, after refusing to let it outside to go potty. When people would ask about our trip he made sure to tell them every time that I'd held us up for 2 days(6 hours) somewhere in Kansas because I was a whimp. This story was told countless times. I see now that regardless if he intended to or not, his story made me feel like a weak inconvenience.

I felt like that our whole marriage.

The stories I have like the one above are endless. I was with him for 2 years, lived with him for 7 months(off and on) and the entire time he succeeded in tearing me down.

Nearly 10 years later he still fucks with me.

My therapist Don told me once he felt like I had developed ptsd over time, through various emotional abuse/psychological war fare that Brad had waged. He felt it was important I handle it, or at least be aware that I've been put through the ringer, and that healing would take time.

So what did I do? I ran into the arms of someone who was bigger, and safe. I then unleashed my crazy on him, jealousy stemming from a weak self esteem, emotional outbursts, mood swings. It took me until now to realize that. We're married. We have a daughter, and even still I'm crying in the shower overcome with rage, at the man who'd hurt me past my ability to verbalize how. My kids are scared. There's nothing they can do but watch me deal with this. Which is why I keep the crying to the shower.

All because of a text.