Work in Progress- Extract from 'Up from the Melon Road'

I've been writing this semi -autobiographical book for years now. Still looking for a publisher. Also been very ill, computer's gone kaput now and I'm in the library. I'd love to hear what you've got to say on this and others to come. God bless




Sunlight streaked in; I’m lying flat on my back, just as I had for the past two weeks. I breathe in deep and feel my shoulder blades contract with the unfamiliar action; I’ve been breathing lightly for so long, it felt unnatural to breathe in deeply, I feel twinges, but it feels so good. I do it again and breathe in real deep.


I rise up slowly throwing the covers from my body gently and I put my feet down on the lukewarm rug, I feel a bit dizzy but its okay. Unbuttoning my pajamas shirt slowly, and standing up I know it’s time. I have avoided facing this demon for so long but now I was ready to embrace it because I knew it was good for me. At last, I see the way to be free. I had prepared for it the night before, getting the long mirror reinstalled into my bedroom, so moving for the first time in two weeks, I was ready to see.

I walk to the mirror, looking into my own eyes, I dread to look elsewhere but I’m also excited. Slowly I raise up my hands and place them gently on them, barely touching and then I palm them; they are so soft and feel strange, so reduced, I circle them, then move up to the nibs and slowly pass my thumbs over them, I think my back groans.

I think I feel pain, but I’m not sure. I feel light all over for the first time, then I look down at them in the mirror and away and at them in the mirror and away and at them for real, they are perfect, round and they are small. The water surges behind my eyes but I blink them away fast, but the waves of a thirty-year pain are hard to dam (ignore). Slowly, then rapidly my tears fall on my naked body and I’m standing in front of a mirror ad I’m raining tears, but I’m not sad, I am very happy, very exhilarated, very, very light.

Facing Truth

I had written previously about coming back with a story or two. Little did I know that my life was to take a novel punch or two. For the past two and a half years, I have been fighting an aggravated condition. I know I have had it all my life but it had never gotten as serious as it then became. It has plagued me for a long time, I had been called lazy because of it, back at secondary school, I had been called a malingerer when I had genuinely felt unwell but in all my years, I had not felt it as bad as I do now.

For two and a half years, I wondered what was wrong with me, some people said it was in my head, some said it was an attack from a demonic person of my acquaintance, some people said I should confess my deep hidden sin and I would find forgiveness and relief. I went for tests (cancer gene, HIV, sexual diseases, blood genotype etc) nothing! The only slightly helpful thing was that I had the alpha thalessimia trait which explained some of my body pain and fatigue, however, it was not enough to explain the sometimes bone wrenching, excruciating pain, extreme fatigue and agonising tremours I suffered constantly.

Then late last year rolling into early this year, the term fibromaylgia was bandied about then confirmed with severe spinal pain was diagnosed and for about ten minutes, I wept like a baby in my consultant's room. I was made aware of the fact that it had no cure and I most likely would carry it for life but this did not dampen my relief that finally, I knew what was ailing me.

Shortly after that I had the threat of cancer and potential surgery but with faith in God, much prayers with friends and some trepidation. I got the all clear on my biopsy and no surgery is needed.

In all that time, I have met incredible people who have gone the extra mile to make my life more comfortable. I have almost loved and lost men who couldn't cope with the fact that I might not be the active, agile woman they want. I have had my faith and trust in God tested and hopefully, I have succeeded. Best of all, I have come to know the real me, who I am, my strenght and my weaknesses. I have found a new love and respect for myself and the whole experience has made me more sympathetic, less impatient and more understanding of the world around me and for that knowledge, I wouldn't give nothing back.

Don't misunderstand me, these conditions aren't things I would wish on an enemy and I wouldn't do them again given the chance. I like being healthy,though I mostly can't remember what that was like, however, the lessons I have gained are invaluable. Family is good and important. Love that doesn't run at the sight of pain is real and best of all, I do not believe the report of the doctors, but rather the report of the Lord which says I can and will be healed.

So as I bask in the mercy of my Saviour and Redeemer, and enjoy the love and closeness of my family and open my heart to the possibilities of love ( I never believed that I would enjoy the intimacy of a romance and the stabily of love) I don't have a partner yet but I now know that it is possible. I wish to let you dear reader know, there is truly sunshine after the rain, no matter how long it falls and there is hope, no matter how dark life gets. I know because itt is my truth. God bless.

Walls

I'm still under the rage of refusal. The refusal of rape, child abuse, violence , sexual brutality. So I'm still writing.


Walls


Many envy people who live in thick walled houses

I don’t.

My thin walls let in every bump, thump and rumbadum dump but

Its nosy vocals reassure me that if I can hear them,

So can they hear me.



I used to live in a thick walled house once

It was safe, private and filled with familiar voices.

Those times were different, where seeking arms

did not meet a surprised bed or

hard floor but a beating heart.



I remember, however, a little girl who lived behind thick walls.

Evil waited for her at the bottom steps under the very last

deck of floors and took her into the hollow,

covered her frightened lips and plunged.



Every time, her lips got less frightened and

opened in gaped resignation.

Evil took again and again; walls did not protect her.

They were too thick to let through the sound of her shocked heart.



Soon evil got bold and moved from under

the darkened steps and into her walls,

underneath a sister’s nose, who, instead of offering hopes of protection,

blackmailed for adolescent wiles.



So thin walls may be flimsy, exposing, nosy and

noisy, still, they suit me fine.

For in this noise and within these walls.

I find safety in every bump, thump and rambambam gump.

For if I can hear them, then surely, happily securely,

they can hear me.

Bow of Rayne

Why do women get hurt so bad? Especially by some man they know and usually trust? This is a question I have been asking for some time since I heard about trafficking and , rape and violence. And why is domestic violence called that? There's nothing domestic about violence. The word domestic means tame, homely, sheltered, so how can violence be domestic?
This poem is raw and written just as I feel it, I hardly ever write like this but I just couldn't help myself, it just poured out so it might need editing but for now. read and feel rage whenever you come across violence like this


Bow of Rayne

A woman was raped last night, her legs spread, her pride taken with gritted teeth, open moans and shuddering conquering thrusts. The walls echoed her shocked disbelieving groans as the growing rage in her bones bounced off the floor to collide with her skin as she lay open, spread, helpless


A million visions of a billion deaths, a thousand questions of how she could have found death like this; so brutal, intimate, violating and strange in something designed to be familiar in the hands of a man meant to be father, friend, protector, lover, him


Her bones ached to desert the body that helplessly got plundered endlessly for six minutes, wishing to be dancing in the moonlight again, in saffron robes, with purple weaves of a silky scarf, whispering love words to her intimate parts, setting fire to blood as they echo the constant refrain ‘I know you, I am you, I was born you’ but


The floorboards, instead weep a new tale of a raiding of treasures carried in a pouch behind a zip to be washed away, running into the sink like suds from a clean plate, but you and I know there is no cleanliness here


This raiding has taken innocence and her soul away in a plastic bag and dumped it on a highway, a river, leading surely to hell and as he shudders in accomplished ecstasy, withdraws, stands and closes the door behind him, trust has sounded the notes of betrayal, become fragile and broken apart , threads gossamer light and unreliable


The door closes, his arrogant release stinks up a maddening rage, terrifying in its whoosh, holding knives, guns, every form of protection to stop that which already has happened


And while this sofa daily takes the rock, rock of a damaged body, and hearts are ripped out and the telephone wires are cut, cut out questions, concerns. The storm of bewilderment gathers and pours forth like a single unending note of wailing, undiluted


Piercing the roof, scattering birds at perch till it reaches a sky that absorbs and says nothing back. Then it rains and she seeks punishment in every way , wishing a bigger, darker death but she never finds anything bigger and darker enough and grey clouds soak her with grief as she breaks anew daily hoping today is the day she dies


Nay, her eyes open again and men become ghostly shadows, evil and harmful and her purple gives way to black and brown and deep and gray and gray and gray again.



The walls spoke out this injustice and I cried out a stream to she who laid in the deep, wishing death of fathoms deep would consume in its visit. My tears reminded her somehow of saffron skies and purple hues, blues, greens and red. Red that invited her to be sexy again, to be woman, to be deep, rich and proud


To kick the arrogance in the nuts and enjoy its constant agony of eye watering crunch and pain. We know it would never be enough, yet somehow whatever way justice comes, it finds us dancing on rooftops saying love should not be thrown and sorry is a word we’ve provided exit for


In this dance, this place takes leg upon leg, swish upon swish and wraps it up in lavender, green so rich, it hurts and penetrates the womb planting a seed that beckons to the deep of what we are and will continue to be


We swell with righteous anger at this arrogance; shut the door on the thief who steals our souls in broad day while we sit. We clubber him jointly till he surrenders in pain and acceptance that these women shall not sit no more, we give birth to this rage that rips apart whoever, whatever threatens us ever again


No more will we sit and watch our beings be taken, be stolen and thrown away by word. No more will our worth be down-priced by slaps, punches and rape and by God, no more will we seek love from some clay feet god by way of sorrow or death


The house where rape happened has collapsed on itself; here it shall happen no more.