Publicly airing my guilt and regrets – in three Parts
Publicly airing my guilt and regrets – Part 1
If I speak my mind and offend people’s sensibilities - I hope they will delete me.
If I cannot speak my mind, I rather take a silence vow and not speak at all, than to learn to speak only pleasantries that do not come from the heart.
I hear a smaller voice inside whispering in a scared voice:
“If you will speak your mind, they will NOT like you.
They will crucify you, like they did to him.
Will he be there to raise you from the dead?”
I raise my eyes to Him,
But He does not answer me.
He sits there with his beatific smile,
upon the rock he rolled over from Lazarus’ cave.
He is older than the rocks he sits amongst.
Both of us were born on the same soil.
He had moved on to greater things,
like teaching and healing souls,
and I have moved over to New Zealand.
(A land filled with a New Zeal)
Publicly airing my guilt and regrets – Part 2
In continuation with my process of peeling off my skin and showing my insides to the world, I have written this piece I call “Publicly Airing My Guilt and Regrets.”
It is a long piece so I divided it into three parts.
It is NOT a sight to behold, but tonight I am dancing with my skeletons.
I have resurrected them from a hidden closet in my mind.
The closet is so full by now,
That and the door can hardly close.
I can see a ray of light shining through the cracks.
I hear Anais Nin’s voice encouraging me to speak up:
"And the day came when the risk
to remain tight in a bud
was more painful
than the risk it took to blossom."
And I dare to dream of a day in which my closet will be empty
and the skeletons are finally laid to rest in my past.
“Why should I burden the world with another horror story?”
I ask.
“Because you are aching for healing”- He said
“Must I?” I sigh,
“I have friends that live in many parts of the world;
some of their cultures will condemn me for promiscuity
for what I have done”.
“Speak up! Speak UP!
Those who have no ears, will hear you not.
Those who will not understand,
Will delete you or ignore.
Fear Not!
Speak UP!
I have sent you this message a dozen of times:
My Life
My Attitude
My Rules.”
“OK I guess...” I said, “Where shall I begin?”
It is a long piece so I divided it into three parts.
It is NOT a sight to behold, but tonight I am dancing with my skeletons.
I have resurrected them from a hidden closet in my mind.
The closet is so full by now,
That and the door can hardly close.
I can see a ray of light shining through the cracks.
I hear Anais Nin’s voice encouraging me to speak up:
"And the day came when the risk
to remain tight in a bud
was more painful
than the risk it took to blossom."
And I dare to dream of a day in which my closet will be empty
and the skeletons are finally laid to rest in my past.
“Why should I burden the world with another horror story?”
I ask.
“Because you are aching for healing”- He said
“Must I?” I sigh,
“I have friends that live in many parts of the world;
some of their cultures will condemn me for promiscuity
for what I have done”.
“Speak up! Speak UP!
Those who have no ears, will hear you not.
Those who will not understand,
Will delete you or ignore.
Fear Not!
Speak UP!
I have sent you this message a dozen of times:
My Life
My Attitude
My Rules.”
“OK I guess...” I said, “Where shall I begin?”
Publicly airing my guilt and regrets – Part 3
I am taking you back in time now.
Twenty years ago- I am 26 years of age.
I am living in a country where the soil is stained with blood; it runs openly like rivers from a tall mountain.
From this bird’s eye view,
I see my father dying of a brain tumor.
The doctors have no faith.
I have no faith in them.
But this is not a rare thing,
In those times; I have no faith of any kind.
God, of any religion is a stranger to me.
Krishnamurty talks philosophy.
Carlos Castaneda dances with Don Juan
in the desert with magic mushrooms.
The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi explains nothing.
He encourages me to meditate,
and says that the answers will emerge from within.
But I am impatient.
I am hungry for more
For knowledge
For explanations
My restaurant is failing
My new partner is an idiot.
She is secretly meeting with her old flame
behind her husband’s back.
They meet in the parking lot of his Medical clinic,
Where she is giving him “head” in his car,
Two times a week.
I am tired,
Overworked
Exhausted
And oversexed.
I am getting divorced from my first husband.
We have not had sex together for more than two years.
Not even when we have traveled in Europe for two months,
driving through Europe’s most romantic cities and rural delights.
Not one time, we have soiled the bed sheets with his sperm.
Not on the green Alps, not in Paris or the city of Rome.
My tears are piling up inside me now
I can feel waves of sadness in my stomach
My lips are quavering
But I must continue to plow through my past.
I have broken the marriage bond.
I have slept with another man
And then I slept with that man’s friend.
I can see some of my FB friends nodding their heads in disapproval.
So I must add;
These are pre- HIV/ Aids times,
AND
I came from a culture in which sex is a pastime, NOT a mortal sin.
I was NOT born a Catholic, not a Christian of any church.
I am not a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jain or a Jew.
I was born to atheist parents who believed we have evolved from Amoebas and worshiped the god of the dollar sign.
My mother had shed actual tears, at a collapse of the stock market.
I just confessed my sexual maladies to Roni,
my first husband, who promptly filed for divorce.
I had to tell him the truth.
I cannot tell lies.
I rather tell the truth- at ANY cost.
I am full of guilt, remorse and regrets.
Roni was a great man,
he was also my best friend,
my partner and confidante.
and I have broken our promise to one another.
And so I keep on seeking for love and comfort
in the arms of funny, strange and temporary men.
None of them satisfy me and I work long nights in my restaurant and spend my money like there is nothing to live for.
The men that I sense may be “good” for me, I push away.
The ones I could never envision being with, I take into my bed.
And there, we rock the sheets,
We rove around the city in my convertible;
eat late, in all night eateries and frequent basement music bars.
We smoke mountains of weed and take tablets of ecstasy and I am always high, but I never come.
The men in my bed are all handsome.
I don’t know what they do for a living,
can’t tell you who their friends are.
They may have told me their name once,
but I don’t always remember it,
unless they are a famous journalist, a writer, an actors or an artist.
I do not know that I am self distructing.
I do not recognize my own patterns.
I am hurting and I am reacting out of pain.
Now we fast forwards in time.
From the green hills of the Hokianga,
From the stunningly beautiful mountains of Colorado,
Living a life that is almost too good to be true,
I look into my past and I wonder;
I have not seen Roni in years now,
and I ache to know if he is as happy as I am,
I hope that he is nurturing a sweet family
and is joyful with his inner life.
Twenty years ago- I am 26 years of age.
I am living in a country where the soil is stained with blood; it runs openly like rivers from a tall mountain.
From this bird’s eye view,
I see my father dying of a brain tumor.
The doctors have no faith.
I have no faith in them.
But this is not a rare thing,
In those times; I have no faith of any kind.
God, of any religion is a stranger to me.
Krishnamurty talks philosophy.
Carlos Castaneda dances with Don Juan
in the desert with magic mushrooms.
The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi explains nothing.
He encourages me to meditate,
and says that the answers will emerge from within.
But I am impatient.
I am hungry for more
For knowledge
For explanations
My restaurant is failing
My new partner is an idiot.
She is secretly meeting with her old flame
behind her husband’s back.
They meet in the parking lot of his Medical clinic,
Where she is giving him “head” in his car,
Two times a week.
I am tired,
Overworked
Exhausted
And oversexed.
I am getting divorced from my first husband.
We have not had sex together for more than two years.
Not even when we have traveled in Europe for two months,
driving through Europe’s most romantic cities and rural delights.
Not one time, we have soiled the bed sheets with his sperm.
Not on the green Alps, not in Paris or the city of Rome.
My tears are piling up inside me now
I can feel waves of sadness in my stomach
My lips are quavering
But I must continue to plow through my past.
I have broken the marriage bond.
I have slept with another man
And then I slept with that man’s friend.
I can see some of my FB friends nodding their heads in disapproval.
So I must add;
These are pre- HIV/ Aids times,
AND
I came from a culture in which sex is a pastime, NOT a mortal sin.
I was NOT born a Catholic, not a Christian of any church.
I am not a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jain or a Jew.
I was born to atheist parents who believed we have evolved from Amoebas and worshiped the god of the dollar sign.
My mother had shed actual tears, at a collapse of the stock market.
I just confessed my sexual maladies to Roni,
my first husband, who promptly filed for divorce.
I had to tell him the truth.
I cannot tell lies.
I rather tell the truth- at ANY cost.
I am full of guilt, remorse and regrets.
Roni was a great man,
he was also my best friend,
my partner and confidante.
and I have broken our promise to one another.
And so I keep on seeking for love and comfort
in the arms of funny, strange and temporary men.
None of them satisfy me and I work long nights in my restaurant and spend my money like there is nothing to live for.
The men that I sense may be “good” for me, I push away.
The ones I could never envision being with, I take into my bed.
And there, we rock the sheets,
We rove around the city in my convertible;
eat late, in all night eateries and frequent basement music bars.
We smoke mountains of weed and take tablets of ecstasy and I am always high, but I never come.
The men in my bed are all handsome.
I don’t know what they do for a living,
can’t tell you who their friends are.
They may have told me their name once,
but I don’t always remember it,
unless they are a famous journalist, a writer, an actors or an artist.
I do not know that I am self distructing.
I do not recognize my own patterns.
I am hurting and I am reacting out of pain.
Now we fast forwards in time.
From the green hills of the Hokianga,
From the stunningly beautiful mountains of Colorado,
Living a life that is almost too good to be true,
I look into my past and I wonder;
I have not seen Roni in years now,
and I ache to know if he is as happy as I am,
I hope that he is nurturing a sweet family
and is joyful with his inner life.
