Martyr

Discordant chorus of
Infernal, eternal, internal voices
Formed before
The world ignored us
Before I even had a chance to explore this shore
Limited potential and forbidden choices
Abhorrent horrors from exposure
To bored-out scornful, forlorn explosions
Courage sworn to the godforsaken
Savior mistaken for a coarse mannered whore
Spirit shut behind the door
Hopes drowned in aimless ardor
Sore and torn starving carnivore
Aborted glory flung on the floor
Poured out vigor nevermore
Lost my valor in your distorted war
You won’t forget my dying roar

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unlovable

from 2014. i’m better now. almost.


so, okay. i have this terrible condition that rears its ugly head every so often. i start to feel bad. mentally, internally. then it sort of morphs into something worse. a terrifying feeling of not being loved. then i set about to let everyone in my tiny family know about it. i moan and shout from the next room, “No one loves me!” then my family rushes in and kisses me and reassures me. “We love you!” it’s a fun, silly game, but one that i need sometimes because while i make a joke, i still need that comfort and love to bolster my fragile mentality.

well last night, i finally realized, what i really feel is, “I’m unlovable.” i begin to feel as if no one in the world could possibly love me. that i’m too fat, ugly, annoying and selfish for anyone to love. so i said, from my bedroom last nite, “I’m unlovable!” then my family rushed in, Lilli who is so smart, “I love you! And God loves you!” I said, “No, you don’t. You can’t possibly.” and she made some silly joke to make me laugh about how i was being impossible. and then Guy rushed in, hugging me and kissing me, singing Voice of Truth.

…and the voice of truth tells me a different story,
and the voice of truth says do not be afraid…

which is his subtle-not subtle way of saying, “Shut up! Stop lying to yourself.”

and that’s what i am doing. i’m lying to myself. i’m listening to that tiny, crazy voice that tells me:
i’m worthless.
i’m scared.
i’m not loved.
and that’s not the voice of truth, that’s not the voice of God. that’s the voice of the enemy–my own thoughts OR the twisted up world OR the devil.

i am lovable. i am loved. if for no other reason than God loves me. i am thankful for my family. for my husband, who is the voice of reason. for scooping me up and sparing me from my own terrible thoughts, for giving me undivided attention even when i’m pretty obvious about it. i love you, Guy. thanks for the reminder.

no words

sometimes
there are no words
for how you make me feel
just an intense reaction to
something immensely real

you could call it love
but what does that even mean?
love
isn’t
real
unless actions make it seem

if you walked to
the end of the earth
i would somehow follow
if you fed me hope and grace
i would wholly swallow

i don’t know how
without words
you make me whole,
holy, innocent, new
like a bird sitting atop the world
perched on God’s-eye view

you’ve cared for others
but never a heart like
*this*
i won’t ever leave you
these lips you can’t unkiss

we’re an idea you can’t unthink
a wreck you can’t unsink
a tonic you can’t undrink
a mark you can’t unink

i wait for your winged heart
to wind and fly its way to mine
to find its home
(no longer alone)
to forever rest and finally shine

yes, we can.

no one has to do it all
we can share the work
you don’t have to walk so tall
especially when it hurts

submit to being led
when everything comes to a crawl
let me be your feather bed
when you need a place to fall

it’s not possible to always be strong
one day you’ll skip and stumble
feeling weak is not wrong
just don’t forget to be humble

no one’s ever flawless
everyone makes mistakes
somewhere deep in this solace
is the place our heart awakes

give grace and be open to receive
simple premise that promises perfection
dare hope and we shall believe
let this be our invocation

Charity Begins at Home (and with Demi)

I asked a WordPress friend to speak about charity. Here are her thoughts and answers.


Demi, known as The Lupie Momma on WordPress, is turning 27 this year. She is not disappointed about getting older, she’s planning a huge 30th birthday celebration. (Get it, girl!) But she is a little sentimental about her daughter growing up so fast. Demi has a sweet, little girl who is almost 4. Demi is a wife and mother by day, working gal by night.

She’s dabbled at blogging for a few years on a few sites, but recently she decided to finish her novel. While struggling with Lupus (autoimmune disorder), she’s been working hard on this memoir. Demi is right and brave when she says “…life is too short not to go after everything.”
What do you do to volunteer or donate?
I’ve always given my clothes that are in good shape, that I’ve outgrown, to people I think can use them. Now that I have a fast growing toddler, I have started giving her old clothes and toys to other families. We have been fortunate enough to be able to afford these things, but we realize that some people aren’t as lucky.


Demi told me more about her personal giving.
They have a friend, Brandon (name changed for privacy). He’s a single dad of triplets. The mother is not involved on a regular basis. Brandon has to provide for 3 children. On his own. Demi knows how expensive one growing child can be. So. She started helping in any way she could. Brandon’s children are just 6 months younger than Demi’s girl. 2 of the triplets are girls. So Brandon is fixed for “hand-me-downs”. Brandon is truly grateful for the regular supply of girl’s clothing that Demi gives every change of the season.
Right before Christmas, Demi was preparing for the incoming onslaught of new toys for baby girl. They found an unused toddler bed and chair. She messaged Brandon right away. A few days later, Brandon posted about bills and presents; how hard it would be to provide this year. Demi had thought about buying a few small gifts, but after the post, Demi’s husband went full-on Santa. Gender-neutral toys that all the kids would enjoy. Delivered to Brandon’s house just in time for Christmas Eve. They didn’t say a word, leave a note or want any attention for doing so. They did unto others as they would want for themselves. Unfortunately, Amazon shipping included the husband’s email and Brandon figured it out. Needless to say, he was very thankful.


Why do you volunteer or donate?

We donate to help those in need because we would hope someone would help us if the shoe was on the other foot. Whether it’s to Brandon and his kids or hurricane relief somewhere else. (The state of Florida thanks you, Demi!!)
How do you feel when you give?
It’s a good feeling. Sometimes I feel guilty that I couldn’t do more, but my husband reminds me that its better I do a little than nothing at all. (I agree with your husband! If we all do some, we can do it all. <—Has someone already said that? If not, it’s so true!)

If we all do some, we can do it all!


Are you Christian or other religious affiliation? Do you give for a specific reason?

We’re Christians, but not the “we think we’re holier than others” type. We aren’t going to spit out scriptures at you or chaste you for not going to church.
No specific reason we do–except for the Lupus Foundation as that is a close charity that I personally benefit from.
I don’t know if I was necessarily taught to donate or volunteer, I just think my mother instilled in us from a young age to help others when we can. I remember being out to eat as a kid and my mom giving me a few dollars to give to the homeless man sitting a few tables away. Since then, I’ve just always kind of done it. Giving money to a random homeless man, or buying them a meal, giving my clothes to someone who could benefit from them. And now that I’m a mother myself, I want to instill that in my daughter. That not everyone is as fortunate as we are, and that it’s good to help others when you can.
How do your kids feel about your helping?
I’m not really sure she fully grasps the concept yet. She’s only three. Occasionally when we’re packing up stuff she hasn’t played with for months, we get the “That’s my toy!” but we explain that you know you haven’t played with it in a while, and there is someone else who would enjoy it. After a few pouts, she usually just drops the subject, goes and plays with something else. Explaining the Santa to Seniors, and why we were getting gifts for “old people who weren’t grandma or grandpa” was a bit tricky. But she picked out the names of the women we got, ‘all E’s because her name starts with E’ and picked out the bags to put their stuff in, she even threw in some hot chocolate packets for them. I hope that as she gets older, she’ll admire us for it. And continue to do it as she grows up.


While Demi regularly donates old clothes and toys, she was moved to go above and beyond this holiday season. She said, “…it felt nice buying gifts for other people that probably actually deserve the gifts.” Every year, people feel burdened in buying gifts for extended family members as an act of obligation. Holiday gift exchange can feel like a pressure cooker of negativity and resentment, boiling over by Christmas. And at the end of it all you may, like Demi, wish you had helped someone who actually needed (not wanted) something.
Demi left me with this thought from John Bunyan:

You have not lived today
until you have done something for someone
who can never repay you.


Let us know how the book is coming, Demi. I can post a link in an update. Thanks for sharing!

Please consider donating to the Lupus Foundation or to Demi’s personal fundraising goal.

10-word poems

I saw a prompt today on Facebook in a writing group. 10-word poems. Feel free to leave one in the comments!


All I ever wanted was everything.
Turns out,
It’s you.


Warm room.
Foggy windows.
Red cheeks.
Big sweater.
Tired.
Loved.


Children playing with Christmas toys.
Knee-deep in shredded wrapping joys.

(Is knee-deep one word?? LOL)


Ten-word poems are tricky
When you don’t fully understand hyphens.


Please leave me a 10-word poem!! 😀 It’s fun. Write something today!

take me to church

church has begun
it’s not Sunday now
but the bells have rung
we’re attending somehow

church is not
a building or shrine
it’s the body of Christ
it’s the collective mind

church is a place
down in our hearts
alive in our actions
where the Spirit starts

church is a job
church is your wife
church is a neighbor
church is your life

church is happening.
everywhere.

Anything is Possible

I often have to remind myself:
It’s not entirely your fault you were fat.

This may sound like a huge justification or rationalization, but it’s not. It’s a rejection of a lifetime of shame. Of being called lazy.

It’s funny, someone who blamed me and my weight problem on the simple fact that I ate too much, is now, or was, severely overweight with heart trouble. Hm. Ain’t that easy, is it?

Karma’s a bitch. But I won’t be. You shall remain anonymous. You’re welcome. I hope you can get some help. For your heart and mind.

December 12th, 2016–I had gastric bypass.

At my heaviest, I weighed 513 lbs. I’m currently at 280.4 lbs. Lowest weight to date since August 2012. That’s ~233 lbs lost for those without a calculator, superior math skills or too busy for subtraction of the hundreds column. 😀

233 lbs. Major.

When I met with my weight loss surgeon for the first time in August of 2016, he told me something significant.

“You have a genetic disorder that requires surgical intervention.”

He believed that. And I believe it now, too. Thank you, Doctor. You gave me my life back. In so many ways.

No one gets to be 513 on their own. No one. A series of events have to happen for a person to gain 300+ lbs over their ideal range.

Genetic predisposition to obesity. Bad eating habits established by the age of 5. Lack of nutrition or access to a quality food source. Misinformation about dieting. Emotional chaos at home and at school. Thyroid. Gallbladder. Disease. Surgery. Sickness. Pregnancy. Teasing. Shaming. Cruel humor from your own family. Being misunderstood. Culture.

I can tell you one thing. Stop shaming fat people. It doesn’t help. Sympathetic, empathetic, emotional support for obese people is the only way to help them. If they want it! Demanding better food from food suppliers and the government; supporting a system of a better food source for the general population, for everyone, is a start. Being educated helps. Actual involvement in an overweight person’s life is essential. Compassion and understanding are needed. Listening is key. Stop judging fat people. Chances are you know someone who is overweight. They aren’t lazy. They have a medical problem. What’s your reason for being a self-righteous asshole?

And exercise isn’t the only answer. I haven’t exercised regularly through my whole weight loss journey, especially since I had gastric bypass. I haven’t always been able to. I’ve simply reduced my calorie intake. I am more active, but only when I choose to be. I bike, but not with a rigid, unchanging schedule. I bike and walk when I enjoy it.

I exercised and dieted for over 2 years. Worked out for 3-5 nights a week at the local Y for at least an hour each time. Usually, I was there at the Y for 2 hours. I ate the right foods in the right amounts. I couldn’t get past ~60 lb loss until I had gastric bypass. And then it FELL off. I was killing myself doing what skinny people told me to do with my body. It didn’t work.

I used to think it was a matter of willpower because that’s what every skinny person ever told me. Until my surgeon.

LISTEN! It could mean the difference between life and death for someone. I would know.

Get surgery if you’ve tried everything. You may have some other condition preventing weight loss. At least see a physician who specializes in obese patients. It may just save your life.

Fight for yourself. Advocate for yourself. No one else will.


BTW! I can wear size 22 jeans! LOL What? I can zip them up after I pour all my floppy skin into the legs. WTF???! I haven’t worn size 22 jeans in a long time. 😀 That’s hawt! They are a pair of 22 jean capris that a weight loss surgery patient gave me after they were too big. Thank you, Friend! I’m in them now! Still losing. I will pass them on when I’m done!

Hello, Gorgeous! Here I come 270s!! Bye, bye, Shamers! I’m too busy for you.

Break in the Tape

My husband is currently converting a mountain of reel-to-reel to digital storage. We need to downsize and this is taking up some space. Plus, the longer the tape lays around in cans, the more it will decline in quality. It will never be any better than now.


If you’ve never seen a reel-to-reel deck, it seems impressive upon first inspection. Lighted needle displays. Shiny buttons. Smooth, metallic housing. The kind of inviting build that makes you want to press all the things. “What does this do??” The kind of electronic device that makes you feel like a kid again. Especially when you try to use the damn thing–clueless. Only the most experienced reel-to-reel user would know or remember how to utilize the hunk.

Even at my mock and scoff, it is an impressive piece of equipment. For anyone born after 1980, you may not have ever seen one. It is the high-end equivalent of a simple cassette tape recorder. It records sound on spools (reels) of tape. Our machine looks very similar to this.

akai_630DB_11

Anyone can record sound with their phone or computer these days, so I understand its head-scratching obscurity. But I also see the appeal.

As my husband has started the long-procrastinated task of converting every piece of tape to virtually indestructible and mostly-permanent digital storage (somewhere in the cloud and probably 1 or 2 physical flash drives), the voices emerge from the past. Voices, songs, jokes and skits from 50 years ago. 50 years. From before my husband’s birth.

My husband lost both of his parents as a young toddler. First, his mother passed from unexplained natural causes at the age of 19. Then, his father passed from a terrible accident just a short time later. He never knew them. Never formed a memory of them. Never got to love them. He was raised by his paternal grandparents.

I asked my husband, just a few days ago, “Have you ever heard your mother’s voice?”

He hadn’t. Then among the first tapes he started listening to, he heard Dianne’s voice for the first time. He’s 48 years old. That’s impressive. Wondrous that a machine can save and give a priceless gift 50 years later.

Even with that precious holiday surprise, the process of converting all the tape can be frustrating. For him. For me.

The tape is old, fragile, spliced together in spots. The breaks in tape keep coming unglued, as we all do after the holidays. LOL The old adhesive has lost its sticky and under the mild stress of being played again, the tape snaps apart at each splice. Sigh.

Guy has to stop what he’s doing. Retape the splice with good, ol’ Scotch tape (don’t do this if you are saving your tapes and not getting rid of them after converting, regular ol’ clear tape is not a good, permanent fix) and restart the recording. Or hope that he can fix the glitch in editing later. Frustrating. Mildly. But his negativity was starting to spill out the other day in groans and grumbles. I mentioned it to him because it was starting to spill all over me.

I could feel the bad juju starting to grip my humor. I couldn’t brush aside his growing irritation any more. Walk out of the room. Close the door. Ignore his fumblings. It was right under my fingernails and I couldn’t flick it out.

“Hon, let’s talk.”

Sigh.

My husband never likes to talk about his feelings. As an introvert of the highest order, he finds the need to talk about feelings the most irritating conversation in which a person could be involved.

“Why?? Let’s not. It’s fine. I’ll stop.”

And then, with just slight coaxing from me, we talked. I’m glad we did. So is he. No really.

We talked about his frustration. Where’s it bubbling up from? He knew going in, the tape was old, it’s going to have problems. He was ready for anything. Until every little thing happened.

In talking, we both realized, the tape is life. Little hiccups along the way put stress on us. The tape of our memories has splices or breaks. All the memories we ever form are a playback for when we experience similar hardship. Something significant enough to make a memory. A manual for what to do when you encounter the same bullshit on a different day. Our minds rewind the tape.

When you play through some tragedy again, the tape can break. Snap. Frustration is right at the top of now and we break. We go flipping off the reel. Fwip, fwip, fwip. Until someone finds our broken mess, untangles us. Tapes us back together.

I’m glad to be your tape, Guy. I’m glad to find you flipping out and piece you back together. Especially when you can’t simply push play. Thank you for letting me help you get back on track. The tape of our time together is definitely a #1 hit.


I’m proud of you for finally saving these memories. It’s important. I’m glad I get to listen.

Magical

Our anniversary was yesterday! Best anniversary so far, here on the beautiful Gulf. Here’s a repost of a previous article.


Here’s our wedding video! No one has seen this before except for my mom. I think. Plus, a journal entry that I wrote a coupla years ago about our marriage.

WATCH!WATCH!WATCH! Wedding of Guy C. Maggio and Martha C. King

January 1, 1999. I am sitting on a bench outside Bally Casino’s Celebration Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas, NV. We just rode the monorail over to Bally’s from MGM Grand (where we’re staying) and proceeded to pump $120 into a slot machine to be rewarded by $100 payout of quarters. $20 for an hour’s worth of fun. That is Vegas; bright lights and manufactured fun, where paying a slot machine for your brief entertainment is completely logical and intentional. I don’t mind because the excitement and experience is welcome. This time is about fun. Or at least the appearance of fun. I’m 25 and have left the state of Missouri only a handful of times.
Guy and I are dressed in our wedding clothes and patiently waiting to be married. The entrance to the chapel looks like any storefront at any mall. We could just as well be
at a Gap. And I love that. What appear to be teenagers walk by and point and smile.
Are they getting married?
Aw.
That’s so cool.
Guy and I look at each other and laugh. We ARE getting married. We must be eager because we arrived at the chapel over an hour early. We didn’t want to be late. We flew from KC, stayed up most of the night and primped for hours to be ready for this special moment.
We are alone. No relatives, no photographers, no wedding planners, just us two. We both accept that our lives will be dedicated to each other, not to 200 onlookers and well-wishers. Our marriage will be the two of us relying on each other, so our ceremony should reflect that. Also, my mother was not getting on a plane and we couldn’t afford to fly our friends to Vegas.
Vegas was a grand adventure as we hoped our marriage would be. They are ready for us. I think we have a short rehearsal and explanation of the ceremony, but I honestly
don’t remember. I am whisked away to a small room with a large mirror. It could be the backstage lighted mirrored make-up table in any theatre. And I love that.
I was given my bouquet and briefed on my entrance. I sat for a few moments trying to focus on the reason for all the preparation, but my efforts to center myself were elusive. I want to cry, I’m overwhelmed by emotion, but I do not want to mess up my makeup! At best, I can simply enjoy what is happening to me and remember, I love this man.
They come for me, tell me everything is ready and I follow their directions. I am walking down the aisle. They are taking pictures. They are filming. I am smiling. I am following my Guy. If I could run gracefully, I would, right down to the alter and spike the bouquet! I take my place and brace for the fun.
Our minister surprises me. He is well-spoken, gentle, meaningful, but quick. He talks about values and ideals of marriage and reminds me of the commitment I am making. He speaks generically about love and commitment, but even 15 years later the words ring true and his voice renews our vows as I hear it again on tape. God knew what we needed to hear and knew what we were promising to each other, even if we didn’t fully understand ourselves. Guy sweetly and eloquently makes his vow and I sniffle and whimper mine to him. I mean, seriously, I shoulda brought a hankie. What was I thinking.
We pray together. For the first time. Then it’s over. So fast. Kisses. Pictures. Exit stage left.
I am happy, but I am completely terrified. We ride the blinding-white monorail back to MGM and we are quiet. I have a fistful of flowers and I’m dressed in a smart-white suit. I try not to make eye contact with other passengers. I don’t want the attention of inquisitive ride-sharers. We should have taken a taxi perhaps.
We make it back to MGM without many questions and we race up to our suite. This is the time of my life and I hope that I have made it through the tragic parts of my childhood. I hope that this is my magical ending. But it’s only the beginning.
15 ( 19 now! 😀 ) years of marriage to the only person I have ever loved. It has not been magical, it has been rough. Mainly because I am a demanding neurotic with deep vulnerability coupled with a terribly wounded pride and ego and the fragility of a snowflake. I have just been recently diagnosed with PTSD. I’ve been sick the last 10 years. I should say it has been magical though.
I was anticipating a romp through the magical forest of love on fat horses with flowery braided tails. But what I am given, what I so undeservedly receive, is the magic of love to bind my wounds, heal past hurts and strengthen my weaknesses. To love through the worst and hope for the best. Real, mature love that lasts for a lifetime. Love on an epic scale. Love that conquers all, including my insurmountable pride. Love that wipes the sweaty brow of insecurity and illness and makes everything all right.
And I love that!