Conversations about Witches

I co-wrote and performed this piece last year at a show called She Comes Undone, outside  Chicago.  The indented poetry is from a poem called Living With Witches by Al DeGenova.

The conversation came up recently about owning and loving all of our inner demons.  They are part of us, part of who we are, who we are becoming and they should be accepted and loved for what they taught us.  So that we may live together in harmony without ourselves. 

Conversations About  Witches
I’m 18 years old.  Dad’s angry again. A dish whizzes by my head with no warning, no expletives and I duck just in time.  Saving yourself requires more these days.

He says “You have no friends. No one cares about you.  Who do you think you are?”

And quietly, at the sink, washing the dinner dishes, I reply, “ Yes, I DO have friends who care for me.” But the shattered dish on the cabinet next to my head reminds me to never speak my mind, hold that tongue.

I am always wrong, they tell me.  They bore me so they MUST know better than I.  So I retreat to my 10X10 room, with a door that doesn’t lock, the only safe haven, and write songs. 

I’ve stepped into an alcoholic rage once again – to a fist raised on Ma and my pregnant sister.  An angry cry comes forth from a place I have not yet come to know.  I hear myself scream, “Don’t you dare!”  And I feel the whoosh as his fist strikes the air next to me.

I cry when you're crazy

when you scream in my face

when you can't smile

when everywhere is a room without doors

that, by necessity, was built from the inside out

but there is no out.

Unless

"you look in the mirror, see what you saw, take the saw and cut your way out." 

The answer to a childhood riddle, simple,

all a matter of your point of view.

But you

always see the glass half empty.

I see the same glass nearly spilling over

and I cry when you're crazy.

            * * * * *

I can’t wait to go to bed at night.  I try to stay awake as long as I can so I can imagine and dream.  I dream of being saved by John Travolta, Robert Redford or Paul McCartney, who I was supposed to marry.  They have come to my rescue time and time again no matter what obstacles I place in front of them.

But I can’t stay awake and I fall asleep and dream of the man in black, who is always waiting for me in the dark.  I run from him, but I can’t seem to move my legs and my screams are never heard.  He always hurts those I love.  I watch in horror knowing that I am saved for last.  It is not safe in the waking or sleeping hours.

I believe the good witch of Idyllwild

who sold me faerie dust to lighten the heart

happiness to sprinkle on your pillow.

Sweet dreams.

And if the happy dreams don't come

I hold you through your nightmares.

            * * * * *

They missed my high school graduation.  They missed my plays, my basketball games, my broken hearts and dashed dreams.

My little brother chased my dog into oncoming traffic hours before The Miss Illinois contest which they were late to and missed my talent competition.  My lips trembled all night forcing a smile.  “What are you crying about?  It was just a damn mutt.”

My mother and my aunts told me I had to take care of my older sister all the time.  But who will take care of me? 

Dad said, “You don’t need college.  You’re just going to get married.”
“But you paid for the others’ schooling.”  So I worked.  And on the coldest day of the decade, you refused to drive me “all the way downtown!” to work and dropped me at the train because my car froze.

I came home for lunch from work to an empty house one day and decided to try Dad’s Tab and scotch cocktail so I would drive into a tree on the way back.  I vomited instead.

Having no other place to go after a bad fight with my husband, I took our son and went back home.   Ma came home to find me and giggled about our argument.  "See, I told you he didn’t love you." she said…

There is the selfish witch of Morton Grove

who stole your childhood

greedy thief in mother's clothing.

The woman who bore you and forgot the pain

who cannot tell you whether you had measles or chicken pox

and doesn't care.

The woman who had no use for a second daughter.

Useless you, never good enough, insignificant.

The woman who taught you to cry without sobbing

without a sound, without movement

tear tracks line your cheeks like scars

you hide your sadness with uncanny skill.

This is the witch jealous of your successes

who taught you that your glass is always half empty.

            * * * * *

I am 6 years old and it is the first day of school. First grade and I wanted to wear the outfit I chose.  Ma insisted I wear what she wanted and of course, I fought about it.  “Please”, I pleaded.  Then “I won’t wear it.  You can’t make me!”

Yes she could, as she raised her open hand to me.  I continued to fight but I was too small and the welts stopped me in my tracks.  She won, I lost.

I am 10 years old.  One summer morning and I’ve done something wrong.  A battle was waged and I lost again.  “Just wait till your father comes home.”  Dad woke me up to hit me late that night.  I had forgotten the incident already and asked, “What did I do?”  “Your mother told me to punish you for this morning.”  He didn’t even know what I did.  He was just following orders.

“God Damn It!  I love you!” Dad said as the welts on my skin began raising and reddening after his rage had subsided.   And I was thinking, “Please, DON’T love me.” 

Then there is the unseeing witch of the world

who sews a costume you must wear

but doesn't fit you well.

You squeeze your breasts

your hips, stretch your arms

and legs, cover your face.

This woman's suit twists you

forces you to limp and hurts

hurts deep into your muscles

deep into the part of you that will always fight

but you cannot shed the clothes of your role.

You pull and tear, contortionist in a straightjacket

struggling to escape

to strip naked

to be woman that you are for all to see your beauty and imperfection

struggling not to succumb

not to be shrivelled, numb, faceless.

            * * * * *

I asked Ma and Dad to our house.  I needed their help.  My despair had reached its lowest point.  My therapist said don’t do it.  She knew better but I did it anyway.  I was desperate for their help.  “Listen to me!  I need you to hear me!  Suicide IS an option now.  Please, I am dying.”

They stared at me, silent, unable to accept their role in my life.  And denied me.  They left and soon after, disowned me, quickly closing the void left from my removal.  I had no family now.  I was alone.

There is also the relentless, brutal witch of guilt

sadistic sitting on your shoulder

who cuts notches in your ribs

for each mistake, every weakness

pummelling your self-esteem

forcing you to bruise yourself

masochistic

whipping your own heart

blaming yourself

for the sharp cruelty of the predators

preying on your vulnerability.

The witch who teaches the words,

"I am unworthy,"

"I cannot know happy."

And I cry

knowing you are good,

sweet lamb.

            * * * * *

I wrote the notes.  Many notes.  How do you explain to your children that you can no longer hear their voices, see their faces.  I felt nothing.  I was nothing.

The grief was intolerable as war raged from my insides out.  My world was grey.  Living was no longer an option.  What words does a 7 year old understand in a suicide letter?  I was abandoning them.  They will hate me.  I wrote the notes, every day.

And then there is the unforgiving witch within

dressed in depression

who drains your life like a vampire

like a virus

until you are empty.

She is the powerful witch

strength like God

who leads you to Hell

or worse, Limbo

where nothing is all there is

who steals your eyes and ears

so that visions of

summer sun-showers and

sunsets on California beaches

and the sound of your son's laughter

are silent blackness

And I cry for you

when you're crazy.

            * * * * *

But do not fear the love witch

in me in you in our son

in our unborn child.

This witch, barred from your youth,

you watch from the corner of your eye through a smokey cloud of mistrust.

This witch is hope.

This gentle witch who with subtle gestures

can guide your hands, your eyes,

your heart

who can teach you to

live with witches.

The witch who makes me sing encouragement

undying faith in your strength

like a cheerleader at the close of a crucial game

the game you must win.

The witch who keeps me crying

arms around you when you're crazy.