Tenderness & Tenderbits

This is today's Truthbomb from the ever-inspiring Danielle LaPorte.

Sounds easy, right? 

Defend your tenderness. 

Of course the things that sound easy never really are…are they?

Tenderness.  Those soft, raw, unexposed pieces of your heart and soul that haven’t been beaten to a pulp yet.

The parts that loss hasn’t carved into with the ferocity of a blade slinger.  

Suicide, drug and alcohol addiction, overdose, loss on top of grief on top of mourning.  

Years and years of mourning.

The weight of it all cripples any tenderness that has the balls to stand its ground.

Tenderness along with innocence are my casualties of circumstance.

What was once tenderness is now covered in scar tissue.

What was once innocence is now cold, hard experience.

What's even more concerning is whatever battleworn tenderness might be bunkered deep within can’t even find solace in my sleep.

This grieving and mourning and wailing doesn’t fucking quit.

I wake up with it.

I live my days with it.

I tuck myself in with it at night.

That's when things really get muddy.

As my eyes close and sleep takes over, my subconscious mind continues to rip apart at my tenderness.

Visions not suitable for waking hours.

Abysmal sadness.

So, so deep.  

It’s a wasteland of despair, my dreams.

I’m failing my tenderness.  

Unable to defend it.

Weak to protect it.

Lacking faith that I have any pure tenderness left.

My own truthbomb is this:  My tenderness is broken. 

Which leaves me with one question...

If defending it has failed and it’s broken to bits...

Is there HOPE to HEAL it?

Because luckily I can say...

Somehow, some way my hope is still in tact.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

This Old House

I remember my dad watching Bob Vila on Sunday mornings and didn't understand how he didn't die from boredom. I was a kid but now, with all the home makeover shows, I can see he was ahead of his time. So sometimes I look at my apartment, in a house that was built somewhere around 1900, and think WWBVD?

He would definitely rip up the kitchen floors with the foot prints of the workers who long ago did a half-assed job of installing it. Then the entire bathroom would be ripped down, especially the pink and forever stained porcelain tub in which no amount of cleaning will fix and he would make it bigger than the size of a closet. (Some of the big guys in my life have had some issues getting in and out of it.) And surely he would notice the crooked living room floor and do a bit of electrical work in my daughters room (which is actually on the agenda anyway.) But that's it. The damage from slamming the vacuum into the base boards is all me. The marks on the walls and damage to my what were once adorable kitchen chairs are from the cats and the toys everywhere are from my kid.

Then I think, I could really use that little lady from "Poltergeist" and have her work her magic on the one end of my house that is absolutely petrifying, Call me nuts, I've been called worse, but I swear, my apartment is haunted. I can't even explain to you the types of things we've heard, felt and seen in this place in the last ten years. It's part of the reason why my daughter still sleeps with me every night. (And because I know that there will come a day when she won't want to anymore.)

Then I think about all the trying times we've had in this place. Breakups, breakdowns, fear, sadness, years of physical pain from injuries and disease and more in the ten years we've lived here. I went through the hardest, to date, situations and problems in my life while living in this apartment.

Then I remember, my parents provided me with an amazing,  nice, cute place that is just the right size for my daughter and I. I walk into my big kitchen with the fabulous wall paper and tile from the 70's that I would not let Bob Vila go anywhere near. I look at my big living room, with it's tall windows that fill the room with sunlight. I look at my cozy bedroom big enough to fit a king sized bed and two huge bureaus. And I look at my daughter's sweet room, that despite desperately needing a paint job (we joke that she's been finger painting with dirt) is perfect for her. During the spring and summer, I open the windows, see the stunning garden my father has created and let the smell from the roses he planted waft into the rooms. There is nothing like having the smell of live roses in your home. It's just simply wonderful. Oh yeah, and central air. Be jealous, it's okay.

I remember that, along with the bad, some of the most amazing moments of my life have happened here. Just a week after moving in, we watched the Red Sox win the 2004 World Series here. This is where I brought my sweet little baby home from the hospital. This is where I've watched her grow from an infant to the incredibly sweet, kind and insightful kid she is today. This is where she will have most of her childhood memories. Birthdays, sleepovers, us cuddling on the couch and playing highly competitive rounds of air hockey. This is where I, myself, have changed and grown so much for the better that I no longer recognize the person I once was.

This is where we come to feel safe, warm, loved and comfortable. This is where we share meals and feelings. This is where we can dance and cry because no one is actually watching. This is where we live and work and play. So when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what Bob Vila would do. It's what my daughter and I would do. And we will continue to grow up together and be grateful together because we have all we need in this old house.

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

 

Moment of Impact, Part 1

Did you ever think that running into someone from your past would start out like “Wow, I heard you died”?  

Thankfully, I haven’t heard that in years, but before MySpace, Facebook & Twitter, word of mouth was really the only thing people had to go on.  From the time I started writing this, it’s been 13 years, 9 months, 1 week & 1 day since that almost became a reality. Approximately 7.2 million seconds ago, something happened to me that has literally effected every day since, and will continue to until my last breath.  Some of you may know the story, others may know parts of it.  I’ve always wanted to get this “on paper” so to speak.  Not really sure why, but now that I have the opportunity to do so, here goes nothing.

It was Friday, February 9th, 2001, I was working as an hourly supervisor in the kitchen at the 99 Restaurant in Danvers, MA.  We lived in Woburn at the time & my parents were up at a friend’s house in Maine for the weekend, so Cyndi & I were going to enjoy an empty house like any normal 22 yr old couple would…  I left work around 10 or so, heading 128 southbound.  The last thing I remember to this day was driving, nothing special, listening to music as I always do.  

The accident was the result of a drunk driver.  The man was driving south on 128, hit one of the ramp signs & spun out, facing north.  He was so loaded (2.5x the legal limit in MA) that he started to drive the wrong way on 128.  I was driving a 2001 Plymouth Neon and he hit the front quarter panel on my side, sending me across all four lanes. Apparently there was a nurse a few cars behind us & she pulled over to keep me with it until help arrived.  I was med-flighted to MGH and had to have 128 shut down to allow this to occur.  Some people I know were actually stuck in that traffic that night, as weird as that sounds.

Next thing I remember after that was waking up to a nurse (or doctor) standing over me.  The lights pierced my eyes, like when you wake up and the sun shines on you for the first time.  The next few hours/days is, between going thru withdrawals from some heavy pain meds & numerous panic attacks, a blur.  I remember hearing that I was in a really bad car accident.  Bad enough that I was lucky to be alive.  Bad enough that I was in a medically induced coma for around 3 weeks.  Bad enough that I have zero recollection of any of it… still.  I only know what was told to me by the staff at MGH, my family & my lawyer

I broke my left elbow, needed a plate to keep that together, which I had removed the following year. The lower part of right leg was shattered & the upper part of my left leg had a break in it as well.  Both needed metal rods to heal.  I lost my spleen & needed a graph on my descending aorta.  I was told the severity of my injuries & how the chances of a full recovery were slim.  Docs told me that I may need assistance walking for a long time, cold and damp weather would cause pain & that my cooking career had more than likely come to an end due to the stress on a chef’s legs.  

I had a great support system, my family & Cyndi rarely left my side, and my 2 best friends visited often, bringing things to make my stay better. I was in such a mental funk, depression maybe, who knows. When I was alone, I wanted company. When I had company, I didn’t want to have visitors.  I’d never been so helpless in my life & it’s a horrible feeling.  I remember feeling pity for myself for a few days, asking why this had happened to me, what had I done to deserve all that had gone on.  I can’t pinpoint when that pity faded, but I started to feel lucky to be alive.  I knew the road was going to be a long one, but I couldn’t let some doctor tell a stubborn kid from Somerville that I wasn’t going to be able to do something.  Anyone that really knows me understands that I’ve never done well with people telling me that I can’t do something.  Call it being defiant if you will, it’s gotten better with age & maturity, but to this day, I still credit that defiance for being a catalyst for me to start the road to recovery

I was to be sent to a rehab hospital to stay there until I was well enough to go home, however, how efficient that “well” was going to be was up in the air.  Little did I know, that ride from MGH to the rehab was going to show me the biggest act of kindness by a group of people that I had ever seen…

(To be continued)

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.  

Real Fear

Anyone who knows me knows I am a huge horror movie buff and lover of all things Steven King. I once stayed up all night, completely alone because I couldn't put down "The Shining." What kept me reading was what I thought was real fear. The images of a topiary coming to life (and yes, when properly described bushes trimmed to look like rabbits and lions are indeed piss-your-pants because you don't want to get out of bed because you're so scared type of scary) freaked me out so much, I thought what I was feeling was true terror. It wasn't, at all.

I've been lucky, in that, I've never completely feared for my life. I've had a relatively safe existence up until today. But today...today was worse than fearing for my own life, I was afraid for my daughter's. The image of her face, red from forehead to neck and tear stained, was one of a child who thought they might die and with good reason.

We were on a two lane highway and I was in the right lane. Unbeknownst to me there is a girl texting next to me in the left lane. Here comes a tractor trailer pulling onto the highway without slowing down. I can see he's not going to merge on so I try to move to the left. Phone girl is oblivious of my attempts to get away from the oblivious truck driver.

My eyes start darting everywhere. I was screaming "LET ME THE FUCK IN," as if she could hear me.The second I finish the sentence I hear Morgan screaming, I turn and she's trying to get her seat belt off to go to the other side of the car. For one instant, I saw the cab of the huge truck going 60 mph just inches away from my hysterical child.

Phone girl noticed just in the nick of time. Seriously. She slowed down and I was able to push the pedal to the floor and cut into the left hand lane just as the truck flew by us. I'm finding I'm holding my breath as I write this. I was scared but my daughter was terrified. I had the luxury of thinking about saving us in those moments, all she could think about was a truck crushing her.

I understand now what people mean when they say, "It was just a few seconds, but it felt like hours." That's the only way to describe it. After taking in a breath, I reached back, held my still crying baby's hand and listened to her wail about how she just wanted to get to the other side of the car. I only realized after how bad it really could have been. She lived it in real time in real fear.

But the best possible outcome happened. Once we got home, I lost it. I held her and I cried and I kissed her and I held her and I cried and kissed her some more.

Now, I'm here writing as always. She's out convincing her father to buy her stuff she doesn't need but he will anyway like always. We are fine. But that adrenaline rush I always crave, and what ultimately must have helped save us today, has left me with a hangover so bad, I have no desire for Steven King or Night of the Living Dead and don't know when I will again.

Now more than ever, one of my biggest wishes for her future is to never feel that way again. That was real fear and there was nothing fun about it.

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

My Choice - Part I

     We all make choices everyday that affect our lives and the lives of those around us daily.  It doesn’t matter how inane you think your choice is.  I have made bad decisions, like starting to smoke.  A mistake I am still fighting now.  The first time I took a drink.  I quit but not before hurting people and relationships.  I tried drugs.  I didn’t like the way weed made me feel.  It was never a high I chose to go after again.  I chose to take a fulltime job the summer of my senior year in high school and continued said job while in school.  That decision had a cause and affect.  I was driving home from work on a Tuesday night exhausted.  I fell asleep at the wheel and hit a car and crashed into a tree going 40 mph.  Launching my lifeless body through the passenger side window.  Breaking 6 ribs, three toes, and puncturing my carotid artery as my heart stopped.  If I didn’t hit that car would I be alive today?  If Mohamed weren’t driving home from his second job what time would my body have been found?  I remember calling my best friend in the world that day and in a nonchalant way asked if she could make a call to our Catholic you minister and let him know I wouldn’t be able to make our meeting that afternoon.  Not really giving out details of my almost demise.  It wasn’t until later on in the day after the surgery to repair my carotid artery did she see the damage my choice did to me.  I remember holding her hand with a tube down my throat and not able to tell her it’s going to be ok.  Having other friends, RJ, Vinnie, and Lori come visit and me crying because I knew it was possible that I would never be able to hold their hand or hug them again.  That was the worst feeling.  No amount of morphine could help with that pain.  Hearing the story of my mom walking down Pearl Street after the state trooper called her at 5 am, because she thought I was dead and couldn’t get in the truck with my dad and brother in law to come identify the body.  I was 18 and about to finish my high school career and go on to Boston College with a partial scholarship in my back pocket.

A month later I was released from Mass General Hospital.  Four long weeks of surgeries and rehabilitation to mend me.  It’s now October and I am ready to get back to normal.  I left that job and asked for my job back at Star Market on Broadway, which was given to me, no questions asked.  It was also time to get my ass back to Somerville High.  Hug all my friends and start the work of being behind by four weeks.  I had a meeting with all my teachers and most told me it was going to be hard but I was capable of doing it.  I also saw the Coach Mellilo and told him that I was not cleared to play basketball in my final year.  Hard thing to swallow but I manned up and told him.  Not that I was going to make or break the team.  I was at best going to be coming off the bench and play 15 minutes a game to spell Derek our center.  So my focus was on Spring track and field and catch up on the books.

April is here and I am barely passing my classes.  I went from a B- student to a D+ student.  No excuses here.  I didn’t hit the books hard enough.  I wasn’t focused.  I wanted to live every second to it’s fullest.  My choice to go and hang out at Revere Beach then go home and read my text books and catch up to my classmates.  My thoughts were as long as I remain where I was grade wise; I will barely graduate and go on to BC.  No harm, no foul.  Only I forgot that the finals would have questions from the first month of class.  Oops!  I think you know where this is going don’t you.  I failed English and Algebra II.  So that means, I failed off the Spring track team during an undefeated streak.  I was throwing the shot put five to ten feet further then anyone in the league.  Running anchor on the relay team and splitting time throwing the discuss or running hurdles.  Whatever the team needed to score the points we needed to get the victory.  The day the grades came out we were going against a very good Waltham team.  We barely lost.  I let my teammates down.  It didn’t matter to me that four others failed off the team.  I put the weight of the world on my shoulders.


Graduation day comes and I get dressed up to go see my fellow classmates.  I want to support them on this great day.  I take my seat among proud mothers and fathers.  I made it about fifteen minutes before I got up and walked out.  Got in my truck and drove home.  I skipped all the graduation parties I was invited to.  I curled up in my bed a broken man.  With a heavy heart I put on a smile.  It didn’t bother me that I was staying back because it was my choices that put me in the position.  All blame put squarely on my now slouching shoulders.  I was now a member of Class of ’96.  It just didn’t feel right.  I bled Somerville High Class or ’95 so I dropped out on Halloween of ’95.  I didn’t want to be apart of ’96.  Sure I had friends and was doing well grade wise.  But I was missing out on my freshman year at BC.  Making new memories, friends, etc.  I’m an 18 year old high school drop out doing what I thought would make me happy.  Get a blue collar job and forget about the piece of paper.

But it never fails.  Every year when I see the gowns and “congratulations” signs as young men and women graduation from high school and move on to college.  Every year it was like a stab wound to the gut.  My amazing ex-wife couldn’t take it anymore and convinced me to go and get my GED.  So I did in ’98.

But it still hurts every year.  Yes I am an “honorary” member of class of ’95 and not one person in the official class of ’95 has ever said anything.  I made a choice and am living with it.  But not all choices make you feel like a stab in the gut.  Stay tuned as I’m sure I will make another choice to tell you about.