November 11, 2012 by August Rain
and days, still
when I cannot bear the truth of the damage, the gut-wrenching pain
that I caused and allowed to come to my sons.
I remember the night of the day that I found out that my second husband, the father of my three eldest sons, was having sex with that movie star with the long blonde hair and the large breasts. How I paced the hardwood floors of that tiny house with unfinished walls and screamed as I pinched the skin of pubescent sized breasts–feeling ugly and hated–I screamed that I hated myself. My face was twisted and caged by bone structure, skin, muscle and the natural, physical state of atoms and DNA held together by some insane force that made absolutely no sense to me–when every emotion within that cage was frantic for release of all energy into one big explosion of blood and guts, hair, fingernails, arteries, tendons, heart tissue, soul, passion—soul. soul. soul.
That anguish had a source and a perpetrator and even though it made me hate myself for not being pretty enough and good enough—for not being enough–I still had a person to blame.
But NOW–damn it–that person is just simply ME. It was me 7 years ago who left, who made my babies cry, who cut into the heart of Jake’s dad and who made him bleed so badly. The anguish and desolation I feel has no solace because I CAUSED it. And here I am living in this house without my sons–this is not their home and it never will be. They were scattered. Even writing this — seems self-indulgent. There are no good answers.