Tag Archives: acceptance





I’m Tired


Love Complex











Paying Homage To My Mother

Marsha Caron, my mother at age 21

Today I have been thinking about my mother and the legacy she left me. I spent a lot of time being angry at her for things I expected from her that she wasn’t capable of providing me. I was angry that she died from an overdose of prescription pills. Everyone was told by my grandfather, her dad, and my sister that she choked on vomit in her sleep. She used medication to attempt to control her emotional pain, to quiet the regret that ate away at her soul. It was that anger I held against her that prevented me from giving her the credit she deserved.

I was her oldest child and her darkest secret from what I’ve surmised and secretly hoped all these years. All that aside, she deserves the credit for the woman and mother I came to be and am. After all, we are all flawed.

It is because of her that I love to write. She introduced me to VC Andrews novels, Bob Dylan, Styx, Barry Manilow, Saturday Night Live, the comedy of George Carlin and too many other things to mention. She was the one when her husband left us said f— it and took us to Disneyland before we had to make the long car ride back to Kansas. She taught me how to be prolific at cussing like a sailor. As a matter of fact, it was her mastery of the seven dirty words you can’t say on TV that got me expelled from Mothers‘ Day out.

That day started like any other of my childhood. She dropped me off at the Methodist Church in Olathe, KS. I was the class clown. The old ladies spent a lot of time putting me in a chair in the corner or redirecting me from activities such as putting plastic beans up my nose and spewing them out at the kids who were enjoying my performance. This day we were to learn the real names of our parents. The teacher started at the opposite side of the table from me asking what does your mom call your dad. I remember feeling terribly confused and struggling to figure what they wanted to hear. I froze when it came my turn to respond. I honestly didn’t understand what it was they wanted me to say. Other kids had said things like Phil, Tom, Brad and Bruce. I was fumbling through my muddled mind for something to say that will appease the gray haired lady before me. She knelt down to my level in an attempt to help me muster up what my father’s name was. “Come on, Tammy. You can do this. You know what your mommy calls your daddy.” she cooed at me ever so gently. “What does your mommy call your daddy?” her voice was so sickening sweet. I fumbled through my tiny brain looking through all my memories old and recent to come up with an answer. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. A smile began to beam from my face. I had it.

“Asshole. She calls him asshole.” the room erupted in laughter and three of the helpers/teachers left the room in giggles. One of them immediately called my mother. That was one of many times my mother would utter the phrase “God damn it, Tammy! Don’t fucking cuss!” It wasn’t until my junior high school years that I would see the hilarious irony in that admonishment.

My mother Marsha and I in 1973.

All humor aside, my mother was complex and lived a life full of little inconsistencies. Hers was a difficult existence. Ostracized in her youth, for being an intelligent young woman. When I was young I idolized her beauty. I craved her attention. I grew to respect her for the struggles she faced head on and survived. I mourned her loss long before she actually passed away.

She made me who I am. The uber intelligent writer, the outgoing, flirty party personality, the attention whore, the comedienne, the master of curse words, the fighter of unwinable wars and the home schooling, girl scouting, super mom. The type of mothering she gave me determined exactly the kind of mother I would be to my own children. Despite the fact that a lot of my parenting is in spite of how she parented me, it still is due to the way she parented me. I never gave her credit for that before she left and for that I am sorry. When I left work after I got the call she died John Denver’s song “I’m Sorry” came on the radio and I felt a peace come over me as I heard the words to the song. I knew she never intended to be the kind of mother she ended up being. Just like all of us, she had her moments of awesomeness and her low times. In the end and through it all she was my mother. She brought me into this world and deserves credit for who I am and how I view the world.

Mom, I’m sorry I have judged you so harshly. I’m sorry I expected things from you that you didn’t have the ability to give me. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you through your addiction. I’m sorry that I didn’t give you the credit you deserved. I don’t think there are enough words in the universe to express my gratitude for the life she gave to me. I, like many others, have recognized the important things too late to do any good. I’m sure that she knows, now. It just isn’t the same as being able to rectify these feelings while she was here. I made a rose garden as a memorial to the life and spirit of my mother. It was flawed but it was mine and comforts me in her absence. Happy Mothers Day.

The rose garden I planted in honor of her memory.


Poetic License

Poetic License

Come check out the new additions to my poetry page Poetic License!!

NaPoWriMo has lit a fire in the poet part of my soul as well as reworking some of my older pieces.







Zero to hero: Escaping my fear

The cacophony of items streaming through my mind when I started my blog were very bipolar. The greatest item was the desperate need to overcome my fear of failing as a writer. I have always been a writer, despite being dyslexic words have always taken me beyond the mundane ways of life. I have always hidden my words because like many others I am damaged goods. My over riding sense of unworthiness amongst the mass of voices already out there and the ones clamoring to be heard have always informed me how insignificant I am. Therefore I have rarely shared any of what I write. I have a novel that I started thirteen years ago. I stopped working on it about five years ago because of my devastating inner monologue. The words have never ceased to flow from my mind to the laptop. It is just that my fear is so certain they have little value compared to the ones that are already there. This is the hope upon which I have dwindled into a 42 year old hack.

My husband and I bought ourselves a motorcycle for our 21st anniversary last October. That one tiny choice led to my reinvigoration. I had never been on a bike before. Truthfully, I was terrified of being so vulnerable to pain but my husband was a gentle tutor. He schooled me on letting go of my tension and fear. The more we rode the further we traveled. The roar of the motor combined with the intensity of the wind brought my mind to a singular focus. I am a writer. The ride clarified my thoughts. The inspiration of all that surrounded me seemed to quiet my insecurity and erase my previous failures.

I have been constricted by the alleged rules of society all of my life only to discover that the only rules are the ones I create. I am trying to hone in on making my existence one of true liberation. I seek to liberate myself from doubt, self hatred, self destruction. I have been a slave to those for way too long. They have worn me down to a tired self loathing lump of physical and emotional pain that was moved or stilled by the whims of the powers greater than me. I never wanted to live a life dependent on the kindness of others but there I was moaning about how miserable I was due to the injustices and misdeeds of the world around me. My life had become a passive one and passivity was a brutal master.

I wanted to rage against my fate and our anniversary gift was revealing the universal secrets of rebelling and living outside the boundaries. The bike was an ethereal key to unlocking the shackles of my fear and setting me on a path of actively living true to the soul within me. My blog is my coming out into the light of liberty, a step on the path of actively living true to the writer in me. The truth that drives me to create my blog is to quiet my fear and prove that my insights are of value in this world. Even if only to myself, my words are worthy and if by some miracle I am a gifted writer then my emancipation will be completed.


Fear derides me

Panic hides me

Berating soul

Dividing whole

Imprisoning self

Depriving health

Imploring hate

Eroding fate

Building the cell

That emulates hell

Promoting silence

Inviting violence

Stealing my way

From the bright ray

Terror my chains

Pain my stocks

Fear reigns

This battered box