Sadly, seriously?

Sadly, seriously?

Somebody I love suffers from

a form of

clinical depression.

Whether its mild, or major, or seasonal, or dysthmic?

I really do not know nor do

i even care.

What i do care about,

is that he is mere inches away from getting help for it.

Sadly, Seriously?

The people in his family just do not

“get’ mental illness-they do not understand,

what is really is and what it is not.

Even though he has me, been very supportive of me-

all the manias, depressions and the in-betweens.

he still cannot, quite understand about depression.

That even if its not bipolar, being depressed is just

as real and just as serious.

He thinks/feels/acts like life must

always be THIS WAY-hard, sad, angry,lonely, slightly

just ever so slightly, a tad bit


But we had a break-through in therapy

today-meaning naturally i ratted him out.

I told the truth about what b.s. he says

and whats it really about.

Normal folks do not make jokes,

that when things are tight or rough,

maybe they should just go kill themselves?

Sadly, Seriously.

He’s napping now.

And I feel better that we dropped off a script

for him this time.

He accused me , that i only want the rest

of the world to be diagnosed something,

so i will feel less lonely.

And i said no thats not it i just know,

a whole lotta crazy.

Sadly, seriously

if only i can get him to give them-the anti-depressants-

a chance to work, maybe then

he will feel lighter, feel better , feel more even

and less likely to buckle

under all his mixed up emotions.

That its ok to feel this way, but you do not,

have to feel depressed and miserable everyday.

Sadly seriously

I hope that this will help him.

Maybe someday he will realize,

there are many choices in your life,

but being constantly miserable

is only one of them.

The shape and size of stigma

The shape and size of stigma,

it might surprise you. Sometimes it is overwhelmingly Large, Black, and Evil.

You can recognize it by it’s shape of jagged, broken and mean edges.

But not always true.

Sometimes the shape and size of stigma

may shock and surprise you.

Stigma can be seen lurking in the shadows,

among a loved ones face.

Stigma can take the size and shape and form

into the agony of un-relentless “grace”.

Stigma can form your friends and loved ones

into the bare bones of what you believed them to be.

It is the reality of you verses me.

It is the ignorance and confusion in your eyes.

it is the question on your lips-?

She must be sick again, then because, I do

not “get it”.

She must be off her rocker, off her meds, ignoring her doctor…

She must BE: C-R-A-Z-Y. because she is different than me.

Stigma comes in all shapes and sizes.

It may just surprise you.

Some folks cannot possibly understand.

Even though, there are medications

to help the symptoms of mental illness-

the pills themselves do not “cure” mental illness-

the way aspirin “cures” a headache.

The mental illness is part of me-

whether you can accept that or understand it-

i really no longer care.

Your name calling-& your blame calling,

I’ve had it up to here!

You will never understand that my life has daily struggles.

Despite my medications-which i never miss or forget-

Despite my strong relationship with my psychrachist

Despite all the other tons of things I must do each and everyday

to stay relatively stable-despite it all-the everything

Your going to judge me,

label me broken, label me inferior, label me crazy.

Just because putting others down

really makes you feel better about yourself-

for however briefly.

The shape and size of stigma:

it surprises me.

Coming from persons i thought

loved and knew me…but no.

Afterall, they were just waiting to pounce

on me, the moment I fell.

Simplicity part 2-dedicated to my friend Erin D.

Picture 161Picture 158Picture 160


2 parts bitter-sweet vinegar

2 parts harmony

one dash of Hope

one sprinkling of Faith,

one Tablespoon full of miracles.

1/2 stick of helplessness melted but not burnt brown.

1/4 cup memories

16 oz of pure, unstrained Love

1 graham pie crust of sorrows

1 can of heavy-whipping cream

2 tbs allspice, 2 tbs cloves, 4 tbs fresh honesty

one classic ceasar salad of velvet covered sadness

one case of dark irish beer…

blend with one bag of Catholic Guilt,

add two whole egg-yolks

add 7 hail-marys and one quart of confessions.

Blend with a twist of hard scotch whiskey, empathy as a orange peel, a cherry

with-out its stem, some liquid courage, one King James version of

The Holy Bible.

Some false idols/some fake friends/those who will swear by you/

yet they disappear in the end?

I trust nobody who says to me, that they will “pray for me,”

I wish i were not a bitch like that, but i totally am-such a bitch.

I am not going to offend them by declining their pray offers-

but i am not going to depend on them for this junk.

I usually merely responded with Thank you-or thank you very much-whatever.

Prayers are both sweet and nice-

if they are done right.

But true friends do more than have private jesus jams/

talks on your behalf.

True friends know when you are sad, And sense when you need to have a small

phone-call chat. true friends listen and practice the,

Fine Art of Allowance-

meaning they allow you to be sad.

They do not try to cram you into a shoebox

with too much duct tape,

and scrawl the word “Happy”

onto your head-in order to make themselves feel better.

Real friends want you to feel better,

but when you get around to it.

Real friends allow you,

to simply FEEL.

They allow you to be-

They allow you to grieve and to suffer.

They realize there is no universal time clock on

one feeling verses another.

I wrote this out for a friend of mine.

Her mane is Erin-we kinda grew up together.

Anyways, her mother just recently passed away due to Cancer,

this past march on st.patricks day.

Erin and her twin Bridget are both my friends.

I did not realize how huge their family is until very recently,

Anyways yesterday, Erin was having a bad day,

and she shared with her fb friends she really missed her mother.

I was completely floored with all the useless facebook comment messages

she was getting. There were just so fake to me.

So i commented myself-and i was not trying to impress facebook-or Erin or anybody else.

I just wished to say something that could comfort Erin and be

totally completely “real” and “honest” with her.

I was just being me, I was just being emily.

She wrote me later, in a private facebook message, Thank you so much , you knew just how I was feeling and how much my messages helped her.

That really made my evening last night.

It is a good feeling to be a good friend to somebody you forever care for,

cherish and sisterly love.

True friendships among women are not always,

easy to find or to maintain.

But once I’ve formed a friendship bond-

with another female- I keep those friends

out and treasure them immensely.

It really takes a whole pile of damages for me,

to no longer consider a woman my friend.

Once a friend, always a friend, at least that is where

my loyalties take me. So many beautiful feminine friends:

Each is like a precious gem or a secret treasure to me.

I LOVE my friends-all of them.

even the cob-webbed covered ancient ones,

those are kind of crunchy

but i just love them all the more-for it!!!!

The Stranger in my Mirror.

Picture 149      Sometimes Shocking to see,

the Stranger in my Mirror, who looks like Me. I recall younger days, thinner versions,

Once upon a time, I was most likely,

just as cocky as Miley-

just not as famous.

What do you do? Once you lose that smooth small stomach,

the perky C bra breasts, the stride in your step, the seduction upon your hips,

the fullness of your lips, when the age of youth disappears,

and you become a M’mam instead of a Miss?

When you look into the mirror, and a stranger sits?

Glaring back at you, dimly-reminding you faintly,

that beauty lies in the beholder-instead of the girth of your thighs.

I am blessed to look many years younger-than I really am.

It’s a trick of my Mothers gene pool.

Wrinkles and gray hair do not scare me-no way-anyway.

I really do not mind.

But sometimes, I look at the Stranger in my Mirror-

and can’t help but think,

I am rocking middle age, despite my Venus Size.

I can still feel beautiful even when there is,

a media war, a rampage of BMI’s, a negativity upon

the average woman who is judged to be

“Plus-sized.” I can still feel my beauty, when my husband

looks at me that way, he once did all those years ago,

into the land of yesterday.


My Muse is a slave-driver

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

My Muse

thinks she is both the bullseye and the target.

She whispers nonsense into my ears,

until there is nothing else

I can even hear-except the drone,

of a rambling ancient old Crone.

My Muse of Poetry,

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chain-saw massacre, breathing down my neck.

And I cannot hold anything against her.

Inspiration, however random is still

something akin

to the answers of a prayer.

Without my Muse,

I am nothing more than a

babbling fool.

Poetry-this writing Life,

it eats the good ones first,

then the young ones,

folks like me she leaves for dessert

a mushy mess of a chocolate brownie

a mushy mess of a middle-old aged woman

a clown, who never properly learned

the art and skill

of juggling.

My Muse, is a slave-driver.

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

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The best for last.

I always seem

to wax poetic and day-dream

all the best of my musings

unto my blog.

It’s frustrating

, because I wanted to:

save the best for last.

I want to take all the good ramblings and rantings,

and wrap them up into

a velvet handkerchief

saving them up for a stew.

Saving the gravy of random crazy-

poetry to drip into my newest chapbook.

It seems like I cannot quite help myself,

I start typing and all my poem-thoughts

get out. They escape running crazy like chickens

who have their heads all cut off,

and the bodies cannot seem to grasp it at all.

So they run and dance upon my little blog.

Like poetry misfits, just waiting until

somebody catches a glance

in their stubborn direction.

My poems try to fly away,

and they flew the coop.

Geez, what a mess!!

I am trying very hard,

to save the best for last.