Dear Asshole:

Congratulations, Mr. Reagan,

Tomorrow you and the esteemed Governor Riley will have the immense pleasure of turning one irreparably fractured family into two. I can see the logic behind your decision: if Candace Brown's family has to suffer, then it's only natural for Michael Land's family to be hurt as well. No, none of them had anything to do with the crime, but surely they deserve to be punished anyway. Why have just one mother lose her child when we could have two innocent women mourning their children for the rest of their lives? I'm sure that's what Jesus would have wanted.

No, wait... murder is a sin, isn't it? I seem to recall hearing that somewhere. Although, I suppose it's not murder if you're sitting behind a desk encouraging a death sentence and not pulling a trigger yourself, or depressing the plunger on a syringe. And if the laws of Alabama say you can kill someone, well, surely God will agree, right? After all, sentencing a man to death does resurrect the victim and return her to her family... oh, no, that's not quite right, is it?

I sincerely hope you enjoy sitting down to dinner tonight knowing that you have inflicted pain on people who don't deserve it and accomplished nothing else in the process. When you go to church Sunday morning perhaps you can ask your pastor or priest to review that whole "Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place to wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, said the Lord" thing with you, since you seem to have been asleep for that part.

Have a good evening, Mr. Reagan. And sweet dreams.

--Kristyn Sherman Brown

Livid and disgusted... again

Bored? Email sonny.reagan@governor.alabama.gov and tell him he's a hypocritical, inhuman piece of shit.

Merriam-Webster tells us that homicide is the killing of one person by another. Period. No mention of legality or of public figures being exempt from that. So, logic would then lead us to the conclusion that the guy who causes one man to be poisoned to death is, in fact, responsible for that homicide. Right? I'm not a fucking super-genius; if I can work this one out on my own, then why can't the lawmakers in this state?

Bob Riley is an asshole and a moron, and so is every motherfucker who works for him. And every last one of them has blood on his hands. It makes me wish I believed in hell so I could tell myself they would go there.

Just fucking kill me. Really.

How can I still be sick? I've had more medication in my bloodstream for the last month than an Eli-Lily lab rat and, still, I want to sleep for 18 hours because as soon as I get up I know I'm going to hurt, throw up, and want to go back to bed. Sometimes in a different order, but always those sensations. Even the doctor who reviewed the urine culture looked at it and said, "How the hell did she do that?" Because, apparently, it's difficult to get three separate bacteria colonies going in your kidneys when you don't live in a third-world country or roll around naked in a dumpster in your spare time.
This is bullshit.
Enough whining, I have a republican to harass.

Yes, I'm one of those angry letter writers; observe:

"M. L@#$ was convicted in the May 1992 killing of 30-year-old C. Brown. A federal judge had tossed out the death sentence because L@#$'s lawyer didn't tell jurors at sentencing that L@#$ HAS AN IQ OF LESS THAN 70 and was classified as mentally retarded. In general an inmate who is to be executed must have an IQ at a level 70 or higher. The state's high court said Thursday that it has scheduled the execution of M. L@#$ for Aug. 12."

Senator Shelby,

With all due respect, I have a very serious question: How can we, as a state, execute a man who has an IQ of less than 70? Is this a ploy by the DOC to enforce the rest of the country's view that we are a backward state of uneducated, inbred, toothless, morons? If so, congratulations; it's a great one.

When I was given an IQ test at the age of six, I scored a 140. Mr. Land is half as capable of reasoning as I was as a first grader. While I DO, in fact, support the death penalty (within strict parameters), and staunchly agree that he should not be freely roaming the streets, and that the victim's family has the right to see him punished by the justice system, the retribution-murder by the state of Alabama of a man who is considered to be mentally retarded is NOT justice, it is not going to fix anything, it is not going to bring the victim back to her family-- it is going to destroy another family.

This execution is inhumane, it is barbaric, and, frankly, it is embarrassing to me as an Alabamian and as an American. This is why people leave the South and become those "East Coast Liberals" we hear so much about. No intelligent person with any sense of empathy could bear being associated with such an atrocity.

It is my sincere hope that you will read this in time, and act to save the life of a man who, though a wrong-doer, does not deserve to be murdered by the state for the commission of a crime he is not even mentally capable of fully understanding.

As a closing note, I would like for you to know that Mr. L@#$'s grandfather is a ninety-year-old veteran of World War II who was notified two days before Independence Day that his grandson was going to be killed. Happy Fourth of July, Airman.


Sincerely,

Kristin Marie Brown

A little irritated

How can the state execute someone with an IQ of under 70? Violent crime or not, that's fucking backward and inhumane. Lock him up, fine; but destroy another family in a tragedy for the actions of someone who probably has the reasoning capabilities I had when I was 11? Is this Texas?
I'd also like to point out that capital punishment has NEVER been shown to decrease the murder rate. Ever. Anywhere.
To add insult to injury: notifying a 90 year old WWII veteran on July fucking 2nd that his grandson is going to be killed... happy goddamn Independence Day, thanks for your service, now fuck you.
I know some politicians who are going to be getting some pissed off emails this afternoon. Of course, they won't give a fuck, but I have to alleviate my rage somehow and I'm not strong enough to punch things.

Less

I'm not very angry today. I was quite frustrated earlier, then a bit worried for a while, but not really angry. Well, there was about an hour where I wanted to kill Kevin and feed his mutilated corpse to pigs, but that's so normal I hardly consider it anger anymore.
I suppose the anger factory has been suspended because of the happiness and creativity. I've been seeing Ella, got to ride in the Jeep (though not DRIVE it... PATRICK!), I've been writing and spending bits of time with friends. I've been out. I've also gotten a lot of sleep. I've been having good dreams. The money nonsense seems to be coming together, mostly. I get a quick road trip on the 3rd and 4th, and get to stay in a hotel room-- for some reason I have always loved hotels.

I'm babbling. I should be writing. Going to the journal now.

P.S. Who's been reading Catcher in the Rye in my bed? It better be who I think it is.

"I got my body and my mind on the same page, and honey now happiness is all the rage..." Promise Ring

Futility

It's not that I think it's about me... it's not. At all. But I'm not ready for another round of sadness and death. I've had more than enough of that, and I don't want to go through it; I damn sure don't want someone I love going through it.

So, you better fucking fix this, Universe. If you don't, in the immortal words of Hunter S. Thompson, you're going to have me on your hands.

I know the story of that family, you know. And it's just not fucking fair; they've had more than enough tragedy and hurt and loss. It has to fucking ease up at some point.

Right?

"If you fall apart again, then you can find a friend..." Brandi Carlile

"Blame is much too messy..."

For the record, I will never apologize for expressing myself verbally; even to my mother.
I think it's a sign that I've reached a turning point in my life that she said I was "un-Shermanlike" and it didn't hurt my feelings. I'm not a Sherman. I'm not any of my names, legal or otherwise. I don't know what I should call myself, but nothing I've tried on so far has really fit. Can't I just be Kristyn?

snip snip snip

The surgery is done and the offending ovary has been sent to a path lab to be cut into bits under a microscope, which is a far better fate than it deserves after all the pain it has caused me over the past ten years. Bastard. Apparently it was covered in small cysts, so the birth control pills were not controlling them like they were supposed to... as I had assumed, since the pain never went away.
Now I have four and a half days to lay around and do nothing in a narcotic haze. I plan on reading a few books, catching my journal up on my life and working on my book or the new poems. (Yes, plural-- I've got two rough drafts, recently inspired.)
At the moment I'm going to dose myself with Demerol and crawl into bed; hopefully without Fatty-Cat leaping onto my belly any time soon.

Grief

Sunday my aunt and uncle went out to a concert. Ella was left with a work friend. The week before that when they went out she was left with someone else, who was also not me. Both were nights I would have made myself readily available. I had a little nervous breakdown yesterday, with the crying in the shower and the shaking and sleeping for 16 hours. Today there was crying in the office and outside and taking too many smoke breaks. I texted my aunt and asked blatantly if I could ever expect to see Ella again and got no response. I guess that's my answer.
I feel like a little part of me died. One of the bright, shiny pieces that I would have liked to keep. One of the happy pieces. And I can't make it come back.
This is what happens when I let myself love too much; both with Bryan and with the baby. It makes me hurt. It makes me lose pieces of myself. It makes me weak.
I really don't think he's ever going to let me see her again. And there's nothing I can do, I have no rights. He blames me, he doesn't care what was happening to me, and he's angry. I can't fix that.
I just miss her so much. She's the one thing in my life that always made me smile, no matter how depressed I was. There were a few times I was in so much pain from my headaches that I honestly wanted to die, but she would smile at me and I would feel better, just for a minute. Now I don't even get to hear her voice.
I guess in fifteen years I can talk to her again, if she remembers who I am.

"It's only love, but love has been hurting so long..." Heather Nova

Flying

And why do I have to wait a month to get the 401k money when I need it like yesterday? Because the universe hates me? Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.
I'm using it to go to Portland and see my Kyle. I'm sure the car payment will work itself out.

Hot

There's a lot to be said for friends who are so generous they allow you to live in their place for free (with a cat who poops on the floor, even). But, Jesus Christ, how much do I miss central air? I actually got sweaty last night. Yuck.

Old

Sorting through old, old emails on my gmail account, looking for something inspiring, just made it very clear to me that I'm good at losing people. It kind of make me nervous.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return." Moulin Rouge

Look how close I've come (I'm far away)

Dr. Linton said: "Kristyn, you started grieving three years ago. Your grieving didn't begin with his death, it ended."
Wow. I knew I paid her for a reason.
The issue is this: I want to tell my story, but I don't want to tarnish anyone's memories... even Patrick's. I just want to write truth, and make people understand. Except, I think the ones I really want to understand already do.
I can be alone again. I can write.
I know who I am again.

"And I don't know who I am without you, I only know that I should..." Missy Higgins

Violent mood swings

Thursday I see the shrink for the first time since Bryan died. She is going to flip the fuck out that I haven't been there sooner. But, I'm well-medicated and I've had people taking care of me for the past four weeks; I haven't needed her. Doesn't that mean she's done her job well?
I'm starting to get my focus back at work, and I'm able to finish my shifts now. I'm paying my own bills and taking care of legal and financial shit on my own, which I never thought I would be capable of doing. I'm still not writing, because for the most part I'm not ready to be alone yet. But I've been out with friends and spending a lot of time catching up with people I never had time for in the past few years. I guess that's what's called having a life and not just surviving.
I'm a little manic today. That's to be expected after a solid year of unwavering stress and depression. Dr.Linton will prescribe downers; I won't take them. That's how that will go down.
Now I'm going to buy beer, and possibly cry that I'm not allowed to see Ella because Patrick doesn't love me. At least all my friends are standing by me, and the rest of my family. That's all I need.
No one else was at home with me for the past year, no one else knows what went on in that place. That makes it no one else's fucking business what I do with my life now. I never have needed approval. I'm glad of that fact now.

Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Broken Things

I'm moving forward. I feel it every day. I'm still carrying guilt that I don't need, but I see light. And I feel alive again.
I'm not sick any more. No migraine meds. No IC meds. No stomach meds.
It's sad that it took a tragedy to let me be me again.

Cruel and Clumsy

Hard day.
Work was easy, once I showed up. But I came home and started answering emails from the past few weeks, re-reading things I had forgotten. Dealing with the charity that's taking the dialysis stuff. Trying to find out what's up with my "survivor benefits" check. It just hit me... the guilt that my brain knows I shouldn't feel but my heart feels anyway. Desolation. Self-recriminations. Anger. A lot of anger. Irrational fear that all of this will be with me forever.
Is it irrational? Maybe it does stay with you forever.
I need to write. I need to be alone and just feel it, get it out. But I'm scared.
I'm not actually as strong as people think I am; I've just been borrowing strength from someone else, and I need to wean myself off of that. I have to be able to stand up on my own. Soon.

How I feel

To think of my task is chilling.
To know I was carefully building the mask I was wearing for two years, swearing I'd tear it off.
I've sat in the dark explaining to myself that I'm straining too hard for feelings I ought to find easily.
Called myself Jezebel.
I don't believe.

Before I say that the vows we made weigh like a stone in my heart.
Family is family, don't let this tear us apart.

You lie there, an innocent baby.
I feel like the thief who is raiding your home, entering and breaking and taking in every room.
I know your feelings are tender and that inside you the embers still glow.
But I'm a shadow, I'm only a bed of blackened coal.
Call myself Jezebel for wanting to leave.

I'm not saying I'm replacing love for some other word to describe the sacred tie that bound me to you.
I'm just saying we've mistaken one for thousands of words.
And for that mistake, I've caused you such pain that I damn that word.
I've no more ways to hide that I'm a desolate and empty, hollow place inside.

I'm not saying I'm replacing love for some other word to describe the sacred tie that bound me to you.
I'm not saying love's a plaything.
No, it's a powerful word, inspired by strong desire to bind myself to you.
How I wish that we never had tried to be man and his wife, to weave our lives into a blindfold over both our eyes.

--Natalie Merchant