Remona G. Tanner
#shewrite
Riddle me this... Wonder if... Ponder that...
Author Remona G. Tanner's blog
Riddle me this... Wonder if... Ponder that...
Author Remona G. Tanner's blog
#flexyourfirstamendment
#flexyourfirstamendment
Some kind of Beautiful
Author Remona G. Tanner
Some kind of Beautiful
Author Remona G. Tanner
Whatever is pure and undefiled by daring individuality or the darkness of an unfortunate world- that is beautiful. In the beginning, the severity and expectation of purity becomes a unanimous decree passed down from generation to generation. A hope for our daughters, that they’d never shed a single salty tear aside from the ones that swell from joy. A prayer that a wicked world would pass them by when seeking victims for its next tragedy or precautionary tale. It’s true- there’s a precious beauty tethered to the innocent, those who don’t see, speak, hear but have a healthy fear of the unspeakables lurking in hollows of humanity.
…But the Ruins of Pompeii are just as pretty, just in a different way. A miraculous way, because the ruins are undeniable proof that strength is a requirement of survival.
She’s never owned a perfectly white communion dress. The palms of her hands were never impeccably clean or equally blameless, no. She’s been both dirty and guilty more times than she can count. She was not the immaculate feather adrift in the breeze. She was not the disciplined ballerina dancing on key. Perfect? She never has been and will never be. Satisfied with the imperfect being she turned out to be? Certainly.
When Hozier said, “She’s the giggle at a funeral,” he had a woman like her in mind- of that, I’m sure. She’s the Joan Jett in the room. She’s Titian’s Danae. She’s the girl who waits for summer to blossom so she can stop wearing shoes. She’s the lady standing on the table, dancing with a shadow in her arms singing Sinatra’s I did it my way. She’s the one with all the confidence and contagious laughter that dried all the disapproving whispers.
She’s the one with the contradicting tattoos, standing on the soap box challenging whatever’s unfair. She’s the one with her hand raised, not afraid to question what she’s been told to believe in. She knows, bravery also means accepting help with what we don’t understand. What’s right isn’t always proper, subsequently eyes roll as she struts her perfect form past those so preoccupied with normality that they’d fall for anything if it means fitting it. Her chin, its up way higher than their noses, she knows its far better to stand for something.
Ask her to share the best advice she’s ever received, she’ll tell you- “Hate has a price and that price is your peace. Just live every day of your life thankful that love is still free.” Ask her to repeat the most profound thing she’s ever read; she’ll say what Mary Elizabeth Frye said. “Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die.”
Both funerals and tombstones are for the living, that’s what she meant. Sob sessions and pity parties for those who must learn how to live without us in physical form. The stones, they read something ominous or wise to comfort who’s left behind still trying to find themselves as they find a way to move on. Some basic “Sunrise/Sunset” nonsense. Her last request was simple enough, “On my stone I want the truth about how I lived.”
And so it reads: “She was the sun and the moon, the heavy sigh in the room. She had a heart of gold, a silver tongue, a wicked sharp mind and she had iron in her spine.”
Yes, she was beautiful like the ruins- in a miraculous way, with all her scars.
Akathisiaꞏ (a-kuh-thee-zee-uh)
Shadowboxing depression’s reflection…
Author Remona G. Tanner- Oct. 2019
Akathisiaꞏ (a-kuh-thee-zee-uh)
Shadowboxing depression’s reflection…
Author Remona G. Tanner- Oct. 2019
Strangers have called you weak . You’ve been called sick . They’ve said you’re “simply sad” or “in desperate need of attention” . All because they cannot physically see your opponent- a menace very real to you, invisible to everyone else.
Loved ones won’t even pretend to understand what you’re feeling, because they see a happy life, not the weary existence you’re truly living. Boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and/or wives remember a different relationship than the one you fought to survive. Parents remember a different childhood, but they only snapped pictures when you were smiling. Everyone is stuck on the outside looking in, but all those spectators have trouble recollecting, calculating and comprehending your damage. The audacity of “well” person, to determine your mental and emotional needs based on collected perception- such a frustrating, archetypal human habit.
It waits…When you’re sleeping, in the darkest corridor of your bedroom or maybe it’s really just the shadowy passage right outside of yourself, that long deserted part of your mind where you’re supposed to store an emergency dose of confidence and a large sum of peace for the rainy days. Rather here or there…it waits. The Rubik’s mind twister. The inescapable boogeyman embodied. The most malevolent of all artist, who paints nightmares beneath pretty feathered dream catchers.
“Just get over this, get over that…”
“Just let go of him, her or them…”
“Just move on from way back then.”
They think you killed the sweet person you used to be and maybe you did, unintentionally.
They think stopped loving yourself a long time ago and maybe you did, accidentally.
They see you slipping away, forestalling the day you’ll be too far gone, eventually.
Some think freeing yourself is easy because they think thoughts in a mind like a room without a roof and you wrestle thoughts in a mind more like tomb.
"And if you take your life, you’ll go straight to hell…”
But you’re only human after all so you cannot fathom hell with an accurate understanding of its consequences but surely, it’s somewhat similar to what you’re suffering. And you can’t understand why they don’t understand not wanting to suffer…
You’re not alone.
People tend to shy away from uncomfortable subject matters. Unfortunately, the majority of society has decided that depression is a victimless, uncouth waste of compassion. Sometimes people perceive depression as an addiction to pessimism fueled by an indolent unwillingness to combat disturbing thoughts. And since the dawn of this callous era, depression inflicted individuals either hide their depression until the worst happens or settle for an isolated lonely existence to protect others from their gravitating ennui.
While researching the number of depressed individuals still struggling with symptoms of depression while being treated, I stumbled upon an article dated a few years back about a man who ended his life while experiencing akathisia - a side effect described by many as “a crawling beneath the skin.”
Initially the purpose of the research was strictly personal; but after reading the article I felt compelled to write this piece and share it on shewriteremonagtanner.com.
Sometimes in life, we’re faced with experiences that are tailor made for us. In order to truly feel what someone else is feeling, you’d have to share the same heart…interpret with the same mind…It’s impossible. So maybe when we say “walk a mile in my shoes” we’re asking for something that’s truly impossible. That fact is what causes the rift between those we love and those who don’t understand how hard it is to outrun depression.
One thing stayed with me once I was finished reading the article. This man recognized the giant in his life and took the necessary steps to defend himself against depression. He was fighting for “wellness.” He was fighting. He was a fighter. The medication he trusted to carry him through the twelfth round to victory, is what caused him to throw himself in front of a moving locomotive. It takes a village. More than just a pill, We need one another.
Reach out to those who battle depression. Know the signs. Acknowledge the signs. Do your medical and spiritual research. Get help. Offer help.
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part One
Author Remona G. Tanner
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part One
Author Remona G. Tanner
When it comes to love, one rarely associates the emotion with tenebrous terms such as devastation and agony. Love was once the most significant, sought after sensation desired by mankind. More consuming than greed. More gratifying than opulence. More potent than revenge with a longer-lasting euphoria. That was once upon a time ago, back when we believed everything Shakespeare and Elizabeth Barrett Browning had to say about the matter. For those of us burdened by the bitter aftertaste of untoward heartbreak, we only speak of love in the past tense if we dare speak of it at all. Now, we’re forced to use tenebrous terms like misery and woe when we speak love’s cursed name. Now, the forbidden “L” word is nothing more than a poetic sadistic reminder of the hollow, ever-bleeding cavity carved near the upper left shoulder where a fully functional beating heart used to be…
I’d been there before, in that very same bar, sitting on that very same stool. A filthy haven for those seeking shelter from their insalubrious thoughts of self-loathing.
“That color looks amazing on you! What’s the occasion?” asked the sketchiest bartender in the shabbiest part of my hometown.
It was a question that truly required no answer. The bartender, he’d seen that act too many times before- pretty women dressing excessively promiscuous only to attract attention they don’t want or need. A petty tactic acrimonious woman execute to redeem their self-esteem after having it challenged by an abrupt, sordid breakup. Let the whole world see how much you’re hurting? No. Never. Strut, instead, and pretend you’re bulletproof. You know, that old elementary school mentality- I’m rubber and you’re glue. Pretend like nothing can affect or break you. Lather on some cheap make up to conceal the glow of fresh tear streams and put one stiletto in front of the other, hiding behind something way too short and sexy. Fake equanimity until it’s an achievable peace.
“The occasion? Nothing celebratory, I’m afraid. Nothing good coming, nothing bad going. I’m just somewhere in the middle trying to live my best life, I suppose. I’m here in the moment. Tonight, we are young and I am free so pour me drinks while I count all the many reasons I have to smile. May they outweigh the reasons I have to cry. Salute!”
Small sips of alcohol formed a river of lowered inhibitions, submerging my nerves in a familiar warmness. At last, comfort for my fresh wounds.
Especially under the wicked charm of liquor, a lady remains poised. How a sober barmaid managed to be clumsier than a drunk patron? I’ll never understand it. Damn fate... She lost her footing trying to balance her tray and an unfinished tumbler of cheap imitation cognac tipped over and emptied on my dress. Everyone gasped, almost simultaneously. I looked down at the blot on my most prized red dress and then glared back up at the waitress. If looks could kill my slicing eyes would have ended her life right then and there. That’s the problem with red dresses, they’re nothing like little black dresses. Contrary to popular belief, the world is full of perfect little black dresses. Perfect red ones are harder to find and easier to ruin. Spill a drink on a black dress and once it’s dried, people barely notice. Spill on a red dress and it’s ruined. People notice.
“I’m so sorry!!!” Poor girl… her face was almost as red as my dress.
Accidents happen. I didn’t yell at her, but my rage was plain to see. I could almost feel steam release from my ears as I watched the stain worsen beneath the cheap terrycloth rag she used to pad the wet spot. Aggressively, I snatched the rag from her grip. “Don’t! You’ve done enough!” And then there he was, out of nowhere.
“Burnishing with a dry cloth will only help that stain settle. Surely there’s some club soda behind the bar,” he said. I remember he looked like miraculous sunlight beaming through the dense nicotine smog that never seemed to lift inside the bar. Damn fate... “You’re far too exquisite to be in a place like this. Tell me, why are you here?”
Knocking back the last swallow of whiskey in my glass, I answered with an irascible sneer. “I needed a pain reliever.”
“Are you in pain?” he asked, genuinely curious, using a seductive stare to collect my beauty from head to toe and then back up again.
“Oh yes. It’s excruciating.”
“…Wouldn’t’ be able to tell, looking at you.”
“That’s cause my aching is way down deep, where it belongs. Not going to let silly thing like sadness steal the spotlight away from a dress this jaw dropping.”
“…Jaw dropping, indeed.”
We sat. We talked. We drank. We laughed. It was innocent enough. All I left him with was a harmless, platonic kiss on the cheek as if to say: ‘ You must work to earn a diamond like me.' Just a kiss on the cheek- no more, no less. The story could have ended there. The story should have ended there, but no. Fate had other, uglier, plans for us .
To be continued…
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part Two
Author Remona G. Tanner
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part Two
Author Remona G. Tanner
The great Blackbear sang it and I quote, “If I could go back to the day we met, I probably would just stay in bed.” I can still taste the rancorous repugnance as those lyrics roll off my tongue and the sound of my own voice quoting it brings back the memory of how the walls around my heart got so high up to begin with. Naïve, I was. Fate was damning. Impenetrable, I became.
I never saw it coming. Hindsight waits, patiently, for misfortune before it deciphers reality and clears it up to a crisp 20/20. It was a fake love so mending and convincing that it was almost holy to the naked eye. The devil used to be an angel, perhaps that’s why I failed to see the trickery beneath the false glow I mistook for God’s will.
He and I, we made many memories together. Love or lust? “The difference is in the way you’re being touched,” -my sister used to say. I thought I knew the difference between the two. I remember his fingertips rubbing against my tattoos with a careful tenderness as if reading braille and with his eyes closed he read everything on the inside of me that I hid away and deemed too shameful to ever reveal to another living person and risk subjecting myself to their shaming. All the insecurities lining the boundaries of my heavy soul, he read back to me like poetry and I'm no stranger to the English language but the adoring left his lips and hit my ear like a brand new dialect. He kissed all the scars left over from my childhood, the ones I’d been told made me ugly; the physical ones, the emotional ones, the mental ones that never graced the surface and never healed because even as a child I knew: people like me don’t have time to lick their wounds. No, we had to grow up long before we were really ready because the world knocked the rose-colored glasses right off our hopeful faces. “Unblemished is not the only form of beauty. These scars deserve recognition, they’ve made you a testimony of strength. They’re not hideous. They’ve made you even more beautiful, how can’t you see that?”
Just like that, I knew I’d found my counterpart in this lifetime.
A year in, he reminded me of the night we first crossed paths.
The dirty bar.
The stain.
The red dress .
Holding hands, we entered a boutique with the most expensive dresses I’d ever seen.“There will never be another dress like the one before, but perhaps there’s a red dress here fit for a queen. Fit for you.”
I must have tried on every dress in the building. He was patient as I shillyshallied back and forth, until I finally found one worthy. I wore it home that night and slept in his arms. I wonder if he knows that I wept as he slept. I wasn’t sad. It was all the gratitude swelling up inside and the pressure had to go somewhere; so the salty tears trickled from my lashes until daybreak and I never made a sound.
When bliss is delightfully ignorant, prayers for omniscient protection contradict life as it unfolds, and it keep us from leaving well enough alone.
If meeting him was the beginning, finding out the truth should have been the end. It wasn't. Heartbreak is a merciless gift that keeps on giving. Fate had even uglier plans. Damn fate...
To be continued…
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part Three
Author Remona G. Tanner
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part Three
Author Remona G. Tanner
Small inconsistencies fueled an obsessive curiosity. Back then I called it a gut instinct, but it wasn’t my stomach telling me that something wasn’t right. No, a stomach is nothing but a wasteland where we allow nourishment to decay and where there is decay, there can never be a trustworthy emotion. That bad feeling that came out of nowhere, it stemmed from a place a little higher up in the torso- that hollow, ever-bleeding cavity I spoke of before.
Hidden deep in the undertone of this elaborate interpretation of infidelity, I’ve said it a million times without writing it. Jhene Aiko sang it and I quote: “And I was not the only one. I was not the only one to you… So I was the only lonely one.”
The confrontation was more unceremonious than I expected. He made no attempt to deny the evidence and barely flinched when I spoke his wife’s name out loud. “Initially, I meant to walk straight pass you. I was a licentious man, aware of my limits. Looking at you, admiring you, was something I could do and not be a complete disgrace of a husband. Looking and not touching was something I could get away with. In the bar, I fantasized about what it would be like to be with you. There’s no crime in just thinking about it. I planned to just keep on walking with my head down, maybe inhale the scent of you and that would be enough to weather the stale tension waiting for me at home where my wife was fast asleep, content with the life I worked hard to provide with no appreciation in return. Damn Fate. The red dress. The spill. The stain. You sweet damsel, you believed you were doing such a good job at hiding your distress. I could see straight through you and that’s what made it so much harder to stay away. Even the strongest succumb to void love; but seeing you put up a fight was by far the most beautiful shade of sinew you could ever wear...”
I was destroyed, and he was indifferent; but I had to think about the other innocent, unintended participant in this love tragedy. His wife and I- the confrontation was less hostile than I expected. Granted, she said things she knew would tear me apart like: “There were many before you. None of you are special, all the same brand of trash.”
Hurtful, but I let her push the blade deep without any verbal retaliation in return. I’d done enough. I had been sleeping with her deceitful husband and even worse, fell in love with him. Her reality was harder to stomach than mine, both devastating; but he’d promised God to honor her. I was just a hobby. I knew that. Collateral damage in an ugly war between two people who forgot how to love each other. A hobby, yes. I was nothing more than that. I know that. She looked so tired. I imagine it was exhausting for her, playing house while constantly sweeping her husband’s skeletons under the rug and into the closet. She had a facade to maintain, one that led her closest friends and family to believe she was the best wife and she had the best husband. It was less about her husband’s place in my bed and more about what people would think if they knew about his indiscretions. I needed her to know that I never once wished to be her. No, I could never be her. Did I love him? Yes, but my love was conditional. He could only have all my love if I had all his in return; love and all the other things that come with it free of charge, like honesty and devotion. We are not dogs, we are not designed to beg and roll over for love. No, I had a little pride left after all. She wore red the day I met her face to face. That petty tactic was all too familiar, the red band aid. She was hurting. I could almost smell the rotting hollow hole in her shoulder. We had matching wounds. Damn fate. Everything that needed to be said had been said. And it still wasn’t over. Not yet.
To be continued…
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part Four
Author Remona G. Tanner
The Problem with Red Dresses
A tale of deception; Part Four
Author Remona G. Tanner
“Would you please lend me your ear? I promise I won’t complain. I just need you to acknowledge I am here…” It was the legendary India Arie who said it; and I felt it- truly and honestly with every fiber of my paltry, broken existence. And regrettably…it killed me, whole-heartedly.
Countless nights, I lay with my face planted in a cold puddle on a tear-soaked pillow pondering the interpretation of the most philosophically and unapologetically echt quotes known to man. It was something Stephen King said. “ Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell Is only a poor synonym.”
Far be it for me to decide which supreme loss provoked such as austere, but obviously sullen rendition of abandonment. One can only assume by the context that this man found himself on the receiving end of heartbreak- the very same end where we’ve all been…headed to or headed back from. After all, beneath a mound of valor we are but measly humans…fragile…tenuous.
Tenuous. Yes, that’s the key word.
I could have done without the conversation about the birds and the bees; nothing but precautionary tales of tainted fluids and unplanned pregnancies. I wish someone would have sat me down and told me all about the whores of both male and female kind and the emotional thieves I’d find impossible to avoid as I ventured through puberty and set sail towards adulthood; far too hopeful when it comes to true love. You see, all the fairy tales I had read to me ended the same.
To date, I have no children of my own. Forget about the fear of agonizing labor. The scariest thought of all is having to raise a child in a world where they are more likely to be torn apart by love than made whole by it. A world where they’re more likely to be hurt by love than healed by it. A world where they’re more likely to be manipulated by love, made a slave to it…led astray by it. What untrue thing could I possibly say to secure their faith in love? I bet they’d look at my face, see the pain in my eyes and they’d know. I’d been there before and came back emptyhanded.
The reflection of the color red against my skin in the mirror looks pathetic now. The bitter banshee hiding just behind my maimed shell remains extraordinarily angry. Sometimes its shy, but never confident or calm. Not since the damned fate. No matter the fabric, the cut of the hem or the length…it just won’t fit right. It’s like a cape draped around the neck of a simple mortal with no powers. That’s another problem with red dresses, you can’t fake the confidence necessary to pull of the risqué. Red owns the room. Once you no longer believe you’re bulletproof, people can tell. May as well find some other color to wear.