Finding Joy: One Teen’s Journey

I hide the bruises while they say hippie wannabe, dog, and freak. But I am Joy. Its my name! And I’m really trying to live it.

A Tale of Abuse and Discovery

About Laurie: The author of Forests Secrets and Finding Joy as well as The Pharaoh’s Cry, Portal Shift, Kidnapped Smile, and Dragon Sky of the fantasy series The Artania Chronicles, Laurie Woodward is also a screenwriter who co-authored Dean and JoJo: The Dolphin Legacy. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals and anthologies and she was a collaborator on the popular anti-bullying DVD Resolutions. Bullied as a child, Laurie is now an award-winning peace consultant, poet, and blogger who helps teach children how to avoid arguments, stop bullying, and maintain healthy friendships. She writes on the Central Coast of California. More about her work can be found at Author Laurie Woodward — Next Chapter ia.net

Velveted Blades: A Poem

Skin of blades

Velveted by day

Sheathed under layers

Of false smiles

And soft words.

But as night falls

Hinge outward

Extending scythes

Of umbrage

Razor-sharp

Piercing embrace.

Embedded in Vinyl: A Poem

Embedded in vinyl

Are hands over sheets

And the susurration of ever quickening

Breath

Its black grooves played

Until scratched and warped

Each sound crackles

With the resolute whir

Of closing zippers

And bodies turned away

Like records forever encased

In plastic sheaths.

About Laurie: The author of the recently released Finding Joy as well as The Pharaoh’s Cry, Portal Shift, Kidnapped Smile, and Dragon Sky of the fantasy series The Artania Chronicles, and Forests Secrets. Laurie Woodward is also a screenwriter who co-authored Dean and JoJo: The Dolphin Legacy. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals and anthologies and she was a collaborator on the popular anti-bullying DVD Resolutions. Bullied as a child, Laurie is now an award-winning peace consultant, poet, and blogger who helps teach children how to avoid arguments, stop bullying, and maintain healthy friendships. She writes on the Central Coast of California. More about her work can be found at Author Laurie Woodward — Next Chapter ia.net

Hull’s Feast: A Poem

Vultures circle

The line of metallic insects

Whose crystalline eyes see only

The flashing red thoraxes

Before them.

They wait for dimming lights

To swoop down

Break through lenses

And feast on

Our empty hulls.

No Ride: A Finding Joy Excerpt

The winter stars twinkled above the streetlamps in the midnight sky. Porch lanterns glimmered through the fog. A lone car’s headlamp shone in the distance.

But shadows prevailed. Dusky hands swiped from the gloom. A blackness I’d never escape.

I kept running. Rushing forward in a race against no one. Each breath drew shorter. I started gasping, chest tightening with every stride.

Palm trees swayed overhead, their sharp fronds whispering like necromancers creating curses. Repeatedly, they murmured, “Dog. Freak. Outcast.” Meanwhile, wispy clouds became wraiths assaulting the sky.

Praying that speed would shrivel the words, I tried focusing on my feet. And raced on.

If there truly was a fairy godmother, she’d tell me to close my eyes to erase it all. But when I tried, Angie’s sneering face remained etched on the back of my lids.

I sprinted up one street. Down another.

Then I turned the corner and flew head long into the street. Saw the headlights. Too late. A horn blared and tires screeched.

The next thing I knew I was splayed out in someone’s yard, watching a man in a dark Camaro roll down his window.

“Stupid kid! Watch where you’re going!” he shouted before peeling out.

If I’d had any buzz before that, it sure as shit was gone now. Panting, I hugged my knees as the wet grass soaked into my Dittoes.

The street was quiet now. Shivers tingled my scalp and pulsed down my spine until I was shaking so much, I thought that big earthquake they always talk about had begun.

I want to go home. Sit on Mom’s lap like I had when I was little, feeling her stroke my hair as she told me things that weren’t true like sticks and stones will break your bones, but names will never hurt you.

Take a deep breath, Joy. Think. You don’t’ know where you are, but you need to find out. It’s almost curfew.

My legs tightened as a full-on Charlie horse set in. Standing I limped over to a nearby street sign, grabbed the pole with both hands, and started to stretch out my right calf.

The sign said Malibu Avenue. Where had I heard that before? Wracking my brain, I tried to remember street names, but everything was fuzzy and mixed up.

Right or left? Both looked pretty much like dead ends, but I either picked one or stayed on this corner shivering all night. Eeenie meanie Minnie moe.

Left it is.

***

By the time I finally found my way home it was real late, probably past two. I thought maybe I could sneak in and my parents wouldn’t notice.

Turning the knob as slowly as I could, I slipped inside.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ronny thundered, his eyes red and angry.

“Umm. At Janice’s.”

He grabbed me by the collar and pulled me closer. I could still smell the Seagram’s under the toothpaste on his breath. “Liar. We called. She was with her boyfriend.”

“But I was with them. Really.”

“You were whoring around, little slut.”

“No! I was with Janice and Lisa, I swear.”

Mom stepped into the entryway. “Tell us the truth Joy. Was it a boy?”

“No.” I sighed. Busted, I might as well tell the truth. “I was a party, okay? Some kids had a party.”

“Whoring around?”

“I don’t do that. just went to a party.” Then under my breath said, “Nobody’d want me anyhow.”

Mom’s face fell. “You lied to us?”

“I thought you’d say no. You guys are so strict-”

“I’ll show you strict you little slut!” Ronny raised an arm.

“Stop calling me that.”

Grabbing a fistful of t-shirt, he said, “Slutty jeans. Whore top.”

“Asshole!” I jerked away.

“Why you fucking little–” His fist recoiled off my face.

For the first time I ignored the pain and fear. Instead, rage filled me. Every punch Mom and I had ever endured. Every black eye and bruise. Every cruel word of derision. Every time I’d cowered behind my door. All turned to paper flashing flame.

I wish he’d just crawl in a hole and die.

I swung. Fists curled like he showed me. Connected with that fucking red face. Arms burning with rage. Imitating the blows he’d inflicted year after year.

Smack! Rapid fire strikes shot off from two pairs of arms. Child against adult. Girl against man. Victim against perpetrator.

Mom’s screams did nothing to stop the conflagration. Too many years of fuel. I punched and punched. Not giving a shit as to how loud she cried or how much my face was swelling.

She got behind me and grabbed my waist. “Stop, now!” she said dragging me off him.

I stumbled back. Raised an arm toward her but then gasped when I realized what I was doing. A tear-stained face looked at me accusingly.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Ronny placed a hand on Mom’s back. “She’s a spoiled bitch, that’s what.”

Shaking my head, I backed up. Only now feeling the fire on my cheeks, I cupped them and froze. I hate him, fucking hate him.

After lowering my hands, I ran to my room. With a loud door slam, I fell onto the bed and buried my face in a Tide-scented pillow. Pounding the mattress, I screamed, “I didn’t do anything!”

Asswipe.

And I’d really been trying lately. Not getting high so much. Working on my grades, friggin’ joined the school paper, even wrote two articles that got published. I tried getting home before curfew. Wasn’t my fault I couldn’t get a ride.

Why do I even try? No matter what I do, things suck.

A smoldering something changed in me that day. It blistered into a scalding char that burned under my skin. And the tears that flooded my pillow did nothing to smother it.

I fucking give up.

Bleached Memory: A Poem

Father’s memory betrayed.

In revisionist history

Sketch after sketch erased.

Canvases unpainted.

She hides his true face

From the world.

Morphing the second Borax’s

Paint-splattered cloak

Into the bleached mantle

Of a king’s antiseptic empire.

The above poem follows the theme of my new novel: Artania V. What is memory? Why is it important? Here fifteen year old Bartholomew realizes that his mother has always lied about who his deceased Father was.

Raucous Éclair: A Poem

The mute speak in raucous voices

Spewing chocolate éclairs and ice cream

At satiated audiences.

The blind behold paper movie-set flames

Licking the walls of war-torn villages

Where no one lives.

The deaf attend to the muffled sirens

Of disgruntled men in leisure suits

Who cry “Buy!” and “Sell!” into cellular phones.

I see only darkness through my colored contact lenses

As pop bands play, “My future’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”

I tap my foot, sans rhythm, to the minstrel mime blaring silent recordings on a blank tape.

Voices clamor for the sky.

Tears fall on the shadows of shoulders.

While I orate and conversate.

And emit passionate cliches and sublime euphemisms.

But only the mute hear me,

And they can’t respond.

Banished Butterflies: A Poem

We live in an age of love’s corporeal metamorphoses

Where butterflies are banished back to chrysalides

Veiled in pupal gowns

They emerge as larva crawling and devouring

Ever younger and greener shoots

Until the garden is denuded

And it is time to call upon corporeal lust

To nourish an emptying sky of butterflies

And as the wind is hushed from the beating of astral wings

And skyriders descend into the venery of a mucinous desert

Gypsy moths dance on their aborted souls

Writer’s Block Sonnet

Praying for insight to come unto me

I write and then wander from room to room

Sipping yet another cup of strong tea

Suppressing the words from coming too soon

I fear they are lacking the perfect mate

So click goes the brain box, images flow

The hypnotizing rhythm of modern hate

Summons the restraints of my constant foes:

Those remnants of fears that so often lied

Coerce the mind to remain in tethers

Self doubt and pity hold that muzzle tight

My pen awaits only scrambled letters.

A mute, I cry out against ancient wrongs

While gyves bind and muffle this poets song.

On Meditation

Breathe in deeply. Hold it. Exhale. Repeat, filling your chest deeper with each inhalation. Repeat. The practitioner recites. And I listen, trying to follow his/her instructions. Trying to find peace in an uncertain world of chasmic divisions. Trying to find wisdom in the myriad of mistakes and false steps that have tripped my life.

What set me on this path? Didn’t teaching full time give my life purpose? Wasn’t I already writing poetry, books, and blog posts to quench that creative thirst? Shouldn’t I have been satiated with the successes of my career?

Nope. Because while I was elevating my professional life, I was ignoring my personal one. Going off to do my “important shit” while leaving my boyfriend behind. Every morning and most weekend days I’d wave him away saying no to every invitation for breakfast, beach walk, or football game. While I wrote he’d go off by himself often texting me with his complaints. “Come on, meet me. I’m lonely, damnit.” Or “Dating you makes me feel like the loneliest man in town.”

Did any of that change my behaviors? No. I kept typing in a desperate attempt to become a “great writer” like Thoreau, Hyde, Atwood, and Koontz. I didn’t leave any space for him, ignoring his every plea and sad text until, over time he stopped asking. When he became disillusioned, and told me he was moving out, I was shocked. And heartbroken.

Again.

I begged him to stay. Told him what he wanted to hear. I’ll change. Get counseling. Meditate. Spend more time with you. Don’t go!

Although I did all of those things, none of them worked. It was too late. Another failed relationship. Feeling like a total shit, I started to wonder if I’d learned friggin’ anything since my divorce.

The old tapes started playing in my head, telling me what a selfish failure I was. Still I kept practicing my daily meditations. Sometimes I’d sit there with tears rolling down my cheeks as I listened to positive affirmations saying, “I know who I am. I am love. I am kind. I am beautiful. I am fun and funny.”

I’d always been taught to be humble and at first it felt strange to repeat those words. But over time I noticed a difference in how I felt. Yes, I was sad to lose my best friend. Yes, I had ignored him a lot of the time. But that didn’t make me a horrible person. Or evil. Or a failure. It just made me single.

And that was okay.

While I tried many podcasts and videos, Rising Higher Meditation was the most healing I found. It showed me that no matter what, I was full of love and kindness. Perhaps it can help you too.

Rising Higher

The world continues to be uncertain and relationships still have their ups and downs but in the two years since I began this practice, I have learned to calmly accept these truths. My new mantra is “Love, peace, health.”

Try it, you just might be surprised.