The Great War

"This is a time of war!" was exclaimed,
"The tension has gone on too long!"
"We must fight to the death to prove which of us
is the weak and which is the strong!"
With each thought and with each pulse,
the mind and the heart fought with pride.
Exhausted from battle, but each held it's own,
to conquer the great divide.
"I am the intelligence!" said the mind,
"The body uses me to survive!""
But I am the soul!" said the heart,
"Without me, you wouldn't be alive!"
Since the dawn of time, humans were confused
about which should lead the way.
"Follow your heart" says one human,
"It will never lead you astray."
"But the mind is our intellect, it uses facts,
it doesn't lead us into the dark!"
So for years this battle continued,
with each making it's own mark.
But this war, my friends, is never won-
and it carries on to this day.
One will drag you straight to hell,
the other just paves the way.

Jellyfish

Staring into the ocean
from the safety of my boat,
observing all the ocean life
as I comfortably float.
Wondering what's beneath the water
as the sun starts going down,
dreaming of diving in
but too scared that I might drown.
Intrigued by the jellyfish
but scared of the pain of its sting,
so I sit so quietly in my boat
writing a song to sing...

Oh to swim with the jellyfish
watching its beauty and grace,
intrigued by its wonder
but terrified of its embrace.
Knowing the jellyfish can hurt me
I keep my distance, and yet
I dream of swimming with jellyfish-
but it's much too much of a threat.

There once was a jellyfish
that effortlessly hypnotized me,
but I got too close and got stung
so I tried to set it free.
It left behind the painful scar
that I still feel to this day-
I tried so hard to let it go
but couldn't seem to get away.
I was terrified of its power,
the pain of its sting was strong.
I had to let the jellyfish go-
so I now I sing this song...

Oh to swim with the jellyfish
watching its beauty and grace,
intrigued by its wonder
but terrified of its embrace.
Knowing the jellyfish can hurt me
I keep my distance, and yet
I dream of swimming with jellyfish-
but it's much too much of a threat.

Hard to Handle

Sometimes I have a bad temper,
and an attitude to match.
Sometimes I get moody
and I seem a little detached.
Sometimes I just want to cry
because I get so overwhelmed,
and I always need to be reassured,
to be loved, to be held.

Sometimes I get bossy
when things don't go my way.
Sometimes I can be a diva
when I've had a long, tough day.
Sometimes I get too motherly
with the people I care about the most-
and I get so mad when people hurt
the ones I hold so close.

So don't tell me you love me
if I'm too much for you to handle.
Don't tell me you love me
if your love flickers out like a candle.
Don't tell me you love me
if your love casually comes and goes.
I'm hard to love but I'm worth it-
and I need a love that grows.

Sometimes I get bitchy
when my hormones are out of whack.
Sometimes I whine like a child
when I've done something to hurt my back.
Sometimes I get disappointed
because my life isn't what I thought it'd be,
and I need my man to lift me up
when I'm not at the best that I can be.

Sometimes I get a little too wild
when I go party with my friends.
Sometimes I stay out too late
and you'll wonder where I've been.
Sometimes I act too young for my age
but I see no good reason to grow old.
And I need someone to run wild with me,
that will never let our fire go cold.

So don't tell me you love me
when you see that I'm a little rough.
Don't tell me you love me
and then decide you're not man enough.
Don't tell me you love me
if you can't handle me at my worst.
I'm hard to love but I'm worth it,
and I'm sick of getting hurt.

Sometimes I get so bored with life
and my gypsy side wants to run.
Sometimes I long for the family life,
to grow roots with a special someone.
Sometimes I feel so hopeless
because I get a little lost in my own mind.
Sometimes I can't see the bright side
because my faith has gone blind.

Sometimes I dream of getting married again,
and having children of my own.
Sometimes I long for the American dream-
the white picket fence, the home.
Sometimes I lose sight of it all
and want to stay in bed for days.
I'll hate my jobs and the town I'm in
and walk around in a haze.

So don't tell me you love me
if you think I've become a burden.
Don't tell me you love me
if you just add to my hurtin'.
Don't tell me you love me
if it's just a downright lie,
I'm hard to love but I'm worth it
and need a man that won't make me cry.

Homesick Gypsy

Homesick Gypsy
©Meesa Caudill
Sitting in this fluorescent hell,
windows open, feeling the breeze-
daydreaming of the moment
when I can finally be free.
Needing the wind from a car window
blowing through my hair,
I need to feel the rush
of driving to the middle of nowhere.
My gypsy soul is homesick,
the road is calling my name-
I need to see the world
that's beyond this window pane.

I'm a homesick gypsy,
I need to be on the road.
This homesick gypsy
with nowhere to go.
Lord help this homesick gypsy
find her way home.

My daddy was a trucker so
I was born with diesel in my veins.
I can't be still in one place too long,
Lord, release me from these chains.
Put me in a car, in a plane, or
the train going down the tracks.
I'm so ready to get out of here
and never have to look back.
My gypsy soul is aching
to see the world with my own eyes.
I need to experience everything there is-
no tears, no regrets, no goodbyes.

I'm a homesick gypsy,
I need to be on the road.
This homesick gypsy
with nowhere to go.
Lord help this homesick gypsy
find her way home.

Turning the Page

Turning the Page
©Meesa Caudill

Lost sight of what it meant to be me,
need a new chapter and a new pen.
Leaving behind what used to be,
and all of the pain I've been in.
Gonna let go and start all over,
a fresh, positive start in mind.
I realize I've gotta take care of me,
protect and love what's mine.
So I'm letting go of you and our past,
I'm exhausted from this rage.
It's time to write a new chapter in my life-
this is me turning the page.

Turning the page to write a new story
of the life with which I've been blessed.
I'm turning the page to begin a new chapter
without you and all of our mess.
I'm turning the page to start all over,
so many blank pages for me to fill.
I'm turning the page, it's all about me,
and what's left in my life that's real.

It's time to let go of the story of us
and start the story of me.
It's been long overdue, I'm so over you
and all of our history.
No more believing in fairy tales,
I've got one of my own to write.
So I'm grabbing my pen and healing my heart
and moving on with my life.

Kentucky Summer

Kentucky Summer 
©Meesa Caudill

Fever's kickin' in on the first day of spring,
chill in the air but the sun is bright.
Basketball season for the Cats now over,
clocks kicked up for more daylight.
Summer's just around the bend,
we're all daydreaming about the heat.
It's been a long, dull winter and we're all ready
to escape from all this concrete.

Kentucky summer is on the way,
Fried chicken, watermelon, and lakes...
Let's pack up the coolers and head to the fields,
be sure to watch out for snakes.
Fire up the grill, throw on some chicken,
don't forget the steaks!
We're all ready for a Kentucky summer,
Fried chicken, watermelon, and lakes!

Pull out the tents and let's go camping,
drink and laugh around a bonfire.
Grab your poles, let's catch some catfish,
splash as much as your heart desires.
If you got a boat, bring it along,
we need a redneck yacht club!
Let's escape the bar scene a while
and cook up some Kentucky grub!

Kentucky summer is on the way,
Fried chicken, watermelon, and lakes...
Let's pack up the coolers and head to the fields,
be sure to watch out for snakes.
Fire up the grill, throw on some chicken,
don't forget the steaks!
We're all ready for a Kentucky summer,
Fried chicken, watermelon, and lakes!

An Old Letter

An Old Letter
© Meesa Caudill


You could see the anguish in the handwriting,
shaking hands with each stroke of the pen.
You didn't have to look into his eyes
to see the pain he was in.
His despair is there on paper,
ink smudged from drops of tears
from the eyes the light disappeared from,
his soul weary for all those years.
I could tell from the letter he was exhausted,
so tired of putting up a fight.
All he needed was a glimmer of hope-
to have some faith, see the light.
I was the one he trusted to read it,
years before his light went out.
To read of his struggles and stresses,
to know his unselfishness without a doubt.
In some of the lines I see anger
and bitterness from a life unplanned.
Regret ate at his soul from the inside out-
he felt as if he were less of a man.
Even after reading it I tried to tell him
what a hero he was in my mind.
To him, he was a failure.
Misery the only thing he could find.
I blamed myself for taking away his youth-
my existence stole his dreams, his light.
I know his absence isn't my fault
because I had become his life.
His letter was written in darkness,
a man wanting so badly to be free.
But I know to this day he loved me so
because of the letter daddy wrote to me.

It's Been Six Years... and I'm FINE.

It's Been Six Years... and I'm FINE
© Meesa Caudill


vic·tim  
/ˈviktəm/ Noun

1. A person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action.

Victims. Survivors. Those left behind.
"Get over it already."
"It's been _ years. You're still upset?"
"She just wants pity and attention."
"Anyone who wants to kill themselves, just let them."

How many of you have thought these things? Said them? I admit it. I have. Until six years ago.

I didn't understand the anguish, questions, and destruction a suicide leaves behind. I had dealt with losing friends and family members to natural causes, a car accident, and even to homicide. I assumed, like most people, that losing a loved one to suicide was the same as any other death. That you grieve, you go through the stages of dealing with a death, you smile at the good memories and then you get over it.

Sadly, that's not the case. Losing a loved one to suicide is a wound that never heals. For some "survivors" it causes deep depression, some suffer PTSD (primarily those that witnessed the act or the outcome- but even some just from the loss), some just get lost in their own worlds. And then you have the ones like me- the ones who still, after six years, fight with the anger. Those of us that build walls up between other people, that get furious at ourselves when we realize we care too much or feel too deeply- because every emotion we now feel somehow relates to the day we found out we had been abandoned by those we held closest to our hearts.

"Pain comes in all forms. The small twinge, a bit of soreness, the random pain. The normal pains we live with everyday. Then there's the kind of pain you can't ignore. A level of pain so great that it blocks out everything else... Makes the rest of your world fade away, until all we can think about is how much we hurt. How we manage our pain is up to us. Pain. We anesthetize , ride it out, embrace it, ignore it, and for some of us the best way to manage pain is to just push through it." ~ Meredith Grey, Grey's Anatomy

It's been six years tomorrow. 2-27-07. That date will forever be burned into my brain. That date forever haunts me, my mother, my sister, my niece, aunts, uncles, grandmother, cousins, family friends. I have sat here tonight kind of in my own world, trying to get lost inside the tv or internet, and my mind keeps taking me back to this time six years ago.

I can't remember what I was doing the night before my dad took his own life. I remember the last time I saw him- it was at my sister's baby shower on February 11, 2007. I didn't talk to him much that day because his best friend was there and they were trying to stay away from us "cacklin' hens".

I remember the last time I spoke to him - February 23, 2007. It was my then-boyfriend's birthday and we were about to go to Olive Garden for dinner when my dad called me from my grandmother's house to tell me he was proud of me. I didn't understand why he was so proud of me and I rushed off the phone so as to not ruin my evening because I assumed he was drunk and I figured I would just end up emotional. I remember about an hour after that was the first time I felt my son "kick"- that flutter you feel when you're in early pregnancy. I was 14 weeks at the time.

And I remember the day I got the call at work. I remember the weather that day. I remember where I was parked on campus. I remember the stop sign I was pulling up to when my aunt Marie called my phone and told me he was dead. I even remember what I was wearing that day. I remember the look on my sister's face as I walked in the door and she was crying, and I remember collapsing on the floor screaming "Someone's fucking with us! They're lying!!!!"

At that point the memories go kind of fuzzy until the memory of being at the funeral home and begging the funeral director to please let me see my daddy. I think in my mind I felt like I could wake him up. The funeral director wouldn't let me see him, he told me that my dad didn't look very good and they hadn't had time to "fix him up" yet and that I didn't want to see him that way.

Fuzzy again. I know I helped pick out his casket but I don't really remember it.

Then I remember the day of the funeral... getting so mad at my mom because she was on the phone the first time I saw my daddy in his casket. I remember how handsome he looked lying there- the funeral home had done such a good job on making him look like the young, healthy man in my childhood memories- not the tortured alcoholic he had become. I remember vividly the appearance of a smirk on his face- as if he was finally happy, at peace, and even a bit sarcastic about what he had just done. And then everything fades to black again until six weeks later when I found out I had also lost my son.

For so many years after 2007, I've heard many times how "strong" everyone thought I was. Even now, friends will tell me they don't know how I survived that year. And honestly, looking back, even I don't know how.

Now, six years later, I work at the coroner's office and I occasionally see those same tortured expressions that I'm certain my mom and I had when we walked into that funeral home for the first time. I occasionally see and hear that same anger I feel to this day in the voices and faces of the people that have to visit my office. Every time I see that pain, I want so badly to stand up and hug those left behind and tell them that it gets better. I want to tell them that they'll get over the horrible hurt they're experiencing. I want to tell them that it all goes away. But I can't.

Because the truth is- none of it ever does. Those of us left behind just figure out our own ways of dealing. Every. Single. Day.

Constant reminders of what we're missing, constant reminders of the day we got that horrible news. Reminders of the pain our loved ones were experiencing.

We know that that day changed us forever, and not for the better. We know that we are now damaged, and we're hurt, and we're angry, and we're ripped to shreds on the inside.

And the truth is that a "survivor" rarely feels comfortable talking about these things with people, even our closest friends. Because we don't want to burden anyone with such emotions, we know no one understands and that we seem like we "play the victim" or that we are "seeking pity". We are "depressing people" who "hang on" to too much. Honestly, I don't think any of us want pity. All of us look for a release.

My release, most of the time, is my writing. Unfortunately not everyone has the ability to write their emotions so they find other ways. When I can't write and I feel like my head is a mess from the non-stop war in my brain, I anxiously await the weekends so that I can get silly with friends, drink, and go completely numb. Healthy? Of course not. But being a "survivor" of losing a parent to suicide isn't healthy and we all just deal with it the best way we know how.

Am I as "strong" as people have told me I am? Not even close. I think I've just become a new person. And that new person is "just fine".

Bastard Child

© Meesa Caudill

Well I was born a bastard child
in the summer of '79.
My daddy was a good ol' boy
so he stuck by my momma's side.
Two weeks later they were wed
in a small ceremony in town-
daddy became a family man
and never let momma down.
He held tight to the Bible,
almost became a preacher man-
wanted a country life full of God
but momma didn't understand.
He started sippin' on the bottle
in the summer of '95.
He tried to drown all his regrets,
so sad, he hated his life.

Daddy was a God fearin' man,
momma was a gypsy soul.
Daddy wanted to grow country roots,
momma was always on the go.
I'm the twisted child of that union-
I'm the two halves of that whole.

Momma was always wanting more
than what Daddy could ever give.
She wanted to have fun, a nice car to drive,
she wanted a nice place to live.
We'd move at least once every year
because Momma would get so bored.
Pack up our things and start over again,
Daddy knew it was more than he could afford.
But Momma loved him with all her heart,
she just had an unsettled side.
And Daddy loved her the best he could,
often swallowing his pride.
Then one day he took his own life
and tore Momma's world apart.
Things haven't been the same since that cold day
when Daddy ripped out Momma's heart.
But she holds the faith that he taught her
so many years ago-
she tries to pass it on to this bastard child
but that child has a long way to go.

Daddy was a God fearin' man,
Momma was a gypsy soul.
Daddy wanted to grow country roots,
Momma was always on the go.
I'm the twisted product of that union-
I'm the two halves of that whole.

So now here I am, the bastard child,
left here to find my own way.
My Daddy's pride keeps me grounded,
while Momma's gypsy side makes me stray.
Torn between the two halves of myself
that mimic them so well-
hoping to find my Momma's faith
but fighting my Daddy's hell.

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