I Would Wish for Serotonin by Patricia Theriot

“It’s your fault.”

I lay numb under thin covers, unable to move.

A thick cement has filled every bone.

“You lost your temper again.”

I cringe at the memory of the words I shouted and bury my splotchy face in the pillow.

“How stupid did you look as you yelled?”

My tears soak into the sheets that cover my head and my lungs suck in painful air.

“What do they think of you now?”

I want to disappear.

“No one listens to you when you say how you feel,

Probably because it is stupid and invalid.”

I wonder if they wish I was different.

“You don’t deserve what everyone else has.”

“You are different than everyone else,

you are without.”

If I had one wish, I would wish for Serotonin.

“You can’t manage what everyone else manages.

They have brushed hair and manicured nails.

Their clothes are steamed and their faces are fresh.

And then there is you.”

The light hurts my eyes and I feel a gavel pounding on the side of my head.

“Your kids would be better off with a put-together mother,

One with blonde hair, a full face of makeup, and a designer bag.

The kind that smiles and waves and talks with everyone,

The kind you make a face at.

And another wife would make him happier,

one that is sweet and innocent,

Because you are the problem.”

And then I remember that I am a child of God.

Full of Sin but saved by grace.

And He is my Father.

Full of Love and Mercy and slow to anger.

I will not listen to the lies that the enemy whispers.

I will listen to Him who says that I am Fearfully and Wonderfully made.

I will go wash my face, throw on jeans, and sip a cold soda…

Maybe call the Doc for a stronger script, and breath in and out

Until he and the kids come home and I remember it will all be okay.

Then, I will try again.

Houston Methodist Liver Transplant Anthem

My sister, Tammy, saves lives. I teach English, saving one sentence at a time. She was a nurse in the ICU for many years. Now, she is on the Liver Transplant Unit. She emailed me one day that there was a competition for a poem. Houston Methodist (Her hospital and also the hospital that my husband works for, and the best hospital!) was holding a competition because they wanted a poem to recite to patients who had just received a new liver. They needed a good anthem. They would recite this poem to the patient, give them a framed copy, and also give them a stuffed-animal liver. Tammy knows that I love writing and I love poetry. I submitted a poem and I won! I think it is so cool and such a big honor to have a very small part in such an amazing thing. These doctors and nurses are saving lives with this incredible surgery and care. Hopefully my words will bring some hope and good feelings to the patient and this unit. I am so excited to be a part of it. Here is the poem, I hope you like it.

Houston Methodist Liver Transplant Anthem
By: Patricia Theriot

Today we celebrate this new life with you.
A new beginning only granted to so few.

Your donor has given you a liver and more;
They have given hope, new chances, and a life to explore. 

You have shown strength through all the pain, doubt, and fear.
Your team at Methodist has worked tirelessly to bring you right here.

This new liver, this life anew
Is something we have been honored to share with you. 

The sun is now rising on a brand-new day,
Full of possibilities coming your way.

Hope, love, and joy. For you these things we pray.
Your new beginning starts right here today.

🙂

Educational Autobiography

            There is a quote I often think about that has an unknown author. It states, “Somewhere in the world, a child is dreaming about the education you complain about.” It is so true that Americans complain about receiving education that others yearn for. This applied to me most of my life. Eventually I realized how much I loved to learn and how education is a privilege. Every stage of my life included education in some way. I think about those stages of education as before school, elementary, junior high, high school, college, and as an adult.

Education began for me before school. My mom read books to us all the time. I still have a board book called, “Billy and Bonnie” about two bears playing on a seesaw, blowing bubbles, and playing in the rain. A corner of the book is chewed off, thanks to yours truly. We read all the classics like “The Three Little Pigs”, “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, and “Jack and the Beanstalk”. At this time in my life, we lived out in the country, and we had very little money. My dad was killed in a chemical explosion when I was three years old and we received a settlement. We left the country for a popular city with very good school districts. I am sure that this move impacted my education for years to come.

So, now I was in a great elementary school. I was diagnosed with dyslexia. I would be pulled out of class once a week and would go do lessons with the dyslexia teacher, Mrs. Jobs. We worked on letters and writing. We were awarded skittles. We got out of boring classes. We were given special plastic devices to help us read. Every summer, my mom had one of the elementary teachers, Mrs. Pendergast, tutor us in reading. I remember that we had these reading log journals and I loved to fill mine out. At this point in my life learning was fun. My mom took us to Helen Hall Library where we got our very own library cards. I still remember the first book that I fell in love with. It was called “The Egyptian Game”. I remember checking out books on tape. I checked out “The Witches of Worm” about a possessed cat. I would fall asleep to it and get creeped out. I have both of those books in my library in my classroom now. I remember struggling with math in elementary school. This is something I would continue to struggle with all of my life.

         Then came junior high. This is where the real struggle begins. My attention left schoolwork and focused on boys, friends, sports, and fun. My older sister was an over-achiever (Or maybe she was just achieving like she was supposed to). She had straight As and was in the National Junior Honor Society. My mom hung her certificate in the hallway. The big achievement that was hung up next to it was a picture of a rodeo clown I drew in first grade. Womp Womp. I did what I needed to so that I could skate by. “Patty talks too much and needs to pay attention in class” was a common note on report cards. I do remember always getting praise in English class and it stayed with me.

         Next came High School. I transferred to a Baptist Christian private school my sophomore year. I was not going to get playing time that year for basketball. I was not good enough. But if you leave a 6A public school and go to a 3A private school you are all of a sudden captain of Varsity. I left a large ocean for a small pond. With 28 students in my entire class, I was seen. I could not get away with things. I still focused on boys, friends, sports, and fun. And when I had time for school, I would do the bare minimum. My mom had a rule that if you had a “C” you had to study each night for 2 hours until the grade came up to a “B”. My sister was off having fun, and I had a textbook cracked open. Remember when we had textbooks? I would fall asleep and my mom would start my time back over. We also used to get report cards on paper and had to bring them home to our parents. It was a long white card that I had my boyfriend run through a scanner to change my “C” to a “B”. He forgot to change the average, so my mom questioned me about it, but I was able to talk my way out of it like it was an error by the school. Senior year hits and you start to realize that college will be different. No one is going to chase me and force me to study. I am either going to have to try, or I am going to fail. My very last semester of high school I decided to try and see what I could actually accomplish. I accomplished Straight As. I still remember Mrs. Williams telling me that she noticed the change. I applied to SHSU and I got rejected. It turns out they care about your GPA. I went to SFA instead. When the acceptance letter came in the mail, glitter poured out and my mom and I jumped up and down.

         I would describe my college years as fun and stressful. Trust me, I had a lot of fun. I went to SFA for one semester and then transferred to SHSU. Did you know that bars in Huntsville, Texas have a quarter night? I had plenty of fun. But I also wanted to prove something. I had learned from my last semester of high school that I could get good grades. I studied when other people partied. I had notebooks and highlighters and post-its. I went to review sessions. I asked my professors questions. I spent several nights sleeping in the school library when I had exams. And it paid off. I got “As”. I was on the Dean’s list, the President’s honor roll, and I received scholarship money in the mail. Two of my professors asked me to write for their books which was a huge honor. I ended up majoring in History because of those two professors. How could someone know so much about everything? I chose to major in History because I wanted to know everything that I didn’t know. I also loved hearing the stories. History is just hearing stories and memorizing them. I would come to class and learn about English Tudors, Mayan Indians, and the war in Vietnam. My favorite professor had cancer in his brain and also had a hook for his right hand. It had been amputated, also because of cancer. But was he down about it? Was he mad at life? No. He held his dry erase marker with the hook. He told us about how he stabbed watermelons and broke them open for his grandkids. He had written over 40 books. I even went to the Alamo once and his book was at the Alamo. His name was James Olson, a remarkable man. I pretty much knew that I was going to be a professor one day and hopefully one that was that cool. I graduated with honors and in only three years. But I graduated with a history degree and I was burnt out.

         So, I was a college grad and an adult. What do I do now? I had always been told that it didn’t matter what degree you got, as long as you got one. Let me tell you, that is not true. A history degree needs more. You either need a teaching certification or another degree. I am not going to lie, I was sick of school. I didn’t really believe that I was smart enough to get a master’s degree. I had dated the same guy for seven years and we broke up right at the end of college. I felt lost. So, true to my impulsive self, I hopped on a plane to Thailand to get away from all of my problems. I went with a company called Cross Cultural Solutions and I went as an English teacher. I lived in Bangkok and I visited Chiang Mai. I loved it. It is so different from America. You are away from anything resembling everyday life. But then I came back to reality when that experience was over. I ended up meeting my first husband. Yes, I said first. I had three beautiful babies, one right after the other. Education got put on hold for a decade while I was enjoying being a mom.

         I love being a mom. There is nothing better. I am completely obsessed with my three kids. But, at the same time I felt like I wanted to do something other than being a mom. I knew that I excelled in school. I knew I was a good writer. Was I really never going to do anything with it? But it was hard deciding to go back to school after such a long time. I decided to become a paraprofessional at the local high school. Then I decided to start a program to get my certification to teach. I completed the program and then I had to study to pass the English composition test. I studied hard and I passed. I began applying to high schools in my area. I was hired at a high school about 25 minutes from my home. It is very nerve racking to be a new teacher. You basically know nothing and have to learn as you go. And high school kids can be scary. They can also be hilarious and a lot of fun. During my first year teaching I had to pass my PPR exam and ESL exam. My mom also passed away from cancer that year. To say it was a lot is an understatement. I am now in my third year at the same high school and I am still learning. I am really proud of earning this position. I decided this past summer that I was going to get my masters. If I take one class at a time, I will graduate in 3 years. I know how proud I will be of myself. I sometimes daydream about walking across that stage and seeing my kids in the crowd. I will show them it can be done and give them something to strive for.

         I am an English teacher, but I am also a mom to three teenagers. Education plays a huge role in our home. They have all different classes, multiple projects at a time, AP classes, etc. Let’s not even begin to mention choir, basketball, volleyball, cheer, football, etc. I know how valuable education is. I know that what my kids do during high school can determine what college they get into. I know that their study habits now can help them when they get to college. I mentioned how I did the bare minimum in school. While my mom had a “study for 2 hours if you have a “C” rule, I do it a little differently. If your grade slips below a “B” your phone, video games, and time with friends goes away. It is amazing how quickly they try to get their grades up when they want something. I want my kids to learn early that they are very smart, and they can accomplish hard things. When they get home from school we sit around the dining room table. Everyone has a laptop. Everyone pulls up grades and homework. It is a priority. I also pay for grades when report cards come out. Report cards are digital so no one will be scanning and changing grades thankfully. There is an amount for “As” and an amount for “Bs”. There is a fee for “Cs” and a different fee for anything lower. These rules would be adjusted if my kids were not capable of getting excellent grades, but they are capable. I love telling them how proud I am of them when they accomplish something hard. I love seeing them when they are proud of themselves. I know that the day that I see them graduate from high school and college I will swell with pride. One day in the future when they are successful in a job they love they will know it was worth all of the hard work.

         As you can see, education has played a part in every part of my life. All of my experiences helped me. The times that I worked hard and the times when I didn’t both taught me something. We are lucky to live in a country where education is available. I won’t take it for granted again.

Pick Up a Pen

The Sestina: Pick Up a Pen by Patricia Theriot


I stare off, daydreaming about my future,
As I sit by the rushing river.
There are so many unfulfilled dreams,
And a wish for my kids to brag about my name.
Will I see pride on their usually immovable faces?
I need to begin, so I pick up a pen.


A clouded brain keeps my hand from using my pen.
What is the first step when working on the future?
I look at my classmates and see their baggy jeans, graphic tees, and young faces.
My head is lower than when I sat by the river.
All I can do is pick up a pen and scribble my name.
This is my shaky first move to reach distant dreams.


It is too early to think about dreams.
Uncertain fingers fumble with blank paper and an old pen.
There are long nights, unwritten papers, and flashcards left to do to prove my name.
Dedication and dark under-eyes come before a better future.
One day I will freely dangle my feet in that same river,
Because I will have heard, “That’s my mom!” and see the respect shown on their faces.


I can barely lift my head in between yawns to notice anyone’s faces,
As I chug black coffee to awaken from my dreams.
If I could just sleep in the soft grass by the soothing river,
But I cannot sleep, I must cross out mistakes from first drafts and revise with my pen.
I can almost hear the congratulations of that sought after future,
That creates a new meaning to my name.


I am in my long robes, and my tassel hangs in anticipation as I hear them call my name.
I look in the celebratory stands and see my family’s familiar faces.
Every whispered “Yes, I can” pushed me toward this future,
And now my children have new achievable dreams.
They will also decide to use a pen,
Once they finish thinking by the river.


Now I swim in that rejuvenating river.
And students repeatedly call my name.
I model and teach with my pen,
I never imagined so many inspired faces.
I watch the start of new, realized dreams,
That will cause a once discouraged kid to consider a different future.


Many of your faces will be reflected in the river.
You will have beautiful, vivid, and achievable dreams about your name.
When you are ready for the future, I can hand you a pen

Biggest Mistake

I Have to be Honest (Anaphora) by Patricia Theriot


I have to be honest, I was thinking about the argument.
I have to be honest, I wasn’t paying attention.
I have to be honest, I didn’t think of you
as I closed my car door
and walked into the store.


I have to be honest, I strolled down the aisles.
I have to be honest, my eyes skimmed over the books, taking nothing in.
I have to be honest, I stood rigid and turned in circles.
Where had I left your stroller?
Did I leave you sleeping in an aisle?
I have to be honest, I wouldn’t do that,
I thought.


I have to be honest, I dropped the books on the floor.
I have to be honest, I sprinted to the car.
I have to be honest, I almost paused,
with wide, animalistic eyes,
at the idea of what I would find.


I have to be honest, it was a smoldering day in July.
I have to be honest, I knew I wouldn’t recover if you weren’t alive.
I have to be honest, I sped through red lights with you in my arms.
I have to be honest, you had tiny white dots on your skin.


I have to be honest, I screamed through the phone.
“I FORGOT her!”
“In the car…”
“20 minutes…”
“Meet me at the hospital!”
Click.


I have to be honest, he told me to lie.
“Don’t tell them you forgot.”
“I have to be honest,” I said back to him
with gritted teeth
and eyes filled with heat.
“I won’t cover this up with a lie.”


I have to be honest, I pleaded with the nurse.
“I forgot she was with me.”
“It is mandatory to call CPS,” the nurse replied.
I have to be honest, I wanted to die.


I have to be honest, they said you were fine.
They cooled you off and gave you juice.
I have to be honest, I clung to your dad and repeated apologies
through sobs and snot and a splotchy face sinking into guilty hands.
I have to be honest, he was kind.
He said, “It was just a mistake.”


“I have to be honest,” I belted out to our family at dinner.
“I have to be honest, I left her in the car.”
The loud silence was only broken by clanking of silverware
and squeaking of chairs.


I have to be honest, I read a post online
about a man in my town who did the same thing that week.
I have to be honest, I read the comments.
“What kind of parent forgets their own kid?”
“What a piece of shit.”
I have to be honest, I sank into a hole of hatred,
that I dug for myself.


I have to be honest, every night your dad woke up to watch me.
“You have to stop this,” he would say.
I would wake up in a sweat,
run to the crib,
search for you in the sheets.
I have to be honest, every night I replayed my mistake.


“I have to be honest,” I say to an older version of that baby.
Your innocent blue eyes and long lashes blink back at me.
“I have to be honest about when I forgot you,
In a car…
In the heat….
I have to be honest. I am the only one to blame.”


“I have to be honest,” she said.
“This is harder on you than it is me.”
“I’m fine.”
It’s okay, Mom.”
“It was just a mistake.”
I have to be honest, those were words I needed to hear.


I have to be honest about the haunting truth…
That we were just lucky…
Unlike that man in my town who buried his child.

Step-Dad Sonnet

Stepdad Sonnet by Patricia Theriot

(CLOSED)

He drove an old scratched-up maroon Chevy.

Twenty years now, but I check to see who drives.

I block the thoughts with my internal levee.

But my shrink says who talks is who survives.

He would slither into the room at night,

And touch a child he thought was fast asleep.

Protect yourself and pull the blanket tight.

Do not open your eyes or make a peep.

The phone then rang and filled the people’s ears.

He then slithered away to find new prey.

The man denied the claims with empty tears.

I have not seen him since that freedom day.

I’ve had daydreams about bashing his head,

But God will send him soon to Hell instead.

(OPEN)

He used to drive a Chevy truck that was maroon and all scratched-up on the side.

It has been twenty years, but I still look to see if it is him inside the ride.

Sometimes at night I wake up in a sweat to flashbacks I want to forget.

But you “have to talk about it” says the shrink, if you want to conquer it.

He would slither into the room at night,

In the darkness, and out of my mother’s sight.

And touch a child who pretended to be asleep.

Keep your eyes closed, Patty, and don’t make a peep.

The phone rang and every fact was now known.

“She is confused!” and “I would never!” I heard him say through cries.

He slithered away to find another woman to fool into getting her children all alone.

To act like the perfect new dad, to a small child with trusting eyes.

Randomly, as I walk through the aisles at the grocery store,

I think about bashing his head in with a bat.

Then I decide, not today.

 I will let God handle that.

What Do Trees Say? By Patricia Theriot

I drag myself out of the house.

I trudge down the dirt path

using protruding roots as footholds.

The moss drips down from the sky.

Marshy waters lurk on each side of my path

and I scan for hungry eyes.

The rooms in my home have shrunk

and all the air has been pushed out.

It has pushed me outside.

I need to go talk to the trees.

But what do trees say?

The Texas heat swarms around me like air escaping an oven.

Flowers of pink and purple bloom all around.

Bushes push out plump blackberries

as black snakes slither underneath.

The hailstorm inside my mind has caused me

to flee out of my house.

I need to speak to the trees.

But what do trees say?

I reach the creek.

It is crystal clear, cold, and babbling.

Turtles dive from their logs as I approach.

I step one foot in front of the other,

balancing across a fallen trunk with the creek below.

Cardinals flutter back and forth to nests.

Squirrels run up trunks and chatter to each other about the stranger.

Deer stand like statues with large eyes and strained necks

as I pass by.

In an open field I lay down

in soft grass.

I stare at the tall reaching giants above me.

I feel the warm breeze on my skin and face

and watch the branches sway back and forth.

Beams of light poke through the shade creating a pattern on the ground.

I came to talk to the trees.

But what do trees say?

They say,

“Hello, little one.

Be strong like us.

Be still like us.

Look up. Look around.

Stay under our shade until the hail stops

And all you hear is the rustling of our leaves.”

After a while,

I stand up and stroll back home.

If I Had Rabies

If I Had Rabies by Patricia Theriot

If I had rabies,

and everyone knew,

I would yell and shake my trembling fists.

If I had rabies,

what would I do?

I would sob, wipe away snot, and have flailing fits.

If I had rabies,

and their eyes glistened with pity,

I would kick and scream and act extra shitty.

If I had rabies,

and it wasn’t my fault,

I would tell every idiot exactly what I thought.

If I had rabies,

I’d let my teeth show.

But I don’t have rabies,

So, no one will know.

My Mother’s Eyes Were Green by Patricia Theriot

My mothers eyes were green

But mine are sad and blue.

Her eyes were the color of ivy, hummingbird

wings, and the sea…

Memories of those eyes looking back at me.

My mother smelled like perfume

When I hugged her hi and bye.

I spray it when I miss her…

 things to do, I will not cry.

My mother’s house was spotless;

Nothing out of place.

I manuever around my living room,

Stepping over things where there is space.

My mothers clothes were always perfect;

No wrinkle, snag, or tear.

She picked things off my shirt, maybe lent or

fuzz or hair.

My mother laughed at my jokes.

She smiled and patted my hand.

She sipped coffee while we talked,

Our toes digging in the sand.

She saw me as a mother

And we didn’t always agree.

But she stood by my side

With mob mentality.

Her laugh replays over and over, constantly in

my mind…

When I’m wishing she was near and I could

hug her one more time.

I miss her every day and my heart will be

gripped with grief

Until I see her again one day and I breathe a

sigh of relief.

She wrote me one last letter

And the last line breaks my heart in two.

She simply wrote one line.

She said: “One more I love you”.

My Mothers eyes were green

But mine are sad and blue.