My promises are more rare than gems.  I never promise anything I can’t deliver.  So don’t ask me to promise be here tomorrow: I may die tonight.

I’ve been like that for so long . . . always, I think, after about eight or so.  Promises . . . meant nothing, meaning I doubted the promises and distrusted the people who made them.  I still do – all but the ones I know are true.

Promises of love; broken by parents, family, friends.  Promises to ‘help’ – ignored.  Promises of a ‘better, brighter life’ – fallen to the wayside as the shrinks gave up and I ran out of money.  Promises to “heal” . . . gone.  I hate promises.  Very few people’s word are worth the breath they take to say them.  I know this, and so, I think, do you.

Which is why I make promises so rarely, a trait my daughter found hard to deal with when she was small.

“No, dear,” I’d smile softly and say, “I can’t promise you that I won’t kill myself tomorrow.  I can’t promise you I won’t be here.  I can’t promise you the moon and stars – those you are going to have to work for and find yourself.  I can only show you the way.”

The only thing I could promise her was this: That I’d love her forever and ever, and then some.  At times the only thing that stood between me in this world and the next was our love, and my unwillingness to put my child through that needless grief.

Small comfort for a child who wants a toy, or extra-special present from “Santa”.  Been there, done that.  Poor girl grew up faster than most: a tiger, a treasure, and someone who’s beauty comes from her soul and sings to the world – even if she can’t hear it or see it herself.  (But I do, now.)

I don’t want everyone to be like me; I wouldn’t wish my past on a child.  But sometimes . . .  sometimes, I wish people took their promises as seriously as I do, that they could be more true, and not treat them so lightly.

(Oh, BTW: Imagine: you get to heaven, and God says: “Oh!  By the way – that promise I made?  Forget it.  You’re goin’ to hell.”)

Go figure.  It strikes me as funny . . . and somehow appropriate for some folks.

Promises.  Don’t make the ones you can’t keep – even if you think you can.


Jeff et all

BTW: Another promise broken: Soldier’s Pay


About jeffssong

JW is an adult childhood abuse survivor with DID*. He grew up in a violent family devoid of love and affection. He is a military brat and veteran. He no longer struggles with that past. In 1976 JW began writing "The Boy". It took 34 years to complete. It is currently on Kindle ( ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( JW resides somewhere in the deep South. He is disabled and living with family. Note: Please feel free to take what you need; all is free to all. With that in mind, keep it that way to others. Thank you. We have 3 Blogs - One for our younger days, 0-10 (The Little Shop of Horrors); one for our Teen Alter and his 'friends' (also alters) with a lot of poetry; and finally "my" own, the Song of Life (current events and things)
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5 Responses to Promises

  1. jkbwho07 says:

    I sorta know where you are coming from, while at the same time having no idea at all, if you know what I mean…


    • jeffssong says:

      🙂 ‘. . . if you know what I mean”. LOL, words are hard and get in the way, but I suspect like us, you often find yourself torn between wanting to believe a promise – but have been kicked in the teeth enough to know . . . so you hesitate to believe. Makes life harder, eh? ((( hugs ))) to ya. I wish I could promise to make everything better, but …. (sigh) …. can’t. But I will hope for all of us survivors; I can promise you that, thank god.


  2. jkbwho07 says:

    😀 (((hugs)))


  3. Pingback: images of Jesus

  4. Jeff, I haven’t believed in promises since before first grade. I do not under any circumstances make promises. I learned as a child that something always happens to break the promise. Disappointment hurts too much. I don’t want anyone else to feel disappointment because of me and something that I said.


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