Sunday, September 08, 2013

Deja Vu Times Two

I wrote the piece below in April of 1995.  I am posting it today because it still defines my existence.  The writing is about how it is so hard to be hopeful because there is always something to strip me of that comfort.

I concede today I choose to live my days clouded with negativity, but Therapist does not understand why I refuse to give in to the fallacy of hope and positive thinking.  I’ve been in places before where I felt hopeful, optimistic, and encouraged, but I am ALWAYS, sooner or later, brought back to where I was born: into negativity, failure, and the drive to die.  The roller coaster ride takes too much out of me, and I need to remain where I am safest: dead.  I refuse to play the silly game of pretending I can handle life and then plummeting into misery when I am proven wrong.  It’s for my own protection.  It was back in 1995, and it still is today.

Drops of salt water are
Purged from shallow, dim sockets
Where the windows of life have closed
Their grave blinds and solemn curtains.

The myth of happiness is exposed,
Rotted, decayed, corroded:
Infested with maggots of agony surfeiting and gorging
On the generous failures of its host.

The charade of myself:
Successful, intelligent, creative
Crumbles, disintegrates, putrefies
Underneath brutal microscopic inspection.

The illusion of hope, the facade of faith,
Beckons and pleads for my desolated soul to trust,
Taunting and mocking every ache, every pang.
Invading despondence with
Bedeviling strength and determination,
Demanding the impending and imminent spiral descent
More dangerous and inclement.

Face down in despair, life becomes a bleached white hell.
A flaming bouquet of numbing, frosty torment
Searing, searing, searing
My thickly charred crust till I can no longer pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Pain echoes out of the abyss,
Convening the proprietor of suicide
Who compassionately erases the color of misery from us sufferers of life,
And holds out the only comfort that hoards
NO illusion, NO myth, NO charade:
The warm, blue peace of death.

Tuesday, September 03, 2013


It’s not that easy.  It’s not that easy.  It’s not that easy.
I will not make it this time.  I am burrowing a hole for myself, digging my own grave.  Only this time, people in my professional life are handing me the shovel and watching me sink. 
I’ve discovered my problem . . . at least one of them.  I hate myself.  Sounds simple, doesn’t it?  I should just stop it then, shouldn’t I?  I should stop hating myself.
It’s not that easy.
The roots of my hatred extend beyond time, and no amount of remediation will allow me to transcend the wickedness I deserve.
Oh, if you only knew how it rocks me . . . devastates me.  I am good for nothing . . .but I wish I were good for something more . . . more than abuse.
I try as hard, as hard, as hard as I can, and it still isn’t good enough.  I still at the end of the day am me: profoundly defective.
And damn it to hell if no one believes me.  I KNOW it.  I LIVE it every day.  And I’m tired of suffering.  I’m so, so tired of suffering.  God be with me, I’m so tired of suffering.
It’s so bad.  I really can’t take it anymore.  I can’t continue to hold on by the web of a spider. 
It’s such a heavy, magnificent weight that rests on my back.  And I’m plunging to the bottom and I implore you not hold me back.  Let me sink.  Let me die.  Let me not know this misery anymore. 
There are no happy songs in my head.  No hopeful words exist. No suggestions or subliminal messages you give me to pretend everything will work out.
It’ so, so over.
I can’t believe it when you tell me I’m good, and you won’t believe me when I tell you I’m bad.
Oh my god, I need a hug . . . and a bullet. 

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Postmortem Revival

She has returned . . . a former, archaic version of myself that I had ignorantly believed I would never need again. Her revival has not been so subtle, and she has reprised her role as the destructor of my life, the tamer of hope, and the inventor of all necessity to be alone.

She brings with her every negative thought she has collected over this life, constantly reminding me of my baseness and worthlessness. And I, needing her to get me through every elongated second, believe every nasty comment she purports about me. Because God knows every time I've ever had a positive thought about myself it has been burned to ash by someone else's reality.

The promise of hope is lost. Every cut, every purge, every drink, every missed meal bears her fingerprints and her assurance that only she can bring comfort.

I know the significance of her resurrection. Coming back to life will lead to my death. But I've been living dead too long to count now, and I don't mind letting go. In fact, I've asked for it, which is why she's come.

I do not have the luxury of turning her away this time. I can't do this on my own, and I have no one else to scatter away the tears that collect daily on my face.

And there is nothing anyone can do to help me. No amount of attention, intervention, or abandonment can affect me. I am in this alone, as I've always been.  If I don't bow out of life now, I will be expelled out later, and there is no coming back in anyone's space from that. There will not even be a shadow of a woman to trace through the day.

I would like to confess it doesn't hurt anymore, but, in truth, it isn't decent how deeply I ache.

I wear wounds that would give you nightmares.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013


My words fail me, like every other part of me does.
I wish I could, but I can not. 
 I want to quit, cease to exist, give up, but there is something in me that makes me keep going, 

No matter how low I go, I can not let go. 

I wish this part of me to die.  I would like to enjoy giving up.

All arrows point to how worthless I am.  Clearly there is something in me missing, something deficient.  It’s hard to live always sub-standard.  

Others can accomplish what I can not.  And all I want to do is let go.

Maybe one day I will show them.  Maybe I will not be as strong as they assume.  Maybe I will break instead of constantly bending.  I’m certainly due.

I’m so tired at every turn.  Exhausted.

I can not imagine how this will be worth it.  
I can not imagine anything other than letting go. 
I can not imagine any other way out.

They will treat this, I know, as a fever in my head, coming and going, but it is not.
And I know they’ll never know, and that is the saddest thing to ever know.   

But I know, and that’s all I need to know.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013