Beautiful Goodbye

Disclaimer: It is hard for me to get these words out. They dry and crumble up just when I want to release them into the vastness of this universe. The writing is not mine. It is short and choppy. The words did not approach me with the eloquence they often carry in their heart. However . . .

It was a beautiful goodbye, and I'm glad it happened the way it did. On Monday, I said goodbye to Therapist.

I realized when I was saying goodbye that I was resentful and bitter about the way we were treated this year by Therapist. It all began earlier this year when we appeared to Therapist broken, suicidal, and defeated over our job. It appeared he was ignoring us and not taking seriously the depth of our despair. He kept trying to shore us up with positive reinforcement, which was so antagonistic. I thought he didn't care and wasn't listening to us. Now we realize he was only acting in our best interest and letting us stand on our own two feet. As much as I loath to say it - and as much as it hurt when it happened - we learned a valuable lesson: we can make it on our own without using Therapist as our constant crutch. I will miss that crutch.

Nevertheless, we said goodbye. The bitterness and resentment I felt are gone, but I'm not sure the relationship could be the same. The bond was broken, and time won't bridge the break back to him. I cried all last night. It isn't easy. It makes me hurt at my heart. 

In any case, I think every now and then we will pop in on Therapist. I think emotionally it was goodbye, an end to a beautiful therapeutic relationship. However, the door has been left open, and as they say in AA, “We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.” I will not shut the door on how we evolved over the past nine years with Therapist, and I will keep the door open to the possibilities the future might bring. . . in and out of Therapist's office.

T.C 

Isn't that what we have to do?

I'll do what I have to do.

I had skin cancer removed today.  The doctor scraped and grated the cancer right off my shoulder, then set to cauterizing my skin with fire.  The smell of burning flesh and a trail of smoke encircled me and lit my memory ablaze.   I relish the burn. I am pleasantly reminded of a time when I would burn myself with cigarettes.  It looks the same.  I am surprised at how the desire to self-harm has been . . . rekindled, shall we say.  I'm tempted.  I now have a beautiful burn mark on my shoulder that will compete with every other inch of skin on my body for occupancy as a scar.  It's precious.  It reminds me of a time when I needed more intensive help and received it. I miss those times.

Isn't that what we have to do?  Think back to a time we are able to cope by any means necessary, because without those mechanisms we would have withered to dust?  Don't we have to do what we have to do?

But really I'm fine.

I stress because my job will probably be cut at the end of the year, and I don't want to face what I need to do.  The numbers are not promising a need for me next year, and I'm the easiest one to kick off the island.  A job that looked so promising is now going to terminate, just like me.    No job.  No money.  No purpose.  No me.

I'm really fine.  I'm keeping it together like a good little soldier.  Isn't that what we have to do?  Keep it together no matter what?  Don't we have to do what we have to do?

And the paradox is that I should probably return and see Therapist because I might be needing some help, but I won't go back.  I have too many bad memories from this year where he didn't listen to us.  And I don't know if we should be hurt that he hasn't checked in with us since we left.  Yes, we should reach out if we need help, but doesn't eight years with Therapist count for anything so that he would want to check in.  Do the boundaries have to be so damn stiff and unrelenting that he couldn't cross the line for a second to see how quickly we are dying?  Maybe I'm being passive-aggressive.

But isn't that what we have to do?  By any means necessary to survive?  We do what we have to do. 

But really, I'm fine.

Miss On-Her-Own

It is very unsettled.

Trouble is brewing and I'm caustic with questions.

I don't know who I am.

I never did.

I just knew what had to be done, what had to be preserved and what had to be let go.

I guess I am a casualty of my own purpose.

It's hard to tell how we are.

We are too well to be sick, and too sick to be well.

We are in a category of our own.

Sshhh.

There is pain inside. A quiet, accustomed, expected sadness.

I think the sadness is that I have integrated with the others and am left unsatisfied. There really is only me left and I'm devoid of all emotion. And if I'm all that is left, why do I need therapy? I think it is my own silence I hear. I am new. I have no childhood. I was born into my thirties, a full adult. There are no ties to me and what might have been endured in someone else's childhood.

I feel therapy is failing us. I only keep appointments just in case I need them. But I haven't needed one in a while. I'm getting by on my own. I no longer feel a therapeutic bond with Therapist. There is nothing productive that comes out of our meetings. And being self-sufficient, there is nothing for me to work on in therapy.

Maybe feeling this independent and grown-up is just another faction of my imagination. Maybe I exist because the others are still around but too broken and damaged from the stress they incurred at the beginning of the year. And maybe I was created purposefully without emotion if simply to get through the day without incidence. Maybe just because I deny them doesn't mean they don't exist. Maybe when things settle down this summer, they will reemerge.

But, maybe and really, I did kill them off and am here all by myself.

I've never felt so simple, basic, empty, and needless in all my existence.

There is no help for this, but, oh how I wish there was.

Silence . . . 

You are like a whisper in the wind, Uncatchable, and gone before You are heard.. There is a bare spot on my heart where you used to live. You are starting to fade from my memory. The sharp ache has turned into a dull rusty throb.

I hide my feelings in a dark secret room, safe from the auspices of others, those who would steal my pain and steal you from my heart. The only way I know I'm alive is when I mourn for you, when I feel your ache rising up my throat to scream. I can't tell you I love you anymore. But I do love you. And if you could just hear me say it to you one more time I could maybe breath again.

Two weeks

It has been two weeks tonight since we parted.  The night is not so gentle with me.  I fear it will suffocate me with memories of you.  Oh, I how I want to be with you.  It's so stormy inside my head, filled with a million voices with words I can confide to no one safely.

No one understands the independent loneliness that generously spreads its way into my leaking bones.  My thoughts are more than I can bear.  If you were here you would be licking the tears off my water-filled eyes and propping your head upon my shoulder to let me know everything would be okay. Now who will kiss my tears away?  And how will anything ever be okay again?

I can't let go of you or the pain.  I hold on to each hurt to remind me that you once graced my life.
 When my heart breaks and bleeds I remember how much you mean to me and how much I love you. 

Do you think of me wherever you are?  Do you remember how with love I would speak your name, and how we nuzzled our faces against each other just to be close?  I hurt myself everyday so I will never forget.

Today I pet other dogs and thought of you.  They were happy and gave me kisses like you used to do. I am ashamed of myself that they made me smile.

Please let the tears keep flowing.  Please let me keep hurting.  I won't abandon you by being happy.  I will protect each small and large ache and not let anyone talk me out of it.

Since you let go, I'll let go, too.  I don't have far to go now to be gone completely. 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Silence speaks volumes.

Tears speak louder.

I'm screaming, screaming, screaming.

In Memory

Grieve not,
nor speak of me with tears,
but laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you.
I loved you so . . .

Twas Heaven here with you.

~Isla Paschal Richardson

I'm drowning with out you.

Shrieking sounds of fucking silence

I wish it could be heard what I want to say but can not speak.
I wish I could be found somewhere among the others.
I wish I were special to someone.

I am buried by sex.
I am buried in shadows.
I am buried in guilt.
I am buried in shame.
I am buried and will not return.

I might be looked for, but it is too late.
I am somewhere inside where I will never be bothered again.
It is too late for someone like me.

The Hand that Rocks the Cradle Part 1

The Hand that Rocks the Cradle

Part 1

Do you dare to come a little closer?

Can you bare to look me in the face?

What is it about me that makes you leave?

I do not know how to feel about it.

I practice thinking the hole is gone,

but the ache returns and grows in your calculated absence.

I cry tears I promised I would not show.

But I don't think you notice

And would care even less.

I need you, but

I can not pain myself long enough to tell you

I want you in my life.

You snatched love's warm embrace from me as I was falling from grace.

I know I disappoint you.

Does it help you to know I hate me, too?

Weeding out the undesirables

Write. Revise. Delete. Write. Revise. Delete.

The slow, shy tears of heaviness from an abused child slip out of hiding and slide down my face. I do not feel them.

I am overwhelmed. All the monsters visit me, day and night. I can feel no more.

But I can not ignore the ones who ask to hold on. To find peace.

I do not know who to believe. I just know I'm too tired for life .

Female Fortunato

Female Fortunato

I realize now how foolish I was.

I thought I would never be back here.

But there is no mistaking that I have come home for the final time.

What a wretched place this is!

It feels so primitive, so endemic,

that my mind must have been born into this deathless sunset.

Though a citizen of dejection, I was never

less than agonized in my nation.

I redundantly tried to disappear,

to escape with every piece of artificial joy I could steal,

But I was always captured by shadows smarter than myself,

And a frantic despair more purposeful than my own.

I thought I had triumphantly escaped this last time

but realized I never went anywhere at all

when I felt my dark, listless heart still moaning with each beat,

and the helpless cries of my struggling hopes

choking, choking, choking on death, death, death.

What a fool that lives beneath this skin!

I persistently close my eyes to pretend I am

somewhere, anywhere other than home,

but my eyes are demanded open by the shadows that

Still teach me the message of worthlessness,

Still thieve the last suggestion of light,

Still sing to me the lullaby of a concluding sleep

I hoped I would never crave again.

I am not made of stone.

Fade to black . . . I'm sick of trying.

Mental Suicide

It is really not sad.

It was always our destiny.

A deathly emptiness is encamped in our soul.

My mind is a mass grave, an accumulation of broken bits who could not last.

With trailing blankets and toys clutched securely, they crawl to their final place.

Let them not weep. Let them know that it is okay to go.

We have stayed too long.

Pay no attention to the tears that somberly commit suicide down my cheeks.

It does not hurt any more.

Please smile.

Oh, how we are letting go.

Estoy dejando ir

I want to let go.

There are no fluffy words or poetic sentiments I can muster tonight. My thoughts are halted by the regime of exhaustion and apathy. I want to speak, but the air devours my words before they may be heard.

I have not felt this alone in many dark moons. Helpless. Hopeless.

I want to let go.

I've reached the place where the existential self is at peace. There exists no more fighting. We've laid down our swords and our hopes at the same time.

I do not believe in history. It is deceiving. It's promises can not be trusted. A new reality is often created than can not be predicted with history. We are in such a place. History holds no more promise than the hollow words of encouragement.

I want to let go.

I'm sinking deeply. Pulled down under the undertow. I've done it to myself. I can not go back. It's better this way.

I'm letting go.

Keturah

I don't know what to do with myself. I hate nights like these. Empty. Spoiled. Long. I am a child. And I can't breathe. My brain hurts. It's not a headache. My brain is itchy and scratchy and needs to be soothed and calmed.

Everything feels wrong. My hands hold my head. I need comfort, but I don't know where to go, as if there was some place to turn.

I get desperate. I need to go.

These nights are the hardest to suffer. They make me ache like nothing else can. The nights make me feel lonely and helpless and vacuous. I need to feel complete.

The voices in my head try to race to completion, as if there were a finish line. Who can scream the loudest. Who can talk the fastest.

Don't you know how much this hurts. I'm not as strong as you think. I'm cracking. I'm breaking. You refuse to see it.

I don't want to rescue myself anymore. For tonight, I need you to pick me up off the ground, hold me and hug me, protect me, and make me feel everything will be alright.

They are in my head right now. In 3-D. Coming at me. I can see them. They can see me.  I can hear them.  They won't hear me.

Please don't be one of them. 

Time's Confessions

The thick, heavy hours creep behind me, lethargically following me into my personal hell.

Life slows down and elongates itself into eternity.

Time spawns replicas of itself, burgeoning forth as every instant feels like infinity.

Each second hurls itself at me, expectantly waiting for me to placate the duration with purpose.

But I am trapped in the confessions of my head.

Anxiety spectacularly begins to surface. Panic reproduces itself.

Each moment breeds another moment, another opportunity to surfeit upon the frenzy of disquieting thoughts in the indiscernible distance.

The battle continues.

My thoughts stage a hostile takeover, targeting my unwillingness to listen.

Against my will and with the sanction of time, the merge is complete.

The new memories come to me in waves, but I nor my tears could have been prepared.

Time may stop now.

The Hostage

Hostage

Slowly the evening falls upon me.

The possibility of peace is shattered into a fairy tale as

the night struggles and collapses into the blackest hole.

With her naked eye the moon stalks me into hiding.

No light is spared.

I hear the footsteps of my thoughts scatter inside my mind,

running rampant, tunneling through the darkness until I'm found

crouched in fear.

A tightly woven web of chaos is assembled around me.

Motionless, I sit under the glare of tyranny.

With unbridled abandon they advance upon me:

Closer. Closer. Closer.

The moment is surrendered to madness.

History threatens the illusion of control.

My entire armor sheds in defeat.

Sanity becomes a desperate bargain,

a violent negotiation between the authorities of life and death.

My mind holds me hostage.

Little by little, piece by piece,

I am completely swallowed,

but no one can tell that I am missing.

The Miserable Ones

It's not insignificant; it's my life; it's my mood. I thought I had made peace with my obsession, but my definition of self-respect, self-worth, and confidence is still determined by my weight.  

 I only wear sweat pants so no one can see the shame layered on my hips and thighs. I don't want to leave the house because I'm too fat, and the house is tired of sheltering me and my insecurities, tired of hiding me inside her judgmental walls. But I'm too afraid to leave the house at this weight.

I really don't want to live at this number. I'm not suicidal, but I would rather be dead than be this fat.

And I can only guess my re-awakened obsession with my fat might have to do with the nightmares and memories reminding me even more of my shame and damage.

And I'm upset. I miss Therapist, and we don't see him for another week and a half. We don't know where to turn for support. We have no one.

It doesn't matter anymore.  

"He that lives upon hope will die fasting." ~ Benjamin Franklin

“Life has killed the dream I dream.” ~ Les Miserable

Self-Inflicted Solitaire

Self-Inflicted Solitaire

Emptiness lingers on inside,

A constant, unyielding pain,

Competing with despair that thrives

While the blues pour down a drenching rain.

A hollow wind storms in my conscious,

Acutely aware of what never will be,

As troops of sadness methodically marches

Chanting songs of pain and misery.

Loneliness strangles attempts at laughter.

Alienation has given birth to an ache.

Time has been wasted constantly chasing after

Part of a world that threw me away.

Isolation becomes an obligatory guard

When fumbles at acceptance fall short of the need

So that all my tries leave me unwanted and scarred,

And I'm stranded in wounds that endlessly bleed.

Then lessons are learned from trying to belong

To a world so different from my own.

The wounds of rejection keep my cold and withdrawn,

But I'm too hurt to feel anything less than alone.

Metaphor

I am a proofread, amended manuscript.

An altered copy of the undesirable original

where history was unnecessarily edited:

Delete this. Add that.

I was broken down into parts,

each line, each word, each letter

declared this blue-eyed literary initiative all wrong.

The authors claimed I was filled with mistakes:

disconnected, superfluous, unstructured,

fragmented.

Each page was rewritten

until I was nothing but

a collection of multiple revisions,

decidedly unfit for publication.

But authors don't write stories.

Stories write stories.

I am my own story,

my own unfinished truth,

my own work in progress,

my own creative effort.

And in the beauty of our revisions is where our story will be told.