Look Who's Back Again!

 It has been quite a while. The world has changed, and so have I. In some ways that are good. Medication, special treatment, therapy, and a LOT of self-reflection have all started to bring me out of the mire of depression. I'm glad that no one reads this, as the sporadic nature of my posting would be incredibly stressful. My first love had a similar issue with me. I would reach out and send a flurry of friendship and affection, and then I'd disappear. We didn't know about the intensity of my depression, so it just seemed like I didn't care enough to make consistent effort. I didn't argue. I didn't have an answer for that.

It's easy to feel that I'm in the same place even now. On disability from work, spending my days trying to manage small tasks like taking a shower, and entirely uncertain of, and possibly apathetic to, my future. But I'm watching TV with my two dogs pleasantly snoring away at the foot of the bed, and I feel something akin to contentment and gratitude. At least, that's what I think. I'm still uncertain about how to manage such unwieldy things as feelings, so I'm currently relying on a sort of mental calculation to figure out what I think is appropriate. 

Wow. Writing that out was...wild.

Anyways, the point is that I'm still trying. Resilient is the word people like to use. I don't want to be resilient. I want to be disgustingly wealthy and laze about all day and never have a care in the world. Since that's not possible, I'll take being resilient, I guess. Outwardly, I may seem just that, and it may be technically accurate, but it sure doesn't align with my feelings.

A Beginning

 Her foot sank into the slush of the swamp, sucking at her as she moved to take another step. An ever-present buzz surrounded her, the whisper of the wings of night creatures filling the air. Her toes searched for dry, solid ground, and when she found it, she stooped and set to work. Soon, a fire rose, throwing light like fairy dust onto the trunks of the stoic trees. A song started in her chest and wriggled its way up her throat like a serpent that would not be denied its freedom. And then, she sang. A dark, twisting melody, heavy with ancient magic. Her heartbeat quickened and her limbs began to move, called to life by the growing rhythm of the song. The woman's voice pulsed, ebbing and flowing as though dancing with drum beats only she could hear.

Not even here

My silence swallows me. The sterile glow of the screen does little to illuminate my inner turmoil. My feelings churn in my chest and I do my best to swallow them.

Isolation rules the moment. Inadequacy sings its siren song, and I am drawn inexorably to it. Insecurity sits like a craggy rock, peaking just above the waves of deep-seated shame. Self-loathing cracks in the night, signaling its arrival as the light of dissatisfaction splits the sky. Ever onward, I sail. Eternal sleep seems a blessed mercy, one that would deliver me from the agony of life. And yet, I hold fast. Longing for deliverance while prolonging my suffering.

__________

I don't remember writing this, but I like it. So, I'm publishing it.

About time I wrote something

It's about time I wrote something. Literally, anything. All of my non-existent readers have been dying for my attention. And I get it. My writing is pretty...yeah...can't even type that with a straight face.

Still, I should create something. I mean, I'm obviously not sleeping. I've just ordered a ton of boots I definitely don't need.

It's 11:11 make a wish!

ANYWAYS...

What should I write about?

Oh, I saw a fireworks show recently. I sat there, trying to be in the moment instead of yielding to the urge to take out my phone and try my best to snap a single picture that wasn't blurry. And I tried to think of new and colorful ways to describe what I saw. That transcendence of light and sound. And then I thought, "transcendence"? It's not transcendent. No one ascends to a higher plane because they have witnessed a series of chemical and physical reactions that result in a smattering of color across the night sky. No one swoons simply because the explosions of pink and purple and blue and red have touched their spirit and brought them closer to themselves. In fact, I can't even really say that most people are in awe of fireworks anymore. Awe is to grand a word. We do not experience even a scintilla of awe in reaction to what might once have been considered dragon's breath. We may aspire to marvel, yearn to wonder, even desperately attempt to adore what we see. But in reality, it is a fleeting fancy. A shiny bauble that passes the time before we move on to our next activity.

And then I saw a child in the crowd, and I wondered if I was wrong. Awe was surely what I read upon their face. Something as magical as peek-a-boo (which is far more interesting for scientific reasons than for anything else), but louder and bigger and more wondrous. In their giggle was such untainted joy. In their smile such genuine fascination. And every blast was an entirely unexpected surprise. And here I was. Sitting like an idiot. Wondering how best to capture the moment with my limited vocabulary.

Naturally, what followed was a quick spiraling into emotional and intellectual self-flagellation, but we need not discuss that now.

The Texas Renaissance Festival was a blast, no pun intended. I enjoyed the whole day, though my body is paying for it with pain. (I really should explore the wonders of stretching and regular physical activity.) We saw a man eat mud. We watched whips ablaze crack in the morning sky. There was a very brief interlude with a man and his falcon. There were many, many, many lewd jokes. Ones which I rather wish I had not heard in the presence of my mother. Mostly, I just enjoying being with my family. Just being. Not performing. Not impressing others. Not working. Just being.

And the being is probably the most remarkable occurrence of the day. In general, I dislike being. It's a natural side effect of major depression. When I am not occupied by obligations, I tend to find solace in sleep. It's difficult to be aware of your pain when you are not conscious to it. No agonizing over forcing myself to eat.  No anxiety about calling yet another person about their past due bill. No pressure to sell, Sell, SELL. No fear about the inevitability of aging and all the suffering it brings. Just blessed nothingness.

But I spent the day, an entire day, awake, alert and active. Outside. Walking around. Amongst people, of all things. People! All sorts of people in all sorts of outfits from all sorts of walks of life. You know you're not in a great place when people are surprised you can spend a weekend out of your own bed.

"I get out!" I protested.

"So you just gon' lie right to my face," she retorted.

And that was literally our conversation.






I'm thinking I should go to bed. I just waxed poetic about watching fireworks, and now I'm resorting to fragmented conversation to fill the page. Blegh.


I want to write something creative. Something to remind myself that I am a good writer. Not that I was, once upon a time, a budding bit of brilliance. (Ha! Alliteration!)


Perhaps if I attempted to tackle NaNoWriMo. I tried that once. There are authors who spend at least a month planning in advance. What would I write about? Shall I re-vamp an old story? Should I build off the broken pieces of ideas that litter this old dust bin of a blog?


(Dear Reader, I am not rambling as it is 12:21 am and I really should be asleep. Feel free to stop here.)

What if he's...normal?

What if he's normal?
What if there's no spice in his soup?
What if he calls and I can't answer to something as pure and empty as the wind?

What if he's normal?
What if his fancies aren't tickled by the same stars?
What if he looks into the sky and sees a different moon?
One that is featureless, and plain, and safe

What if he's normal?
What if he can't spell kinky and has no interest and learning how?
What if a ball and chain is nothing to him beyond marriage, and I am little more than his partner?

What if he's normal?
What if I have to play pretty for the rest of my life, just to maintain happy?
What if bland is what life requires and there is no escape?

What if he's normal?
What if there's no kink in his wire, or swag in his step?
What if my fantasies were never destined to take shape?

What if he's normal?

What if he's normal?

What if he's normal?




And I am not?

Potential

I saw a Twitter post recently, listing the things women get hooked on that lead them to hang on to unsuccessful relationships, and one really struck me. Potential. We see potential in a guy, and we cling to the dream of what he could be. What he could accomplish. If he has enough time, if he has enough money, if he has enough support... If, if, if.

And, quite frankly, I don't know what to do with that. I see potential in everyone. It's one of my probably misguided, but unshakable core beliefs. Everyone has something to contribute to the world in a way only they can do it.

So when you believe such a fanciful thing, how do you stop yourself from seeing the potential in everyone? And if clinging to that hint of potential is what brings relationships to their downfall, how do you avoid that? I will never be with a partner I do not believe is capable of great things. I also think most everyone is capable of great things. And thus, I am in a conundrum.  How do I weed out the guys who will end up complacent and unsatisfied in all things, when I can see that they are capable of more?

I don't have an answer. Because Einstein, in all his brilliance, had a wife who suffered through his inability to hold down a job. Who raised the children and helped with his theories. Who sacrificed herself on the throne of history so that her husband may one day be deemed a good man. Though I doubt that was less her motive than a socially instilled duty to stand by her husband at all costs. And where has that led her? Into the oblivion.

But some men become truly great, and perhaps it is sometimes because they have truly great women behind, or even better, beside them. But how the heck do you know who is destined for greatness, and who will end up destitute in a stranger's basement until their next "big idea" takes off?

History is littered with women who "stand by [their] man". Some end up reflecting the brilliance of stars, and some die an ignoble death in the infidelity of public opinion. And, on occasion, some are seen bathing in the imaculacy (I've now made that a word) of their own light. Without another to validate or magnify or in any way alter their greatness.

Anyways, I'm going to bed for now. This has been yet another stream of consciousness by yours truly, destined to forever be lost in the void.

Journal Entry

Despite my best efforts, this has become a journal, of sort. No one cares enough to read this. A broken collection of incomplete works by an unknown author. Though my positive affirmations say I will one day be the author of a bestselling book.

But as it stands, I am still myself. Anonymous at best, nonexistent in reality.

According to my therapist (and what decent writer doesn't need a therapist?), I am supposed to write about how I have been abandoned. Stream of consciousness. No filters. No grammatical policing. Just a free flow of thought. Well, she's got the advanced degree and I don't...yet.

___________

How I Have Been Abandoned: A Rant

I cannot help but feel that, in some way, everyone has been abandoned by their family at some point in their lives. It is how we develop ourselves as individual beings. So let's start elsewhere.

Is it possible to be abandoned by friend you never truly had? For those who had never pledged any sort of loyalty to desert you? I don't think so, but perhaps it still happened. I didn't really trust my friends in high school. And I completely distrusted my friends in middle school. But who among us can honestly be trusted for anything in middle school?

I always seemed keenly aware that I served a purpose for others, should they choose to subject themselves to my company. A homework helper, a shoulder to cry on, a fatter friend, a black acquaintance. My purpose was to fill a need and never to go beyond that.

I think I always felt that way, but its truth became starkly apparent upon the divorce of my parents. It was sharply clear who I could talk to and who I could not. And the number of people I could trust to care about my feelings and struggles was an absolute zero.

I remember thinking I could trust someone because he had told me how he was hurting too. Being older now, I cannot truly fault him for it, but at the time, when I told him about my parents' divorce and the ensuing craziness, his simple "oh" burned. It didn't matter that I knew he had placed seventh in a skating competition, or that I worried and cared that he had trouble eating because he simply didn't care. It does now, in the light of hindsight, but at the time, when I so badly wanted a lifeline, it was as though I had created a Brutus that never wanted to be such.

Perhaps we should talk about my "abusive" boyfriend. I use quotes because emotional/mental abuse does not count for so many people. It counts for me when I think of others, but it is meaningless when I consider myself.

I sat on the other side of a table while my father said it was my fault that I was here, and that he couldn't help me out of it because it wasn't a problem he made. Sure, he used different words, and my interpretation may be skewed, but that's what I heard. A problem in your life does not constitute a problem in mine. Which is fine. But it's also not fair to be hurt when you were not informed of the problem with which you would not help. It's not fair to make your claim to righteousness while your daughter cries in front of you at a fancy restaurant while the waiter awkwardly tries to ask if you want dessert.

I have been abandoned by boyfriends who wanted sex, physical pleasure, emotional satiation from someone not healthy enough to give it. I have been abandoned by a therapist who freaking FELL ASLEEP while I was talking to her about my problems.

I have been abandoned by friends who don't understand my inability to maintain contact because I can hardly get out of bed.

And I could go on and on and on. But what good does it do? I understand the abandonment in most cases. It has been well deserved, and to pretend otherwise is to play the victim and complain endlessly.

Maybe I have been abandoned, and that's why it's such a hook for me. I hear someone's been unjustly abandoned, and I am willing to sacrifice even my well-being to try to be there, to be something good for someone. It's like a trigger. And I hate it. And I hate myself.

But...what else is new?
____________________________________________________
Update: More stream of consciousness

I've been abandoned by every guy I ever liked.

The first was a sweet and kind-hearted person who felt the need to pretend for those around him.

Then, SEVERAL years later, I liked a guy who wanted me to want sex more than I could at the  moment. And in his need to be validated by having sex, he left me in the dusty cold of virginity. Not only alone, but thoroughly unwanted. Because who wants to wait for someone who a) suffers from trauma and can't accommodate you anyway and b) is interested in waiting until marriage for that final, sexual satisfaction?

In the mix have been several boys I have only liked because someone told me I was supposed to like someone at all times. 1) That one guy in high school who married the girl you'd always wanted to punch in the neck. (Not really, but maybe a little.) 2. That one guy who was partially faithful to several girls at once. And that's actually about it.

UNTIL, I fell in love with a lovely Australian boy. But I won't tell you about him because no one cares.


And now, now?

Now what? Therein lies the problem.

Invincible

It was somewhere between a heartbroken cry and a roar of anguish and rage. Panther blood forced through human veins taints more than just the instincts. Right now, she could feel her pulse split between the slow defeat her human soul felt on the horizon and the disgusted anger that beat through her hybrid heart.

Her skin showed the web of scars that stood as testament to her internal suffering. They all seemed old, despite the constant abuse her skin, the color of Savannah sand at dusk, contrasted by the striations the wind had rendered upon its surface, withstood from inhuman nails blended with blades wholly unnatural. Regeneration was as common to her bloodline as the demons that plagued the minds of those the world thought invincible.

Invincible. If only that weren't so near the truth. She could have ended her pain so many decades ago, so many fractured friendships ago, so many lost loves ago. Instead, her eyes traced the uneven surface of her bedroom ceiling while wounds an inch deep ceased to stain her satin sheets, retreating to the gentle discoloration of another ancient scar.

They had called her ancestors Wolverines, knowing little of how that same ferocity inspired anguish in the minds of those who bore its gift. They had served in wars and hidden in peace, laid open the road to new and better civilizations while slashing through the crumbling tapestry of hateful regimes better left forgotten. And now, they had culminated in her. She was a queer blend of the Wolverine and Panther bloodlines. Brown skin marking the darkness of night that pumped through her veins, both tempering and amplifying the vengeful rage upon which her Wolverine heart survived.

Her existence was no less than poetic. And every day, she hoped to end the stanza, close the piece, bring silence to whatever artistic throat uttered the destiny of her people in such pretty, and inadequate, words.

If her people were the heroes, then the antagonists would surely be the Sabretooths. The clans were not always at war, but they were locked in an eternal dance of passions that raged from the fiercest hate to the deepest love. Generations shed blood and gave birth, hunted, mated, did everything but live normally. When at peace, or even bonded by love, the two groups melded so sweetly, amplifying their strength and countering the weakness in the other. The discord of their rivalry was equally striking.
___________

I wonder where this should go...

Strangle

If words of love are on your tongue
then strangle them
strangle them

if you would speak
with desperate sighs and longing eyes
then strangle them
strangle them

Let no looks of love or briny tears
breach the sacred exterior
Let no poetry or honesty
shake the image of stoicism in your lover's eye
Let no trembled lip or betraying tip
show what hurt you hide beneath

if feeling comes and asks for voice
then strangle it
strangle it

When spurning spear pierces
tenderest wounds, let nothing cry out
just strangle it
strangle it

_____

Not sure where that's going, but I wanted to get it out.

Queen of the Unrequited

I
I'm sorry but
I'm sorry, but I don't feel that way

I
I'm sorry but
I'm sorry but I just don't feel that way

And it's okay
And it's okay
and it's okay

Because I am the Queen
the Queen of Unrequited
I
I am the Queen
The Queen of Unrequited
love

I'm sorry but you're just not pretty enough
I'm sorry but you're just not smart enough
I'm sorry but you're just not enough enough

*screams*

Yes, I bleed rejection
I breathe isolation
My being is being alone
I am the Queen of...

Yes, let's just be friends
Yes, never want to be lovers
Yes, I'm okay with that
Yes, I'll always love you

Yes, it hurts inside
Yes, it makes me cry
Yes, something in me dies
But I, I'm still the Queen of lies

The queen of lies
Of bloodshot eyes
of tear-stained pillows
of wondering why
Of the echoes of all the deaths I've died

Because I am the Queen
the Queen of Unrequited
I
I am the Queen
The Queen of Unrequited
love

(There will be more, but that's where this song is starting)

Thriller Pt 2

Thankfully, the meetings passed quickly and easily enough.

Mr. Clemens was, oddly enough, a regular. Always changing little things here and there about his funeral arrangements. Every time he saw a new commercial or was impressed by another service, he'd set up an appointment first thing so he could add it to his list of services. He was happy to cover the costs, and she was happy to help him make his wishes come true, even if she was only increasingly surprised by the growing grandiosity of his final event.

Then came quiet Mrs. Wilson, a gentle soul struggling to cope with the loss of her partner. Something about the old woman made everyone want to hug her. Sharon Nyx had been in the funeral business for several years now, but something about the Wilson case plucked at her heart. Her pride would call it indigestion, but she would never be able to fully convince herself it was all about business.

And Ms. Bartson, her resident eccentric, had come in with a list of demands for her dog's funeral. Typically their business was restricted strictly to humanoids, but Ms. Bartson, all skirt suits and loud hats, was a hard woman to refuse. Besides, it couldn't hurt to keep the funeral home's options open. The garish planning binder and its flashing sequins tempted her to think otherwise, but there was no time and less disposable income available to strike up a debate.

Shedding her blazer, she traded business attire for a grungy lab coat and faded purple scrubs and made her way into the morgue.

Thriller Maybe

She'd run far enough. The night had lacerated her reason and drawn fear from her veins, even as branch and stone scraped against her bared skin to draw blood. The fire in her chest had shifted from a will to live to a desperation to breathe. Everything around her was shadow and nightmare, and she was exhausted. She could no longer run. She could no longer escape. So, she turned to fight. To face the demon that had dragged her into the hell of the night and threatened to consume her. Gasping for the frigid air and dripping blood and mud onto her weary legs, she stood in her wavering attempt at her last defense.

The shape emerged from the gloom of the forest, large and snarling, hungry for her lifeblood. That very same lifeblood chilled inside her and almost left her immobile. One final rush of endorphins loosened her muscles and sent her flying towards her would be destroyer. She launched herself into the night, hoping that, if nothing else, she made this monster pay for the kill. And then...

And then...

Nothing. No pain, no fight, no icy rain to sting her bare skin. Instead, she found herself sweating through her cheap blouse on the shabby little couch in her office. Her body ached. Not from the wounds of battle, but from the reality of old springs and worn cushions. She was neither heroine nor damsel in distress. She was simply awake, with a sore body and a headache worthy of a bar room brawl.

Aching limbs rallied in protest as she eased her way off the couch and into the chair behind her old, deceptively stately desk. It had impressed many a skeptical client, belying the impending collapse of the creaky structure. Goodness, even her knuckles felt obligated to crack and pop as she bent them around the faux-gold handle and struggled to open the ill-fitting drawer.

Appointments. She had a surprisingly full schedule for a small funeral parlor, but she lived in an old town where it seemed everyone was itching to die. Clemens, Wilson and Bartson. 10, 11 and 12 o'clock. She squinted at the clock on the table in the corner and sorely wished it said something other than 9:30 AM. Why would she even agree to such an early appointment in the first place?

My Inner Enthusiast (Lizzie)

So, I'm crazy. You've probably figured that out by now. And some crazy people see therapists. I'm one of those. I see a good one. I've had the whole range of therapists, from ones who were overly involved in my life to those who fell asleep during one of our sessions. I happen to have a particularly good one right now. In our last session, she mentioned that there seemed to be three parts to me.

1) The Depressed Part
2) The Overly Responsible Part
3) The Enthusiastic Part

She said she got glimpses of #3 often enough, but the other two seemed to drown her out. So, I thought I might try writing in her voice. Just to give her a chance to have her say. Here it goes...

_____


Okay, so, let's talk about the world. It seems like everything is pretty bleak. No matter where you fall on the spectrum of world views, someone is telling you the end is nigh. Whether you're afraid of new people and a changing culture, or those who fight that possibility so fiercely, everyone is telling you to be afraid.

But look how beautiful the world is in spite of that! People are constantly told that immigrants and strangers may show up with the intent to destroy your world. Even so, people have welcomed hundreds, thousands, in some cases, millions, into their homeland. People have learned to see others as human, rather than a religious caricature. Sure, people are dying and suffering and hating, but people are also being inspired and moved to combat those things. People have started their own organizations to fight hunger, hate, war, drought, discrimination and everything that seems ready to destroy our lives.

And in the midst of all that is you. You're no magician, of course. You certainly aren't God. But there is still something you can do to make the world just a little bit better than it was before you. And that one thing is something no one else could possibly do. Their gifts may seem similar, their message in tune with yours, but you were created to fill a specific calling, a specific need, and only you were designed for the task.

This is not to say that everything is on your shoulders. God is still God, and the universe will continue with or without your contribution. But it won't be better. It won't be brighter. It won't have that extra sparkle of fairy dust that only you could add to the wonders of the cosmos. It's staggering to think about. That anything you do could change a life, inspire someone, heal someone, teach someone, build something, fix something, make something, discover something. And you were made to do it. You were made to do it.

Maybe you're not where you need to be to do it fully yet, but you are a work in progress. A living masterpiece growing ever closer to true beauty, completion, meaning.

And I want you to get there. Not just for the sake of the world, but for you. You know how you light up when you do that one thing. Teaching, volunteering, listening, writing, whatever. You know how others can feel when you've touched their lives. You know that you have your own skills and talents and abilities. You know this.

Still, there will be complications. Requirements. Hurdles. Degrees, job applications, finances, taxes, rent, mortgages, car notes, budgets, time, energy, etc. I know it too. And, to be honest, it scares me. It terrifies me. It takes me back to the darkness of the dorm room where you spent so many night crying, desperately trying to breathe while hating that you continued to do so. It reminds me of being so drained that nothing seems worthwhile, enjoyable, fulfilling, or interesting. It reminds me of how I have been crushed in the past. It almost makes me want to give up.

But there's got to be more than that. More than that weight, more than your depression, more than we have known before. Maybe, if we push through those hurdles, we can reach something that we never would have believed possible while in the depths of despair. I don't know the details on how to get there. I, too, am afraid that we will not be able to. That we're not strong or smart or functional or worthy enough to get there. But if we do...

Oh, beloved, if we do...

Writer's Digest Prompt - The Dog Ate My Homework

The Prompt: http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/dog-ate-homework

Sometimes the universe needs a good laugh. I tend to feel like that laugh is always at me. Like when Eric Marsden threw up on me in the middle of my big scene on opening night of the first play in which I had ever taken part. Or when I helped Jamaal, my best friend, plan an elaborate Promposal, thinking the whole time it was for me, only to realize that he was going to ask out Lane Parker instead. Or, when it's time to turn in the most important assignment of the semester, and I have to convince the teacher that my dog really did eat my homework. As if seeing parts of my term paper in confetti form hadn't been traumatic enough, Seafood also did me the honor of vomiting the rest of it on top of my math project. Thanks universe.

I'd never made excuses before, so I thought I had some credibility, but instead this saggy eyed harpy had the audacity to embarrass me in front of the whole class.


_________

Hmm. No. Too much exposition. Try again.

_____

Look, Ms. Hammon, the reason I don't have my homework is because it's in on an oil rig in the South China Sea. I'd printed it last night, and even made it look extra professional by putting it in a paper protector with a nifty yellow spine. It's your favorite color, I know. The problem was that my Mom was also preparing a few reports of her own. So when it came time to leave home, she just dumped all the papers into her briefcase and rushed my brother and I out the door.

I thought I was going to die when I saw it wasn't in my backpack last period! I figured out what must have happened and called my mom to see if she still had it. Of course, she didn't. All those other reports had been submitted to the general portfolio for their international project. Of course, this project just happened to be in conjunction with the government, so all documents are digitized and then destroyed. My mom says they put in on some special flash drive that their agent delivers by hand when he meets with the Chinese government.

______________

No. Too complicated.
__________

I lost my paper in a freak sleep walking accident. I know, it's crazy. I wouldn't have believed it either if I hadn't woken up in a tree in the park with my coverpage shoved into the waist of my pants! It's a long story. Honestly, I'm don't even know everything that happened

_______


These are all dumb. Try again tomorrow.

Dancing With You

It's quite possible this is the most horrible poem I've ever written. It started free form, then turned into a bungled rhyme. This, ladies, gents, and other appropriate labels, is why we don't poem when exhausted. Ah well. Perhaps I shall revisit the idea when my thoughts are better ordered and my vocabulary better Googled.

Until then, nonexistent faithful followers,

I bid thee adieu. (Is that French? Why French? The rest of it was in English! Bah!)
______________
I just want to dance with you

to hug you close and forget all but the music's magic
and the fantasy of our harmony
To sway to the idea of a song written just for us
So that I can move with you in just the way the composer intended

Pre-planned steps made spontaneous by those who take them
Finding spontaneity in execution rather than the death of a dream
The rules were written before ink filled pen
And so we write our story with every twirl and bend

I just want to dance with you

To let my breathe escape into the same space
that contains our movement and allows our expression
Seeming further from reality, placing our ballroom floor in the midst of eternity
So that our moves make galaxies, creating stars to light our prettiest dreams
Making fairy dust our dainty night sky
And our fairy tales more truth than lie

I just want to dance with you

To escape ordered movement and the restrictions of grace
so that we, clumsy or otherwise, might make our own pace
Bending music to musings of dreams that have yet to take place
Letting melded bodies and connected minds create beauty in empty space
Reconstructing proper form and verse to poetry, prose, or a simple embrace

I just want to dance with you

When words rhyme
and when they fall, disjointed on blessed ears
tuned to perfection, though their only correction would be
to allow for the unpredictability of affection
knowing that the heart rarely rhymes regardless of connection
I'm doing it again

Losing myself in structure
In words designed to impress
An Empress of  the failure to truly address the fact that I would really

Really

Just like to dance with you

Back to the beginning!

I'm going to try going over the Faithwalking material again by myself. I'm in a much healthier place, and I think it may be more effective the second time.

_____

What practices do you regularly engage? 

Prayer, reading the Bible,

When do you engage them? 

When I remember. When I am in a dark place or feeling far from God. When I feel exceptionally blessed.

How often? 

I do better if I'm on some sort of reading plan. I'm also a big user of shotgun prayers. When I see myself walking into negative thought, or wanting to behave in a way I know is contrary to scripture and my own morals, or even when I just feel grateful.

With what consistency do you engage them? 

Unless I am lost in shame, I can be fairly consistent. Even doing my devotional and the like daily.

What do you see about why you have chosen these practices and avoided or ignored others?

I probably chose these practices because they have concrete limits and requirements. I've prayed or I haven't. I've read my Bible, or I haven't. I know what to do, how to do it, and when I'm finished. Other things, like solitude and silence, are far less defined. How long do I need to sit alone? Five minutes? An hour?


What spiritual practices would you like to include in your Spiritual Workout?

- Silence - Solitude - Bible Study - Prayer - Worship - Fellowship -

Should have known better...

Today could have been a happy day.

Granted, I did have to spend some alone time with one of my personal demons, but it gave me clarity on where and how it's hurting me. There's still much to be done, of course. Knowing that it feels like a character flaw, a blemish on my soul, doesn't make things better. However, small revelations about not knowing what to do with my body, or about the way I am careful to maintain my emotional distance, can help me set targets and goals to move me to a better place.

Then, a quick stop at my chiropractor and an hour or so of funny podcasts to brought me back to the light side. There will be times and places in which I must wrestle my demons, but when those times end and I leave those places, I have to be able to do so in a healthy way.

Dinner, tv, conversation, laughter. Spending time with my parents over spaghetti and french bread was a wonderful way to wind down the day. Soon after, I'd retreat to the comfort of my bedroom so I could use the wonder of the internet to travel far beyond. To people I had believed could be safe...

I should have known better.

Sleep and Forget (A work in progress)

It wasn't like we'd planned it or anything. The room was silent save for the musical crescendo that accompanied the movie. Then it happened, and then it was over. There was no dramatic music for my sake, no rising terror or great struggle. It just...happened. In the movies, the heroine always struggles mightily before succumbing to the moment, but I had no such luck. He was stronger, I was drugged.

It's the sort of thing you always imagine happening at a party in the midst of hazy rooms clouded with shouted conversation, blasting music and undertones of sin and sex. A careless girl misplaces her cup, or sets it down to go to the restroom. The greasy villain takes advantage of the moment, slipping the inconspicuous white pill into the liquid before melting into the shadows until his target returns and falls prey to his machinations. He then sweeps her off and does the deed in spite of her muffled cries of protest.

In my case, there was no such thing. Just a friend, closer than a brother, and an evening home alone.

He always made the best chocolate shakes. Thick enough to stick, but smooth enough to feel like a caress when it slid down your throat. Besides, it was tradition. He made the drinks, I made the pizza and in less than fifteen minutes, we were back in front of the tv.

His chocolate shakes were always inexplicably delicious, and one of his most closely guarded secrets. Even I, the best friend and official keeper of his secrets, had been forced to give up on attempting to pry the recipe from his mind. There was an extra kick of tastiness tonight, but I didn't ask for an explanation I knew I wouldn't get. So, I settled down to watch one of the most ridiculous versions of Thumbelina that we'd ever seen. It was a favorite of ours. But when Thumbelina met the prince, the screen wobbled a bit and I felt a certain cloudiness in my brain. I thought the first signs of fatigue were beginning to show, but then I noticed myself sagging to the side. My thoughts started to jumble and swished around in my head like water. I tried to say something, to tell him I was feeling weird but all I could manage was a whining mumble.

Then I was floating. Boneless. His face appeared before me and I thought, at first, that he'd realized there was something wrong. Instead, that's when I realized there was something wrong. The expressions I'd seen on his face so many times were absent. His eyes scraped over my body with a frightening desperation, the path they made burned and I would have recoiled if I'd been able.

His breath shook, even as his hands did. They were gentle when they first touched me. Reverent to a fault, and so clearly afraid. At first, it was just my face, then my arm, but as the time passed, his touches grew bolder and more insistent. Just a finger, then his entire hand slid beneath my shirt pushing the fabric higher and higher. His eyes devoured my exposed flesh, even as it was slowly revealed. He lowered his head, as though in awe, to kiss the skin there.

When he looked up, it was like the bonds of restraint had snapped. His kisses became more insistent, his hands were all over me, his eyes were wild and hungry. I screamed inside, praying it would wake us both up from this nightmare. I saw his eyes change. I heard the catch in his breath, signaling each new discovery. Each new violation. I finally noticed that his lips had transformed from the hard line that had accompanied his concentration, into an endlessly shifting series of shapes. He was talking to me.

He had wanted me for so long. I was so beautiful. He was sorry, but he couldn't help himself. I had to have seen this coming. He would be gentle. I was so hot. He wanted me to feel good. He wanted to feel good. He wanted us both to feel good.

Each sentence fell on stunned ears, just as each piece of our clothing dropped from his unsteady hands onto the floor. Horror battled with a curious numbness within me. Even in my fear, my traitorous mind still whispered insecurities and doubt. He only wanted to get laid, I was just an easy target. He probably wouldn't have done it if he knew what you looked like naked. After this is over, at least you can pretend someone wants you. Treacherous thoughts fell like acid rain, and his unending string of empty words only increased the burn.

 A pinch of pain cleared the fog for a moment, but it soon settled back in the crevices of my mind and I could no longer think. I was abandoned to the reality of my experience, only able to feel, to witness my body's reaction, to watch my best friend turn into a demon.

The drugs plucked at my thoughts, trying to drag me deeper and deeper, and I found myself willing to drown. I didn't want to feel the heat of his hands. I didn't want to acknowledge his sloppy, selfish kisses. I wanted to fall so deep that I wouldn't even hear the echo of the harsh grunts that marked his pace. It was too late to make it stop. Too late to take it all back. Too late to uncross the line. My violation was done. And so, I decided not to fight it. I closed my eyes, and let myself sleep.

Sometimes...

I hate myself so much that I can't even stand to be comforted. It all sounds like mockery, or like someone's unwillingness to see the truth. Or worse, someone who doesn't care enough to tell me the truth.

I desperately want something to soothe the pain. To hear a familiar voice that will calm me, soothe me, restore me. There is no such thing. And if there were, I have no idea what I'd want it to say. Every compliment would ring hollow, every encouragement would be a reminder of the things I haven't done for myself.

What do you do when even the words "I love you," bite like a whip, because someone who could love such a horrendous creature, is far too good to deserve all the heartache and pain and extra effort their connection would bring.

There is a war. I scream inside, hoping that my cries will call to the hearts of others. so I can finally rest in the knowledge that I am not alone. I can dream of using my voice as a way to join with others, creating the blissful harmony of true connection. On the other hand, I know the scarlet letters that mark my skin. Pariah. Failure. Invalid. Disabled. And I would rather slice my skin and bleed my penance a thousand times over, than drag those who are genuinely good into the mire of my tainted existence.

I would start to cry, but there's already more than enough rain.

I'm supposed to know better. To think better. To do better.

But right now, rock bottom seems to be my very best.

Leave My Loneliness Unbroken

I have no idea why this part of E.A. Poe's The Raven was copied into a draft, but the passage still sounds good, so why not?

______________________

"`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'"

And yet, the broken heart cries freely,
to save my frozen soul, grown steely,
and my strength it staggers weakly through the
once safeguarded door

Enough, I cried! To break this measured poetic screening
of these feelings burning deeply
I pray to heaven, please release me
from these demons at my door