I am a highly objective person. I've always been able to hold the world at arm's length and observe things with reason, and I've always been so proud of that. That isn't to say that emotion doesn't occasionally win over, but the brief periods of my emotions winning are just that--brief moments that pass and are followed by reason and reasoning.
I've always even looked at my emotions objectively, even my sadness. (And here, I refer to sadness, and not depression: I know that depression is a medical condition of the brain, and therefore I will not diagnose myself with depression, the same way I would not diagnose myself with cancer or diabetes or heart disease or genital herpes.)
Whenever things get bad (and recently, that's been more and more), it's almost as though I'm looking at myself from an outside point of view. I can see myself curled up against my wall, staring at nothing, shaking because for nothing can I get warm, and it makes something deep inside me angry with myself. Why can't I get up? There isn't anything wrong--maybe school is stressful, but I'm taking things easy, much easier than anyone I know. I am surrounded (maybe not closely) by friends who genuinely care about me, and I can feel that they love me no matter how far off they are. I have a lot to be thankful for, and yet I can't stop shaking and I can't get up and I can't breathe and I just can't any longer. Not for anything.
Being this highly objective person, I want to step outside myself and give my own shoulders a good shake, my own face a good slap. I want to yell at myself, scream at myself, make myself just fucking get UP already, this does not make sense, you have no reason to be lying there helpless when you have so much work to do and so many projects to start and so many options in front of you. Stop wasting these opportunities that others would kill for. Go make something. Go do something. Just go. Anywhere.
But I can't. I am one person, in one brain, and as much as I would like for logic to win out always, in this one respect, my emotions literally control my every movement. When my brain becomes heavy, so do my limbs, and my torso, and my feet and my hands and my chest, and my ribs ache and my heart won't beat right and my stomach twists and morphs and stops me from eating and all I want to do is sleep but all I see in my sleep are the monsters that haunt me. In the daylight, they are shakes and tremors and an irregular pulse, but at night, they take on a physical form.
And so I continue to lay against my wall. I continue to stare and shake. My brain is heavy, but I cannot sleep; My eyes sting, but I cannot cry.
And there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. There is nowhere to go (not that I can move); there is no one to talk to (not that I can speak); there is no more air left to breathe (not that my lungs work anyway).
And so I sit. And I try to let it pass. And I at least take control of my lungs, remind myself to breathe, that as long as I'm breathing I'll make it through, and once I have my breathing I have my heart rate back, and once my heart is beating normally my head loosens up, and once my head loosens up I can move again.
But no matter how much control I have over my breathing, my lungs still barely scrape air. No matter how much I can regulate my existing pulse, my heart still twists and turns and screams against itself. No matter how much lighter my head gets, it still spins. And no matter how much I can move, I still have nowhere to go.
But as long as I have my breathing and my heart and my head and my body back, I can take back reason as well. I can stuff sadness down for a little while longer, and once more hold the world at arm's length.
I know that one day this repression and objection will come back to haunt me, and I will be the worse off for it. And so I'll hope that when that day comes, I've strengthened enough to slay the monsters myself.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Last night
Give me a time, and I'll head out
Away from my house, left left straight right straight left
To red walls and spilled grinds and smeared fudge
But you'll forget, and so we'll head elsewhere
To salt and greasy tiles and smearing cherries
To epilogues and maps and stuffed somethings
To comfy chairs and organic popcorn and fake coffee
And on to stickers and dollar calendars
I would have kissed you in the parking lot, if you had tried
Because I guess I was the last one you had and that was so long ago
And because she's not what quite what you need
And because I don't know we were bored and maybe there's something there
But I hope there isn't, and I'm glad you didn't try
Because I like this thing that we have going on
Away from my house, left left straight right straight left
To red walls and spilled grinds and smeared fudge
But you'll forget, and so we'll head elsewhere
To salt and greasy tiles and smearing cherries
To epilogues and maps and stuffed somethings
To comfy chairs and organic popcorn and fake coffee
And on to stickers and dollar calendars
I would have kissed you in the parking lot, if you had tried
Because I guess I was the last one you had and that was so long ago
And because she's not what quite what you need
And because I don't know we were bored and maybe there's something there
But I hope there isn't, and I'm glad you didn't try
Because I like this thing that we have going on
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
I don't know what's wrong with me. Tunnel vision. I try to look both ways, but I can't see what isn't right in front of me, and even then it's a small window. The walls are closing in, around my eyes, my ears, my lungs. It's like I can't breathe, but if I really couldn't breathe at least I'd have the privilege of no longer being here.
It's like waking up early Sunday morning to catch the sunrise, only to find out the sun is gone, gone, never coming back. He ran away with the moon, the dish and the spoon, and by now they're probably miles down the Milky Way, beyond even a speck of dust. But you can't blame them for leaving us, can you, because there comes a time when you just can't take care of everyone anymore--you've gotta take care of yourself.
At least, that was my reasoning, and we see how far that got me. 'I've gotta take care of myself, because you won't and neither will anyone else.' But we all know that's bullshit. I'm not taking care of myself. I can't make myself do anything. But I can't acknowledge that it's my fault, really, because some days it's just so hard to even think about getting out of bed, about letting my feet hit the floor, about seeing people, communicating, smiling, walking, moving, breathing, it's just too much. Once feet meet floor it's all over, it all becomes real. I can't hide in plain sight.
I just keep looking both ways, left-right-left again, but I can't see anything coming until it hits me. I can't feel the vibrations of the world under me, warning me to watch out. Protecting me, even though its sun left. So noble. But I've become so disconnected that I can't read the signals of my mother Earth anymore, can't hear her telling me to watch out, you didn't look hard enough, come on, sweetheart, pull yourself together before you get yourself killed. Lord knows I can't lose another one.
Disconnected. Disjoint, excommunicated, exiled, self-imposed. Maybe someone wants me around, but I sure don't. And even if they say it--even when they say it--I won't believe it. I've already convinced myself otherwise. I've walked that path, I've been there, I had my chance and I destroyed it, and now I'm left to clean up on my own, as it should be.
I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I don't know why you read all of this. I'm not okay, and I haven't been okay, and I don't know when I'll be okay again. Just don't worry about me. I've made too many promises I have to keep, so I'll be here for quite a while longer. I'll try not to burden you while I'm here.
It's like waking up early Sunday morning to catch the sunrise, only to find out the sun is gone, gone, never coming back. He ran away with the moon, the dish and the spoon, and by now they're probably miles down the Milky Way, beyond even a speck of dust. But you can't blame them for leaving us, can you, because there comes a time when you just can't take care of everyone anymore--you've gotta take care of yourself.
At least, that was my reasoning, and we see how far that got me. 'I've gotta take care of myself, because you won't and neither will anyone else.' But we all know that's bullshit. I'm not taking care of myself. I can't make myself do anything. But I can't acknowledge that it's my fault, really, because some days it's just so hard to even think about getting out of bed, about letting my feet hit the floor, about seeing people, communicating, smiling, walking, moving, breathing, it's just too much. Once feet meet floor it's all over, it all becomes real. I can't hide in plain sight.
I just keep looking both ways, left-right-left again, but I can't see anything coming until it hits me. I can't feel the vibrations of the world under me, warning me to watch out. Protecting me, even though its sun left. So noble. But I've become so disconnected that I can't read the signals of my mother Earth anymore, can't hear her telling me to watch out, you didn't look hard enough, come on, sweetheart, pull yourself together before you get yourself killed. Lord knows I can't lose another one.
Disconnected. Disjoint, excommunicated, exiled, self-imposed. Maybe someone wants me around, but I sure don't. And even if they say it--even when they say it--I won't believe it. I've already convinced myself otherwise. I've walked that path, I've been there, I had my chance and I destroyed it, and now I'm left to clean up on my own, as it should be.
I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I don't know why you read all of this. I'm not okay, and I haven't been okay, and I don't know when I'll be okay again. Just don't worry about me. I've made too many promises I have to keep, so I'll be here for quite a while longer. I'll try not to burden you while I'm here.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Two-cup Sundays.
The best kinds of days are two-cup Sundays
Waking up at a leisurely 10:00 am to a hot black cup in a penguin mug
And spending the rest of the morning lazing down the highway
Corn rushing by on either side, dry from the drought
Soybeans blurred into one goldenrod block of earth
Feeling content in a journey, home on the other side
Where I'll stay up until 1:00, maybe 2:00
Pretending to study, but really just thinking
Brain stimulated by peppermint steam from a new mug, this one striped
Sitting back, bathed in warmth, letting the afternoon stay free
Knowing what's left to do can be done another time.
The best kinds of days are two-cup Sundays
When the warmth of the first cools, the second replenishes
Until morning comes, ready for cup number three.
Waking up at a leisurely 10:00 am to a hot black cup in a penguin mug
And spending the rest of the morning lazing down the highway
Corn rushing by on either side, dry from the drought
Soybeans blurred into one goldenrod block of earth
Feeling content in a journey, home on the other side
Where I'll stay up until 1:00, maybe 2:00
Pretending to study, but really just thinking
Brain stimulated by peppermint steam from a new mug, this one striped
Sitting back, bathed in warmth, letting the afternoon stay free
Knowing what's left to do can be done another time.
The best kinds of days are two-cup Sundays
When the warmth of the first cools, the second replenishes
Until morning comes, ready for cup number three.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Faces: Redux.
I made some changes to this piece to fit the prompt for an English assignment. There are things I like about the new one, but I think overall I prefer the original. Feel free to let me know what you think.
Sometimes, when the mirror peers back at me from far away, I see hollowness. I focus on the shadows under my cheekbones, the purple bags under my eyes, the cuts and scrapes and bruises across my cheeks and forehead. I see my scars. I wince at a pale reflection and eyes too wide for a small visage. I strike myself as a lost child.
But sometimes, when I get closer, I perceive things better. I recognize the familiar freckles dotting my nose, the even tone across my cheeks, the black flecks in my eyes that give them the appearance of depth. I notice thick black lashes that don’t need mascara. I see the red flush of blood protecting my face from the chill air. I straighten at the sight of a teenage girl, a member of a pack, just like any other.
Sometimes, I wonder how many faces I have. I wonder which face is my real face, or if they’re both mirages. I wonder which face my best friend sees, and which face the cashier at the grocery store sees, and I wonder if they’re the same. I wonder if the snickering I hear is about me, if the gazes weighing heavily from behind are malevolent or benign, or even just a figment of my imagination, echoes of fear resounding in my mind. I wonder if the days I deem myself acceptable are the days that the world finds me acceptable as well, or if we all have opposing opinions on what I should look like.
Sometimes, I wonder if my face even matters—if what I see and what everyone else sees makes a difference. I wonder if people appraise me at face value, or if they wonder what thoughts lay beneath my skull. I wonder if I appear twelve, like they tease me that I do, or if I give the impression that I’m twenty, like they assume I am before they see my face.
Sometimes, when the mirror peers back at me from far away, I see hollowness. I focus on the shadows under my cheekbones, the purple bags under my eyes, the cuts and scrapes and bruises across my cheeks and forehead. I see my scars. I wince at a pale reflection and eyes too wide for a small visage. I strike myself as a lost child.
But sometimes, when I get closer, I perceive things better. I recognize the familiar freckles dotting my nose, the even tone across my cheeks, the black flecks in my eyes that give them the appearance of depth. I notice thick black lashes that don’t need mascara. I see the red flush of blood protecting my face from the chill air. I straighten at the sight of a teenage girl, a member of a pack, just like any other.
Sometimes, I wonder how many faces I have. I wonder which face is my real face, or if they’re both mirages. I wonder which face my best friend sees, and which face the cashier at the grocery store sees, and I wonder if they’re the same. I wonder if the snickering I hear is about me, if the gazes weighing heavily from behind are malevolent or benign, or even just a figment of my imagination, echoes of fear resounding in my mind. I wonder if the days I deem myself acceptable are the days that the world finds me acceptable as well, or if we all have opposing opinions on what I should look like.
Sometimes, I wonder if my face even matters—if what I see and what everyone else sees makes a difference. I wonder if people appraise me at face value, or if they wonder what thoughts lay beneath my skull. I wonder if I appear twelve, like they tease me that I do, or if I give the impression that I’m twenty, like they assume I am before they see my face.
Sometimes, I
think that all of my faces are truly just one, and that it’s not my face being
altered, but my mind.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Hands.
Long, wiry bones meet tiny, stubby ones
One shaking in anticipation, one not noticing
One covered in oil, grease, and dirt
And the other never separated from its pen.
Shy and nervous and oblivious and indifferent
A year of sitting back and waiting for the right time
Remaining distant, scared of contact
Of screwing it up before it begins.
Palms meet, fingers entwine
Thumbs wrestle in nervous excitement
The sweat of the nerves goes unnoticed
In the sweetness of the touch.
The shakes eventually dissipate
The nerves focus attention on new things
Distance is never significant
And if it was, Time took care of the rest.
Time grew, attitudes evolved
Proximity became a right, not a gift
Possession sought value over intimacy
And shakes began once more.
What once brought warmth becomes unwelcome
The comforting becomes invasive
The once oblivious stands startled and guarded
While the once nervous becomes far too confident.
A line is drawn, and distance is brought back
Fingers disentangle, palms separate
The piano hands go back to playing mechanic
And the writer returns to her pen.
One shaking in anticipation, one not noticing
One covered in oil, grease, and dirt
And the other never separated from its pen.
Shy and nervous and oblivious and indifferent
A year of sitting back and waiting for the right time
Remaining distant, scared of contact
Of screwing it up before it begins.
Palms meet, fingers entwine
Thumbs wrestle in nervous excitement
The sweat of the nerves goes unnoticed
In the sweetness of the touch.
The shakes eventually dissipate
The nerves focus attention on new things
Distance is never significant
And if it was, Time took care of the rest.
Time grew, attitudes evolved
Proximity became a right, not a gift
Possession sought value over intimacy
And shakes began once more.
What once brought warmth becomes unwelcome
The comforting becomes invasive
The once oblivious stands startled and guarded
While the once nervous becomes far too confident.
A line is drawn, and distance is brought back
Fingers disentangle, palms separate
The piano hands go back to playing mechanic
And the writer returns to her pen.
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