“Even the darkest night will end…

…and the sun will rise.”
– Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

I read a lot, you guys. Like, pretty well constantly having some sort of written word in front of my face. Books, games, blogs, backs of cereal boxes.

A lot.

One of the people that  I read about has the loveliest, most lyrical voice I have heard in a long while. She writes eloquently about her life, her depression, and her work to feel her way along in the world. It’s beyond moving.
Maybe it is especially so for me, as I see echoes of my younger self in her words. It could also be just that the work is stunning.

She wrote something this morning that grabbed my heart and shook it. Shook it like a terrier with a rat, to be frank. She spoke how her anxiety and depression were tearing her up, shredding her, exhausting her, making her feel worthless and unwanted; made her feel without hope.

I wish I could capture what she said, and I don’t want to link her without her permission (I’ve been recently told that that is not kosher). But, I wanted to put here the response I wrote.
It may be terrible poetry – but it is, one hopes, empathetic verse.

It’s not always like this.
There isn’t always a pile of unopened mail
there isn’t always laundry organized and still waiting.
Mundane tasks left behind while we sit and wonder
About all the work we have left undone.
You do good things.
But, better…
You are good.
You are worth every bit
of work and hope and love.
It isn’t about earning someone’s trust
and love and acceptance.
Fuck that. It’s
Remembering that you are loved and accepted and trusted.
Sometimes we forget
Sometimes we crumble
Sometimes we hover too long in one spot
Forgetting that we can strafe right, left, criss-cross
Zoom, soar, and dart.

——-

I am not, as you can see, much of a poetess. But I, like most writers, feel things especially hard. You’re having an emotion? Here, have it in spades. Have it in hundreds! (Quoth the brain).

Anywho, reading your words today gave me (as the kids say) all the feels. I sincerely hope that as you read people’s words back to your own, you can see the care and acceptance.

I hope these words find you better, find you safe, find you happy.

Having cast your own words out into the internet; a bottled message in a digital sea, if you will forgive the conceit, please accept this response as the outstretched hand that it is meant to be. 

in process: Voodoo Thoughts

Sometimes I just write whatever is in my head. Tonight is just such an occurrence. Tumbling out, no editing, no going back. The raw deal, as it were. 

 

I am rifling through
pictures of you
wondering if things are better.
Wondering if
the hurt is tempered.

 

I see joy
real and faked.
Humor forced
and humor sung with outspread arms.

 

I see these moments
that define
the life we lived and the life
we aren’t able to share anymore.

 

I miss you.

 

There is a hole, a large one, that grows in my soul, eats into my head, grabs my hands and yanks me forward where I don’t want to be.

It rakes curlicues up in the yard as it dances unwholesome, bone-rattling dirges in concentric rings about my house. I see it from here, where I sit, near the boarded up window.

I have no power over it, no veve to carve into my soul’s porch. No bag to shake at it and make it stop.

The rum and the smokes are all gone. The last of the jokes have been told.

Time to go.
Time to go.

 

 

Flight

Title inspired by the thesarus.com entry for the word.

 

 

 

Somewhere between Paranoid: A Chant and An Awful Rowing Toward God lies the scenic beauty of the cliffs. Standing on the edge, looking down into the pines, I can feel the lure of gravity. Sometimes, it takes the form singing and music. Most often, it takes the form of words. Many words, swirling and dancing. There is a clutching fear of pain that keeps my feet grounded, though.

It isn’t death I fear. It’s the pain of getting there.

When I am peeled free of anxiety, skinned and naked – then I will know the right things to say.  The way to capture all the racket in my head. I will know how to explain about the bath mat. I will know how to frame the swimming pool. I will have the phrase that explains under the football stadium, first year in high school; and another for the anxious over-the-shoulder grade school glances that shouldn’t have ever happened. Stanzas will appear to illuminate the dark corners. Fierce, terrible light that will uncover and remove and scour and liberate.

I will know new synonyms for reclamation and bravery and strength and survival.
Words that don’t hurt so much. Words that pull up scars instead of leaving them.

 

This isn’t self doubt.
This isn’t suicidal thoughts.
This isn’t anything but me making sense of the things that I have to say.

There is a lot to say. And it requires the right words.

 

 

 

 

Just so that we are all clear on this: I am not entertaining suicidal thoughts. I am not even sad or blue. Occasionally, someone says or writes something and it inspires a feeling in me. I write it all out, trying to capture that feeling, chasing it around my head until I can examine it in my hands. As I may have mentioned before, writing of any kind – poetry, biography, fantasy, erotica, sci-fi, essay – is all a process.