Hazy 

Exalt, soul: lift, soar, drop across minor changes like a bird on neon wings.  Transcend eras with courage; don’t look back.  Be carried by faith and illumination, those days when the sky is sunless but everything is vivid and bright.  Feel the shaking of that seed deep within.  Crack and bloom!  

I’m magenta minded now, swimming through Jasmine green tea and so many yous.  Eternal sunshine, pour across me in rays.

I’m so sorry.   

 

A portrait of life. 

I know it’s cliche to say, but no one really prepares us for how difficult life, living, really is. 

I’ve removed the veils from my eyes and from my mind.  Layers of obsessive thoughts, compulsive behaviors, intoxicating plants, and other trap doors leading to false escapes have been peeled off, boarded up, and put away.  Now all that’s left is reality, and how painful that can be at times. 

Even when you’re doing well, perhaps the people you love aren’t doing quite as well.  The enmeshment that unconditional relationships cause can make you feel their pain and make it your own.  And maybe there’s some codependence to that, but even when I try to maintain healthy boundaries, there’s only so much I can do to distance myself from my mother’s tangible distress.  

I know.  I really need to move out.  That’s the thing about this city and this economy and this job.  I just don’t have enough money to do that… Yet.  I’m trying to do everything right, and it takes time to build a lasting foundation.  If all goes as planned, I’ll be able to leave sometime this summer.  And there is a level of guilt to that, but this is all really trying my strength. 

The thing about doing everything right, is… Well, there is no “right” to begin with.  My mom did everything “right” and she’s a broken person.  Sometimes I worry that I’ll catch that, too, like some sick generational curse that has seemed to trickle down my mother’s side, in such stark contrast to the wealth and ease of my father.  My brother inherited that from him, and I have to try and figure out what it is about my thoughts and behaviors that could predispose me to the misery of being that is so seemingly embedded in my matriarchal DNA.  

 

 How I crave to shed it from my soul, along with the material things around me that resonate with it. 

What Might or Might Not Lie Beneath

Things are going… well.  There’s not a new day that I’m not surprised that I’m no longer tied to the train tracks, thrashing against ropes and blindfolds and gags.

No one escapes unscathed, and as the wounds scab over, it’s hard not to wonder what to do with the scars.  Not just mine, mind you.  Triggers trigging triggers is more than a play on words, and when it comes to integrating with an entire gender that I have historically followed astray, I have to be super mindful of my scar tissue.  What’s more, at my age, my peers have likely experienced their own trials and tribulations, and as their keloids brush against mine, everyone has to work so as not to take anything too personally.  Filtering reality through the muslin of trauma can feel pretty strange, at least when it comes to interactions that delve below the surface… and it’s not like I have those very often.  That’s another thing I’ve realized as I’ve gotten older: authenticity is not easy to find.

Sometimes I find myself thinking about people and things that just don’t serve me anymore.  I suppose I’m just used to it; it may take awhile to adjust to this new, smoother existence.  It’s almost like these musical genres remind me of who I once was, and I get a kick out of remembering that person, a sleepy person who I no longer have any desire to be, but whose trappings feel dreamy and hazy and familiar.  Maybe I’m worried that person is still in there, awaiting the opportunity to surface and shatter all I’ve worked so hard to build: normalcy.  It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve built it on a lasting foundation, and why not?  All of those other castles were made of sand.  Maybe I shouldn’t spend too much time gazing down at her.

Cold Turkey

The winds are up again, and they’re whipping all sorts of strange thoughts through my head at 50 miles per hour.  It must be all of those damned ions.

The road to a sea change isn’t always smooth, especially when it comes to cold turkey.

You maintain, because that’s what you said you’d do.  You keep maintaining when the winds turn your logic upside down, because you trust that you were in a clearer state of mind when you originally made (or rather, agreed to) that decision to withdraw.  The truth is, that was an impulse too, but you knew it was coming, that inevitable move off the pot.  The only true whim was when it would happen, and it did, so now you have to follow through.  Your ethics demand nothing less.  Perfection or death.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep my gaze focused.

Someone, hell, make that plural; always ends up hurt.

Riddles allow for expression when communication would mean desertion.

spellbound

First Memory

I’m a baby. I’m in a stainless steel sink, and I am smiling at my mom smiling at me. She washes me gently, and the warm yellow glow of sunlight pools around us.

I don’t know why this memory has returned to me, nor why it makes me cry every time I think or talk about it. Even writing this now, the tears stream down my cheeks and I sob. I remember the quality and direction of the light. I remember the love.

Maybe it’s because my mom was so happy then. Maybe it’s because of all the promise sweetly held in that moment. Maybe it’s because, as an adult, I can fully cherish the true beauty of that love. Maybe it’s because I feel, to my core, what it is to surrender to the loneliness of being alone. Maybe it’s the antithesis of where I am now, taking care of myself.

I’m not entirely sure.