Journal 1/23/17 – BPD Confession #3.

walk-softly

I have had this taste lingering at the back of my throat for three days now, bile and bitterness. I feel like bile is trying to escape my body, crawling upwards from my stomach and out my throat. The taste is accompanied by an ever present feeling of nausea. I cannot help but wonder if my body is involuntarily responding to the state of the world we live in, sickness being met with sickness. Every now and then, as I write this I feel like my hand almost involuntarily wants to slam against the table. My body contorts in on itself. I clench my fists, and wonder if my soul isn’t so sick of this shit that it’s trying to crawl out of my skin. I feel like a monster. I think about everything and everyone that I would like to leave in destroyed ruins. The list is currently as monumental as my memory is long.

And I wonder why I don’t get invited to parties.

This morning I woke up feeling invisible, in a cold room and ink-vomiting out the most vulnerable shit I can pull out of me into these pages to hurl into the void of anonymity. I mean, isn’t that what we all want, to have our experiences seen and validated? I fancy myself an archivist, documenting my own insignificant experience of being crushed by mental illness as humanity wars, progresses, exploits itself into screaming extinction. This is what I do on my good days. The bad days, I spend in bed not writing, reading, or otherwise nourishing my soul. I spend the bad days torn between the two very distinct opposing forces. On one side of the polarity I feel completely forlorn and alone, like none of the very real sweetness and love I have experienced is has any substance to it. On the other side of that spectrum I spend, I find myself wanting to annihilate the people I love for seemingly being more happy and successful than I feel like I will ever be.

I feel abusive and hate myself into sleep filled days for this one.

Meanwhile, all these positive thinking motherfuckers talk about letting the love in, or accepting the love we think we deserve, or love trumping hate, or whatever. While they are saying this, I’m trying to remember the last time I felt any sustained amount of empathy or softness. I’m pretty sure it was Friday or Saturday when friends who were hurting needed someone. I mostly have felt lost in a swirling labyrinth of my own pain, scarcely able to notice, let alone empathize with anyone else’s. I hate myself for this as well. Gifted as I am, with a detailed memory, I can remember when sentiment and warmth practically overwhelmed me. I have a harder time remembering precisely when they rotted out of me though. I think it might have been somewhere in North Carolina, or maybe Oakland, Maybe even on the 9th Street Bridge in Minneapolis.

This is the fucking season of collective suffering too. I have been trying to remember the last time the world felt this dark for me. Maybe there is a certain privilege in that, not noticing how dire the situation is until it’s choking the life out of you. I know that is one of the big critiques I’ve heard of the anti-Trump mobilization that is currently underway; that too many of us refused to acknowledge the clear and present danger many marginalized communities have been in for a long time. I am not saying I woke up on the morning of November 9th and suddenly realized that I lived in the belly of a racist, imperialist, and misogynist horror show. I’m just saying I can’t remember the last time I saw so many people around me so hurting, and so scared.

That pain and fear is crushing me. So I stay in my room with the same two Joy Division records playing over and over, and replaying old memories over and over. My current favorites are “Times you mistreated the people you love most of all that you want to remember forever and punish yourself with.”. I compose beautiful and vulnerable apology letters that I might never send. The sound of a person I loved deeply crying into the phone at the sound of my unforgiving words replays itself over and over in the dark, taunting me, nearly drowning out the music. That phone call was years ago now. Lucky me, I still remember it clear as day. I count my blessings. I’m working on learning the lessons.

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Journal 1/23/17 – BPD Confession #3.

Late night panic blues.

The things you think of, late at night when the hours have stretched long past the point of no return.  You are just trying to calm your mind down You just want to let it all go and surrender to the mercy of sleep.

First and foremost:  You are absolutely certain that there have been roughly seven thousand, seven hundred and sixty nights that you have spent just like you are spending this one.  That’s twenty-one years.  Twenty-one years of sleeplessness and dread coming for you at night.  Twenty-one years of late night hours passing in crawling flesh.

If your feel like being honest, or melodramatic (you can’t always tell the difference.) you could call it an even ten thousand.  Ten thousand, nine hundred and fifty-seven point twenty-seven.  That’s roughly thirty years.  You did the math.  You remember being six years old watching the crack of light from the hallway in your childhood room, waiting for the radio to lull you to sleep.

“This is Power 96!  Greater Miami’s party station giving you greater South Florida’s dance hits all night long.”

The red lights on the clock radio change almost imperceptibly.  2:27, 2:28.  It’s a school night, even.  You wonder how you will pay attention to you lessons tomorrow.  You wonder how all the other people up this late at night are occupying their time.  You wonder what the streets of quiet neighborhood are like this late at night.  You get a sinking feeling that the clock might as well read 2:28 AM for the rest of your goddamn life.

You think of all the time passed since your childhood room.  You think of all the nights, in all the rooms that led to this one.  Childhood, childhood’s end, and adolescence and onto the rigors and ruins of adulthood.  Each year, you swear is gonna be different.  Each year you find yourself right here; in another empty feeling room, late at night holding court with your own ruined nerves.

You think about them.  Oh, how you hate thinking about them.  Really, you just hate thinking about love.  You loathe thinking about anyone you’ve ever thought you loved, or said you loved, convinced yourself you loved.  You convince yourself that love is just some bullshit word lesser humans say.  Something we say to justify our appetites, or fill our cavernous voids. The thought of being vulnerable right now makes you shudder.

The hours crawl, and you convince yourself you’re so above it all.  You find a certain sickness in being soft.  You hate yourself only a little bit for letting them in.  You marvel at how we reach into each other and sink our teeth into the most tender parts.  We get a taste of forever.  We sate those hungers.  We come and go.

The minutes pass like pouring rain flooding gutters outside the window.  You are absolutely sure now, that you have never been loved, and have maybe never loved anyone in return.  You know you have been everyone’s favorite maladjusted mutant since the day you rode your skateboard to the cemetery in eighth grade.  Rumbling wheels rolling past crumbling civil war graves, she’s standing there beneath the graveyard trees.  You make out in the summer breeze.  Her mouth tastes like cigarettes and lip smackers.  You finish kissing.  She makes a joke about your dick, and you skate home.

“My friends will never know.”

“Oh, I know.”

You laugh to yourself as you skate home, because it’s all so fucking hysterical.  It’s all so fucking cheap.

You wonder what that girl grew up to be.  While you’re at it, you wonder about the boy who called you a faggot every day, but then asked you to suck his dick in the locker room when no one was around.  You wonder if they grew up bruised and without hope just like you.  You could look them up on facebook if you wanted and make fun of their ugly kids and shitty tattoos.  It’s not that late.  You remind yourself that you don’t actually care, and when was the last time you went to Pennsylvania anyway?  You certainly fucking write about it enough though.  Six years in a place that felt like it was too small raised by people who wouldn’t let you stand tall, and motherfuckers wonder how you got so hostile.

Like you could ever stop.  You know some things they’ll never know.

The hours crawl behind four walls.  You’re spiraling now, remembering it all.  You remember every last step and misstep, stumble and fall, all the time hard spent with so little to show at all.  You are absolutely sure that the world you knew is gone, and everyone else has moved on.  You are absolutely sure that you are still staring out through alien eyes and the world never actually had a place for you at all.  The hour is late now, and no one is going to call.

You have now convinced yourself you can’t breathe, even though you can.  You worry you might just die in your sleep.  This is a familiar and funny dance you’ve danced before.  You think of it as a well-known, and much loved song.  Coughing black mold out of your lungs and clutching at a lover’s sheets for a bummer of a summer.  There’s no lover-comfort offered tonight.  You wouldn’t want it anyway.  You are alone and you ask for no quarter.

You smile.  Finding glory in the rasping pain of being alive.  A moment’s certainty creeps in.  Maybe death is still stalking you, but you are pretty sure it’s neither heaven or oblivion waiting for you in the sky above.  You thank your blessed and still breathing body for pushing through the night.  You give thanks for all the nights before this one that could never hope to swallow you whole.

You think about your reckless and not so reckless youth rusted and left long behind.  In the morning the light will creep ever so slightly through the blinds.  You think about your excuses.  You think about your failure to thrive.  You think about your failure.  You still worry there might be no future, even though you’re living in it.  You still think dying young is stupid.  You still feel too obstinate to do anything other than die of old age.  So you push through, like always. Most of all; you soften and think about love, and how you are luck to have loved and been loved so much.

Or if we truly are in the end times, you could at least go home and die with your friends when the hammer fucking drops and it’s lights out on the world one last time.  That doesn’t sound like the worst option either.  You always had a feeling you and your one friend were going to die in a hail of bullets together anyway.

You think about the hidden and holy world you inhabit.  The world of fucked up noise filling crowded rooms made by mutants bruised and never quite broken, just like you.  You decide there’s time for one more song.  One more song to calm your nerves before the mercy of sleep, better make it a good one.  You flip the record over.  In the silenced that fills the air, you wonder if you’ve ever been home at all.  The needle drops and a hiss, and the spirit of sound rushing to fill the void.

Of course.  You don’t know where else you ever would have gone.

Late night panic blues.

About a Boy Two: The Hale and the Whole

About a boy Two: The Hale and the Whole

Tears trace your eyes
As we wind our way home
Down Valencia Street
We move in fits and starts
Like windswept leaves

Brittle smiles cautiously breaking
With the spring breeze
Inhale, exhale be grateful for these
Small moments when breath comes gently

You clear your throat and apologize
For all the horror you’ve told
Like my hearing you relive it
Would be too much for my heart to hold

It’s okay
My love
It’s okay

You do know how I have been sick with worry
That clumsy words could ever be enough
To bring our war-weary
And worn out nights to a close

It is a war, after all
You know, the one waged on our bodies
From the day we were born
Into our ill-fitting, misaligned skin

In the neon glowing darkness
Of a crumbling Oakland skyline
Your hands are scarred and shaking
As they gingerly enclose around mine
This fragile, fleeting moment in our lives

Is one inside of a thousand
Of all the tiny ways we heal
Breathe with me, please
Just keep breathing.

Inhale, exhale think about the breath
Pushing stale air out of your lungs
And bringing fresh oxygen to your cells
How even when you want to die
Your body is doing everything
To keep you alive

And you replicate, radiate, and are reborn
Like how they skin they stained
With heartless hands will shed one day
Even when scars remain
And you are beautiful in your scars

In your survival

I love every iota and atom of you
Battered, but not quite broken
Bloody and bruised

Knocked down in the goddamn dirt
But not dead yet
And I love you on the days
When the sunlight is just too much to face

Close your eyes
Take a deep breath
Sleep and heal
Rest well
In the endless grace
Of passing days

About a Boy Two: The Hale and the Whole

If you thought payback was a motherfucker, you never met us.

The shadows so cast by time grow long
Yet never so long across the tide of years
That the currents would ever absolve
Or erode the litany of your sins

A cold wind is growing now
Blowing wild and unfettered
Carrying the scent of blood
And vengeance upon it’s breath

We came for annihilation
We came for liberation
We came
Hard and breathless, howling into the wind

Backs arched and seething
Screaming, with love like blood and
Rapacious smiles full of glaring fangs
Claws set for tearing the black heart

 And rot of oppression out
Extravasating the writhing
And whispered wounds
From our souls

We came.
Hard against the wind
Howling into the black
Against night, against oblivion

Gone to shadow yet reborn to light again
A colossal spell
Cast for destruction
For gnashing teeth to shatter chains

Cast for the transubstantiation
Of
This
Pain.

If you thought payback was a motherfucker, you never met us.

The Desolation Of Longing.

Whoops.  The darkness of winter and depression caused me to neglect this blog.  Getting back into the swing of things.  Sorry y’all.

My head is spinning
Heartache unbound
I’m wrapping
A cloud around
Myself, swirling with
Cheap sex scent,
Bare skin, and
Clothes collecting on
The floors of anonymous rooms

My breath catches
Air rushes in
To fill hungry lungs
But nothing quite fills
The chasm in my chest
Where tender caresses
Reaching to meet longing
Skin once lived

I’m slipping home
Down every back road
Still wide awake
Come two AM
Counting minutes, killing days
And taking stock of
Every last mistake I’ve made

Hello again to you, heartache
You leave me filled
With the bliss of bleeding
Overwhelmed with the
Curse of feeling
The weight of everything
And nothing all at once
Ever moving, searching
For the sun
Wandering through ruins lived
And into the great desolation of longing

The Desolation Of Longing.