Sine Missione.

I can write so-called “poetry”,

and rhyme strange words essentially,

I can tell my whole sad story,

in prose that spit-shine defensively,

I can swim in an unforgiving sea,

breakers and barrels spin-cycling,

I can ride waves semi-professionally,

a pipeline that leaves my mind spiraling,

I can clean up and seem undoubtedly,

exactly the way everyone seems to be,

I can focus my brain’s scattered energy,

and complete tasks that are given to me,

I can turn off and on emotionally,

like a switch on a wall in a laboratory,

I can protect my childish feelings,

by detaching myself from reality,

I can recall things once lost to memory,

I can trace roots far back in my family,

I can complete a tax return accurately,

I can also lift and carry the heavy things,

I can speak several languages fluently,

I can tell a story pretty truthfully,

I can tow dead weight to shore safely,

I can sniff out the best kept secrecy,

but I can’t seem to truly comprehend,

how to get myself out of this wasteland,

my brain doesn’t appear to understand,

my body doesn’t answer to the demand,

how to accept the filth for which you stand?

how to walk away and not look back again?

how to convince myself that you are not human,

so that I can live with the mirror’s reflection.

 

 

Grandeur.

I have been,
listening…

and hearing you…
your every cent or two,
every jerking move,
and yet you prove…
to somehow be,
totally and completely,
shocked to find…
blackened faces,
fill up the spaces,
between the lines…
Hello, big guy!
I will be fair,
I won’t deny,
through my grandeur…
what did,
indeed,

appear and seem,
to be,
a valiant try…

for your part,
at least
but, then again,
surprise!

Nonplussed…
it’s still just,
without compromise,
and really shouldn’t be,
such a novel thing,
that I’m not listening,
after so much,
of the go and touch…
the itchy sting,
ear-ringing,

fucking redundancy…
see the burning,
behind my eyes,
see the hatred,
memorized…

please just let me be.
As, so it goes that,
eyes like mine,
chiseled by,
the passing time…

are not destined to see.

Stitched Into Me.

“To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness.”     – Erich Fromm

“Detachment is not about refusing to feel or not caring or turning away from those you love. Detachment is profoundly honest, grounded firmly in the truth of what is.”      – Sharon Salzberg

“A heinous history of emotional, psychological and sexual abuse at the hands of trusted partners or caregivers, sometimes leads to the suffering from complex PTSD. This manifestation of Traumatic Shock is more complicated than “simple” PTSD, as it pertains to the chronic assaults on one’s personal integrity and sense of safety, as opposed to a single acute traumatic episode. Such chronic tyranny of abuse results in a constellation of symptoms, which impact personality structure and development.
The symptom clusters for C-PTSD are:
     Alterations in Regulation of Affect and Impulses
    Changes in Relationship with others
    Somatic Symptoms
    Changes in Meaning
    Changes in the perception of Self
    Changes in Attention and Consciousness
 Fragmentation of the personality occurs because the capacity to integrate what is happening to the self is insufficient. The survival mechanism of dissociation kicks in to protect the central organizing ego from breaking from reality and disintegrating into psychosis. Hence, fragmented dissociated parts of the personality carry the traumatic experience and memory, while other dissociated parts function in daily life. Consequentially, profound symptoms of depersonalization and dissociation linked to c-ptsd manifest.
Dissociative disorders are conditions that involve disruptions or breakdowns of memory, awareness, identity or perception. In the context of severe chronic abuse the reliance on disassociation is adaptive as it succeeds in reducing unbearable distress, and warding off the threat of psychological annihilation. The dissociative disorders survivors of chronic trauma represent vary widely, and are inclusive of: dissociative identity disorder (formerly multiple personality disorder), dissociative amnesia, dissociative fugue, and depersonalization disorder. Identify confusion is also deemed a by-product of dissociation and is linked to fugue states when the traumatized person loses memory of their past and concomitantly, a tangible sense of their personal identity.
The treatment process for those afflicted with c-ptsd and attendant dissociative disorders is extensive and comprehensive. Depending on the severity of the repetitious traumas, even in progressed stages of recovery a client may find himself grappling with persistent feelings of detachment and derealization. Given that the brains mediation of psychological functions is dramatically compromised by the impact of chronic trauma, this neurobiological impact may be a strong contributing factor regarding lingering dissociative symptoms in survivors of c-ptsd.  Integrating and reclaiming dissociated and disowned aspects of the personality is largely dependent on constructing a cohesive narrative which allows for the assimilation of emotional, cognitive, and physiological realities. And finally when fight/flight responses diminish and an enhanced sense of hope and love for self and others results from years of courageous pain staking hard work, the survivor reaps the rewards of this capricious and harrowing journey; one’s True Self.”

Bent.

I am the face blended in on the train –
with open wounds bleeding blame and shame –
I am the darkness that protects the light –
blinded by a goal in sight –
I am the reasons why I hate myself –
just me to blame and nobody else –
I am the hatred in the moments alone –
when the place is quiet and nobody’s home –
I am the purpose that drives so many vessels on fire –
I am the face of the weary and tired–
I am not satisfied with the way things have become –
I am not going to accept what you’ve done –
I am the one who meant each word I said –
I am the one that you lied to instead –
I am the one who is sullen and down –
I am the reason none of my friends come around –
I am the cause of all things tragic –
I can make people disappear from my Life like Magic – 
I am the cultivator of this poisonous place –
I am afraid of my own body and face –
I cannot tell which creatures won’t bite –
I will eventually resign to this fight –
I am convinced that I’m better off without –
I am aware of what they’re all talking about –
I am the one who tied the original knot –
I guess that that’s a detail that each one forgot –
I am not filled with any cold from the snow–
I have mastered that defense system, you know –
I am a human fucking being –
I have a heart that pumps and bleeds –
I am not interested in dramatics and games –
be decent to me, and I’ll treat you the same.

Lump.

Last weekend, my Mother called me up and said she needed to come over so I could look at her neck (as if I am some kind of professional on mysterious growths, or something). She arrived earlier than she said she would, as she tends to do these days, a look of sheer terror on her face. Upon looking at her neck, I was immediately concerned, as she has grown a notably large lump on the lower right side of her neck, near the collarbone. We obviously didn’t talk much about it, and she proceeded to make an appointment for a biopsy; that appointment is today. I will be driving her to this appointment today because she asked me to; and in all honesty, I feel like I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.

 

Anyone who reads me, knows about my deeply embedded Mommy Issues that reside within my heart and mind, stemming from childhood and very much alive and well to date. A few months ago, I decided that because the Holidays are so incredibly horrendous and ugly for me, and because they are so extremely difficult to get myself through alive each year, that I will do something different this year. I basically feel tired of spending my holidays alone, in the fetal position underneath the dining table, in tears, beating myself to an emotional pulp through with guilt and regret and failure. I have written also about the Hell that my offspring is currently putting my parents through, resultant of their own enabling behaviors towards her throughout her life. My mom claims to feel like a hostage in her own home etc. Needless to say, I can totally relate to what she says in regard to my daughter; I have so been there with her in the past as well.

So, in a moment of frozen brain capacity, I said to Willow:

“Let’s start a new tradition this year for Christmas, just you ‘n me…”,

completely expecting her to laugh in my face at such a proposal.

 

When she actually showed interest in my idea, and I explained to her what I had in mind for my own part (a quiet, peaceful, nostalgic, quaint Bed ‘n Breakfast in the heart of Gold Country for Christmas Eve and Christmas), she was so excited and intrigued that she actually asked me to take her online for a virtual tour (she hates the internet and anything even remotely associated with it), which I did. We have, since that time, hammered out every minute detail of our upcoming holiday excursion together; and I must say that it feels like it has been a healthy form of bonding, somehow. I even got her a snow suit and boots that she already wears at night when she goes outside in the cold to smoke and play Mahjong until 0-dark-thirty, it’s cute. And in all truth, this year’s holiday feels much less painful already, as a result of the above described circumstance.

 

I am cursing the Gods for even putting that lump on Willow’s neck, whatever it may turn out to be; and I am secretly terrified by the possibility of losing my mother now, at this stage of things in my own Life (or lack, thereof). When I was still very actively suicidal (the state of my being upon starting my blog in the first place), Willow used to guilt-trip me into Life often. She would say things like,

 

“If you love your Mama at all, you won’t leave me in the wake of another lost child…”

or

 “What would happen to me if you killed yourself?”

 

Naturally, being the empath that I am, these statements always struck that chord in me that connects somehow directly to my dead little brother (who committed suicide very young); and the reality of such things would always anchor me once more to Life. I know she wasn’t even necessarily trying to save me from death, but she did. When I think about the prospect of her being gone after all those times of refraining from suicide simply to avoid destroying Willow the rest of the way, as her daughter and then I think about being left behind in the end, after all, well….my abandonment issues flare up and I become semi-manic.

 

Universal Outlaw.

I’ve got these newly creased lines,

bore in beneath my tired eyes,

dark ringed circles well-defined,

a story left untold – otherwise…

I’ve felt these feelings of mine,

quite poorly compartmentalized,

I sit with the shadows in the tree-line,

until my own unpredictability subsides…

I’ve seen the neon-bright, foreboding signs,

swam for my Life against outbound tides,

when dying’s a blessing and living’s a crime,

and I’m an outlaw to nature and humankind…

I’ve gone and become urban-institutionalized,

let my own body to take away my own mind,

looked at one too many sets of dishonest eyes,

to gauge by the memories of days left behind.

Under Each Eye.

In a trial before the stars, I stand,
the flesh and bone of all that I am,
an avatar of the eternally damned,
the burglar of all that could’ve been;

Stains of saline have eroded each cheek,
like a child to whom crying comes naturally,
my sadness infuses any vowel I speak,
tattooed under each eye permanently;

Not one of the ancient stars in the sky,
can shine brightness again on my place,
none of them seem to recognize,
beyond the shadow of my face;

Not a single beast roaming the landscape,
can bear me a sense of honest security,
no salesman on Earth has a handshake,
that can strike renewed faith into me.