So much of my memory is in pieces. I can remember the tiniest detail of some while other are hazy bits that are stronger to my senses than anything else.
I can read a page and have a perfect picture of it in my mind. But ask me what my favorite food is and I will have no way to answer that.
I'm not really a stupid person but most of the time that is exactly how I feel. That and embarrassed.
I wake up to find crayon colored pictures scattered all over the floor of my closet.
I have clothes that I hate and have no idea where they came from.
I come into conversations midstream desperately trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. My husband calls it my "no one's home look" where I stare off into nothing only to come back having no idea what's going on.
My husband calls me when I'm home alone and asks me what I'm doing... I have no idea because I haven't been around at all so I make up something dumb. Like giving the dogs a bath for the third time in a week.
I have curly hair but I prefer it straightened. Still others love to wear it curly and will do so whenever they have the chance.
I have to concentrate really hard to keep from referring to myself as we, us, our, etc... .
Each day I feel like I wake up watching a movie started in the middle that I've never seen before. If I pay close enough attention I can figure out most of it but I always have this nagging feeling that I'm missing something. Probably because I am.
As a kid I can see how this worked well. I could wake up, brush my teeth and go to school and function having no memory of the hellish night before.
But now it just leaves me stupid. Like when others decide that they don't want to take our medication. They spit it out, hide it or now, they throw the bottles away.
My choices to fix it: call my shrink and verify that I'm absolutely nuts; get new prescriptions filled that will cost me dearly because of how my insurance is set up; or go through the bitch of withdrawals until I can get them filled again at a normal cost.
I rarely cry but this one reduces me to tears. It shouldn't be this hard to take care of myself. I shouldn't have to be baby-sat, watched and followed up with. I'm tired of being embarrassed and I'm tired of being stupid. It shouldn't be this hard.
Showing posts with label Alter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alter. Show all posts
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Blocks
Silence. It sings when perfectly still. With the constant banter in my mind it is hard to find a silent spot. But when I do, I find the warmth in being all alone.
Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home. In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear. No screams. No pain. No awakened anguish. These times when I'm all alone are few. I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.
As a child I loved to be alone. These were moments when I was safe. I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content. Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony. The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.
Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared. Each chance to be alone I embrace. I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much.
But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block. There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great. Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks. But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense. I stop and look at what I've done. The damage I myself have created.
I turn my back on them as if they have no voice. But their tiny words pierce my mind. I hold my head. I pound with my fists. I take a pill. Nothing works to drown them out.
In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is. A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me. Protection from the worst.
I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either. I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another. The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.
These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played. And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly. Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.
A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress. Many more blocks are scattered. One block. Two blocks. Another and another. Some are heavy. Some are sharp and jagged. Some are big; the cornerstones. And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.
As I ask to listen their weight lessens. And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness. With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.
And my strength is reinforced.
Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home. In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear. No screams. No pain. No awakened anguish. These times when I'm all alone are few. I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.
As a child I loved to be alone. These were moments when I was safe. I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content. Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony. The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.
Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared. Each chance to be alone I embrace. I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much.
But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block. There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great. Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks. But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense. I stop and look at what I've done. The damage I myself have created.
I turn my back on them as if they have no voice. But their tiny words pierce my mind. I hold my head. I pound with my fists. I take a pill. Nothing works to drown them out.
In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is. A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me. Protection from the worst.
I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either. I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another. The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.
These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played. And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly. Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.
A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress. Many more blocks are scattered. One block. Two blocks. Another and another. Some are heavy. Some are sharp and jagged. Some are big; the cornerstones. And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.
As I ask to listen their weight lessens. And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness. With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.
And my strength is reinforced.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tears
Dear Tears,
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
