it’s like we don’t even speak the same
like we’re strangers
who’ve always known each other
but pretend not to
because being true
telling the truth
we would risk getting hurt
i used to be able to take that risk with
used to let you in
but maybe i did it for the wrong reason
i thought if i let you in
that you would do the same for me
how do i let go
of wanting you to love me?
And suddenly I loved you.
I know I should have always,
I just didn’t though.
You loved me too soon
and I loved you too late.
If only we could have met in the middle.
And suddenly we are finding out what we mean
to each other.
I can’t hear the truth because it will break
I hold on too tight;
teach me to let go.
Self: Brain, why are you broken?
Brain: i was born this way.
Self: could you have been helped long ago?
Brain: perhaps, but no one believed there was anything wrong with me.
Self: i did.
Brain: but even you doubted.
Self: what can i do now?
Brain: the only way is to work against me. fight me.
Self: why can’t you just let me win?
Brain: that’s not how i work.
i saw him on a Thursday
found out his story was tragic on Friday
knew why on Saturday
his birthday was Tuesday
i didn’t know then
he was beautiful
beautiful boy, what are you running from?
i don’t think he even knows the answer to that question
and the things he can’t forget
i am so sorry
but i am sure they all miss you terribly
i, too, am mentally ill
and i know they’d miss me still
i’m four days older than you
but some things are more the same
we have two sons
we couldn’t make it work
running away doesn’t sound so bad
sometimes things don’t make sense
and i’m desperately trying
to handle your story with care
i am a story-catcher and
beautiful boy, you are not alone
beautiful boy, i wish i could see
please go home
they’re waiting for you
California will always remember you
but Ohio’s heart breaks
beautiful boy, go
i am twenty years old. the year is two thousand and nine. i am wearing a white dress that i designed and sewed myself. i am not happy with the dress. i don’t like how it fits and i don’t like the way i look in it. i am frustrated and angry that one person is not at my wedding. instead of being glad about all the people who are here to celebrate my special day, i fixate on just one person. i should have had my eyes fixed on my groom. i do not notice the way he looks at me. for him i am the only person that exists today. later i will see it in photographs- the way he looked at me on that day. by the time i see it we are both beginning to believe it is too late.
i am twenty four years old. the year is two thousand and fourteen. i can’t breathe. i didn’t see this coming. i did not believe this would happen. R is breaking up with me. he has fallen in love with someone else. this can’t be real. this isn’t happening. i can’t breathe. please don’t leave me.
i am twenty four years old. the year is two thousand and fourteen. i am single for the first time in my adult life. i am trying to put the pieces of my life back together and move forward. i want to be someone who my sons can be proud of. i have decided that i want to be a teacher. i have enrolled in college classes for the first time in over three years. i believe i can do this. i will not fail this time, this is what i tell myself.
i am twenty seven years old. the year is two thousand and sixteen. R is single and has an extra bedroom. he has asked me if i would like to move in, as his roommate. we’ve started having sex again; we are friends with benefits. it sounds like a good plan.
i am twenty eight years old. the year is two thousand and seventeen. i have just gotten my first paying job of my adult life. it is at a yarn store. i am excited about the possibilities of this. it is a step in the right direction. a stepping stone.
i am fourteen years old. the year is two thousand and four. my mom is away visiting my grandpa. he has cancer. he will not live much longer. i am feeling so alone. i miss my mom. i have already decided not to return to public school this year. it is August. i am sitting alone on the porch. there are no walls; it has not become my bedroom yet. i see a small piece of broken plastic in the dirt. it is sharp. i am sharp; if anyone gets close to me my anger and sadness will cut them. i pick the plastic up. i press it into my flesh, near my knee. i drag it against my skin again and again. i am bleeding. i lie when asked what happened. scraped myself on something. it was an accident.
i am seventeen years old. the year is two thousand and seven. my parents drove me to Burbank. we carried my things up to my third floor dormitory. at some point my dad cries. he does not want me to leave home. he has held on too tightly and i’ve been afraid to leave because i don’t want to break his heart. but at the same time i am angry at him because i want to be allowed to spread my wings and fly. i want to stop being his emotional crutch.
i am eighteen years old. the year is two thousand and eight. i meet a boy. he is really sweet. i tell myself i do not want a boyfriend. i want to be just friends with this boy. in a week’s time he will be my boyfriend.
It’s four something in the morning and I’ve started my day. No one needs for me to be awake at this hour. My oldest son will wake at seven to get ready for school. My youngest, will get up about then too or he might sleep an extra hour or so. Their dad does not have to leave for work at any set time. I do not have any place that demands my presence today. So why stay awake at four a.m. with only four hours of sleep under my eyelids? I do not trust myself to go back to sleep. I’ve been having nightmares, awful bloody intense nightmares. And I’ve been longing to be wrapped up in arms that love me. But, no arms like that live here. So if the nightmares return, I can pretend like he chose me, like he’s here for me, and let him hold me when he says, “come here” or I can be honest with myself and believe I am just a whore he keeps on the side because he knows I’ll never leave while I’ve still got no place to go. Maybe I shouldn’t write blog posts at four something in the morning, but isn’t this the time I’m most honest, the time where I’m not afraid to say the things that rip me apart? It’s almost five now, and the honesty is fading and I’m running out of words, which happens when I realize there aren’t enough words in me to heal all the wounds created by every other hour of the day but four a.m.