Not Today

Outside of vague poetry I’ve ignored the stroke. I want to pretend it never happened as if, maybe, that will undo the brain damage and emotional trauma that comes with going toe-to-toe with Death. I’ve spent a lot of years flirting with Her and I guess Death finally decided to flirt back.

Continue reading “Not Today”

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Practicum

The Introvert Girl Gang is the first place anyone ever told me that running away is easier if you’re already going somewhere. This was something experience taught me but I’d never heard it said before and I almost cried at how much it explained. This  was why I shrank at the thought of vacations. This was why I hadn’t applied to more than one college — because that might mean not leaving but having to return home. Not that that’d made much difference. I went to college anyway. I ran away anyway.

A slow study in pressure. How much travel could I handle, how long could home escalate before I decided no more. It happened slow, bordering on silent, smothering magma-hot and black until I could see no horizon.

The summer I visited Mo is a blur.

Brian had been worse than ever and I had been living in a fog of flashbacks and ash. Nightmares about my teeth splitting apart in my mouth, falling flat against my rotting tongue followed me into the morning. I could always smell him and taste him and hear him breathing. Even at night the house wouldn’t quiet.

I visited Mo. I had nothing to lose.

Her mother was compassionate and rough and waited with me through panic and had no patience for my pretending at spinelessness. Her laugh was a balm for my nerves. She did not flinch at cutting away those dead things that no longer served a purpose. She was kind.

I simply could not leave again. The perfect excuse to carve out a place where I could breathe fresh air and madness and rain and remember that there is nothing quite like volcanic soil and rot for growing things.

It’s easier to run away when you’re already going somewhere. It’s easier to stay gone once you’ve planted something there.

rlb 5.9.17

life on the outskirts of other women

I never left the house as a child. I do not know if this might be called agoraphobia but I had few friends and a great fear of the unknown that culminated in my only rarely escaping home.

Simply having the fear does not mean it was mine. I held it, kept it dear and safe, I had it, but it wasn’t mine. Not at first. That would come later.

Eventually I could not be made to leave my room except to go to school or to sing… Not that I ever truly went there but worlds away on ceilings and through crosswalks to watch classes and security guards drift by between narratives of kidnapped long-lost brothers thought dead in need of rescuing, wicked and neglectful mothers, deceptive lovers traded in for Sapphic best friends and touring bands. They told me I got straight A’s, read at a post-college level, was supposed to be in the 6th grade at age 8 but couldn’t be because of the social detriment that would cause– despite never attending to a single class during these years I guess I eventually figured out that as long as I turned in work no one would be disappointed in me and I was and ever will be a whore for praise.

Of course when I changed schools at fourteen I could no longer tiptoe the tightrope of dissociation-dissent, balancing worlds blissfully between my palms, atop my crown like so many dozens of books so I kept reading– Dante Orwell Milton Huxley– while my grades plummeted to the center of the three ring circus stories below. Kicking up dust I was too high to choke on. Who needs a safety net when you’re convinced you won’t fall in the first place?

I remember I was constantly bored. Moored in reality. Knee-deep in the muck of it, sanguine silt sticking thick between my toes slowing me down for years making me talk to peers, teachers, people I could not consider my friends because they were all imbeciles.

I had no respect for anyone anywhere outside of choir where I was required to make something— until I began to study the science of murderers and how to hunt them. Blood spatter was the subject that resonated most and to this day I can calculate the angle of it, identify a number of tools from the impressions they leave on a surface covered in it. Spatter, never splatter. No L. These were my two passions: music and death.
I didn’t read a book written by a woman until my senior year. 124 may have been spiteful, full of a baby’s venom but she made me kind. Beloved taught me empathy and rage and how to use my teeth and in retrospect I probably didn’t have a right to any of these things– but desperation was a second skin in those days and these lessons were sorely needed if I was ever going to leave the house.

Gallons of the Stuff

I want to demand that the pipes give me my blood back. I need it more than they do but really the pipes aren’t the problem it’s the tendency of my uterus to hemorrhage like a curse from a god I don’t follow compounded by the rat poison I take every night to keep my brain from exploding. My body is a wild party that no one asked me if I wanted to host. But back to the point: I want my blood back.

I’m a dizzy, jello-jointed mess for half the month, every month. When I stand up from the toilet, which I have filled with blood in the mere act of sitting on it, I see stars and the void because I have lost so much blood I can hardly stand the change in blood pressure.

The man who sometimes monitors my rat poison levels flinches when I bring this up even though the rat poison is to blame and he suggests I try birth control even though birth control caused the stroke which necessitates my taking rat poison in the first place. When I tell him this he tells me without looking me in the eye to talk to my gynecologist instead– who then suggests I consult the people who monitor my rat poison so that nothing she does will interfere with those values. I am on a möbius strip of blood loss.

It is considered impolite for me to discuss this fact in public. It makes my own mother uncomfortable. My manager thinks I’m exaggerating. I think I should save my shed blood and tissue and show it to the doubtful, a sigil of loss and frustration, an explanation they can simply look upon and maybe, if I’m lucky, comprehend.