You Are At The Archives for May 2012

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Sensitive Dependence

Sensitive Dependence

The long and winding road, 
Spreads out in front of me as 
I ask for directions from insects 
Flying past— 

I’ve always spoken to things 
That do not speak back, 

They whirr in their own sort 
Of peace, mostly interested 
In my colorful shoes and 
The sweet scent of my body butter, 

As I give them meaningless names 
Losing track of how many I met 
On my way to the bus stop.

Monday, May 28, 2012

Someday You Will Be Loved

Someday You Will Be Loved

Seventy-six seconds
I lay in the arms of a man,
Unknown and startled
He entangled my brittle arms
In the rusty landscape of an embrace,

So sudden,
His words a blur as they
Swarmed in past the little hairs
On my neck, turning to gooseflesh
At the flick of a switch

There are so many moments
I could have chosen to remember
To cherish—
Swim and float in the warm waters
Of my mind, the rough yet gentle waves

Having me drenched,
The surface licking at the backs
Of my ears and my head
As I let myself wander, slowly
Through immobile matter

Seventy-six seconds
I lay in the arms of a man,
A burnished cocoon in early winter
Cement to protect me from the
Scraping claws of cold,

Yet at dusk—
When all remnants of
That moment were gone I let
The windows crack and the locks melt
And I let it in again, that glint of doubt.

You'll be loved you'll be loved
Like you never have known
And the memories of me
Will seem more like bad dreams
Just a series of blurs
Like I never occurred
Someday you will be loved.


Last stanza is the chorus from the Death Cab For Cutie song Someday You Will Be Loved. The Sunday Whirl this week consisted of the words in the picture below, of which I used some but not all (brittle, burnished, cocoon, scrape, rough, drenched, burnished, blur).

Monday Madness #14

Water melts sugar

I've always been very sensitive and easily affected, not so much in the way that I would be easily manipulated, but in a way that I sympathize with things and people very easily. I absorb feelings like a sponge and even though I consider it a valuable quality it can sometimes, or more often, prove to be destructive. Films and books and articles, even simple conversations or words, can bring up something completely different from what they were about. My mind has a tendency for building bridges, you see, and it isn't that rare that these bridges end up surprisingly long and curvy. I can see the cover-art of a movie and remember something about my first English teacher whose son had a hard time learning some letters and made mistakes which, not surprisingly, my then nine-year-old mind found extremely funny. Or I can see pictures of Keira Knightley in a photoshoot for Vogue and instantly remember the October 2007 issue that I bought on the day my parents sat us down to tell us about their divorce. Which will enforce more and more bridges and... In the end I'll wind up thinking how the hell I got to thinking about this in the first place. If I'm in luck, I'll forget. If not, I'll somehow connect it to present events and try to find reasons for all these fucked-up (soap opera, non-sensical, the-kind-of-thing-only-a-desperate-screen-writer-would-write kind of fucked-up) things happening to me. 

I want answers. I have wanted answers since the day I first had a hunch that something was not right, which, doing the math adds up to just under five years. I've tried scientific explanations, I've filled my brain with psychological facts, I've read through philosophy articles and religious scripts and watched people around me just to get more proof that I'm not living with robots that someone has operated in order to drag me down into a melting-pot of psychosis and trauma-induced personality disorders. (And taking into account I have in fact considered robots and conspiracies, their plans might actually be working). 

Of course, I could simply go and talk. Ask my parents why the fuck they let these kinds of things happen, ask them to write down everything, ask them to finally tell me what is a lie and what isn't --- but there seems to be some sort of protocol to this talking-business. It is the I Am An Adult, I Am The Parent And You Are The Kid So You Take What I/We Give You protocol, which has been going on for these five years now, and is still on-going even though I'm an adult these days. I understand you are an adult responsible for your actions and you have the right to keep or give information out. But what I don't understand is why you choose to twist the truth in order to terrorize/destroy/change your children's view of the other parent (or to terrorize/destroy/change everyone else's view), when you could have just as easily kept the rage to yourself (as a responsible adult) and kept your mouth shut in front of the people whose minds and bodies you can so easily affect with your actions.

But let's put that to rest, shall we? 

The status of my mental stability and health has been quite undetectable lately. I've been doing my clam-shell trick daily. I haven't cut since I got here which makes a little over a month. I have wanted to though. Very, very badly at times. But I get my fair share of physical abuse from my little brother, and it sometimes does part of the trick that cutting would. I have finally have my psychiatrist appointment in two weeks. Only waited a month here, but hey, at least I got it. I'm unhappy everyday --- but still I'm happy everyday. It goes up and down pretty steadily and I know when the anxiety will hit me. Most of the time. It will still catch me off guard. I know I'm not whole yet. My mother has gotten into the habit of asking me, on a scale of 4 to 10, what is my number for the day. I usually lie. But sometimes I don't. I'm still not used to being around her all the time. 

I'm having quite a lot of trouble with eating or having the inspiration to make something. I have weird thoughts about specific foods being disgusting and won't want to eat them. I've grown to hate my thighs and the fact that there almost is a gap between them but not quite and they touch just barely when I walk and it irritates me. I'm scared of phones, mostly picking up. I have this feeling that people are watching me all the time. I think they want to hurt me. 

And I'm scared.
I'm scared all the time. And paranoid.
I'm scared of turning the lights on at night in case someone is in the room.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

30 Days of Truth: Day 8

that it's been so long since the last one!

Day 8: 
Someone who has made your life hell, or made you feel like shit

Now, I have thought of this one long and hard, as you can probably see from the time it has taken me to post this thing. I don’t want to single out a single person and guilt-trip them for making my life hell. That would just be cruel and I, at least to an extent, am not a cruel kind of person. So instead this goes out to the people who have made my life hell, or treated me like shit, or made me feel like I’m a fucked up freak who doesn’t belong, or who have just plain and simple broke my heart. 

So to name a few, I’ll start with school curators and psychologists. Oh boy, have I a bone to pick with you. You know, there is a reason why the school system is divided in pieces more or less according to the development stages of the students. So when I come and talk to you at fourteen, I do not appreciate being spoken to like I am seven. I do not appreciate having to draw trees with stars whose sizes are in relation to the sizes of the problems I have, or having to play with teddybears and give them names or choose silly photographs to represent members of my family. It would also be nice if you didn’t blame my troubles on my, as you put it, over-the-top perfectionism and raging inability to be responsible about my education when the real problem was in my family situation and the fact that I was being torn into tiny little pieces and living a suitcase life where I switched homes every week et cetera. And might I add, I still made top grades and was one of the best in my year. So to all you eight or nine school psychologists and to that one bitchy curator who sucked at her job, fuck you. Fuck all of you. I never needed you, I never wanted you, but it was the school’s obligation to forward me to assholes like you. 

I have had friends run away or just fade away intentionally, unintentionally or just because of everything that was going on. There are many friendships that are now nonexistent due to the mass fuck-up of the past five years. There are many that could be revived but are not being revived due to my fear of letting people in, or just picking up the phone to call someone. I’ve always found refuge in words but it’s a cold fact that you cannot re-build a friendship through written text. I haven’t had the power in me to change into something more social and trusting and open. I miss the friends I used to have. I miss them very badly. I miss the friends I have now because it has become a habit of mine to clam up and stop trying. I don’t know why. I want to try, I want to have fun and laugh and do meaningless things that at the same time mean so much because they make me happier. But at the same time I am so fucking scared of letting someone too close or letting someone see or experience too much for their own stamina of personal problems. So many people have given up on me; I just assume others will too. 

I have been bullied in the classic way that kids bully other kids: because they are smarter and nerdy. When I was in 7th grade people called me a living computer. Looking back now I should have just taken it all as a goddamn compliment. But I didn’t at the time. At the time it hurt like hell to get that in return for working my ass off to get great grades. So, having learned from that, I kept things to myself that I could have been bullied about even worse than how I had been bullied earlier. I didn’t come out until after high school because everyone there, mostly guys (guys who had bullied me before) were very narrow-minded and wanted to kill every gay person off the planet. But you know, it still felt like bullying, hearing all those mean and disgusting things they would say, even though they weren’t precisely pointed at me but were still pointed at something I was. I tried not to let myself get upset over it but naturally I was. It didn’t lead to good things. It left deep marks in me that drove me to trouble, self-inflicted but at the same time something that made me feel mistreated. 

And of course, needless to say, my parents belong to the list of people who have wronged me. I’ve spoken about it too much anyway so I won’t get into it here, it is a vast subject with many sub-categories. But I can say that nobody has ever hurt me more or made my life hell. At the same time, though, almost nobody has ever loved me as much. 

Thursday, May 10, 2012

The Post-Traumatic Diary: May 10th 2012

May 10th 2012

It is easy to forget
How to put a watch on your wrist—
I remember only the cold sting
Of the metal against raw skin

I am the ideal patient
Of a superficial psychiatrist,
Be number fifteen on my list
Of unsuccessful diagnosis and—

Pump me full of pills
Pink and blue and white,
Just remember to ditch the gelatin
And the lactose

Yesterday a tram
Could have killed my Mom
Instead it only killed her car
Our precious Audi Daudi

My little brother,
Two years and nine months
Was more concerned about
The back of our car

And his favorite seat, than
The spine of his Mommy
That got a brutal bump
When the tram decided to slap

Our Audi on the butt—
Little man pouts only when you
Speak of needles and blood
He tore up celery when we waited

For Mommy to come back home
And I contemplated my hate
And my horror and disappointment
And felt guilty—

Glancing every five seconds
At the words and moments
Carved into my left wrist,
My tiger-stripe thigh,

Ages, ages ago.

It's OK Thursday #3

It's OK
  • To sleep most of the time because it feels like the only thing you can do that doesn't hurt (and you can't get any of it during the night).
  • To eat nothing but Oreos and hazelnut milk for a day
  • To play in the sandbox with your little brother and go home covered in sand...
  • To listen to an audiobook for hours in the middle of the night because you can't sleep but are still too tired to keep your eyes open. 
  • To eat dinner twice.
  • To bombard your best friend with texts (in the middle of the night) about your love life because you just want to tell someone, and let's face it, you've talked about worse things..
  • To let your little brother "chop" celery with his little plastic knife and pull it apart because he wants to be part of the cooking process (and apparently likes to eat raw celery, so it didn't go to waste).

Its Ok Thursdays

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Off With Her Head

Off With Her Head

Rolling over,
I lie supine on the board
Chalkdust in my hair,

Sandy streams of white
Dampen the air, curling
Through molecules,

Vertical as they ascend
Both lightweight,
They pull up through the wind,

Tiny paper airplanes,
With tiny paper engines,
Flap flap flapping their wings

Pulling at my heartstrings
With claws of gold and steel,
They fly up to close the lid.


I guess I’m back
Down the rabbit hole,
Trying to keep my toes above the ground,

Lips trembling,
Afraid of the rats,
Dry eyes looking for holes in the metal,

As I slowly count to ten
Take the bullet out again—
I’m not Alice.

Wordless Wednesday 17#

Monday, May 7, 2012

Monday Madness #13

Be careful not to drown

I love the feeling I get after watching a film. Having been pulled into another world for the past ninety minutes or so leaves a mark on me. I float, and for a moment, the present feels richer and less terrible. I feel like somebody else. I feel like I have adapted, like I have new qualities absorbed from the people I have seen on the screen. I don't know if that means I have reality issues. It's just a part of my being. I've always been an escapist of some sort. Also, I like to look for new layers in how I am feeling. I suppose it is natural of us to look for things that are in some way or other reflective of our current situation. Some of us seek the opposite. But I tend to lean toward similarities and connections. I look for layers. I look for new viewpoints. And usually I succeed in my endeavor.

I haven't been able to write for several weeks now, maybe a month, I don't know. I've been drifting in some sort of sea of depression and self pity and whatever else black and disgusting. I'm still stuck in the slime. My life is getting very weird and unfitting to my persona. I have a new home, a new room, a second chance - and a ripped apart family. The last little remnants of emotional and genetical rope have been cut loose. I am presented with ideals foreign to me. I am presented with things I cannot see through and things I cannot know the truth of and am just asked to believe. 

I am hurt a little every day, for I am in an environment where the people I live with do not know me well at all and do not share my interests and ideals. I fear I have lost the person who understood me and accepted me. Here, I am constantly questioned. I am constantly under criticizing eyes. I am pushed and pulled in ways that damage me. And I do not like it at all. I miss my old supposed-to-be life. At least parts of it. I'm a person that tends to look back too much and wonder how things would have turned out, had they been done differently.

I remember when, back in December, I'd gone on a cutting spree on my thigh and sat on the couch with it wrapped up and aching and there were two dogs to cuddle with. I watched Mr. Nobody, and oh the connection I felt. I wanted to do one thing and the other. Split up, have two lives. Do things I am not able to do now because of things done earlier on in my life. I wanted to both run after my father and stay with my mother and cut out the other parent and still live with both. I'd felt this ache so many times and there it was right in front of me. Nothing is real, everything is possible.

I have always been disinclined to take reality as it is. Often, even in childhood, I'd imagine my life a movie. I'd imagine why things happened the way they did, I'd add side-plots and sub-plots and shut other plots and things and people out because they didn't fit my script. I'd take one of my days and subtitle it for someone who didn't know my first language. I have always loved to lie. Not in a filthy manner so as to hurt people. But to make things more interesting, to distract myself, to play with reality. Stories are lies. Movies are lies. Books are lies. Art is a lie. Music is a lie. Fiction. A portrayal of something factual is always twisted. Cameras make mistakes, even when capturing exactly the things you want to capture...

I cannot sleep. The nights are the worst. I think of the past, I think of my father, I think of what is happening, I think of what has happened, I think of the effects things have, the effects I can have or could have already had and I am scared to death. I have become most confident there are several people in me. In a way I am like Nemo Nobody. I am fictitious. I could have died because of a voice inside of me. I was strong enough to have myself be taken to hospital for the night but what if something like that happens again? 

I love how I spend one night in hospital due to suicidal thoughts and voices and whatnot and get papers for treatment in my new destination and now, it has been several weeks and I am still in the dark, full to the rim and with nobody and nothing to pour it out to. I am happy, I have moments of happiness every day. But at the same time I have never been as depressed as I am right now. And it scares me. My body scares me because I don't know what it wants. 

Copyright © 2014 Lilu. Powered by Blogger.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...