Free Write 2.23

God where are You? I am finding that You are so different from who I thought You were, and everyday’s trial gives me reason to continue in this separation and reaffirmation that I am indeed alone in my own futile thoughts and fruitless wars. It all terrifies me beyond what any soul can bear to feel, that my being built this sentence for myself- but that I truly could not have done any better or different. The more I observe and learn of this complex universe, what it’s all for, to where each circle back leads- the more I am displacing every belief I’d had and all the more convincing it is of not belonging. Who knew that hell had levels anyways, before descending into the next one, to an eventually waning surprise. Everything is falling through the cracks and slipping farther and farther away, and they can’t even see it. They see me here and they think it’s all just the same. And maybe it is, but I am not.

God where did you go? But it doesn’t work that way anyways, You don’t fix circumstances, You change our attitudes regarding them. But changing things isn’t even what You wanted from the beginning. You did everything to save us for eternity, but sometimes nothing can save us in this life because we’re all burning out fast; feeling it in my flesh and bone is sobering. But forever scares me and I’m not noble enough for the purposes of this life. I just wanted what I thought would make me happy, shallow and simple happiness- because nothing else feels good either. But obviously it’s not about that either. And the more I watch, listen, and understand- the more I realize that I don’t have any fucks left to give or energy to spend to someday pull someone out of a hole, because I guaran-fucking-tee there will simply be another hole to fall in after that. It seems that’s all the human race is about, helping eachother up so we can hurry on to the next burden. God, I once was someone who hoped in You, listened to You and followed Your direction; but now I feel a child of perdition to my own innate apathy I can no longer overcome. My own burden grows heavier by the day, and the knowledge gradually setting in that it shall never be removed lessens my will to continue to stand up. And You sent me so many people who tried to help, You sent me countless supernatural signs of which I cannot deny, and granted most anything I asked for but what I wanted the most- the one thing that has destroyed me from the inside out, driven a system into unavoidable isolation, and left me contemplating approaching mortality. I wanted to live and to love, but it seems I never will in any sense of normalcy or consistency. And it feels like the end of the world in more than the figuratively overdramatic sense.

The withered mountain grasses aren’t the only thing that’s dying. Maybe the intensity of the feeling is just because I’m involuntary off the medications I use as a bandaid for unavoidable fates- but then again, it may have been what caused me to start taking them all in the first place. Anything to get away from how depressing reality is. Honestly I’d much prefer to just keep myself indefinitely manic, because there are colors there sometimes, and before I was wired I realized that there are no vivid colors in this life without a chemical high. But those eventually go away too and you can’t keep running, as whatever you’re running from will circle right back to you. Because you can’t get away from these things, and I knew that all along but desired to bide any remaining time. But now it has run out. I thought I had found hope but it has expired and so have I. But God, I really am terribly grieved in my deepest heart You see for where I find myself, but no longer carry on in the same way on this path. For death would be much more favorable than to continue on the path that has been either sentenced or allotted to me. Yes I know how precious time is and how little of it we each are to know, but it doesn’t take so much of it to understand the order of things and to feel utterly misplaced and unqualified. But death is easy- though neither permitting any rest or escape.

Life is toilsome and admirable but nothing I find any iota of investment in. Many people they will go about and waste their lives laboring for what they will have little strength left to enjoy, fabricating meaning and fulfillment to support life being as it has always been through the generations. Of this I will have no part, nor could I if I had desired to. You have granted me the knowledge of many things I did not know, telling me both great and trivial secrets from youth, and in my long-standing solitude I believe have known Your favor and evidence more than most. But with this I can’t understand how You could care enough about the smallest most inconsequential details of my life, yet in Your perfect knowledge allow the debilitating and dominant parts to persist for so long as to render me irrevocably spent. I’m not so ignorant as to deny the continual suffering of others as well, mostly to those of much more admirable character than myself, and to wonder how Your care and higher purposes reconcile with our trivial and subjective suffering.

I can often be tempted wonder if we haven’t simply fabricated a God that makes us feel comfort or hope, when in reality God is who He is and always was long before any of us were a thought, whether we approve or see His actions as good or not- for goodness apart from a singular omnipotent being defining it- will always be merely subjective. So though the actions or allowance of God are not good in my account of benefit, it still is not only good but just. However I can only wish that I could too bring myself to feel that anything is indeed good, because my feeling that everything is worthless and what God allows is somehow unfair doesn’t change the truth- which is still true whether I can believe it in my heart or not. Regardless, I often think for what I have seen and been given that we are highly fortunate that God is not malevolent, in which the hand that none can turn back and the definition of truth or goodness would be ruin. I will never understand the workings of God or why He allows the unspeakable to befall so many, seemingly undeserving by the world’s assessment of it. So if this happens to the countless unnamed, that even so many children with scarce knowledge of evil should suffer, why should I ever hope that God would deal me much better than that? Why does God call all in His name children, but still leave some to die? No, I think their trying to encourage me is in vain.


rant 2.21

I’ve been staring at this blank screen for days now. I write something and then erase it because it doesn’t say what I need to say, only mocking. I don’t even want to write. I don’t care. Of course I continue on striving, learning, yearning for nothing, and warring with myself. And with finding truth- in the fact that it was always there inside- I find it neither comforting nor motivating as some others seem to. I even realize how narcissistic it may be to use this blog to mostly just talk about myself, when there’s so much going on in the world collectively. But it still seems to always be there, staring right back at me all the time in the back of my skull; everything feels empty, exhausting, meaningless, and of no value but to grate at raw nerves. Consciously I know there is purpose in this world, I just don’t feel like a part of it because all I can feel is pain, anger, and confusion. It’s the many fallen aspects of this life that seem far too difficult for me to also come to terms with, as we all have to.

I know I’m wasting my time, and I wonder if the truth isn’t simply that this is who I am- that I shouldn’t continue to hide from the world waiting for a change that will never come. Maybe I’ll always struggle with this darkness, this terror, and the feeling of disconnect and disinterest in breath or community. I know I just can’t seem to let go of the past- even though I know nothing is meant to last- because I don’t believe that the future could possibly be anything but a cumulatively deepening misery, of which is likely only imposed upon me by the constant gnawing awareness of everything in my mind that seems highly contradictory to the necessary mold of character being a part of the world demands. Ultimately I just don’t give a shit and I’ve given up-and everyone will tell me I can’t do that- but it’s only for weariness and having no reason to keep pressing on. Everything seems like nothing and I find my mind so defensively dissociated that I can’t even access the details of what’s going on or what my issue is to justify my increasingly volatile behavior.

I’m still working with yet another set of doctors- usually switching every 4-6 months when little to no improvement is seen. Every fucking time I perhaps can see a tiny glimmer of hope, it goes away despite all my efforts to hold on to it. I don’t understand. I feel God has abandoned me in this situation or was never a part of it. Everybody tells me there’s a reason for the things that happened- that it’s not just all my fault- that God is using my pain, is orchestrating something, or has good plans for my life; but I see nothing and can’t even imagine any more anything that could feel good to me but to find an early exit. Everyone’s trying so much to help me but at this point I’m so angry, don’t believe anyone can help, and want to tell everyone to fuck off for sheer frustration. I feel misunderstood. I feel that I can’t find the words. This is gonna fix it, this treatment will be it, just do this next; throwing darts at a board. I don’t want to do anything anymore, or ever again. I don’t want to jump through any more fucking hoops because nothing ever changes and my soul is so fucking tired and hasn’t slept in ages that it seems like the ending is a when not an if.

I don’t know why I always feel so fucking morose or why I always have a sense of doom right behind me. Surrounded by people I feel alone, connected to no one. Why. I feel that the universe is incoherent and inconsistent- like fucking wonderland where nothing makes sense, the same equation never works twice, the scene is always shifting and you have to run twice as fast just to not get swept back to where you started. A woman I barely knew said God sent her a dream about me, saying that I was cursed by Masonic oaths and curses of those gone before. Why, how, or if she’s full of it or not I don’t know, but I sure feel cursed sometimes. Not to whine or attempt to garner pity, but for the enigmatic nature of medical, spiritual, and psychological issues that follow like a shadow.

It feels like we’re just wasting time, waiting for something we’ll never know. Everybody’s going through shit, and everyday seems the same. Whether there’s purpose or a goal in mind, I don’t even know how to care because I’m so tired and disillusioned with every fucking thing myself. And it’s not even as bad as it gets, I know that; And no, I don’t want to talk about positivity because right now that still just seems like lying to yourself.

I just wish I knew what all this waiting and wandering is for. I just wish it would go away and that something would make actual fucking sense, that actions would bring results, or something would feel like anything other than running in fucking circles.

Free Rant 2.13

It’s sobering and even more frightening when I can’t push away the realization of just how quickly time passes and indeed that at the end of this life I know it will be at a time that I look back, surprised by how brief it actually was. I fear that I’ll spend my time waiting for better days, when perhaps better days are a myth-they’re right now- and I’m just wasting them until I end up looking back realizing that life was a slow downhill and I should have appreciated more where I was before the vantage changes again. And the pieces, the moving characters and parts are indeed ever changing. If I’ve learned anything in these difficult years, it’s that an eventual point there is something to be missed about most everything and that’s what makes each piece of this chessboard so impacting to me; the weight with which every passing away is felt is miserable but simultaneously wondrous in its lending of the understanding of each of our fleeting time here. It’s really not about getting to a certain point where things are OK, they likely never will be, being the most difficult part to accept- that this life is meant to be a compilation of moments, just extended moments to be had only once, but felt for the entirety of remembrance.

Somehow I never could enjoy these things however, as they are ever tainted by a continually morose reminder of their impermanence. Because as soon as it is obtained, it shall pass away; the bittersweet nature of our existence. Though I assuredly tend more toward feeling it’s bitterness, and I’ve never known how to mend this within myself in such a way as to affect me at the core and change my true countenance to actually feel joy. It used to be easier to anticipate a better future- or even just a future at all- but I never cease to be reminded of the unbecoming tendency of mine to observe the patterns of Time and conclude no reason to endure the future- much less hope for it.

I wish that I could procure and keep something that felt like anything but all that Time’s stealing nature has rendered customary.

And if this really is as good as it gets, then I’ll have essentially made it in the world- with a roof over my head, food, water- the necessities for physical survival of which we all spend the majority of our precious time and energy just to obtain, at the equal rate at which it expires. But ultimately none of this is anything new, and really already known by all, even if only in the subconscious workings so as to make it more bearable and not an obstacle to participation in the daily races.

But I’ve already been blessed with these provisions and have seen my sparing from a great many tragedies far worse than my own. But somehow recognition of this truth fills me with an objective gratitude of no feeling but sadness that everything is always so cyclical and empty. I could wish that it be given to someone who would more appreciate this divine preservation so as to be able to experience the rumored other emotions than the few that I have been long and well acquainted with. I feel guilt and shame for my lack of a more favorable countenance.

And I’m left in my mind only to wonder the moments that I so begrudgingly remain for. What else is there to be done, assumedly only to affect another with the remaining capability to feel said emotions of peace, hope, joy, or love? All these moments weave in circles- simple as that. So why in my heart do I not care nor feel like a part of it?

Free Rant- a little about the calling crow

I keep thinking that I should at least try to write something, if at least for the sake of attempting to organize my thoughts or what’s going on; but it’s as though I would rather do anything else, So that I may continue to grossly dissociate as means to get by at the expense of my seemingly deteriorating cognitive and emotional coherence… So here goes nothing, something new because I don’t give two shits about poetry lately, And have probably spoken in veiled riddles, symbolism, and not-so-fictitious characters and analogy for long enough; To the ironic end that really nobody knows precisely what I’m talking about other than an exhaustive anthology of bitching, complaining, and telling parts of the truth that despite its validity still sound melodramatic.

But by no new occurrence, I’ve come to a place in my life where I have quit therapy after over three years, and essentially lost or cut out every person that I even casually associated with. Though partly for the reason that I’ve been living staring down the precipice of non-specific irrational freak outs, which I don’t want any person to bear the brunt of, trigger, or even really witness. So here I find myself with a blog that I have many times of late considered deleting entirely, and a bunch of strangers that I suppose I could talk at for the sake of attempting to keep myself at least emotionally afloat on the driftwood that I’ve been lost down this fucking river on for years and years now. I had a dream that it ended; the floating, the waiting- everyone thought I was dead, including myself. But that relief never really came, Not after so much waiting and so much hoping to find hope to hope for.

So who am I? Other then some lady whose mind thanks in fragments of disastrous sentiments arranged in such semblance as to feign rationality..?

I just turned 26, so just shyly no longer in my early 20s – basically at the point that I thought that I would have some of my shit sorted out by now or at least created some kind of system to work for myself to get by. I live with my parents who patiently house and support me financially, though I do contribute a small sum via disability that I was able to obtain a year ago after three or four years of fighting for it. I have been unable to work since November of 2012, For idiopathic petite mal seizures; and not long after that time did I find that my entire life began to dismantle right down to the very health of my bones and mind, as though it were some written curse. Since that time in the events that occurred soon after, I have maintained a life of near complete solitude from any person but said therapist once or twice a week- Of which I felt that I was honestly paying just to listen to me as I have no hope that they could offer any solution or anything that I haven’t myself realized or tried, even risking sounding arrogant. I’ve done many, many years of therapy, with multiple intensive inpatient hospitalizations lasting months at a time. And I found these things to be of no help either, eventually developing a proclivity for finding more interest in a psychotherapist’s personal life than my own. I eventually came to the conclusion that I would have to find my own answers, make my own way, create my own solutions that had never been done before for a constellation of problems that I have yet to hear of another having before. And perhaps I did find some of those answers after all those years of denial and kicking against the goads, And they definitely were not the answers I had hoped to find, though it was of no surprise.

Beside mental health issues- namely major depression and anxiety disorder since the age of 14- I’ve seen hundreds of doctors and accumulated tens of thousands of dollars of debt for persistent, mysterious health crises that have also contributed to my not living in the world; for the past five or six years now I have had no part in it because I rarely feel well enough to leave the house. I’ve had problems with my heart, my liver, kidneys, stomach, digestive system, endocrine system, And most other organs to varying degrees. One particular instance, going into the first stages of liver failure, and top LA endocrinologists could not tell me why. That was some five years ago, back before I could’ve ever imagined what my life would become today, back before I wanted to die and actively sought the means for it. So I prayed to God, I asked him to spare my life, and that I would do what it was He wanted me to do on this planet. Well God did spontaneously heal my liver, to the surprise of the doctors who basically told me to get out of their office because they don’t believe in God. Well that was all fine and great except for the fact that later I felt like I got tricked because I had no idea what the future held, Or that I would so deeply long that God had let me die. Sparing the details of a daunting history, it has only been proposed time and time again that these endless maladies and other enigmatic phenomena could be related to an abdominal surgery I had as a young kid- oddly enough the first memory I have in life, my brother handing me this plushy red ladybug and then the nauseating bubblegum anesthesia.

Now for one of the many facets that is a bit more humbling to admit, that I have struggled with anorexia since I was 15 years old and still do to this day- to a much more severe degree than anyone in my life is knowledgeable of. People knew this about me in essentially my past life, when I was surprisingly functional- but now it is a less obvious secret of mine as the development of hypothyroid in my early 20s has kept me at a more normal weight without having to eat. People don’t worry about me anymore for reason of my outward appearance, and that’s exactly how it should be; I think telling anyone that I am so tormented by an eating disorder to be quite embarrassing as the words typically bring to mind much more alarmingly gaunt figures than the reality of the many other people walking around who too have this demon. In over a decade of dealing with this every single day, it’s worse than when I started and honestly the foremost reason why I seek to die; Like an inescapable hell personalized just for you or a nightmare that can never be woken up from. I am fully aware of the countless people who have recovered- having seen, known, and been in treatment with- But don’t frankly prescribe to the notion that “anyone can recover”, Because as fanfuckingtastical And magical that sounds, if it were actually true, no one would ever die of an eating disorder. And this is terrible to say but this is my space and my only allowance to be egotistical-I sometimes wonder If anyone would be surprised if I was one of them, Because I’ve been basically starving myself for a few years now, This year still even worse. And yes I’ve been in treatment. Again and again and again and again. And I feel fucking pathetic.

So there, I said it. I’m not better in that respect, or with depression or with managing to acquire a more positive attitude. Now I realize that common sense would immediately suggest that perhaps an eating disorder is the reason why I have all these health issues- granted I’ll give you this as at least contributory, but in my experience I have found these issues unrelated and have no patience for wasting time defending myself on such grounds.

So where am I going with all of this other than just blindly ranting… All this to say that It’s been a very very long time, an equally toilsome road, and for all of it I feel now even further away from where I need to be than when I started all those years ago. The last remaining parts of the little girl me for so long subconsciously held onto the belief that somehow God would make it all OK in the end, that things would get better, or that there would be a reason for the loss of my young life or for my I’ll just call immense suffering- but ultimately I fear that the free will granted to each of us has and shall continue to impede my ability to correct whatever mistakes I am making again and again to end up where I have in life or what I am evidently deserving of- All for reason that I realize I am simply not strong enough. Not anymore. I’ve been Strong, but I’m tired. And in more pain than I’ll bother trying to convey.

So what prompted me to even write or rant about any of this in the first place as opposed to the usual vague poetry; that after some time of getting into one of my dark dark places, having been in chronic pain of a long “fibromyalgia” flare up, knowing that I’ve been in pain every single day for a couple years now, in the middle of an chemically abysmal depression, riddled with anxious terrors, And ultimately hopeless that any of these or undisclosed matters will ever improve – I had come to the place of more seriously contemplating another suicide attempt. I had planned to get some Nembutal, at least for insomnia, and knowing my abnormal metabolism of medications, at least try and work up the courage to take too much. Confessedly I’ve already been misusing various prescriptions and whatnot for a while now, for various needs, but rather hoping that I’ll give myself a heart attack, but somehow always being fine. Like I’m a coward and keep thinking that perhaps if I can get a drug with high enough risk factors that something bad will happen and I won’t be charged for suicide. Foolish thoughts like that. Every day, all the time.

And looking at everything I’ve emotionally vomited here just rather pisses me off because it does absolutely no justice to expressing the half of it or just how fucking done I’ve been with life for a while now. I’m done with being sick and in chronic physical pain, dealing with irrational and unpredictable mental illness, and I’ve come to the point that I can’t live one more god-forsaken stupid fucking shit day in a cage of a body that kills me everyday for reason of the emotional suppression of its not being dead. My choices and freedom lost to me- and all this useless wasted time, the only reason I have not more firmly pursued the means of my quietus is that I have learned much enough to know that there is no rest in death, that we indeed walk in the Lesser Darkness, and that that which is to follow for some is unspeakable and who has visited it and remained the same?

I do believe that I have had the taste of the kind of suffering that few will understand and cannot be explained with words. I have known the company of demons. I have been to insanity and back and now, all I want is rest. Quiet forever. A refuge away from myself and all the clamorous nonsense of doing and fretting over stupid, stupid shit that has frayed my nervous system to a complete breakdown. But life never stops coming, it never stops taking, it never stops draining, I never refill, I’ve been on empty for so long a time; the longer I stay here, the more sure it seems to be my fate, perhaps even in the next life if I can’t feign some kind of fucking gratitude that I was given breath in this world to suffer with most of them somewhere thereafter a young age that’s already gone by forever.

So this is me here to be so bold as to say that this world is full of good things, good people, and opportunities for those with the strength to get them; but it’s also full of misfortune, suffering unquenchable and so deep no words can express, full of disconnect, isolation, and torture; such that the good is nowhere near frequent nor enduring enough- if you can even feel such pleasures- that the suffering is worth enduring just to stay and hope something good will happen some day and be your fucking needle in a haystack of the innumerable hopes fallen through. And I’m no fool to wait around for that shit anymore.

I never could have seen any of this coming. I never could have imagined all that I would lose and how everything I held dear would change, taken from me. I never could have fathomed what it feels like to practically rather put a bullet in your head than wake up in the morning; or that my own body would become the inescapable prison of my torment. But here I am- funny how that works- by now perhaps the most tough, cynical, bitter bitch around… And it’s ironic… I am my shadow now, because I wasn’t always what I am today. Now I’m just another sad calling crow.


        Shawna had evidently been spending more and more time on our facility the last couple months, so it was within the hour that I was called into her office with no reasonable defense for my actions other than a childish outburst I had coming.  

“You know this kind of behavior I should discharge you. Then where are you going to live? I think you know this was immature and unacceptable.”

       “Of course I do. I never do anything with my anger. It was extremely uncharacteristic, but I have no excuses.” I didn’t fight her on this one. 

“I swear, anyone else and they would be gone so fast their head would spin, but that’s what you want. But You know most people here want to be here…but I’m not going to just let you go home to keep doing what you were doing.”

        “I didn’t exactly do anything with the intention of getting kicked out for bad behavior, I was unaware that was an option. So you’re not kicking me out?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, no I’m not- only because I talked to sherice and she said you don’t usually do these sorts of things. Actually, she was even a bit excited that you had finally taken out your anger on something other than yourself.”

    I was silent. 

“No more impulsively wrecking things. I can’t dismiss one more thing or people will start to believe they can get away with anything around here. Do we have an agreement?”

      “Yes, we do concur.”

She even had written up a contract for me to sign- she loved those things. 

“Now that pass isn’t happening for at least another month.”

       “That’s fair.”

“Your Jacob will have to wait,” she continued. “Though I still do not condone your continuing communications- much less meeting. I think it’s a terrible idea and just the little of your conflicts and conversations you’ve relayed, I think he’s going to undo everything I’ve been trying to work on with you.”

         “Thanks for your concern, but I can manage myself the imminent destruction of my limited interpersonal relationships,” I laughed. “I know I have no business in a relationship, but you know nothing lasts, so let me at least see where it goes; I usually never care about anyone, and he’ll be the last guy whose time I’ll ever waste again. ”

“Relationships aren’t a waste- I just think he in particular is damaging for your fragile condition. You already hate yourself, and he seems to be perpetuating that.”

          “Still. The older I get I think I’m realizing that I just don’t like being around people. But I’m not that fragile when it comes to heartbreak. I’ve got bigger problems than the trivial fear of ‘ending up alone’.” Big deal, I’ve already come to terms with that I’m going to be the crazy old lady living up on a mountain with a bunch of bats, or crows, or hell, maybe I’ll just go straight for the shotgun approach.”

“You just keep telling yourself that, but you don’t know yourself at all. I think you care a lot and are terrified of another rejection. That’s why you’re walking on eggshells, tolerating his shaming tactics, and hiding every part of you but what you think he won’t accuse.” 

        “I’m glad you know all about him.” I countered. 

and you defend him…”she concluded.      “but that’s not what I wanted to get into this evening. I have an assignment for discussion. I’d like you to reflect on how your eating disorder has negatively affected your life throughout the years, and try to come up with some new coping mechanisms.”

         I laughed and couldn’t help but roll my eyes a bit, “Sorry, but ‘coping mechanisms’ don’t work. I think if they did I would have been able to make at least one work by now. You should know it just doesn’t work like that. That’s all just a different kind of misery.”

“They can’t work if you don’t want them to.”

        “But if the problem were so easy as to will a distraction mechanism to work better- as though I haven’t tried- it wouldn’t be such an issue would it? But how it’s affected my life? For starters I would preface any lame- ass answer with the fact that foremost: from the outside, I know it’s all fucking retarded.”

“See you’re doing it again-”

         “Come on, I mean who can’t figure out how to properly feed themselves? It’s objectively insane and I understand why most people don’t get it or why it’s so fucking hard; maybe like a migraine- you don’t know what it feels like unless you’ve had one. It’s been by far the worst and best thing that’s ever happened to me; I mean it had its benefits up until a certain age… other than a long hospitalization, It was just fine up until my early twenties where everything changes all over again and you spend a decade trying to readapt to something that will change again by the time you’ve got your head anywhere near the surface in regards to figuring out how to balance it with your life. I managed to cope just fine most of that time; while balancing work, school, a relationship, and maintain my personal peace and sanity; all that normal shit. It’s normal if you’re a teenage girl- but still struggling even worse with it a decade later is just fucking embarrassing. I can’t even live my life.”

“Well it is true that at a certain age it stops ‘working’ the way it used to; and these things do get worse with age if you can’t overcome the insistence on unattainable ideals.”

       “No shit. I’d rather eat a bullet than live another decade into this.”


        I likely didn’t last another two turns before my thoughts grew too persistent and undeniable to not show evidence on my face. 

        “Actually, can you guys leave- please?” I covered my face, and tried my best to be polite. 

“But we’re supposed to be-” 

       “Please just fucking leave. I’m sorry… I’m afraid I’m going to be awful today. It’s a worse than the usual ‘not a good time”. I turned to look out the window, I hated crying in front of people. 

“Look honey, she’s an adult. If she doesn’t want to see us right now, we should leave,” dad conceded.

“OK. If you need your space, I guess that’s OK. I won’t take it personally.” mom said, entirely unconvincing. 

“Well before you kick us out,” dad pulled a bible out of his briefcase. “I figured you could use one- to go alongside the devil books you brought.”

       “Thanks.” The last thing I wanted to see was a bible. 

He set it on the end table beside the alarm clock as they painfully slowly got up to leave.

          I grabbed the book and returned to the back bedroom. My head had been pounding with the pain in my neck and all throughout my body since just after getting up. It seemed the days with no cessation of the nagging pain had been increasing in frequency. Jacob and I constantly tense and fighting didn’t help , but we were still planning to meet up sometime next week because Shawna had mentioned potentially giving me a pass. But even that, I wasn’t sure how I really felt about – other than nervous as hell because at the same time that I felt so strongly about him, he also made me extremely uncomfortable- like he was always waiting to pounce on something I said and pick it apart and throw it back in my face; and I didn’t feel qualified to tell what of what he said was true tough love, or just straight up cruel. I guessed we’d see how it went then, but I didn’t have high hopes considering how it felt like nothing good or even remotely enjoyable had happened in life in years. In fact, in retrospect it almost seemed a bit too coincidental the order of events in which I lost my job, schooling and career hopes, relationships,  independence, and then health- which had been continually degrading and affecting everything else. I had a roof, food, and water when my parents let me live there- so I had that going for me- but most of the time it felt like I had lost a firm grip on even my mind, constantly falling through the spaces of each day in an unsettling and unsure free fall; so I would easily have given away such life – preserving substances to someone who would at least enjoy life sometimes. I had nothing to go home to anyways but to keep  suffering, medicating, and rotting away in the routine of a responsibly selected solitude to save myself and everyone else from the futility of interaction. 

          I flipped through the bible, thinking how I already knew what it said and didn’t care to read anything. I had felt that way for too long, feeling guilt for it. Job was onto something, as well as Solomon in Ecclesiastes- but other than that I could only relate to Jonah beneath his little tree, asking to die- only I didn’t know where I was supposed to be going or what I was to be doing- I just survived and wandered on  purposelessly. Maybe God was making me wander the desert for 40 years for my bad attitude- and a thousand years may be as a day to Him- but I sure didn’t have that long, and 40 years would put me just about on my deathbed. But with my bad luck I just might live to a hundred. 

         I decided to try the cliche of setting the bible on its spine and letting it fall open, of which I then focused on a random section of the page. I recognize the bible wasn’t intended to be used as a magic 8 ball, but I had some questions- that was for damn sure. Not that I at all considered myself “righteous”, but  it only took Job 7 days to curse his birth, and I’d waited well over seven years. 

          “Why? Why did all of this befall on me? Why did I lose so much and everything that really meant anything to me? Why do I keep losing more, and why don’t you put me out of my misery? Why?”

The book fell open and my eyes first fell upon the red letters of John 13 verse 7

        “Jesus replied, ‘You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

I was silent for a minute. “but isn’t that what You said a decade ago? I don’t have forty years to wait and wander, I’m wasting my life now.” 

          I was still angry- not angry at God, He didn’t owe me shit- but at myself and everything else; but I was basically in a perpetual bad mood. I just never did anything with it. I got up and walked over to the window, pacing back and forth for some time. I’m not even sure why there was a hammer there- I guess a worker left it there- but not even thinking about it, I grabbed the hammer and slammed it down the middle of the open Venetian blinds, and through the drywall. And something snapped that I’d been ignoring for long enough- I shattered every last piece of the blinds to splinters, and lodged the hammer back in the wall again. I tore out the  dresser drawers, hurled the few books I had brought at the wall, and sunk back down into the bed, catching myself before I went to hell for chucking a bible again. I laid down, letting it slip from my hands onto the floor. 

          Marisa walked in, pausing in the hallway entrance to give me a look that said “My lips are sealed but I wash my hands clean of this,” and turning right back around to leave. 

         “I need an answer now, not in another ten or forty years…” I  muttered. 

Of course I was surprised to happen to open to such a potentially applicable verse, but I believed that my life had been about paying for something I had done wrong- or was going to- and God or fate had nothing to do with it. Maybe that was why I was still on this planet. 

        I got up and picked up the few  things I had uncharacteristically and foolishly thrown- as though it would do anything to hide the damage I had done to the blinds and wall- and picked the bible off the ground, with a small laugh to see that when it had fallen face down, it had opened to the first page of Job. I guessed that was a decent place to start reading for as long as I was going to continue living in the stomach of a whale. 


P.56 the Last Letters

        Early evening had come around for visiting hours and I was in one of my many shitty moods; not in the mood to bug Andre, so I sat in the observation room in the window seat by the oak- which despite meaning more irritated glares from Jacqueline in the staff office- was the only place I could find some kind of silence or solitude when everyone was visiting and I couldn’t sneak out back. But that had been easier than ever since a wishful thought and the one lamp light broke and no one got around to changing it for months. I was waiting for my family to arrive so we could play the board game I had reluctantly chosen, Apples to Apples. Jacob had ignored me for a week again, but we were good for the day. Though tonight he was at his weekly meeting and I didn’t particularly feel like having my ass chewed, so I used the time to speak questions to the air for awhile, or to myself, or God, or who/whatever else was listening. Highlighter had immediately joined me outside the window I had cracked open, perched on the oak tree branch, chirping spiritedly at something.

         Some time later Highlighter flew away and I turned to see that my parents stood out in the lobby, Shawna directing them into the observation room.  I hadn’t seen or hardly spoken to my them in some weeks; I simply had nothing of any point to say to them, or to anyone really. They sat on the couch adjacent to the window where I remained leaned against the window pane. Dad had come from work, still in his suit. 

“How are you?” mom asked hesitantly, appearing wary that I would be too honest.

        “I’m fine. I’m fan-fucking-tastic actually. I mean, relatively speaking.  How are you guys? How’s life.”

“We’re fine. It’s fine. Just working a lot at grandma’s as usual. You’ll have to see all the renovations and the new furniture when you get out.” mom replied, more  animatedly.

        “Cool. Doubt I’ll want to make the trip, I’ll just be honest up front.”  “How’s James?”

“James is OK. Stressed as always. Just started a second job working for Steve.”

       “That’s gonna be trouble, those two together…” I  replied, unable to convey the appropriate humor. 

      Mom talked for a while about the work on the house and all the furnishings things she had purchased at discount as usual. I pretended to give a shit as usual.

“Have you been doing any writing?” Dad finally changed the subject, trying to ask a genuinely benign question. They knew I wrote angsty poetry and whatnot from time to time but had never read anything I’d written. Not that I wanted them to, because it wasn’t for art.

         “No. But I have stared at blank pages for hours before realizing that I just don’t give a shit.”

“Hm. Shawna told us you’re writing an autobiography for her?”

        “So she’s deluded herself. She’ll likely have to pry it out of my cold, dead soul one session at a time. I do feel bad for her, I’m not making her job easier. But hey, life’s a bitch.”

“You know, I’ve always thought you could write a book about your life. Maybe to help some people understand their own loved ones with ‘illness'” he volunteered.

     I hated when he used that word, but I knew what he meant. But maybe He was right; maybe I had just been ill, for a very, very long time.

“You know, the reason God hasn’t answered any of your prayers to die is because you have to write a book first,” he laughed. That had been a long- running joke of ours.

“Don’t say that, ” mom interjected, very hush hush. “we’re not supposed to talk about that stuff.”

       “Well then, give me a pen!” I grabbed the red pen from beside me and feigned a sudden enthusiasm.

        Shawna had specifically instructed each of us that we were to talk about absolutely nothing but small talk- Just my fucking forte. I silently set up the board and divided up the cards, too slowly because I was far, far away in my mind; drowning in all the things I could neither speak of nor resolve

I layed down the first card. “OK, the word is  ineffectual. ‘” 

Only one thing of which, I wanted to ask why they had essentially kicked me out and stranded me in a place where I had no freedoms and the absence of which over the months did me no good but harm. I wanted to know what the ultimatums would be when I did finally get out. I honestly didn’t care about anything but getting as far away as possible from that place. I don’t know why with treatment I could never seen to settle into any manageable routine in regards to my constant anxiety and pacing in my mind “like a caged animal,” Jacqueline called me.       One thing I sucked at in life was adaptation. Pathetically so, with all efforts I could rarely ever get it to happen and I’d never figured out why; as though some of the most basic normal necessities of being human eluded me,akin to needing to draw blood from a turnip. I had only gotten progressively more stressed, tired, angry, and in pain the more I was trapped in the house-cage and around people all the time. I was tired and desperate enough that I had been talking to the Catholic John Doe from the internet about possibly moving in for a while. That would suck too, but there at least I had any freedoms and choices I could execute or manage. But I felt like I was losing my mind as always, but didn’t know where I could ever find it again anyway. 

But I didn’t even want to be anywhere anymore, I didn’t want to bullshit up waiting to see hope in the distance anymore; because as much as a weak, self- defeating cop- out as I know it sounds, I absolutely didn’t believe whatsoever that I would ever get “better”. After over a decade of trying to get “better”, I had only gotten much, much worse in every regard. No amount of treatment programs, drugs, or talk therapy alleviated the constant inner war; and I knew I would never outrun what always came right back no matter where I went or what I tried- I knew I’d always fall back into old ways because nothing else felt any good either, or it felt worse. Surely this all was putting me through unnecessary additional suffering.                          But I knew to say such things was arrogance, despite that I still believed it with every fiber of my being; but I was the only one who believed it, so I was powerless and again being forced into what was “best for me”, still even as an adult.

          I wanted to scream all of these things at my undeserving parents in front of me; how at this point I prayed and wondered every hour why I had been born- called out of the nothingness. I needed to scream for every burden for which there was no relief, for every thing that was misunderstood; I wanted to destroy everything in the room and then destroy myself. But no one would ever know just how much rage I held inside. I never showed it; Because the only person I was angry with was myself. Because I was a fragile, addicted, selfish, hopelessly miserable failure that was beyond help if I couldn’t even imagine a future of better, because all I’d seen better to be was just a different kind of misery, tolerance, and compromise for all the things I hated but lacked the strength to change. I’d rather the devil I knew  until I was finally dead- to do and take whatever the fuck I wanted until it destroyed me; and that was my plan- to hit the wall at the highest speed possible to ensure my  oblivion. Because there had accumulated too many problems with no solutions- so particularly agonizing that it seemed they had been designed for me; perhaps its simply that what you avoid controls you. But I had already tried everything else and beyond a reasonable doubt I had concluded that ending myself was the only way to end this battle of attrition of which I knew there was no  winning, and I didn’t want to be around when it came time to lose for the very last time. 

Of course I recognized that this was the still young and immature part of myself that wanted to actually say any of these things. Objectively I knew that it all would sound lame and melodramatic were I to say it aloud; but I suppose the cliches are cliche in that they are commonplace in truth; but I still despised cliches. But all of these things continued to chew at me as they had every waking moment for a time experientially longer than fathomable.  

“Kat…… KAT,” my dad’s voice broke into my deafening world. “It’s your turn.”

        I looked back at the seven cards in my hand, considering which word I thought best fit the description “mythical”. Between  thunderstorms, Nicholas Cage, my love life, zippers, lethal injection, oxygen, and Samuel L. Jackson; “my love life” was an easy choice. 

“That’s terrible,” mom  laughed.

      “Generational curse,” I fake smiled.    I grew even more frustrated as I could feel the tears threatening my eyes again.

“Are you OK?” she asked. 

        “I’m fine.” I drew another red card.

“OK the word is ‘imminent,'” dad read.