Poetry

My eyes are very green today

And they reminded me of you

The way they billow in like smoke

And lie about the truth

 

Truth is…

I’ve written just as many poems

In your absence

As I did when we first met

 

They were exciting then

Adventurous

Telling tales

Of hikes in snow

 

And resting there, by waterfalls

 

And all that I have written now

Is about the way time has shifted silently

In the days since you’ve been gone

How the aching in my hollow chest

Is working its way out

Through the surface of my skin

 

And today…

My eyes are just as green

As the path that I refused to travel down

On our way that day

To our swimming hole

That I’ll never get to swim

 

When really, they should be gray

Like the days have felt

Without the color seeping in

And my eyes smiling shut

In the blinding brilliance

Of your love

I would’ve died

a thousand times over

if it had been up to me.

Every time my heart broke

or doors closed

or I glimpsed my reality

with honest eyes.

It seems no matter

how hard I sleep

it never is enough.

Nightmares that I can’t recall

always keep me up,

or wake me just before

the wave of peace

sweeps me into eternal rest.

I’ve felt the calmness

of breathing in the warmth

of God,

like a beautiful sigh.

And I had it twice

in one night.

I’ve had the privilege

of being held by Him

without the

needing to leave this life.

But most days…

He leaves it to me

to find this comfort

on my own.

Without the assistance

of beds and pillows,

the arms of lovers,

celestial blankets

to wrap me in the affection

that always eases my soul.

I walk alone.

Even as He neighbors me closely

in silence.

I’ve no maps

or guides

to compass this journey

and I know

that my north star must always be

the confidence of a foundation

in the knowledge that

I am one of the few

and perhaps

even the only soul

that has been entrusted

with the gift

of navigating this voyage

on my own.

 

I’ve been going back and reading old posts, which I never do. My mind has been revisiting the things I used to feel, and I happened to be led there. It might not be a good idea, but it is a good reminder from where I came. I’ve been reading a lot of my posts about suicide, and my attempts. One, which I wrote on the anniversary of one of my attempts, I intended on adding another poem to, but it seems I did not. So, I want to add it now.

**********

The Poem I Did Not Write

I see my life in seasons

unfolding behind me

like landscapes:

rolling hills with greenery,

the brilliant colors of trees in fall,

unexpected snow,

or sunsets over water

in my rearview mirror as I drive away,

and it is gone.

I revisit these places

that once were home.

Each previous address.

The walls, they do speak.

The men that came and went;

The labor it takes to remove the smell

of vomit-drenched carpet;

The ghosts that waved good-bye

when it wasn’t my time.

The echoing of sobs.

 

I am making this journey in solitude,

but aren’t we all?

At the end of the day,

it is only ourselves

and God.

And those who drop in for a visit

once in a while.

 

I’ve spent years wondering

if my wails will rattle these walls

long after I am gone.

Will I haunt this place

like it still haunts me?

 

When I was 12, I wrote a poem

in which I stated

“I was meant to die by my own hand.”

I have not forgotten the line,

it rings loudly in my mind

like a catchy tune

that you cannot shake.

And the only way to ease the urge

is to listen to it

one more time.

 

When I was 31,

a medium told me

that I would not wed,

and those words too,

they will not leave me,

though everyone else has.

 

I never realized until now

That each morning is the clean slate

I was searching for

for years.

That each sunrise is my chance to try again.

Each face I meet, I memorize

inside my heart,

appreciating its beauty,

savoring its presence

before it is gone.

Though I am not sure

whether the recalling

either harms or heals.

 

And this is where I’ve found myself

stopped along the road.

The joy, my God,

is warmth

and light.

It is infectious.

Vibrant and healing!

And I come alive.

It soothes me in the waiting.

It holds me in the dark.

My loveliest companion.

 

And even so,

I still have times

when I can hear the darkness whisper,

calling me back.

And despite my knowing

how deeply it aches

I find myself tempted

to revisit it as well.

 

 

 

…It is a cacophony.

 

How to ruin a relationship:

Sleep with them.

 

How to scare someone away:

Tell them you love them.

 

Things I wish I could say:

I love you.

 

Things I wish I could stop saying:

I love you.

 

How to connect:

Take a chance.

 

How to have a fulfilling life:

Connect.

 

Want to become disillusioned with love?

Watch me.

I’ll show you.

 

*

The men I’ve loved have allowed me

to rely on no one but myself.

You can bare your soul, you know

at the distance of an arm’s length.

It is possible to bask

in the warmth of an embrace, and yet

walk away feeling even more alone.

And yes, I’ve known connection

and heartache

and there are many who have glimpsed

the intricacies of this spirit.

(a vast kaleidoscope of pale purples,

flowing, constantly in motion)

And I too, having seen their own.

It is possible to dive into the pool of love

for a brisk swim

and struggle to stay above waves

that you, yourself, have made.

And it is also true that you can

drown there,

and when dragged out, revive,

still feeling refreshed from the water

left rolling off your skin.

(there is an incredible majesty

it the moment before you succumb,

like dusk has just begun to break)

Reminiscing of your brushes with death

while drying your skin

with towel swipes.

 

I know there are times

when I stare off into the distance

and it is hard to say whether I am recalling

love or loss.

The gut-wrenching kick of solace?

Or strolling down the short path

of memory lane, that I even dare revisit.

 

There are moments in the silence

when I can still feel the touch

of a ghostly fingertip

against my surface of my skin.

And I am forced to open my eyes to the darkness

despite my fear that

I’ll see something standing there

before me.

Finding myself then,

startled by the void instead.

 

 

You say things to me

Without realizing it

When I feel your heartbeat

Sync with mine

Or the moment your face freezes

And I can feel your heart sink

And the squeak

Of endless turning wheels

Inside your head

And we cannot escape

This carnival ride

There is no way to leave

Until it has come to a complete stop

But there’s a good thing

About these rides

And it is

That they are over quickly

Before it is on to the next

So close your eyes

Feel the swish

Of wind against your face

Release

That thing

That you’re holding onto for dear life

You are safe here.

Buckled in.

Just enjoy

The sensation of flying

Because

We are not birds

We do not have wings

And this is the closest

That we will ever get

To tasting freedom

When I was a child

my sister was jealous

of my ability to color

inside the lines.

It was the only arena

in which my capacity

outranked her own.

My compulsive attention to detail started there.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

My life has been lived

unabashedly,

unapologetically

unconcerned with

staying inside of lines.

I have been bound behind them,

constrained by myself

or others,

but I can never manage to stay for very long.

My wanderlust has launched me

into galaxies,

or great escapes,

or entirely different realms.

Those that even I

had never dared dream.

I have been like an angry mass

of protesters

who cannot be contained.

Not by tear gas,

or fire hoses,

or any aggressive show of force.

Or a child

who still finds herself

scribbling in crayon

on the walls,

stick figures

and illustrations of stories

that only I can understand.

The wildfire

raging behind my eyes

has always been

entirely too ferocious,

and has always spread

entirely too quickly

to ever be extinguished.

And I have found that life,

real life,

can only be experienced

outside of these lines

that are drawn for us,

or those we sometimes manage

to draw for ourselves.

There dwells the buttery richness

hidden in flaky layers

of a fresh croissant,

drizzled in the decedance

of chocolate or honey.

There dwells the freedom

we seek within our slavery,

where the weight of our chains disappears,

and we can finally

run, unfettered.

No, I was not born

to be bridled,

or color inside the lines.

This earth needs me

writing rampantly,

so that I may share my tales

of life untamed.

The beauty of the risk

in living unrestrained.

In the image of God,

with an inability to be fathomed

or forgotten.

Endlessly celestial and

too colossal for a cubicle,

but simultaneously

exquisitely ethereal.

Both yearning for the touch of others

and yet,

too delicate and vast to be held.

This is the first rap song I learned all the words to.  I was 13.

This isn’t the original version of the music video, but I like this edit.  Enjoy!

C U When U Get There

by Coolio

Somehow I rise above my problems and remain here.
Yeah, and I hope the picture painted clear:
If you heart filled with faith then you can’t fear
Wonder how I’ve faced years and I’m still chillin?
Easy, let go and let God deal with it.

~ T.I.

I think the title of this post is a pathetic attempt at cracking a joke about a pretty intense situation.  As unhealthy as avoidance may be, sometimes humor is the only thing that gets me through tough emotions.  I double-dog pinky promise (?), I will take a break from the whole suicide issue after today.  I’m not saying it won’t arise again, but I’ll certainly hold off.  I really do not intend to overload or over-unload on the issue.

All that being said, though, I cannot deny that today is an important anniversary.  I think it is so important to reflect on where I was 2 years ago today, and just as much so, to revel in how far I’ve come since.  It has been a grueling, enlightening, and incredibly slow two years.  At the same time, I can’t believe it has been that long.  I almost feel as though my life has been a broken record this entire time, and is only now moving on to another track.  Or maybe I’m just trashing the record and putting on another album.  Or hell, maybe I’m throwing out the record player and upgrading to an iPod.   (I’ll just skip the 8-track, audio cassette tape, compact disc, and briefly promising, mini disc!)

*****

This isn’t an easy read, so I’ll go ahead and drop that warning now.  But maybe it’ll give you some insight into me:

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The day was a pretty normal one, as far as I remember it.  School.  Work.  It was the usual routine.  Then he called, toward the end of the day.  I don’t remember him saying much besides “we need to talk.”  I knew what that meant.

Let me build this up adequately.  We had been dating for 2 and a half months, not long, I know, but in that time, we had made some serious plans.  I had started searching out venues for our New Years, New Orleans wedding.  We had our children’s names picked out.  Aurora Scheherazade and Nalani Esperanza.  It was perfect, because we were going to have daughters, feminists.  And he, was going to change his last name to my name.  He hated his last name because it reminded him of his child molesting, oppressive, abusive father, anyway.

He had hooked me on that story.  He still suffered severe insomnia from the nights he had to stay up as a child to protect his sister from being molested by his father.  He would stay up all night, and when his dad would head into her room, he would get up and start a fight with his dad to stop him.  On the one night he thought it safe to sleep, his birthday, he lost track of time, and lost track of dad.  When he woke up, his sister had been raped.  He never forgave himself.  It is a dramatic story.  One I fell for hardcore.  One I imagine he uses a lot, especially on women who he intuits as having a history of sexual abuse.  I’m not saying it isn’t true, maybe it is.  Who knows.  I’m just saying, that I, as a survivor myself, with fuzzy memories of my own, have grown ridiculously tired of people using their histories of abuse as tools of manipulation against me.  That’s all.  Yes, its a fucked up situation, but no one need make it more so, by utilizing said fucked up situation for personal gain.

He had me good.

So, here he is, calling me at work to tell me we need to talk.  It was ridiculous.  We had the conversation not two weeks before about how cruel it was for people to say that to someone without explanation.  How it leaves you hanging.  I didn’t know whether it was a joke, or I should be seriously concerned.  I had a feeling it was the latter.

I immediately called my friend when we hung up and told her I needed to meet up for drinks.  So we did.  Dinner, and drinks.  I had bacon cheese fries  and alcohol for the last time that night.  GAG.  I told her about the situation and as she reassured me that there was hope for our relationship, I assured her that it was over and I need to prepare myself.  It was St. Patrick’s Day.  Irish Car Bombs were $5.50.  I had 4.

Then he called.  I sat in the car.  He told me he wanted to come visit next weekend, but he had a lot to think about.  I told him that if he wanted to dump me, he should go ahead and get it over with.  So he did.  And in true dramatic fashion, he just said, “Bye.”  He hadn’t even attempted to attach a “good” to it, probably because of the blatant contradiction within the combination.  I talked him into promising he’d talk to me after this night, but we never spoke again.  I started to cry, despite being pretty numb.

I went into the bar, had two more drinks, then left with my friend to go on the hunt to retrieve her boyfriend’s car from a tow lot.  After we did that, she and her boyfriend’s sister decided to drop me back off at my car.  I quietly obliged.  I knew my plan.

I had consumed 6 Irish car bombs.  I was pretty wasted, but I found a way home anyway.  Once home, I walked the dog, got the vodka and orange juice out of the fridge and feverishly started rummaging the house for all the sleeping pills I could find.  It makes me physically ill to think about, even today, as I look back.  But I will march on.

I went upstairs, took 3 gulps of the pear vodka, and chased them with orange juice.  I then began to pop the pills out of their wrappers, one-by-one.  When I was done, I got on my computer.  I messaged one of my old friends I used to work in a restaurant with to tell her what I was going to do.  She was the only person online.  She got pissed, because, as I had forgotten, her mom tried to kill herself once, and she was VERY sensitive about the issue.  I was an asshole.  That only made me more convinced.  I tried to text and email messages of apology, mainly to my sister.  She’s always been the person I’ve been most concerned about disappointing.  I did not send these messages.

I went back to my bed, sat down, and counted the pills.  102.  I took all 102 pills in 3 heaping handfuls.  Just.  Like.  That.  It breaks my heart to think about this moment.  The moment after I swallowed them.  I can feel the sobs coming up in me now, as though I just swallowed them, just now.  My first instinct was not quite regret, but almost.  I thought, “What have I done?”  Then I thought about the fact that so many people say that people who commit suicide go to hell.  I went to my bed.  I knew it was going to be over soon.  Crying, I sat there, and prepared to lie down and let go.  I started praying.  “Please God, don’t let me go to hell.  I don’t want to go to hell.”  Over and over again.  Soon, I was out.

There’s not much to remember after that.  The rest is hallucination.  And vomiting.  I just remember sitting up at one point and vomiting all over myself, although, I did not realize this is what it was.  I hallucinated it to be slugs and maggots slithering down my body.  Even when I got up, I was hallucinating that when I stepped in the vomit on the floor, I was stepping in puddles of maggots.

I don’t remember at what point this happened, but I saw my grandmother, who passed less than a year before walking out my front door, waving goodbye.  I don’t know what that was about.

Around 8 am, I awoke, groggy and disoriented.  I panicked.  I was alive.  I needed to be in class and at work.  Soon.  I could not drive, though.  Unsure of what to do, I got onto my school email to see that a coworker who lived near me was online.  I asked if she was going to work.  She was.  I asked if I could get a ride.  She called, and as funny as it may sound, I was so disoriented, that when she asked for my address to get to my house, I started to give her my email address.  I was having a hard time getting my head together, but I managed to get her there.

I walked my dog, changed out of my vomit-drenched clothes, and climbed in my coworker’s car.  At this point, I was regaining my ability to walk.  When I had first gotten up, my knees would cave at each step.  Honestly, I must’ve reeked of vomit.  All morning I was rubbing my fingers against my ears and chest and trying to figure out what the stuff coming off my skin was.  It was dried puke.  I looked, smelled, and acted very out of character.  She was disturbed by my presentation.  “Are you ok?”  She asked.  “What’s wrong?”  I knew I had nothing to lose after the night I had been through, so I just let her have the truth.  “I tried to kill myself last night.”  My voice shook as I said it, trying not to laugh or cry.  “Do we need to go somewhere?”  She asked eagerly. “No.” I insisted.  I demanded that we go to my class.  I couldn’t miss it.  I had missed the previous class.  I couldn’t afford it.

When we got to campus, I knew my knees were too weak for her to drop me off on the sidewalk.  I would surely face-plant.  I gave her a dollar to park in the garage.  When we parked I realized I couldn’t find my phone.  I was out of it, and realized also, that I would be this way in class as well, which would look bad if called on.  I looked at her and resigned myself to going to the counseling center.  She walked me there.

I told the receptionist that I wanted to see counselor on call.  When he came out, he called me by my first name 3 times, until the receptionist told me that he was calling for me, and I snapped back into the moment.  I went in and relayed the story.  He sent me to the hospital.  I refused to go via ambulance, due to cost, so they sent me in the back of a police car.

I stayed in the ER for most of the day.  I stayed in the psych ward for 3 days.

Needless to say, I traumatized my coworker.  She went to work and school that day, shaken.  Today, it is still awkward to interact with her.  She saw me at a very vulnerable point in my life.  It is almost as though she saw me naked, and we don’t know how to act about it now.  I put her through a lot.

She isn’t the only person I put through the wringer.  Two of my very close friends came by to get my things in order, once they found out.  They took care of my dog, and upon seeing the state of my bedroom, they cleaned up after me.  This, too, breaks my heart.  I think it probably resembles what it must be like to find a friend who has killed themselves, to find a friend’s home in such a condition after they have tried.  One of them said to me, “I couldn’t let you come home to that.”

The first who helped was the friend I had drinks with the night before.  She was very angry with me at first.  Especially when she came to visit me in the hospital and I spoke frankly about the situation.  Over time, and through talking, we are working on healing.

The second, the one who “couldn’t let me come home to that,” is no longer friends with me, in large part due to this entire situation.

I learned a lot from that night.  I learned a lot about how much people love me and the lengths they are willing to go to for me.  I learned that I do not need to drink.  I learned that I can live life without bacon cheese fries, something I honestly did not know before that night.  I learned that your perspectives change a lot once you’ve swallowed the pills.  I realized how scary that moment is, the moment after you do that action and truly believe you are going to die and this is it.  I also realized that deciding to end it is as difficult as asking for help; but asking for help is less traumatic and usually ends better.

I wish I could say that I came out of the hospital and rejoiced in my survival.  It didn’t exactly work out like that.  Two years later, I’m still getting to that point, though with cautious optimism, I’ll say I’m closer than ever before.

I am infinitely more grateful for everything good in my life, and I try to make that as clear as possible, as often as possible.  I don’t want anyone in my life to feel unappreciated.  I want really badly to be a better friend, but I do realize that being good to others requires that you are better to yourself.  I recognize I need to have a healthy balance of helping others and taking care of myself.  I’ve lost a lot of friends through the past two years.  Luckily, I’ve recently gained many new friends, who I’m fairly certain God has handpicked for me.

The darkness certainly creeps in, but I’m searching constantly for the light.

Overall, at this moment, I am filled with gratitude.  So many important people have fought for me when they were exhausted, frustrated, and testing their own limits.  I’m definitely better at asking for help, even though I still do it begrudgingly.  Every little bit of joy in my life is crucial.  I hold to it with a tight grip, because I know my life depends on not letting go.

I’m going to share 3 poems.  The first is one I wrote right after my suicide attempt.  The second is one I wrote one year later.  The last is one I’ll write today.  You might not get to see that one until tomorrow.

I have so much love to share, and while I’m always praying in the back of my mind for people who find themselves where I’ve been.  Today, I say a *special* prayer for anyone who finds themselves in the free fall between the decision, the action, and the anxious anticipation of morning, or hell.

On Friday or Saturday, I shall return with an exciting account of my anniversary day rituals and celebrations of life.  Until then, I send my love and bid adieu! ❤

*

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Canyon Dance (March 2009)

There’s a powdery film that coats my car

in spiky yellow balls

(a spring snow of sorts),

and the only thing that could baptize it

are storm clouds.

At night I can see the

lightning

breaking in the distance

and I don’t know whether it is

hallucination

heat

or rage.

There’s something so simple in “hello,”

something concave,

and riddled with vacuity.

It is far more distant

and detached

than “goodbye;”

far more settled in its self-loathing,

far more dissociated

and damned.

This something holds me tightly

releasing me and

twirling

till only our

fingertips are touching;

swinging me in and

dipping me so low,

my hair is

reaching for the floor.

It dare not drop me.

I dare not weep,

the air so thick between us

that love could fit inside.

*

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*

Absolute Bearing (March 2010)

I don’t know how to tell you, without telling you

I don’t know how to say

that at first I counted the days like thick blue waves

crashing in rhythm on the shore

that at first they slithered by, excruciatingly,

the skin of a moistened worm

tearing as it accordians across the pavement

after the first fresh spring rain

and the days since have melted me into waiting

have mourned me into loss

rebirthed me into being

and inspired me to write

at night i can feel the walls shaking,

as though they could simply explode,

exposing me to the night sky

to the crisp winter air

a winking moon

and shimmering stars

and In my shivering slumber

I will unceasingly resign myself to the knowledge

that i chose this revelation

and I will lie in waking

a steward of this ship

‘till the morning sun warms me

and I can finally rest

*

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*

(To Be Announced- March 2011)

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