Getting over it
I was plagued with fears of all types in my past. Simple fears, like insects, mice, and heights. Social fears, that made me shy and awkward. Then there were the big fears that threw me into full panic attacks. Fear abounded in my mind. Anxiety and paranoia, crippling me to the point of deep depression and the inability to live a full life. Most fears, when investigated, will reveal a deeper fear at the core.
The fear of losing someone or something I love was particularly painful. The other fear that caused the most difficulties was the fear of being alone. Both of these fears tied together into a greater fear of death.
I couldn’t bear the thought.
I had to accept that nothing and no one is mine. That death is inevitable, and no amount of worry or protection could prevent it.
Easier said than done.
It’s a state of mind that takes time to develop. A surrender of sorts.
The surrender of your life and all things valuable and dear to you.
It’s a realization that you are only here a short time. That we are all, here for just a short time. We all will leave this place with nothing but our memories.
Life is too short to waste time on worrying and fear.
Just jump in.
All in.
Into everything you do.
When I find a fear creep into my life, I attack it.
I investigate it.
I learn what I can from it.
I bring it to light and see where it takes me.
All in or nothing.
Gluttony
He licks his berry-stained fingers, sucking sticky sugar and who knows what else from beneath the nails.
“You know that’s filthy?” Clara’s eyes search his face. He’s all angles. With how easily he devours food you’d expect curves and rolling skin.
Heath leans back in his chair. Appraising. Giving her a once over. “Perhaps,” he pauses, slipping his finger back into the sweet filling pouring out from the crust in front of him. He leans into her and feels her breath catch as he wipes the sticky mess across her mouth. Their faces almost touch, and she’s still not breathing. “Tastes good though,” he exhales as his tongue pushes its way into her mouth.
And he’s right.
It’s like eating light. It’s like drowning in oxygen. And she cannot stop. It is a hunger she could never describe. And she cannot stop. Her insides are bursting, but she cannot stop. The process of eating this pie has become her one and only need. And it never ends. And Clara must eat it all before he gets the chance to take anymore from her. She feels sick. She wants to stop. She needs to stop. She is suffocating. Food filling her so fast that her stomach cannot contain it. Red dripping from her mouth.
Heath holds her face down in the viscid expanse of sweet debris. “It’s alright, love. Keep going until you can’t. Keep going until your heart stops…”
And Clara weeps as the syrup fills her up. The sugar rushing through her veins, crashing into her heart. And her body cannot keep up. But still she wants more. And just when she thinks she will not fill until it is too late, he pulls her neck back. Her throat is exposed and her mouth is begging her to dig back in. “My turn,” he whispers and sucks every last bit of her out. And he keeps going until she can’t. He keeps going until her heart stops. Sticky morsels clinging to his throat. He keeps going because he can’t stop.
Stop It | Wrath
I know I'm not the smartest guy in the world, nor the most thoughtful, nor the calmest. But, God, you have to believe me! I'm usually not like that, no, I'm never like that! I can't even remember a thing, it was just a spur of the moment, I swear.
I remember my beloved wife, coming home late from her work. She's been like this for 6 days in a row now. I get that, she has an important job. I get that the time has changed, the old days where devoted wives stayed home and men protected their women have gone.
But she was very, very late! As a man who loved his wife, I asked where she was. "Don't start again," answered my dear wife, with a fed up attitude. I do not understand. Again?
Again?!
Why, was she in a place that was sooo secretive you couldn't even tell your husband?!
"Don't get so mad like you always do," said she, her tone getting more and more defensive and not-so-polite. "I was working."
Yes, working for hours and hours and not even saying a word to me! What am I, a statue? A hologram? I am your husband for God's sake! What, do you think your job is sooo important? So important you came home 3 and a half hours late?
"It is important and you know that!" Stop shouting. Stop shouting!
"Why can't you just calm down?" I am calm.
"Stop yelling at me!" Stop this nonsense! I am sick and tired of this. You always late, you don't talk me like you used to, you've changed so much, you can't even look at me like you used to!
"I'm not! Please, can we discuss this like adults? Don't come any closer! I love you, you know that! Do you even hear me?!"
Stop bullshitting! Just. Stop.
Looking back, I should've act different. But, God, she was just so infuriating! I couldn't see myself, I could only saw her. I couldn't think, I could only feel. She had to change, I was so sure of that, she had to change. That's why I did that. That's why I did that horrible thing. I killed my wife.
paranoia
i wake up,
scared.
i go to sleep,
scared.
i breathe,
scared.
i am,
scared.
life terrifies me.
how could it not?
who knows what lurks behind these imaginary walls?
who knows what demons are crawling under my skin?
who knows if any of the people reading this
are even
true?
or if this is my mind's made-up world
and i’m really in a coma somewhere?
life
terrifies
me.
but life is the only thing i got.
so
i wake up,
i go to sleep,
i breathe.
Getting over it.
You touch the tip of your toe in the water. Check the temperature. See if it leaves any scars. And then you proceed.
Or you dive headfirst. Cuts and bruises ignored. The scars a reminder of the fighter you are.
Either way you hit the water. Either way you get over your fear. The difference just reflects your personality.
9/3/18
It’s Not What You Think
It isn’t angels and clouds.
You don’t walk through walls,
and you don’t burn in hell.
I know. I’ve been there.
It was a bursting light
that drew me in,
to a place that has no name.
A place far beyond what is and isn’t real,
and far too strange to be called fantasy.
It is a place where colors aren’t colors,
where squares are round,
triangles are straight lines.
Heaven is black,
hell is white,
and your feet never touch the ground.
You are running and walking,
but never moving,
and this place passes you by.
I call it the waiting room to either or.
This place is your time and space,
where sound is dead, like you.
No friendly faces to greet you.
You cannot hear your thoughts,
cannot hear your screams,
cannot feel your tears,
until finally pulled back;
back through the bursting light.
You feel yourself drowning in your sweat,
your heart thunders without mercy,
and you know when you die again,
it isn’t all angels and clouds.
(This is based on a true experience I had when I died for 8 seconds, years ago.)
FREE GAMES
Not far from the Snohomish River, lies the curious home of the Slasher family. The Lushshootseed Tribe had always sensed the danger, keeping their distance, while exhausted explorers coming from the east, weary from their travels, couldn’t be blamed for letting down their guard.
The Slasher's ramshackled sign on the dusty rocky road reads FAMILIES WELCOME, Hot Bath and a Meal, 5 cents, FREE GAMES. With little hesitation, weary travelers like the Andrews family couldn't resist the invitation.
“Well I’ll be. Would you lookie here.” Mr. Andrews, let go of the wagon reins and reached into his vest pocket caressing his valued coins. Could he part with 30 cents as a special treat for his beloved family after this treacherous journey? “Daddy, please can we go,” Said his oldest Amelia, proud she could read the sign. “Darn tootin we can.”
When they disembarked the wagon and approached the stately porch, they were greeted warmly by the Slasher's. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” After shaking hands, coins were collected, and Mrs. Slasher announced the menu of chicken, greens and cornbread, as little Suzie emerged from behind her momma’s apron. "This is our precious Suzie. She’s in charge of the games. Go on now children. Run along. Dinner is at 6." Mrs. Slasher turned to the Andrews' and said, "I’ll fix up your plates so you can eat in peace while the children play." As they sat, the Andrews' didn’t get to impart much about their journey from Illinois since the Slasher’s bragged incessantly about their precious Suzie.
Amelia aged 12, didn’t particularly care to have an 8 year old in charge of this expedition, but keeping to her manners she held her tongue, even when she was sure she was going to despise Suzie by the tone of her mockery laugh. She was curious if her siblings felt the same about the sinister cacophony. After the third round of ring around the rosie, Suzie lead the Andrews' kids to the barn enticing the group with a promise of pony rides. As daylight persisted, light was mainly absent in the barn, but the hideous stench, omnipresent. “What’s that smell,” blurted Candice, the youngest, not minding her manners. “Manure of course!” Giggled Suzie. “That’s not manure! It smells like Gramps old slaughter house!” With that said, Suzie pushed the barn door shut with the strength of a 30 year old and out stepped Eski with his lantern in one hand, a seasoned machete in the other. The last thing the four children heard before Eski decapated them was their unanswered screams for their parents and the evil croon floating off Suzie’s vial tongue.
When Mr. and Mrs. Andrews bellies were full they expressed their concern about the children. Come with me said Mrs. Slasher. The fun has just begun. Let’s get you two in on the game. Eski was ready and waiting and so were the local town folk that ate well daily on the mystery meat that tasted very much like chicken.