She looks like me, I think. Thick, black hair parted to the side bearing her calloused, violin bow fingers, perfectly even skin from a lack of sun exposure, small, delicate features taken from a mother who looked too young to be in her late forties, too conventionally foreign to be regarded as anything but exotic. She looks like me, I think, in spite of the obvious height difference that dictated the loose fit of my hand-me-down jeans and sweaters, in spite of the more mature, filled frame that gave the impression that we were more than only one year apart in all of our years of schooling together. In spite of our shared bathroom and consequent shower utilities, she was the softest, most lemon-and-sage-smelling person I'd ever come into contact with -- though arguably that was a given, considering that she was the only person I knew who bothered to go through handfuls and handfuls of lemon and sage lotion by the week -- and even now I can imagine the whiff of her perfume-like soap and shampoo just barely passing me by, unnoticed and caught all at once in her constant urge to hurry here, there, anywhere. Always rushing, rushing, rushing. The pudgy underside of a chin that I remember so fondly had already blossomed into that of the practical, busy young woman that I'd always known she would become before I'd graduated to a higher schooling, its definite, nearly sharpened lines demanding attention and respect from its viewers. She'd look more like herself if the rest of her appearance were formed to follow suit, I'm sure. That practical, busy topknot had been too carefully undone to cascade past her shoulders against the cotton lining of the casket, the simple daily application of medicated lip balm elevated to another level of beautification: cheeks a false, rosy pink, lips and eyes nearly drawn on in an imitation of what our mother had always wanted her to look. My sister beneath the glass looks a little too much like me now, with femininity pasted upon her features like a child playing grown-up in her mother's clothes, and I can barely force myself to think of the body as someone who had once held so much vivid, raw life force within her veins. Enough to shock a post-cardiac arrest victim to life, were she still in the working condition to perform such actions. But this stranger beneath the glass carries neither the scent of lemon and sage lotion, nor the telltale callouses of a habitual musician upon her fingertips, nor the plain and undone features of one who had spent innumerable hours poring over medical textbooks and research papers, dozens upon dozens of factoids that she used to tell me before the pills, before the smoke.

I stare down at this caricature of my sister glumly.

My mother -- our mother, actually, in spite of the fact that she had all but abandoned her after my sister's ventures into unspoken things past her dictated medical things -- clasps her fingers around my shoulders in the duration of a moment before releasing me, an intended gesture of comfort that does anything but. Isn't she lovely? She seems to whisper, smiling tearfully. Isn't she beautiful? She traces the glass in an impression of my sister's perfect, demanding chin before pausing over the gash hidden under the blue dress, thoughtful. My sister had gone through nearly a decade of medical school; she'd known where to injure herself quickly and efficiently with as a little of a chance of being saved as possible. My mother murmurs something again about the pleasing aesthetics of her formulated appearance again, and I quash the hint of anger and annoyance that threatens to rise in my chest. I had been the one to find her, after all. Even on the bathroom floor she had looked more like herself than this beauty of a dead body lying against cushioned slats.

Breath in. Breath out. There is absolutely no possible way, I tell myself, that this beautiful stranger within this beautiful box could have ever been anything close to resembling my sister.

don't you know what you are?

Like an eagle in the sky

Like a wolf's cry to the moon;

Noticing the twinkle in your eyes is imbedded in my existence

i see the passion that sets you apart,

and drives your heart.

remove the thorns from your crown

recognize that you are too special for

this town

All of the people around

are blinded by the beauty in your possession,

Scavengers strive to swipe your innocence filled to the brim with lustful temptation indistinguishable to that of Adam & Eve's,

but i challenge you to discover the difference in my own heart.

Slice open my imagination,

view my thoughts.

a reflection of your beautiful black; sun-kissed skin is what will appear.

The weight of my world is enclosed in the palm of your dark hands, but you are not aware.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Recently, I met Neville, a 23-year-old homeless man who is in denial about his mental illness.  My experience trying to help him presented me with a perfect opportunity to be thankful today and every day.   I'm sharing an excerpt that I wrote about him, and I hope you will take the time to read the full essay at http://jcscripts.com/rescuing-neville/.  Thank you for your interest.

~

“They gave up on me. It was either their way or the highway.”

I didn’t press it. I already knew the story. I saw a picture in my mind of  his family trying to keep him safe and his making decisions that made it difficult for them to do so. Been there, done that. “What’s your mental illness?”

There’s nothing wrong with me?” He smiled.

Oh shit. I wanted to tell him that he was sitting in a public place having a full-fledged conversation with his invisible friends. Seriously.

Image via Google by Namoi89

My head is too crowded and noisy,

I can't hear the truth through the throng,

Throbbing the pathways in my thoughts.

Reflected in my throat by a lump,

So colossal I can hardly breathe.

I'm bombarded by the bustle,

That resonates with the cramped cluster,

Easily comparable to a food market in Gloucester.

One with freebies.

The river flows down the dock,

I don't know where it sprung from,

I've tried many a map,

But I don't have the resources.

So I force this flow to stop.

I tell everyone to go home,

Hide away the unknown,

And return to the un-peaceful,

Quiet of on my own.

I worry that the boy I bury,

Is all alone and I can't tell,

If the tears are his,

Or if there is more of me to learn.

I have to shut it down.

Shut it down and stand firm,

So I don't catch myself dying again.

I try to keep my brain in the room.

The room I am sitting in.

Keep my hands by my sides.

I need to be weapon-less,

But disarmed feels dangerous,

So I jiggle my foot or rock,

From side to side and then a scramble,

Of tears convey the tide.

It's just a second but I keep it in,

By slapping my eyes,

I am dreaming of knives till my head collides,

With the side till I get up and pace it off,

But I find myself at the fridge or a shop,

With a snack in my gob,

Far from the feeling that started this off.

Without even knowing I have run,

So far but it is never quite enough,

To escape the bazaar. It's a long way from the start,

But it feels like I'm stuck in the thick of it,

Surrounded by the noise. Surrounded by the fire.

I see you

Not by reflections of light

But by heat

Transferred from your hands

After I've endured

A long walk

Alone

In the frigid November rain.

when life gives you lemons

take them away

go sell them to the store

and buy something you want

not ugly lemons

There are not enough

Tears in my ducts to undo

The rush'd loss of us--

Not enough octaves

To cover the hollow staves

Taunting my raw tongue.

The air is wanting

And my gasps find no purchase

In the low-hung clouds.

The sky is vaunting--

Baring down on me again--

Vast, loud, and unkind.

Is this what it means

To drown on dry land?

I'm so sorry about saying all this now,

it's a little too late, believe me, I know,

but I have to tell these things to you somehow,

before it's buried too deep within the snow.

I know I should have told you way before,

how much you really meant to me,

you were all I could ever, in a million years, ask for,

now that I've lost you, I know why I couldn't see.

I'm sorry about how much I hurt you,

the guilt you felt about breaking my heart,

and I try to ease the pain, to show you I still love you,

no matter how much your words tears me apart.

I just wanted you to know it's okay,

I should have never let you go anyway. 

i am nothing but a manifestation of your idea of me

i have molded and changed to your whims

i have thrown myself into mirrors and let my body bleed

i have scarred and created a million red canvases on my skin

you decide the countless faceless people i should be

/after a thousand washes, even my shadow isn't real/

addiction is everywhere in every pore of the atmosphere and infiltrates the human skin

like yeast on dough for bread to grow, it breeds in lungs, infects the heart, loves the dark yet it glows seen by every eye except at times, it blinds the one infected,

from greed to lust, to hell or bust, it can fully take you

from games we play to live our day, to eat its breed addiction

it kills all other needs except the one it holds

could be by your crotch,

could be by the thrill of pills

could be most anything to anyone

won't let go 'til it sucks each drop, your blood and guts, your soul consumes,

denial spits its spit of subterfuge, lies on you from Belial's tongue

love/hate addict hiding in the attic, living in full view,

on the streets, behind closed doors,

steals your time, your brain

full throttle in the bottle, in your guts, in your pants and underwear

never satisfies wants more and more, burns like radiation

sickness of the eye and brain, maybe genitalia

makes you lose your will, impossible to satisfy its cravings,

makes you hard, cold heart of stone, brittle like the glass

leaves you high and dry, your nerves tingle, brings no fix

to your desperation's try, raging animal within,

hiding from the light and right

forsake your wife your kids, beliefs that gave you wit

sacrifice your own precious soul instead, for a poison dart

fed by your heart, right from the start is how it got back in

dereliction of duty to self and life for those that love you back

the thing that sucks your blood, it's crud,

destroys your clear eyed mind, you walk in haze,

fully dazed by belial's charming view

at times you see beyond and past your blinded fog

sometimes you catch a glimpse of him, horns and all

dragon breath comes through the veil between you and him

sulfur smell, maggot worms coming out his ears,

feeds off your soul's addiction, he laughs

pulls the veil black, back over his bony head to disappear

leaves you standing stripped and casts another spell

drags you down to hell.

you sacrifice love of life for its sticky vice, you die a hundred deaths

you see your family disappear, your every breath sucked in your chest,

serves to keep the thing alive though it kills you day by day,

clouds your mind, makes you into a zombie slave

pushed around by every whim, like a coward makes you feel,

unless perchance a saving messenger gives you a glance,

by grace instilled, your hunger filled by one who understands

if you let,

freedom waits with the truth,

kills the lie spawned by addiction's leech

replaces your empty hunger's need with love

love not for lust or world gain,

not for pleasure at every cost,

but Love

for Love is a Person who spilled his blood for you

give you a cure, he'll let a bit of pain at times, at times a lot,

much more than you can bear sometimes

will lead to death of self, your flesh addiction's death,

your life spared though you die, you'll see

your final light as it turns from dim to black

will become blazing bright by the Shepard

He will bathe you clean and pure

for if you want love of Him, it's promised sure for you,

in his arms, free of vice, is everlasting life