72-Hours For Peace of Mind or A Piece of Your Mind
Feelings of despair
overrun my senses
deep breathing practices
stall the consequences
*
Thoughts are pulsating
as echoes in my head
mental pain overwhelms
emotions full of dread
**
This blade slices deeply
yet not as well as my word
I am surrounded by people
yet solitude is preferred
***
Intellectual shortcomings
led to a lack of erudition
my search for verbal discourse
brought me to this institution
****
With its ceiling to floor padding
comfort is never problematic
this reverse overcoat fits snug
choices are no longer democratic
*****
Though it may seem surprising
my time here is for introspection
they have convinced me that
it’s for my own protection
******
I no longer seek adventure
not because I’ve become lazy
fortunately I’m locked in here
as I am certifiably crazy
Tipsy psychosis
I was six glasses in before I began to see shadows in the fog. These watchers would roam narrow alleyways to ensure a swift army of dark forces outweighed the light in a delicate balance of my demise. They were tall and lean with sinister intent, slithering and sulking through the subways of my subconscious. San Francisco city streets were the heaviest, their weight could be felt in the air, the stench of them. A brutality that fed on the pain of broken dreams.
Every city has a pulse, an army, an avenue of the dead. The watchers had arrived six glasses in, and the war I knew, was about to begin.
Barely Breathing
Choking throat,
a quivering tremble
deep inside.
the merciless grip
holding me tightly in place.
I am numb
the body jerks.
a slap, almost dull
distant now.
I have no thought,
no memory
my existence is void
in this moment
I have already left.
A nothing,
only buzzing
in this body.
movement,
shaking,
bracing,
barely breathing.
while this monster
takes
my life,
takes a piece of me.
there I freeze.
there part of me stays,
rigid,
barely breathing.
how does one move on?
how do I
move on?
my mind left that moment
back then;
running,
fleeing, long ago.
but this body
is still there,
barely breathing.
It still hurts, I still cry
April 10, 2009
My Granny (my grandmother’s mum)
She was very old when I was a kid
She walked with a walker
And she couldn’t do much
Whenever we went to my grandmother’s house
She was always sitting in her chair
It was her chair
But you weren’t allowed to do anything
Until you saw her first
First,
you give her a hug and say hello
Next,
she would ask you how your week went
Then,
You would sit at her knees as she prays for you to have a good week and for protection
Finally,
She would give you a wet kiss on the cheek (I always hated this part)
But that was the routine every single time we went to my grandmother’s house
Until one day
She went from sitting in her chair
To laying in her bed
Then it was the same routine but from her bed
Until one day it stopped
She was really weak
And week after week
You can see her getting weaker
The smell her organs slowly shutting down filled the apartment
I remember one day the paramedics came to my grandmother’s house because my granny couldn’t poop on her own
I remember the smell of death that day
April 10, 2009
My father got a call from my grandmother that my granny was in the hospital
Me, my parents and my brothers all got into our car and drove an hour to the hospital
When we arrived to her hospital room
My grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins were there too
she had a bunch of tubes in her
And she had that smell on her again
The smell of death
We knew she wasn’t going to make it
I remember my grandmother crying so hard she couldn’t walk
And all I told myself was to stay strong, don’t cry
Because if I did it would make the situation worse
The line went flat
No more “how was your week?”
No more prayers
No more gross wet kisses
No more granny
I was 9 when she died
I still didn’t cry
Until I was 14
I broke down crying in my parents room after writing a page in my notebook about her
14 years later
It still hurts
I still cry
When I remember her sometimes
And I still don’t know why
The World is Filled with Hope
I’m sitting here at the airport and overhearing the most powerful & inspiring conversation:
A man is sitting with his father and openly talking about depression, suicide, the power of therapy, and the power of God.
He repeatedly said “I love you” and “I care about you”.
Let that sink in
His Truth, My Truth
“Hello. This is Temptation Entertainment. How can I assist you?”
“Yes, my name is Mary, um, I want to place an order for today.”
“Would this order be for a male or female or both?”
“I would like a male, preferably a young male, and ah good looking.”
“We can help you with your selection, but first, a few questions. Have you ever placed an order with us before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“That is alright. All we will require is a credit card to proceed. Could you type into the secure line your credit card number for authentication?”
(Sound of digital data transfer)
"Miss Mary, by the looks of your account balance, we at Temptation Entertainment, can help you with a selection, but only with a limited amount of selections. Do you still wish to proceed?"
"Yes, yes I do."
"Well, that is wonderful. Using the confines of your budget, we have an excellent candidate for you. His name is Theodore. He is 24 and an athlete, a swimmer I believe. His profile states he is fluent in French and is working on his masters. He is open and caring and best of all, available for the entirety tonight and within your budget. In his profile picture, he strikes a most handsome pose. Would Theodore be of interest to you?"
"I am a bit skeptical when you describe him. What is the catch? There must be something wrong with him. What is it?"
"Mary, may I call you Mary? To divulge that bit of information will cost a sum of funds that exceeds your current credit limit. I cannot divulge that information to you. I can, however, assure you Theodore will be an excellent match or your money back. Mary, will you agree to our selection for you?"
I wait during my self-imposed long, almost too long, awkward pause.
"Yes, I agree. Please have Theodore arrive at my address by noon. Have him dress semi-formal for the evening."
"Thank you Mary for your business with Temptation Entertainment."
The doorbell rang at 11:59. I dressed in my best gown. It took nearly four hours to get ready. My wheelchair hinders my movements and such attire is not easily donned by a single person. I put forth the effort. I put forth the money. I have expectations for today, more for tonight. Theodore had better measure up.
I opened the door to find Theodore standing there. He is young and very handsome. His build is athletic adorned with a sandy blonde hair that so many swimmers acquire after years in the pool. His smile was as well-rehearsed as a man in his position would have. The only thing I could not see was his eyes.
His dark glasses and walking stick spoke volumes in this regard.
I greeted him and extended my hand to shake. My actions became awkward and he fumbled a foot higher than I offered. It took a few taps of the stick, a few light touches, and Theodore found my hand. He also found my face. He stroked my contours as if running a facial recognition scan. I watched his motions and detailed reactions to what he discovered.
Theodore's eyes may be vacant, but his face is one large tell.
A brief cough on my part and I asked him in. I wanted to speak to him, but he raised a single finger to hinder my voice. I never heard him say Shhhh, but I didn't have to.
Theodore tapped the confines of my apartment for the next ten minutes, mapping each detail. To me, it looked like a sequential plan of attack. It may have even had an element of sonar, maybe even radar. Theodore was a tactician of sorts. When he finished, he sat on my couch, in the very spot I wanted him to sit. To prove his skill set was beyond question, he tapped the cushion. He wanted me to approach. I wanted to approach.
And approach I did.
The situation called for a bottle of wine. I had a recent white chilling. He found it, opened it, and poured effortlessly.
One glass for me. One glass for him. A clink followed by a sip (for him) and a gulp (for me). He heard me swallow. I was nervous. He looked calm.
Then there was silence.
Its duration was minimal, barely thirty seconds, but its impact was tremendous. We didn't have to speak. I searched his soul for an entry. Shakespeare was correct about the eyes as a window. Theodore had not the windows for my excursion.
Yet, he did have patience and with patience, I made the first move.
"Tell me about your pain. Tell it all to me. Leave no stone unturned. I want to know it all."
Theodore took off his glasses to reveal the physical scars of a recent trauma. The left eye was void and the right eye barely visible. It was horrific to see. I gasped and Theodore raised his glasses to reduce my suffering. Instinctively, I reached to stop his progress. I told Theodore I was fully ready to proceed.
I would not have bet such injuries would permit intact tear ducts to function. Theodore proved me wrong in my assumption. He will carry his emotional trauma for life. If everything goes well, today we will share. If everything goes very well, he will no longer have to carry this trauma alone.
"I lost my sight during a photo shoot at an industrial site. I was posing for a construction worker calendar when a 440V electrical bus arced across my face and back. I lost my sight instantly. The current set the skin on my back on fire. Those in proximity decided to save my face first. Their actions limited the damage to the area a pair of dark glasses could cover. Obviously, my back did not fare as well."
"Theodore, how did you become what you are for Temptation Entertainment?"
"Considering my limited options, I am very fortunate to be in the employ of Temptation. They have always overlooked my disabilities and placed me with clients who do also. Of course, I do not garner the pay other entertainers do."
The last sentence hurt, possibly intentionally. He did not say it with ease. I was on a limited budget and Theodore was in my price range. 50% of the cost only delivers 50% of the product. I should have known better than to have asked.
However, the fact that Theodore paused to take another drink of the wine (a gulp this time) made me believe I was not the first to ask him of his history. I should be ashamed of my position to even ask him to be in this position. I would have remained ashamed if he had not changed the subject toward me.
It was my time to expose myself. I swallowed dry just before Theodore poured another full glass of wine for me. His technique was amazing. His timing was equally so.
I took my time before I began. I wanted to be brief and thus avoid the catastrophic details of my history. Another gulp and I finished the wine. Another look at his eyes and I began.
"I have been a beauty pageant contestant since the age of five. I have lived for the drama, the showmanship, and the thrill of competition. I worked the circuit with my mother and aunts and then my agent. The latter began grooming me for Miss America after I won Miss Alabama. That was ten years ago. I was at the top of my game. I danced. I spoke well. I made appearances. Everyone loved to see me. Everyone applauded whatever I did. And what I did was smile and wave. Sixteen hours a day I would smile and wave. It hurts to smile so much. It gave me early arthritis to wave equally as frequently. I gave it all to the pageantry. I should have saved something for the after pageantry."
My hands trembled as I looked for another sip. My glass was empty. His was half empty. I reached for it and our hands briefly touched. He slowly released what I wanted after I paid his price of acknowledgment. I didn't need the wine, but I certainly wanted it none-the-less. Ironically, drinking from Theodore's glass made the contents taste just a bit better. The label rated the vintage 85 points. I could now give it 87.
If he could see my blush, he would have to be fast. It only lasted for a mere second before the pain of what I had to disclose surfaced.
"Theodore, what you cannot see is that I am wheelchair bound. After winning Miss Alabama, I was hit by a car and left for dead. The driver left me in the parking lot only to be found the next morning with a shattered hip and two broken femurs. The surgeons repaired most of the superficial damage, but my spine never recovered. So I sit in this chair, counting the days since. I have gained enough weight to no longer be asked to speak for contestants. I have aged enough years to agree with them. I live in a world that once was. People refer to me in the past tense. That is the life I have left to me."
Another moment of self-imposed silence before I began weeping solely because I have limited options. Weeping presents a treatment for my symptoms. The root cause of my problems goes much deeper. It is pain, but it is my pain. Truth exacts such a price.
I could have told Theodore this. I do not believe he never heard these words before. I am not a doctor, but I said them to him even so.
I have known Theodore for nearly one hour and have grown closer to him more than married people do in decades. Another awkward silence precedes all of our revelations.
I was not to be disappointed with this repose.
"Mary, now that we are closer than I even expected, what is your pleasure?" He was looking directly at me, sans glasses, and looking right through me, all at the same time. I have him, bought and paid for, for the rest of the day. I cannot afford to keep him in this manner, to fulfill my needs again.
This time, I poured the remainder of the wine between our two glasses. I gave him mine and kept his. Purposely.
Previously, I would have found an excuse to decline such an advance. But that was then and this is now. I have been cocooned in a shell of my own making for far too long. I have acted this exact scene too many times; each performance resulting in my failure to take that final step that sets me free.
I have no remaining chances for tomorrow. Thus, I threw caution to the wind.
My chrysalis fractures in response to the strength of my resolve.
"Theodore, can you make love to me as if you were in love with me?"
We ran out of wine, champagne, and whiskey by Monday morning.
Tuesday, Theodore told me he fancied beer.
Every Friday, we go shopping.
Together.
Death Becomes Me
The night was sultry...like a sweaty hooker. I peeled off my t-shirt, dangled it from my back pocket, and skittered across the street bathed in amber from the tired lights I tried to avoid. But those amber lights did not bend the corner that I did; they shrank away as I ducked into that narrow alley, and the darkness stretched out like a river of ink... flowing like a current to my salvation...to justice.
As I moved through the pitch, the building came into focus and I could see a dancing wick in the attic. I could feel the sweat rolling down my back, and I could hear every pebble under foot. I scanned the edges of the darkness for movement, but I sensed no threats...only prey.
By the time I reached the top of the fire escape I could hear something. A rhythmic squeak that was hard to place. I leaned closer trying to make it out, and the rhythm picked up in speed and intensity. I crawled through the hall window and toed my way up the stairs, skipping every other one, until I could see him. He was rocking, in an old wooden chair, mumbling feverishly.
I crept up behind him, and time slowed down; the only thing that existed was her. I could see her again, clear as day...but his rocking pulled my focus back...cut through the red.
I was over his shoulder now, and he was oblivious. I could see that he was reading a Bible, but all the pages had been replaced... replaced with pictures... And as he read deeper, and deeper into his book, he rocked harder, and faster.
His mumbling grew to a growl and he flipped the pages more and more violently, as if he were looking for something. I slowly leaned down and stretched my hand to my boot when all of his emotional motion came to a complete halt. I froze for a moment as he peered at his book. He began rocking back and forth in his seat like a mental patient and I slowly rose to my full form... then I saw her there. A page in his book.
Everything was tinted red again and my razor bristled with anticipation. That man bore witness, as his world transformed into a Jackson Pollack splatter, of his own body matter...and after it all, I waited. I hid and I waited; because I knew that another little maggot would come creeping out.
I had lost count of the hours and the days, when the first maggot appeared. In spite of the display of art, this maggot began rooting through the carnage in search...when he found the "Bible" he tucked it into his jacket and scurried away...but not away from me. No he merely lead me to the viper's den.
I would spend many dark nights painting the walls with these men, and in every piece of art, I saw her.
I once was lost, but then I was found... found by a man with a thorny crown who asked me to show the world the art of war again...war against the evil of men.
Rain (1996)
The rain started to fall,
I felt it wash down my cheek.
Reminding me
Of my long gone innocence
as it washed away my sins.
I felt the rain drops streak
Down my face
So much
Like the many tears I have denied.
I felt it wash away my yesterdays,
Wash away my doubts
As it washes away my fear
I start to feel myself now
Thinking of tomorrow,
Of starting over.
I smile for the rain
Has refreshed my being,
Like the rainbow after the storm,
It has refreshed my soul.
Eons of Warmth
It was the stars, I think.
They're brighter in the winter, the skies are clearer. It's with their clarity found snippets of peace.
At night my body shook, hard wracks against the wood of the chair I slept in. The sharp stab of wood against bone was a common cause of bruising on my right shoulder.
I never much liked the feel of cotton, yet in those days cotton is what I clung to. Though touching it sent goose bumps up my neck I envoloped my body in the dead plant. Two layers of it if I could. Even now I can still feel the horrid texture gently sliding against the very tip of my left forefinger. Yet my body shook with chills and the cold hurt. Life was stiff joints and cramped muscles. Cotton would do.
I would sit on the back of the truck and look at the stars. Look at them through the thin whisp that was my breath. I'd feel the wind bite through my three layers as the wind whipped about my loose hair. My stomach would growl and the sharp pain right below my diaphragm would stab. The dull ache spreading down to my lower gut because the moldy bread I had for breakfast was not enough. It was never enough. Nevertheless, I looked at the stars.
Mornings were filled with coughing and freezing showers, if I could work up the courage to endure such torture. The smoke from the nightly fire would be so thick I could taste it down the back of my throat all day. It would scratch with every word I spoke and flavor my food. My eyes burned. So when I got home I would sit on the truck and I would look at the stars. I would breathe the daggered air because only the sharp pain of the frigid winter could cure the taste of raw smoke.
I dreamed of a warmth I did not have. Of people I did not have near. Of bread without mold. Of a bed.
What is summer but the celebrated prime of the survivors? Spring is but a youthful testing. The summer is the celebration where not a single fear is held of the soul-piercing wind of a winter night.
Stars live outside the wane of a freezing winter. I took comfort seeing their warmth, eons old. I dug deep down, seeking to find my own warmth to last the eons and I found it. It's like the fires that I made that *did* last the whole night (many did not). At the coldest point of the night the embers burned. Not with brilliant fire, for those went out the fastest. No, with a dull glow and steadfastness.
These days I work with people who never found that fire and I only hope to spread the flame. Spread the summer. To burn through one more winter.
"In the midst of winter, I finally found there was within me an invincible summer"