Test-Session 2
Purpose- The testing of the durability of the Human Spirit under extreme duress.
Research Subject- 815165
Specifications- Species-Human
Type/Gender-Female
Hair/Eyes- Blnd., Hzl
Height-5'5" Wt.- 105lbs.
Life Stage- Pre-Adolescence
Dated: May 05 1986
Time: 1500 (MT)
Observer/Intuitive Perspective:
The subject is in a dark room. Neon red light begins to spiderweb all around her. The floor is splitting open below her. She does not know what to do. So she sits. The web encircles her, weaves into her mind, her thoughts, her psyche. Later, when she seeks comfort, she will re-enact the webs as best as she can, because this is what she knows. And familiarity breeds comfort. She has not stopped falling, but the webs lend her hope in the moments she brushes against them.
Observer/ Reality Perspective(as pertains to Humanoid Environment):
She is sitting on the love seat, her mother on the old cat clawed, raggedy fold out couch.
Next to the couch is the scarred up nightstand with the clock radio quietly blaring baseball stats.
Her mother's mouth stops moving and she snaps her mind to attention. She is supposed to say something here. "Uh-huh", she manages. Then too late, she realizes her mistake as her mother launches into (yet another) lecture on proper grammar that somehow sidewinds into a shaming session on what an ungrateful little slut she is.
This time, when the mouth stops moving, she is ready. Has dutifully paid attention to every single word. She is ready for the pop quiz.
She uses every ounce of willpower to control her facial muscles so the relief does not register anywhere in her expression, as she mercifully, eventually, scores high enough on the quiz to be granted dismissal.
She walks steadily to her bedroom, and carefully closes the door. Her mother values privacy. Another mystery unsolvable.
She lifts her hands to her face with a vengeance, then abruptly re-orients to grab at her hair instead. Mustn't leave marks. She yanks and pulls, grits her teeth, and screams inside her mouth.
She needs blood though, so she raises her shirt, and claws at her chest. Then she calms herself, shamed silent by her outburst.
She then looks fondly over at the pram with her baby dolls, and exclaims brightly, "Let's go for a walk!"
She is 10 and a half years old.
Session 2 concluded.
Observations recorded.
Awaiting analysis reports.
To be continued...
Redcheeks
I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.
My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.
I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.
Screaming Redcheeks.
Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.
With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.
My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.
I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.
Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.
And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.
The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.
Paradox
I've shared my breath with you in moments where words fall short.
I've seen the scars behind your eyes, silent witnesses to your struggles.
I've felt the Universe from your fingertips, a caress that carries the weight of galaxies, a touch that weaves the fabric of time and space.
I've tasted the light and darkness from your lips, a bittersweet symphony of emotions where love and pain dance on the icy rings of Saturn.
You are a mystery, a paradox wrapped in the guise of a mortal, and in your presence, I find a love that defies explanation.
Three Pathetic Words
Don't tell me you love me.
When tears fall and my heart is sliced to bloody ribbons
When the foundations of the world quake beneath my feet
When I stumble
and fall
When my soul lies rent upon our stained bedroom floor
When the darkness devours
and the call of that final step off the edge of a cliff beckons warmer than embrace
When my screams refract in eyes and lips sewn in a tight line
When a beacon of hell-fire holds more allure than the drudgery of days beneath an unforgiving sun
When the words won't cease their devouring stir
When the quiet is louder than ten thousand voices raised in song
When I cannot even hear the echo of those voices upon the cathedral walls
and the entire earth is painted in shades of sickly gray...
Don't tell me you love me.
Don't sell me the empty promise of those pathetic words.
Don't pat my hand and murmur assurances and treat me like a bird with broken wings.
Weep with me.
Ride upon the waves of ground bucking beneath our feet.
Fall beside me and clutch me to your chest. I promise to hold you right back.
Bring the cleaning bucket and glue and we'll spend the afternoon washing away the stains and sticking the broken parts of each other back together until we're whole.
Step with me into the darkness. I don't need a flashlight, so long as I can feel your hand in mine.
Leap into the sea at my side and we'll laugh as we sink beneath the waves.
Open your eyes and see that sometimes we both need those silent screams.
Walk with me through the gates of hell and help me seize our dormant dreams.
Be the paper upon which I might spill the words in a hurricane of poetic rain.
Sing with me, so that our voices might drown out the sound of that terrible silence.
Sit with me and let me hurt. Let me paint the world in crimson shades of my pain. We'll hurt together. Heal together.
Don't tell me you love me.
Tell me you understand.
And maybe then, I'll believe you next time you say those three pathetic words.
Show me you love me
and together
we'll soar.
~ EMBRACING THE UNIVERSE ~
The universe, an endless embrace, Holding us gently in its vast space, Reminds us of our small, brief spark, In a dance that is both light and dark.
Comets streak across the sky, Tales of wanderers, as they fly by, Asteroids and meteors, silent and bold, Carrying the secrets of times untold.
Each star, a beacon of ancient light, Whispers secrets of the universe’s might, Stories of worlds we’ve yet to see, Of infinite possibilities.
As I gaze into the infinite night, Filled with wonder, awe, and delight, I find my soul begins to soar, Embracing the universe, forevermore.
©poembyselly
Smile though your heart is breaking...
The flowers will still bloom
as will the trees,
the sky will reign blue
as will the seas,
all will be as it ever was
long after we cease to be;
but nothing will be the same
when you have left me
the sun will shine
yet only shadows will I see
for my sun will be no more
your light gone from me;
And thus, I weep alone
so that when I hold you
I do not to cry for what has been
and soon won't be
but rather smile,
while you are still with me.