I Think Shit’s Gonna Get Serious.

It’s difficult to admit when you’re having a relapse. That feeling of weakness and utter degradation of having to have your partner, your world, your reason for breathing come into the bedroom to make sure your back is supported by pillows, that you’re not in pain. And you’re extremely aware that you smell similar to the back end of a rhino and you didn’t remove yesterdays make-up. But you keep fighting; you walk tall even though your back is killing you. You stand upright even though it is exhausting and your balance is shot to shit.

I forever speak in riddles, jokes or hyperbole…shall I go for some honesty here? It’s rare so prepare yourself.

I speak in we’s and you’s when I am at my most vulnerable. It is a coping mechanism I created to feel less alone so when I failed at something I could always say “we are trying something new” or “we decided to take a walk”. I is usually reserved for when I screw up.

I is ownership. I is a way of identifying what feelings are mine. I is how my heart beats faster when something has touched me. I is a very strong individual.

But I didn’t come from nothing. I sometimes forget that the path I left behind is strewn with mistakes and problems and paths untravelled and abandoned dreams, relationships, toys, people etc.

I’m rambling. What I am getting at is that I have fought my way through a lot of stuff…and I often fall into old habits of taking my strength for granted. And I think it is something we (I) often do; usually when we (I) want to be taken care of or when we (I) make a mistake or when we (I) long for someone to understand where we’re (I’m) coming from… (See all the ‘we’? I must be hitting a nerve!)

Riley and I had a conversation tonight and, to cut a long (and private) story short, she reminded me of how important learning to love myself was to how my life is now. And how I don’t think I would go back and change anything that has happened in it for the world because I trust that I was doing it for the right reasons at the time. And I love the person that made those decisions then as much as I love myself now. I was doing what I could. I regret some of them, sure. And I would have done things differently if I had the brain and love for myself that I have now. Insert long sentence of self loathing.

But…hindsight is 20/20, lense power adjusted due to experience. Cant have one without the other.

I am going to share something important with you. And it is possibly triggering so please mind the gap- shit’s about to get deep. It’s a poem. And it is a poem that was the turning point in my recovery from before. It was when I became this girl; a girl on fire. I love with wild abandon, I live for the moment and I know my own strength. I think, often, we are too humble and take our strength for granted… so I’m going to type this out to you to remind myself where my strength comes from…and when I discovered it. And maybe it will touch you so you remember where your strength comes from. I wrote this when I first entered recovery for PTSD in 2013.

Clothes are short cut; short but short of nothing but the word “no”
Is embroidered on me from head-to-toe.
Cross stitch, pearl stitch with not a stitch
On but stinking piss
Seaming down my legs. “You okay?”
No- no way.
Go ‘way.
There. Stay.
And don’t come near.
Because I fear- of course, I fear!

Lonely light. Camera type? No. No dice. A lonely price
for pissing in the private night.
“You okay?”
I’m fine, okay? Stay that way? No, not today.
Skin, black. Night, black. All black. All over, Jack!
All over me.

It doesn’t hurt me, no agony in that cavity
where his fingers have no right to be.
Blind in my prefontal cortex
A dissassociated vortex
Of no thought, every thought;
Distraight notions of how and what I should feel next.
Nothing.

Mind is gone; all is wrong. From this point on we’re physical
and nothing is so trivial
than how long I have to think
and drink in the thought
of the brink being close
and the stench of some unwanted, foreign stink.

His hands crawl upon the former wretch; A motionless wall of flesh
while I become a being, fresh
with primal bite and primitive, spite-
ful screaming to the waking night.
And he will run from what he has done,
from whom he’s done.
As I, with mighty fury, have won.

Tomorrow morning views two inches of local paper’s news:
Girl fucked up in Festing Mews.
And four more years of closing doors
and drunk dance floors; still screaming
while that Girl is reeling
to break free from feeling
every thought, no thought. Nothing.

Empty girl is forever mourning another morning
of empty motion and no emotion.
But not this morning. Nothing for it.
Grin and bare it.
And stare it down this time.
The trial is not behind, or in front but now.
And wow….
I am powerful.

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