I read this on a NYC subway ad part of the “Poetry in Motion” campaign – which brought poetry to The City’s commuters. It has resonated with me ever since. I memorized it, without effort, after I first read it and remember it to this day:
This is where I came from. I passed this way. This should not be shameful Or hard to say.
A self is a self. It is not a screen. A person should respect What he has been.
This is my past Which I shall not discard. This is the ideal. This is hard.
Thank you everyone for reading. I appreciate all of you. You gave me a voice when I really needed to be heard. This blog is anonymous for a reason. I am probably “signing off” for good. It is a cruel world we live in and I’m not fit for survival. I have some serious decisions to make. If you do not hear from me, know I am no longer suffering. I wish you all well. Truly.
Happy Thanksgiving. As most holidays, I spent it alone. Well, not completely. I have my elderly dogs by my side and for that I am grateful, but I do also require human engagement. If you have a family that loves you (that needs you) – be grateful. People are not meant to be alone.
The very beginning I do not recall. I feel the remnants of the memories of not being alone. I am a twin. He was taken away when we were seven. We have an older brother. He is the only one that remained with our mother. I love both of my brothers more than they know and I am so proud of them and what they’ve accomplished. We were poor. We are all disabled. I had an imaginary family with an imaginary home. I remember it still to this day. I would stay up at night, under my blanket, and daydream about my secret life – imagining eating turkey dinners. I could taste it as my stomach rumbled – keeping me from falling asleep. My abusive father was gone by the time I was nine. He did not always pay child support. We did not always have electricity and we seldom had enough to eat. He did take us out, though, later on. My mother and I did not get along. We did when I was a toddler – I vaguely remember some bonding moments. I was never given a set of keys to my home and she kicked me out regularly. I moved in with my father when I was 11 – until I entered a group home at 14 after spending time in shelters and on the street, hiding for my own safety. I was a high-achieving, talented child with many accolades and awards. From where the motivation came, I can not say; possibly to feel a sense of control over my life, to aim for better things, the thought that one day I may learn what happiness feels like. The early years that I do remember were terrifying, violent, unstable, lonely. Middle childhood up until early adulthood seemed like an endless stream of suicidal ideations and assaults; verbal, physical, sexual. I almost died when I was twenty. I moved to another state. Despite everything, I had attended the single top high school in the country, skipped a grade, and earned a MS Ed. in Psychology. It gave me insight. It made me feel hopeless. Although I found love in high school with someone amazing, I sabotaged it and I have been paying karmically￼ ever since. People are programmed to be self-serving; self-persevering. I learned what depressive realism is. My 20s consisted of a string of toxic relationships. Got into a bad car accident. Forever disabled. I spent my 30s in complete solitude. I wanted a family. I wanted love. I could have – should have – died.
I will not be bullied or silent anymore. I will defend what is right even if it is often a losing battle. Ignorant people are everywhere. Some of us need to be teachers and we all have listening and learning to do. I will not be the last pillar to fall before this structure collapses entirely.
I live in a world that I do not understand. I feel disconnected – like a missing link – not quite human but some type of intelligent, unknown hominid deserving of personhood. Evolved in some ways – yet, some kind of mutant. The first, the last, the only one of my kind. Not quite a person but still a primate that requires love and friendship; a sensitive, misunderstood, sentient being with a wide range of emotions who is terrible at making small talk, cannot physically tolerate loud noises and pungent odors, and occasionally writes run-on sentences.
Inconsequential things do not interest me. Ask me a simple question and I will respond as thoroughly – and often unnecessarily and sometimes contextually inappropriately – as I can. I will tell you everything I know about the subject. I like to understand the way things work. I read a lot. I do not notice – nor do I understand – why people do not like this behavior. Unecessary time consumption? Why ask if you are not interested? I just say, “tell me more”. I am invested. I am learning something.
I like picking up new skills: changing a tire, fixing a garbage disposal, plant grafting, going to a boxing class. I want to know everything. However, I am limited. My mental and physical capacity is insufficient – so is yours – so is everyone’s; the tools and resources do not exist – they have not yet been invented.
Shakespeare was right: we are all just actors on a stage. I am a performer with no theatre or audience, standing in the spotlight, nervously looking at a world full of nothing but empty chairs. My performance is irrelevant – no one is present to see or hear. There are no eyes or ears. I am invisible. I am alone. Still, I feel the pressure to be liked and accepted. An impossible feat. An unrealistic expectation.
Had a date on NYE,
A horrible disaster.
I drank, I ate, I spoke, I sighed,
Turned out that he was plaster.
Food was fresh –
Veggies displayed on a nice platter.
Suddenly I realized,
He was me and I was him…
But the latter.
Shakespeare was right – we are all just actors on a stage. I am a performer in a vacant theatre with no audience, standing in the spotlight, nervously looking at a world full of nothing but empty chairs. My presentation is irrelevant – no one is in attendance to see or hear. There are no eyes or ears. I am invisible. I am alone. Still, I feel the pressure to be liked and accepted. An impossible feat. An unrealistic expectation.
You treat me like a criminal.
Deserving of solitary confinement,
Not fit for society.
Serving a life sentence.
Death is my only way out,
To be burried without a service,
In an unmarked grave.
Snowflakes falling down on us are there to let us know,
That all the world and all its cares combined create the snow.
So when you think of winter,
think of those you love.
And with each thought you have in mind,
a snowflake forms above.
I don’t want to be your rag doll anymore. My threads have worn thin and I barely recognize myself. Once an item of adoration, no one wants to play with me anymore. I’m tired of sitting in your junk drawer with my eyes drawn open. Reluctantly smiling hurts my tired, drunk jaw. It will take some crafty stitching to keep this baby doll from falling apart.
Walking towards the music to the sounds of my despair,
If only I could better listen to the true rhythm that is there.
I dance solemnly without a partner,
To a march without a beat,
This chaotic twisting pattern has proved to be too much for my feet.
The pain that once was centered has traveled up and down my spine.
It has made me clumsy in my steps and foolish in my mind.
As I stumble out of these inconsistencies,
I hope to fall into my place.
But I only land inside a different song with a faster,
More painful pace.
The past is a familiar juxtaposition of dreadful memories.
An existentialist’s nightmare is to not understand themself.
They do not comprehend what they have been through,
Fear to go back.
They no longer wish for death because they have already degraded to their minimal reality.
At the climax of depression they feel as though loneliness is enough to kill them.
They are disappointed by their inability to render reason –
Alone in a cave looking to the shadows to lead them to the light.
Here is to life.
There is still time to be proud to be alive.
Here is to time.
Somewhere in my mind I can find a place to hide;
a place where everything is fine.
Somewhere in my mind is a place where I can fly.
High up in the sky where everything is fine,
I will hide.
In late November a leaf falls from a tree and is swept by the wind. Although beautiful, in the grand scheme of life she is rather insignificant and much like the others who came before her; their fate to decompose and become a source of energy for those who follow. Although she is slightly wilted and rough around the edges, a passerby notices her and finds her both unique and beautiful, possessing a perfect medley of characteristics that could never be again. He picks her up and places her in his favored journal, where he cherishes her forever as his gift from the wind.