Thursday, December 11, 2014

Old Ironsides

One hundred thousand times I've recited it in my head. 
Half of those times aloud to my steering wheel. 
Half of that half through a voice choked with anger
and the other half through tears.

"Oh better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave. Her thunders shook the mighty deep and there should be her grave.  Nail to the mast her holy flag, set every threadbare sail; and give her to the god of storms, the lightning and the gale."

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Such a cheeky bastard.  I love him.

I've settled solidly into anger.  Grief is a giant bear, chasing it's prey through the forested acres of life.  I should know better than to attempt life with this much rage in my veins, but alas, bills need paid and things need done.  In the process of trying to function under this mental and emotional strain I have damaged more than one important relationship.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I am also too apathetic to concern myself with the damage beyond what my apologies are capable of repairing.  Smoldering still, is my earth.

It is easier to cut through the thickened air of loss in this hateful place.  Doing things out of spite is better than doing no things at all.  Especially given that I have over a week's worth of shit to catch up on from all my bed-bound bawling and inability to see anything outside of my own shadow.

I'm embracing the fuck out of this phase.  Hoping that enough of it will linger on that I might never find myself back here again.  I mean, not right here.  I'm sure there will be plenty things to grieve in the future, but not this.  Not again.

I am nailing windows shut and sandbagging my heart.  The broken dam will not flood me out again.  I have evacuated the homeland and called a stop to the gas lighting.  I will survive this.  I will not let one more of my cells dance in that hopeless space.  I will not sit around and listen to and contemplate all the ways I am the problem.  I will not be told how to perceive or how to feel or how to behave.  I am a mother fucking human being and I am ENTITLED to feel how the fuck ever I feel.  I harbor no feelings that come from any place that isn't genuine.  I have been devoted to authenticity for far too long to be subject to such incredible lies, and my fears are valid, evidence based, and oriented around decisions that were made to exclude me and devalue that shared space.   But apparently, somehow, that's just what I do.  That's how I operate.  That's what I've done.  Okay.  Reflect, deflect, and mirror some more.  Fine. WTFever. 

I'd ask forgiveness for my humanity, but I know he doesn't know how.  And furthermore, the man I love would not need me to ask, he would offer it freely.  And he did.  It just wasn't who I thought it would be.  Shocking, innit?   Yes.  And infuriating, too. You wanna know what else is infuriating?  Having been told he wanted to see me fight.  Evidence that he failed to see my battle all along.  Completely ignorant to the armor and the sword.  Adding fuel to the fire, his complete and total willingness to toss me from his life like so much trash in a memory bin. A thing that has always been far too easy a thing for him to do, and a thing that has always given me great fits of insanity.  Yes.  There is a great deal of rage brewing within the walls of my existence.  Finally, though, I can breathe a great fuck you back through these silent tides. 

FUCK YOU.

See there.  and I fucking meant it.

Now, to get from here, to "I'll idealize and realize that it's no sacrifice because the price is paid and there's nothing left to grieve."  Yeah.  That's something I suppose I can hope to look forward to.  Denial was awful.  Depression was awful.  At least anger feels more alive.  At least anger is productive.  At least anger has some substance to it.  Anger has something tangible to hold onto.  I only wish I knew where to go from here.  I guess that's just the thing.  You're not meant to go anywhere from here.  You're meant to ride that wave til it crashes into whatever else it crashes into.  I can't help but think that this is exactly what Holmes meant in Old Ironsides.  And I can't help but to thank him for his divine guidance in this matter.  Even if it was written for a completely different purpose, and without regard to it's great success in that purpose.  I'll use the tools I have on hand to craft the things I need to survive the day, as we all do, as we all must.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Tracing lines on our eroded shore

Where there's smoke, there's fire.
Where there's hope, there's destitution.
Where there's love, there is destruction.
Where there's liberation, there is imprisonment.

Reading things where there are not things to be read

Reading my fuckedupedness where there is only my fragmented heart
Reading paralyzing fear where there is only courage to have come this far
Reading idiotic decisions where there is but survival
Reading bitch in my open wounds
Reading apathy in the ash where there is a burning ember of hope
Reading obtuseness in my attempts to understand
Reading selfishness in my greatest sacrifice
Reading lies in my deepest truth
Reading blame in equal guilt, on every end from mine to yours and yours to mine.
Ignoring the only promise kept in a world where the very earth is made up of broken ones.
Ignoring how the shapes of things change completely in a world where you might actually return the love I've had to bury.
Ignoring how it turns the tiniest speck of dust into a shimmering flake of gold
Ignoring how it turns the dull light of an ordinary street lamp into the sun itself
Forgetting how I'm not meant for such a world, that the brightness of it is too blinding
Forgetting how to celebrate the thing
Forgetting how to cherish the thing
Forgetting how to hold the thing
Forgetting the fragility
Forgetting who I am.
Pretending I am more.
Pretending I am stronger.
Pretending I can rise above.
Pretending I can make the most of nothing.
Again.
Every single second
Hits like brick against my skull.

You can't outrun what you leave undone.
Throwing a towel on a fire only makes the flame grow.
Even if the towel is the size of a blanket.
And the blanket is sopping wet with the waters from our ocean of collective tears.

You lit the match. 
You put our iron in the fire
and me in the trash.
So I spit gasoline from my dustbin and let it burn.

I pulled the trigger
But you,
you loaded the gun

When it comes to drawing lines, the lines are clearly drawn.
They wash away, every single day.
Because this is not who we are,
This is what we become when we can't be together.

How it has always been
How it may always be
Because I won't drag you through a place you can't stand to be.
And I need to be loved for me
So I don't spend my whole life trying to be "she"
And always faltering in the process
Giving my children the gift of watching me drown
And a another man who doesn't want them around

I have no right to a broken heart
You have no right to be angry
What's it matter what rights we have
When everything in the world is wrong

Living every moment to understand a thing
Dying a question mark anyway

So I'll try to work on my evolution
And you can work on yours

And maybe we can let it go
Or maybe we can let it grow
Or maybe we will never know
Anything but this