An Old Story

I am telling myself a story about the past. The story is true. The story is not true.

Daggers raked across my chest and my breathing stopped. It started again and my heart beat uncontrollably fast. I was dizzy. I was feeling so faint and light that I thought I would float away. My vision blurred and returned to normal. As I lost almost complete control of my physical body, my mind was consumed in my thoughts. I was in control of my mouth. I tightened it into a smile and spoke encouraging words. I don’t know what they were, but the smile didn’t reach my eyes. My hands were sweating. I spoke a lie. I was going to check something. I couldn’t think of a better lie.

I looked on the ground and found pieces of myself were scattered about the floor. Something was drip dropping from chest. Pieces of my heart? Or were they coming up through my throat. I had to get out. I had to get out. I am going to check something. I will be back. The latter was true. I didn’t want to come back, but I had to come back. I didn’t want to face this choking fear, but I had to come back. Before I came back, I had to leave. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here.

The dizziness was consuming. The stairs or the elevator? I couldn’t trust my legs. I could barely stand. The shaking seemed uncontrollable, but it may have been only in my mind. I thought my heart was going to explode, but it may have been only in my mind. I leaned against the elevator walls. Basement. I will go to the basement. I will sit with the ghosts who haunt the morgue that was no longer a morgue. I felt like a ghost. I was a ghost of myself, and I carried so many ghosts with me. I was reliving my university years. I relived multiple confrontations with multiple people. It seemed all of them were screaming the same thing:

Not good enough! Not good enough! Change your expectations! Change your behaviour! Look at yourself in the mirror! You’re not enough! You’ll never get this right! Everyone is talking about how you’ll never get this right! Nobody wants to talk with you! You don’t listen! You don’t understand!

I replied:

Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to carry you around. I thought I was rid of you.

My hands were shaking. I had to have help. I knew that much. But who could I ask? I just needed to tell someone. I typed the story in jerking lines. I saw this. I read this. I am not okay. I am trying to be okay. I am shaking. I feel like vomiting. Everything in my stomach, in my chest, is too tight. I can’t vomit. I can’t talk. I can’t cry. I want to cry. I want to scream! Why me? WHY ME?

The ghosts still follow me. They escape in my envy. With every jealous thought that defies rejoicing, another ghost is born. It hangs on my back. It eats away at my body. It toys with my mind. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts. It hurts me so much that I must give that hurt away. I want to rake my daggers across a different chest. One that deserves it. Who deserves this pain? Why me?

I have tried. I will continue to try. But I want to ask How can I? It feels as though I have been wronged. There is no apology. I don’t want to forgive what can easily happen again. Where is the remorse? I don’t want to hear I’m sorry you’re alone. I want to hear I’m sorry I made you feel alone. I don’t want to hear I’m sorry you are hurt. I want to hear I’m sorry I hurt you.

Do I have a right to want these things? Do I have a right to ask for these things? Can someone make me feel alone if I am whole? If I am whole, can someone make me feel alone? Can someone hurt me, or can we only hurt ourselves? What is human, and what can I control? Am I a reactionary? Is it wrong? Or is it just hard not to be one? Is it an excuse? Is it forgivable?

The karmic perspective has been lost. There are too many questions. My mind is not clear. I know the answer is to meditate. The answer is to ask for help – not from humans but from spirit.

Must I ask for forgiveness? Or must I ask to forgive? I feel as though I cannot handle feeling this way another moment. I want to rejoice for the one who receives what I want, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I am insane. I am fully deluded. I count my flaws and I wish – how I wish! – I could be rid of them. Do I mean my wish? I think I do. I know I must meditate. I know I must not tell myself stories about my pain – past or present.

The stories feel true. The stories are not true.

I am tortured. I am suffering. The suffering is needless. The torture is self-inflicted. It would be so easy to stop the pain. It is so difficult to stop the pain. It is difficult doing what is right, even when what is right is simple, easy. I must cut the chains that threaten to pull me into the abyss. I must, instead, seek the wisdom in the place of emptiness. I must awaken from this nightmare. I must awaken from my dream state.

I will meditate.

I wish to be free.



Sometimes the truth is too hard and brittle and must be snapped into pieces to become palatable and even still gets stuck in your teeth then your throat and cuts holes in you and it works its way through your system. Perhaps it was safer to keep it whole. But still, the corners were sharp. And how uneven was this truth shape? Where was the symmetry? You harboured such distant thoughts that were withheld for such a time until you felt it appropriate. Sin by omission but never dishonesty. I, however, ate the fruit and spat it out. I told you it wasn’t me, and I picked up the chewed rot off the forest floor, tried to feed it to you and convince you it was a balm to soothe your aching throat. It ached as though scratched raw with the words you refused to scream. How I longed for you to scream them. I told you a story that was true. And then a story that was not true. And yet, both were the truth, this smashed truth, pasted together with a shimmering glue that reflected unto us both the shiniest and best moments so that we did not notice the dirt in the grooves. I wanted happiness, but it was just out of reach. You had happiness in the moments that were not mine. You found it in the trees and the light and I tried to share it. But my piece was too big. You said: you can’t have that and eat it too. But that’s what I wanted. Was I selfish or were you ignorant? Was I ignorant or were you selfish? I will tell you a story that is true. I will tell you the story that is not true. I am a sadist, a masochist and seek the pain within existence if only to share it with another, such that misery loves company. I am whole and good and rejoice in the wondrous gains of others who have worked hard to display their glory. I am jealous. I am not envious. I wandered through willow branches and bead curtains until I came to the counter with the jars. There were so many jars. Which one do I choose? What does it contain? Pass me the one I am not allowed to have. I will drink to my purposeful demise. I will break until my pieces are contained in this vessel, and I will let you find the truth – if there is one.

Mother wit

Does my son mourn for the loss of his mother?
What does unconditional love feel like
When the expectations stacked so high
to build the tallest straw man,
hollow man,
beautiful appearance man,
a college man,
a student man,
a want-to-make-you-proud man,
addicted-to-the-drama man,
so do you miss your mama, man?
Which one do you miss, man?
Shall I call you son instead?
Or would that be weird after we wed?

Wanted you for me, man,
and wished you were a soul mate.
One of many, fighting fate.
Guess we lost and it’s too late.
Unless you’d like to really wait.
And prove you’ll never give up, man.
No one wants the weak man, sad man.
Should you fight the man, man,
then we’ll see your goals and plan, man.
Show your passionate side, man.
That’s how you’ll be defined, man.
Not by some weird past, okay?

My son, I can’t be your mom anymore.
I’ve always fucking hated chores.
You think I always get my way, son?
All my battles easily won, son?
Could not be further from the truth, son.
So many times I’ve given up my fun, son.
I wish I could make you better, man.
But you must give it all you got, man.
Seize your moment, man.
Choose your battles, man.
You’ll be all right, man.
Don’t mourn the loss of your mother, man.
She never was a mother, man.
Didn’t know how to raise one
that was older than she. And she was old already.
Life not over yet, working forever.

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

The middle name in a house, in a home,
shrouded in dark secrets and contrived plots.
And the second, third, and fourth:
they were not mothers and you could not be their father.
Fairy tale spells and timeless norms could not be applied!
Nice try, man.
Know what to give up, man.
It’s not your life, man.
It’s the chains, man. The fears, man.

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

Stop chanting, man.
Quiet your mind, man.
Don’t give up, man.
Evolve, man.
Already-proved-yourself man.
Just-believe-in-yourself man.
Ignore all else, man.
Good luck, man.

Commemorative Dream >Landscape<

Here – I can meet you somewhere after we fall
Asleep. Somewhere with blue sky, warm air, hot sand between your toes,
Pooling waves, refreshing and cool, your refuge from the heat and hundreds of tide
Pools dot the beach, each one waiting for exploration and discovery.
Yes! Each one is different than the last. You haven’t worry for comforts – Here.

Air. The weather is kind and the evening breeze rocks your hammock gently.
Now. Warm skin pressed against yours takes the shiver from your spine.
Need. You can wrap your arms around space, more than air. Solid. Grounding.
Insecurity. Leave this place in your dreams. Do give yourself time to sleep and dream.
Vice. And do not be haunted. Far worse could befall you. But it won’t.
Ecstasy. Let your senses come alive to the sound of the waves, and the sting of the salt,
Roil. Turbulent wind rousing flesh to dune as the course sand piles.
Sun blinds you in day. The darkness curls around you at night.
And tonight when your eyes are closed, you can set your intention to the beach.
Rest. Do not miss the sunset, the sunrise, and a better day.
Yes! You deserve it. Come Here.