11.19.2017

d i s p l a c e m e n t

Everything feels important right now, sixteen thousand different thoughts tearing forward in my brain, itching to be freed. Too many thoughts all at once, because it's so important for me to be able to speak the truth. I have waited for so long to be saved, to have the burden of my memories kissed by some kind of grace, some relief.

And it's hard not to wrap everything I want to say in a million layers of metaphors, it's hard not to try and speak in some sort of secretive cryptic behavior, trying to get help.

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That's what Sarah taught me. I was sitting in the Salmon Room, shaking with tears as I admitted to refusing to turn in my homework at school, even though I had finished it and done the work, even though I knew that if I didn't get good grades and caused problems in school that they would punish me again. And that it would be even worse than the last.

"So this reminds me of something that my teacher had shared with us once. She was a counselor at a school and there was this one boy -- you said you were seven earlier when you noticed you were 

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My mind is resisting repeating this memory out loud. Something about revealing it on the internet, where I know my family could possibly come across. It's highly unlikely, I mean this is Blogger afterall and I know it's not 2006 anymore.

This is always the gut reaction I have. There is no moment in the day where my mind is truly at rest, it constantly wants to break apart at the mere hint of some thought that it doesn't think it wants to handle. And I'm stuck locked in this piece of shit body, this stupid fucking piece of shit that is always locked inside its anxious fucking nightmare hell.

Fuck.

Deep breath.

I'm trying to call myself back into my body. That is what you're supposed to do, it's called mindfulness. You call yourself back into your present moment, rather than losing it all to those rampant fucking thoughts in your head that you...let's not finish this sentence.

Yeah, mindfulness. I feel like I'm doing pretty well. Like a second ago wasn't the best example, and actually right now I'm going off again as well, but oh my god, Thomas's birds are both completely quiet. They love the sound of "Atomic Bomb" by William Onyeabor vs. Hot Chip and the soft clicking of the keyboard. They are just very calm and are simply listening to the music. Wallie pops his head up to a distant soft thump somewhere in the apartment building but immediately flops it back down.

Shit. I got distracted again.

At the very least I'm distracted from what I was trying to say earlier, and really that's all that matters. I feel like I'm running a mental marathon or something...Or maybe it's more like there's this constant demon just running down my neural pathways and I just need to keep ahead of it. I just have to keep running.

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Well anyways, Sarah told me a story about a boy who kept losing his pen. Every single day he would lose his pen or pencil or what-have-you. The teacher was so stumped as to why this kid just was never prepared for class, and had talked to the parents before and they had tried to do every possible thing to make sure this kid had his goddamn fucking pen.

Eventually this kid is told to talk to the counselor. It's like it's fucking compulsive of this kid to just lose his goddamn school supplies, and the counselor interviews the kid and they do a  home inspection and it turns out that the kid's home life was actually really shitty. This kid didn't know how to tell an adult that something was wrong, and so he kept losing his school supplies unintentionally because in some weird kid-brain kind of way, someone might pick up on the fact that something was wrong and they would be able to help.

We can all see where this is heading right?

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6.30.2017

escape grace

I sit here with a cigarette cocked on my lips, the smoke curling around my face, my eye winked shut.

Yesterday I woke up and let my mind jump off our second floor balcony. I stood there, one leg dangling over. I watched myself fall and heard Wallie's shrill bark. I stepped off the stool and went back inside.

It took me 24 years to get out of Bellevue. Two years and four months later, I have a therapy dog, an apartment in Seattle, 67 plants, and six mental disorders.

I paid for my freedom with one night in jail for domestic violence and six months waiting for my family to drop the charges against me while facing threat of jail. I paid for my freedom with three separate visits to the ER for suicidal ideation, one visit lasting 15 hours while being restrained and the last one in February resulting in a ten day stay with the hospital.

These days I am borderline, bipolar, depressed, anxious, agoraphobic, and have PTSD. These days I am dissociated, I am standing on 1st Ave S choking down cigarette smoke and throwing up on the sidewalk every morning. These days I keep myself in a weed daze, I am self medicated, I am self sabotaging. I pick at my skin until I bleed. I am a walking disaster. I am myself.

And I'm still here. I'm not ready to leave yet.