Hands too shaky to hold, hunger hurts but starving works when it costs too much to love

He's packing. Right now.

I'm at work.

Before I left, we were talking. I paused to forcefeed myself. Styrofoam with marshmallow. Almond milk.

He began to pack.

In front of me.

I yelled at him. "Don't DO that shit in front of me! What the fuck! I don't want to SEE that. You can't WAIT until I just freaking leave?"Growly.

He cowered. Confused. "You're going to understand one day why I would not have known it wasn't okay to pack in front of you."

I think I do. And I don't like it. It's unfair. But this. This is what has always been the gap. Yet this has been the healthiest relationship either of us have been. Love. Communication. Effort. Investment. On this we agree.

I gave my boss the heads up. In case I go missing later today. I predict I lose focus now. But also around midday.

"He's packing right now."

".Right now, right now?.............Was it your choice?"

"....Kind of." Swallow. "No. Yes, it was."

"Does he not want to go?"

"No. He was.....'happy'. But yes, he does because he knows I want to be alone and doesn't want to be around that."

We talk through it some more. Just at the surface but her eyesight is keen enough to see the bottom from here somehow. She understands my situation more precisely than any of the three people I've divulged this information to. With the least detail.

She then shares a nearly identical scenario. Her thoughts, her behaviors during. I am floored at how far inside my brain she gets. She does have a degree in psychology, however. Maybe I should not be surprised.

I should be working by now. I only meant to type here prior to the start of my shift. That was 22 minutes ago now.

What is it that I want?

I want to be understood. To truly be known. To be loved. To understand, to know, to love.

I want to WANT and not NEED someone in my life.

I want to be whole and happy in standalone mode. I have not been happy in standalone. That is why I think most of this is just me, not him. I can't help but think of Fiona Apple, "But these hands are just too shaky to hold. Hunger hurts but starving works, when it costs too much to love."

Gone?

"I want to be alone."

My mouth moves. That's my voice. But I don't recognize it.

Maybe it's someone else, I say. Maybe it's outside, carried in through the windowscreen?

No. It is the bell that can't unring.

It makes no sense, does it? To be alone? I don't want it to be permanent but his mind sounds made up. He's always for absolutes. I've always been too soft, too undecided. An undefined being, defined by her surroundings. I judge myself unkindly. Then step back.

My eyes swell. Uterus spasms violently. I don't pray, but pray anyways that the Nyquil kicks in before the panic. Before the urges. Maybe it's just the hormones. Maybe my weight changes continue to fuck with me.

I back pedal. Plead. Wonder at myself. Am I slipping? Is this me?

I can't imagine what it'll be like. I'm too numb. Too shocked at my own voice. Too shocked at how willing he was to go.

I want to be around good people. But fear their judgment. I then imagine being truly all alone. I get fear. Cold. Numb. My eyes still burn but I think the Nyquil's setting. I welcome the burning numb to take it away.

Coming home to an empty place. Will that give me what I'm searching for? The clarity? The peace? Sense of solidity?

He deserves someone who is already those things, I assure myself. He keeps telling me it's he who will be fine. I think I've just killed us. Or irreparably damaged it. Some call that art. I recall some Asian practice of gluing back together broken pottery with gold laced resins. The effect was more brilliant than anything that had been made perfect the first time.

I tell myself this is why it's okay.

I still don't know that it is.

Die and thrive and die

I die.

Right now. Stunned in full blown consciousness, I experience the exquisite pain associated with each millisecond, existing through the drama. Depths I never wanted to see.

But no. "You wanted life, Chance. You got it. You knew this could happen. Be with it. Grow. Learn. Die. Hurt. Enjoy it. Even if that comes after the rest." 

Now I become.

Become what? Something ugly. Hard to hold or behold. My eyes still look like me. But so feral. What is that behind them? A fire? The universe exploding?

I come undone.

There is nothing beautiful left.  I hardly know if I can ravel it back in. Is it worth my time to fix me?

And I almost don't care. "You deserve this," it whispers. Narrow eyes in the dark.

Last night I dreamt of a wolf and a coyote. Their shadows against sidewalk under moonlight. Mama was there but only in disembodied voice, never in the same room, slow to respond.

I breathe. I need peace. Wisdom. Love. Clarity. Some twisted impossible mix of solid and fluid. Existing between absolutes. Living in the gray. Living in the colors, painted in joy, pain, laughter, sensuality, anger. Wilt, blossom all at the same time.

The soils of my planet know nothing of these things. Have no wherewithall to allow such puzzles to root down and thrive. 

Who the fuck knows.

Remembering Mama's Face (Old + Too many quantum physics late night documentary shows)

I have my mother's elbows and parts of her mind. My face moves like hers did sometimes. If I have her elbows and face does that mean she's moved inside of me somewhere?

They say that any dimension beyond our own three plus time is witnessed as movement occuring "inside" or "sucked in to itself," an infinity, a shadow of an extra dimesional reality more "real" than our own. I wonder if it's possible at all.

This face is her face. Her face is my face. Who did it belong to before? Who will it belong to again?

And here I thought no one looked as strange as/like me. But it's not me. That's the funniest part. My face is not me and I think that's why I disconnect so much from my outer appearance. But I think I need to start better appreciating the physical manifestation for what it's connected to in the divine. My face is equivalent to a sacred symbol, a talisman, an extension of the "big picture". Holographic, as it were, because this face IS the "big picture" miniaturized but perfect reflection nonetheless and vice versa.

Soul Retrieval (Old)

Dear Mama,

I don't believe in such things. Not for a long time. I believe we are born. We live (or something like it). Then, we die. End.

Then why? Why do you persist? Why do I feel like you are here? Sitting next to me on the way to work. Standing just out of sight on the other side of the full length mirror. Or sometimes staring back at me. I see you in those cheekbones, the way my upper lip thins and curls when I smile, or a specific stare I give.

You were my mom when you were alive. Now that she's dead, my psyche has replaced her with you, this projection, heavy, emotional, and tugging at me. The pull begs me, "Turn your head and look! Look into the periphery!" In fact, I can almost see you there. It's almost as if you're outside myself. I never give in because I know if I turn, I will lose the image.

But, then, I realize, it's all me. Just me doing the tugging at myself because I ache to turn my head and see you, some watchful mother from the great beyond. Then there's me again, resisting the tug, recognizing my poor, wounded psyche for what it is. It tries so hard to change the unchangeable, ill-guided strategy for mending the chasm left behind when death ripped you from me like a horrific accident severes limbs.

Poor, misguided, wounded soulbit. I imagine the damaged 17 year old in my mind splitting into two selves; damage grows younger, shrinking as she reverses in age and size. I, on the other side of the split grow older to my current age, looking down at her. She's so little. Head is 90% shining eyes that look so big and old and wise but clearly, too lost and ignorant to draw from that wisdom. She must be what all the shamans talk about when they embark on soul retrievals.

Well, since I'm writing, here's my attempt:

Dear Little Chancey,

I'm sorry you've been separated from yourself so long, little one. I see you there, shapeshifting into Mama's image, wanting to play with me. It's always been you, not her, hasn't it?

I don't remember exactly but, I think it's my fault. I accept it now. I shunned you, refused to face all the pain carried in your little form. I didn't mean to do that, or understand what it could mean to banish you. I just didn't want to look at it. You reminded me too much about the big, suffocating, burning things that paralyzed me when all I wanted to do was run and run and run. I wish I could just say it's a Western thing, but that's no excuse. I'd take it all back if I could. Please come back and I promise to be honest with you. Know that nothing I can do for you changes the unchangeable, that reversing your age doesn't reverse time or undo her cancer or her death. I'm sorry I couldn't/didn't take care of you. I'm sorry Mama is no longer here to take care of you. I will never be her but I will do my best to take care of you. Tomorrow, sometime around 8 PM, will be 10 years. Won't you please come back home? We can honor her together, in our own way, even if she can't hear us anymore. I miss you. And her. You are always welcome and loved.

Love,
Chance

Soulslaughter

Your eyes are drawing in to themselves. Like a mouth squinting at lemon sour.

I can't see you anymore.
"One foot out the door."
"I can't."
"I want to leave."

If I was self-centered, I'd wonder if this peril in love between us is why San Diego is uncharacteristically cold.

I'm patient. I'm tired. I'm aching. I'm yearning. Darts of longing pierce my lower belly, flame around the ribcage and curl back into heart.

You're fading. You're dying. I can see the dimness in your movements. I wonder if you were right about slow death. But I don't want you to be.

Maybe it's me.  She told me to stop "shoulding" all over myself. But maybe, I should be imprisoned for soulslaughter. I'm lost and want to find myself. I don't want to need someone for that.

How can something so beautiful shapeshift in to something so sad? I used to think neither of us were bad people, just flawed, human.

Why do I think it's me?

Maybe it is.

Maybe I am awful. No, I can't think this way. I'll never figure it out if I focus on destroying myself. Old habit.

Faded, fucked

Note to self: Don't listen to Fantasy Man by The Swell Season right now. It's just too much.

Another night in discomfort, pain, tears.

Death by a thousand papercuts. Weather is 100% chance of saltwater and rubbing alcohol.
I am reduced. Raw. A feral she-thing. Limbic and a pile of quivering. Throat sore from heavy howls I could scream in to the night. I could claw at my flesh until it bleeds, then claw some more. To the bone. I would know no better.

Faded. Lightweight. Is it healthy? Likely not - but I'm not looking for health right now. I just want to get through one more moment.

Truth is such a twat.

Convert that oxygen to carbon dioxide. Or as a wise friend said, metabolize. I take what I can get.

I try not to swelter in guilt. Shame for my voice. For honesty, no matter what. Integrity, I tell myself. Over and over. I am wiser than my 25 year old self. Even drowning in the pattern.

I am told I need to find ways out of my prisons.

"Something is wrong with me. I am bad. I don't deserve kindness/understanding for being so bad."

If I don't disentangle from it, I will never be receptive to my heart's wisdom. Figuring this out will be impossible.

He has a choice too. He can choose patience. He can choose to say, Fuck you I can't. And he'll have every right to say the latter. Every night he swirls in to the latter. I take it because I should. It's torture but so the fuck what.

Tell me why. he says. I tell him all the possible whys I've got. The repeats. It's nothing new, but nothing adds up. He protests. Claims censorship. Bites. Growls. I listen. I reason. Cry. Quietly reason. Cry some more. It's a wonder I still have eyes.

He doesn't get it. Not even the stuff on repeat.

As for this current state, neither of us does.

He's going "out" this weekend. Doesn't want to tell me. Of course that's fine. But it's different. I think of what I can do alone. Maybe figure some things out. Maybe do something solo I'd normally do with him or something I normally wouldn't do.

Pioneer archetype is looming again. Smirking. What an asshole, it is.

I want to be held. Why does that seem the desire? To hold the billion pieces together, to keep from coming totally apart because pain thrives in all the cracks. Grows between each shard with earnest. My capacity is ever greater than I expect.

I wonder how my mother would handle. She'd cave forever. She was one and done.

I cave a bit now. But only for now, I tell myself. I am not her. This too shall pass, in one way or another. We'll both be okay, with each other, without.

But fuck. The passing will be worse than a kidney stone.

-----

His eyes. So different. They used to look at me with so much love. All I see is pain. Glaring. Ice. They no longer hold me or caress me. That's one of the greatest losses in stripping naked for him to see, to listen.

Eyes no longer hold. The touch is gone and I'm reminded of my girlhood.