Continuing exploring by visiting the archives.

I’m playing with the sentence,

Five years of therapy, cramped rooms filled with symptoms and talk of a trigger-happy memory machine; if I’m lucky, it’ll only be five more years at forty dollars a week to overcome my money anxiety.

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to this day. I open up my

fucking cunt.  I’m bleeding.  What an ugly side of existence.  I’m just a little girl.

I wish, anyway.  I’ll never be

except in ways that keep my

ugly side from sight.

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There aren’t many days left of this, are there?  The loss will subside sooner rather than later?  Because I think I’ve been through enough.  I think the molestation, and the rapes, and the abortion, and the years of emotional abuse, and the frequent panic attacks, and the palpitations, and the social ineptitude, and the  last half decade of trying, trying as hard as I can to keep it together and going, to improve myself has been enough.

How much longer can I endure?

Sam and I cleaned the house yesterday in hopes the grief would fleck off like the dust.  Maybe it worked for him; I still feel a fist reaching into my abdomen, up my chest cavity, grasping my bloody heart.  Nothing is stopping the crying these past two weeks.  I think of the day, if this keeps up, when I’ll become as adept at hiding my tears as I am at hiding my twitches.

It started around the same time I stayed home with the flu, two weeks ago.  Maybe it was the rare time to myself to think or one of my delirious fever dreams, but it occurred to me, just as Sam will never again be the person he was around Sang, I will never again be the person I was around Sang.

Even now, I’m crying uncontrollably, nervous I’ll be caught falling apart.  Two months later, the loss, formerly a seeming leech at my back, has begun to resemble an autoimmune disease cannibalizing me.  My palpitations are its gnashing at my heart between meals.

Sam is the only person with the patience to deal with me in this state.  It may be my ravaged self-esteem, but I haven’t felt I can trust anyone else for some time now, and no one’s pushed hard enough for me to feel they really want me to budge.  So, here I am, alone with my cat and Sam, and I’m comfortable, if nothing else.  I don’t think I have the strength to make it another day, but I don’t seem to have a choice.  That seems to be a theme in my life: I have no choice.  No one does, actually.

What’s all my crying worth in the end if I recognize everyone is suffering?  The agreement of existence is to keep enduring the suffering for the chance of reward, right?  It’s a blatantly Judeo-Christian approach to life, but what else do I have to focus on as I go forward?  Why else take this shit if I’m not going to stop hurting so goddam much one day?  Why do others?

Fuck fuck fuck.  I want to scream it, but I won’t.  I can’t.  Mom said that if I scream too loud, I’ll burst the little box inside my throat that holds my voice, and then I won’t be able to speak at all.  I’ll have to make noise with the stuff around me to call her attention, but there won’t always be things around, especially if I fall and can’t get up.  So, there will be times when I’ll need her, but she won’t know and I won’t be able to tell her, because I screamed, so I’ll die.  And then she’ll die from the grief.  So, I don’t scream. If I scream, I’ll cry, and then she’ll give me something to cry about.

There’s never enough to cry about.  The random circumstances that comprise existence demand more tears than the daily flashbacks, and the constant nausea, and the shaky hands, and the medication that never quite works, and the insomnia, and the sexual dysfunctions, and the self-loathing produce.  With every new strike, I become increasingly convinced, Life won’t stop until I’m dead.

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Lately, she makes me feel very weak.  Even Sam has commented it to me in front of her.  “She always acts strange when you’re over.  It’s a thing she has,” Sam lightly tells Clara.

I swallow the flash of anger toward Sam—and toward myself—and I isolate.  I’m frozen, thinking of what Clara will think of me now that she knows she makes me nervous.  Male sex symbols don’t get nervous.  I’m certain she’ll any minute realize I’m still madly in love with her.  Then, in a shoddily-executed plan, she’ll instantly cut off physical and virtual contact, thereby extracting herself from my life, all because she doesn’t want to “keep hurting” me with her continued presence.  At least, that’s what I’ve done to guys.

The Buddhist and the writer in me tell me it’d only be karma, poetry.

This is only one nightmare scenario flashing through my head as I hold my breath waiting for her reaction.

I’m still waiting for her response.  She sometimes surprises me.

Just not tonight.  My heart broke as we all three talked past Sam’s comment.  I noted she didn’t insist on talking about my feelings.

I know it wasn’t her responsibility to insist.  Nor should I have hoped so much from her.  They’re my feelings and my responsibility to defend.

I just hoped.

That hope represents a level of neediness I’m not comfortable feeling.

Actually, I retract that.  Feelings are never wrong; and while we’re wrong when we ignore them, we’re sometimes wrong to express them.  Instead, I’d better say, it’s a level of neediness I shouldn’t ever express, though I can’t go on without addressing it.

It’s why it wouldn’t work out.  It wouldn’t work.

And I don’t want her.  We’re too different.  I’m not like her.

I want to kiss you. “How are you?”

She smiles and says pretty things about her life.

I want to say pretty things, too.

I can’t think of any.

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So, know that I don’t want her.  She’s too child-minded.  I don’t want to teach her how to survive, nor about herself.  She deserves better than that from a partner.  Besides, I’m not so experienced I deserve to condescend, and she’s not so inexperienced she deserves to be patronized.  It wouldn’t work.

And I don’t want her, anyway.  She’s still hiding from herself.  She still doesn’t accept who she is.  It’s true that I don’t accept myself either, but I at least know who I am.   I’ve negotiated my time, even my body, to gain the answers from my rapists I felt I needed to get, and when that didn’t stop the flashbacks and the anxiety and the sexual dysfunction, I suffered the mental anguish an obsessive endures when a problem comes to our attention.  Meanwhile, she’s texting the man who victimized her.  I can hear her inside voices, insistent like creditors, chanting “I need to know.  I need to know.”  I know her heartbeat felt irregular to her, and her hands probably shook a little, making typing on her iPhone difficult.  And I know he had no healing for her.

It’s unfair of me to wonder amidst her piquing suffering, what happens to me while she discovers herself.  I try not to notice how much I want to kiss her lips.  I kiss her cheek instead.  No one ever told me a woman could feel emasculated.  As it is, I don’t feel comfortable anymore calling her with my problems, as overwhelming as they feel now.  I don’t want to upset her or seem weak.  I’m torn between protecting her and snatching her neck for my lips.

It wouldn’t work.  I’m a five-foot Dominican girl with a big puff of curls who wants to be a male sex symbol.

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Nobody does that.  That’s weird.  Isn’t it?

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It wasn’t even an issue until Andy from the dorms– I dream of taking a bat to his legs, shattering his hip when he’s down, thereby crippling him for life.  But that wouldn’t make me feel better.  Only when I know he’s dead, incapable of hurting another person again, will I feel better.  Only when everyone stops cautiously whispering about mental illness and sexual assault will I feel better.

Another reason to lash myself: I haven’t yet yelled above a whisper.  I need to practice screaming for a while.

Tomorrow.

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No, nothing to stay for.

I’m not even a good writer.  It’s the one thing I want to be good at doing, and I can’t seem to get it right.  I simply want to die—effortlessly, like life should be.  I don’t deserve this breathing I feel compelled to do.  I can’t endure this anxiety.  I’m exhausted with the meds.  I want to close my eyes, then not wake up.  A forever sleep sounds heavenly.

Instead, this nothingness is a vice, an addiction, a warden.  There’s nothing left outside of me that matters, so I withdraw from the world in every way, at every opportunity I can.  I wonder if there’s a name for the emotional equivalent of the fetal position, and where can I find that information out.

That’s what I wonder only seconds before I realize I use learning as a sedative, the way others use food or sex.  I can’t yet fathom what I’m so afraid will happen if I rejoin the world.

As usual, I don’t know the answer.  Simply, my little voice says, Little Lucy is always afraid; she needs no evident reason to be. After all, I’m crazy and strange.  Can’t I see it in the eyes of coworkers and acquaintances?  I’m a freak.

Or so the paranoia I’ve been fighting these past two decades momentarily led me to conclude.

At once, my focus and retention rate cause me shame.  There’s nothing cohesive enough about my thoughts to create something cohesive to read or to speak.  Among my million other fears, I’m afraid depression is robbing me of my ability to express myself effectively.  I feel dumber and crazier.  I fear I’m slipping.

I think, who will tolerate me then?

And if I write it all down so I can see how insane my thoughts can be, will I be protected from their effects?

I’m being ridiculous.

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