I’m over my need to know anything. You are free to love, free to hide, and free to be. Freed from my timing for rescue and miracles, Free of my need for self-crucifixion, I myself am finally free of moral injuries. So I’m the One who’s Truly Free And greatly blessed am I indeed
Urges are where I write my poems. Once the Urge is conceived and birthed verbally, The wave of Distress passes and I’m free again. Poetry is my favorite form of Urge Surfing. So I like to make my art at The Edge.
Then again, I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie! Call me out of practice at having fun!
MAGNUM OPUS: The Downward Spiral of The Last Five Ends in Joy
When I get out of balance (physical pain + emotional blows with no relief), I start getting scared. My perspective gets distorted by my own pain, And I can’t tell my friends from my enemies. The problem is, 99% of the time, I am my Worst Enemy. So in addition to being in “pain all over,” My thoughts have no place to land. This creates a toxic imbalance in my body, resulting in Me in an Extended Version of the Emotional and Physical Fetal Position, As if warding off cosmic blows. It’s not the LEAST BIT comforting, though.
I don’t even know how long these periods last some times. It finally erupts into a Dark Place, Both emotionally and physically. I’ve never written about this before, but I have been diagnosed with a Neurovascular Disorder called Erythromelalgia. It’s sometimes called “Man on Fire Disease” or “The Suicide Disease.” And it’s earned its Title! Sadly, it’s so exceptionally rare, you can’t find a neurologist whose even heard of it, So there’s very little information out there. Which compounds my anxiety. That’s the sad case with rare diseases. With no Big Pharma backing, research dollars can’t be found. It’s a disorder of the autonomous nervous system. I “lost” the ability to release heat from my system about 5 years ago. So, if I combine ambient heat with exertion (it’s extremely hot where I live), I get heat stroke without realizing it. Until I’ve got heat stroke. Which keeps me indoors, Avoiding life because of my fear of getting violently ill Should I carry in too-many too-heavy bags of groceries from my car to my apartment. It’s cooler in there, but it can be dark in there, and alone and scary in there. Alone to feel shame at not being live like a “normal person,” And not being able to regulate heat, can’t vent the shame Without the shame surfacing as blushing fire through the skin On too many parts of my body. It’s very humiliating for me to write about, But since there’s no cure or, in my case, effective treatment for Erythromelalgia, And because I got off all anti-depressants, and pain meds and anti-anxiety only in emergency And not for emotional coping, You can see how my Poems and this blog have been my constant companions over the last year. This was my last secret to write about, Because it’s One Thing which has bested me And nearly ruined me. What with the limitations it imposes, I felt it made me “unworthy as a companion.” So that took away my hopes for the happiness I hoped to one day find in the company of a partner. Which used the be the “safe place where my thoughts would land” as a coping mechanism. They have no idea how or why I acquired it (again, no research), So they default to the overdose of highly neurotoxic chemo I had when I was 39 years old, Fighting breast cancer. But since I was given no “Why,” I first switched to “Why Not” in an effort to “embrace the pain.” That might work for some of you Mental Athletes, but this girl already HAD a frail state to begin! Like: I was mentally and emotionally fried and too-feeling at the same time to handle “thought mastery!” So, I decided to “burn the shame out of me,” So I could at least feel safe inside my head. I had to find a harbor for my mind or I would give up. The only way I’ve been able to do this is through writing, So I mean it when I say this blog has saved me life. And I have discovered my own voice in the process! It has been a 3000% net joyful experience for me, Even if a painful and tearful one. I’m re-writing a story without a pre-determined ending (see my poem, A Foregone Conclusion – or something like that! It was birthed in MUCHAS LAGRIMAS! Many tears!). I actually believe in Miracles again. I had totally forgotten about Miracles, having no recent or long term memory of them. So anyway, final shame vented, But I don’t care how anybody prices me! My price is DOWN TO ME, and I DECIDED I’m PRICELESS. That’s good enough for me! So thank you, dear friends, for helping me discover my voice, discover my worth, and to re-grow my jaded belief in Miracles❣️
PSA: A MOVING SNAPSHOT OF THE STATE OF SINGLE INTIMACY IN 2022 ♨️♨️♨️
It’s not for the faint of heart, So before you even begin to CONTEMPLATE to start the post, I’ll pre-advise you QUIT while still time; That’s the most WARNING I’ll provide.
I mean: I know it’s a Sunday, But this Public Service Announcement Comes at a high cost to ME, So if you can’t withhold YOUR judgment Or your morals to make the space SO I can release the Advice alien-ating out of MY HEART onto MY PAGE, Please keep your eyes on Yours and Yours.
Not that any of respectful YOU Has EVER even tried, But in 2022, Virtual and Reality are mixed, And I’ve got a Religious Persecution Complex After a lifetime of abuse.
It all boils down to facts As simple as this and that I need be LISTENED TO!! So “Grow up, You Old Idiot! You’re as apparently as old as me, So why can’t you see That my telling YOU Is an effort to relieve ME!? I know ALL these pleas fall on deaf ears” Pleads ‘Feels-Too-Muted’ Me.
For the record, I didn’t even know there COULD be more than two viewers To a “Private Story!” Maybe in your fantastical stories, Laden with Rote Artificiality, But not in mine, and at least for now, NEVER in me!
At a very young age (around aged 3), I developed an “insecure attachment style.”
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself. Then the pattern repeated itself.
10,000, 000 hours of therapy and “self-help practices” later,
The pattern is repeating itself.
The only difference is I’m aware The pattern is repeating itself.
It’s a GREAT START, though! It makes me feel more “sane and secure” when I’m aware History is trying to repeat itself.
The patterns color my history, but my awareness of them shows ME how strong I’ve been the entire time.
I’m not shooting for “happily ever after,” but rather “hopefully-awareful-and-content.”
The bitterness of post-burnt Feels a lot like toast spurned After an eternity of tears spilled Crying out in thirst, Never being quenched Parches until too pinched Beyond all recognition, Dried and too hurt.
I’m so well acquainted with pain, It takes longer for an injury to tell my brain I’m in pain than it does tell my brain to tell my stomach to throw up due to the pain I’m currently IN. I know it sounds like hyperbole, but it’s “just the facts, ma’am.” Once I’m fully in the throes of pain, I’m unable to do much of anything. So if or should I EVER directly ask for help, And I happen to mention I’m in pain, I REALLY NEED IT.
For record-keeps, my scars Were formed in response to Surgical knives with scathing scalpels Hiding under surgical sleeves Rather than a purgical need to Purge Contained Pain In order to pain-relieve. (I’m not blaming or shaming; I’ve known Pain and understand You simply want Pain to leave).
But Scars all look the same to me, Therefore, their source isn’t Significantly significant to me. So I can be fully free To neglectfully and insignificantly, Ignore scar-sources and Scarce resources because The WHY of our afflictions Though it Greatly costed me, Now matters snot to me.
Clouded by the stars in my eyes, I STILL consider Scars Beauty’s heaviest of hitters, And why I personally believe Scars rock, roll and rule, too. In fact and in fiction, I’m SO moved Each and and every Time I Take And use to contemplate the issue, I have to break out a box of Scar Tissue.
When I’m feeling emotionally fragile, I have to stay away from ghost stories.
All of my ghosts are officially and literally dead (not to be crude, but literally IS overused these days).
My ghosts either died from the same disease which did NOT kill me (on two separate long, protracted, physically and emotionally excruciating occasions) or they never emerged from my Hostile Womb to live in the first place.
As far as ghosts go, I’d describe MY ghosts in the Letter R: Ruthless, Relentless, and “Regular as Right-from-left Remembering.”
If not for their innocence, they would ALL be considered throughly villainous.
You start out green and new, as a brand new shoot, nurtured by a Loving Mother Tree, and surrounded by lush, growing sibling leaves all In relative, naive Harmony. You mature and grow into The Most Beautiful Version of Yourself, peaking a little too early, given the length of your Life Cycle.
After you’ve served Your Purpose (you were never told what it was), your kindly mother turns on you; Once she nurtured you, watered you, and warmed you by sunlight. You were whole and thriving and complete. Now, She cuts off these vital nutrients. All of a sudden, you’re given no light, no food, no water. And no answers about WHY. Your sibling leaves are going through a similar situation, So they are of very little use to you. Frankly, they’re every bit as confused as you. You slowly starve and dry up until you’re officially “desiccated.” Then, the Mother Tree drops you. The winds of change blow you onto a completely random path, forcing you to intermingle with leaves you don’t even know, Making one last splash as “fall foliage,” Which you don’t even enjoy because you look so differently than you did in your prime , you barely recognize yourself anymore.
The next thing you know, you’re 5 miles down the road, in a Stranger’s yard (not even a nice one), Being raked into giant piles and stuffed into suffocating black garbage bags, Kicked to the curb to ferment a little while, and then Carted off by some rather grubby-looking men to be burned and cremated.