Multiple deaths, check.
Miscarriage, check.
Homelessness (again), check.
Substance abuse, check.
Intensive personal reading regimen, check.
Self-discovery, check. Self-realization, continuing.
The last two years at a glance: it's resulted in a final break with certain members of my family, with certain modes of being; in freeing me once and for all of my Christ-riddled past, the middle -American expectations I tried to hold myself to as an answer to years of never being good enough for parents or boys or even for the much older men who wanted me before I was old enough to want anything, years of being neither naked nor desirable but simply a useful cunt, a naked bleeding cunt with no eyes or heart attached, and no words for tears - even Jesus couldn't weep. Trying and hiding and kneeling and fucking and breathing please help me now until each cycle occurred again and again and now I've finally discarded all pretense at being a grownup with a future with possibilities. Weeks full of physical effort of forming words, weeks wasted hiding in my house, weeks spent scared to pick up the telephone, afraid to take off or on my clothes for fear I'll see the ravages of a nakedness that isn't an act of willful defiance or a hallmark of beauty or a precursor to pleasure but simple confirmation of the fact that I'm a pliant sack of skin, home to two or three pounds of steaming fat I'll call a brain, my only inheritance - that's my legacy. Trying and doing and learning - that's all territory of the brain, and and whenever I emerge from my crawlspace I find it waiting for me, unique in spite of my convictions otherwise, steadfast in spite of my attempts to ignore it. This, the sum total of my parts equals the facts: I'm an raging depressive bisexual alcholic with no conversational skills but an extensive book collection and a propensity for falling in love with multiple people at the same time, and I've stopped listening. Holding myself together has become an art form; but this year, I quit, walked out, stopped cold, and now I'm rearranging my pieces, I'll change the contours of what's left of my heart and I'll make a future in the shape of my own mind.
Miscarriage, check.
Homelessness (again), check.
Substance abuse, check.
Intensive personal reading regimen, check.
Self-discovery, check. Self-realization, continuing.
The last two years at a glance: it's resulted in a final break with certain members of my family, with certain modes of being; in freeing me once and for all of my Christ-riddled past, the middle -American expectations I tried to hold myself to as an answer to years of never being good enough for parents or boys or even for the much older men who wanted me before I was old enough to want anything, years of being neither naked nor desirable but simply a useful cunt, a naked bleeding cunt with no eyes or heart attached, and no words for tears - even Jesus couldn't weep. Trying and hiding and kneeling and fucking and breathing please help me now until each cycle occurred again and again and now I've finally discarded all pretense at being a grownup with a future with possibilities. Weeks full of physical effort of forming words, weeks wasted hiding in my house, weeks spent scared to pick up the telephone, afraid to take off or on my clothes for fear I'll see the ravages of a nakedness that isn't an act of willful defiance or a hallmark of beauty or a precursor to pleasure but simple confirmation of the fact that I'm a pliant sack of skin, home to two or three pounds of steaming fat I'll call a brain, my only inheritance - that's my legacy. Trying and doing and learning - that's all territory of the brain, and and whenever I emerge from my crawlspace I find it waiting for me, unique in spite of my convictions otherwise, steadfast in spite of my attempts to ignore it. This, the sum total of my parts equals the facts: I'm an raging depressive bisexual alcholic with no conversational skills but an extensive book collection and a propensity for falling in love with multiple people at the same time, and I've stopped listening. Holding myself together has become an art form; but this year, I quit, walked out, stopped cold, and now I'm rearranging my pieces, I'll change the contours of what's left of my heart and I'll make a future in the shape of my own mind.
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
annalee:
I think you will be good ♥ x
glitch:
that sounds better to me