The brain gets crazy right before the end

That was what my friend said about a loved one returning after a long waiting period.

I know what he means. You spend so much time missing them, and before that in denial that they were gone, and before that in preparation for the separation. And then one day you realize they're coming home.

And that's not even what I was going to talk about, but his words struck me.

I also saw a movie with a dying woman in it recently. She started seeing her old, dead relatives before she passed. The brain gets fuzzy right before the end.

Death and I have this understanding, though, and I will not allow it to overtake me until I have accomplished a minor task list of to-do, to-meet, to-help, etc.

Been thinking about a title of a book.
...because I write short books
sounded good.

Soon to come: rant.

Victimized

I watched a video today of a person talking about the feelings he had after years away from an extremely fundamental college and culture.

You can watch the link here.

http://www.stufffundieslike.com/2013/11/the-victims/

It's interesting how these things just come at the right time.

I responded:

"I’m completely new to this conversation, but I want you to know that in my struggle to deal with a rape, I had the exact same reaction: I didn’t want to call myself a victim.

Somehow, becoming a victim meant that I couldn’t be me anymore, and I had to re-examine everything about myself that I believed to be true.

I guess I’m sending you hugs. And I hope that we can all work together so that no one ever has their voice taken from them ever again."

I was literally just discussing the implications of calling yourself a victim with my therapist, as I've been working through what I can finally call rape. I really am not comfortable talking about it yet, but I hope to eventually share my story because it needs to be heard.

I want to clarify something, right here and now: No one's trauma, pain, or silence EVER gets to be better or worse than someone else's. It's just different, and everyone's experience is different because everyone's context is different, but that doesn't mean I've got MORE trauma than you because (insert any reason ever). Pain is pain and trauma is trauma and the more we try to quantify who hurts worse or who has survived more is just going to alienate us instead of unifying us. And no one wants to win the "my life sucks the most" award, really. 

Rant over.

I guess I want to say that I am a survivor. I feel guilty, like I'm cheating when I say that, like I'm stealing the word from someone on the other side of breast cancer.

Part of that guilt comes from feeling like I haven't survived yet. I can't claim the word "survivor" because I'm not on the other side yet. I'm not past some invisible line where I get to say "I'm not happy about what happened, but I'm going to accept that it happened and keep living."

I guess someday I'll be a survivor, and that will be a huge stroke of victory. Until then, I will keep fighting my way out of this dark corner, wounded, victimized, but not silenced and not marginalized.

I finally re-found my voice.

I was supposed to take a quiz, but I wrote this instead

What is two weeks?
A trifle, a mere
smudge on the
timeline of my existence.
But for the news
That came today,
I'd have you in
my arms in two
weeks. Only two
weeks more? I've
waited two
hundred days
And could
start hearing
the cheering
from the finish
line...but
now it's twice
as far away,
and I run
on in lonely
silence.
Only two
more weeks
might be the end
of me.

Comparison (thank you again writer's digest poetry prompts)

When things are hard to describe - like the first time you draw blood and your heart rushes but your mind cringes - you don't. You tell the outlines, skip the details, tell them everything it's not. Because telling them what it is -

the desire to die
or see everything
and everyone you
 ever cared for
go up in flames
lest you combust
from the pressure
of trying to just be
good enough &
accepted by your family -

will never cross your lips because you crucify yourself, marked as a martyr as that train flashes, bullet-speed, through conscious thought.

I won't even step on a cricket; how can I crush these dear people?

because the anger inside cannot be dammed any longer. It will find release. Not a matter of if but when, the lava that spews, from my mind, so incendiary that even my physical home is on fire.

No, I didn't start the blaze but I was glad to see it burn.

I wanted to lose everything.

I had a chance

to be free.

in case of fire

don't breathe
just crawl
find air
some where
get safe.
stop, drop,
roll, burn.
fire sky
rains ash
fall, cry
ask, "why?"
death comes
life runs
full tilt
dead leaf
finds ground;
grace rain
falls down
flames cease
new bud
life here
again

a broke poem (thank you Writer's Digest Poetry Prompts)

what what what happened
what happened to you
what what what ...to you
what happened?
what what what happened
what about Kansas
what happened in Kansas
what...to you in Kansas

*click* OFF.
Fuckin' record with one track
Over and over
I been patient
I tried
But it's time to unplug
You only abuse that power
so SNAP pull CLICK
I took away what makes you tick

Because I know what happened in Kansas. *mute*

~written June 19, 2013

Prompt from a poetry gathering

"To plan for the future without having a sense of history is like trying to plant cut flowers."
so maybe that's why
I can't grow roots,
the memories erased and
the plants die right before they bloom

They say it's self-sabotage
but I can't feel the pain

Yet I sit here with mice and men laying plans and roads and maps and goals
but they crumble; they decay

time wipes those memories away
memories that would give
me roots, bring me
strength, bring the sun

How can I believe the dawn if I can't remember ever seeing it before?
This is the terror of my dark, the dark without memory of the light.