The body of a child,
Ripped, torn and beaten.
You think it was
Tripped, worn and eaten
Up, like dinner
Served to the winner.
Prized, praised, pretty and primped.
Lies, laid, little and limp.
Promised, plied, played and pimped.
Taste the bile,
All the while,
Stick to your style
Piece of shit.
I’m sitting and watching the snow reduce itself to a massive watery mess at the curbside. The sun is slanted sideways through the evening sky shining directly upon my face through the dusty window. I feel the warmth of that solar power warm my skin. It helps to keep my bitter coffee from cooling down as its aroma fills my lungs. I feel a longing inside.
The song I hear, speaking words of loss and loneliness. I wonder what the days ahead hold in store for me. A bag sits in front of me made of the recycled bits of our past. That plastic pill holder you threw out, the casing of a syringe from the pharmacy, the bottle of booze in the gutter. Is that what went into the making of this bag? I think maybe we’re all made of recycled bits of our parents. Enmeshed, mingled, molded into something new and perhaps not so different. After going through the crushing and grinding, heating, cleansing we are then spit out in our current shape. Or maybe we’re quite different in our new shiny form. We were made for an alternate purpose, mistakenly placed amidst the hell that we suffered. Yes that’s it. It must have been some universal glitch. Surely it wasn’t meant to be this way. For whatever a believer believes in, a divinity of such cruelty should not be allowed to exist.
Have any of you esteemed readers out there learned to call on your insiders for help? I mean, for me they come and take over when my distress is too high or some other emotion is becoming intolerable. But I’d really like to learn how to stay more present in these situations. That’s the goal really. To stop with the lost time already! It gets pretty scary sometimes when you realize you’re miles away from your home and you don’t remember the trip.
I want to have that feeling of continuity that others seem to have. I look back at my life and if I see everything clearly enough it’s like a patchwork with missing pieces. There is not a complete work of art. I wonder what it looks like for the insiders. Do they see the complete picture? Is theirs even more sparse and skewed than mine? I suppose it would be for those that only have a very specific purpose, a specific job. But i wonder how many have the ability to be co-conscious, and if being co-conscious ultimately means having the full picture.
Then I start to really think about what I’m asking for. The whole picture. This picture is going to have some pretty ugly parts. some parts that are gruesome and hurt to look at. But at this point in time, I think I would rather see the whole, ugly gruesome thing than to have all of these empty spaces.
For those of you that have recovered the pieces have you found it to be a better way of being? I know that it’s an arduous process and so painful to finally realize the full scope of the harm that has befallen us, but is it better? If it isn’t than what really is the point? What is the goal? What does healing mean?
Do you have a definition of what being healed means for you?
Sometimes the only things that can be translated in your mind are through pictures instead of words. Words simply can’t convey the power or intent behind our wants and needs. So I’ve resorted to drawing on more than one occassion. I wanted to include this specific drawing as a symbol of me reaching out to the world. Here I am, being vulnerable, being open, being honest and I lend my hand to you, my readers. I hope that you will reach for it in times of trial and in times of triumph.
Take care of yourselves,