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Fire

10/27/2015

I set someone on fire last night. Doused them in gasoline whose tank felt heavy in my hands and threw a match into the air. Flames erupted, my heart pounded and I woke from the nightmare sweating.
Caught my breath and hydrated but woke again when the police caught up with me questioning why i thought this was a reasonable way to deal with someone I was unable to explain in my dream.
I laid looking at the lines in the ceiling wanting something as mundane as complacency to lull me into a restful sleep.
Is it insomnia if it's bad dreams that inject fear into my sleep?
I feel like I am fighting myself. When I watch a movie or tv show with excessive violence, my brain shuts off. I cant retain the story. In my fiction, I'm amazed that I can write scenes of violence and rage. In my actual factual days, I lose my words and see red when anger sets in (or more appropriately, explodes out). So why then, would my thoughts sing songs of fireballs and stabbings when I lay in the dark and quietude for rest?
I'm having a hard time again this week. Inside-not out. I feel like I'm holding myself together pretty well externally and have had only a few cuss words fall from my lips during huff n'puffs; although I caught myself this morning muttering aloud, "who the fuck cares?" when discussing alternatives to current SOP.
So would my brain want to extend violence and hurt? Why am I not dreaming of rainbows and unicorns? I've taken hard steps to reason what occurred and stuff it down deep inside. (not just latest evening of turmoil-but all the negative things).
It is not reasonable that my brain is setting folks on fire. It is less reasonable that it is propagating fear.
Without sleep, my brain hurts. Its a headache or feels like I got bumped up and I have to close my eyes to make the swelling and pain drip in salty discharge.
Twice today I was standing for longer than I should and thought I would collapse. I think my brain is sleepy. I think I need to rest.
And yet there is the reasonable expectation that I will sink into depression if I allow my brain to convince me to lie down making up for the restlessness of murders and torture.
I really don't know what to do and i guess I'm running on auto pilot right now. Which further concerns me because if my hands act out on the thoughts in my dreams when I'm actually in my waking moments, I'll have become the very thing I fear.

Another Lie.

10/25/2015

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So this is pretty heavy and I guess if I was more considerate a human being I would list possible trigger warnings.
A liar lies to protect themselves or for personal gain. (otherwise its sociopath shit) This was told to me by a liar of great skill. -- Lied enough that he believed his words some days.
This morning I stirred... Not going to say I woke because I'm not convinced I slept. I stirred and counted the hours until I was to attend a movie with the film fest. My ticket was given to me generously by someone I think I will label acquaintance who seems to want to be a friend. Acquaintance. I thought hard about the relationship between he and i and truly it is only that we have been acquainted for a few months.
   So i have this ticket to a show i wanted to see and the 'special instructions' on the order even said, 'make sure she enjoys herself.' Now, the person who sent the ticket in my name did not plan on going with me and did not suggest he would me meet for the show.
Looking so forward to twelve hours of movies today at the festival and coming to the realization that i couldn't bear to get up to see even the one that was already paid for pretty much sums up the state of my brain today.
In my life, I've been assualted - physically, emotionally, verbally, psycologically, sexually - i suppose in everyway imaginable. Last night was another - um - incident. And this morning i worked through the lie i had to prepare to hide what happened to me last night and the reason i could not bear to be in the light of day.
But why am i lying? i was victimized. If i dont' lie, then i have to disclose why i didn't go to the movie. So, "Movie was great! Thanks for the gift!" Easy enough.
   A few months ago, I decided my nanowrimo project would be Liar; an exploration of abuse. In the past few days, I had a brilliant wave of inspiration and feel excited that i have a project that may be condusive to finishing a piece in which I will take pride AND can actually share with others. I can't explain how lovely it feels not to have the unease that comes each time I think of the exposure possible with the heavy project exploring my feelings about enduring abuse. Until this morning when I realized I have to start spinning lies to hide again being under the thumb of abuse.
   I'm sore physically, torn emotionally and have to wake up and be around people. I lied first to myself (I'm fine. I'm tougher than this. It wasn't that bad. I can and have endured worse.) and then given the opportunity to say, 'i'm pretty far from okay,' lie again and say, 'i'm fine,' aloud.
   But it's not fine. I have a rage inside me that builds up and comes out comically with words of a huff n' puff or a cuss n' fuss, depending on the severity of my anger. I don't think i've ever assaulted anyone. My brain just poked the words, 'assaulted one's character?' and i nod to admit to myself that maybe i'm no better than the others who squeeze their fingers around my neck and arms or push me down so that i can't move while my brain swells with situation diagnosis and my vision blurs until i'm an animal just like the one assualting.
So I lie. I lie and tell myself i didn't deserve the attack or that i deserved exactly what i got. I lie to others to hide where the bruises originated or why there is a tear in my eye. And i lie to people with reasons I don't meet commitments. Today was the first day i considered lying to say that i was someplace i wasn't. I just figure it's easier to say, 'I went. it was good. thank you.' than to explain, 'i'm dumb having put myself in another situation where someone hurt me and as a result, i'm a fucking quivering mess of a scared little girl.'
   When someone is bruised, it doesn't toughen up the muscle or the skin making it more difficult to bruise the next time. In fact, it weakens the integrity of the muscle and creates a greater chance of getting bruised from a lesser impact each time.
   I'm tired of the bumps and bruises. I feel like at this point in my life, i haven't got any fortitude left. i feel like every little thing is triggering a memory, not to mention the inability to deal with any physical harm. I've got no buffer left and everything hurts.
   So i have these old friends who seem to have abandoned me. Maybe i'm too black and blue and they don't recognize me? And i have these new acquaintances with whom i feel i have to set parameters - well, so i don't get bumped up.
I'm angry with myself because it took so much to accept the ticket to this show and i coudn't bring myself to go. i am still on the fence about lying or breaking down and saying i had a personal issue and couldnt' attend.
Today while i was at the train station, a man i have never seen before and probably will not notice if i ever see him again said, "Miss, you dropped something." I responded, "No i didn't," with all the indifference i could muster. To which he replied, "It's your smile, sad girl."
      And walking to the window to buy the pass that will carry me back and forth to work all week to see the show benefactor and the person who scratched and bruised me i realized this train-station-stranger's words would make any normal girl pick up her smile. A smile is free, it doesn't cost a thing to smile. (The movie i saw opening night of film fest even had a reminder of that little addage.) But today, it does cost something. It costs my dignity and my integrity and that smile is a lie. There is another adage, 'i say i'm fine because explaining why i'm not would not be understood.' Well, i'm not fine. And it's hard to remember a time when i was.

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Pennies from Heaven

10/13/2015

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Last week one day I sat having lunch and there was a disturbance behind me. I looked and a coin was spinning on the floor below my chair. I looked around and saw that no one moved. No one was looking for something they dropped or snickered having thrown something to get my attention. The coin just spun under my chair until it collapsed on the floor in exhaustion.
     So the story goes, as does the rest of my life -- an unexpected spinning until collapsing on the floor....seemingly valueless as it is just a penny and disregarded by most.
     And then this morning I saw a pile of pennies on the street as I walked to the bus to get the train to go to work. Quietly, I took a few and left most for another who was possible in as much of a little fortune as I. Before stuffing them into my pocket, I counted seven. My fingers plucked up seven of the little copper reminders -- even the smallest of things have value.
     I heard a motivational speaker quite a few years back talk about a friend needing to win the lottery and finding a dime on the street. His friend didn't pick up the dime because it was only a dime and he needed more. The speaker explained it was a reminder of the fortunes one is given that are often overlooked.
     Now just before I heard this cat share this wisdom, I had a rough patch of time where money was scarce... In fact it was absent most days. I probably struggled no more than any other with finances, but with my brain, it was crippling emotionally to go through this neediness. At the time I worked in a suburb that I had to transfer two buses and a train for the commute. It was a long ride and there were days I was counting nickels for the fare. I had arrived at work one day and felt grateful that I got in. The commute was no different than any other day, but it was pouring rain and possibly the day I received my paycheck. Definitely a day I took a coffee from the break room. And I remember, still today, bring grateful for finding the coins in all the corners and jars and change purses to make the fare one more day.
     I decided to take a moment and instead of making the to-do list, showing me at the end of the day all that I had not achieved; I decided to write all the things for which I was grateful that day. And I hear myself as I recommend this exercise -- there is the very trite, my friends and family, my kids and dog.... But that's not what I mean. Daily gratitude is the little picture. Its the pennies adding up to a bus ride and a free cup of coffee.
     At the end of a week, I looked back at my little notebook. I had things about my kids in there, but i also had things like, uninterrupted bath and hot water. I had things like milk in my coffee and unexpected dinner invitation from my sister with a nice bit of fancy cheese.
     I don't want to list the things for which I felt gratitude yesterday. I am focusing on today and those seven little things that should not be disregarded, but piled up into a mound of valued moments.

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Sleep ... or Redundancy... Maybe Indecision....

10/12/2015

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To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub.
     Shakespeare wrote these words exploring death and more specifically suicide.
In the same play, Hamlet states unequivocally, as of late - wherefore i know not- lost all my mirth.
Two sentiments, that I have expressed over and over to those who know me best.
But in my efforts to move forward with my life, I have found my mirth. It was no where other than within my mind. Sure i still have days when it seems to be dormant, but for weeks now it has not been missing in that place i know not.
It's the sleeping with which I have trouble. Shakespeare suggested, and Stoppard stated plainly that being dead was nothing more than being asleep in a box. Tom Stoppard, as a matter of fact, gave a nod to Hamlet beginning his To Be or Not to Be... speech and then had Rosencrantz and Guildenstern define the struggle Hamlet considered. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all. The suffering we've endured is at least something we know we can bear. Religion, with its hopes of afterlife does nothing more than propagate fear of the worse thing that is death. If death is a restful sleep, there would be no fear and killing oneself would be as easy a decision as the breakfast cereal one chooses. However, if death has the potential to be worse than life, who would want to close their eyes in the big sleep?
But as of late, I have, in regaining my mirth, have suffered bad dreams. One friend asked, like discovering you're naked in high school? No. It's being murdered in the basement kind of dreams. Last night I flipped a car and not only killed myself, but a couple other people because someone was chasing me and was trying to kill me. And then there are the dreams where I am confined and being tortured while my aggressor explains why I deserve the beatings and blood. (It all comes down to making me as ugly on the outside as I am on the inside.)
And in reason, I know the dream is the brain's way to file memories with images it knows. But when the fear of dreaming prevents sleep -- well, I become as ugly as the abuser suggested I am. My disposition, my eyes, my skin....
And I have entertained the possibility that after the big concussion, I had fallen into a coma from which I never recovered and I remain sleeping in this horrendous dream....
   Today, I was reminded the redundancy of this conundrum and I'm going to ask forgiveness; but i'm struggling with the lack of sleep and questioning my thoughts. If the payment for mirth is disturbing dreams, i'm not sure a smile is worth the insomnia.

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HaLF

10/10/2015

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I feel like half. Reasonably I should be a whole. Just as I am. But, my brain and my eyes continues to work separate from one another.
My brain - the thing that lets me feel and my eyes - the thing that lets me reason.
I am stuck at a half-way point in my head and it's causing an immobility-- i know, again with the immobility -
   I have a house in which I lived and suffered a great deal. Internally and externally. It just was unpleasant. As much as I tried to feel comfortable both within the walls and within my skin, I did not. But now is the time to clean up. Clean up my thoughts and the floors. Breathe behind a locked door and breathe with open thoughts. Today is going to be the day I return home to stay for good.
So i'm thinking about the half i feel i am and i'm thinking on the word home. Growing up, home was not someplace i ever wanted to be. It was full of violence and anger and fear. Laughter and joy came when we were away from the home even if it did occur with the same people who stayed within when the doors were locked. i think about the entry i agonized over with the toys and think to angry words i deflected my whole life about having a lot of things or the frequent accusation that i never was home. i was home enough. And the things I had were just distractions - fantasy in a world in which i felt alien.
   As an adult, i have children and we have a home. i always said, 'i'm doing my best,' even when i fell short. And their story is theirs. i don't want to presume they saw things they didn't.
But it's not what i wanted and it's only half of what i feel i could have done for their security and nourishment.
   I'm halfway through my life (if i'm lucky!) and i just went through enough introspection to realize some pretty big things. i count because my dad respected the numbers and i write because it was a rebellious thing to do with letters. But i feel -- I just feel when i do these things. I have a hard day with numbers where i take a minute (or twelve) to cry because the problem before me is too grand to reason. And then i breeze through some work and can really quantify my value. With writing, I pull some words together and maybe look at it again - possibly agonize over the configuration - but in the end, it lets me - i don't know what it does, but i re-read my words and even if they make me cry with a memory i'm not quite ready to handle, i smile a little knowing i have written.
   The final piece of the incomplete pie chart making up the whole of me is this: i may only want half?
   I never finished my accounting degree. At this point, I don't want to. I don't write with these analytics and shy away from the other writers who talk about book sales and editing for publication. I just want to write. And when someone tells me that others are going to notice me someday... i really don't care - the stubornness - the rebellion - i don't want to change my writing unless i decide to sit and re-write. Bottom line. It's only half. It's the epitiome of mediocrity.
   We're in this grand time of society where the masses can decide what they crowdsource and truly give their voice on the things they like, but in my opinion, eloquence has suffered and devolved into a lengthy and slow buzz feed slide show. Quite frankly, I don't care what anybody else wants. I don't care about the thumbs up and the recgnition. It's hard enough to just get to the sunset without having to deal with accolades.
Sometimes I feel like all that I am is half of what I wanted to be but most days I struggle with the half that I am; so truly I would be useless waging internal war on the half I could be when I reason that I don't want to be whole at all.
This feels unfinished, but it's all i'm going to say today.

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Fire

Another Lie.

Pennies from Heaven

Sleep ... or Redundancy... Maybe Indecision....

HaLF

Esther Elizabeth Buck

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