mentally ill abroad.

hopeless.
without help, on any side-
i don't speak the (language).
I called my friend,
who called my husband.

i called from a dark room,
from my bed.
I haven't moved in nine days.
I called using one finger.
The only body part
with the ENERGY to MOVE.

I cried for help,
quietly,
before I locked myself alone.
With the blinds shut.
(before the razorblades)
(before the pills)

I called my friend,
who called my husband,
who told me I was fine.

underneath it all

somewhere,
there is a bone deep convictuion
that i am not good enough.

genesis,
beginning.
matters but doesn't matter,
because it surrounds me every day.
the images.
the songs.
the glances.
small adjustments to clothing,
always with a defensive air.
the defense -
i deserve to exist.

there are always two voices in my head.
one insisting i should hide,
i should die,
i shouldn't force my own company.
the other insisting,
ridiculous.

i'm so tired of the argument.
when will the fighting stop?

angst

at the end,
all our posturing,
all the effort,
is to counteract that one lonely question:
if i wasn't here,
would anyone care?

different

we are different,
the same in things that matter.
our cores
speak to each other,
our centers are the same.
the counterpoint.
we finish each other's...

yeah, fuck that sentance.
let's tear up the surface
and get down to what
matters.

shackle.

happiness is a shackle,
anchoring my ankle to
the sinking ship of committment
gone sour years before -

happiness is a chain
tying me to the lost cause
of acceptance and contentment,
where will is just a memory.

happiness is a weight
in the ocean, dragging me
down into the darkness,
where there is no hope for change.

happiness is the lie
we tell our children, and never
grow out of -
as we drown in the tedium of life,
we cannot understand
why the shore is still miles away.

flirting by rote.

When I am with you

I should be butterflies

I should be ethereal

I should be sitting on the edge of my seat with excitement,

Breathless

Wanting

Waiting.

When I am with you,

I should look into your eyes and feel my chest constrict tight,

Tight,

Like a ribbon suddenly pulled into a bow.

When I am with you I am faking.

I am saying the right things in all the right places.

I am working the eyes and working the faces.

I am flirting and playing and making the grade.

But when I am with you I’m faking.

I know in my heart what I’m doing is wrong,

Could fuck up your world, your ideas, your thoughts

Of how women are.  Your trust in the process.

But when I’m with you I’m faking.

Like a compulsion, like drinking or eating

It’s gaming.  It’s expected

For me to be charming and try and want you…

To want you to want me.

Attention whore, or just wanting to be wanted,

The most human of all emotions.

Unfair and unbroken and totally heartless

Totally selfish.  Totally bad.

Even for a fleeting moment of thinking,

In my head,

YES this is a good idea.

Or even doubts about YES I WANT THAT.

It’s true,

When I’m with you I’m faking.

In my heart of hearts I hope you’ll know

Better next time, pick someone who cares a little bit more

About what could happen,

Rather than needing something right now

Consequences be damned.

But today you’re shit out of luck,

Because when I’m with you I’m faking.

Seams

-->

I have found as I have aged and gotten older that the words appealing to me about life have shifted.  As a teenager growing up I was focused on words inspiring my passing and heart, things like strength and power and courage.  To not give up the fight.  To overcome my obstacles.  To be built on struggle.

It’s commonly held that people slow down with age, especially those who are involved in youth culture.  The music that appeals to youth, especially adolescent boys, is filled with aggression, screaming lyrics appealing and giving voice to that deep angst and anger fostered in white suburbia.  It takes energy and commitment and a huge passion for throwing body and mind onstage each night in front of whoever happens to be watching.

Not only youth focused culture but Americans in general focus frantically on youth and being able to hold on the vestige of rebelliousness and stupidity and energy entwined in the early days of life.  We lose sight of the beauty and earnest joy in acceptance and in the gentle softness that comes as we all get older and begin to lose our tension.

Certain phrases hold appeal in truth and in the ability to age intentionally.  To admire the seams in a weathered face of a wise man.  For your face to crease in a smile.   To be pillowed in the kindness and warmth of one you love.  These are words to calm and soothe.  Language so different from the terms of death and decline used with impunity in discussion on the subject.

Aging intentionally is to embrace these changes and move slowly toward a softer strength, to move from tawny skin and smoothly bunching muscles to fragile hands and slow walks.  Though we focus on the aches and pains, we lose sight of a solid sense of self and easy confidence that comes with age, if we’re lucky.

So, in the end, to trade vigor for calm, strength for acceptance, that inevitable choice, is all a matter of the words we choose.