these days

There are good days, and there are bad days.
If one were to survey the breadth of my writing since I truly began pouring my heart out at age 12, anyone would likely conclude that most of these days, for me, are bad. And perhaps for ages 12-18 and 20-22, they would be correct about that. But these days, my writing is a small glimpse of me.
"For a therapist, you really don't talk about your feelings very much," commented a lover. "You're always there to listen to everyone else's problems but you don't talk about yourself."
I thought for a moment and realized she was right. Few people in my life evoke my genuine "opening up." Even within romantic partnerships- when the sharing stops, when the "I can share anything with you" feeling dissipates and both parties stop listening... it's always a signal that the end of the relationship is, at least emotionally, drawing near.
I thought about why I "don't talk."
"It's because I write," I answered. The two things are far from mutually exclusive, of course, but my feelings are typically expressed through art and words on paper (or in ether). I've always felt far more eloquent on paper... and far less judged. It's always been very difficult for me to imagine that anyone wants to hear my thoughts.

Today as I sat alone in my office, door closed, I took an inventory.

My shoulders, feeling weak, sore and strained as though "a house on my shoulders"- as one of my Spanish-speaking inmates would say later that day.

My neck stiffens, and cannot turn all the way to the right without a sharp pain shooting into my shoulder.

The deep ache in my chest, the one that makes me feel ill.
The feeling reminds me of when I was 14... after being very physically ill for a very long time, my mother took me to a "reflexologist" out of desperation. I had seen every doctor the Valley had available (which took no time at all), had every test... all were flummoxed. My crippling anxiety was, quite literally, killing me. Continuous vomiting eroded away my esophagus, my teeth; I couldn't eat or get above 91 lbs. The reflexologist (or "witch doctor" as we jokingly called her) called upon her bizarre methods, that seemed more like parlor tricks than any sort of science, and told me that I was out of alignment. She stated that my spine was putting pressure on my heart in such a way that blood was pooling in my heart, and in my stomach. When I feel this ache in my chest, I imagine blood pooling in my heart. It thumps loudly. It feels sluggish, as though a tranquilizer dart has pierced my sternum. It hurts.

I fight off thoughts that I can't help obsess about, and ache more. I certainly allow myself time and means to delve into the pain, diving deep down until the clear teal water turns to persistent but non-malevolent black where no light is able to penetrate. To much time, perhaps. Perhaps I revel in it too much. Writing too many sad things, listening to too many sad songs, drawing too many sad pictures. I turn it over and over and over and over again in my head, thinking that surely - as with everything else - I can think my way out of it. I can use my intelligence to solve any problem. This just requires some problem solving! Surely there is a simple solution to fix this heartache...

But there's not. There's no pill. There's no drink. No procedure. Or ritual. Or exercise. No sweet treat. Or letter. Or phone call. Or escape. Or words.
No matter how many times I think about it... no matter how desperately I turn it over and over and over again in my mind, wearing it smooth like a gem in a tumbler... there's just no fixing it.
It just is.

This pain sits rooted in my chest, nestled into the hollow cocoon-like muscle with barbs securely embedded in the tough flesh. Right now, this heartbreak just sits.
And it will sit. Until it's quite ready to depart.

And until this I write. And I cry. And I draw. And I cry. And I think about how very far I've come and how different my existence is now. And I use that as fuel... to remind me that things will change. Continue to change.

Far, far more often then ever do I feel unabashed joy. My heart swells and beats out steel drum rhythms and sings to me. It feels as though it might explode. The tears come, but this time with joy. It comes more frequently. It lasts longer. These are the moments I desperately wish to share with another.

And, as I thought today, sometimes it's hard to be alive. I brace myself against the emotion as it hits me like a wave, washing away the very ground I stand on. My brains reels and yammers in colors and sheets of typewritten paper and stomach acid. Yelping and growling and spitting and spinning.

"What do you have to do to make her/him/them love/respect/want you??" it wails desperately
"Why her and not you?" it scowls
"Why isn't/aren't this/you enough?" it demands
"What are you doing wrong?" it chastens
"Why are you still feeling this way?" it judges
"Why can't you fix this?" it barks

Shhhhh h h h h . . . . I say
Shhhh Shh Shh.
You aren't helping.

I stroke the pain as though it's a scared feral dog and speak softly to it.

Time puts all things as they should be. And you can survive anything.
Anything but death, which will be the easiest thing you'll ever do.
But while you are alive, you will be surviving. Inevitably, without choice, you will survive.
Cry when you need to. Speak when you need to. Try to understand that you cannot always understand. Forgive yourself for emotions that you cannot, should not, and will not ever strangle from yourself.
Forgive yourself.