forever the tears

Through the filter of tears, she stared at the blank screen. There were no words for pain ripping her, blood from dagger edges of her emptiness. Once she used powerful, poetic words.

Expressed lyrically how difficult life is always on the outside, no community parting to let her hold hands in their circle, lost in fog when the lighthouse destroyed by the storm. Coat of failure, scarf of loneliness. Worthless, un-loveable tattooed on her arms. Stories within stories. Metaphors. Allegories. Sentences longer than a word or two.

Lost how to eloquently express; lost use of langue, words. Always, the tears remain.

In red leather chair, ubiquitous office, most vulnerable. Crying in public is okay.

Asking desperately if she is too broken to be fixed.

Talking without breathing. So long since she looked across at someone who listened.

Questions. Trying to voice answers. Realizations.

If misery is her comfort zone, fear of future is fear of change, can she leave behind the chains, manacles, leg hold traps of self-sabotage, and demons?

Picks at trauma’s scars and scabs until her fingers bloody.  Trauma doesn’t have one definition. Nor does self-mutilation.

Not knowing or understanding the embrace of friendship, her puzzlement breaks potential/growing bonds.

If she can’t find a place to fit in – one of her strongest wishes – maybe that space will find her.

That her greatest wish is to be/feel loved. Special. Desired. Wanted.

Unique(ness) can be more that ridicule and rejection.

Negative self-image rejects/doesn’t sense/accept anything outside the self-imposed view.

So ingrained, inculcated, beaten in, reinforced personae by early age, life unfolds on those concepts.

What she thinks she is not, others may see her as.

Almost a year of being stable. No rage. No obsessing. Learning to take friendship’s hand. Maybe becoming part of a community. Maybe mattering. Not crying every day.

Now, the tears wash away instructions on the chalk board, delete the apps, purge possibilities.

No red leather chair to curl up, stretch out, sit straight back, slouch at the edge.

The only reality she conceives is hers. How all the bad years, the sadness, the self-denigration melded to a filter. Glued to her eyes, she can see no other way.

Her reality is the jagged chasm between her and the simple things she needs, she craves. Denied. Not perceived.

Her reality is being forgettable, unimportant, never good enough to/for/receive/earn _________________________. She fills in the blanks with tremoring handwriting.

Her reality is bleak, aching, empty, alone.

She stares at the blank screen. She no longer has the words . . . Only the tears. Forever the tears.


8 thoughts on “forever the tears

  1. wendy September 26, 2015 / 2:11 pm

    I’m so sorry I don’t read your post like I should.
    I need to see more of this.

    Please don’t forget how the year being almost stable felt like…you are forgetting a bit, you had to fight for that – hard….you always have to fight. You never got totally stable.

    But you do have a friend. You still do. You have people here who consider you family.
    A chosen family is much different than a biological one. We choose each other. We aren’t just science.
    No matter how hard you try to push me away smetimes I’m not going anywhere.

    You are not alone.
    I’m probably not making a lot of sense today.
    Another rough one. I’m loopy and need sleep.

    Will talk with you soon.
    I love you.


    • phylor September 26, 2015 / 2:24 pm

      It’s the unraveling — sometimes it’s worse when you think maybe, then feel guess not.

      Doesn’t look like any stability in the future. I try and have the strength to fight, but it does get harder every time.

      Thanks for hanging in there with me. Hey, I don’t usually write so from such a depressive and manic state and post the gutz stuff.

      I had a teacher in “admin. assist.” school, who was bipolar (manic depressive in those days). She completely melted down at the end of term and failed all of us on our final test. I did better the second time, but I sure understand her a lot better now. She wasn’t stable, and she bounced and screamed — just like me.

      Thanks, friend.


    • phylor September 11, 2015 / 8:11 pm

      Part of the pattern of my life.
      So many of the “she” and “I” in my writing are versions of me. Heart from the heart, as they say.


        • phylor September 11, 2015 / 11:26 pm

          Remember, too, that as NAMI stresses, “You are not alone.”


          • Valida Muse September 12, 2015 / 2:14 am

            Well, from a practical standpoint, I’m entirely alone. I don’t know about “others”, but for me the intellectual view that I’m not alone eventually stops working.


            • phylor September 12, 2015 / 4:11 pm

              What “you are not alone” in this context means is to remember how others are also dealing with physical and emotional pain, bipolar, fibromyalgia, etc.
              So, from a non-intellectual perceptive: you are alone within your personal world, but in the broader context, there can be others who share aspects of your experiences.
              When you wrote “Echoes . . .” I thought perhaps you were referring to this and other “conversations” where we talked about similar/shared experiences. Doesn’t make you any less alone physically and intellectually, I know. But the idea of the motto is you can share, reach out, talk, listen, compassion from both ends of the conversation.
              Doubt that makes any sense. Words elude me this afternoon.


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