A One-Sided Goodbye

I got the news this week that you died.

I don’t know what I want to say, really, but I’m writing. I’m going to try to say something anyway, even if it’s hidden in a slough of disjointed thoughts and raw feelings that I haven’t really sorted or dealt with just yet. So here goes.

I didn’t want to have to say goodbye to another friend. I didn’t want to have to tell another story like the one I’m probably going to tell (ramble about?) here. I like telling stories when I’m reminiscing, not when I’m trying to convince myself that reality really is as shitty as I thought. It’s been a few days since I originally wrote this, and I tried to let my thoughts settle before I made it public. But reality hasn’t gotten any less shitty. Reality is going to hit me in the face like a bag of bricks tonight, when I see you and everyone who loved you together again. Another friend is gone. A friend I used to be closer to; one who I dearly wish knew what I (and so many others) are feeling right now. Not because I want you to feel bad that we hurt, but that we hurt because we loved you, and it physically makes us feel like something has been torn from us. Everyone should know that he or she was loved and valued like that.

I feel defeated. I feel hurt. Grief. Remorse. Foolishness. All sorts of things that are better reserved for an overblown reaction to a shitty job interview than to the death of a friend. But that’s the way it is for me. Feeling guilty about having feelings: If that isn’t painfully Midwestern, I don’t know what is.

I feel defeated by time and life. Like they’re in some kind of terrible pact to wreak as much havoc as possible on people who don’t deserve the shit they’ve been handed. I feel like, despite my and their best efforts to improve ourselves and always look forward, the battle takes a turn for the worse every so often, and good people are tossed to the side as casualties faster than anyone could ever expect. Death, at this age, is rarely drawn out. And yet, I personally never seem to learn from my mistakes: I don’t make enough time to be a good friend. I know damn well how fragile life is, how valuable friendships–even friendships that could use some nurturing after some dust has gathered–are, and I blow my chances to honor these precious things over and over and over again. It seems I never have enough time for everyone and everything, no matter how honest or good my intentions are. Quality time spent with loved ones is always just around the corner–when work has calmed down; when my son is a little older, and I’m not his personal vending machine; when I have all my ducks in a row and feel like I have the time to give. Life is passing me by in some ways, and it’s not stopping for anything simply because I’m busy.

To the contrary.

Before I left Fargo for California, I had my share of problems. But, despite the fight I was putting up, I also have to remember that there were many slivers of happiness made available to me: I lived in the moment; I had friends who I saw regularly; I had the fortune to live with some great people, you included, who cared for me despite what I saw as all of my shortcomings. And despite my tendency to let my deep-seated insecurities and festering past traumas control my life by doing things like drinking too much and caring about myself too little, I was, somehow, accepted. I still count this among my blessings, even though nearly a decade has passed since this time. I can hardly believe it.

In the conversations we’d had over the years, I feel like we’ve covered just about everything. I recall conversations about gaming, music, movies, cars, and your regular ol’ generic stuff that friends do. But then I remember talking about mental illness, being poor and being rich and all the shit that came between, traveling, how to learn a language, and how to be a kind person. We also discussed whether prot warriors were the best tanks, and I never forgot the night we all decided we were going to run a heroic Slave Pens wherein you ended up running directly into a wall until you dc’d, leaving the rest of us in the middle of a dungeon we were painfully undergeared for. I remember bringing you along to Karazhan with my stoner shaman friend (I also miss you, Deeks), and you couldn’t BELIEVE that they would give you such amazing loot as the King’s Defender, even though they outgeared that place by a long shot. You kept insisting they take it because you couldn’t possibly accept such loot. We basically had to force you to take it. This is important, I promise–and it’s because I enjoyed playing WoW with you back in the day, and even when you were playing a game, you were considerate of others. It seems like that’s an oxymoron these days, what with everyone being a shitbag on the internet. You were good peeps, though. (Not to say you didn’t have your trolly moments, however. Because you did.)

We talked about dumb people and smart people and why life was the way it was. You used to message me about things that you knew affected me: the rights of the LGBTQ community, the struggle for affordable healthcare, taking care of a sick loved one. That you told me about the devastating diagnosis of someone close to you meant a lot to me–that you’d trust me and value my friendship enough to reach out and share something so personal. I only wish I could have done more aside from offer you words of support when you did reach out. I didn’t know how to help. I never want to bother or impose. Am I a coward? I haven’t figured that out yet.

To get back on track: We had a weird sort of friendship back then, one where we were sort of “unofficial” roommates and drinking buddies. I slept on the couch and acted like a general loaf. But we all hung out, and I’ve never forgotten the kindness my friends showed me when I was at one of the lowest points of my life. You and so many others were there for me when I felt very alone. It was difficult to see then how much people wanted to help and how much they cared. Depression told me it was pity, and I pretty much acted accordingly.

I have mentioned this several times, but I think this is one of the most touching things that you did: When I gave you my cheap bracelets back in like… 2007 or something, you wore them for years until they basically broke or fell off. I remember you telling me that you’d had them for so long, and I was thinking, “Why?” But you were a sentimental person. My mom always called you “pug guy” and asked how you were because she loved how much you treasured your Izzy. My sister remembers you because you talked to her about things that weren’t so well accepted in Fargo at the time. See? You made an impression on people who barely knew you. That’s something.

From the time I trudged out in thigh-high snow during a blizzard to sit with you in your car because you’d gotten stuck (and I THINK we were listening to MSI, though I can’t be sure; coincidentally, this was the day I decided I needed to move far away from Fargo) to us practicing Chewbacca noises much to the chagrin of Jeff, who had to work early (sorry, Jeff) to dancing to Britney Spears, and to all the times the entire group of friends spent together bullshitting and playing games, I have made some great memories. And who can forget my great nickname for you: McSexypants? Everyone. Everyone forgot McSexypants, except for me and you, probably. Because it was stupid. But I don’t let shit go. I think these jokes are funny forever (like Chris’s iconic “you have no face”).

I made it a point to try to stay caught up when I moved, but I failed to do a good job at it. I got too involved in another crappy point in my life, hitting a pretty low place before beginning my recovery, and in so doing, I made an ass of myself and set myself apart from a group of people who had always been kind to me. I’ve tried to apologize, but I’m told repeatedly that it isn’t necessary. It never sat right with me, though. I was so happy that you came to my second wedding, and when I told you so, you basically looked at me like I’d just said the most ridiculous thing: “Of course I’d come. Why wouldn’t I come?” Truthfully, you hadn’t come out much at all, and I felt happy that you made it to such an important event of mine.

I also feel really bad that I don’t have many photos of us. I was gone for so long that I missed a lot of things, a lot of great times. Anything I had on my old phone that got stolen is forever gone. I can’t get on my old harddrive, and I know I have some good ones on there. But photos are photos. My absence means time that I won’t get back. I am sorry for that.

Finally, our last conversation. After someone started attacking your character on Facebook, I stuck up for you. You messaged me to thank me, and it got rolling from there. You talked a lot about your health and your demons. I am not going to go into that. I just want to say that I listened, and I worried. I admit that I contacted your brother. I was scared. And when you asked me how the baby was and told me over and over that you hoped we were safe and healthy, I tried my best to reassure you that we were. When you told me about the other things you were dealing with, I wished I could help more. But one can’t fix everything, and that’s something I need to accept.

I don’t mean to make this more about me than you. But it’s all I can say because I am angry with myself. I never got to say goodbye. I wish, more than anything right now, that I could run across the room and tell you how happy I was that you came over to hang out. I wish I could hug you and share stories again. But I won’t get that chance, so I am writing this. It helps me to write, sometimes. It’s hard as hell to pull these feelings out and put them into words. But it’s necessary because I don’t want to forget. It’s at times like this when I wish I believed in God; that I thought maybe, one day, we’d see each other again. But my beliefs are my own, and they say otherwise. I want to remember you as you were, friend, kind and flawed, and do my best to part with you in a way that I feel is appropriate for your impact in my life.

So this is my one-sided goodbye. Goodbye to a friend, goodbye to a soul who was loved by so many. We will miss you dearly.

A Birthday and Christmas Post for My Sister

sisters

 

28 years ago, I got the best Christmas present ever.

My sister and closest friend.

This isn’t going to be a particularly long post, nor am I going to write story after story of memories that I have–and trust me, there are plenty–but I will write this:

Happy birthday, I miss you, I love you, and Merry Christmas!!! YOU ARE THE BEST SEESTOR IN THE WHOLE WORLD-D-D-D-D-D!

Love,

Your sister who doesn’t let old jokes go. And never will.

The curse of being a creative

Oooh, it’s another post time.

I promise, it won’t be too depressing. This is just a quick word-vomit thing to get this horrible, repeating thought out of my head.

Sometimes, I feel like I got cursed with creativity.

Allow me to explain.

Being creative is a valued trait. In certain contexts. Some of our highest-paid professionals in America are creatives–singers, actors, directors, etc.

Yet, go to school to be a film maker, a graphic artist, or a creative writer, and people are going to laugh when you struggle to get a job and say, “Well, you should have done something more practical.”

So you look at other options. The reality of the situation is that you probably won’t be the next Veronica Roth. E.L. James. Jennifer Lawrence. Or whoever.

You begin to realize that you really have nothing else to fall back on. You’re good at one thing: making things out of nothing. You’re good at getting lost in your own head, feeling at home among the clouds, your eyes staring off into nothing, as your brain paints a picture that you need to get out somehow–whether it’s through writing, drawing, singing, acting, or literally painting.

And when you’re out of school, you discover..

no one wants to pay you for that shit.

So you end up going off on your own, looking for ways to make your dream happen. We’re that generation, anyway. Your job doesn’t exist? Fucking make it up. Make your life happen on your own if you can’t find it on monster.com (or LinkedIn, I guess, whatever people are clamoring all over these days). You control your destiny, right?

God, no.

It’s such fucking hard work. You know what sucks? Knowing that you’re really going to struggle at the start. knowing that you’ll have to change your strategy time and again to pin down the formula that really, truly work–it’s a business, after all.

You want to sell your art online? You can start up a store, but good luck marketing your stuff and having it take off immediately. You can show people your portfolio, but they’ll end up asking you to make a logo for free or else they’ll “ask their boss’s kid–he’s good with that kind of stuff.”

You wanna write? Have fun begging people for reviews and trying to get your book to climb the search result ranks on Amazon. Pour your heart and soul into these words to have someone look at the cover and shrug and say, “next.” or worse–submit to a traditional publisher and get used to being rejected over and over.

You want to compose? Are you going to be stuck trying to sell little jingles for a piddly little fee while trying to write an album that you only hope will put food on your table?–it’s not like you’re asking to be a superstar, right?

Want to be in a film? Ha. Work for days on end for no money, understanding that the people who are making the film probably can’t afford to even buy water for everyone on the set, let alone offering you a fair wage. But hey, it’ll look good in your portfolio, right? Maybe this role will be your break out role.

It seems that no matter which creative route you take, if you’re not already connected, it’s a rough road to travel.

I’m not saying it’s not worth it. These jobs are laborious, tedious, and slow-moving for most people. But they’re done out of love, and that’s why we keep doing them.

What I’m sick of seeing is people who shit all over art.

A blogger I used to follow has made a platform for herself by being pretty. Literally all she does is take selfies and make her hair and face into cool art projects. I loved her style and reading her funny, weird posts. Then she started getting preachy about other people’s bodies. Then about their lives and choices. Then about the recent celebrity photo leaks.

I cut her out of my feed like a tumor.

A makeup artist I follow drew some pictures and shared them with her fans. people told her to stick to “looking pretty”. For fuck’s sake, she was happy and wanted to share it, and thousands of people tore her down for daring to do so.

I can’t read those comments anymore. Her feed constantly rips on her appearance, anyway.

My female friends stream their games online. They get torn apart for their appearance

sometimes–because they happen to be women just sharing something they love with fans. Whether it’s a comment about their bodies or someone just being an asshole for no good reason, it must get tiring to be the target of such negativity. It wears you down.

I don’t watch streams for that reason. Can’t stand the comments.

So I sit here, thinking of the talents that I have. They are all in the creative realm. I will never go back to school to get a STEM degree. I respect people who do this, but I don’t belong there with them. I will never go into something lucrative–I’ll never own a huge business. That’s okay, too.

But I feel discouraged because creativity is all I have.

Really. It’s all I have.

And I don’t understand the

Creativity is a blessing and a curse.

My Life with Bipolar Disorder and Depression

When the phone rang that night, I was asleep. It was probably 1 am or so, and my 10-year-old body wasn’t used to being pulled from slumber at such an unreasonable hour. I closed my eyes and willed myself to slip into unconsciousness again. The voice in the back of my head told me I shouldn’t sleep; that I should get up and find my sister and whichever parent had kept watch with us that night, and listen to what they had to tell me. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it because I didn’t want to hear what they were going to say. If I went back to sleep, it’d be a dream; a terrible, awful, nightmare. The phone call would be a figment of my imagination.

I woke up again, when it was light outside, to my mother’s sobbing tearing through the walls. Sharp sobs. Unearthly wails. I can’t describe the grief and the overwhelming anger and helplessness that I could hear in her voice. She was in the bathroom with the door shut, but nothing was hidden from me and my seven-year-old sister. We sat up in our hideaway couch bed and I saw my father sitting at the little table across the room from me, with tears in his eyes, but his demeanor calm.

I knew the words that were coming next. The phone call hadn’t been a dream, and my willful ignorance had been pointless. I started crying. My sister got scared and started crying, too, not really understanding what was going on.

“Sara went to be with your sister last night.”

Angry sobs. Uncontrollable tears. Cursing God. Hadn’t I prayed hard enough? Losing Kristin was hell on my parents… and now Sara’s gone, too?

It was three weeks before her fourth birthday.

head-is-bad

Image from STYLEGERMS

 

My dance teacher threw up her hands, exasperated.

“Why don’t you even try?” she asked. I was half her height and couldn’t look her in the eyes. We stood in front of a wall-sized mirror, where she scrutinized my form as I practiced a section of my dance routine in a trance-like state.

“I am,” I said. We stared at one another for a moment, our eyes locking in the glass, and then she turned and went to assist one of my classmates. I wanted to leap through the glass like Alice, and escape from the inanity of memorizing a simplistic, boring dance routine. What did it matter, anyway? The only people who cared were my parents. They were the only ones who showed up to watch their kids prance around on a stage like clumsy little mannequins, wearing far too much makeup for their own good and hair sprayed into place like a tiny Texas beauty queen. Who else cared? I couldn’t think of a single person.

But my mom paid for classes. And I had to keep everyone happy.

I forced myself to move again. If you squinted, it looked sort of like dancing.

“We need to talk,” my piano teacher said, looking at me while I let my fingers slump from the keys and into my lap, knowing what was coming. “You haven’t been practicing, and you seem very… sad.”

I refused to make eye contact and just stared at the keys, tears welling up in my eyes as I tried to choke out some kind of answer. Words weren’t coming.

“Is it because of your sister?”

Yes, it is because I have a gaping hole in my life where her little bald head should be. Her adorable, round eyes and her singing and dancing and hilarious jokes. She should have been free of her illness, and don’t you think I am angry that such a sweet little person had to suffer so greatly? I hear her voice when I try to sleep, and my chest hurts so bad that I feel my heart will tear itself apart.

I have her drawings of our family together. It will never be the same. I have a mother who won’t stop crying, a father who gets the brunt of her uncontrollable wrath. A younger sister who is clearly struggling to process death and is doing worse than I am. I pretend I can’t hear the arguing and get angry with myself for being such a failure at everything instead.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

She understood. She said I had to keep trying. I was trying. I was. Why did everyone think I wasn’t trying? I was reaching for something in the distance, but I never seemed to get any closer. Reaching was all I could do.

 

Or pursuing a writing career. Onion, you are spot on.

Or pursuing a writing career. Onion, you are spot on.

Image from TheOnion.com

“Girls, come in here,” my dad called. My sister and I were in the family room, and he and my mom had been fighting in the bedroom for what seemed like hours. I knew what was coming. We stepped into the room and they looked at us with somber, controlled expressions. I crossed my arms.

“Your mom and I love you two very much…” my dad choked out, then trailed off.

“You’re getting divorced, aren’t you?” I asked. He shook his head.

“We’re just going to try being separated for a while. I’m going to get an apartment and you can come stay with me every other weekend.”

I was so mad I was just numb. When the “conversation” was over, I left, and felt like crying, but it was the anger that was growing more than anything else. I hated my life more and more with each passing day. I didn’t know what normal was anymore.

...

“I think this sounds like you,” my friend said, pointing to the phrase BIPOLAR DISORDER on our worksheet. “You’re like, happy some days, and so sad the next that no one knows what to do around you.” I stared at it, then looked at her. Learning about psychology had apparently made our class into a bunch of 12-year-old mental health professionals. Still, something about all the symptoms made sense. I lagged behind my friends now that we’d started middle school. Boys terrified me. Doing anything physical in front of anyone terrified me. Going to church on Sundays terrified me. I hated everyone and everything, and had thought repeatedly about dying that week to escape from the misery of hormones, schoolwork, depressing home life, and practicing activities that brought me no joy whatsoever.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, and went back to doodling on my notebook. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that maybe there was a name for how I felt. I walked up to the teacher after class and I told her I thought I had it. She looked at me strangely and said, “You should talk to someone about this.”

So I told my mom.

She said I didn’t have it, and demanded I go apologize to the teacher and clarify before they started to think I’m crazy.

I looked at the bottle of painkillers and wondered. If I ate them all, would it stop? I thought of my sister and of my parents. Well, maybe I’d just take a few and see if it helped me be in a dreamworld or something. I took 10 and fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning as usual. I was disappointed.

It continued throughout high school. I could never focus. I hated most things and most places. And most people. I watched my close friends get picked on and plotted revenge against those who would hurt the few I did care for. I was just a girl, though, and the bullies were guys and totally unthreatened by my stature. Go figure. But some people thought I might be crazy, and many definitely found me strange, and that scared them. I began to channel severe rage episodes into art and writing, finding new ways of killing off characters who were quite thinly-veiled representations of the awful bullies in my life. But it was all written off as being a hormonal teenage girl.

On one occasion, I confronted a bully and threatened him, wanting so badly to tear him to shreds mentally and physically for picking on a harmless, shy friend of mine whose only crime was to draw too many anime girls on her notebooks. His mother was friends with my mother, but I didn’t care. I made him feel like the tiny, insecure little prick that he was, and I felt good about my meanness for once. But it was a short-lived victory. I still cried at night, not just because I was sad, but because I was angry. Because I didn’t want to deal with any of it any longer.

When I went home at night, my mom would keep her hawk eyes on me. I could never go anywhere unless she’d planned it about a week in advance. I understood her fears. I enabled them. I told her everything to keep her calm and as happy as she could be. She was petrified of losing another child; how could I be so selfish to be away? Especially when my younger sister, who was on the verge of a very serious transition in her life, was being picked on at school for being eccentric? It was my job to hold it all together. My burden I placed on my own damn shoulders.

 

 

Fucking love Emilie Autumn

 

I didn’t start cutting until I was about twenty. I was slow to arrive at the rodeo, I guess. My boyfriend had been watching so much porn on my computer that it was all buggy and gross, and I was livid about it. I told him how much it hurt me that he wouldn’t touch me, but he wanted the faceless girls on the internet; he apologized to me and he promised he’d stop. He never did. Not once in our nine-year relationship (in which we eventually got married) did he ever tell me the truth about his intentions. He just kept doing it and telling me he wasn’t. I got so good at catching him that I reveled in the fact that I was smarter than he was. But I felt so worthless and ugly after knowing what he did that I would cut myself out of anger. Punishing myself for being… me. For being not good enough. Because how fuckable he found me was apparently the only self-worth I could see inside of myself. I didn’t realize how unhealthy these thoughts were until our marriage fell apart.

He told me he’d been in love with one of my best friends for years when we’d been married for a year and a half–I was 27 at the time, living in a state far away from any of my friends or family. He wouldn’t stop drinking until he was an obnoxious asshole who sneered at people and blamed me for everything wrong in his life. He’d watch porn ON THE TOILET IN THE MORNING and completely ignore me while day drinking at his job that I GOT HIM. I’d started detaching myself from the relationship already, which was not the nicest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but I was mentally and physically exhausted. When he told my poor friend of his true feelings (while smashed, of course), she was floored and didn’t know how to respond. This girl was one of the friends who was picked on in high school–we’d known one another for 13 years–one of the girls I’d wanted to protect.

For months after this, I switched back and forth from uncontrollable anger to severe depression. Body wracked with pain, mind completely blank, heart utterly shattered kind of depression. I went to therapy immediately, but did not see major improvements until I went to a psychiatrist and asked him to please help me by putting me on medication. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and chronic clinical depression. I also have body dysmorphic disorder and extreme anxiety when it comes to certain pornographic materials (just about on par with PTSD, but I don’t like saying that because I feel my case doesn’t merit the title. I was sexually assaulted and emotionally abused, but so many people go through so much more than I have and I feel PTSD isn’t the proper term for me–I’ve seen my soldier friends with it and I just can’t bring myself to use that terminology.)

depression_motivational_poster_by_quantuminnovator-d6dwgk8Image by QuantumInnovator on DeviantArt.

 

I’m turning 30 this week. Mental illness has nearly destroyed my life. I once contemplated killing myself when I turned 30 if my life was as miserable as it had been for so long. But before you get all panicky, I’m happy to say that while I’m sad about this milestone and being “behind” my goals, I’m here to stay, and I’m recovering more and more each year.

These stories don’t include the struggles my one surviving sister has; those which my mother has dealt with; my father’s huge emotional and spiritual journey; the impact of an attempted rape (I just can’t write about it in this context) and an (unrelated) unplanned pregnancy; nor does it cover the impact that a building autoimmune disease and undiagnosed genetic syndrome have had on my life. But what I want to say is this:

If you have ever wondered whether mental illness was one of the following:

  • A phase everyone goes through
  • Something someone just needs to “pull themselves out of”
  • Hysterics
  • Something you need to just “get over” or “snap out of”
  • Attention-seeking or selfishness
  • Stupid or unwarranted, given the person’s status
  • Not justified in your eyes (i.e., someone rich or someone very attractive suffers from depression and you think it’s just them being stupid)
  • Something you should be able to get over without the use of pharmaceuticals or therapy
  • Something only for damaged people who are likely to be a threat to themselves or others
  • Something you can discriminate against because those who have it are “crazy”

You’re a moron. Okay, scratch that–you might be naive, but you’ve also got no handle on the reality of mental illness. Someone in your life may be afflicted with an invisible, awful, alienating disease such as clinical depression. As in, right now. When you pretend these things aren’t serious, or when you push away someone who is suffering, you’re doing them a disservice. You may not be a therapist, but you can be the one to reach out your hand and tell them they’re not alone. That you won’t judge them or shun them for asking for help. Many sufferers just need to know that someone cares.

Oh, and never fucking tell a mentally ill person that if they ate a better diet or took some herbal bullshit supplements that they’d cure themselves. That’s not how it works.

 

robin williams headshot

Robin Williams passed away today from apparent suicide at age 63.

 

Visit this site if you’ve had thoughts of ending your life. Cliche, but here it is.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

I wrote this today after reading the discussions surrounding the death and apparent suicide of Robin Williams. Mental illness doesn’t discriminate and it’s a fucking tragedy that it took the life of someone who has touched so many hearts with his successful career. My story is just one of many stories that could and should be told. I wanted to share just bits and pieces of my struggle so that people could see that it’s very real. It’s very dangerous. And I’m here today because of the support of friends and family, and because of medication and therapy.

If you need help, I’m here to tell you you’re not alone. Fight this shit. Fight it as hard as you can. And change the discussion surrounding mental illness. We need to remove the stigma and push for more affordable, accessible care.

If you like, you can watch a tribute video I made for my sisters below, and you can read the story I wrote about Sara’s death here.

 

 

You can also read my writing here under my pen name Deina Furth.

Art continues to help me and heal me in ways I can’t anticipate. I appreciate your support. ❤

hang-in-there

Tips on successfully trolling a feminist

HATAS GUNNA HATE

Go Make Me a Sandwich

But first, some administrativa[1]

I’m pleased to say that I’ve reached a milestone. 50 patrons are now supporting this blog through my Patreon!

patrons WOOHOO!

Since re-starting the blog after its somewhat lengthy hiatus, I’ve written 25 paid posts (including this one) covering a huge range of topics, from silly to serious and everything in between. So thanks to all of you for your continued support.

On to business.

I got one of my best troll comments yet here on the blog the other day. I won’t gratify the troll by posting the entirety of the comment, but it did call me an “autistic entitled skank” and said that I’d given him cancer. I was so delighted that the first thing I did (after deleting it from the post, naturally) was email it to a friend, who shared a good laugh with me.

misandry rays I HAVE THEM.

Which got me thinking…

View original post 1,121 more words

Unravelled

Weaving lies from lips that never parted, never breathed
for her,
her loom twists syllable after syllable of mine
into a tumbling skein of sensical syntax
that graces dozens of ears that do not hear.

“But she, she is subhuman!
She’s lost her essence to the world, perhaps,
or to a cesspool of her own morose doings.
She refuses to learn that it is she
who does this to herself, and no one else.”

Were she to will it so,
my days would stretch out like threadbare cloths
over a frame that tightens until my mind unravels,
and there would be needles pricking,
leaving scars,
darkening my eyes as well as my heart
in an indelible pattern,
marking me as

ugly,
scarred,
insane,
worthless.

Yes, were she to will it so,
I would have scarlet letter of shame
stitched into my skin,
so that all who saw me would know
I was his,
but I am no longer,
because I am damaged,
and I am unmendable.

But she can’t will it so.

So she weaves lies from the words
of a woman she has never met
will never know
and will never understand,
and her cries are fed to the night
while all other ears have moved toward the dawn.