739a 26 may 2023

I read the things that I wrote when I know I was desperate

When The Desperate was upon me

when it was the only thing near me, surrounding me

perched on my shoulders like a raptor

(waiting for me to succumb just the tiniest bit)

my already hard as stone flesh under the digging sharpness, not giving way

I am stronger than you in my pain

I am more than you even in my terror.

That pain, that terror, it lives in my body.

Just as I know that too many crunches or coughs or orgasms can make my body feel anxious even though it is simply muscle memory.

My body contracts when I am terrified; it attempts to make itself smaller

as if I could instantly transform a 228-pound half-ton-lifting body into something smaller

What if

What if instead of contracting I e x p a n d e d

instead?

Took up more room.

Reached out for more explanation.

I know that

(you know how you get)

I know that I only used to have rage as a solution.

I know that instant inner and outer screaming was the only possibility.

I don’t feel that way anymore

(you know how you get)

I haven’t felt that way for some time

(you know how you get)

I feel so much more able to unroll the things in front of me

(you know how you get)

Keep the center fast

(you know how you get)

It is so much to shut out.

Take smaller bites, then.

Stop reading when you begin to go elsewhere.

Pull back.

Enforce your boundaries.

(you know how you get)

Yes, I do. It’s too much to be and still stay standing.

Let go of the things that hurt and don’t serve.

739a 26 may 2023

I read the things that I wrote when I know I was desperate
When the desperate was upon me
when it was the only thing near me, surrounding me
perched on my shoulders like a raptor
(waiting for me to succumb just the tiniest bit)
my already hard as stone flesh under the digging sharpness, not giving way
I am stronger than you in my pain
I am more than you even in my terror.

That pain, that terror, it lives in my body.
Just as I know that too many crunches or coughs or orgasms can make my body feel anxious even though it is simply muscle memory.

My body contracts when I am terrified; it attempts to make itself smaller
as if I could instantly transform a 228-pound half-ton-lifting body into something smaller

What if
What if instead of contracting I

e x p a n d e d
instead?
Took up more room.
Reached out for more explanation.
I know that
(you know how you get)
I know that I only used to have rage as a solution.
I know that instant inner and outer screaming was the only possibility.
I don’t feel that way anymore
(you know how you get)
I haven’t felt that way for some time
(you know how you get)
I feel so much more able to unroll the things in front of me
(you know how you get)
Keep the center fast
(you know how you get)

It is so much to shut out.
Take smaller bites, then.
Stop reading when you begin to go elsewhere.
Pull back.
Enforce your boundaries.

(you know how you get)

Yes, I do. It’s too much to be and still stay standing.

Let go of the things that hurt and don’t serve.

On this day, two years ago. 15 September, 2019. Genesis.

This was the day of my Beginning.

Two days later, at the show, I took the name The Salty Widow. I was having a discussion with a fellow artist about the previous week, its toll. I was musing about the words of it, the word widow and how strange that was? That I am now, and will always be a Widow. That it is indeed a strange word, and I will not be afraid of it.

That I will own it.

Today, I took a huge step towards my next evolution. Education. I am doing it.

desperation.

to anyone reading this.
to everyone reading this.

if i have ever made you feel some kind of way
if i have taught you anything
if you have learned from me
if i have made an impact on you,
good or bad
large or small.
i need you to tell me.
please.

i am at my most desperate.
i am failing. losing.

i am so needful a thing.
8:35p 28 april, 2019

If you think there’s time to wait, you’re wrong.
I don’t want to talk on the phone.
I need to see.
I need to read. So I can reread. So it imprints as much as a tattoo.

I know this is needy. i am needful.
I know this is desperate. i am.

if ever i have made you feel anything
love
hate
discomfort
pain
desire
amazement
befuddlement.

i need to know.
i need to see.
i need to read.
proof. i need proof.

please.

I pulled over to write. tears filled my eyes and the dusk settled fast and faster. breath caught in gasps, eyes burning and i tried to see.

it is now two and a half hours later

i am calm enough to transcribe what i felt safe in not writing down, safe enough after it careened through my head like falcons in a canyon. safe enough to trust the calm that immediately followed writing. drained toxins from my brain, my heart, my body. safe enough to take measured breaths, a sip of water, to dry my eyes.

you would be able to tell, if you cared, exactly which beast was in control and when if you looked at my handwriting. even as it shifts in what i wrote today. you can see the abyss opening wide, its maw gaping and having the gravitational pull of a black hole.

7 april, 2019. 10:16pm

today i wanted to be dead.

i didn’t want to kill myself,
i didn’t want to die.
i wanted to be dead.
i wanted to not be anymore.

i was dysphoric and abyssally depressed and griefstruck and i
had to pull the car off the road because i could not see the road through my tears.

music blasting, car rocking from the drafts of the other cars speeding by, shoulders shaking. screaming into the sky. i can’t. i can’t. i can’t do this anymore. why? why? why?

weeping. wailing. shrieking. howling in pain.
desperately calling up mental images to save me, of those i love, of those i do not want to live without. replaying their voices, their words, their murmurs of love, of promises. bring me back. keep me here. keep me safe.

i am having a very hard time wanting to be alive right now.

this too, shall pass. and it is all for the good.

i didn’t want to kill myself,

i wanted to not be anymore.

i got back on the road, got to where i’d set out to be, inexpertly rolled a joint, smoked half of it, got to work. two and a half hours later, my rage was exhausted, driven out by the tediousness of the work, for when your work, your passion requires exquisite concentration you really can think of nothing else. or at least, only the good things. and as i listened to delicious music and smoked delectable herb and mesmerized myself thinking about delightful people and mindbending experiences, this beautiful thing came to life in my hands.

4 August, 2018

I am just so tired.

I am tired of everything. Tired of sleeping. Tired of waking. Tired of trying. Tired of being.

Tired of all of the upkeep that this requires. Tired of dragging myself through every goddamn day one after another. It is exhausting and I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I know that right now I am experiencing a massive depressive episode. And just trying to keep my head above it that is killing me. I am exhausted and I just want it to stop.

Here I am once again, in the car. Going to work. Showered and dressed. Looking fairly presentable. dictating this into my phone because I know if I don’t get it down I’ll forget it and I really don’t want to forget this. I need this out.

I’m not always like this, really I’m not. I say this to try and reassure myself, others. Does anyone even believe it?

Kindness is painful. Instead of soothing, it pinches, bites, stabs. It doesn’t do anything it’s meant to. It’s meant to relieve, to destress. And all I can think is that I am unworthy. I know that I am not but it’s all I can think. I know that my brain, one of my favorite parts of myself, I know that it lies and I know that it wants to kill me. I know that it is trying very, very hard to do this. And I am tired, tired of fighting it.

I need a break. I need things to stop piling on top of me. I just need some time. I haven’t had a break since the two weeks I took off work after Gary died nearly eleven months ago. That two weeks that I did nothing but sit in my house and cry. I’m taking I’m taking the second week off in September, the same week that he was in the hospital I’m taking off work because I cannot imagine dealing with other humans. But I need a break. Or I will break.

I am already breaking, broken.

breathe. 3 July, 2018

Today was pretty okay.

Yesterday though, yesterday was most definitely not okay.

Yesterday I came as close to suicidal as I have in a very, very long time. Yesterday I nearly gave up; gave in. Was frantic enough, manic enough to not be able to focus for long enough on the idea of Teaz’ka and Mojo to keep me off the razor’s edge. Yesterday I nearly lost everything; my struggle with my illness, my sanity, my life. Exactly six people had any glimmer of an idea that I was in trouble; two of them I work with, who listened to me struggle to keep my composure at work. The second two had the misfortune of being on the other end of the phone working at places I desperately needed help from and were as sympathetic as their scripts would allow but absolutely got off the calls as quickly as possible because really, who wants to listen to that. The final two, only these most important two humans know the actual extent, the depth of the abject terror I was in thrall to. To these two I am eternally grateful. You helped to save my life. You listened (over text because again, I was working and could just manage texting) and gave me the virtual equivalent of soft murmurs and comforting touches. “Breathe”, you both admonished carefully. “Just breathe.” What I heard, what I took away was “Keep breathing, just keep breathing. I’ll help you. I’m here”. You listened not only to my words but to my tone, my cadence, my silent keening. You were there.

To the rest of my friends, my family, I cannot “just reach out” and “let you know” if I need anything. I cannot. It is the most difficult thing to admit, to take in, that I need help. Obviously I know that I need help, that I am struggling, suffering mightily, that I cannot do this all by myself. “But you’re strong!” you might think. “You’ve done so well!” you comfort yourself, thinking that I really am doing so well. I am not. I am not strong. I am not doing well, not at all.

I am failing, breaking. Things are failing, breaking. Systems, physical things, mental things, failing. Breaking. The CPAP mask I use to breathe at night is two years old. Designed to fail after six months and be replaced. Going through insurance is a nightmare on the best day, so Gary and I had gone around insurance, paying out of pocket. This time it would still be out of pocket since I haven’t yet my deductible, but it would go towards fixing that. I’d done the work to get mine replaced, yes, late, but I should have it by now. I don’t. Glitches between systems causing failures, no one advising me of that, just wasting time as my sleep dwindles to near-zero. Summertime homicidal dysphoric mania/mixed states coupled with no sleep throupled with 100° temperatures outside/86° temperatures inside my house. Take away nearly every cent I have to pay for luxuries like housing and commuting and bullshit expenses like electricity and oil and food. Pile on predatory degenerates hunting widows like game for a tv show. Mix in fear for my father’s upcoming surgery and all that entails, needing more than anything to be there to see his face when he wakes up, both for his sanity and my own.

I’ve had a consultation with an MMJ doctor, have been prescribed medical marijuana. The time in between the relief of the consult and attendant prescription, waiting for my card to come from the Department of Health, waiting to register and make an appointment at the dispensary in White Plains has been excruciating. Scraping up the money for that doctor’s fee, while well worth it, has been eye-opening; humbling. I won’t go into detail. In between that, I’ve availed myself of hemp-based CBD which has helped, but yesterday? Nothing helped; nothing touched my fear. I kept from taking the Klonopin in my purse by not wanting to feel dead. As much pain, as much anguish as there was yesterday for me, my two, what? Saviors, angels? No, because they are so very human, but these two walked me away from the edge, talked me down from the breathless height of that pain. Breathe, they said. I breathed. Between the three of us I was able to calm down enough to just breathe, to use the CBD and exhale, to let it work. Enough to give in and accept the gift of a new mask. Enough to get me to the appointment at the dispensary. Enough to talk coherently (I think) to the pharmacist who wore a shirt that read “cannabis is medicine.” Enough to drive home with my new medicine, to medicate and feed the cats, to then take my own new meds. And they work.

I still have no idea how I am going to make it work, to make ends meet, none at all. I work, I commute, I make and sell my art. It isn’t enough. There are things I can do, have done, of which I am not proud and of which I am even less comfortable, that help. Which I think cannot be avoided to an extent.

Today was pretty okay, calm, even. Thanks to people I love, people who love me, to MMJ, to breathing.

I am breathing. Still.