The books haven't moved.
They haven't moved.
Each one is in it's proper place
just like they were
two minutes ago,
just like they will be
two minutes from now,
and yet I cannot walk away from them.
What if?
Just what if
Lit by Mary Karr
tumbles from the top shelf
where it is the 19th
book from the left
and lands between
Naked by David Sedaris
and like the red panda by Andrea Seigel?
I mean, it could happen
and then they wouldn't
be in alphabetical order by author
and the book police
would come knocking on my door
and I would lose custody
of the books forever!
So I check them again.
They still haven't moved.
But they might.
So I will stay home again today
and stand guard,
a sergeant at the tomb of the unknown soldier,
lest I dare forget to check.
Saturday, January 13, 2018
Me Too
Me too. Those are two words that I wish I didn't have to say. But they are a part of my story. Its been thirty years now since I was raped. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. I still have nightmares on occasions and they are so real and so vivid that it actually feels like I'm being raped all over again. I struggled for a long time with blaming myself for what happened. I played "if only". If only I hadn't been drunk. If only I'd left the party with my friends. If only I hadn't worn makeup and perfume. Yes, I had too much to drink that night. Yes, I stayed behind. Yes, I wore makeup and perfume. But I didn't ask to be raped. I said "No!"
No!
He's calling me a bitch.
No!
He's pulling my hair.
No!
He's sticking his dick in my mouth.
No!
He's ripping off my jeans.
No!
He's forcing his way in.
No!
He's thrusting hard.
No!
He's hurting me.
No!
Why did I wear makeup?
No!
Why did I get drunk?
No!
Why didn't I leave with my friends?
No!
Why didn't I fight back?
No!
Why didn't I scream?
No!
Why didn't I report him?
No!
Why didn't I die?
No!
I said "No!"
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
NO!
My "Nos" should have been enough. They weren't. I now know that it wasn't my fault. I did not deserve for that to happen. No one does. I wish that I hadn't been afraid to speak up at the time. I wish that I hadn't run straight for the shower and stayed in there for hours, douching and scrubbing my insides with a tile and grout brush. All I could think about was getting him off of me. Showering has never been the same since that night. I have obsessive compulsive disorder and that event triggered a bathing ritual that I still can't break today. It's as if I'm trying to wash away a sin that isn't mine. I now understand that I did the best I could at the time to survive. I pray that one day I will get past surviving and learn to thrive.
No!
He's calling me a bitch.
No!
He's pulling my hair.
No!
He's sticking his dick in my mouth.
No!
He's ripping off my jeans.
No!
He's forcing his way in.
No!
He's thrusting hard.
No!
He's hurting me.
No!
Why did I wear makeup?
No!
Why did I get drunk?
No!
Why didn't I leave with my friends?
No!
Why didn't I fight back?
No!
Why didn't I scream?
No!
Why didn't I report him?
No!
Why didn't I die?
No!
I said "No!"
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
NO!
My "Nos" should have been enough. They weren't. I now know that it wasn't my fault. I did not deserve for that to happen. No one does. I wish that I hadn't been afraid to speak up at the time. I wish that I hadn't run straight for the shower and stayed in there for hours, douching and scrubbing my insides with a tile and grout brush. All I could think about was getting him off of me. Showering has never been the same since that night. I have obsessive compulsive disorder and that event triggered a bathing ritual that I still can't break today. It's as if I'm trying to wash away a sin that isn't mine. I now understand that I did the best I could at the time to survive. I pray that one day I will get past surviving and learn to thrive.
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
Melancholy
Melancholy sounds like such a pretty word. It's much too pretty to describe my depression. No, my depression is like being strangled by a boa constrictor. A squeezing that I can feel deep inside my bones, that sucks the life right out of me and leaves me wiping sweat and blood from my brow. My heart bleeds blue blood that bypasses the lungs, failing to pick up the oxygen molecules needed to sustain me. I sit in my overstuffed recliner, leaning to the left, lacking the strength to hold my head up. I'm wrapped tightly in a blanket. A cocoon of sorts. Maybe I'll emerge a butterfly one day. Until then, I'll continue to watch the shadows dancing on the walls in the light of the moon coming through the living room window.
My cats are adjusting to my new normal and go about their business despite me. I don't shower. I don't get dressed. I don't brush my teeth. I don't eat. I don't talk. I don't watch TV. I don't read. Sometimes I don't even breathe. One day of doing nothing turns into four days of doing nothing and eventually the week passes. The longer I go without doing anything, the harder it is to do something. Terrible thoughts race through my mind and I think about murdering them with whiskey or brownies but I know that won't help. I dream of breaking out of this prison cell but fear that I'd only be buying a first class ticket to hell. My mattress has a permanent dent in the middle of it and I lay in bed until my body aches so bad that I can't stand it. Then I cry. My tears stream down my hot cheeks and are dry before they reach my lips, leaving me thirsty and confused. I miss myself. I don't even remember what I was like before. Will the sun rise when this is over?
My cats are adjusting to my new normal and go about their business despite me. I don't shower. I don't get dressed. I don't brush my teeth. I don't eat. I don't talk. I don't watch TV. I don't read. Sometimes I don't even breathe. One day of doing nothing turns into four days of doing nothing and eventually the week passes. The longer I go without doing anything, the harder it is to do something. Terrible thoughts race through my mind and I think about murdering them with whiskey or brownies but I know that won't help. I dream of breaking out of this prison cell but fear that I'd only be buying a first class ticket to hell. My mattress has a permanent dent in the middle of it and I lay in bed until my body aches so bad that I can't stand it. Then I cry. My tears stream down my hot cheeks and are dry before they reach my lips, leaving me thirsty and confused. I miss myself. I don't even remember what I was like before. Will the sun rise when this is over?
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