Piecing It Together

Piecing It Together

I try and breathe

I take it one day at a time

Every second seems important

More important than the exhale

I hold it in

Because I can’t let go

I try and count

The moments as I lie awake

The intrusive minutes that bleed into the late evening

When the world changes all around, and yet it all feels still

I try and cope

I haven’t found the best solution

I try, and try again

Yet feel failure with each win

As if I know the peace won’t last

I can’t breathe

My cries overpower my lungs

I gasp with each tear as it chokes me

A smell lingers

A familiar stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and young masculine sweat

So bold, but disguised

I can’t talk about it

Can’t say it aloud

Can’t say how when I close my eyes, I still remember

Remember the music from my laptop, still playing

Remember coming in and out of a “dream”

Feeling more than I could see

I remember, and I’ve tried to forget

I can’t count my tears

They fall hard, staccato, and like tiny wet soldiers

They’re quickly discarded so as to not have any evidence of weakness

And just as fast as they’re wiped away, they return, unwanted

I cope by not coping

Afraid to say how terrified I am at times being approached by people I don’t know

I put on a facade of toughness

I am tough, and yet just a bit scared to let any guard down

I scream inside my head, grit my teeth, tremble, and wait for the moment when I can run

I’ll run as fast, hard, and far as I can

I’ll run from you

I’ll run from them

I’ll run from myself

I don’t know where you are

I don’t know why you did this

I don’t know why I wasn’t successful with letting it all go

Because I tried

I tried to go away

And guilt brought me back

Sometimes it gets painfully difficult to stay

I don’t trust the world

And I don’t know how to fully understand reasoning

I need a reason

I need to know how stupid and pathetic I must have looked for that night to even be thought of

I need to know when my clothes became option

I need to know why both

I need to know if I screamed, because it felt as though I should

I need to know if after you regretted what happened

I need to know whether or not you said penance

I silently cry and torture myself into believing I’m over exaggerating

That what happened wasn’t bad enough

Even my own mind wants to say, I don’t believe you

But I remember pieces

Even when I don’t want to, I feel as though I’m there

I just want to end this

End the memories

End the haze

End the tears

End the jolting behavior

More often than not, just end it

And I try everyday to not give in

I try and hold on for family, which makes me feel like a failure even more

Failing to make myself happy, by just focusing on others

I want to one day feel happy, without feeling a mask on top of that feeling

I’m trying

Documentation/Searching

So, I finally received the full incident report from my SA in East Lansing.  And there were fifty two pages of it.  Fifty two pages of so many moments I had tried so desperately to forget.

Speaking of wanting to forget.  Here is what happened today . . .
----

I panicked, sitting inside the room with my therapist.  I panicked as she read over my full incident report of my SA.  I had a PDF copy of it on my phone.  I told her it was okay, because I trust her.  But still during those moments I felt so disgusting.  I know the ELPD has read the forms, and many other people might know about it as well (due to police officers talking about cases).  But somehow sitting there in the same room with someone reading over the details of a night I have never been able to forget or get over, was truly unbearable.  I tried my hardest to sit there and not focus on which details she was reading.  I focused on my feet, and even then I couldn't stop shaking.  I eventually had to briefly leave the room, and try and regroup.

When I returned I was still in the most bizarre head space.  I could not even look up at her.  As she spoke to me, I stayed focused on my feet, and drew outlines on my wrist and FitBit with my fingers, all while trying to push back the tears coming down my face.  I don't like to show emotion. 

The last few days have had that type of intensity.  I have read over the entire fifty two pages.  Over and over again, just trying to find out what I did wrong to have that happen.  And why I was so trusting of people I did not know.  I'm still trying to correct my naivety. 

My therapist told me to print the forms, and then delete the files from my phone, so that I was not tempted to constantly look them over.  She also told me to take the printed forms and put them in an envelope out of site, and locked away.  I just printed them out, but don't know if I can fully delete the files from my phone, nor just lock away the printed copy.  I'll try.  I just know that so far, today, I'm still looking for answers. 

Adolescence Tested

I walked away.  I walked away from that day.  The day I told of my failures, and was dismissed.  The day I told of my losing value.  I walked away.  Well, I thought I did.  And yet I held onto those nights.  Those days where uncomfortable hands were "normal."  I didn't seem too scared in the moment.  Just confused.  And confused.  And not questioning what was routine for a visit.  Years of consistent images; feeling older than I was; made to know objects, and parts that were intended for married couples . . . I was confused.  Uncomfortable.  But not terrified of the routine.  I had been taught at the young age of three, not to cry, but take the pain.  To toughen up.  To deal.  I had been taught at the age of three to grow up.

*Part one

Why?

I'm rushing to feel.  Anything and everything -- wanting to know if I'm still even here.
I've felt guilty since that day, and yet I haven't told you.  I can't.
It was my fault for what happened to you.  And I can't bare to think about the pain you've endured.
And why I'm still even here.

I wish I could retrace the moment to where I messed up.  You tell me what I should know: it wasn't my carelessness that caused this.  And yet I just want to take it all back.  I would do anything to see you free from my mistake(s).  I count them all each day.

And I don't sleep much -- not with knowing what I've done, and that I can't go back and undo it.
If we could trade places, I'd be happy to not have even made it out alive.  Just for you to feel relieved from the journey you must endure.  I ask myself each day and night, as I sit alone, why am I still here?

I can't tell you any of this, because I'd hate to see your sadness show.  I don't tell you I've bottled each moment inside, and it pours over every night. So, I try and not close my eyes.

I have thought about giving up so many times.  And then I remember how I'm the rock that you need.  And that you need me because of what I did.  It's frustrating to know that I can't waste away, because I would leave you in even more pain.  But each day I'm here, I'm feeling my self slowly wasting.  If only I could disappear without causing too much of a disruption.  If only I could go away and vanish from your thoughts, your heart, and from your hurt.

I'd honestly take it all -- just to feel your freedom coming back with my leaving.
I try to shake these moments.  These times are constant.
I'll try harder.  I must convince myself why I'm still even here.  
I want to know why.

Reverie by Luchs

Emotionless Instruction Needed

Disclaimer **The following post may be triggering for some people**


I sat there, on that traction table, legs propped, staring at the plastered ceiling, the strewn curtain, the fire sprinkler, and the bright white staggered lights. I stared until that curtain began to close from behind. Those same lights now only one bulb, shadowing over my body.

And then my body slowly slid down onto the table -- fixated at the sounds of my increasing heart, drowning out the breaths I was trying to take.

Relax . . . that's what you'll need to do, so that this goes well, she said. Or was it him, telling me from before? Relax.

All I can hear is pounding. Is it my head? My heart? Or my lungs, as I try and scream? Are the sounds producing anything recognizable?

Just relax, is all I hear. I tighten up, as I am told to just relax. Was I too relaxed when I drank? Too relaxed when I partied with a crowd of unknowns? Or too relaxed, as I lied down on a couch, waiting to sleep off my night, waking up to find so many things missing?

I can't seem to recall much, but feeling. And whose feeling is this? Whose feeling did this? Two shadows, standing, and lying beside me. Splayed in a half couch, half floor position, I see them. But where am I? Was I too relaxed to move? To roll off the couch, and walk away?

And why won't this screaming stop? Where were you when I needed to scream, as I felt everything important being ripped from me? Where was that loud, beating heart? Where were the words, that blared over, just relax?

Where did it all go? My scream -- my voice -- my laugh -- my security? And why had I not held closer? Relax, echoes, but it doesn't sound like me.

T minus June 30, 2008, but now

T minus June 30, 2008, but now

The war was isolation
Contemplation, yet inward retaliation
I trapped my tears inside, where I left my screams to hide
I walked, talked, and dreamed of a way out
That same year, I tried for my way out

Nothing came, but a day of pain
And yet, I couldn't remember the names
Faces so mashed, but a taste so potent
The fact that I hadn't yet awoken
Blurred movements, intertwined with clarity

I tried, and yet failed
Something stopped
So much so, my perfectionism hadn't lead me to the drop
Dark is where I was
I was one with the blurred moments

There was forced understanding
Blaming, and second guessing
Focus on strategic placements
And loathing for my staying
One sticky eyelid drop, sleep would make it all stop

But it never did

There still lies a war with isolation
Contemplation, yet inward retaliation
I trap my tears inside, where I leave all my screams and hide
I walk, talk, and dream of a way out
This eighth year, I didn't try for my way out

I constantly wish for clarity
Although photos wouldn't help me
Feeling, it's what removes me
Back to memories, moments and movements, where I don't want to be
One day I'll see, where I can walk, talk and dream of a peace with me

Loss of feeling

Trust your instincts, they say.  Fight harder, they say.  Pray and let go, they say . . .

As I sat, eagle focused on the screen, I watched The Hunting Ground documentary, silently and alone.  I watched because I needed to.  I listened to the survivors and wondered why I hadn't been that brave.  Why I couldn't speak up as much as others.  And I remembered that I had tried one year.  "Take Back The Night" on my undergraduate campus . . . one year I had tried.  I decided to volunteer and pass out flyers and pamphlets for the event.  I did well, up until the actual date.  I just couldn't show up for the date.  Something inside me felt like a fraud.  Like I was somehow telling people to be brave and fight the urge to be silenced, and yet I was doing that very thing.  I was indeed silent.

********************************************************************************

I need to breathe.  Or not to.  Sometimes I can't decide.  It's though my mind doesn't understand.

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Take a deep breath, and open your eyes.  I know it's hard to trust guys.  In time you'll be open enough to love.  Or be loved.  They tell you it gets better with time.  And yet you're still searching for that moment where your life falls into place.  You take a breath, and forget to exhale.  Maybe for a second -- you can feel normal.  Do you even know what that feels like?  Take a deep breath and keep your eyes closed.  Either way your dreams merge into a shattered reality.  The reality is there are feelings that you never have been able to shake.  From a young child up until now . . . Moments that have been etched so deep into your body, though you try to scrape them out, you just can't.  And you try.  Marks become just another part of the journey.  Children pound their fists and heads into the wall, in an attempt to forget.  The dizziness overshadows the day-nightmares.  And the older you get, the punishment gets angrier.  Like the slashes used to feel -- you dig until you're numb enough to close your eyes.

********************************************************************************

I isolate myself when it gets to be too much.  Nothing is worse than having those you love, hurt.  But what happens when you hate the person staring back at you?  What do you do when you've been hating yourself since you were a young child?  How do you fight the urge to disappear, when you've never felt visible?

********************************************************************************

It's hard to admit hurt, but easy to inflict it upon yourself. And there are moments where handling reality becomes too much, and breathing doesn't feel like an option.  Letting go makes more sense -- especially when you feel lost.  And those times frequent more than you'd like.  

I forgot to function the other day/ While laughing at myself, I reflected back to you/
That stare/ Those eyes/ That face/ Ingrained so deep shutting eyelids scratched you further into my mind/

Stripping Down (Dancing in the Sun)

"Unplugged . . ."  "Bare . . ."  "Stripped down . . ."  These words all describe what happens when I write a song.  Or any piece of writing for that matter.  I decide on going into the vault of memories -- some others, but mostly mine -- and take a piece of what I can (remember), in order to find the reality.

I never understood why it was, or is easy for me to be that way on stage (present), but in person I can't be.  I never understood  until I really listened to my own music.  And my Go-To-Music that gets me into writing mode.  Most of is what some may call "emo," "alt-rock/pop," or classical -- but what I'd like to call, real life through song.

I get inspiration to continue writing and to dig deeper into my thoughts -- after I've set a playlist that becomes more emotional recall than easy listening.  I begin to write.  Yet most of my thoughts would never see the light of day (to some -- I guess I'm not a writer then).  I continue to write, until I'm immersed into that world, and I can actually feel life inside the words.  Strange, eh?  But that to me is Stripping Down.  

I imagine how it would be, if I could take that same writers confidence and utilize it as I converse with people.  Don't get me wrong, I can be social -- I've been part of many social organizations and activities (even being head chair in most of them) -- but when it's just me . . . and no mention of organizations, jobs, music -- the go-to discussions, I'm lost.  I'm beyond stage fright, and I'm not even performing.  Or am I?

I guess, looking at life, that's somewhat a performance too.  Some of us have to fake it till we make it.  Some of us have to bare it.  And then some of us just write -- sing -- live through our music -- because that's the only way we can really strip down.