Why I Write…Now…

“How far are you willing to go to gut yourself?”

“…if it hurts to write that much…it’s probably better to stop.”

^Both the above sentences are very much paraphrased, because my memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be. (K still stands for Potassium, Cl for Chloride, and Ca for Calcium, though…) But both sentences (minus my memory paraphrase) have been in conversations I’ve had this week.

“Talking”……may work best for me. And this is me, talking. Yes, you can’t see my face, or my body language, but do, trust…it’s there.

“Have you looked at x and y and zed in your life and oh by the way I think you may be this so here’s the name of a nice psychiatrist…” …

…Who will put you on five different medications the ONLY one of which I remember is “Wellbutrin”…which is the one that triggers the same chemicals in your head as snorting coke. And…I think…getting a tattoo. Endorphins, I believe may be involved. I don’t remember and I can’t be buggered to look right now.

And then you go back to the “therapist” and you talk some more and suggestions are given and you nod and say “ok”…except you’re so fucking drugged up that thinking is slow and you do try, you do try to incorporate words you’ve been told into yourself and try not to be so…anything…because it is actually sound advice but you’re moving through molasses and your affect AND effect has become…dead…yeah…sure…whatever you want.

“I know that’s funny. And I know I should be laughing.”

CBT may work fucking wonders for people. Not for me.

I admit I can be a Miserable fuck. An Angry fuck. An over the top slowyourrollchild fuck.


I write because I can’t disguise that anymore. I’ve no Poker Face, as anyone who actually pays attention can tell you. Feelings will flit across like fruitflies and I may clamp down, but there’s the set jaw, the tension…That’s the dead giveaway that there’s more going on than I’m saying…

I feel because my mother didn’t want to and tried to teach me her lesson and no no no fuck you NO.



I am not stone. I am not steel. I am flesh and I am blood and yes it hurts but goddammit that means I’M ALIVE. I. AM. ALIVE.

I’m not listening to opera at 3:00am. I’m not biting the heads off of other people who ask innocent questions (…er….usually…I…think).

I am doing my level fucking best not to regret every fucking decision I’ve ever made, including up to a few hours ago. I am not Grandma. I’m not Aunt Joan (your best friend, by the way)…and I sure as hell am NOT YOU.

Will I fail?

Depends on your definition of failure.

Am I skittering once again down into the sewer of my depression?


And that’s why I’ve been writing. Because I….have to. Holding it in does me no good anymore. I learned that last year…

You can only build up so many walls to keep the hatred in…self and otherwise…the loathing…self and otherwise…because you weren’t “perfect” in that one…crucial moment. You turned out to be human, and there is no forgiveness for that there can’t be and you twist and turn the logic into this into that into anything goddamit until it’s not so much logic as…macrame done…by the scared scarred little kid inside trying to please someone…anyone.

Four women in my life. Did them wrong in one way or another. Saw two of them off in caskets. One, least got a small thing at the chapel in St. Stephens. One?

Don’t even know where she’s buried. Or…even if she’s buried. Or if he smoked…her….to ditch her…


You can pile down pile drive hate yourself into the ground until…until you just want to disappear…which was me.

This time, last year. See…it’s kinda fucked for me in some ways…October my mom died…December was my Granma’s birthday AND death (died 2 days before her 98th), February is my mom’s birthday…Carlos (Pops) is in January…

I couldn’t do a fucking thing for any of them. Not one thing. Including my mother.

She gave up.



I gave up.

I can’t carry the anger anymore. I can’t keep the walls up anymore. It’s too much…it’s fucking too much….I was angry when my friends in the “Dumb Luck Club” met me in High School so that’s what…? 35+ years maybe more of carrying some kind of anger around….?

I can’t do it anymore. and yes…I will get and have gotten hurt by…allowing myself to be vulnerable…and yes, there are scabs open and dripping…and scars that itch and more scars forming from new scabs that still leak…because I…but….

I write because if I don’t, I’ll just sink back down into myself and pull the black around me like a cloak and…

I don’t want that anymore…

So…please….be patient with me.

I may be short-tempered…I may regress (call me out)…I may say nothing (force me to talk)…I may look like hell on a slate roof at the end of it all…but…

Be patient with me.

I write.


I Am.

And…I will not be the person I was…no matter how much my knees may buckle.

Hands out, breathing….this…is what I got.

Be patient.




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