For 4 years of being “well”
I stand in the old shadows of ill
I can tell you where I am now
But the answer to
“How did I get here?”
Is in shards throughout my limbs.
When lost in life,
I never forget
I am here
For 4 years of being “well”
I stand in the old shadows of ill
I can tell you where I am now
But the answer to
“How did I get here?”
Is in shards throughout my limbs.
When lost in life,
I never forget
I am here
Even hours before she died she read
The repetitive healing process
Which is this site.
I knew it was near
When she went quiet
All silent but the endless aching.
And now I stay away
Because these 1s and 0s
The most quiet loss
The hardest to swallow
As the sun eeks closer to the planet
I am lost in a memory without verbs
The adjectives are smeared
And there is barely enough of a dependent clause to refer back to
But, this nothing is somehow something
that holds me up
When will I be at my home-
Now I am not flailing,
But I am not swimming at pace.
The water I am swallowing
Is salt soured sips,
Not the murky milk gulps of my past.
I am within the mirage of perfect chaos,
And slipping forward,
Equilibrium will dribble into a puddle,
Underneath where I sit.
scrolling past millions of electrons
On the other side of the black hole internet.
And I found myself
myself of fire and innocence.
the path behind was not dead ashes but
shimmering branches of hope and happiness
A mirage of what used to be
And shards of a bullet
into the head of the darkness that was.
I don’t know when, or why,
But the time came,
When the mirror stopped hating me.
The fear that I won’t live up to the face.
Jumps onto my mind,
like pollen from a spitting flower
I hope it doesn’t stick,
Because I have allergies.
I know the roots of my family
Are marked with scars
From a demonic thirst,
Drenched with boiled realities.
I know the best of our twisted humor,
And the jackson-polick splashing of rage.
I know being victim and witness affected me.
I can tell at least 9 therapists,
And read their reactions,
As though they were reading a book a book horrors.
I grow and progress carrying my baggage,
Forgetting that some traumas don’t two-step or tap,
Some move throughout existence
As a silent ballet.
I don’t have to walk my own worn path
Now can be different,
now can stray.
And on this first old day,
I don’t shuffle out the door,
What I don’t know,
What I love and despise,
What I have,
And what I have to share,
But, all too often,
I don’t know what to say,
And here I am again.
Time is a two-faced construction of man,
An escape from tortures,
And a deadly weapon.
I have reached a state
Where I can bear the weapon, and its punishment.
The markers of time,
scares people inflict on history.
Can be stretch marks of new birth,
Or the screaming of misguided fear.
Can explain what it feels like
To care for mercy
I don’t need motivation,
I need her child to start my day.
When I stumble out of bed
I can hear that youthful spirit,
within the tunnels of my being.
The promise of accomplishment is carried by excitement
When I walk alongside
Where i must move through motivation,
willing to carry all the luggage
I am not depressed,
But some days are weighty.
Nothing is impossible,
But, some times I don’t want to.
Sometimes I swear I have gotten so close to the trees,
The ridges of the bark are sleeping in my shadow,
Under the blanket of my forehead.
Sometimes my strength overcomes
The weight of the sap.
Even if, today I see no sky.
The girl inside is aching
She wants to see Shania,
Live for the first time in two years,
Alas! A greater calling has stricken.
A purpose past myself.
And though I am not so naive
As to believe she will know me
As anything more, or less,
Than a dancing speck in the distance,
But, I do believe she can appreciate
the reason I chose better law school grades
Over a night of pure joy.
But, why do I have to pay, to learn
And serve my country on the bench?
I take selfies because I am proud,
Of a time, an accomplishment, or a merger.
Those memories we want to hold, yes.
But more that eyeshadow my Anti-dexterous hands let me have
…free of clown face.
The shoes I could manipulate my feet into,
Within 15 minutes
And those mergers
between the self I feel,
And the self I see,
The mergers I was once dying to see
And would have killed for.
I see those more and more now.
They still feel like I am catching magic,
And I still take pictures.
Watermelon is summer with brothers and sisters
And the roo.
The one who screams,
The berater, batter-and-chief.
And watermelon is winter in another town.
With a worshiper of Strappy
Flipping me like a pan-ee-cake
In the cool school morning
Silly and giggley and
“This is how you love,
this is how you stand up for yourself. “
So, even in law school I am the vocal one,
And I am an ego booster for anyone.
Fueled by bipolar fruit at breakfast.
Life is a marathon,
Not a sprint they say.
But I can do neither of these things.
I would like to suggest instead,
Life is a game park.
At times hammer games,
Usually I am the ball in the game bouncing towards the hole,
Yeah that one.
I don’t know the name anymore
Because I have had so many impacts with the walls
But the persistence is a lot more violent
Then a marathon.
If we are afraid of the dark?
If our imagination is closed
To the knowledge of the stars?
Who are we,
If we do not challenge
Our own minds,
Walking the unbeaten path of thought,
Because we already get to beat other people.
Who are we,
If we cannot sit with all that we don’t know,
To learn more about it?
It is up to us to decide.
I will never understand why
There is one day for veterans.
Why do we need a day to show the respect
That is rarely shown the rest of the time.
Does one day make up for
The half-assed efforts every other day?
We have national doughnut day!
Doughnuts make us happy,
But, all they give is bad health.
Now, I am not implying
That we need to get rid of those golden-glazed-glories.
But, we could at least make it
“national give a vet a doughnut day “
At the very least.
To the goal,
Read the waves
And break them.
I stand and I bend
But I don’t back down.
water catches the shimmer In my eye,
Even as it leaves me bruised
with broken ribs.
My confidence and gratitude
Grow with the waves.
I keep trying,
Because one day
If I keep working
I will be able to say
And I will be proud of this struggle.
I will look at time.
Finally aware of its shift
Behind my back.
The shift from drowning,
To fierce swimming
Challenge will remain,
But I will master waves of life.
Let today be the beginning.
I have a habit of trying to ask for help
Only until I am tired.
I give up as a means of energy savings.
In the short term.
But I pay,
Because it costs either way.
But in the end,
The options are two:
and at best barely hang on,
Or pay up front in time,
And succeed, slowly.
Monday I was exhausted,
Because of the dropping iron.
Tuesday one word: menstruation.
Wednesday, I don’t even remember.
And Thursday, oh fuck Thursday.
Migraine number 1,
And a grade that made me cry.
I am better, I have been giving, working and trying
And this grade, one of few
is none of me.
Moving forward I reapply and push forward.
Hours later, when I break for food,
Power goes out.
And somehow I was hopeful.
Friday I woke.
Unable to sit up,
I vomited in bed.
Vomited so hard and so often,
Everything came out everywhere.
The knocking of the electrician,
It was painful.
I vomited again.
Took it off,
Crawled back to bed.
For 24 hours.
But let it be known,
My Ms. Mercy Obsidian
She never got angry that I didn’t feed her.
purring and keeping me warm.
Which is enough to keep me going.
I am for a reason
Even in blackness
I am a black hole
To the light of success.
I swallow it,
Where it barely exists.
It exists nonetheless,
and I need very little to burn.
Their will come a time
When my fire consumes the emptiness.
And I am content to let it smoulder.
The numbers are half of low normal.
My mind is hanging on the edge of me.
I am swirling on my toes between self care & success.
Where i should land when my grace runs dry,
Is foggy, unclear, and undefined.
The tingling in my fingers and toes
Is something less then magic.
And I march on.
As with so many other things,
I had an image in my mind’s eye,
A simple one,
The struggle existed,
But I managed to ride that wave,
And in space there is no crashing on the rocks.
But, my extra eye bares a free flying lash in this reality.
I can see,
But reality is muddy.
I tire people out.
I tire myself out,
Down to the blood.
And it’s not just #lawschoollife.
Iron infusions are necessary, again,
Because life is exhausting generally.
And the cosmos needs entertainment, right?
It certainly won’t slow down.
I hope you can find a day
When you can wake up
And dance on top the sparks of chaos
For no other reason,
Than the striking of a mood.
Not for being alive,
Not for the fiction of should,
And not as a matter of pity porn.
The morning may be cool,
The sky dark,
And the song you hear
Will be fire you swallow.
Nothing will fit your perfect
But in dancing, you will find,
A temporary sync of your rhythms,
With the soul of the world,
And the change.
My life, the yo-yo.
Always fishing for the weekend.
I start each week with a plan,
A good one, I’m always sure.
Until it fails,
until I get overwhelmed,
My plan blown up and every piece flying.
I am lucky, I remind myself,
When shrapnel doesn’t hit my gut
Just because my plans fracture.
Even when they shatter
Control is mine.
Because I control the changes I make.
I took a “testing” test.
And boy did I need it.
Because I needed to know
How unprepared I was.
It felt like a canon full of shrapnel to the brain.
And here I was overly confident,
Pick a class,
And run with it.
Two hands can only hold one book.
Time to put the old one down,
And catch the rest up.
But I wouldn’t have looked back
Unless I dropped the testing test along the way.
Listening to a true crime podcast,
Because I never want to be too comfortable.
I think of the criminal, so called,
And wonder what they would feel
if their family were victims?
What would happen if children,
Before school became a burden,
Were asked to sit with uncomfortable feelings.
With a simple question,
Can you imagine how it feels???
We want to make children stronger,
But we leave this gapping weakness
So that when feelings overpower,
We are helpless to them,
And thus there is no shortage
Of true crime podcasts.
Which is not to say life’s not good.
I just wonder,
What life would be like,
If I wasn’t always breathless.
I would prefer life was a series of sprints
Because my body,
Good as she serves me,
Is not designed for marathons.
Until that happens,
I’ll have to push on
With only hope
The only reasons today is different than yesterday,
was a dental appointment.
thus lunch was two hours late
and I laughed hard enough
at a sly mockery of my cat
so intensely that,
for a few seconds I lost control of my evacuatory system.
my productive routine in the limbo corner
getting lower and lower beneath my standard bar
and I woke up singing regardless,
I have never been able to reproduce these days
of joy, for joy’s sake.
I cannot discover the variation in the equation
which feeds my energy, persistence, my patience,
and my happiness.
I can only monitor patterns
and honor these treasures
by blooming, brief as it may last,
in that light.
I laugh at the extreme,
and thus I laugh at myself
all the time.
I have disregarded death
and felt nothing for its power
even rushed though fluorescent halls
into emergency operations,
perhaps because I wear my wounds
like branded clothing,
and dripping blood
is my name-drop.
I fear the power of minds
beyond my own,
because the perception of dependence
far more often
than any body part
and I am always battling
the endless weight of mistaken perceptions
I may not die at the muzzle of a law enforcement officer,
I will live, with my vocal cords crushed repeatedly
by new people every day
who share no uniform features
and I am not the only one
but one of a fraction,
able, and extreme enough,
to draw attention to
another uncomfortable -ism
I skipped a beat
because my body took *another*
this reheated corpse,
deep in her right eye socket
which spent two days trying to make room
upon an unproductive torture session
of forty-eight hours,
the digits seemed to uproot,
and migrate a few inches west
to press down between both sockets
the best of both worlds I suppose
signals of nausea and fatigue.
were sent along every roadway of this body,
on horseback, because even in the best neighborhoods,
the post is gutted.
the deliveries kept waking me,
11pm, 2:30am, 3:20am, 5:15am, 6am
the good news is,
this is their winter home
the bad news is
the other three seasons of my body
only last 28 days!
My eyes catch on the tents we pass
I am one fish in the ocean,
and each tent is a hook
holding a member of my school inside
as they writhe for warmth and
fight for life.
It is nothing but chance
fickle and random
as an unbitten opportunity
that separates us.
I can’t convince myself
that these tents are part
of the context of this moment,
Even though more effort was taken
to hide the forest with the trees before
because tension, and division erases
if the symbiotic creature kills the only host-fish
they both sink to the bottom of the pond
If picking myself up
after life knocked me flat
I would be a bodybuilder at this point
when I was young,
I sought the strength that is confidence
in my interpersonal relations
the ability not to live in the consciousness of a burden,
not to fear the letdown of letdown and loneliness,
to find safety the voice of my desires and boundaries,
without the sound cracking,
whenever I called upon it,
the muscles in my legs are narrow at best,
but when someone asks how I manage to wear
a smile, as I speak of dingy moments,
and how it can remain strong,
I tell them.
I have taught that muscle well,
for it is the only one strong enough
to lift me up when I am knocked down.
it does sometimes step aside to allow for pain and loss
but my muscles of sorrow have little stamina.
I went from a child peacemaker
To enter adulthood through a hall of invisible terror
I would have clicked my heels three times,
there’s no one like old Misty,
there’s no one like child Misty,
there’s no one like farsighted Misty,
Once through that ten-million-mile hall
I have no desire to turn around,
even facing the Sisyphean task
of constantly dressing wounds
of so many siblings,
trying to hold a mother’s tidal wave of chaos at bay.
As I tiptoe through the start of middle age
I am facing the possibility
of a life without children of my own,
but, perhaps I have more to offer than DNA
whose only limit is the span of my entire life
Though that is not the choice I will ever make
I will not feel empty if it is a choice made for me.
Have you ever written, drawn, or otherwise created something that you put hours, or longer into? Did you reflect on your favorite part and excitedly tell your test reader about it, only to find out that they don’t get what you’re trying to say, or see what who you drew? I can’t be alone!
I had two main reactions toward the negative reactions of others, and even my self, which held me back for a long time. First, and especially with writing, I responded by getting defensive or angry. How could “they” understand the picture I’m drawing for the reader? (This was my initial reaction to feedback about the overuse of metaphor!) When I went back to reread the manuscript I started to see them though! Metaphoria, so to speak! So, even though the manuscript has taken 30 months to write, I am editing, changing and plain deleting sections because they take away from the story.
My approach to drawing wasn’t as defensive, I knew I “couldn’t draw.” I could start out ok with a single eye but, when the other eye didn’t look even, I didn’t re draw, I kept going. my hope was that by not hounding for perfection, I could avoid burnout. The end product was always disappointing, and I gave up on drawing for many years.
When I tried again early this year, I started with a low pressure class online. I took my time, I practiced, and I erased and redrew. I liked the instructor. (JW Learning on Skillshare.) He was realistic about mistakes, and redrew parts in his videos! So, I stayed with it, I’m still practicing, learning, and trying again when I know I can do better! Truthfully, erasing and reforming my written imagery and my sketches keeps my desire burning! Time is my friend, so I hang out with my projects as long as needed instead of rushing to complete. The results are fantastic!
What is your experience/ approach to drafting?
I prefer explosive anger if I am going to be mad.
I burst, reel, and collect myself,
reflection and redemption are easier
than vendettas or the crackle of annoyance
Anger has a purpose
in fueling growth and change,
but the little flares I get of it
over things I have no power over
are draining in spirit,
and time required for acceptance
some people are mirror opposites
because bursts of rage would destroy them.
through the destruction they would wrought
and it leads me to question my disability
is it a blessing or a curse in that light?
I tortured myself for years,
and became an in between,
without an identity
without a self
for years, decades, their was no timbre,
no dance in my happy stories
no, regret in my lies
no hormones in my body
and no fight in my heart
and still I have revived
but, body remembers,
and takes vengeance on
the slightest change in self now
natural and healthy,
to stop a return to sickness,
or to dole out revenge
I am unsure.
I do not want to be the “Silver Lining” lady
because some things I face suck.
Sometimes I protest my displeasure
and demand ecstasy
forgetting the need for darkness
that allows consciousness
Moderation is appreciation
and without appreciation,
there is no value in light.
Everyone says “You can only control your actions and reactions.”
but not how much work that takes.
It means making choices, in the middle of a trillion little moments…
okay, maybe a thousand,
to challenge you’re own interpretation,
Each reason for why,
even the ones we don’t like
because the other person,
not necessarily a threat
and our bodies alone are bias
to improve the speed of our judgment
to keep us safe
it is our brain’s job
to think critically,
before we act on instinct
those who don’t try are inhumane
for you I have a love,
in your name I stretch,
to encompass you
and all of your overflowing trauma,
to hold what you cannot,
even when it snaps and stings
I may be thin
but I am that circle unbroken,
if I do nothing else,
at my distance
I will witness your destruction
and hold that story
as a light to those who want to remain
nocturnal in the face of the fire of mental illness
zero percent contained
beyond the elasticity of love.
I’m going to call this a side-gripe. Is it just me, or are the minor persistent pains more bothersome than the unexpected horrible ones? Do you know what I mean? My body can handle the pain from a third degree burn, or a big surgery, better than the gas pains or headaches.
for another example consider THIS SONG
Maybe it’s the fact that the small/minor pains wear you down. But headaches, for example, really slow me down. When I have major surgeries I don’t end up taking the majority of the pain meds I am prescribed. I end up throwing them away! But if I get a small cut, headache etc. I get worn down and taken out until it heals or goes away.
I think my body may be backwards! Prove me WROOOOOOOOOOOOONG please!!!
It sucks to be stuck in a house,
in one room where everything must take place
but I am here,
typing at a third generation typewriter desk,
on a laptop.
I lost a decade
to illness and near death experiences
just to get to this desk
living in this room, for seventeen months.
I am happier here because I am freer here,
I am freer here because my choice was taken,
and I found out I would not die.
I am healthier here,
More creative and productive.
in a single room.
When the world opens again,
I will be able to stand taller,
because I lost the freedom,
and the planet kept moving
while I took the time to heal
I wasn’t meant to be here.
doing this now,
my body gave out,
before I was born
a fractured mind.
I stopped moving,
so I could find a way to keep going again.
no one promised happiness, or calm or present-ness
and I demanded to find a way to them regardless
Still, in self-trust, I found it.
still, I found life
I was so free of that decade of depression,
that I hadn’t thought of it outside distant memories.
Even in the middle of a war that I could only witness
I could still find stars through the gun smoke
but, to continue the metaphor,
at an odd hour the stars were captured by dark clouds,
and I was blanketed with that steady depressive weight.
As if to brighten the edges of contentedness,
and remind me to appreciate the marvel of the night sky
I have never had a gift for silence,
that darkness is not a cure for our wounds
and that pride, that impression, that peace you want to salvage
is bleeding the life out of everyone
who believes in silence.
you can’t mend a broken mind with a hammer.
So, I answer questions,
I speak with compassion, about the wounds I know,
and the ones I know they have hidden
because I am tired of those able to hide their secrets
condemning the people whose pain overflows
there is no “other”.
we are “them” at a different angle to the light
I went to do some Sickybeat editing today and realized I hade my page view all funky! I saw under the “View” toolbar of my laptop a “readthrough” option. I’d never seen that before and, after clicking to explore it I was disappointed. The text was big and abnormally spaced out.
When I saw the triangle shaped play button I couldn’t resist pushing play to see what happened. A robot read my writing! The monotone voice is perfect for seeing how well the flow works and catching errors I missed! It’s also funny to hear the pronunciations!
So, my thought is, explore! (And make sure you have your work backed up when you do!)
Bodily autonomy has never been questioned
In one way or another women have been made to fight for scraps of it
And the further we are from the intersection of rich wasps
The more it stings.
I hope against all things that we all stay standing this time,
Without becoming numb and complacent.
My rage did not drive me away,
it has taken root
So that I may stand my ground
Above the hollow morality
That has exceptions
But no room for the living
And no compassion
for the unlived world
Alive around them.
I am sick of being talked “roundabout “
Denigrated for being in a state of being
That I had no say in,
though it is 50.1% what I am,
and where I go.
I am not used to fighting for equal ground,
But for a real say.
I am studying child law.
But, I do just as much teaching.
Know my person,
See the structure and the acceptance
As the annoyance,
Suddenly when people listen,
When they advocate,
I am caught off guard,
Because no one warned me
They were rising to their feet about me,
I never invited pain,
But, like any other relative,
She comes with baggage;
It is never packed neatly
And you can see it bulge through the seams
if you get close enough.
I would not “Marie Condo” my self
But I am getting better at packing
have unwelcome religious connotations,
Nonetheless, here we are,
The more readily I walk through shadows,
less often they strangle.
Don’t tell me it is possible to sit with pain and knowing,
They will show me themselves
Given the opportunity
my hands have been too weak
to hold the opportunity away
And here we be
Though an afterlife is not what I believe.
If it meant you would find peace
That laid in waiting for you
I am there for the idea.
I witnessed the kaleidoscope of pain
you saw in your silhouette
the depth of your own grace.
so thick that you rarely saw
And that, is what I mourn
In a practice run
You may think I
Take advantage of
the power I yet have.
Because I am that bench:
Hot with queries.
Asking so much because
I am getting empty carbs in return.
It isn’t a power play
I am digging for a live wire in your argument.
I have yet to feel even a tingling
So, forgive the hot bench,
It is in the name of electric debate
But you have poured ice on this exchange.