Disintegration
1-5-02
I am full of empty wanderings. Half-full glasses of vodka. There and here and no-where at all. Such are the meandering streams of consciousness that work their lazy way through my mind. I wish I could explain their presence by simple categorical entries, but it’s not that easy. I am trapped inside an egg shell. I am the embryo. Blood flows into the cavity in which I am curled, slowly filling the space around me with warm, salty liquid that will eventually steal my breath. I am comforted by the blood. How do I categorize that? I don’t know if I am curled up on the floor or inside an egg. I can’t distinguish the real images around me from the images inside my mind. I only want someone to take care of me, to tell me what to do.
1-06-02
Disaster. The egg shell cracks. I repeat to myself “you are born alone, you die alone” and I don’t see how it’s possible to get up in the morning to teach my classes. I don’t know how long I can manage this way of life, this constant drink and constant image of blood interrupted by eight hour shifts teaching children ancient history. I have to change, it’s obvious, but the question is HOW. Trying to control one more variable is just too overwhelming. Alas, as much as I have become, have overcome, I’ve hit a brick wall and a dead end. Twenty years ago I survived a suicide attempt and I remember thinking “But I’m not dead yet, as long as I’m alive there is a chance.” Ironically, hope is supposed to be the value I focus on this year in my life, and hope has completely slipped through my fingers like water through a sieve.
1-11-02
Watch them pop up one by one by one in shots of memory that jump to the front as a twitch, an ache, a tear, a fear. From curled up catatonic lump to twisting, writhing, screaming ghost with flesh but having no soul, I was captured by the men in pressed uniforms and guns and billy clubs. The Police cuffed and hobbled me, while my husband Luke stood in the background yelling “Rae! Rae! Don’t fight! Please don’t fight!” But I did. The police handed me over to the men in white, the psych ward orderlies. Confined in the Rubber Room, I saw eyes watch me as I lay on the bed strapped down for others’ safety and mine, and the eyes looked through a watch door disembodied and curious. Other mental patients on the ward bugged me and I was ashamed I was there. I heard the pop….pop….pop…..like pieces of a puzzle, like popcorn all the same color and all the same shape but fitting together without forming a form. I felt a twitch in my eye, an ache in my chest, and I traced the path of my tear back to its origin – my blind eye.
I am full of empty wanderings. Half-full glasses of vodka. There and here and no-where at all. Such are the meandering streams of consciousness that work their lazy way through my mind. I wish I could explain their presence by simple categorical entries, but it’s not that easy. I am trapped inside an egg shell. I am the embryo. Blood flows into the cavity in which I am curled, slowly filling the space around me with warm, salty liquid that will eventually steal my breath. I am comforted by the blood. How do I categorize that? I don’t know if I am curled up on the floor or inside an egg. I can’t distinguish the real images around me from the images inside my mind. I only want someone to take care of me, to tell me what to do.
1-06-02
Disaster. The egg shell cracks. I repeat to myself “you are born alone, you die alone” and I don’t see how it’s possible to get up in the morning to teach my classes. I don’t know how long I can manage this way of life, this constant drink and constant image of blood interrupted by eight hour shifts teaching children ancient history. I have to change, it’s obvious, but the question is HOW. Trying to control one more variable is just too overwhelming. Alas, as much as I have become, have overcome, I’ve hit a brick wall and a dead end. Twenty years ago I survived a suicide attempt and I remember thinking “But I’m not dead yet, as long as I’m alive there is a chance.” Ironically, hope is supposed to be the value I focus on this year in my life, and hope has completely slipped through my fingers like water through a sieve.
1-11-02
Watch them pop up one by one by one in shots of memory that jump to the front as a twitch, an ache, a tear, a fear. From curled up catatonic lump to twisting, writhing, screaming ghost with flesh but having no soul, I was captured by the men in pressed uniforms and guns and billy clubs. The Police cuffed and hobbled me, while my husband Luke stood in the background yelling “Rae! Rae! Don’t fight! Please don’t fight!” But I did. The police handed me over to the men in white, the psych ward orderlies. Confined in the Rubber Room, I saw eyes watch me as I lay on the bed strapped down for others’ safety and mine, and the eyes looked through a watch door disembodied and curious. Other mental patients on the ward bugged me and I was ashamed I was there. I heard the pop….pop….pop…..like pieces of a puzzle, like popcorn all the same color and all the same shape but fitting together without forming a form. I felt a twitch in my eye, an ache in my chest, and I traced the path of my tear back to its origin – my blind eye.