Holding Onto That One Last Thread

Holding Onto That One Last Thread

Oh Brother Dear, we sadly fear your presence we have lost

——–

I live here now

I don’t know where here is

The night spirals from my fingertips 

sweet promises and regrets

I am the eye of the storm 

bereft and bloody 

broken open raw

numb

out of sync with this universe 

it’s moving on without you 

relentless

no matter how I scream and tear my hair

no matter how

~~~~

This room feels empty without you though you haven’t been around for awhile. The air is heavier now. it hurts to breathe. i occupy an impossible moment 

dying

betrayed by my continuation

how does one define the edges of a lifetime? chubby baby hands, blue eyes, warm raspy chuckle

————-

A little over a month ago my baby brother died. He died young and he didn’t have to. The system failed him, on multiple levels. Maybe we failed him too. 

that keeps me up at night sometimes
I had to sit with that first sentence for awhile, honestly. A little over a month ago, my baby brother died. 

I haven’t been able to write much, because I haven’t been able to think much. My spoon supply, such as it is, is going to parenting…and pretty much just parenting. 

I’m here, alive, coping. I don’t forsee ever seeing any of my blood family again, short of minor miracles. That’s been coming my whole life, they always made sure I knew I was unwelcome, burdensome. 

obligated. 

I have one paternal cousin who still speaks to me. He’s a sweet guy. I’m thankful for that human connection. He’s been a singularly positive influence on my life, though we live in different states and have much different lives. 

But we’re poor, my paternal relatives are to far away, probably wouldn’t really  understand my identity, and my maternal relatives and I have gone our separate ways. It was, I think mutually beneficial for everyone. 

So here I am, cut off from the people who knew him, my brother, best, and I’m coping. 

I mean, except I’m not really coping at all, I’m parenting and reading fanfiction. In the realms of self medication, fan fiction is almost entirely harmless and that’s good.

 I’m a parent and don’t have the luxury of the self destruction I was on the road to before children. Becoming a parent gave me focus, gave me a reason to strive for something better. I repay the gift they didn’t mean to give me, by maintaining that focus and reason to live…even when it starts feeling a little to nebulous and far away.

but I understand why I am currently hyper fixated on fanfiction. My brain is reading sooo many stories about anxious, sad queer boys because it’s an anxious sad queer boy, and these little happy endings just…alleviate the pain for a moment, as long as I stay submerged. like soothing music or soft fuzzy blankets. it’s.like an emotional stim. brain candy.. 

let me just stay here submerged in Emo Quinten Coldwater and Regal, Gorgeous, Bad ass magnus Bane. 

It’ll be fine. 

probably.

but as a coping mechanism it’s not so great for the concentration. though i don’t know what could possibly be better. I can be slightly checked out or i can be writhing in devastation. those are my current choices. no more. no less. This is the first time I have been able to write about this without falling apart. I’ll call that a good sign…of some sort.

Allistics accuse autistic people of being cold and indifferent in the way we mourn. That darn flat affect. 

In my experience the opposite is true though, we carry loss and hurt so heavily it overloads our whole system, like a fuse that needs flipping after a lightning storm.  

look away. look away. look away

I disentangle slightly so that I don’t burn out entirely.  

but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel it. 

i feel everything.

I’m still emotionally fragile even slightly disentangled, every strong emotional reaction turns into gut wrenching despair and then to more chronic pain flares. I forget sometimes why every single thing makes me feel like my heart has been ripped out. 

oh yeah, because it has been.  

I don’t know what mourning is like for allistic people. I don’t know what mourning looks like for other autistic people. 

This is what mourning looks like for me. 

I’m not there yet-wherever there is

and I don’t know when I will be

but I’m trying and I’m coping and I’ll be ok

more or less

eventually
in the meantime, anybody know any good fan fic? 

Advertisements

Rest These Bones

Rest These Bones

​My heart feels like rotten potato salad. 

it’s leaking. weeping ichor

I know this is part of my flare cycle

all I can do is ride it out, remind myself that my brain is lying, that I am more than a useless burden (etc) 

If I try to push it, I will just end up back in the life eclipsing pain and fatigue flare. 

Back at the bottom of the lake 

with no energy to crawl out yet again

so I’m trying to ride it out, rest, and remind myself that I will probably get back to my higher ground. 

at some point

So as much as I want to make a to do list

and check things off

feel like I am catching up

Today I am going to rest as much as possible

catch up on some shows

remind my brain it’s lying

and hope tomorrow is a better day

Happy Anniversary and Thank You

For all your amazing support

Two years ago(almost exactly) I started out on this official writing journey, at the encouragement of my loves, scared to death and sure I would fail. Finally I decided, I didn’t want to be the sort of person who never tried to fulfill their dreams, and being out of options as a chronically ill person who was newly unable to work outside the home, I had to make something happen. I could not sit for the rest of my life dwelling on my misery and hating myself the way I was inclined to. I’d seen in my own family how that ended. I had to try and fulfill the dream.

dreams are hard right? or they wouldn’t be called dreams 

I had two patrons, both part of my chosen family network, 11$. That 11 dollars was the beginning of me remembering my value, of discovering how healing it is to be even a small part of someone else’s healing. 

Truly a soul soothing balm 

So… 

I don’t know how to thank you exactly

when I traveled the wayward flail and chuckle of childhood imagination

and landed, barely on my feet, beside you

arms held out inviting  

into this intergalactic fantasy 

into me and mine 

My heart

and you said yes! 

…you said yes…

thank you

“heat vision” picture of myself , a white demidude, wearing my son, who is black/biracial, in a buckle style baby carrier on my back. Our faces are bright pink, our hair and clothes yellow, and the baby carrier straps, kindle I’m holding, and my glasses are blue indicating the heat everything is emiting. The picture and the heat vision gives the picture a Terminator type feel. On the right hand side there is a vertical bar showing w hat temperature ranges each color represents.

Otters and Other Mythical Creatures

I think about otters

no one forces an otter 

otters are just otters

otters just live

————-

I think about living a life with out the sweaty milk sacks 

now that’s poetry. 

milk sacks. spigots.

I’ve got a million euphemisms 

let’s just tone that gendered term down friend 

soften the blow a bit

they have given life though

nurtured life

power, grace, and magic irrefutable

I am thankful for this gift

even as I am being dragged kicking and screaming into your 50’s house wife fantasy.

*I Do Not Consent To This!*

I scream into the void 

but no one is listening 

or no one cares

*I do not consent to this body* I whisper

small.desperate. an eternity of tired

still

The entire world leans in

cheerful.helpful.

and offers me a cough drop and half of a flat soda.  

forever missing the point

Living Between Hope and Hopeless

I’m alive

for tonight 

for today

I’m alive and my feet hurt

I’m alive and my body burns, existing at 90 degree angles from itself

I’m alive and they dismantled the ADA

I’m alive and I don’t know what the future holds 

I’m alive but my insurance may partially cover gender confirmation surgery and hormones 

I’m alive and there’s no way to make that last line flow nicely 

so I’ll just say

I’m alive

Chronic Illness Feeling Number Whatever

On the verge of a really big bad, I can’t move and everything is on fire flare. 

not quite though…
instead i feel like freezing cold mud. 
My muscles burn as if after anaerobic excersize 

it is an empty, sputtering, cold, cold burn.
My muscles, so weak and slow
struggle mightily and weakly, an old overheated computer, slow 
-buffering- buffering- buffering-  
every cell in my body surrounded by cold sloughing muck, 
neurons firing through thick sludge. 
a difficult and slow journey. 
The mud drips and oozes 
my muscles are melting.  
i struggle to hold this form 
to not melt away 
and drift into nothingness like a half remembered memory

Reframed

I used to think my sick body was a weak body

for the way it shook, burned, throbbed, and trembled

how I cursed it’s every inconsistency

how I sobbed and railed and wailed 

at my body’s failure to do as I saw fit and proper

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

yet here I am years later 

thriving despite

inspite 

because of

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

and so a dawning of sorts

a realization 

my sick body is a strong body

a persistent body 

an empowered body 

my body screams to live 

trembles in its effort to continue 

burns to live a day in love 

my body shakes with will to live

we shall not stop

not today

not tomorrow 

for this body is a strong body