Fueled Flame

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Jan 312019
 

The Realm of the Dead

I beg the world to just let me be numb, to make the pain from yesterday and tomorrow roll off of me. Like a tsunami that pulls the water away the pain always rolls back in, deeper and harder than it had ever been before.

I try and see the good in life. Maybe I’ve gone blind.

What is the point in all of this hurt? What kind of god or deity says that this is okay. That free will is acceptable when it comes to damaging others. The scars in my brain are lesions that can’t be fixed. Not in this world. Probably not in the next.

I am angry. Angry at God, angry at myself for having faith in the greater good when the reality is that there is no good. It is a falsity, a bald-faced lie that we all look to as some sort of guide to having the best life, when none of us really do.

I hate.

I hate the happy people. The rich people. The people who got to die when I can’t. The people who laid there looking like they were sleeping peacefully ready for their grave with their mouths stitched shut to avoid the look of a screaming slack jaw staring up at the mourners. I envy that person. The person in the pine box, preparing for the flame.

All of this life, all of this hurt, this broken-ugly is hell. The good die young because they are too good for this inferno.

And today, like in years before, I watched the sunrise as if it were my first, and then I said goodbye to the light, knowing it was my last.

I cut myself just to feel the pain.

I bleed just to know I am alive.

I am sorry, every single day.

If God was my tourniquet, what will save my soul now that he has abandoned me?

“No” comes from my mouth so loudly in the darkness of the winters night that I wonder how it’s not heard around the world, I wake myself. The rapist’s in my head alive and well. I am the zombie that can’t get them to go away.

Crazy… I was crazy once…

Then, the brutal hit of life stole the wind from my lungs and snuffed out the flame that I had glowing inside.

Perhaps, I am numb, the pain is so bad I can barely recognize it. Is this a part of the show? This evil game where I am the mouse and I can’t tell who the cat is, so I have to trust no one? Don’t inhale the toxic fumes called air, Marisa. Hold your breath until the darkness creeps in and you close your eyes.

And if you don’t love me now…

Well, you probably never did.

Jan 022019
 

My thoughts, my faith, my inspiration, they all change from day to day, moment by moment and I no longer have a specific focus.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my spark. I lost my way. I miss expanding my mind and my content into the corners of the literary world like I once did.

You see, when you’ve been through so much hurt it has this way of boiling up and over into ways that aren’t healthy and this life that had glimmers of hope and joy and direction seem to just go on the backburner. In a struggle between good and evil. I would love to say good always wins, yet in my life, it seems that the enemy wins a lot more often than not.

The scars that are hidden under new ones, and the new ones bandaged away to heal the best they can. The wear on my body hurts more in my heart. Somedays, my eyes don’t seem to dry at all, other days I need to bleed just to know I am alive.

This may have been the hardest 4th quarter of the year, or maybe even the hardest challenges of my life. I don’t know yet if I have won the war because the battle that lives in my head, heart and is entwined in my soul never seems to stop. I can’t tell if it’s a replay or real-time.

“I just prayed to a God that I don’t believe in” (Bon Jovi), seems to be a quote that my mind is tangled around a ton lately. I believe in the Word of God, yet I don’t feel the Holy Spirit in my life any longer. I want to cultivate that relationship and yet I feel silly because I am at this impasse where I don’t even know that my faith is in something that is real. I am like a child that is beginning to doubt whether or not Santa is real. I hate this about myself.

So, how do I begin to reclaim my life? My faith? My joy?

Where do I even look when the sadness and melancholy have been the only friends that never leave? Is it really bad to be comfortably numb? Who said going through the motions of life isn’t actually living?

I crave more. I need more. More of what? I guess we will see!

My word this year is JOURNEY.
I am on a journey of self-reflection, looking forward and seeking me!

Time…

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Dec 252018
 

I told you I would break.
I didn’t know when.
The tsunami that was coming finally arrived.
The waves are drowning me.
I don’t know if I survived.

The dripping crimson I don’t regret.
All of this time and I feel nothing yet.
Scars rough and tough unlike my soul.
You are the hole that has no light.
I don’t want to fight when it’s not me that’s alive.

Dec 192018
 

I look down and see the moon
Reaching to the window
I will be close soon.

Grabbed back from that innocently selfish step
I’m wondering why the sky is below
Where am I that it’s all upside down?

Tenderness, pain, and emotion without sound
Living life while begging to die
How am I swimming in the sky?

My faith is real yet I fear I am not
A mass of carbon without any thought
Just one step and it’s do or die.

Why won’t you release the shackles
Please, just let me try
Forever I’ll be yours, here or there.

If it doesn’t work what will you care?
And if I float into the Heavenly abyss
I’ll come to you and tell you what you’ve missed.

Jun 072018
 

Faking it can be easy.
It can also be the absolute most draining thing one will ever do.

It’s like being an actress through most of my waking hours. Smiling when I am spoken to, being polite, saying everything is great, flirting and doing life, in general, all while there is this demon inside of me, telling me I’ve got to beware.

Beware of the guy who said hello, he could rape you, you are a stupid girl, don’t you know?

I have the scars, inside and out. On my wrist too many to count. I am the pale girl who has had too much sun in an attempt to appear a little more healthy. My eyes are often glistening bright from the tears I hold back, or dark and soulless as I give up the fight.

The house is trashed, and I mean trashed because my motivation is lacking. I look around and see the piles of stuff, the dust and I know it’s a fast job to do but can’t make myself do it. I write the lists and those do help. Seeing the checked off boxes of things seems to be a decent motivator.

My meds keep me overweight, so it’s more than easy for me to pass on food or forget to eat and no one even notices. There are days where I binge and get 2000-3000 calories (can we say pizza?) and there are far more days where I am down in the few hundred range at best. I don’t worry about my weight, it’s just another thing to do. Cooking drains me a ton. Even the easy things. Thinking about what to make is like doing an algebra exam. I try to remember to have a protein shake every day, so at least my body gets that.

I had a flashback earlier today about the house we were in. The basement had a sump-pump and there was a cement ridge built up around it with wood covering it. It always reminded me of a coffin. This morning the nightmare/flashback was based on that hole, only in this daydream, he threw me in and closed the lid. Laying there I wondered how long it would take for them to raise the lid to find my body.

PTSD is real. I die 1000 different ways every single year, all in my head, all in traumatic ways that feel oh so real. Much of the time, when I am startled out of my head, I wish that I hadn’t fought so hard to be the survivor girl, that I would have been better off if I had just not lived.

I’ve always been one to have extremely vivid nightmares and flashes of things while awake. When I was little I wouldn’t sleep because I could hear and feel planes flying overhead and dropping bombs. I remember looking out the window one day and panicking when I saw Saddam Hussein’s face staring back at me, the war hadn’t even begun and I am in Canada, and more importantly, no one was even there, just the sunshine.

Once I was held and raped and used and sold, all of those things became even worse, more intense. Because then I realized that evil really did exist. That it was alive and well. That I could be a victim, because I was a victim, and the victim still lives inside of me with extreme guilt. With intense fear and with a logic that doesn’t make sense to anyone but me.

I take a half dozen different prescribed meds and they take the edge off, but they don’t make it go away. I spent years in therapy and eventually had to quit going, the anxiety of having to bring the negative thoughts up each week was just as bad as keeping them inside. The last time I went, I left and cut my wrist in the parking lot. And, I had a great therapist whom I loved. I was ashamed.

My reports say that I am a masochist, among other things. I don’t argue with that at all. When you are taken at 15 and enter into an abusive situation with no escape, it is easy for you to become accustomed to being punished. When I feel like I have hurt someone, or I am useless or no good, the masochist comes out big time and demands the pain. I need it in order to know I am alive.

“And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive”

~Iris, Goo Goo Dolls

 

Jun 062018
 

Panic attacks have been progressively getting worse. The past comes back and haunts me in the weirdest places. I think I have become a bit of a hermit in a way. My phobias and anxieties over certain things have progressively become worse over the last year or so. I think when I lost the baby I lost more of myself.

The idea of ringing the dr for an appointment causes my heart to speed up, the cracked or broken tooth I have hasn’t been checked out or fixed because I can’t stand the idea of feeling trapped in a clinical setting, even though I’ve known my dentist my entire life. I struggle to even bring my kids, but for them I can do it, because I have too.

Having to go into stores and pick things up or run errands like getting the mail drains me, like a soul sucker drinking me up from a giant straw.

My fight or flight has never left, but I did go a good year or two without cutting myself, now I bare more scars and the mere idea of certain things causes suicidal thoughts to flash into my head as the way out of something as simple as running an errand.

Mom helps me a ton. She is the one who goes places with me and while I can still force myself, it really drains me until I am sick with migraines and feel like death has already come.

When I got pregnant over a year ago I had stopped several of my medications and was handling things “okay”, not great, not even perfect, but “okay”. I thought I could push through, but have realized that pushing through isn’t living life, I am fearing life.

I got up to close the curtains the other night and sheer panic kicked in. I ended up sobbing, hard, until I fell asleep. My fears of things I love dying are extremely high. The idea of any sort of change is paralyzing.

I started two of my meds again yesterday. I know that with them I will be tired, likely to gain weight, and have less spoons to help me through the day. But, without them, I don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing myself through these murky waters.

I often feel like I am in a state of mania, where I am hyper and unstoppable, followed by a depression that keeps me in bed for several days as I recoup that energy that was wastefully spent. I’ve never been one to be balanced. I struggle to even know what happiness is. I see glimpses of it, but I am not familiar with it.

If anything, happiness is an enemy, taunting me about what could have been and never was. I envy it. I loathe it. It is what I am not.

The degenerative disc disease and arthritis in my back, hips and pelvis are a constant reminder of the trauma my body has experience and it’s protesting against, standing, sitting, laying for too long is a painful one. Tylenol will likely kill me before anything else.

In summary, I have been, and I still am, a rancid mess.

 

Jan 142018
 

I haven’t written in awhile. I lost my voice about a year ago. Or, at least it feels that long. I know I have written in that time, but definitely not the way I once did. The words are in my head, but my voice has simply up and left.

I lost my faith, it didn’t just waiver. It left with my voice. A sense of shame began to fill the gaps where God and the Word had once been nestled in. The freefall into a darkness overcame me, it’s still the cloak that covers me, brings me comfort in a place where there is no comfort to be had.

Sickness had me down and out a lot at the end of 2016 and I know it was my bodies way of protesting and saying I had fallen. I just didn’t want to believe it.

I grew pregnant in very late winter/early spring and miscarried, alone, several months later. I was too ashamed to tell anyone. Not my mom, not even the babies father. I wanted to hold onto that baby and keep it as mine. Only mine. A gift that God had given to just me. A gift that only I would love for the rest of my days.

I didn’t even tell my doctor until the fall. Perhaps because I was so adamant that I would keep this baby to myself forever, perhaps because I didn’t want the sympathy or the always unwanted and cold “you can always try again” type of comments.

Maybe I can try again, but I won’t. And, even if by some miracle that I do end up with someone else, and we do have a child, that child will never replace any of the babies I have lost. It will never erase the weeks I knew they were growing inside of me. The hopes and dreams I had for that specific child are forever gone. That baby will never be born, it will never inhale its first breath, or look into my eyes. It will never hear my voice outside of what they may have heard from inside of my womb, the muffled underwater sounds that budding ears were barely beginning to hear.

It felt like in those moments, months, of loneliness and being abandoned, that God up and abandoned me too. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am. I no longer feel like a child of God. I feel a hollow space where feelings should be, where love should overflow, but I don’t feel God.

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