On sighs and the art of being tired

My latest pinup! I call it: ruthless slumber-luster. One of a kind folks, that’s right. It’s that piece that makes you twist your head and be very very unsure of what it even is. Quality here, people.

God, I’m so sleepy. I haven’t gotten good sleep in at least 3 nights. The first night was late at UtL, then woken up early in the morning by a low blood sugar, the second night was at the Asbury house (with the JJ, asthma, wheezing, and all) and last night was here at the dorm, trapped in a demented and stress filled dream where the only thing I could hear was my own voice going ‘What is wrong with my head? What is wrong with my brain? What is wrong? What is wrong?” because of how warped everything looked. (Also a low blood sugar should be added on top of that)  All I’ve wanted all freaking day was a nap, was a bit of rest, but now, at 1am when I’m SUPPOSED to be asleep ANYWAYS, I can’t even seem to manage it. My eyes drift themselves to assume the dreamiest, but sleep just dodges me like oil dodges water! Perhaps I could convince it? Let us see.

And they shall see visions…

The family sat around the room talking idly about the day, the dog, and what had come out of both. Jay jay lay between Sveta and Angie, gnawing at his own paw. I mentioned that it’s probably not a good sign and, since the conversation had taken on a dark tone, Dad muttered “It’s the dog equivalent to cutting.” I threw him a sharp glance and shook my head.

“Not ok.”

Soon we both gravitated to the kitchen and he looked in the fridge. Amid the freshly stocked shelves of produce, odds, and ends, there lied two cups of rice pudding left. Now, this delicacy is hard to keep in stock in our house, so my father had been keeping tabs on it even more closely than that of the fruit and cider.

“HOW do we only have two left?” A metallic edge slipped into his voice.

“There are others behind those. They’re probably scattered.” My voice started to take on his own shade.

“Yeah, One.”

“Ok dad, chill.” Came the automatic response to over-reaction.

My father’s stature angled and his face darkened. “Chill is not the phrase when speaking to your father. There’s a difference between me and your friend. That was entirely disrespectful.”

I reeled as I weighed the truth of this statement (which was quite heavy) and tried to appoligize while still explaining why I had said it. None of this, apparently, was coherent until the last ditch effort.

“I’m not the only one who’s been disrespectful tonight.”

”Excuse me?”

Back track. “I’m not trying to make an excuse, I’m just saying that I’m not the only one here. I know that I was wrong, but-“

It went on. Not long, but I didn’t know what I was saying or trying to say by the end of the sentence. All I remember was

“You know, you’ve been a lot surlier as of late.” or something to that effect. The train of boiling temper left behind was almost visible.

I am mad. I am frustrated. I have venom on my lips that’s just waiting to be administered. I excuse myself to my room, turn on the bathroom vent and some music, and cry. I cry and cry and think of everything I possibly can to cry about since it never seems to happen when I need it to. Thoughts drifted to my past, my mother, and my father. The knife still left in my heart as he left and seemed to never come back was suddenly visible and ached. The idealistic hero of my story had slowly dropped his cape and become mortal. His temper tapers into a razor’s blade, able to cut just the surface of its victim, even with a simple sentence could fillet a tomato without it even knowing.

It is so much like my own.

One by one the things I could say to my father to tear him to pieces presented themselves. The menace danced in my head and blades loosed free in the experimental swing. It would feel so good to let my fury take the best of me, to let out my anger in the most natural way it craves. It would, however, devastate my father. Some things you cannot take back, right? I’ve always known that and always held my tongue. My blade did nothing to my mother, since she was a battered stone that heard, saw, and said nothing of consequence. There’s no satisfaction if there is no bite.

Slowly my mind turned to a more physical expression. Ever since my mentor Justine had shown me kickboxing against a sandbag I’ve craved the time to do it. My mind lingered in the gym she took me to, plastic grass under my bare feet and my hands already secure in their wrappings. What combinations would I use to release my energy and assert my bitterness? Right, Left, Right, Hook, Round house. Right, left, right, hook, round house. Left, right, right… wait-

Within the empty level of the building came a small boy, of perhaps 5 or 6, wandering towards me. He tilted his head and watched my pointedly ignoring movements. I concentrated on the bag and my own thoughts of my father and what it meant that I wanted to take them out in this way.

“What are you doing?”

Sigh. “Beating this piece of leather.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m frustrated.”

“At who?”

“My father. I have been for a very long time and I’m getting it out this way instead of-“ ‘Instead of beating him up’ came to my mind, but that didn’t seem appropriate for this audience. “staying mad and angry.”

“But if you’ve been mad and angry for this long, what does this do?”

“It’s temporary, but it helps.” Right hook, left round house once, twice. Guard.

He stared for a while longer. “Do you want to stay mad at your daddy?”

I tried to put it simply for a child. “This is the type of frustration-“ I ran through my mind what I could say, what would be the truth. What was I going to say, that some anger you need to keep for a while to heal? That’s bull, especially with my father. Was it? It doesn’t matter, I can’t tell a kid that. What do I say? That it feels good to let it burn? “It’s not ok to keep anger pent up inside, so I’m trying to find a way to let it out.”

“But you don’t want to be mad at him.”

“No. I don’t.” By this time I had relaxed and let the boy talk without even trying to guess his next words. I left him blank and he filled in the words. This was not in my mind, and I knew it. Even so, I was thinking of how to treat him to ice cream for being such a dear.

“Can I pray with you?”

“Sure.” I smiled.

“Jesus, thank you for this lady Brynn and what she’s doing. She’s trying real hard to do good by you God. Please give her wisdom with dis and help her to not be angry. I love you God. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” He looked up at me and smiled.

The words felt powerful and true. They brought me peace and a will to revisit the question of anger from my usual peaceful state. “Thank you! That’s was very sweet of you.”

He nodded. “Alright, come on now mommy.”

Reality broke. “What?”

“It’s time to go home now, mommy, come on. Let’s go get ice cream like you said you would.” He took my hand and led me toward the stairwell.

Rambles

Says the clock tick tock goes running down the hill hand in hand with the spoon and flying off at will to the castle in the sky by and by who’s to kill the time goes tick tock tick tock all the way to see the seer who knew the sea, who wants to have her bonnie lass to be- her new best friend from the sky and in the end she will go running running down to see what music she is spraying from the tide and when she cries oh dear, she cries, to hear the lovely voice of salt and air, of sun and moon that shines from there, what lovelier voice to hear from here than that of the depths herself?

Why not give from the depths of the soul? In the midst of the chest and organs, tangled twix veins and blood, arteries and lust, flowing and wanting, pulsing and clutching at things it can never have. At a love that would quench the stinging burn that blinds the eyes and of the heart and dashes the soul to the ground, leaving it to lie and die. What fire could make a heart shiver and quake at its existence such as this? What fever could grip a body to revolt such as this has demanded? Why can nothing be done to this rage that dwells and feeds and churns and covets the idea of being let free in the most vile of manners. Lips taste the poison that begs to be unleashed, to demonstrate its ill temper and need to be seen and felt. It does not want to be stopped. It will take its pound of flesh from whoever gets in the way first: a stranger or myself.

Why did someone lie to me?

Why did someone lie to me

And tell me faery bedtime lullibies

That sooth the mind and ease the soul

Convince the future to resolute

in happy times and a kiss goodnight

Why did someone lie to me

“This black inside your chest will dissolve

leaving a heroine’s heart beating out the tune

of the heavens instilled in her steps”

Why did someone lie to me

“Oh dear, you’re going through a stage.”

Once you’ve grown up you’ll have love

and never doubt that he will never deserve you.

Why can’t someone just lie to me

To tell me that it’s all ok

And that someday, on this rust colored dust

that stirs like my faded fears,

I will stand my ground, see a worried crowd

And coo them, myself, to sleep

That day I will sing my own lullibies

Whispers of faery stories come true

Someday I too will lie.

Hands

Of course I’ve been flipping out about ‘do I like this guy?’ all weekend, but come Monday when I felt a wall start to build between us I flipped even worse and looked for time to spend with him to try and get him back. It seems to be evident that I don’t want to lose him. Well, that’s one way to test it. Good to know.

So today we found a few minutes for lunch together, then he met me at the Spiritual Warfare class. The class was pointed towards healing prayer and at the end he asked everyone to open up to the holy spirit and see if he highlights anyone in particular. Eric almost immediately raised his hand after the silence and said ‘pain in the right knee, rotator cuff.’ or something to that affect. A guy claimed that it was him and he went to the front. Then a guy with a sore shoulder, then someone said they felt dizzy, heavy, and blurry eyed (which was me since my blood sugar was high)

I went up and immediately started guarding myself for whatever turned up (since I’ve never been healed in a setting like this) After he prayed for me I returned to my seat and re-checked my bloodsugar. (it was 50 points lower, but I had taken insulin before I went up) People around me started praying for me and my leg started twitching relentlessly. I kept feeling fogged and such.

Eventually Lauren Smythe kept saying ‘forgiveness’ and eventually I got sucked back into the basement in Field Ct. and broke. I sobbed loud for the first time in a very long time. They talked of forgiving God and forgiving my mom. I still don’t forgive her. I still can’t, no matter how freaking hard I try.

Eric came about half way through and sat by me the entire time. After the meeting dispersed and I was very sure that all this spiritual stuff has at least the foothold of my bitterness and unforgiveness that I have to work on, Eric and I went on a walk. He said he felt honored to have been there with me as I went through that experience. He had his arm around my shoulder and I had mine around his waist. It felt almost natural (not entirely, though, probably because we’re just new to this entire thing. We shared more of our lives and what the night was like and such, and just walked. Later he walked me back to Lissner and we sat on a couch in the commons. It was the first time I leaned my body against him (with my legs hanging off the couch arm). We held hands and talked about the future a bit. I don’t think of the future at all and that’s how I’m functioning in a relationship now. (What about tomorrow or the week?") Now I know that he only intends to date to see if marrage is an option. We agreed that when/if it becomes blaringly apparent that we will never get married, then we would break up. For now our relationship is explorational: a safe place to explore what a relationship looks like and what our relationship looks like. “Let’s see where this goes,” is my motto. In the midst of conversation we were holding hands and he started to play with one of mine, but placing it in his and rolling it around in different ways. I rolled his around in turn and soon our hands (one hand each) were almost playing a game together. I really liked it. I felt so comfortable; so natural there. He and I fit very well (except his hands are bigger and thicker than mine, so lacing fingers is not an easy feat to keep for long)

 

I do not think I will go out today.

No, I think I will stay in my bed, simply staying me.

I think to myself that I am expected to go out and live: join the daily thrall and continue with time. But I don’t want to. I will sit atop my covers and look at the life that the inside of my room tells me that I have and wait.

Over on the vanity is fine porcelain, painted down from the perfection that it used to be, yet still elegant and radiant. Alive. The face questions my figure as it beckons me to wear it and venture out to the day. The red of its lips and rust of its lids ask for at least a mellow tone in the crowd, just enough to be seen and alive.

I really just don’t want to.

The allure of the world has no luster for me today. I simply want to stay in my walls and be. Is that so much of a request?

I raise to visit my restroom mirror, behind which I keep my cures for the day. I overdosed on reality the day before, so a dose of silence and perhaps a bit of the fantastic should do me some good today.

Please don’t worry about me. Honestly, I don’t know if you should, but either way you shouldn’t. I’ve made my mind to stay within its walls today, so you won’t be hearing much out there from me. How could anyone accurately measure a ‘day’ in a place like this? But I solemnly promise when the day is done, I will let you know and deal with whatever you might have brought to my steps while I was gone.

Honestly I like it here, you just might have to wait.

Still fucked up

I’ve been working on deconstructing a brick wall for about 3 years now, bit by bit and brick by brick. The rubble is on the floor by my feet, there are various tools strewn around my feet, broken from the abuse against the brick, mingled with the blood from my own hands worked raw in desperation to get the wall down and done.

I am confronted with a paper, an autobiography, asking what my childhood was like and why I would like to be a teacher. After 3 years I try to look over the wall to see what really happened on the other side and find that I can only see the tree tops, barely. I understand what parts of the wall I already took down, I know you have to take apart a wall from the top down, but it still feels like a blow to the stomach to see that all of that work, all of that rubble, all of that blood, sweat, and the tears don’t help in the slightest way with what’s in front of you.