I
one. thousand plates fall
forty thousand rain: drops. Hit
mute. sanctify me.
II
flurries. hard madness.
as bunny-milk ice cream pools,
red stream breaks even.
III
quiet tulips give
chase, beckon. ephemeral.
sharp edges .cut. Free
IV
sun rays…..rapid beat.
They whisper: Run. Fast. Faster.
Burn. Spin. Break. vanish
V
grey november days.
pine trees bend, invite…sadden.
it was always you
Asks my friend.
Me: Do you really want to get over him?
pause
Her: Yes.
Me: Then yes, delete.
I take one course of action to get over someone and thus far it has been 100% effective.
But I need to qualify that I have not been married with children.
The Rumi, aka Don’t Look Back, method:
1) Delete from contacts
2) Delete all text history
3) Delete or hide them from FB (and all other social media you share)
4) DO NOT respond to non-essential, emotional bullshit solicitations (i.e. requisite conversations about unjoining finances are an unfortunate necessity but responding to explanatory emails about his/her feelings blah, blah, absolutely not).
Too harsh? What, like love-hurt isn’t?
Because this is what I know when it’s over but I’m not over them:
It fucking hurts.
The sorrow, the anger, the goddamn grief.
For instance, after a long-term relationship ended, my ex of not even a week was already dating someone, a specific someone they started talking to prior to our breakup. That felt awesome: decade long relationship, one-week turnaround. And a few weeks later, when their new someone came to our still-shared house to spend a lovely weekend with ex (because that new burgeoning love period is brimming over with so much damn infatuation), as my dumb luck would have it, I got to hear new someone be given a fat fucking orgasm by ex…goddammit y’all.
I thought I was doing so well. I processed through writing as decade-long memories flooded me, Dylan on repeat in the background, and spent priceless time with invaluable friends who listened to me, quietly sat with me or simply joined me for a whiskey, give or take an occasional cry.
I thought I was getting a handle on the can’t-hardly-breathe stage and moving towards taking it week by week.
A few more weeks pass, my ex has left the state to live with said someone and I am told that they plan on getting married within a month.
Wow.
There’s an annoying last step that completes my method:
5) Time.
Sweet, slow, tortuous, curious thing, time passing.
Thank god.
Because that means we weren’t caught buying, possessing and using pot.
I don’t recommend doing what we did to anyone.
Looking back, our actions were at the very least risky and in general, really fucking stupid. Really fucking stupid.
Ok, GO.
My heart is pounding in my throat so hard, so fast. We’re at the colorful night market on Silom Road in Patpong (infamous ladyboy district) and as we look through stalls selling random tchotchkes in the vein of cheap jewelry, counterfeit bags, sex toys, DVDs (basically everything you can think of and a lot more curious crap that you didn’t know existed), we come across a paraphernalia stand.
BF starts to make friends with the cute Thai guy whose face reads hopeful as we peruse one-hitters and glass pipes.
Here’s the thing about BF:
He can make friends with anybody.
I suppose he’s had enough experience dealing with drugs and drug dealers that I ought to trust his this-person-is-cool-or-not meter. “I can tell by looking in their eyes, reading their body language, if they’re trustworthy.” And it’s true that this young dude has a genuine air about him but I couldn’t help but notice that when we approached the stall, the older guy (whom I feel actually owns the stall) has disappeared into the black minivan with severely tinted windows parked on the street.
Granted, every stall has a large vehicle parked on the street behind it (how else are they going to transport their wares?) but the timing feels portentous. Why did the guy disappear? Because we’re more likely to buy shit from a young person who speaks decent English? Probably, but as BF’s negotiations are leaning more and more towards the actual procurement of weed, I get anxious.
Young, cute Thai boy hollers at his friend and they’re parlaying fast and serious Thai that we shouldn’t comprehend. But, as is often the case when illegal substances are the topic at hand, we get that they’re debating how far they’re willing to go to help us out. The friend disappears into the black van which makes me fucking nervous. This damn van is my ominous raven and my nerves veer towards paranoia. Who’s in there? Is this a set-up? Are we making a huge mistake? Is there no turning back?
Cute boy’s friend comes back and while we’re talking about random shit like American beaches and where people in Thailand go to vacation, BF shows me the bag that cute boy has passed on. Okay, we are now in possession and my jangly nerves are acutely drumming through my skin. So we buy a pipe and at this point I’m trying to Jedi mind trick BF into: Let’s. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here. I keep looking at the van, expecting undercover assholes to intimidate us out of all the baht we have and then some.
Or arrest us.
Finally! Things are wrapping up. Hugs?! Why are we hugging? Fucking hell, if this isn’t the most obvious drug deal ever I don’t know what is. Why would we be so affectionate if we hadn’t just scored something? Fine, yes, loves all around- now can we get the hell out of here?
BF: So…you think we should just head ba—
Me: Fuck yes. Are you kidding? No way are we walking around with this shit on us.
I get so paranoid on the walk back, I’ve halfway convinced BF that we’re being followed and I grill him 10,000 times over, making sure he didn’t give our hotel deets to the young one. I’m ready for this adventure to be over so we run the rest of the way back. Because that’s not obvious or attention-grabbing at all.
And then we get high.
And it is magnificent.
We flush what’s left down the toilet and trash the pipe the morning we check out of Thailand.
We briefly consider giving the leftover and pipe to our cab driver but c’mon, y’all.
That would just be reckless.
I might be one of the unhealthiest healthy people in the world.
God, what a fucking grandiose statement, right?
Who is this bitch?
Nobody, sometimes.
A damn good friend/lover/partner sometimes.
I don’t remember every minute of my small self being locked in a dark closet for hours on end, day after day, weeks in a row. But I can connect the cause and effect dots between the entrapment three-year-old me suffered and the fucked up neural pathways that scarred my brain as a result. For instance, security is incredibly important to me. Because that means options. I could give a shit about my old ass having a comfortable cushion in the sun as I get closer to inevitable death but I care immensely about always having an out. I need to know I can run if I want to. Historically, I don’t run away but when I feel I don’t have that choice, I alternately freak out and go fetal.
I don’t think that’s so healthy.
Want to know what’s even more fucked up? A pattern emerged; a deranged acceptance of being held hostage (physically, mentally, sexually, hooray) became my familiar. I had no out again (age 8) and again (age 12) and again (age 15, 18, 19)— what, was I asking for it? If asking for it means being shocked into submission and unable to make out the words NO, STOP, I’m going to tell my parents on you, I’m going to call the cops, or just screaming my fucking head off, then yeah, I sure as hell asked for it.
In an attempt to get healthy, I’ve parked my disgruntled-at-best ass in front of many a therapist. I’ve sat silent while a certified woman sat even silenter; this was beyond a Mexican standoff and I totally lost when, five minutes before end time I said, “So this is your way of helping me?” I’ve entertained the crap out of another as she made me so fucking mad with each passing minute because she sure as hell wasn’t asking difficult questions, or entertaining me for that matter. I got really hopeful when I clicked with this really awesome dude but then I ran out of money. So it goes, therapist musical chairs, a routine occurrence among the obstacle course of getting help.
Currently, I just do the best I can.
Sometimes that means really awesome: maintaining healthy, meaningful relationships, moving across the globe and successfully assimilating to a new culture and language.
Sometimes it’s disturbing: the tears freefall while I rapidly figure out how quickly I can get on a plane. Out. Of. Here. Fuck my job, lease, funds. I just want to disappear.
Usually my best is good enough. Because I’m still here. Sometimes my mind still reels me back to that dark place and I want to give up because I can’t see two inches in front of my face and I still don’t have all the tools or coordination to unlock the fucking door.
But these days I smartly use my voice (I don’t even have to scream) and it reaches those who love me. We make sure I get out of that dark place.
at a time is the best I can do sometimes.
The first time:
I’m on a bus in NYC, 19 years old, and why can’t I breathe normally all of a sudden? Fuck, is this an asthma attack? I haven’t had one of those in years and I feel so weirdly tingly, like I’m about to throw up. I’m trapped. I have a habit of eyeballing every exit upon entering a room. I have to know where the bathrooms are as well. But I’m on a bus. And it’s crowded; god, there’s no negative space on which to focus. It’s too busy around me; too many faces, limbs, too much air taken up, just too much. I feel like my eyeballs are rolling in the back of my head and I might freak out. I don’t want to freak out. Look out the window, look at the street numbers. Count.
5 blocks.
Hold on for five blocks.
I debate running out at every stop but I’m fucking paralyzed. I can’t move. My brain and body won’t fucking connect and I hate it. I wring my hands together until my fingertips are red then white and my nails leave crescent-shaped dents on my hands from gripping tight, tighter and I don’t care if I break the skin. If I can cause and focus on other physical pain, maybe it’ll trump this other shit that has suddenly taken over.
Three more blocks? Eternity. The weird numb feeling won’t go away. I have a block in my throat and I don’t think I’m going to retch anymore because this tingly sensation is different and there’s no pre-puke hyper-salivation. Just let me not lose it.
But I can’t get air.
I can’t swallow. My heart’s in my throat. My organs are choking me and I DON’T KNOW WHY. Why is my body torturing me? And then a memory file superfastforwards; lots of images, like worst thing that ever happened to me images flash by. I tell myself that another part of my brain is trying to help me, like:
you got through those events so this should be ok. you’ve made it so far. no one is hurting you. you’re not locked in and trapped, at someone else’s mercy. you’re just on a bus.
Okay. If I do lose it, what then? If I pass out, medics and a hospital? I’m not so scared of hospitals even though I hate them. As much as I hate attention being called to myself, if that’s what happens I can deal. Except I feel so fucking uncomfortable, I want to scream and if I scream then I’ll be sent to that other hospital, the one with rubbery walls and shifty eyes all around. And then I’m grateful that my heart is in my throat, still choking me because at least it means that I can’t scream.
Omyfuckinggod.
26th street.
Sweet fucking relief.
I made it.
This still happens, what I suppose are panic attacks. Almost always in subways and trains these days, which doesn’t diminish my love for public transport. Luckily it’s only occurred on train lines where it’s 2-3 minutes maximum between stations.
So I count 120 seconds.
If I can make it 120 seconds, I can run out.
I’ve made it so far.
The relief is the same as the first time: immense and so, so sweet.
My BF turned me into a lesbian...in Japan 