(no subject)
We had poems. I remember reading poems to him, making him read me some. There was one that destroyed me, and the sound of his voice reading that poem was one of my most cherished memories. I can't remember that anymore, it's only my own voice reading the poem in my head. Self-protection, I guess.
His body was a sacred space for me, even if he didn't come to the intimacy space with the full weight of his being. ALong with everything else I'm kicked out of temple.
Today is terrible. I didn't want to go to sleep tonight because, you know, then you have to wake up in a day that contains no hope. That moment when you're lying in bed and realise that there won't be another anything? And then you have to take a breath. Then another breath. Then another. Eventually you have to stop crying and snuggling your stuffed animal and get out of bed. Then there's work, a final exam, homework, maybe a friend to hold you a bit. Then the whole thing goes all over again.
And you have to not throw up all over everything. And you have to eat sometime. And there's no possible way to get out of this alive-- everything will be ashes, and when you see him next you'll be another person that he'll never know, and the past will be locked in that box of things you revisit when you're sad.
There are other ways it can go. I can ask for things-- hugs on the weekend, he doesn't want to give them, but perhaps if pressed he will --and the conflageration can be instead a slow and more controllable smoulder. Things can be preserved. This year is Hades' year. He tells me there's more to it than burning buildings and getting out quickly. He tells me there can be some kind of peace.
Okay. That's what I'll do, then. Self-advocacy, here I come.
His body was a sacred space for me, even if he didn't come to the intimacy space with the full weight of his being. ALong with everything else I'm kicked out of temple.
Today is terrible. I didn't want to go to sleep tonight because, you know, then you have to wake up in a day that contains no hope. That moment when you're lying in bed and realise that there won't be another anything? And then you have to take a breath. Then another breath. Then another. Eventually you have to stop crying and snuggling your stuffed animal and get out of bed. Then there's work, a final exam, homework, maybe a friend to hold you a bit. Then the whole thing goes all over again.
And you have to not throw up all over everything. And you have to eat sometime. And there's no possible way to get out of this alive-- everything will be ashes, and when you see him next you'll be another person that he'll never know, and the past will be locked in that box of things you revisit when you're sad.
There are other ways it can go. I can ask for things-- hugs on the weekend, he doesn't want to give them, but perhaps if pressed he will --and the conflageration can be instead a slow and more controllable smoulder. Things can be preserved. This year is Hades' year. He tells me there's more to it than burning buildings and getting out quickly. He tells me there can be some kind of peace.
Okay. That's what I'll do, then. Self-advocacy, here I come.