Forever, C Converse
When I consider the gravity of my thoughts, I'm scared. It physically hurts. I'd do most anything to make the pain stop, including things like taking enough Benedryl to knock me out for a couple of days. My teeth hurt, my bones hurt, my skin hurts - and I feel every single nerve screaming. I feel so full of emotion if I move, I might explode, tensed for the blow that will knock me over. Last weekend I had the disturbing thought of stabbing my womb and just letting the blood flow out of me. I know what that feels like now, the blood leaving your body. There's a clarity and peacce when your world is narrowed to survival.
I know folks might say, well, that's just the alcohol talking. It isn't, not really. If I drink just enough, I can say what's in my heart and head. That's all. I'm willing to share when soberly, I wouldn't want to hurt anyone else with my hurt. I allow myself the hope someone might meet here with tenderness. I take comfort these days in allowing myself the idea of a way out. Its a short-term plan, right now, I mostly doubt it will come to pass. But when it all seems too much, I can hope there's an end.
And trying to dig into why having a hysterectomy brings me to this place, I need that idea of an out, I need hope. I just comforted myself by selecting the books I'd leave for those I love the most. Maybe I'll write love letters or create "mixed tapes". Both seem fitting. I remember watching some reel or another about a woman who repeatedly visited a funeral home to arrange things, just so... carefully mapping the steps of how to best make things easy for her loved ones. If I went, I'd want to go carelessly and fast or with a fair bit of care.
Bare in mind, I've spent most of my life saying good-bye. My willingness to approach grief and death are different... I remember a night when I was about 17... we had a friend (a man who'd glommed on to our friend group, likely in search of prey) who sat with me one night in the Converse's field, a place of love and magic and quiet. Chances are, he'd had thoughts to seduce me or find a way to seduce my sister (you might scoff, but he was jailed 10 years later for rape and assault of young girls). He pulled a meat cleaver out and held it to me throat - "think you're so tough now?". I stared back at him. He caved. I heard later that he referred to me as the scariest girl he'd ever met.
Lest anyone read this (unlikely), please do know, this is my way of trying to come to terms with almost dying, to come to terms with the agony of days. I still cannot bring myself to face the deepest hurts directly. I'm trying a new therapy approach that might help, but in the interim, let me do it my way.
My way is to write and write til we get to the bottom of things. I know where the bottom is, I think. I've said it aloud a handful of times over the years to Victor or Stephanie or Jay. I've never quite managed to write it, to say it to Scott (although I suspect he knows).
--> Aside, my boss messaged me today to wish me good luck with the infusion and to let me know he was thinking of me. How did I ever get so fortunate as to have had the bosses I've had?
**
You take me back to a me before and I trusted you to see and love all of me.
**
And then I bled and bled and bled some more. And you weren't there, you said nothing, as if I were nothing.
I should have never had to eperience this again. Ever. I have taken great pains all of my life to never be here again. And I fucking hate you, I hate you so much for putting me here. You haven't undone 30 years of healing - you've destroyed the best parts of me, the parts I've kept whole no matter what. And no, I won't let you win... but I'll be the one who lost.
I hate you. Kindness is never too much to ask, and shouldn't need to be asked.
*
And what have I done to you?
What hurts haunt you so? How has my traumatized self hurt others? Hurt my son? Hurt you? Hurt my mom? Karim? Victor? Betsy? Brett? CW? Jay? Stephanie? Jef?
I have much for which to atone.
And I am not worthy of love. And yet, I am. I always have been. I hope I didn't figure that out too late for it to matter.
**
And yet...
And here we go...I am that far gone, I can write it.
Finally. Maybe.