The breakdown was more
brutal than it usually is.
All screams and punches and sobbing.
A car crash disguised as a human being.
Weeks of sliding in.
Forty-five minutes of destruction.
Then I dressed and put my make up on.
Walked to work blasting rap music.
Just like that, a switch flipped.
Anger and frustration turned cool and purposeful.
I wonder if that’s how it feels
to be born.
Violently thrust into a new world
you’re not sure you’re ready for.
You can’t go back.
I find myself wanting to cancel meetings with my therapist. Avoid writing. Walk around the house with headphones in. I’m tired of talking, of explaining, of ruminating.
Spring is clawing at my window pane, but I stay in the other room saying, “Come back later. I’m not ready yet.” Hit snooze. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow, but I doubt it.
It’s time to spend some time focusing my energy on getting out of the cycle I’m in. So I’m going to take a break from posting on this blog. Refuel. Find something I want to plant, to tend.
At dinner with Tanya I lean forward, chin in hand, elbow on table, and blow air hard through my lips. “Guh. I don’t know, dude. What the fuck am I doing?” That’s all there was to say about it.
She laughed and shrugged. “You’ll figure it out.”
I have to think I am coiling tight. Pulling in. A star about to go supernova, I’m collapsing in order to expand. Dazzling.