The Fifth Anniversary/My Reality

So I'm feeling ignored by friends and rather emotional at the moment. Not exactly emotional per say, but having inner turbulence, definitely. After all, it is five years to the day that my dad died. My dad is dead. It's the final state of all who walk this Earth, and the sound of it feels very final, no matter how you phrase it, he's still gone. I don't often reflect on my father's deceased status, because he and I did not have a daily ritual, therefore I don't have little bits missing out of every day. Nope, I get to experience all of Life's big moments while missing my dad instead. That's the trade-off. Either an every day/weekly thing, a sort of mourn in passing that eases over time, or; have a wall of confused grief suddenly well up and full frontal smack me during the biggies. I've already missed my high school graduation, him terrifying my first few boyfriends, and keeping me centered on school.

Not only won't he walk me down the aisle, I'll never have a father-daughter dance at my wedding, which has partially contributed to my decision that I'll elope when my time comes. Here's the kicker - I had the song picked out since I was 14; Butterfly Kisses. Guess what song was playing the first time I turned on a radio after he died? Yep, you guessed it. In literary circles that's called irony. He's never going to beam at my college graduation, when I finally get a hard-earned degree. I'll never have my financial advisor father to turn to with money and investment questions when I'm a little older. What really is going to hurt is that he won't be there when I'm pregnant with his grandchild. He won't be there to guide my husband through how a pregnant wife should be treated; he'll never be able to ask if I want his chair instead. And he will never play with my dimpled children, or pass on his infinite knowledge of nature and hunting to them. Each November I turn my mind away from grief, and yet come every October, that grief bubbles up to spring anew.

My reality is that I don't have a dad. And if it weren't for modern technology's invention of the camera and photographs, I wouldn't be able to see him. I can't remember what he looks like, in my head. And his voice? forget about it. My mom was suggesting home movies but I vigorously shook my head. That'd be way too emotional for me. Some things you need to keep buried.

Cutting - My Hypnosis

Everyday, in the back of my mind, I deal with the demons of my not-too-distant past. Sometimes I can go for days, even weeks, without thinking about them. But they have a way of resurfacing often enough to keep me on my toes, or even bite me in the ass. I can't remember the exact date I began cutting, but it was Fall 2008. I was an arts student, which made lines cleaner, and things more accessible for me - exacto knife, anyone?

I cut for a release, when I'm feeling so much it overwhelms me to the point where I can't physically scream out for help. Or, when I'm feeling something confusing that I can't completely identify. There's no telling when the urge will strike, but I can say that I haven't purposefully drawn blood since January of '09, which I view as an accomplishment. At one point though, a quote from Girl, Interrupted more than accurately depicted the state of my arm - Lisa: "You're cut up like a God damn Virginia ham."

I love Angelina Jolie's Lisa in Girl, Interrupted. One of my faves. Lisa just knows things, reads nuances, studies peoples' weaknesses... then hypnotically pushes their buttons. She tells it like it is, no sugar-coating. "You know, there's too many buttons in the world. There's too many buttons and they're just- There's way too many just begging to be pressed, they're just begging to be pressed, you know? ... and it makes me wonder, it really makes me fucking wonder, why doesn't anyone ever press mine? Why am I so neglected?" I can relate to that feeling, even if I'm not skilled at pushing people over the edge like her. I wrote the following poem a good year before I even began cutting, demonstrating the low-threshold I had to begin with.

My Hypnosis
With a single glance
the kitchen blades entrance;
my eyes stray to my wrists
I finger my veins and examine my fists.
For some it's ropes or ledges -
Nothing for me but serrated edges.

I caress the steel,
hypnotized by the appeal...
Dazed thoughts of dark fascination
flood a mind seduced by the temptation.

In this short lived reverie,
Nothing exists but the knife and me.

This next one I penned 10 February 2009, when I was just in recovery, so bear with it, as it wasn't written to follow existing poetic guidelines.

Hewn
The broken tree limb lay banished from paradise
Alone, until a fevered worker came along.
I watched, entranced, as he began to cut and slice.
Even while knowing his work was wrong.

With every blow delivered by the workman
ribbons of life sap blossomed over the bark,
Protesting that life still persisted within
anxious to end the agony of his painful lark.

As the limb's wounds spread and congealed
The pulse of life continued to throb
- and yet the resolute worker could not yield.
Though his eyes swam as he began to sob.

Looking at his work had me hypnotized
Morbid scars littered the dejected limb
Marks left permanently on a soul compromised
by a worker's debilitating whim.

It's a new battle every day for me: I never know when I'll trip a landmine, but thus far, I'm able to keep the enemy at bay.

A Peak into the Past

I've been thinking recently of how very far I've come in some ways, and how great the distance is for me to go in others. I dug up some olde poems from my dark days, and sadly, a few lines still resonate within me today.

24 January 2008
There are others, then there's me,
alone on a stoop, sitting lonely:
Head clutched in hands, toward the ground
Unlike most others, my world isn't round.

It exists narrow and confining in my mind's haze
Colorless; sepia-toned on my brightest of days.
Its axis is broken, the seasons stagnated
and I wonder why I deserve a life so suffocated.

Will my agony allow me to help the unfortunate?
Or is it punishment for a previous life of hate?
The grand scheme doesn't matter in the end
as I sit on a stoop, head held in hand.

Ok, I know it may sound the cliche blaming of a parent for one's problems, but the following poem was not, and is not, a slight against my departed dad. It's just a consequence of how he raised me.

Contending with Composure
Dad's standards were exacting;
the ramifications everlasting:
Facade built for my indoctrinator
Fighting against human character.

Too many years of suppressing with zeal
afford me no opportunities to reveal
the State of my mind perilous,
Shrouded Psyche tenuous.

I'm surrounded by emotional escalation
yet withdrawn into solitary isolation.
Inculcated to keep control, no matter the pain -
my fragile core must constantly be self-contained!

Obedience has brought me desolation,
Depression resilient in its intensification.
Even for those that would matter
My guarded shell cannot be shattered.

Thankfully, I realize I've been able to crack my shell, so to speak, and am now working on maintaining the progress I've made.
So, I totally realize this is a dark post, there will be more to come, but I'll try and mix it up with some light ramblings ;-)