I remember...

I remember the moment that I became this woman

I remember what it was like to live carelessly 

       with no regard for the matters of the universe.

I remember thinking that it really would be okay

I remember feeling safe and knowing or thinking that life was going to be like this always

I remember the day that the universe cracked wide open and I dangled helplessly

        in the vortex that whirled around me

                        taking all stability with it

I remember the moment that the vortex spat me back onto the earth 

         which would remain forever shifting under my feet.

I began working on tikkun olam

          but i was mistaken

I was not working to recover the world

I was desperately trying to spackle my own world back together

I was trying to pour concrete into the cracks which threatened to trip me

         and scrape my pretty little knees which had never been knobby

I was trying to stitch together the fabric that had been torn apart

        left irregularly jagged, not as if cut with sharp pinking shears

             but rather torn pulled apart not on the seam                                    

                 but in the places where the fabric had been woven together in the beginning

I wanted to glue the clouds into the sky lest they move and shift again

I wanted to measure the water as it fell from the sky 

      to ensure that the ground would accept her rains without being overwhelmed and flooding out

I wanted to repair my world which had all at once split wide open

      a world flayed like a fish...gutted

        with innards tossed aside as refuse while flesh cooks on a bed of coals

My world had become nothing but a caught fish writhing on a hook

         flopping around trying to avoid the sharp knife

              designed to strip it of its scales

                 leaving it vulnerable and facing certain death

I played God and tried to recover my world 

          but it was too late

                 it had already been torn asunder

And I scrambled to repair it

By capping toothpaste and

Making beds with impeccable hospital corners

Washing dishes and putting them away

Lining up my shoes and alphabetizing my cds

Dewey Decimaling my books

Sizing and colorizing my closet

But to no avail. 

The world is still the same as it was 

    when the vortex spat me out

        onto cracked concrete

That claws at my knees

  When I pray

©Reverendsister's Ink 2013

Sick and Single: Only one is a condition

For No Shame Day I intended to write something far more eloquent. Instead, this is what I came up with. When you pray, remember those who suffer...

Sick and single - only one is a "condition"

"When in the darkness, I would grope, faith always sees a star of hope." Beams of Heaven

No, it does not. In the darkness, in that living, breathing metaphor for the mental illness that plagues me, I do not always see a star of hope. Perhaps my unembodied faith does, but I do not. I see only the thick darkness that is pierced by streetlights and on a good night, the light of the moon when it is properly positioned with respect to the sun. 

Being ill is bad enough and to relieve the world of the burden of caring for us, we take it on boldly. But in so doing, in our attempts to avoid sounding like we are chronic complainers, we often endure it alone. No one wants to be alone when she is sick. Surely, I can manage to pour a glass of water and dump a pill or two into my own hand. There is relief for the physical symptoms that can be found in small pills with numbers or letters etched into them. But the real healing from the pain of mental illness often comes from the gift of presence. A silent, understanding presence. The kind of comfort that we remember from childhood when we could climb into an adult's safe lap and feel loved. That is sufficient. Just to be loved is enough. Just to know that mine are not the only eyes trying to pierce the dark midnight of depression. Just to know that this too shall pass, but until it does, I am not left to bear the burden of it by myself. A hand to hold or a gentle caress of the cheek will keep the darkness at bay if only for a moment. Yet, for the single ones, that small gesture is often more elusive than the cure itself.

When the mind and the body change the rules by which you live, you find yourself trapped in a prison that tortures you and it feels as if you are in fact the guard. The ultimate betrayal is that your body has become your prison and your mind is the warden who forgets to feed you and who by default, assigns you to solitary confinement where you are abandoned by that which has imprisoned you and then the punishment is complete, for you have not even your mind to accompany you in this prison. This is the unimaginable reality for some and the overwhelming truth for others. 

The secret of mental illness - whether depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder or another designation - is the reversible cloak of darkness and solitude. We will try to hide and can only hope that someone will seek us...find us...touch us...help to heal us. Some of us are sick and single...only one is recognized by the medical community - as a condition.