Tag Archives: Write Therapy

CRAZY, Now Get Out of my Head

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No matter how many times this morning I repeated I am in fact NOT full of hate, bitter, ugly, paralyzed with fear or consumed by the crazy, I could not reason my way out. I’m a rapid cycler, I’ve been hypo-manic for weeks and yes headed towards the inevitable come down, the hideous depression and the dark. Black nothingness is something I understand, the concept I accept and am accustomed to. It’s always there, lurking, stalking, circling a part of my DNA. No, I cannot wish it away or yank it out like an abcessed, putrid smelling decayed tooth. The crash and burn snatches the pretty pieces of me, my self-worth, joy, hope, strength, wonder. Yes, I’m constantly skipping ahead to the future, not in a happy-go-lucky way but trying to map the least destructive, less painful route. I don’t even understand what’s happening to me, which thoughts to trust or block so how could you?

My worst fear, the one that buries me like a sinkhole is that I end up alone with my crazy. On the streets or even worse, like my father who had no idea who I was in the end. His crazy consumed him over an agonizing amount of days and years. It is slowly and excruciatingly doing the same to me. Silently, while I am screaming inside. I realize I am not going to win this war, I understand that. So why bother writing books no one will read? Painting rooms in a house I will surely have to leave. Why bother? When everything and everyone I love will die and be taken away. Why bother when I will be left insane, why the fuck should I care? About anything. God doesn’t. I’m not sure how much pain one body can endure, I’ve had more than one soul can carry. Today, I do feel sorry. I am allowed. But wallowing is dangerous, heartbroken tears make my eyes puffy, my heart heavy and the guilt of hurting those I love too heavy to bare.

I didn’t start the day with bad intentions. Most days I pretend happy, hoping it will rub off. For you and for me. For my benefit that I am indeed strong enough to cope with this bullshit brain that never stops the whirring, annoying chatter. If I do end up in the streets, so be it. I’d best plan now, pick a pretty, warm corner where the sun shines with a soothing view. The bastard disease has not yet ripped away my imagination. No, not yet that’s all mine.

My BFF talked me off the ledge, the pity party granted until noon and that’s all. The number of hours wasted, screamed, cried and hurled accusations at my mother is more shame than I care to remember. I insisted to my friend (when my head controls the dialogue I CANNOT think, to say I become irrational is being charitable) that I was ‘happy’ once, a ‘free-spirit’ which she quickly shot down. “Who is this person you’re talking about, that wasn’t you.”

I’ve been pretending so long since before I can remember, I don’t even know me. The lines dangerously crossed in my mind.

I’m not going to write books, do anything anymore. Why the fuck should I?

I quit. Why fight when there’s no winning? I can’t battle an invisible disease. Well, you have two choices and one is true midnight black nothingness. The other, keep breathing.

Do not feel sorry for me. Do not dare feel sorry for me. I do not want, need or ask for your pity. I’m sharing this because these words, my most hurtful truths, this unbearable pain, the incomprehensible fear someone else out there in a parallel world might be feeling them too.

Don’t judge my crazy or put a label on it for your comfort.

I did not ask for this mind, it’s what I got.

Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll feel better. I probably won’t given the logic and the statistics, but tomorrow will come with or without me.

Fear has never been a friend of mine. Fuck it. Onward.

CRAZY, NOW GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

I am writing.

truth always wins.

GEORGIA PINE

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It’s all in your purple velour pants.

Body temperature. 95 degrees. Chills. Muscle aches. Blurred vision. A sampling of the shiteous Benzo taper tsunami symptoms that are my current mood.

I ask my mom if I have a seizure will she take me to the hospital? “Probably not.”

Frothing and foaming at the mouth in fetal position?  “Nope.” This is not her first carnival ride of crazy.

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Please excuse me while I go dunk my head in a snow bank to cool off and dig out  reserves of courage, strength and resolve.

No one made you lose your mind, take the pills, Xanax, Valium and those were the ‘light’ drugs.

Um, yeah they did. Three different psychiatrists wrote the scripts, upped the dose while my brain slowly dissolved into a puddle of paranoia, anxiety and lost memory. Drip, drip, drip…

It’s all in your mind. Oh, really?

Excuse me while I educate myself and be my best-shot advocate because I choose to believe in the intangible, inexplicable mysterious workings of the mind.

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And when I don’t, when I can’t, when I am consumed, gone, off somewhere I can’t comprehend there are those who remind me, calling me back. Come home, fight.

The untapped ninety percent possiblity.

Read Up. I won’t make fun of your purple, velvet pants if you don’t judge mine.

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We’re all blood, neurons, bones, mind and heart trying to find our way home.

Carry on…

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and when all else fails…

Drowning, on Repeat

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord

the dark squashes me in broad daylight

And I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life, Oh Lord

big moments, big, big grandiose moments

important things

still waiting, still hoping, oh Lord

do you hear me, screaming

silent plea

Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord

faith is a five letter word hard to swallow

rocks, pebbles slice and cut going down

I bleed red same as you

Well, if you told me you were drowning

I’d jump in and regret it

I would not lend a hand

yeah, I would unwilling

hatred, tick embedded disease

I’ve seen your face before my friend

don’t have any

friends, strangers, foes, allies, enemies

who cares

But I don’t know if you know who I am

how could you, hide my face

so complicated, hard to navigate

Well, I was there and I saw what you did

everything I thought true

wrong, wrong, wrong

big moments don’t come

I saw it with my own two eyes

I misunderstood, got it wrong oh Lord

I did that, sole responsible

I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life, oh Lord

keep waiting, hope dwindling

fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight

Lord can’t save me now, joker, charlatan

penny player

all in

thick of it

Stranger to you and me

DRUMROLL, Phil Collins

Play, repeat

Oh Lord, I forgot

love that song

Phil Collins, In The Air Tonight partial lyrics

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copyright Drummerworld

 

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“It all comes back to a red metal bench in the woods on a small hill by a nothing- special pond. The air is sweet and wet and fall is here for now. Ducks sleep near the brisk, damp water waiting to take flight to sunnier places, offering no solution. I shiver and squirm in my own discomfort, clenching the bench, determined to will myself better. I’ll sit there god damn it, you fucking divine coxsucker, I’m as stubborn as you, until there is something to look forward to. I’m not pretending rosy and cheery just maybe a hint of curiosity.”

-excerpt The Red Bench by Jacqueline Cioffa

 

 

The Clutterman

 

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You know what I hate? Like really, really despise? ‘Visualize your best life,’ Social Media posts. If only you meditated more, dreamt better, a gulf stream, diamonds, your greatest desires would appear. If I were a genie with a magic bottle, I’d obliterate global warming, nukes, little girls stolen from their mothers, cancer, homelessness, poverty. Every single injustice, I’d balance the scales. Goddamn, I hate when said person writes, ‘living their best life.’ Which is preposterous, delusional, downright denial. We might be granted incredible moments when everything fits. Happy, serene, and amazing are readily available. The rest of our time is spent de-cluterizing, looking back, leaping forward. Humans, myself included are predictable.They prefer not to ask the hard questions. I can’t seem to stop asking, searching, questioning. Why don’t the scales balance out? Why does a beautiful, sweet 26-year-old wife and new mother birth twins only to lose her life. I bet she visualized her best life, tragedy found her instead. Why? I want to know. Why, god damn it? There are no answers for her twins, who will only know their mother by memory. Do not post some ‘inspirational picture, bullshit quote’ without asking first, do my scales balance out? Am I the slightest bit aware of the planet, persons around me? Did I do one kind thing today, go out of my way for a stranger? Do something good, without telling a soul. Why has my family bore so much tragedy? Lucky? No, and yes. Do not say think positive, I might punch you. I fight hard to stay alive, without tangible reason. Living is not about me, don’t take it so personal. My life is harder than most. I’m not complaining or a pessimist. I’m a realist with an invisible disease, that no other being can comprehend. De-clutterize immense pain that comes from the chaotic, mis-firing mind. Do not tell me to try harder, look at the bright side. Tiny moments of happy are best lived eyes open. The scales, I’m throwing them out the attic window. Since the beginning until the end of humans, they’ll never balance out.

This is it. My one, honest, in your face, best life.

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The Write Therapy

They ask too much, expect more from me. To sit in a room with gut wrenching, broken, beaten down souls. There is too much pain, upon the blood, stained walls. I cannot, I will not. I refuse to spill my intimate, tragic, sad story. This fight is personal, entirely my own. Between God and me, she is not the enemy. I wonder, I do. I can’t help but be curious, where did the cracks begin? The precise second the dam opened, were the leaks there all along?

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The words don’t betray me, they remain strong. I trust the visions, the intangible guide. As I work Georgia Pine., the sequel to The Vast Landscape, I am back there. The oh, so familiar place, I have not known. I have visited and revisited the soulful jungle, inside the hidden crevices of the mind. “Sweat trickling down her face. She envisions swampland, mossy bayou, a green so vibrant she cannot describe the magnificent beauty. Massive Cypress’, musk smell, painstakingly slow-moving, gator filled muddy waters.” 

I am reminded I have dreamt Louisiana before, bluegrass bayou. Through the eyes and mouth of a wild, reckless, blond angel, with the devil tattoo on her bicep. I loved her tales, I will visit sometime. And dance the day into night overtaken, losing track of space, obligation and time.

I choose the write therapy, for today that is what I decide. The stories drift in and out of memory, always returning in due time. The words sacred, a safe place to call mine.

For Kathleen, Reckless Beauty  -Milan ’95

Walking the streets

Wandering with no direction

Dancing in my negligee

The heat of the pavement tells

My tongue

Tastes the warm rain possibility

New Orleans, swamp and rust hinges

The blues brings me up

I dreamt of you, again

Riding your bike and laughing

You were young, glorious and free

Sitting a pinch above my right shoulder

I reach out my arms

Hug the damp air

Take a breath

Inhaling remnants

Smelling your skin

It’s fine

Everything will be

If I can only, get back

Thoughts of you, dead brother of mine

Spirits a’ plenty in the bayou

I’ll be back home, soon

In summertime

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