Perfect Monster

I chase the infinite through a mewling void.

What is found slides sideways past my nose.

Who am I and to what purpose am I to report?

You know me only as a shroud,

a white face curling at the edges.

Nothing is sacred until it is lost,

among such preciousness

I am so much less than I expected.

The abyss yawns bored of my reflection

and into it I cast my offal,

those miseries which have

rotted free of the umbilicus.

Do not invite me to forgiveness.

My inner child frightens me

what she did in order to live,

what she saw and what still lurks

in the shadow of her ancient heart.

She must have been stronger than me

a hero and a demon distilled into one.

I cannot think of her

without remembering the shame,

the shame of my survival and the toll it took

to create of a child a perfect monster.


The Disappearance of Sanity

I have accepted the training program at The Unemployment Office, it will provide me with a minimal income and hopefully lead to future employment. It is 4 hours a day but with the bus schedule as it is, if I can’t get any leeway, it will be more like 6 hours. I am not a flexible person and my time management skills are atrocious no matter what I do I am going to lose several hours to the great, untenable void that is Dissociation. Will I be left with enough time for my other responsibilities? At the moment I am just not certain if I can pull it off but it is presumably possible, as I was a student. The course starts this Monday and thus it may take me time to get my bearings. I still haven’t managed to reestablish my routine as is, February was a horrendously busy month. I am also worried about therapy because I am not certain I can ask for every other Friday off and I don’t see how I can do both given the distance between the locations and the horrifically long wait traveling by bus entails. My therapist’s hands on methods make me wonder if Skype would even be a possible compromise. The course runs for many months. I can’t skip therapy for several months. On another note while I was in the throws of mute hysteria on the bus (where I am nearly deaf btw) I received a call from the doctor, it seems that they messed up my Pap Smear and have to do it again. An appointment I now have no time to make (the woman’s clinic I go to is also very far away from where I take my job training).

Save Me (Part 1)

Part of a story I wrote in high school. As there was a maximum length I never did get to flesh it out as I wanted.

“It’s too soon to return to work.” Vivienne flinched noticeably at the whine in Cora’s voice. She had expected her friend to resist the initial transition. She wondered bitterly if the less ambitious woman preferred her as an invalid. Cora visited almost daily with food, flowers, and invitations to low-tempo social engagements. As boring as those five hour avant-garde films were they were preferable to conversation. They were preferable to her friend’s thinly-veiled attempts at comfort.

“Would you rather that I sat at home crying all day.” Vivienne asked the edge in her voice softening to exasperation. She’d rehearsed this exact dialogue before coming to work. She was prepared. She was poised, nothing could deter her once her mind had been made.

“That would be the sane thing to do.” Cora said looking at her evenly.

“Sanity is relative…it’s been four months…it’s time that I started to move forward…” Vivienne cringed, no good her response had been too nonchalant Cora would see strait through her.

“Have you even seen a counselor…what about that group I recommended?” Group therapy was the last thing Vivienne wanted. Sitting in a circle filled with grieving parents, telling impossibly sad stories. Stories exactly like her own. These were people she couldn’t fix. These were people she didn’t have the right to fix. They had every reason to be miserable and to go on being miserable and there was nothing she or anyone else could do to solve that. As for individual therapy, she’d considered it but as a therapist herself it had seemed somehow redundant, unnecessary.

“I know how grieving works Cora…I know the stages…I know what’s best for me and right now I just want to get back to work…I need to get back to work…I’ll go crazy stewing in my apartment all day.” After a brief pause she added helpfully. “I’ll take it slow…no new patients…fewer hours…”

“Kristian killed himself Vivienne…it’s different…” If she didn’t stop Cora soon she’d say the one thing that Vivienne could not bring herself to hear out loud. Kristian killed himself and you failed to recognize the warning signs. You failed as his mother. You failed as a therapist. Cora would never say the last part but that is what everyone was thinking. She threw up a hand to silence her colleague.

“I appreciate your concern…you might even be right…but I have patients…patients who depend on me.” She hoped that Cora would take the hint and allow the conversation to return to a more benign channel, they were at work after all.

“Carol has it handled.” Cora assured. Their boss had entered the room to pour himself a cup of coffee, she needed to end this soon to avoid drawing attention.

“Handled? Their not pets…they have a developed a repertoire with me….it takes a long time to establish that level of trust…I am through with this conversation….it’s not your call besides it has already been approved…” Vivienne dropped her voice to prevent any further escalation.

Cora sighed audibly but relented. “I’ll drop it…if you schedule an appointment with a grief counselor…” There was no avoiding it, Vivienne had to agree otherwise Cora was likely to take up her concerns with Dr. Green. “I’ll schedule the appointment…” How hard could it be to fake her way out of therapy?

If only she’d retained a professional distance with Cora then she wouldn’t have to suffer such indignities now. Really how patronizing could the bitch be? They both had PH. D’s from prestigious universities, they both had seventeen years of experience. She’d lost her mother four years ago to breast cancer, she wasn’t a stranger to loss. Granted her son had only been fifteen. Granted his death had not been due to an accident or a physical illness and had come as a complete shock to everyone who knew him. He’d jumped to his death from a bridge only five miles from their apartment. He was medicated. He went to therapy three days a week with a renowned psychotherapist that she had chosen especially for him. He had friends, a girlfriend that she actually liked. They talked everyday. He was talented, attractive, well off financially (she’d seen to that). He had good grades. She’d been a good mother. She’d done well to raise him on her own. His father was a prick, an alcoholic but she’d even managed to get him into a program. She’d managed to repair a fraction of the damage he’d done and it was getting better. What more could she have done? No, she didn’t blame herself. She blamed Depression. She blamed the failings of psychotropic medications. Everyday she repeated to herself “No one is to blame.”. Everyday she read her journals where she had carefully recorded her son’s progress and there was progress, there had been significant progress. Had that been the warning sign? Had her son been faking wellness just as she was doing?

She filled her mug with coffee, nearly burning herself in the process. Holding the mug cautiously to her lips she began to blow and then inelegantly to sip away the excess. Work was the best thing for her really, work gave her life consistency and purpose. Cora was right about one thing she wasn’t over Kristian’s death but then again she never would be. That was the reality of all parents who lost children. That was the reality of loved ones who’d lost friends and family to suicide. There was no recovery, only the excruciating process of normalizing a life that never would be normal again.

Dead tired but still breathing

Dead tired but still breathing. We are in the thick of the move right now and my days are hectic/busy. I am ashamed to say I haven’t written anything since my last Wordle. I had wanted to do the Wordle this week but I am not sure if I will pull it off yet.


A little about the experience

As with all of our previous moves it is just us doing everything. No friends, no family, no movers. Just us making a 90 minute drive once/twice daily in a car that has entered its final stages of life. As it is winter the roads have ice and it is dark, so much caution is needed. I am getting by on pure enthusiasm but I am tired, really tired.


I am doing most of the packing and unpacking. Sam is doing installations and is renovating Isadora’s room. He finished the floor yesterday (looks great!) and is putting up the wallpaper. We have a pink wallpaper for 3 walls and a photo wallpaper with cherry blossoms for 1 wall. Her room is the only one getting a makeover at the moment. In the future we will redo the bathrooms as they are older and maybe change the wallpaper/flooring in some other rooms but that isn’t a major priority.  The furnace is a priority. We also need to get a dryer!


We are in a major time crunch because we have to get back to the city before school lets out each day. Isadora has her school closing ceremony tomorrow as well.


The house seems so big walking end to end and I keep getting lost. We have to call out to find each other haha It has a good relaxing vibe that house.


Yesterday we took Isadora to visit her new school. Her class will be smaller 10 students as opposed to 17. They have PE biweekly, instead of once a week which includes swimming classes. They study math everyday instead of intermittently. Isadora loves math (she got that from Sam) so she was very excited to hear it. They also appear to be further along in reading (she doesn’t like reading nearly so much). In general the school seems significantly more organized. The students appeared excited to have a new student and several of them live near her, one boy is our most immediate neighbor and they all seemed to know exactly where she lives. I think she will like having her classmates so close. Supposedly there is a park where all the kids hangout, that we will have to locate.  A smaller town certainly but the school seemed in better shape academically.


We decorated the tree at the new house after her visit to school.


I had a therapy appointment today and wasn’t able to make the daily house trip. I haven’t figured out a therapy schedule for the new year yet, it will be 90 minutes to and from therapy possibly more on a bus. Good therapists are hard to find though and I do not think there are closer options in anycase. Still no word from the school about classes =(

Cautiously Violent


A viperous cape,

This stale room

With its chalky air

Divests resolve

In the dark,

Cautiously violent

I wait for furious shades

To absolve


Carmine is

The consequence

Of silence

A pacifist, I refuse

To partake in any war

For which I

Do not occupy

Both sides



(I don’t self-harm so I was a little surprised that I wrote this. I think it might have to do with my stress level which is very high at the moment. My therapist decided today that she would like to transfer me to a psychiatrist in the hospital. I won’t be hospitalized or anything it is just that they have more resources and can handle patients with greater needs. She thinks my childhood was too traumatic (honestly she seemed scared when I told her not of me but my past really seemed to shock her)? She can’t make diagnoses either should I have something diagnosable. She is very nice and although I understand intellectually it still unnerves me. I mean really unnerves me. I like her and  I still find it very challenging and stressful to hit my appointments. A new person eeeekkkkk)

Diary Entry September 26, 2013


Today I am fuchsia. Appalling and implicit like dried blood. My hopes are theatrical and metaphysical. They rise like wildfire. Spontaneous. Devastating. Essential. Today I spoke of my childhood, about what it means to grow up in a world governed by pathogens. Today I spoke of survival. Of breaths furiously drawn and tenaciously held. Of a life where silence kills. Of a life where silence is the only means of survival. I spoke of a protracted suicide played out meticulously in the bowels of a wounded psyche. Today I found the strength to express my incarnation of the Devil.


I have survived, an Ouroboros. Needs unheeded and unmet, I existed at my own expense. Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone left inside of me? But in my heart I know that I am inexhaustible. Tenacious. A weed. Greeting the sun somewhere between concrete and infinity. No man of flesh and blood has ever scared me quite so much as myself. What potentiality nests inside these tainted genes? What demons lie in opposition to my sanity? The quintessential soldier who endures because an ill-timed exhalation is synonymous with treason. I know how to survive. My defenses are honed and well-articulated.


Living is imperative. A gift long unopened for fear of termination and now here I sit with a box full of unspoiled minutes uncertain of the worth of my tentative schemes. What does it mean to be alive? To be human? What does it mean to forgive oneself? When that self has grown so accustomed to guilt? I am not strong, these confessions, for which my survival now depends are the means by which I withdraw the venom. Left to fester I would die from within, every hollow exponentially expanding, every teardrop, a vestigial sea intent to swallow.