the silence returns

the office is silent. there are just a few noises. the low hum of the a/c turning on when the office approaches 77, or 79, whatever it is set at. it runs more now that it is sunny and warm. the birds chirping on a tree in the front lawn. the clack of fingers pressing against keys on keyboard. this used to be a space that everyone would use as if it was theirs and theirs alone to fill up with sound. sports highlights, country music, phone calls with kids on speaker, admonishing them for being stupid. drinking, jokes. it was a sort of constant annoyance. a reminder of personalities and times that just sort of ran roughshod over all. everything was loud and inappropriate for work, whether politics, family drama, the drinking. nobody cared to care. they stood next to me, at me, hovered around desk and said things to each other that revealed their character.

the noises are gone now and it's better, because when a few noises come back, they come back as anger. indignation at a mask, at a changed setup. the country music and family drama has been replaced with conspiracy and frustration, a disbelief in anything real or tangible, a desire to run roughshod now not with sounds but with virus. the silence is safety, just like it was so long ago when it meant no parents, no teacher, nothing. is it any wonder this is what i believe? it's only when the authority is all gone that i can feel at home in a space. a car door opens and closes outside. the silence is only temporary.

it's picking not biting

it started when i was very young. my mom caught me. i had picked one of my fingernails down until it was so short it had bled. i had tried to hide it in shame but i couldn't. she was sitting on the couch with me and the weather channel was on. my sister was on the couch as well. it was our old tan one before it was replaced with cream later on. and so it started.  the soothing release, the sense of accomplishment when i get part off. it expands to the skin around the nail as when i pick at them hard my nail i am using to pick can slip and hit the skin just beyond the base of the nail. red and inflamed permanently from all the friction and picking. it's not the only source of red. the blood dried from nails picked to short or too much skin picked off blushes the ends of my fingers. it makes sense, as i am permanently embarrassed. my mom once offered me $100 for each nail i stopped picking. i could have had $1000 as like a 12 year old. i failed to stop one. i try to hide my hands casually, waiting for the inevitable comment to come. "you bite your nails?" it's picking not biting. it's more hygienic. so i tell my self.

im on the couch again, 25 years later. im picking in shame, hiding my right hand over the side of the couch. my wife suggests i fiddle with a hair tie. it fulfils my need for movement but the sense of accomplishment is gone. there is no damage to revel in. no painful finish. she suggests writing. it uses my hands and has a concrete goal. i read the post and grimace at the poor quality of writing. a painful finish.

the trust from a new friend

she fell asleep against me as i listened to a podcast on the history of the chicago school of economics. her feet resting on my chest, slow, rhythmic breathing. two months ago she first came into my life. she is often stubborn and yells when you touch her. but in that moment, against the backdrop of a mad world, her peaceful sleep and gentle purrs against my chest bring me relief. there is no demand to be perfect, to be on time, to get a 4.0, to save money, to do anything. she is a cat, and that is all she will ever need to be.

my brain is gone

(this was technically written a couple months ago: content warning for self-harm)

It started with the feeling of needing to pee. I peed 3 times in fifteen minutes. No sleep just body. She falls asleep and nothing is interesting. No reading, no games, no poem writing. You try and fail. It's all meaningless now. No desire. Don't want to go anywhere for birthday. Pointless. Don't deserve it. Her. Nothing. Pain you do you dumbfuck. No energy, always tired. Distant from yourself. You look in the mirror and see a hideous creature. Why are you hungry again? Cover your head with pillow. Maybe you will suffocate. Wake her up wake her up. No don't. Not fair. You have trapped her. You want to drop from school so bad. It's so far off and expensive and pointless. Always a fuckup. You trapped her. You lied. She is now stuck with you depressed fuck. Life spent with sick ghost. Your thoughts won't stop. Remember when you wanted to run into the door over and over until your head caved in. Hurt yourself hurt yourself. Cut off head. Razor to neck decapitate. Suffocate self with pillow. Your brain is being squeezed so hard it hurts so bad all the pressure. Your mom will be mad tomorrow. Cry. You cry twice. Sob into pillow. Shaking. You are not safe you are not safe. The cat leaves. Now is your chance. Knife on arm but nooooo you have to pee. Your head hurts. Where is the Xanax fuuuuuck. Wake her wake her. You are sick you are sick. Thoughts a million miles per hour





Hurt yourself hurt yourself hurt yourself



Cut off head cut off head



The noises. Pounding on the door. Over and over they pound on the storm door before you go to work. Rhythmic.

Tonight there are noises from the man in the doorway. Who is it!? He yells.

Sleep paralysis nightmares endless fear shaking fear shaking

Your head is squuezing your brain your chest is squeezing your heart

Head


Have to pee, can't wake her it all sucks. You can not sleep but you are tired. Last night you were walking through a pool of blood and organs of your loved ones. You watched your sister have her eyes gouged out. Your wife tried to reach you in your burning car as you went up in flames. Only a sick person would have dreams like this every night.



Heart is pounding she stirred next to you. Hurt yourself fuck. You fucking fuck. You worthless fuck. Sick sick sick. Never better. Need a release. Need pain badly. Cut to release. All the thoughts. The fan sounds like a jet engine all noises pound into your head it hurts.



Stomach pee head. You are distant. You can't touch her you are too repulsive too sad. You couldn't touch her earlier when you wanted her. Pee sleep head stomach heart ears all. End me now. Please. Hurt yourself hurt yourself hurt yourself

your head has made a home for demons

you don't really know in retrospect what the worst case scenario was. what if you didn't turn? would he have kept looking at you in the shower? moved closer? what if he had, in that moment, decided to move towards you instead of duck away? what if he became physical? what if he simply wanted to watch you the entire time? does anyone know?  he was twice your size and the hospital would never believe you. he was the security guard who had to suffer by sitting in the bathroom while you showered. no words were spoken. it could have been worse, you tell yourself.

the two men push you down onto the cold hard surface and begin to violate you. one has reached around and the other is using an object. you are thrashing and screaming for help, anyone, you are outside after all. it continues like this for some time, unable to escape, when suddenly, darkness. you are awake. the nightmare is over.

you see the blade reach skin and draw quickly across, blood works immediately to fill in the gap in skin, dribbles down onto the bedsheet. again and again, multiple quick cuts, not as precise as you'd hope. the blood is running down your arm and then onto the floor as you hold your arm out to the side, as if willing gravity to make a mess of your room.

days later you see the terror in your sister's eyes as her head is decapitated, you hear the screams from your wife as her car goes up in flames. you see your dad come to terms with his imminent death as the blade crashes through his chest and into his heart. you see your friends fall off the cliff they so glumly said they'd be safe to bike along. you see the bloodied, demolished corpses, hear the screams as torture is wielded wantonly against everyone you know. suddenly, darkness. you are awake. the nightmare is over.

the years and years and years of fighting back the thoughts of self harm, of gory suicide and racing violence, of a bloodied wrist or head or body lying on the tile floor suddenly seem quaint. you lie down again at 11:30 pm, heart racing. the years of fighting back mental illness may never come to and end. but you know the next seven hours are where the real demons wait.