“The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables. Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day, I would be grounded, rooted. Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.
The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight. Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do. I handed her a twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling. You will find a good man soon.”
The first psychotherapist told me to spend three hours each day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and ears plugged. I tried it once, but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.
The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth. Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happiness
when they care more about what they give than what they get.
The pharmacist said “Lexapro, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax.”
The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me forget what the trauma said.
The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”
But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington Bridge into the Hudson River convinced
he was entirely alone.”
My bones said, “Write the poems.”
I have felt this way more times than I care to count, and it’s getting worse. I broke down yesterday in despair and exactly two people reached out to me, which lets me know it’s time to weed people out of my life once more.
Cat, knowing something was very wrong with Mommy, crawled into my lap, sat by my feet while I forced myself to eat dinner, and was in bed with me before my head hit the pillow last night. I slept solidly for the first time in months, not so much as moving, as far as I can tell. Upon waking, Cat was in the same spot by my feet and Kitten was coming in to check on us. If I didn’t have these two little beings in my life with their unconditional love, I would probably be dead. It makes me sick to my core that animals care and love far more than people. Today, this quote resonates in more ways than one.