Social Phobic

Thoughts, 

     Do I have a coherent string of those anymore? Has the Topamax jumbled my thoughts and stripped the foyer of my skull temple so bare that even the monks of sanity are having a rough go of it, here of late? It feels that way. Up is down. Down is west. West is where we want to be. Sunshine and endless, glorious, balmy, summertime for days and days. Who wouldn't want that, though? Maybe those folk who don't fare well in the heat. People who were made for the snow. I always did think they were a bit off somehow. Strong and resilient, yes, but how on earth do they not suffer depression of the darkest sorts? Strange…

     Anxiety is the name of the game - flat out. Just another round of medicines and supplements to help cut off the venom-drenched mummy wrappings that wrap around every single damn nerve. When you try to snip the wrong one - they all go off like a bomb, and explode by tightening around their nerves and soaking them in the venom. Leaving me to devolve and writhe on the floor like the sub-human creature that I really think that I am. Anxiety…is such a fucking bitch. 

     I feel lost. I can't work. People scare me. Phones scare me. If I could work a job that required  minimal human contact, like data entry without phones, I could do it. I would never speak, hardly. Just get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner. Go to bed. Pampering would happen on weekends. I have to find a job. I'm afraid that I won't. I'm afraid I will ruin everything that is going so amazingly well in my life right now because of this godforsaken disease. I can't make people understand that I am so insanely afraid of people at times that I would rather take over a shift as a beekeeper. I'm phobic of bees. The beekeeper has a spray that keeps the bees calm plus he has protective gear. He's protected. 

     In a job, a regular, "real," job - I am not protected and my mind KNOWS this. Anything could happen. It terrifies me. I am terrified of failure. I am terrified of people. I am terrified of everything. I'm just terrified. I am afraid of working. I am afraid. I do and do not know all the reasons why. 

…Why???

What then?

If the warmth of the early summer
comes along,
Whipping at the hairs around
my throat and neck,
& your own mouth does not
vie for the attention of
the flesh surrounding there,

What does that mean?

If the stars in the sky
react like popping candy
in the mouth of God,
but your laughter does not
intermingle with my own,
somewhere,
anywhere,
beneath that dome
together,

What does that mean?

If, when I drive,
going sixty down Kentucky Road,
sun hung low in the sky,
the warm summer air whips at the hair
at my neck and atop my head,
& I cackle gleefully at some funny thought
in my mildly macabre mind,
and you are not there to kiss my
fleshy throat,
and you are not there to laugh along with
me in the cacophonous noise of music on the
wind,

…then…?

If I'm to meet you on a balcony in a posh
California home,
Will you meet me at the end of that walk to the rim,
or will I walk on until I lunge forward into street below?
& if I am to see you on the beach, will you actually be
there - hands touching my forearm slightly,
eyes glittering, smiling, overjoyed that I made it with you,
Or - when I arrive to the Sea that day, drenched in driving rain,
will I just let go and
will I just keep walking on until salt water fills my soul?

Societal Boundaries

Nothing sucks as much

as the day you relalize 

you're just another fucking 

statistic, 

Another blip of red on the chart, 

Another speck of dust in the 

eye of society, 

But fuck society, right?

What the hell do they matter…?

The Comfort of Christmas

My family sits around the
dinner table, smiling and laughing,
talking happily & regaling one
another with stories of holiday's past,

& I stand in the kitchen, a waft of
scents and aromas float in and around
my body, wrapping me as if I were in a
soft, fluffy blanket of joy,

& I bumble about, stirring,
pouring, chopping, & then,
finally, plating the Christmas
dinner,

We eat & they rave about its
decadence - I beam with pride,

& then we all sit around a Christmas tree
to listen to the tale of Christmas, baby Jesus,
three wise men, & a sparkly star one clear-skied
night,

That is always when the moment freezes,
right there, just for me - it stops - as if to say
"this moment will never happen again, so drink it
in while you have it."

& I always do, for the presents are appreciated,
the dinner was a success, but the real comfort
comes in having my entire family
around me - as if I were the most beautiful
Christmas tree of all - and so I watch them,
drink them in - because by next year - who knows
where life will have taken us all,

But in that moment - I am comforted

October Witches

We cackled like
mad matching witches,
drunken off of the sweet
insanity of our October wine
as it frothed from behind our throats
in gurgling shrill foam waves,

You always berated me when men
dare tread nearby,
I always chalked it up to
the Borderline in you,

Figured it was the scent
of your own mental infection
permeating through the
thick, mineralised osseous
tissue of your own skull

floating high to your olfactory
senses - the stench of your
brain's decay as it rotted in your
head - making you ill inside,

So it came as no surprise when
you challenged my femininity as you
were prone to do - & I suppose you
figured that since you were more
blonde & thin & tan than I - that
it was your God-given right, somehow,

But I do not think you expected me
to delicately place my wine glass - half full
on the table - collect my things & then walk
out of your life - slamming the door so hard
that the glass shattered in front of you,

I heard through the grapevine that you
became quite vicious after that,
but really - you always were...

Stokenham: First Impressions

     Stokenham, England: 

     You arrive at the train station, alongside your boyfriend who, absurdly, has brought you here to England. Foreign, yes. Beautiful, yes. Grateful, absolutely. But who would have ever thought? The train pulls up to a rickety station that looks salted with rain for the past, oh, five hundred years or so. You have seen more train stations in the past six weeks than in the past twenty-four years of your entire life. Before England you had never even stepped foot on a train. Now they are one of your primary methods of transportation. The other being by foot. But Stokenham, where his parents live, is far too great a distance to walk. So, the train. 

     Quickly, you gather your things alongside a handful or two of other passengers. You note, subconsciously, the garbled words of the train driver as he comes over the intercom speakers, mentioning something about a farther distanced location in the next few minutes or so. You don't really pay attention. Once you've grabbed all of your things you bustle (politely) off of the train. English people are strangely polite, and when you'd first arrived, you thought they were aloof, pompous, assholes - when really they were simply raised to mind their own damn business. Your friend, who had been here before, had to let you in on that secret. Otherwise, you would have likely gone the entire trip thinking "assholes" every time one of them passed you. Just out of spite. 

     You are greeted warmly by the kind smiles of his parents, who are, undoubtedly, lovely people. His father swiftly packs up the car in the spitting rain as the rest of you file into the car and then you drive off. 

     "I hate trying to get out of this station," his mother remarks, and soon, when you come upon the odd, noodle-y roads, you see why. You quickly note to yourself that, unless you have a baby, you will NEVER drive in England. The roads are far too difficult to maneuver for an American driver. At least that's what your anxiety riddled mind has decided for now. The thought floats away, though, once you see the rolling, patchwork-quilted hills, speckled with small white sheep. You fall in love instantly. In the background you can see the faintest glittering of the sea. You fell in love with the Sea in Paignton, which, he said was part of the original English Rivera. You had made a mental note of that because 1.) it sounded impressive and 2.) it sounded old and you, being yourself, love old things. The older, the better. 

     You drive deeper inland and find you are lost and don't know which way is up for the strange brush that towers above you. Something about vikings, his father says. They all make small talk amongst themselves but you are lost in a fairytale in your head and thoroughly enjoying watching it blossom into a tangible product before your eyes. You somehow feel as though you've been ripped from the hell that is your home in America and plopped, quite softly, in this delicate, pillowy place, suspended in a time that you can't quite put your finger on. 

     

     You drive around a corner and are greeted by a cheerful, pink house with a slate grey roof. To your immediate left is a large, old barn that you later come to find was initially for horses, but is now for storage. In front of it sit several dozen pots of various flowers and vegetables producing their last harvest in the final weeks of October. His mother mentions something about courgettes that had been overlooked and makes you all promise to remind her to collect them later. You climb out of the car, noting the scent of farmland and seaside, and look at the various trees, plants, flowers, etc. Just to the right of the barn is a path leading to the garden. The garden is enormous and reminds you of Beatrix Potters' fairy tales of Mr. McGregor's garden, complete with more flowers, apple trees, vegetable plants on their last legs, corn in the very back, and other odd flowers that you don't know anything about. You fall in love with it instantly. It's wild, relaxing in its unkempt beauty, and positively glorious. 

     To your right is the front yard, spare and neat. Bushes and flowers, but not as many as the garden reside here. You love the spacious feel of it in comparison to the gardens lushness. You will, one night, walk out with your Love and smile up at the sky to see a giant spill of stars above you. You will never see that many stars back home. The milky way is so vast and grand you could almost reach out and touch it with your fingers, swirl them in it's whiteness, and then lick the cosmos off of your fingertips. It will remain in constant battle for your heart along with the Sea. You don't think it's a war that will ever be properly won. 

     You collect your things and walk down the old, stone steps to the conservatory. No one you know back home has a conservatory. This one is special, though. You walk inside, it smells like apples and plant remains. Like earth-caked, rubber Wellingtons. You note that it is completely glass and that there is a beautifully spread white table set to your left and a shoe rack to your right. It holds hiking boots and wellies and strange socks and plastic bags. When you glance outside your breath is taken right out of you, for you can see glorious rolling hills for miles and miles. In the distance is a deep, blue haze that his mother says is the sea - but you can't see it for the rain. It will, as you will come to note, do that. When clear days come and there are only a few clouds in the sky - you will be able to see clearly, the white-tipped waves lapping on the surface of the water. Then on days when it's rainy and cool, the only thing you will see is a blue blur in the background and it will force you to focus on the gorgeous, patchwork hills that roll forever and ever. 

     They mention that England is not putting its best foot forward what with the rain and all - but you have no idea what they're talking about. You will never figure it out, not for the life of you. You have never seen anything so fabulous and you may never again - but who cares? You got to see it! You will, one day, sit out on that white table set and type about the house that you grow to be very fond of with it's sheep and flowers and unique smells and beautiful people. Or at least - the outside of it...and you will leave the inside for another day... 

Autumnal Reminiscing

I stare off into the distance, 

mind floating away from me 

like a gown unravelling - leaving 

threads to billow off on the breeze of 

an autumn day, 

& I think of you, 

I always do at this time of year

I believe, 

& there is nothing I could say that would make me

justify or understand my cognitive 

cycling back to you and our past 

days together, 

Especially since we swore to stay in Wonderland 

with one another, 

Never leave the other alone, 

But then when a yellow brick road 

miraculously paved itself 

before you - you clicked your heels three 

times and were gone, 

& I was still there with my Cheshire smile 

painted on my face, 

& though I tried to invite you back to 

a "better" and "nicer" version of tea - you 

didn't ever seem as satisfied as you did before, 

The teacakes were stale and 

the Earl Grey scalded the roof 

of your mouth, 

But we still tried to suffer through, 

did we not? 

Alas, the day finally came 

when the pages of your life 

and mine - were no longer 

written together as part of the same 

story, 

& so I ripped myself from the binding 

of your world to search for a new book 

in which to attach myself, 

& finally, all this time later, 

I think I have finally found it, 

& truly, I wondered if I would stay 

in Wonderland forever, alone, but no,

For it was not a yellow brick road

that rolled out before me but, rather, 

a red carpet, 

& somehow I became Cinderella 

and somehow I found a Prince, & yes, 

parts of me still wonder if I will be able to hold onto this 

or if I will slip back into Wonderland when the 

clock strikes midnight, 

But truly, darling, who cares anymore? 

Or at least, who cares right now? 

Not I. 

No - I am in Merry Old England, 

sitting in a house that overlooks the Sea, 

crusted with glorious, swirled red cliffs, and 

a shoreline dotted with tiny cafes that serve 

fish n' chips & tap water with no ice unless 

asked, specifically, 

& in front of that sits a patchwork 

quilt of fields, flecked white with 

tiny bits of sheep in the distance & 

apple trees & a kitchen hosting

toast & jam & bowls of fruit & jars of honey, 

Yes - you are happy in the Emerald City with 

the Wizard & I am happy as Virginia with Leonard, 

so really, we all lived happily ever after - & the teacakes 

are moist and the tea is fabulous...