Could this be brother wolf/dog? A very different perspective on a very real topic here, in the United Fucking States. The insight here is spot on. If anyone is not too busy hunting to do the fucking research then perhaps you will be able to pull your head out of your ass and understand after all…
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/628a8500-ff1c-11de-a677-00144feab49a.html
She is coming. Like a red head in heat.
Finally she comes for me.
My blood has slowed with sugar. My throat is swollen with lumps and my stomach has taken the bulimia to it’s peak. My heart has become weak and fluttered. My mind can no longer grasp concepts such as movement and space, I feel constant vertigo.
The panic no longer matters as I feel my own death coming. My heart clicks. I hear the ticking. I feel the ticking.
Soon I will be dead. Months at most. Dead.
I hear it now. Death. All of my fears in death. Now I cannot fear. It is real.
Here she comes.
The Earth is our Mother; care for Her.
Honor all your relations.
Open your heart and soul to the Great Spirit.
All life is sacred; treat all things with respect.
Take from the Earth what is needed and nothing more.
Do what needs to be done for the good of all.
Give constant thanks to the Great Spirit for each day.
Speak the truth; but only of the good in others.
Follow the rhythms of nature; rise and retire with the sun.
Enjoy life’s journey but leave no tracks.
My New Years resolution?
To face my fears and allow them to pass through me.
I just came out of the shower with a rather interesting feeling. I know what you are thinking, no, not that.
I was feeling the hot water (it is very cold here in Oregon) and the relaxation it brings. I had this moment of feeling the hot water, being embraced by the steam and seeing the water drip and fall from various objects. Believe it or not I felt as though I sensed the presence of God. Not the God most of you know but the God I believe in which is very different from the Christian God. I have felt this feeling before, not too often these days but all the same, I know this feeling.
I am a very depressed person as you know and I have chosen not to accept “treatment” as you know. So this feeling was very welcome and beautiful for me. It made me feel as though I was in love. That some how underneath all the crap that I am, all the fat, all the scars, the bulimia and the alcoholism that inside there is still that spark. The eternal spark of the universe and of love and acceptance. Everything I believe God is.
This beautiful and somewhat creepy emotion made me think of everything that I am and my refusal to change myself with medication. I ponder my death everyday, to very obsessive degrees. I came to the understanding that even if I never change my ways, feel happiness or win the lottery so I can save wolves with cold, hard, politically accepted cash; at least I will die in love.
I am not speaking of the “in love” that just any relationship can bring (though I do not doubt their powers in their own rights), I am speaking of the love that you feel so deeply that is has NO relation to sex or anything natural, it is purely unseen and belongs only to the core of the mind, if you will, the soul. I believe this love is the most profound and most evasive love of all. Many a philosophers have studied it, many poets have written it, many people have known its presence.
I do not think this love belongs only to a married man and woman. I think this love can belong to anybody at anytime. I feel this love for the Great Mystery (God) and I share this love with my husband. I have also seen this love before, written on the very face of my grandfather.
When I was a young , insolent teenager, my mother and I went to see her father, my grandfather who was very ill at the time and beginning his journey into death. He lived a ways from my mother so the trip was special. As my mother and I sat in the car, preparing to depart, my grandfather came to the screen door to see us off. Even in all of my hormonal bad attitude I was shocked to see his face as he looked at his daughter behind the wheel. How fragile he looked, so tired from life and now illness. I could see the history and the emotions of that history pass between them. I had never seen that look before. I have only seen it twice since. The look of utter, complete, undying, true love. In the moment I remember the feeling of having my feet kicked out from below me and emotions of wonder and silence cover me. It was then I first saw true love. How he loved his daughter, my mother, his most precious child. I want to explain it more but I cannot, it was between them, him and her.
I still stand in awe at that day, in awe of those emotions. This love passes between people. But I think it is very hard to see. I am 30 and have only seen it thrice. The face of my grandfather, the eyes of my husband and the stance of my father as he faced me for the last time.
My grandfather died in love. I am sure he loved many others aside his daughter but I was witness to the moment between him and her, I bear witness to the moment the love moved between them and passed. My very first, life changing glimpse of true love. I see it in my husbands eyes when he looks at me. I wonder if anyone else can see it pass over our faces. I feel it in my eyes and in my mind. I have no doubt that my grandfather’s final thoughts were truly of my mother, his daughter. I have no doubt that my final thoughts will be of my husband. I have no doubt that my mother’s final thoughts will be of my father and I have no doubts that my father’s final thoughts were of my mother and I.
Through all of the hell of this disease and of this life at least, we die in love.
Through all the misery and pain. At least I will die in love.
I thank the Great Mystery for this.
For you have my heart great darkness, unknown, you capture and rupture me. You allow me to see as I am blind and allow me to love as I know hate. We are friends, yes?
– Unknown
I have just finished my study on Cancer. Talk about F**ked. Sorry but it is true. Only those who have it can understand. Cancer is the deepest bodily betrayal of itself.
Cancer is both merciful and vengeful. Cancer is you. You are cancer. I did not quite understand what cancer was before my education. I was under the impression that cancer was an invading source that only destroyed and left PBS specials in its wake. Cancer is that. But is is so much more. Cancer is unique to every person. Cancer is customized like a pair of boots suited to fit. The Latin term for cancer is “crab”. No star signs here, no dreams of astrological. Just a wipe out disease. Both a murderer and it’s victim.
Tonight I shucked 3 pounds of crab. The spiny legs, the dark body meat. The crab cut my fingers as I was seeking its flesh. I ate the cancer with butter over newspaper.
My education has given me a glimpse of the process of cancer and so much more into the cellular destruction of the body and the consequences of treatment. This was my last unit of study and test before my degree; quite rightly so as it was the most difficult to read, to know.
Still I wonder what is cancer? I have “learned” what cancer is. Or have I?
When I was a child I watched an HBO special (back in the 80’s) of a child, male, who suffered from leukemia. Leukemia is cancer of the blood and one of the most fatal if not the most fatal of cancers. For years I feared that I too had cancer. But that was all that I could conceive before I discovered what cancer was. I am starting to see what cancer is.
Cancer is our bodies destroying itself cell by cell.
Why would any body do this? I do not know, they do not know. No doctor, no pharmacist, no chemist. No one knows why the body’s cells do this. They speculate but do not seem to know for sure. They have speculative causes and theories but cancer seems to touch each patient differently.
Cancer has now become my life’s metaphor. I feel cancer in my life. People that are like tumors must be cut or radiated or chemically stripped off of me. Cancer has now become a very unique understanding for me. But this is all it can do for me. I do not have cancer. But now I know what cancer is. My every day life. Those who have died have not died in vain to compensate drug companies and blasphemous power seeking charities. Those who have died have given me an understanding of what is my body, yet foreign and clumsy, a knowledge of it. Cancer, cancer of all.
I have just received my degree and for this I say to you. All of you whom I will meet. All of you who have cancer.
I do not have cancer. I have a disease of the mind that will inhibit my growth and my life. You have cancer. I can relate to your demise. But I want you to know I will see you and your sick cells. I want you to know that I will be there for you if you need me. I want you to see me as well. I know what it feels like to have your own body destroy itself. I know what is happening to you. I am just a girl who has learned what cancer really is. But I understand. I see you. I see you.
This cancer. This is so much. Why do we have cancer?
This is the rub. Why? Cancer? Why?
Why do you find us… so unique?
November. November. November.
This is the season of pain. The season of loss. The season of absolute agony.
This time of year. The depression is here. Depression; though comforting is cruel. She is truly a mistress of madness.
November is death. November remembers all that it has claimed.
This morning I could feel one more piece of my mind slip away from me. One more piece of happiness drift away like smoke in a damp sky. In it’s place is now another little black hole. My mind is covered with little black holes. All of the memories come back in November. My month of misery. It took me years and years to drink away the memories. In the process I took out the good ones to destroy the bad ones. Now just hundreds of little black holes. Soon I will be a black hole.
Will I survive this one? Will I collapse on myself like a dying star?
I am tired of pretending I am something I am not. Only one person knows me and only two people care. It is my own fault. My evasive lies and manipulative self expression are all false.
Who would want to see this? I have wasted too much energy hiding myself, masking myself and covering my tracks. Now I have no idea who I am.
But it is November. What will she claim this year? What will she rip from my spirit? What will she spit to the floor as she washes her hands of me?
Maybe she has come for my broken heart. My mind is filled with too many holes now. She will not accept it.
Will I survive as she rips my broken heart from my soul?
November, you cruel bitch you. How I have missed you.
It is 1 am.
I want him.
My rage has peaked. My sorrow is set. I want him.
There is this man I know. He is not my husband. I am ashamed to say it.
There is this man. He has long dark hair and eyes cast in shadows. I want this man now. It is 1 am and I am tired and burned. I seek to curl up in his arms. I seek him like flame craves dragons breath.
I want this man. He is evasive to me unless I try to find him. This man is no friend of mine, he is no love.
He is what I want and I want him now.
I will go and curl up next to my husband and I will pretend that this night has not been like so many others.
This night of cold again and pain again and loneliness again.
I will go now and lay next to my husband. But inside I will burn for this man I want.
He will never know how much I dream, ache for, love, admire, hope for and crave this man. My husband will never know. Thank God.
Thank God my husband does not know.
Thank God he does not know that he is this man I want.
It is 1 am. I am tired and aching. I want my love.
It is 1 am. I want Brandon.
It is 1 am. I am going upstairs to sleep beside the man of my dreams.
Thank God he knows.
MY One.
My All.
It is like a knife so I take a knife to my flesh and soul. Blood comes through the seams. The storm has past and I lay half dead and tired. God can have me now to send to hell. Go and take me God.
Take me GOD. Come and get me and send this unbaptized baby to HELL.
For I am lost in the madness of my mind.
I have lost.
Come get me God. For you must have the desire to send this bitch to the screaming ends of hell.
For all I have loved and lost you must judge me all the same and relinquish me to the minds of man.
I believed in YOU. Now you must come and get me. I am in the breath of madness.
Cut quick and clean. If I see tomorrow then we shall see if you are what they say you are.
I pray they are mistaken. I believed you were better than this. I believe in YOU. But the mind of man has taken you from my lips and now man’s word is pouring from your spirit.
So take me and my unbaptized, unloved, blasphemous soul. Take me to the pits of hell. I have seen the pits in my dreams. If you want me there then I go.
My God. Have mercy on my soul.
Why did we part ways?
I am here. You are here.
Why do we divide?
There was Him. There was Robert.
Did we not live him?
Did you and I not coil around him like dunes eat water?
Did we not both beg of him for Enya and oysters?
Why did he leave?
Did we exhaust him so?
I would never believe that of him.
As we can never lay him down. I wonder if he always knew.
He stays silent in our dreams. Never speaking.
I wonder.
Is he binding us?
Did he always know?
If he had stayed would this be so?
Our life. Together.
Why does he not speak in our dreams?
You cannot return him to me. I cannot return him to you.
MOM?
Stay with me?
If we stick together we have a better chance.
You and me.
Stay with me. If you lose me then I lose you and we are both desert lost.
Stay with me. I will stay with you.
Maybe then he will talk to us again.
Take my hand and we will both go back to the desert. You and me. US. We will live in the dunes and dream of cats and wild things. Come with me. We are all that is left. We are desert bound.
The feeling of complete aloneness. It is so over bearing and crippling. I have just passed a manic phase and seem to be wandering into the depressive phase. It is most interesting to document this disease. This depression is a complete feeling of isolation and misunderstanding. Suicide? Nope.
Just the feeling of absent and quiet. Of tolerance and pain. Of nothingness and stillness.
I read today that we manics tend to be great artists. This I find funny, however, as of late I have found one.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emilie_Autumn
This is of little importance. I am no great artist. I have no skill or defining ability. I am poor white trash with nothing to offer but a serious set of flaws and fat. I thought, I could make great on this…disease. But alas, no. Just a set of cuts on my wrist one month and a shopping spree the next.
Sometimes the thoughts of death as a release are comforting and necessary, sometimes they are crude and intolerable. I have no ability to know what I do. I can feel all the time, I am always feeling. But logic and rationality come every so often and at their own whim.
This aloneness. This horror of isolation. This multi-faced bitch in the mirror. This is me.
I can allow others to judge me and I pray that they do. As their perception of me passes fancy and creates a hole around me, they are validated that they are not flawed, I am validated that I am.
Dead things walk the edges of my mind as I wander through this misty place. Once my friend and companion, my mind is now unexplored and unforgiving. For lack of credit card and sun my mind has once again resorted to turning grey as the sky does this October. Now the excitement leaves and the silence sets in. Sweet, deadly silence.
Now as the season turns. I am alone. For the manic may come and go as it pleases, but only on a ticket. This is now the season of my depression. The aloneness coils around me like a blanket from hell.
I am here to greet her, my old friend. I feel safe in the dead of her loving embrace.
