The First Time at the First Place
But I’m not ready to go home yet.
“But you can’t stay here forever.”
I know. But I’m not ready.
I don’t even know what ready means, or what ready looks like, or how ready feels. I just know that this is not ready. Thoughts of returning to the same circumstances that sent me to the hospital in the first place bring on panic attacks. I don’t think that’s ready. When I can’t stop crying whenever I think of going home, I don’t think that’s ready, either. When I shake so much I can’t eat, I suspect that’s also a sign I’m not ready.
“All, right. You can stay for one more day, but only one more day. That’s the best we can offer. You’ll need to use that day for preparing to go home. Can you do that?”
Yes. Okay. I understand. I will.
I do understand. I do. But even so, I don’t think I’ll be ready. At least they offered me one more day. One more day of safety from myself. One more day to breathe freely without fear that I’ll give up on life again. One more day to think about the thinking that led me to thinking that I needed to be in the hospital. One more day to accept the reality of life on the outside. One more day to steel myself for returning to the grief and loneliness. To return to the reality of pain and rejection. Of never-ending sadness. Of emptiness. Of hopelessness.
The Latest Time at a Different Place
The last time I was in the hospital, they sent me home before I was ready.
“We do things differently here. We won’t send you home until you’re ready.”
But last time I was told I just had to get myself ready and I couldn’t stay any longer, even though I was afraid to go home.
“If you feel afraid to go home, then you’re not ready. We won’t send you home until you’re ready.”
How will I know when I’m ready?
“You’ll know when you’re ready. We’ll know when you’re ready. We won’t kick you out, we promise. You can stay here until you’re ready.”
Oh. Okay. Thank you.
Is it weird to say I cried when the doctors told me I wouldn’t be going home for a while? I cried from happiness. I cried from sadness. I cried from sheer exhaustion. I cried from releasing the fear I’d been carrying. The fear of having to return home too soon. Perhaps this time will be the last time if I’m able to stay for enough time to finally discover what ready looks and feels like. What ready actually means.
impersonating summer squalls
sunlight scented skin
shut open shut open shut
in a passing breeze
suspended in time
between stillness and movement
warmth and cool nights
morning and forever
open shut open shut open shut
life’s pages flap open shut
hints of fall
one more lonely pass around the sun
vanish for another year
deep distant rumbling
shuddering moments of loss
the sun shines still
quiet and still
warms this sun-kissed
one more day
Yesterday, I found this in a notebook I kept about a year ago. Don’t even remember writing it. Must have been half asleep at the time? Such a nightmare vision that, unfortunately, has the potential to become reality in the not-so-distant future.
I don’t want to live in a world
of survivalists sitting on their
porches with guns across their laps
ready to shoot starving refugees
escaping from urban horrors as the
forests and ice caps die.
I felt saddened by being the end
of the genetic line of my ancestral
forefathers and foremothers knowing
the line stops here with my children
and their choices not to reproduce
which at first felt overwhelming, bleak.
But now, I wouldn’t want any future
descendants living in the world we
have been actively creating for the
future, a world without diversity, and
without balance, and possibly, eventually
without even life.
I have a growing sense that it’s time
for the human race to put our affairs
in order and prepare for a desolate
future without us, a future that belongs
to only whatever survives the coming
I am glad my descendants won’t be here
to see the end.
I sat alone with them all
my greatest fear realized
I would’ve been
if I’d stayed
who’s to blame?
I would say
but there seems to be
is it no one’s fault?
I’ll take the blame
sometimes it’s easier to be
the one wronging others
rather than convincing others
you’re the one wronged
if it keeps the peace
it’s my fault
(does this make me a doormat?)
Every time … but it never is.
Every time a car slows by the house,
I run to see if it’s you.
Anytime my phone rings,
I hope it’s you.
When Facebook says I have a message,
I pray it’s you.
But it’s never your car.
Never your call.
Never your message.
Every time … but it never is.
But it is always … sadness.
And every time …
it is always