Dying Moments

Dying Moments

I hit the bathtub in these dying moments of depression only to find the stillness brings on more anxiety. Keep moving, keep moving my brain signals. Standing up, I turn the knob to the shower position, bow my head, and listen to thoughts that I feel are not mine.

Hot water pours over my face, across my bent shoulders, and down my aching back until this moment concludes as always with tears. Tears run down my face and drip from my chin to be lost within the drops of hot water pouring from above. I keep listening to unspoken thoughts that I am unable to picture in a tangible form. Sinking lower in the fluidity of emotion, I come to believe life is like the hot water disappearing down the drain to return recycled elsewhere.

The emptiness in my being, numb flesh, and my shallow breath these are the things I know for certain. Under the weight of the water in the darkness that I cannot abate, I surrender once again to the unknown, thinking, I’ve got to get out of here.

Emotional Regulation

Emotional Regulation

My days start and end with tears. Pictures will flash through my mind of the inhumanity in humanity. I rarely cry for my own woes, though there are a few, in comparison, I could say they are petty as to not warrant attention. 

 I found my way in the mountains alone on the edge of a two-way road. Exhausted, I leaned against the mountain side. For a moment, I closed my eyes thinking I must be dreaming. A cigarette fell from above my head and landed at my feet; I could see it had broken in half. A man jumped down from a crevice and stood before me with a red backpack over his shoulder. He bent down, picked up the broken cigarette, and handed it to me. He tried to light the cigarette, but it failed to catch. He turned and started to walk away from me so I followed behind. There were no words spoken between us yet I knew there was a need to follow. After a few hours, we came to an abandoned house. The front door hung from one hinge at an angle that felt unnatural. The man entered and I followed him into the front room where I found two dogs. The man searched the dilapidated house as I knelt and coaxed the dogs into my open arms.

After the man found nothing of use, he left the house. I put the dogs in a room and shut the door, but I could not leave the house. Through a shattered window, I watched as the man got further away. I yelled, “What about the dogs?” “Leave them.” He shouted back. I turned to the sound of the barking dogs that were scratching against the closed-door and then back to the man who kept on walking without ever looking back. I watched the man until his red backpack disappeared.

My eyes opened, tears were dripping down the sides of my face. Wiping my wet face, I felt that life-long pain in my chest the one thing that has never left me since childhood and still I have no answer why this pain refuses to leave me alone, what it wants, or how to rid myself of its power.  

Pretentious Prestige

Pretentious Prestige

The language of opinionated writing with perfectly placed ten-dollar words cast my imagination forward with thoughts and ideas. Not that I will always agree with the conclusion, but the process leaves me with the feeling I have left the country.

Being of privilege and walking with the cultivated rank did not necessarily define the essence of my psyche. Formal education, as I experienced, did not change the defining qualities of who I am to any degree. There are no lines between classes that I would not cross. Shared with anyone I find in need of such are my prerogatives and advantages.

The freedom to expand intellectual confinements is the will to be an autodidact and the depth of one’s curiosity is the motivator. Subsequently, the ignition of the will is an inner influence of the self-disciplined to earnestly seek out the subject matter they wish to learn. The lack of privilege does not affect the potentiality to become something beyond another’s biased expectation.

Unfortunately, the interpretation of aesthetics can become askew for those who are content in the dark and remain ignorant. This ignorance commits one to view the outside world from a dusty window while lacking the desire or mindset to clean the glass.

Humanity will advance the individual or advance the collective, thus, at some point in time, one will find themselves swimming, dancing, warring, pleading, drowning, or convulsing as these are parts of life and can be the instigation for one to desire a change.

… I Am Just Tired …

… I Am Just Tired …

Do not be concerned by my tears, by my lack of enthusiasm, my withdrawal from what is outside my front door… I am just tired. 

What is the meaning, I am just tired? I will let you know, it is when my wall of excuses is breached and the truth washes away my delusions of grandeur for why my life is meaningful. In truth, I am full of hate and contempt for the betrayal of my brothers. I am a good person, compassionate, and never once did I turn my back to any one of my three brothers, but my being to them has become worthless. That includes the psychopath who raped me when I was thirteen. The images of those moments are so vivid I want to throw up. I have never confronted him on this. We grew up over the following years as if it never happened.

My mother was in the last weeks of her life. She was sitting at my dining room table with her lawyer when she called me into the room and said she was leaving the psychopath out of her last will and testament.  I protested and argued she should not do that, “it was not fair,” I said.  She was persuaded and he was put back into the will. Afterward, as she predicted, he conned me, trick me out of my inheritance that is now worth over a million dollars.  When I asked how he could forge my name on court documents, he said, “I am the only one who can afford to keep the estate.” We have not talked in over ten years. 

My eldest brother by six years, Ronnie, was the brother who was always there to listen as I was for him. He joined the Air Force at Eighteen-years-old. I would live with him and his wife from time to time. When he retired twenty-two years later, he settled in North Carolina. He was employed as a jet engine mechanic by a company that was an hour drive each way. At least twice a month he would call me to talk during his drive home. Then the following happened, I wrote to him many times before this last message, none have ever received a reply.

9/12/2016 > Two years ago you called me worried about having your pacemaker replaced. To make sure everything went well, I told you I would call the next day. However, I have not spoken with you since. Two years and I have no idea why you stopped loving me, two years and I have no idea what I did, two years without a clue of why you didn’t want a sister anymore. A while back, I would sometimes worry you might die before I learned what happened to separate our lives. I feared my last memory would be the day you called and never did again, Within these last years, I have been able to reconcile this event of the heart. The emotions that I had after your rejection have been compartmentalized so I’m okay with you not wanting me to be in your life. I am sure you have your personal reasons for not caring about me and if those reasons help you to live a happier life then it is okay with me. Recently, I visited your page, once I saw your photo a flood of emotions and that familiar ache of sorrow filled my chest. There are so many memories we shared that I hold in mind, made more valuable by knowing there will not be additional memories.  What did I say, Ronnie, what did I do?  You broke my heart and you think that I don’t deserve to know why? I’m so tired, I am going to say Goodbye, Ronnie.

When my mom was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, she had no reaction. Not once did she speak of her impending death. Not one tear was shed. I understand why because my life is a mirror of her life; no friends, no family, ignored by her children, disabled by mental health issues, and treated as such by the professional community. She was tired, I understand now because I am tired, too.

 

 

 

The will of my Sentiments

The will of my Sentiments

Tonight, I will finish my compilation video titled, My Brother in Arms. It is my way of supporting the ongoing Palestinian prisoners’ hunger “Strike for Dignity”. I bought an editing software program called, filmora, this video will be my first project using the many new capabilities offered. What I did not expect was how the suffering of Palestinians has affected my emotions.

Unfortunately, my knowing has created a conflict between my allegiance to Israel in that “my people” in Israel are the cause of the killing of innocent Palestinians including children. I do not want to identify myself as being Jewish even though I was raised Jewish, lived six months in Israel, resided for two years in a Jewish boarding school where I studied for my Bat Mitzvah, in addition, I married a Jewish man, raised my children as Jews and attended Shabbat services with my children in the same temple as my mother and I had done for decades.

I pray there will come a day that these tears I shed will be for the joy in all humanity. Until then, I must walk aside those treated like sub-humans by those who claim that it is the will of G-d, that victory is the destiny of our people. Therefore, to the Zionists. whether victory is won through the destruction and death of those who came before, then so shall it be done.

Nonetheless, if our G-d judges me as my people have, as a traitor, that they say I have Jewish blood on my hands, then I alone will answer to our G-d. Placed within my heart, soul, and my conscience is the sentiments of justice and virtue to promote the utility of others. Therefore, I must believe and will try to remain confident that G-d would want me to act according to the direction of my will, and so shall that be done.

Without the Way, There is no Going

Without the Way, There is no Going

My life became void of routine and responsibility, three years ago, after early retirement. Often, I stay awake at night and sleep during the day, eat breakfast at three in the afternoon and dinner at midnight. Most often, I do not know the day of the week or the time of day, what useful purpose would I have for such knowledge?

Having developed a dire need to keep myself occupied, the idea of taking a moment to breathe is contrary to my current constitution. There is always something to do even if that something is cleaning the floor cleaned yesterday.

Consistently, my thoughts will turn to matters of the heart if I sit still too long, causing my emotions to become chaotic and depressive. Thereafter, my sense of self becomes depleted and hungers for the conversation and companionship that was lost after moving away from my hometown.

Unfortunately, Merced is not conducive to forming friendships. Believing in the idiom, “Birds of a feather flock together,” I am a rare bird.

Make the Day a Good One

Make the Day a Good One

Today is my birthday as with each birthday people wish me happiness with the advice to make the day a “good one.”

Two years ago, this day was no longer all about my birthday. My birthday became the day my children’s paternal grandma passed away. Now I learned my dear friend, Blake, passed away last week after suffering for years from many physical ailments. Blake’s friendship was of exception for he was an exceptional person. To me, though painful, I think his death is a blessing. 

Each year, when the calendar reads February, I will remember what I find more important than the coming of my birthday, my dear friend, and grandma who will remain in my heart until the day it beats no longer.

Note: The photograph used for this post is of Blake with my now twenty-seven-year-old son, Jacob.