I’m a prisoner of the past. A prisoner of a war waged within me.
I’ve been opened up by razors that strived to fix what was broken long ago.
I’ve been gutted.
I’ve had batteries stuffed inside me to replace what father stole, to replace the fear of wrath and the sacrifice for love with metal, plastic and electricity.
So many love my worthlessness that I’m terrified that I’m not already well for them.
I should be better, I know this despite this being irrational.
I am irrational.
My feelings and memories and fears are not rational… Yet my feelings and memories and fears are my reality.
I’m ashamed of what I eat. I’m ashamed that I must eat at all. I feel I should be able to survive without food or the punishment food invites.
Ever since hungry child’s belly drew sister’s blood and torment from angry crazy father monster.
It’s so hard to talk about this; I’ve not talked about the shame in over 30 years and this wave of uncertainty; this ocean of shame is why.
She forgave me once. When I first remembered I wept and begged; she said there was nothing I could have done but I didn’t believe her yet.
In 2009 I began to feed myself. I began to believe. The hungry child’s belly deserved food and I would give it to him. But my sickness persisted and isn’t that basically what he’d told me would happen?
I’m terrified. I’m afraid of these feelings and how much I am feeling… These feelings overwhelm me and facing them risks my survival and the hurt of all those I love.
I’m split down the middle, the hungry child who’s been punished and the righteous lover who’s fighting to save all those he loves; even himself.
How many sacrificed for my salvation? How many destroyed or maimed by my potential damnation?
The numbers weigh heavily on me until I find it hard to breathe unless I concentrate on every breath.
I struggle for oxygen, sustenance and life.
Why the struggle? Sometimes I think it’s fear of death. I don’t want to live forever; I simply don’t want to die.
And in times when the fear dissipates as it does at it’s worst, I count the people whom I love; the people that love me that would be bruised at my passing and that allows me to remain; a prisoner of their love.
But somehow hope remains a persistent bitch.
I hope to escape the past the way I escaped Michigan. I came to this island with my lover and not much else in the hopes that I could escape and conquer that which has been my prison.
Hope is painful and vindictive. Hope has left me weeping for three consecutive life sentences.
Yet hope doesn’t lay down and die when I wish that I could.
And so hope is stronger than I am. Hope can give me the peace that I crave.
I just need to survive long enough.
And if I don’t?
Well, I lasted longer than any of the others… so cut me a break.
