He told me that I would be punished, and he was right.
I lived with the blood and the violence a secret.
I never broke the rule again.
I never sat at a table and ate with them again.
But that wasn’t enough. I fed him. And was punished again.
Every time I eat or even admit that I want to eat I am punished.
No one can convince me otherwise.
I can’t convince myself.
Today was the last straw.
I once joked about ending my life with a straw, but all those that would understand the joke are dead.
If I can be strong I can escape this cycle.
It’s as easy as self control. No razors.
No jumping off the fifth floor for the security cams to record.
Just a choice.
I will not be punished like this again.
You can not hurt me for something I didn’t do.
I’m not trapped.
I can do this.
Written by Jason Wright September 18, 2014
This is what a nervous breakdown looks like. I hit a wall. I stopped eating. I didn’t eat any solid food for more than 3 months. I stopped working. I went on short term disability and applied for long term disability, which I did get; it took about 3 years I think. But this is when the PTSD hit me and nearly broke me. Nobody could convince me to eat or that it was going to be okay. I’ve come so far since this day.
And I’m quite disconnected from my own broken circuit,
But then something sparks and I’m lost in reflection,
I’m drowning in sound and rapt by connection.
Those episodes scare me and I’ve sought to avoid them,
But running from strife has left my heart frozen,
And the path of my life is melting my fear…
Allowing his voice to be heard and quite clear.
He’s the part of me; wounded and starving and aching.
He’s the one we forgot when our hearts were done breaking.
He’s the one who kept screaming though no one was listening.
He’s the one shedding tears that on my face are glistening.
And I fight for him now as he’s fought for me.
I fight for his rights that we both may be free…
The battle is coming, has happened, occurred…
And he knows satisfaction because he is heard,
And we fight now together to achieve correlation,
That was taken when life divorced integration.
Written by Jason Wright June 19, 2014
For him and for me.
It’s a start. I think I make it sound a bit Disney when it’s really very dangerous. I’m always on the verge of something lately. Some of it is wonderful. Some of it is horrible. And all of it is necessary.
The rain on the leaves and the wet sidewalk were like one of my favorite paintings.
The fragmented message coming through was a surprise and a new opportunity – new experiences and new destinations – all that I wanted this day to be about, only brought to perfection by sharing it with you.
Your voice was distracted… maybe the slightest bit annoyed.
Maybe that’s not quite right, but there was something going on beneath the surface.
Maybe you dreaded hearing from me now. Maybe you didn’t want to have this conversation. Or maybe you were just distracted by your students. I don’t know.
The show I’d read about was at 7:30; you thought I couldn’t be there in time but I was only 6 blocks away.
You thought I wouldn’t want to go, so why the offer? I find so much of it confusing.
You said the ticket was mine until 6pm, but at 6:02 (when I finally got through) you were taking someone else instead.
Should I ask you to ask them to relinquish their ticket. The ticket that was mine…except that it never was.
You ask if I should ask them to relinquish the ticket.
Relinquish is a verb that means to voluntarily cease to keep or claim; to give up.
So the ticket was given but not to me; it was not mine to keep or claim despite the promise of 6pm.
And now I would have to beg someone to relinquish what should never have been theirs so that what never was mine could fulfill the promise of last night’s imaginings.
Standing there, in the rain, cold and wet in that beautiful painting I wept when you said you’d call me back.
I wasn’t sure where I should go. Maybe there was still a chance? Coffee shop on the corner. Hot food and cold peppermint. And the return call letting me know that you couldn’t reach her.
She was on her way with the ticket that I’d been promised on a rare day when I wasn’t vomiting too much and had travelled through tunnels to reach the famous Central Park.
Did I want to meet her? You asked me. No. I didn’t want to meet the woman who would sit with you 6 blocks from where I sat in the coffee shop. No. That would hurt too much. I didn’t want to cry in this crowded little beverage store.
I walked back to the park. I called friends but almost nobody answered. I spoke to my mother… trying to get back in the painting but I’d been locked out.
I left voicemails and texts but there was nobody there to console me.
I took the train home. I walked to work and got my money. I smiled and I tried to get back in the painting but it was so far away that it was all but faded now.
I came home. I found some amount of solace here. I found peace in Facebook posts that I wouldn’t tag you in. But when I went to text you that I loved you and that I hoped you’d had a good time I read the rest of the texts you’d sent me on the train home… and then I was angry and hurt again.
I don’t have a ticket to give you. I can’t even offer it to the bitch you went with because she had every right to go; far more right than me. Because she had a ticket, you see.
I’m angry. I’m hurting. I’m angry that I’m hurting and hurting because I’m angry.
The lie of 6pm hurts me. And the thought (before the truth) that my being there so close to the opera house meant something; that light hearted faith hurt me too.
I don’t have a ticket. But I have something more valuable. I have forgiveness.
Forgiveness for the lie of 6pm can be yours if you tell me you’ll never again put me in a position to beg for someone else to voluntarily cease to keep something you offered me first.
I need forgiveness too. Forgiveness from you for being so caught off guard again that I refused to answer.
I should have demanded that fucking ticket, as you’ll likely tell me.
Forgiveness for myself for allowing my belief to hurt me. I can do that. I’m in a strange painting of my life after all.
I’m self aware on a level I’ve never been before. And I can forgive myself for thinking there was something waiting for me at the opera house door.
The painting of my life is wild and vivid and it clashes with the world around me, and it illuminates my every flaw and finds them beautiful.
Tell me you love me I say to you and the reflection before me. Tell me you respect me. And tell me there will be no more broken 6pm promises.
Tell me that and I will relinquish whatever you like.
