(It's been three weeks. My hands are worse, not better. I am sleeping in three hour blocks, getting up for at least an hour in the night as they itch and burn. I'm coping, by pulling in a shutting down, and this sucks!)
This state of non-active withdrawal I am in, of expectant dread and reflective wonder that I have lived through, live with and in this moment feel that I cannot find my way out of... I've been here before.
This was me at six: able to sit in a room full of noisy expansion for hours and days on end, staring out the window seeing nothing but blank spots; lost in a house filled with the weight of capture, holding still against the heavy slap of percussive words and the dizzying bewilderment of lies and accusations. Hoping for a hug.
At twelve, the pain of failure numbed by a locked door and the click of a hang-up. Futile dreams. Attempts to live life (learn. do homework. how?). And suicide by elastic doesn't work either.
Then real friends and the green that smoked through our times together, each making my failure bearable -- mediating and medicating. I am getting out of it, I am living, giving, connecting and trying to understand what it is to be me.
The music my hands allowed me to learn to play, as my weakness goes stealth.
A diagnosis that will never go away and the family that does. Sleep. Try. Sleep. Try again. Slipped on another blank spot and another year gone. I take another a chance with pain.
They clear out a block and I disconnect from a raw deal all the while exposing my insides in a resealable bag, aware of the waste that continues to empty.
I'm put back together with twist ties, staples, and man made torture that rips through weakness and changes the bet slightly.
Now in the middle of a blank spot of black ice, I am prone. I am needing to grow my own umbilicus while waiting for a leak to dry up without freezing to death.