Revising

[walshcaitlin]

From something written June of 2008
Memories of an Odyssey 

Sometimes I still catch myself 
thinking about it
I hadn't read...
It was Christmas break and 
I hadn't read.
But all Mom said 
Was "its just a phase"
At seventeen? 
So I said to myself
Screamed, more likely
Snap 
Out 
Of. It.
And I hid beneath a mask
While I fought the phase
Willed it to disappear. 

There was only one time that the 
Mask fell
And it was a disaster.
I lost all reason and seemed to have
Tunnel vision
As I let a little thing
Get to me
And pursued 
My "tormentor".
But before I could tell him
To stop
The tears had burst forth
And I had no idea where they were coming from. 
No that is not true
They were boiling up after
I buried them for so long. 

One of my friends noticed. Soon I was 
In front of her guidance counselor.
(I was too embarrassed to go to my own)
At least he knew what was going on
And it was he that clued in my mother
To the problem

A call landed me
With someone who 
I hadn't seen
Since seventh grade

She had changed so much
Had become a mom
The problems I had before
When I talked to her last
Were gone. But now
New problems had started to arise
Namely the smile
Swallow
Supress 
Routine was starting to boil over

Maybe it was too late?
The time passed in a haze as 
I dragged myself through school.
But I was miserable and tense
What was the point?

I remember feeling a pressure
Contorting my body
Twisting the insides 
Someone screaming: 
My mind started to flash and run to
the one way to siphon of
The pressure 
To quite the screams inside 
But the way was blocked
And rightfully so
But where could the presure go?
Then

Just having those thoughts were enough. 
and a week off with nothing to keep me busy was all I needed:
I started to drift out to sea
Too blind to see where I was going
Too tired to fight against the current

Another call locked me up
For my own good In 
a prison for the body
a paradise for the mind
away from the real world

This place was nothing like the movies
"I can soar" I remember some points 
But not all. 

It turned out to be more of a 
A camp
And yet

I still did not trust myself
With the campfire.
The warmth as I 
reached with my marshmallow stick,
Felt searing against my hand 

Fear kept me in line 
Those first few crucial weeks
I did not want to go back
My future propelled me.
If I went back it would be derailed.
Some weeks I limped into that office
But at least I came back

My Guardian Angel rescued my mind
And soon the body followed
We worked together to calm
The beast inside me
She decided to leave the bench of the Red Sox to (hopefully) become a star on the Twins. 

Even now. Sometimes
The thoughts come back
But only
With an ironic tone:
All the lasts
The last time you talked 
To me before 
And all the poetic ways taunt and
dance in my mind
But the difference between this
And that
Is that I can swat them out of my mind 
Like flies
For the most part

But looking back 
Its hard to remember 
What I was thinking 
Exactly how I had started on that road
And what stopped me
From doing anything (permanent)
Was it just because I knew
It was completely off-limits?
Or was it
Deep down
I still knew I had
Something to live for?

Fast Forward to May of 2010 ish

 

Imaginary Scars. Drawn on rather than permanent.
There’s no badge for the emotions roiling just beneath my skin.

I knew something was wrong when I wasn’t reading. I’m a total bibliophile.

Mom just said it was a phase. But I was seventeen; I thought I was too old for phases.

Snap out of it!
I hid beneath a mask.

But masks slip. I was in the hallway right outside the library when the volcano erupted. All the tears that I had buried, that I refused to let seep under the mask, burst forth. They were hot lava; nothing could stop them. The next day they disappeared, but the ash cloud remained for days. I was in denial.

Soon after I was diagnosed. I kept getting worse. Mental became physical as I slowly suffocated from the all the ash. My remote’s pause button never seemed to work, and I contemplated pressing the stop-eject button. Intrusive thoughts sprung up, frightening me. Where? Why?

It’s cliché: but I had to get worse before I could get better. A call landed me in the hospital. It was nothing like the movies. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Girl, Interrupted. The goal was to get out and get better. Or was it get better and get out?
The doctor I met at the hospital worked with me for over a year after to get back to where I was. Before. Supposed to be.

Somehow I reached a point where I was able to look back and see how far I came. I could see the volcanic remains off in the distance. Some days I saw it smolder and other days I swore I felt tremors, but I never erupted again.

These feelings remain. They are a part of me after besieging me for so long. At least now I deal with them the right way.
Imaginary Scars. Drawn on rather than permanent.