Tuesday, July 14, 2015


I have one.  Music pushes me to feel, (sometimes), when I feel nothing.  I feel something when I listen to music, even when it seems like it's all over now baby blue.  Music often makes me feel sad, because I'm often sad.

I'm sure I'm choosing musicians, (and songs), that agree with my state of mind, and that there are many songs and artists that aren't dwelling on wrecking themselves like Ice Cube and I.  I listen to songs over and over again.  I want them to stop the lost feeling.  I want them to tell me "what now?"  And I wonder if those artists felt so badly, if those feelings were worth putting onto paper and to notes and beats and rhythm, than did singing about it help them?  Or did they write something generic, and something that fit a stereotype of sadness and despair and loss that they thought would resonate with the general population?  Are they crazy baby?

I don't know.  I don't really care.  Even as the songs change, the theme stays the same.  I'm beggin  for thread.  I have realized when or if I...  Wow, I don't care what I'm writing about.  I'm tired of eating my misspoken words.  I did for a minute, then it went away.  PMDD...  That's how it works.  Summertime Sadness.  I was going to say if I ever write my novel, it will follow that same theme, and then I have told my sad story, and I can go away.  All the songs are taken.  Big girls cry. My ship was to wreck.  I'm a sad girl.

I have a story to tell.  It's not a happy story, I think.   My soundtrack tells a sad story, at least.  It goes on and on, in a circle; and none of it is real; and the happiness is temporary and taken; and the sadness and loss is constant and violent.  People lose their parents in tragic accidents, or have terrible things happen to them, and I don't feel like I am suffering more than they...  I know I'm not.  I do know that I am not healthy enough to watch my sister disappear and come back and disappear again.  I know I am not healthy enough to accept that my nanny and grampy won't ever live in their house together and it can't be my refuge.  I know I am not healthy enough to stop ripping myself to pieces. I know I'm not healthy enough to accept that my mommy is gone.  I know I'm not healthy enough to accept that I'm not happy...  not enough to change it.  I know that other people experience terrible tragedies.  I just know that I'm really messed up emotionally, and I am not as strong as others might be.  I'm weak and stupid.  I'm a quitter, and a crier.  I'm a cutter and a dyer.

Sometimes I have an elastic heart.  Sometimes my threads stretch, but don't break.

I will write it all out, from the beginning, so no one thinks it's just their fault.  Truly, it's my fault for being so weak and empty and fucked up.  But some people need to take responsibility for cutting the thin threads holding me here... the threads that kept me safe.  The ones who went straight for the knife.

You know.  I've been told that I'm the normal one in my family.  I'm the healthy one.  (My family would not agree.  If you're reading this, my loving family, you are absolutely the most sane, and you know I'm losing my religion).  But those people need to squint their eyes and look closer.  I'm the most likely to check out of life.  I'm the one who tried to hold everything together for so long, and I think I did it.  My grampy told me I did.  I'm the one who was holding everyone else here.  And yet, I was being separated from here all along... I'm the weakest one of all.  I'm fucked up, mom.  Daddy, I'm really a mess.  Run, Daddy Run.  I'm fucked up, Mikhaila.  I'm not 32 flavors.  Sam, I'm so fucked up you don't understand.  I'm lost.  You are right.  I know nothing of fidelity, or being one of the lucky ones.  I'm not a lucky one this time.  And I cover my ears and sing, Lalala, crying in the shower.

My babies...  I don't want to fuck them up. I so often willing to disappear, and I don't care.  I don't care about anything but stopping the thoughts in my head and the pain that electrifies me in every way.  I keep thinking, It can be this day.  This night is okay for going away.  This night is ultraviolent.  I think in that negative manner so many days.  I can't Strike another match, go start anew.  I'm thinking that now, and wondering why I'm such a bitch, that I can't just do it and save everyone the trouble of dealing with me.  I am thinking that way right now.  When I wake up, I will be okay.  That irrational thinking won't be so tangible and overwhelming a feeling.  And I'll understand that the threads that connect me to my children, and therefore to life, are made of titanium.


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