At somes points in my life
(and when I say points, it could be seconds, months or many years)
all that was left of me was the part of me that could lose all sense of self
steeped in the shame, the guilt, the disgust, the contempt, the revulse it couldn't help
but hold itself into
for losing it all over again
that sense of self,
that self...
Every word, behavior, thought
felt wrong, inadequate
I would try different ones, many different ones
like you try grabbing for all kind of things until one of them holds to stop your fall
but not one
not one of them ever did not crumble under my fingers.
Nightmares
unending nightmare where not ONE thing about me and my experience
felt right
and I could only call myself a worm, less-than-a-worm-for-at-least-a-worm-was-being-what-it-was-supposed-to-be-without-all-this-unending-mediocre-uncertainty, a waste of air
the only words that ever felt accurate to describe myself
to my despair and anger and utter confusion
I can remember the panic
and the urge to scream and cry
kept inside...
my brain will do that from time to time
grab me by the hand with a strong, forceful hold
and take me back
"Remember! That is what it used to be like for us! Feel it! In your flesh!"
Like a distress call, an alarm
if you're not careful
if you forget
it could happen again
you could lose the things that are holding yourself together
and you could lose yourself again
you could fall again into that deep, dark, unending pit
and I wouldn't know what to do, I wouldn't know what to do, I wouldn't know what to do

one of the things about Robin Hobb's Farseer Trilogy
that made it such an important book in my life
was her depiction of Fitz losing his self in the flow of Art
scattered
completely scattered in an immense, unending flow
trying to find back all the tiny pieces of him whose quantity was infinite
putting that thing so foreign and dreadful that had been happening to me
time and again
into words...

It feels like an ongoing "work" in my life
to go back there
to pinpoint it, to name it, put words on it
always more precise and closer to the truth
so it won't blur and fade and become something I cannot locate anymore
that could dawn on me again without me recognizing it for what it is
and I would not know what to do

"I cannot be helpless again in the face of this threat
I cannot
I cannot"
Says I
inside of my head
the part that just feels
that is not trying to be anything else than the most accurate it can be about what it is.

I am on a mission
to shape it with clay
clay all over it
drying on it
to trap it there
forever


the garden inside my head
with the statues
that cannot be allowed to degrade
always restore and try to improve
that one must thread with
with the utmost care
that can never be let completely
out of one's sight