PARALYZED BY PAIN

I’ve been afraid.

Afraid of every little thing.

The knock at the door – the opening of my front door.

Afraid to open my windows at night – and then to reach my hand into the metal mailbox with loose knob and pull out the bills and junk mail.

I’ve been afraid of blocked numbers on my cell phone – and my emails.

So afraid of the telephone ring that years ago I permanently turned off the ringer the buzzer the vibrator . . .

Out went any landline. Terrifying.

I’ve been afraid to SAY WHO I AM

Afraid to STAND MY GROUND

And then freaked out at the prospect of sitting down.

I’ve been paralyzed at the thought of having to give up my music – and yet  I’ve been unable to take the guitars – my beautiful guitars – from their stands and play them . . .

I’ve been afraid to put down my pen and too traumatized to type the damn words into my computer – spooked at the notion of releasing my scribbles to the world – – –

Not because of failure or fame – but because there is so much too much . . . and how to write my truth without causing pain.

 

Ahhhh . . .

THERE IT IS: I have been terrified of pain.

CAUSING IT OR ENDURING IT

I HAVE BEEN PARALYZED BY PAIN.

I’ve written about loss and tossed it with the rest. I’ve undressed my desires and placed them in overstuffed drawers.

I’ve made lists of pain: named the perpetrators and particulars:

: the suicide, sexual abuse, betrayals, financial disaster, life upturned, hopes burned, best friends plotting my demise, loss of home loss of love heart shattered into irretrievable shards on the ground – broken necks, broken bodies, feet run over, lies, guile, deceits ___ and even a restraining order:

And still too stunned to mark dash and release words into the world.

Dizzying plot lines, 180 twists, 360 reversals . . . my head’s been spinning for a good four years as I have gone further and further into the denial of who I am . . .

AFRAID

I can name the starting point: it was most definitely the suicide and then subsequent threat by my ex’s therapist that she the ex, still alive, might now be triggered and commit suicide.

I can name that PLOT POINT 1 >>> but the seeds had to have been there, already planted.

I don’t remember a time where I didn’t know I was the one to be in the corner – named the observer – not the doer – by my parent – and decidedly – not the favorite.

I took this in stride in my seemingly non-emotional big picture view of my world – and then wondered on why I had to be a girl this lifetime around because it certainly wasn’t ushering in favor.

In fact, it became danger all too soon – to be born the fairer sex . . .

and I learned to shut down and walk small because I didn’t like being bullied by the son of a good family friend and pinned to the floor – spit dripping from his mouth onto my face as he begged for:

“one little fuck”

hurting my wrists, digging his knees into my ribs until I stopped squirming:  And got really still – and told him:

He was being asinine – I was only 10 . . . and I turned that word over and over again in my mouth: Asinine:

“YOU ARE ASININE

I AM ONLY 10!”

I watched as that big word between us became my weapon – stalled him – bewildered him enough to loosen his grip for a second – and I slid out from under his overweight sweating body  –  announced that I had to go downstairs to help my mother clean up the Thanksgiving dishes . . .

And so a word became my mace – saved me from something I don’t ever want to know . . .

But this word never left the room – was never spoken to my mother.

“Mommy: Benji pinned me to the ground and said he was going to fuck me . . .

but I told him he was being asinine.

He was being asinine, Mommy. I’m only 10 years old.”

Instead, I wrote my words in notebooks and turned them over and over again in my mind, caressed them loved them as they healed the things I could not feel, could not express in real time.

But they never came out into the world unless yanked out of me for some scholarship or ticket to an “A” to pay for school.

And then I began to sing!!! Use my words in song!!! What a joy!

An easement in releasing my feeling into the world – but I partnered up with a singer who stole all the consonants while I blended in ethereals – beautiful maybe – but undecipherable. Now hiding my truth behind the sea of melody.

AFRAID TO BE SEEN

 

AND WHY?

 

That pain thing again. Afraid of being pain causing pain being in >>> pain:

Afraid of naming my truth – for then I would be abandoned completely.

Write your stories would say my mother, sing the song said partner, but somehow I never believed that my pen my mouth my hands – all instruments in the expression of my heart – could save me from their removal of love.

If I spoke: I wouldn’t be loved.

If I sang:   I wouldn’t be loved.

If I marched on stage: I wouldn’t be loved.

The pain of not being loved, being abandoned for truth, for expressing my heart >>> left on the roadside for living my joy:

Too Painful

I cannot live that lie anymore.

I cannot be that afraid person.

The universe has tried over and over again to provide me with a set of clues I’ve been denying.

In the past few years, I’ve had every foundation ripped from my life.

When I’ve crawled around trying to piece things back together, then the holy universe has taken it upon herself to detonate everything in sight.

I MUST EXPRESS AND PUT OUT INTO THE WORLD.

There is no other way.

This IS my love.

HERE WE GO >>>