February 23, 2011

Off the Page

I think the loony bird is lighting atop my head again. I suppose it's about time for it to since I've neglected my meds for so long now.

When it comes, I go through moments when I'm not sure if the fog is lifting or clearing, whether I'm seeing reality grotesque or seeing how grotesque reality really is. So settles the rage and rage at the rage because I'm uncertain whether or not I should be raging at all.

And I all at once resent him and pity him. What a shame. For both of us.

And I recall something I've known since the very, very beginning: the awful truths -- that is, the truths that are awful -- enjoy the singular privilege of documentation. Why?

He's always thought it's because the awful truths are the sum of my sentiment which is neither true nor fair. Not true, because the everyday and dominating joy aren't recorded because that is one of the gifts of this life...to enjoy the days, breathing them in and out, LIVING them and not lamenting them. And not fair because what is and is not written has never been written or not for him, but for ME, because writing has been a sixth sense of mine since I could construct a meaningful sentence. To write, to understand, to purge and store awful truths in a way and place that should be exempt from judgement and anyone else's analysis and report.

What he's never understood is that the paper is my counselor and confidante. A help and comfort to me, not some sort of sick weapon.

So, when he digs up what's written in search of the truth, he does not find it -- only the sprawling landfill of the awful things I've cut out of myself, and he thinks this is the whole of the landscape.

And then his own defenses and offenses raise up against me because apparently, "All she sees of our life is a landfill." No one knows what paradise surrounds it.

I believe he's read every word I've ever written, and yet, I've read only a snapshot or two of his. No truths, awful or no, partial or full, have been mine to judge or not judge.

So it is injustice and condemnation. And shame in writing the things I need to in order to try my best to maintain some distinction between reality and delusion.

Some day, the kids will read these things freely, and I fear they may, too, buy into the deception the landfill is all there is.  How tragic, but who is to blame? I don't know why my paper only burns on pain.

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