Sometimes I don't write as some sort of act of defiance to the Universe -- a middle finger, if you will, to the forces that be. It's one small thing I feel like I DO have control over. You put me here to learn these lessons and write about them to better the world; well, fuck you, Universe ... watch me not do that. As if I won't learn the lessons I'm "supposed to" and by not learning these lessons I'll save myself some pain and I also thereby won't write about any of it, and in not doing so, will also lessen the probability of the reason, if there is one, that I'm here, experiencing what I am. There were a lot of commas in that sentence. Fuck it.
I also come to realize that by not writing, I'm actually only driving myself a little more mad because the would-be writings and stories and poems all just collect as loose matter in my head and then are forgotten, and that's too bad because a lot of this shit is good, or at least could be in written form (or typed, as the case may be). And so of course, by become a little more mad, I am only harming myself (and when I say "mad" here, I mean it in the actual sense, the way it's traditionally defined: crazy, looney tunes, all of the things I feel a lot of the time; not angry -- which I actually also feel a lot of the time, but is not what I am referring to here. Actually, I suppose I feel angry at myself a bit as well by not writing. Anyway.) And by not writing I am also withholding what could be some really great and necessary and helpful and even potentially healing material from those who read it ... so, thus, I'm harming others by not writing. This feels a bit arrogant, at least as I write it, but also true. So, again, fuck it.
I have this really vivid memory of lying in the hallway of my house on 33rd Street, from which I moved in early June, my head on Lena's lap. I was sobbing -- like the heaving, ugly cry type of sobbing -- and she was stroking my hair. I was so scared. Still am, just not currently sobbing in that way. (I did do some good crying today, though.) She was so comforting to me. She told me that I'm experiencing more things, the kind of things that trip me out (some of which you might know about, reader, if you know me well at all) and support my stories and fears and visions and dreams/nightmares and actual ultimate reality created within my mind because my world is expanding, so the berth of experience widens as I meet more people. Yes, this makes sense, I think as she says the words. I don't know if it's entirely true, or at least the only reason i am experiencing what I am, but it felt comforting to me right then. At the time, Lena was wearing clothes that had been mine, a top and pants I had given her as I shed so much prior to my move. She always liked that black Umba top and as I'm trying to wear less black anyway, I gave it to her, along with the brown, wide-leg flowy pants that would get caught under my feet while leaping around at festivals. Who was I then, at all those festivals? Who am I now, here on the floor in this hallway in our home of two years? Lena said to me that night, I'm dressed like you. I remember having that thought right before she said it. She was my healer, is still my healer, and I remember having this moment where I internalized the truth that I can be my own healer. That here, here is one of my best friends, my sister really, wearing my clothes, comforting me. Stroking my hair, letting me cry out of my eyes and my nose (yes, there was a lot of snot on this particular night) into her lap, her lap wearing these pants, pants I had worn on my own legs, legs that carried my body through fields of joy in so many experiences. and they're hers now and she is dressed like me, and here she is saying it because it's true, and we're in this safe, small hallway in our home, and hearing her saying these words outloud is healing to me, these words are true; they're healing me. In la'kech. I am another you.
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