Have you ever written something really maudlin and Sylvia Plath-like? Something so overwrought and self-indulgent that only 1% of the people who read it even make it through without calling the Suicide Prevention Hotline?
Well, today is your day.
I want to hear it. I want to see it and read it. Lay it on me.
If you haven’t created such a masterpiece before, then here is your chance to devote five minutes of your day to sucking the life out of others.
LEAVE IT IN THE COMMENTS, PEEPS.
Mine requires a “set up”.
I feel so freakin’ awesome NOW, it should be illegal. I had a doctor’s appointment last week and in the words of my beloved Dr. Debbie, it is time to “saturate me with progesterone.” Bioidentical progesterone, that is. And pull me off that awful testosterone, ha ha (testosterone is actually great for energy, but when you’re wound tighter than a clock spring, Just.Say.No.). Anyway, seems I had messed up my dosage instructions, plus I needed more of this and less of that, plus they informed me I had aged another year (a declaration I disputed), which tends to leak the good hormones out of my body. Blah blah. Anyway, over the last six months I had steadily gone downhill, and showed werewolfish tendencies again. And ignored it without revisiting the doctor. Hence, saturation.
Well, just let me say that within 24 hours of said-saturation, Eric swore I’d drank from the Fountain of Youth and Eternal Sunshine. And I saw it, too. Not only did my natural, “healthy” energy return, resulting in my spending two days on a singing/whistling cooking and cleaning frenzy, but my internal emotional balance magically reappeared. Here’s the craziest part, though. I look different. It took 10 years off my face. My skin changed color. The recently-chronic dark circles were gone as if never there. Something erased the wrinkles from my face.
Think I’m exaggerating or kidding? Here’s a snapshot of how I felt (green) and Eric’s response (white) from Saturday, when I was in the last 36 hours of what is the very worst part of my monthly cycle:
Bottom line: YAY! I am sane again!
But when I wasn’t, I wrote something. Which is usually better than not writing anything, but not always. Heidi Dorey voted that I slop it onto the blog and encourage others to expose their mawkish selves, too, so blame Heidi.
With no further excuses, I give you…
Untitled Drivel by Pamela (but please don’t ever tell anyone it was me)
I live in a cage
With no walls
I can see out
I am tethered inside
My skin plexiglass
My heart is inside, with me, trembling
I am not alone
It’s in here with me, that IT
But It also wakes
So I am restrained
Because if I could I would run away
I try so hard to run
But my feet can’t take me where I need to go
My fists can’t punch a hole for my heart to escape through
My screams don’t pierce the barriers
My eyes don’t penetrate the darnkess
My tears don’t wash me up and out
Sleep won’t transport me
Somebody please help me
Do you even see Me in here?
It is here
It is awake
I am the rat for its dinner
I am inside It inside the cage inside my mind inside my skin
My words are not my words
Help me, please help me
We can put it back to sleep together
My words are not my words
I am in here, too, somewhere
I don’t recognize my hands
Let’s sing It a lullaby
Hush little darling don’t say a word
No No no NO please don’t
Please, this hurts me worse than it hurts you
You hurt me worse than I hurt you
And I have no antidote
You must sing
I have to f*#@’ing sing
Please, can’t you please help me sing
Don’t you see
You are in a cage, too
Unless we sing the cradle
Into its lazy rhythm
Back and forth
Shhh, be still, don’t say a word
I I move slowly, carefully,
Slimy and cold, a regurgitated rat
I can slink away to a corner
Don’t look at me that way
Please see Me, not It
Not what It made of me
Here in the cage
Here’s to good mental health today (ha),
p.s. Don’t disappoint me…bury the comments in your weepiest moments, my writer friends.