Another Tuesday Night

In the process of reflecting on my work and what some of it means to me I’ve written a new piece that fully expands on my painting, “Body, Heal Thyself” (shown here). I have intentions to bring this to life as spoken word – so stay tuned for more.



“Another Tuesday Night”

Another Tuesday night, another traditional taco, another episode after another episode of Californication on Netflix, another bottle of rose, another sip…

Was this all there was of life? Another sip?

There had to be more.

A way to avoid burnout. A way to avoid another breakdown. Another sip…

Another toke and the night would be over, another sip and another episode and the bed would start to come calling… join me… sleep…

But another toke and another sip and another episode it was because that meant that the pain of the day was gone.

Medicated off to dreamland where the phones didn’t ring, the people didn’t annoy and the overwhelming thoughts and emotions put themselves to rest, even if just for another eight or so hours until they come flooding back in the daylight, shorn of the drunken-stoned veil she longs to hide them behind.

Another morning.

Another multivitamin followed by another green tea and another playlist and another commute.

Another day in hell, struggling to suppress the darkness that pours over the moment she crosses the threshold of her Corporate Cage. Another day fighting the urge to be hateful in the face of boredom, fatigue, and not-enough-ness.

Another day in an exhausting downward spiral covered up by fake smiles and laughs that don’t meet her eyes.

Anything was better than this except poverty, which was the ultimate threat keeping her on the hamster wheel where she doesn’t belong, making the money that she so desperately needs to keep on keeping on in the battle for her sanity.

Another day turns into another night of medicating away feelings of frustration, notions that she can never get over it, that she will never get out of it, that she doesn’t fit into the mold this world and this society wants her to fit into…

But she knows this isn’t healing. She knows this isn’t helping.

Yet down she goes, another sip, another toke, another episode, another bite of delicious comfort…

Feeling buried so deep in the shit that she can’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Another fear striking her in the gut – is there even one there?

How do people go on despite their suffering?

Another question on the pile of questions whirling pools in her mind, sending her over the edge… another sip…

This isn’t working and she knows it.

She doesn’t know how to fix her problems and she can’t just pretend they don’t exist – or do they?

How wounded is she really? Do her feelings even matter? Does her pain even count? Why her?

Another gouging question deepening the black hole that takes up the core of her being… another heart beat skipped… another breath lost… another episode coming on… panic ensues, tears fall, and before there is even a chance for another sip she’s gone.

Not really gone, just not there.

Outside of herself, begging herself…

PLEASE bubbles out of her mouth between gasps, please…

Who was she begging? She didn’t believe in a higher power so what was she asking for?

Still she pleads…

Fix this…

Stop this…

Change this…

Self…

Mind…

Help me…

Please….

Body, heal thyself.

 

 

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