June 3rd, 2003

journies begin with the first step

Still running through my mind.....

The following are poems I wrote about two months ago, but they are on my mind tonight....thought I'd post...

When does the seething emptyness come to an end?
When does depression cease to depress?
What time exactly, I need to set my clock.
When does it get better momma?
You said I would fit in, find my slot,
that people would understand,
or at least it wouldn’t matter so much anymore.
So when’s it get easier?

When do I stop feeling like death,
black dyed hair streaking my face.
Death obsessing me,
turning every bed into an early crypt?

How long till I stop picking men and people
who’s vampirism sucks all the life force out of me?
How many more will parade through, take what they wish,
leave me, not what they wish.
How many more that will see me as such
a deflated usable plastic?
How many that will still hate, laugh, loath?
When does it stop hurting?

Why the long face momma?
Think I would never discover
that the bullshit, the cliches that you threw at me
were nothing more than the dust that we tend.
Nothing more than this American dream that we lust for.
What will be our end?
Will it be our ideals? Or ourselves?

When will I find the masses of people to rise,
to stand up,
and flip off the world.
Were there ever any companions who would do such?
Or was that another dust storm?

What of myself? What of what I’ve become?
How much of it is the original?
How much of it stands up to the weather?
Or does it melt,
like wax,
like sugar.


the rape did much to make me,
did much to shape me.
made me leary, weary, weak.
made me distrust all those familiar,
rethinking the faces, rethinking all thoughts.

but I recovered, as all wounds do,
and found a new lie to believe.
thinking I was immune,
that was my burden,
my one cross.

then the abduction ruined me,
the second slap,
god’s way of laughing
god’s way of crying
maybe god wasn’t there at all.
he missed the show, so to speak.

the abduction did much to ruin me,
did much to seer me.
made me angry, broken, bitter.
made me distrust strange ones,
rethinking actions, habits, and needs.

and I didn’t recover, as all wounds never do,
and found everything too false to believe.
thinking I was plagued,
that was my burden,
those are my crosses.

pain doesn’t settle on me,
it burns in,
scarification marring all of the original design.
alone in the experience,
alone after the fact.

never seeing justice,
just his face, and that car,
and the field, always the field.
who knew that grass would bust open a face in a memory,
or that it all tears so easily.

but it remains, it is me, it is in me.
and that’s it they say.
except the anger, the blood,
the guilt, the secrets,
the anger,
the quiet,

journies begin with the first step

Still mumbling in there somewhere....

I can't sleep. Not a new problem, but getting worse lately. I've had a hard time sleeping at night in an empty house since being abducted two years ago. It's just an eery feeling. I get caught up in that whole, "what if someone breaks in" thing. But lately, I just can't stop thinking and checking all the locks. Every thought that I push away during daylight is still mumbling in there somewhere.

I hate insomnia. I used to only sleep every other night, or every third night when I was younger. My mother used to tell me to tell myself a story and I would fall asleep. Unlucky for me, my imagination was always too vivid, and the story I'd tell myself would never seem to end. Wide awake for the next two days.

Perhaps the problem now is just my fear of the unknown. I got a call last week from the DA who told me that my abductor, raper, assaulter, is thinking of finally considering taking a plea. The plea has been on the table for two years. I hate the plea, but have no real choice. Choice is something I've had little of concerning this whole ordeal. However, now? Now I think that it would be ok if that bastard served only 10 years. I've lost any hope in the justice system that I'd ever had. Two and a half years is a long time to wait for closure. And the wounds are still seething. But 10 years? God, it just seems like a slap in the face for the shit he put me through.

I'll never be able to tell anyone about that night. Never be able to explain what those 13 hours of captivity were like, or the following 8 hours in the hospital, or any of the things I went through after that. I can't explain what it was like to finally sleep after being awake for 48 hours; what peace can come when you know that you are finally safe. Can't explain how it felt to know that not one person realized I was in danger or even missing until I fought my way back. Perhaps that explains my paranoia now that no one really likes me. That's a fear that I've always had, but was reinforced by that night.

I guess I have a lot of hangups. I just want to sleep in peace, just for one night. Without the dreams, without seeing his face. :( God I'm so tired.

The hardest part is having no one left to depend on.