Addiction

A disease…..

I never understood this new thing. A term I thought meant to coddle us. “This disease of addiction.” I'd thought of diseases I knew of and although the “experts” liken addiction to diabetes and meetings etc like our insulin, that analogy always rang rather…. False. Maybe like a mental disease: OCD. Well, on the inside, anyway. When I was a child and suffered badly from this what they called OCD, I would count all the time. And nerves would make me do things like walk only on the black squares lest my whole family die. Always also images would spring horrific and real-like to my brain: I looked at my cat breathing and I had snuffed out her breathe, killed her. And watching her perfect innocence rise and fall in trusting sleep I would feel the guilt of one who had done it and cry for her for what I had all but done in name, knowing I could never harm this creature I loved above all others and yet feeling the guilt of having done so crush me so that I cried and cried I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. The thoughts would grow more hideous till I finally pulled some hair out or counted to the number enough while holding hugging sorry I'm sorry yr death is my biggest fear. I was a strange child, had no other children friends, no playmates, until 8 or so. When I finally learned to keep the compulsions as silent as I could…. Addiction is guilt like this shame fear and need need black holes of fear that turn to need.

On the outside, addiction is like rabies. Addicts in their glory are like a dog bit by a rabid dog. You love them, you have shared yr home and love and heart with them but you have to put them out of yr home yr heart, leave them to their own unable unstable devices to die in the cold if that this their fate or to somehow be the small percentage that is not. But that is out of your hands now: you have either gotten them their shots, brought them up to survive, or not. Wash yr hands, it is no longer in them but those of professionals. Guilt may be felt. But they are no longer your own, of your insular comforting world. They are now the Other and good luck, G-d bless. Perhaps a bowl outside in winter or a couple bucks downtown if you are driving by and remember. But how could you forget? I'm asking. How? Could? You? Forget?

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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

I am sorry I am very bad at using this blog so far as I believe I have just posted a blank page. Sigh. Very well.

I just finished the novel The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers which was a book I wished I had gotten to read in college as I have so many ideas about the different meanings I have taken away from it. I am working on an essay about all that as well as a list of the books I've been reading lately but a few minutes ago the title (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter) inspired me to write out a rough draft of a poem. Keep in mind this is unedited and I had lots of thoughts that the title conjured up for me swirling in my mind: the Hunter Orion, Valentine's Day, the literary devices used in daily conversation so that they are beyond cliche of mind and heart and what it means to have a broken heart and how this is not seen to be as serious yet matey effect our lives longer than what we call a “mental” (aka mind) break(down) and how does one effect the other as well as the two categories of mental breakdowns:Neurotic (in touch with reality, generally non-violent, associated with the feminine, anxiety, depression, anger turned inward, self-harm) and Psychotic (out of touch with reality, often violent, associated with the masculine, rage, paranoia, hallucinations/delusions, anger turned outward, violence towards others). So a rough draft:

These tomes read like

Tomb-stones etchings in

Sunshine fields held up to light:

An X-ray of hours and days.

The heart is a lonely Hunter

Perched hidden huddled in his blind

Was that what Orion was after

All this time?

 

The mind can rest,

Can wander,

Can dream

But the heart must stay inside

Here in the chest

And beat

And beat.

 

When a girl's heart

Breaks too easily

Too often clumsily messily

Her mind is said to

Follow and she is Neurotic.

When a boy's heart

Makes his cry and

Rage kick break his toys

The expression on his

Face is now Psychotic.

 

And us who wander through the remnants

Of smashed dreams pretty graveyards glass like

Glitter in crime scenes and let

Our hearts and minds bleed alone inside

Heads notebooks nightmares locked rooms privately we

Are known as Callous Empty Apethetic Vapid.

Yet in our youth

We were known as Wise Passionate Old-Souled.

Each year we live past that of

Precocious we are Broken

Hollowed out then

Filled with stories never

Uttered or forgotten

With a truth we have known

Always.

It is this they can see.

 

Our hearts stay lonely, broken for ourselves

Breaking for you.

Yet they beat still, and always.

No one guesses when we close our

Eyes in our cold empty sterile beds,

The beats they echo in our ears like thunder.

They beat the rhythm of the lonely

Of the hopeful

Of the Hunter.

 

Relevant Constructive criticism/suggestions/comments are always welcome. Hopefully I posted this right!