Trapped On The Inside

Does everyone have a soulmate?

Is that why I feel so alone?  This emptiness is heavy. How can a feeling of nothingness feel so full that my heart just might fall through me onto the floor?  I cannot recall a time when I physically felt my heart hurt.  Not like the interpretation of ‘heartache’ expressed in cinema, or the word we attach to a feeling so carelessly at times, but an actual affliction of soreness and throbbing.  The discomfort that not even a handfull of percocet can relieve. 

Alone and heavy hearted.

Why does everyone die?

Literally and figuratively.

On the bathroom floor and in my mind.

There is no one to talk to.  Only this paper carries my burden. I can see it, but I can’t do it.  I’m so tired.

Is it the end or just the beginning?

Either way it’s going to hurt.

Your voice was the only voice I could bear to hear screaming.  Because it was beautiful.

How do I put the million little pieces together to tell my story?

You need to know.

My mind is so undone I cannot form the words.  Is that what breeds the pain?  The inability to form words the heart is trying to scream, but they remain trapped.  Is that why the lyrics of a song have the power to unravel me into a puddle where the million litte pieces seem impossible to reassemble?  A puddle I’ve been trying not to drown in as long as I’ve been alive. This is where I live.  A house overflowing with words because I cannot get them out for a normal person to decode. 

The house where the locks are on the inside. 

At least I can write all over the walls.

And my words no one can paint over.


Just a Thought

Upon waking this morning I touched my face and realized it is one of the few things we cannot see on our bodies; unless of course we look at it through the reflection of a mirror. It is however, the first thing people look at when they see us. Just a thought. A bit disturbing.

Remember Me


She was phenomenal in every way,

Yet unsure of how to accept a compliment.

Her beauty was captivating.

However, her shame blinded her from seeing her true reflection.

She wrestled with her obsession to scrub and organize her surroundings,

Always in an attempt to face her own neurosis.

Her thoughts are what killed her, you know.

She grappled with them through every second of daylight.

And she bantered with them not to lead her into the darkness at night when she closed her eyes.

Like a babe in the woods, she latched onto her thoughts as they became vultures with talons, not realizing their intention to ruin and deprave her soul.

With severed legs, she could not run.

With a torn and fragmented heart, she could not feel.

This extraordinary woman, lost in her own despair, sincerely could not find her way out.

She had become so addicted to wandering into the desolate closets of her mind, she knew that leaving bread crumbs would help her come back…

But the vultures pulled and tugged at the small thread of lucidity she held onto until she could not feel at all…

All of the small things mattered a bit too much.

The distractions of her worried mind.

Sadness disabled her heavy eyes from searching around to see the beauty of the world.

Just as often, she failed to look around to notice the charm of her little ones.

From time to time she caught glimpses of their joy, and at times their afflictions.

These moments were when the urgency to stay alive kicked in.

This rare and remarkable woman travailed until she grew weary.

Her body never gave up, but the venomous thoughts caused her mind to wither away.

This woman prevailed exquisite and admirable.

Yet, she did not know this to be true of herself.

This woman loved you enough to stay alive as long as she could.

She had to let go.

This phenomenal woman was your mother.




You are not what you have done.

Nor are you the result of what’s been done to you.

You are an angel.

You are not the beer bottles lined up against the wall from the night before.

You are not the empty wrappers in the garbage.

You are not the empty containers left on the kitchen counter.

You wish you could remember before you see it.

The rubble.

But it doesn’t work that way.

The black out begins at the first sip.

It ends after the last bite.

The fog is thick when you open your eyes.

Here comes the shame.

It is heavy.


Your true self is buried underneath what you see in the mirror.

You are not your gray hairs.

You are not your stretch marks.

You are beautiful to everyone, why not yourself?

An invisible string attaches the head to the heart.

Yours has been severed.

When you feel your heart, you over think.

When you think, your heart gets in the way.

You are not your identity crisis.

You are simply awaiting to emerge.

struggle quote

Cheddar or Brie?


My only hope is that confusion is a prelude to clarity.

I find it unsettling.

The inability to simply sit and keep myself company.

It must require some kind of prerequisite upon entering maturity, like I forgot to check that box on the application for adulthood.

It must come natural to normal people.

Needless to say, I now have to work for it.

Recognizing a feeling.

It sounds so elementary, doesn’t it?

What is the difference between a thought and a feeling anyway?  It’s like a tomato.  According to experts, it is a fruit because it contains seeds?  But who eats them as fruit?  It’s a fucking vegetable. I don’t care what’s printed on the USDA sticker.  Eggs are in the Dairy section aren’t they? I always thought they were dairy.  I was wrong.

This shit is life shattering for some of us!

Silence is irritating. Unbearable. (not as disturbing as the dairy/veggie thing, but it’s a close second).

It is essential for me to have noise.

It quiets my voice, conveniently quieting my feelings.

And I am not referring to the music being just loud enough so people cannot hear me talk to myself.  I mean that I like the music, the TV, the fan, loud enough to distract me from myself.

No talking required.

I have discovered a parallel, or rather, a dichotomous struggle between feelings and consumption.

Consumption: the act of consuming, as by use, decay, or destruction.

That definition resonates with me.  It fits.  Like it’s the mold I left imprinted on my mother’s uterus on the way out. I could give lectures and presentations in prison about that word.

Feelings? I don’t know that definition yet.  But you’ll be the first to know when it knocks me upside the head.

Void of feelings, I quest to consume.

Over-stimulated, I self destruct.

My cup runneth over.  But with what?

The static I hear in my head?

Can I change to what’s behind door number two please?

If these are feelings, I don’t want them.

These inconveniences change faces just as quickly as my neat printing turns into creepy cursive, then abruptly changes to an indecipherable scribble.

Just as I struggle to read the very words I write… impregnated by reflection… birthed by my own brain, body, mind, and mouth…I struggle to catch my feelings, but as soon as I catch one it’s gone and another appears.


I feel like I am reaching up into the night sky trying to catch a shooting star.

But I am too late.  I keep missing them, the stars.

Oh wait. Are those feelings?  I know that one!  Shit.  It’s gone. I let it slip away.

I’ll sit and wait for the next one.

Unfortunately, there is no schedule for feelings. I am not a bench at a bus stop.

The next thought comes in the form of a dust bunny.

There are hundreds of them, running away from me, sliding across the hardwood, mocking me as I plunge and miss like I am playing whack a mole.

This is my head though, and whack a mole hurts!

I don’t think I could catch a feeling with hundred mouse traps.

I’d use the wrong cheese.

I would imagine their seduction to be  a mild cheddar, whereas I would foolishly lure them with a pungent brie.

The mouse traps would sit untouched, and my insides would become reduced to a rancid cavern.

Like the stale reek that slowly creeps its way under each bedroom door after a night of crack and cigarettes.

What can I consume?

What is left?


Expired Children’s Tylenol.

Stale donuts.

I find myself tearing my drawers apart, searching the cupboards.

I always stash my treasures…

So I can surprise myself later.

Like finding a $20 dollar bill in the jeans I haven’t worn in over a year.

Adding to my affliction, my hands come up empty.

No small round spheres, no little ovals with precious engravings, numbers that give me chills of excitement….

Vicodin. Percocet. Oxycodone.

Why the hell didn’t I save any?  I always try.  It never works.  I swallow them knowing I’ll need them later.

Welcome to the brain function of an addict.


Stripes and plaid.

Lawn chairs and SPF 7.

Size 6 jeans and Taco Trucks.

Driving to West Seattle with the gas light on.


I’m living on the edge now.

Is there a feeling describes that?

A word?

Fuck, I don’t know.


I search my bookshelves and forgotten 3 ring binders for that ‘feelings chart’ I know I have somewhere.

The one I received on my last day of treatment as I rolled my eyes and threw it aside.

You know that 8×10 piece of paper?

The one with the round faces and matching emotions stamped underneath?

They print those those out somewhere for people like me.

In some non-decorative office in the corner of a building in an industrial area.

You know those buildings with no name or logo?

Just a number for the postal service.

The placard next to the elevator would read… Headquarters “Survival For Dummies.” Suite 330.


If I could find where those feelings charts are made, I’d be okay.

My brain would be healed.

I’d keep one posted on the fridge.

I have seen them at normal people’s houses.

I guess it’s supposed to be funny for them, not a life or death implement.


Maybe I’ll keep one in my purse for emergencies.

And Ill keep the rest, a big stack, for consumption.

Remember that word?

I used to eat paper when I was a kid.

Didn’t we all?


This feels and sounds awkward to me.

I’m uncomfortable.

Hey wait.

Is that a feeling?

Does anyone have an emotions chart?

feelings chart