The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables - said if I could get down 13 turnips a day, I would be grounded, rooted; said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.
The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight - said for twenty dollars she would tell me what to do. I hand her the twenty and she says, ‘Stop worrying, darling, you will find a good man soon.’
The first psychotherapist said I should spend three hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged. I tried it once, but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.
The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth, said to focus on the out breaths, said everyone finds happiness if they can care more about what they give than what they get.
The pharmacist said klonopin, amyctyl, lithium, xanax.
The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me forget what the trauma said.
The trauma said, 'Don’t write this poem. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.’
But my bones said, 'Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.’ My bones said, 'Write the poem for the lamplight considering the riverbank; for the chandelier of your faith, hanging by a thread; to every day you cannot get out of bed; to the bulls-eye of your wrist; to anyone who has ever wanted to die.’
I have been told sometimes, the most healing thing we can do is remind ourselves over and over and over, 'Other people feel this too.’
To tomorrow that has come and gone, and it has not gotten better; when you are half-finished writing that letter to your mother that says, 'I swear to god, I tried, but when I thought I’d hit Batham it started hitting back.’
There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into the spines.
So let me tell you, I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets while you break down, like the doors of their looted buildings.
You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame. You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy.
I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth for the red cape inside.
Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside.
Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter on a falling house, but my hands are always holding tight to the rip cord of believing a life could be rich like the soil, can make food of decay, turn wound into highway. Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says, 'It is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society.’
I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bowl of my spine the way I trust the ones who come undone at the throat, screaming for their pulse to find the fight to pound.
Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge, I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town, calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down.
What I know about living is the pain is never just ours. Every time I hurt, I know the wound is an echo, so I keep listening for the moment when the grief becomes a window; when I can see what I couldn’t see before through the glass of my most battered dream.
I watched a dandelion lose it’s mind in the wind, and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.
So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in. Just say, 'Here we are, together at the window, aching for it to all get better, but knowing there is a chance our hearts may have only just skinned their knees; knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming.’
Let me say right now for the record, I am still going to be here, asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet.
You, you stay here with me, okay? You stay here with me, raising your fight against the bitter dock, your breath longing, your brilliant fists of love striking.
The only thing we have to gain in staying is each other.
My god, that is plenty. My god, that is enough. My god, that is so so much for the life to give.
Each of us at each other’s backs, whispering over and over and over, 'Live. Live. Live.