Today, another email from A. She wants me to talk to her. Reach out. I don’t. I can’t. What could I possibly say?
I want to email her and say I’m quitting therapy. But that would just prompt more concern, more attention, more attempts at conversation. I can’t. I can’t talk. Not right now. What would I say? I don’t know what there is to say because nothing makes sense anymore. My head is a mess. There is nothing in my head–silence. At the same time, there is everything in my head. I know that doesn’t make sense. I can’t make sense. I can’t explain myself. There’s nothing to make sense of.
I can’t focus on anything. Can’t think. I’m restless; nothing holds my attention. All I want to do is get out of my head, but it’s impossible. There’s no way out, short of dying. Still too much guilt for that, but eventually I’ll get angry that all that shit is holding me here, and the anger will overcome the guilt. That’s how it works. That’s always how it works. I wish someone else would kill me. That way, no guilt.
My bipolar friend keeps telling me to go to the hospital, and I want to scream and shake her. Why the fuck would I go to the hospital? What could they do for me? What would they do to me? Lock me up, shame me, treat me like something less than a person, shove pills down my throat that don’t help, and eventually send me right back out into the same shitty situation I was in already. Only then I’d be worse because O HAI PTSD. I was physically and sexually assaulted in a hospital. I’ve been dehumanized in hospitals. All they do is compound the traumas even further. Why the fuck would I do that? What exactly would it change? How the hell would it help? There is no help.
Gretel in Darkness
This is the world we wanted.
All who would have seen us dead
are dead. I hear the witch’s cry
break in the moonlight through a sheet
of sugar: God rewards.
Her tongue shrivels into gas….
Now, far from women’s arms
and memory of women, in our father’s hut
we sleep, are never hungry.
Why do I not forget?
My father bars the door, bars harm
from this house, and it is years.
No one remembers. Even you, my brother,
summer afternoons you look at me as if
you meant to leave,
as though it never happened.
But I killed for you. I see armed firs,
the spires of that gleaming kiln–
Nights I turn to you to hold me
but you are not there.
Am I alone? Spies
hiss in the stillness, Hansel,
we are there still and it is real, real,
that black forest and the fire in earnest.
–Louise Gluck, from The House on Marshland