4.30.23 + 11:33 PM

MY APRIL RECAP

i became no one, and like a stillborn, i did not scream as i was pushed out of the soft and red and warm cradle, and into coldness again. but, it does not stir me.
this month, i went on a trip to Quebec, and Montreal. it was long, and miserable, but i did have one wonderful moment, seeing the Notre-Dame Basilica of Montreal. i prayed and sobbed, and wept senselessly for help. most of this month was spent crying at night, tears like little swan calls faset into my face, cutting me open. every night in worship, in wishing, in praying for help, i cried all over myself meaninglessly. work means nothing, i no longer feel as if i have any sort of loyalty to any person, i understand now at least, that there is a secret hatred, or secret stupidity that i am. which i already knew, but did not know the extent of how much it had woven and drunk over people i thought i had a good standing with. therapy is miserable over the phone. this month i tried to buy a "secure attachment" workbook journal, and in trying to write down at least 3 adjectives or words to describe my "careg*v*rs" growing up, i ripped up the pages in anger and broke the pencil, stabbing it into the meat of the book in white hot anger. i don't remember anything.

my birthday has already gone and past, and it is not like last year i had a good one, but this year it was especially strange. i feel like everything is repeating on a different piano, and i am suffocated and cold all over my body again, in the way turkey or cold cuts are in the meat case. purple and soft and squishy in rot. no matter what good happens, equally, i feel like the little baby i felt of attachment and connection and some sort of frankenstein love to other people turns septic and i go into shock. whatever was growing and healing inside me is dead again. it does not seem to matter.

i want to get published this year. i was close last year, i just need to try again. i want ambition and inspiration, but it seems my brain was wired instead to hate being alive, and have absolute disdain for its own consciousness, and that is all of the electricity in it; my want for ambition and inspiration is more of an 'i must', instead of an 'i want. it is saying, 'i must do something because i am not dead'.

i will hope to read, to write, and to become capable. i will hope to have divinity, serenity, and soft thunder sweep upon me. bright grass, and the cold of sitting on a swingset until the sirens stop screaming, when the world is rich, dirt is coffee, the sky is full of bats, and it is warm and cold at the same time. despite it, i am enduring, whether i want to or not. so, life continues.

i will be hoping to write, one good manuscript, an hour or two of reading time. or i will hope to accomplish some poetry. that is my goal. spring is here.