Isn’t unique.

My story isn’t unique.  They understand the struggle, the frustration, the doubt, the voice that yells and shuts you down.  The shakey limbs; unsteady; gelatinous.  They understand that those who don’t and haven’t experienced it don’t understand and this makes them feel victimized, this makes them feel weak, this makes them want to sleep through the day, or drink, or smoke, or shoot up, or watch TV, or eat, or starve, or cut; walk train tracks and wait for the rumbling buzz of an oncoming train; they may or may not step aside.  This makes them consider opportunities for dying in everything they see.  This makes them cry…sometimes suddenly.  This makes them feel as a shell of who they use to be.  This makes them tie a noose and check that the rope is taut, strong enough to hold them; carry them to darkness, stillness, quiet, peace.  This makes them climb and jump.  So many ways, are they all so carefully planned?  How much consideration for choosing life does there need to be to pull them through?  Let’s talk about this.  Let’s write about it.  Let’s invade mass media and curriculum and presidential speeches.  Let’s bring this to the forefront.  They may not understand the experience but they may begin to understand it if we talk about it.

Written Friday, 2.11.11.

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