Prisoner

Prisoner
In my room, prisoner to the people in my home I often need to avoid. The brother that no longer scares me still bores me to tears. He annoys me and that is more than enough reason to stay out of any room he is in. I can’t stand to be near him sometimes. He is such an asshole. The mother that asks again and again the same question, “Are you ok?” I don’t answer, or I say I am fine to give her the definite impression I do not want to discuss my feelings with her. Frustration at her makes me stay in my room to avoid snapping at her. So I am prisoner to them, or my avoidance of them.

In my room, prisoner to the need to organize, I am obsessed with getting the room clean and in a state that will make the woman I have been dating feel comfortable staying here with me occasionally. I have, with her help, picked up the worst of the awful trash that was an outward expression of the inner turmoil. Inner turmoil tamed by a new medication, I am ready to live in a cleaner environment. I have cleaned up the piles of my things we created when we removed the trash. I have removed every last thing from each drawer, thrown out what needs to go, and reorganized everything in neat orderly fashion. I have reorganized my closet so that my clothes are in the order I want them to be in, sweeping away the vestiges of having made a mess of things to accommodate the deadbeat I shared my room with for a few months. I have pulled out all of my shoes and straightened them into pairs, OMG. I never pair up my shoes. I am thrilled at the results.

In my room, prisoner to the computer that I do my writing on, because I write daily, I must write or the day is incomplete. I write; emails, poems, rants, and more. I play my scrabble games. I check email compulsively numerous times a day. I read Facebook comments and messages. I am in touch with so many I have lost, and lost a few I have been close to. I sit at my desk to write during the day. Only at night do I bring my laptop to the bed to write some more.

In my room, prisoner to the mound of laundry, I wash, fold, and put away every article of dirty clothes. I work on the book I made for her birthday. I type more quotes to put into it. I carefully place the stickers here and there. I leave much room for her to write in her own comments and feelings. The book will be partially blank so that she can finish it herself.

In my room, prisoner to my thoughts, which whirl about, taking every wrong turn, and yet seemingly ending up at the right destination anyway. I think I am chasing, so I talk to her and say it is not what I want to do, but I guess she didn’t hear the part about it is not what I want to do. I think I am losing her, and I fear. I twist my mind into knots worrying and wondering. She sends me an email, and in it are conflicting messages. She isn’t ready for a relationship; she isn’t in love with me. But also she likes me a lot, adores me. Now I don’t know if I am going to be dumped or just told to slow down. I don’t know if she is going to greet me with a kiss and a hug, or a bag full of the things I have left there. I think and I worry. I twist everything into the worst possible case scenarios. I will not stop twisting and turning in the wind until I hear from her again.

In my room, this is my place to be myself. This blank white page on which I pour out my heart and soul is a place to be myself. When I am with her, I try to be myself. But it is here, in writing that I am most myself, most at home. I cannot ever get all of what I know in my head and heart out onto the page, the day I do is the day I die.

In my room, I am prisoner to the thoughts of darkness that tell me that mourning two children on April 27th would be not so different than mourning only one. The dark thoughts creep about, trying to take hold; I fight. I am not willing to dwell in the land of darkness today. I am not going to die any time soon unless there is some accident. I have the means. I have the time. I can leave this world by my own hand and in my own time any time I want to. I am choosing not to do this. I am choosing to live in the now and instead of running from my past. Running from my past is part of what has held it in front of me so much.

In my room, I write this. I write all of my feelings and all of my woes. I write so that when I scream in the darkness, I am not alone, someone will hear me. I make calls. I do whatever I need to do. Today was a shit day. I feel like I am relapsing with my bronchitis. I got dumped by the Department of Rehabilitation. I get no more job help, but then they didn’t help much. I get no more help getting more education. I avoid my graduate school application because I am still much more interested in doing the writing then learning about it. I want to find a way to get two degrees at the same time. I want to go live on campus. I want to move out of this room and this apartment. Living here is not like renting a room because the people I live with are family, and therefore twice as annoying as the most annoying roommate.

In my room, I am goddess and creator. I have much to teach, much more to learn.

At last, in my room, I am sleepy. I will take my meds and go to sleep.

Perhaps now, in my room, I will sleep without dangerous dreams.

Maybe this time.