You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Confession’ category.

I’d forgotten how hard blogs are. There’s a story to tell and I keep thinking it’s about Nepal. I should be writing about Nepal. I am supposed to be writing The Nepal Story, after all. So, why can I not write about Nepal?

Dramatic sigh.

I was once told by my mentor to trust my instincts when piecing a narrative together, meaning I shouldn’t be so arrogant as to think I can manhandle an experience if I don’t let it unfold. My story hasn’t even unfolded yet. I want to write a redemption story that hasn’t happened, so it’s no wonder I can’t write about it. Truth be told, mine is probably not a redemption story anyway. Deep down, I know Nepal as a requisite transformative experience will be dark because, when reduced to its smallest divisible parts, Nepal is all in my head.

And there’s a writer in there, too, who refuses to shut the hell up.

From a distance, a shadowed mirage is waving at me like a summer heat reflection on hot pavement and this passage comes back to me:

         Despite our best intentions, we forget the dead.
         Do they forget us?                                  Jane Summer, “Erebus”

So. Leigh “Bindo” Binder*, if you refuse to die, I’ll just have to kill you off in a mediocre poem that’s an apology as much as a lament.

Sleeping Beauty
When the stem drooped and the petals died,
I slept
Sleeping beauty sleep

I awoke to gold
Light too bright
You offered me a dim corner

You and I shared caramelized melancholy
Like cotton candy
Adolescent sweetness, the things that grew in our heads

Restless dreams like your cigarette smoke
From a few thousand miles away
Choke me awake

Weighed together like stone
Bound and pull down like some English great, we weren’t built for this life
But mostly: Have we lived our eternity?

 

*Leigh Binder was a friend and fellow writer, who died two years ago leaving only his writing and YouTube videos (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-43KL2khFHhJ-LmRqA-y2A) to haunt me.

I’m dead with dying
There is an eye I refuse to catch

I was born with knowing
I look and I listen and I discern
I know

You’ve caught my eye
I’m not God
But I know

Tell me everything
The bile and the filth and the worst, pour it
All that will be left will be left behind
Listen to my knowing

Let me catch your eye
My knowing is a reflection
There’s no dream I can’t decipher
I simply know
You tell me what’s the matter
And that’s what’s the matter
A reflection
through kinder eyes than you can’t bear to see
This is my knowing

I was born in January
I am dead with dying
There’s an eye I refuse to catch

It’s the eye of a child
Who won’t let me see
Something terrible happened
Something awful and humiliating
Something that drained my blood from my face my screams from my throat my heart from my chest and
Something that puddled my potty down my leg and between my toes
Something terrible
And I don’t know
Something terrible
And I don’t know

Hollow now
I won’t catch my blue eye that eyes me in the mirror

I was a child born dead with knowing
It was January
It was cold something terrible
Something terrible
And I don’t know

This Medicated Lady is thinking irrationally again.

Irrational because.
I’ve been considering a diet consisting only of those flavored ice pops
especially the blue ones
the ones I like the least

Irrational because.
No one but me looks forward to a psychotic break

Irrational because.
It occurred to me that I’m tired of being medicated
tired of being in need of medication
tired of being in need
tired of being

Irrational because.
Right is what’s right
right as opposed to wrong
right as opposed to left
right as opposed to write
write as opposed to rite

Irrational because.
It makes sense.

Irrational because.

I take a break from my guilt

A night of fun with my unrequited love

He’s unrequited but not really my love

I need him for much bigger things

Bob Seger’s voice haunts

Somewhere tonight someone’s thinking back to someone who got closer

 

I try hard to concentrate

this song is about me

this song is about my love life

this song is about my woe

 

Only I don’t believe myself

I believe in the tears I feel dripping from my chin

and the sound of my ugly cry noises

 

Someone’s not quite sad, only disbelieving

 

This is not about her

it is not about her

it’s not about her

She’s not being sung about

this song is not about her

except that it is

 

it’s a song about her absence

 

Somewhere tonight

any number of things are happening

but she isn’t

she’s not happening, she’s happened

He asks

wanna cuddle

Of course I do. Of course. The only problem is the STDs floating around, the serial killers lurking about, my (in)sanity, and the facts being what they are. Fact: I have never heard the sound of his voice. Fact: I asked if he had a good weekend and his reply was “not bad.” Fact: I told him I couldn’t cuddle because I was a good girl. Fact: I think I lied.

 

No can do

I said

Good girl here

I am not a whore. I was a virgin until I was 29, and I do not kid. I just never wanted to make love or fuck. But then the switch was flipped. And now it’s Two. One that didn’t matter. One that shouldn’t have mattered but did.  He could’ve been Three.

 

He laughed it off

haha…I tried

Of course he did. Why shouldn’t he? I was mainly amused, but now I’m not. I think it’s because I lied. I can’t cuddle because I’m cold. I can’t cuddle because I’m a sad girl. I can’t cuddle because he doesn’t really want to cuddle. I can’t cuddle because cuddle is code for fuck and I’m tired of being fucked.

A secret thought

I would have followed through

smile on my lips

but alas I missed the exit

again

He was dangerous. A naked middle-aged man except for the leopard underwear. Not boxers, briefs, tight briefs. He was drunk and yelling and screaming at my friend, stomping around, dick flailing about. He ordered her out of the room, to talk to her mother.

 

So he was in the room with me.

I was maybe 13.

 

I guess it’s not molestation. Indecent, yes. I was sitting in bed. I just wanted to go to sleep. He sat by me. I made sure to cover myself up with the sheet. I felt my heart beating, and rising panic in my throat. He pulled the sheet away and said I didn’t have to be shy.

 

And then I was looking at the two of us from a distance. He didn’t touch me. He rambled on, my friend came back. There was more yelling and then sleep.

 

He didn’t touch me, as if I’m defending him. He didn’t touch me, as if it doesn’t matter that he was clearly interested in fucking a barely-teenage girl. He didn’t touch me, but only now can I acknowledge he didn’t have to. 

Come.

Die with me a little.

 

The lampshade was tilted

at an acute angle

so that the glare of humiliation was undeniable.

 

I talked to a Potential Suitor (PS) last night. He works with the elderly, who tell him their secrets. An elderly gentleman told him how, at night, he kept his door unlocked at the nursing home in order to satisfy the womenfolk. He informed PS he had a different women every night. I laughed.

 

Other conversation ensued.

 

And then.

 

PS: I want to be one of those old men driving around in a convertible with a lot of gold chains and checkered socks.

ML: Ha. You’re going to keep your door unlocked and keep the ladies coming. (A horrified realization of my unfortunate choice of words and awkward pause…because clearly he heard it, too, and knew what I had just said and was unsure how to take it.) Ur, I mean, keep them coming in your room at night. (Oh Dear Lord, shut up, ABORT, ABORT!!! Say something else!) Ur, I really like a good pair of white socks.

 

Ah, death comes in tiny spurts.

I’m pretty sure my shit smells worse than yours.

 

My friend said she didn’t want to be that girl. I told her not to worry, I had been that girl undercover for years. A few days later, I decided to try bulimia out again for shit’s sake (literally). I only tried it a couple of times before, gagging myself with nothing to show for it but the aching aftermath of dry heaving. But it’s years later and I realize I never gave bulimia a fair shake (make that shit).

 

It’s a matter of developing a balanced diet of disease. I’ve always been able to binge. Although I haven’t been doing it of late. I say purging is better for strict weight loss; otherwise, you are just neutralizing the Burger King.

 

It’s okay: tell me how wrong it is, but know that no other thought seemed as brilliant as taking two laxatives in the late afternoon and then two more later, before bed, and swigging it down with pure acid (Coke Zero).

 

In hindsight (do the puns ever stop?), running (another one!!) to the bathroom at 10, 3, and 5 during sleep time is not exactly fun. My stomach gurgled for hours. It sounded like Charlotte’s Montezuma’s Revenge that caused her to shat on herself in the Sex in the City movie. It didn’t end up being that bad, but it was not pleasant.

 

Am I really advocating an eating disorder and giving how-to’s? Give me a break. My epiphany: It’s always better to hug it out than shit it out.

Listen

I’m tired of her

I’m tired of hearing her

I’m tired of seeing her

 

Since she’s on her way to good health

or on her way to not-so-bad health

 

Her complaining and her refusals

are symptoms of a petulant child

I have no patience for

 

Since she’s going anyway

I wish her gone already

SOB with me

Blog Stats

  • 29,017 hits

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 48 other followers

EMAIL ME

at MedicatedLady@yahoo.com, loria29@gmail.com Or Facebook Me: www.facebook.com/loriataylor3

CopyScape

Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape
%d bloggers like this: