
the word of god


Hope is scrappy
and
hope is nebulous.
You can think
you’ve got
your fingers
around it
and then
get the
wind knocked out
of you,
and then
ultimately
later find
that others
were holding
hope
for you.
There is,
however,
a limited
certain number
of times
that someone
can be kicked
before they
make a decision
about it.
Continuing to
get kicked
is the result
of inaction.
Maybe you
never asked
to be
in this ring.
Still gotta
make
that
decision.
I have learned
in my twenty plus years
of craving to die
that hope is non-optional
but on this very day
one that will live
in infamy
hope tastes just
like ash in my mouth
I don’t get to engage in life honestly,
like that somewhere out there
normal person who gets up
and stretches, yawns
and starts their day.
I’m so jet lagged.
I am paying penance
at the cellular level.
My bones ache,
my nerves
tingle
twitch
or
scream.
The body I
carry, the one that
I’m schlepping around
was there for every last injury
that I inflicted on myself in distress.
Although some on purpose cuts were made
most of my sins were chemical, only some
ever verging on the side of surgical
a little handful of pills, as a treat
a little dance with alcohol
a half pound vial
of ancient
vintage
dental murcury
solid thick glass
sturdy heavy liquid
it moves like it had its own
intent and willingness to slide
eagerly straight down the gullet
I feel like I am a reanimated corpse.
and I’m also not sure if that’s not indeed factual
Perhaps it is because the meat bears the heavy load
of the whole history of the ways I’m trying to
destroy myself and all the ways that
I continue to destroy myself.
I know my sins and I
pay the price
in taut
sinew.
My muscles
hold the memory
of impacts, physics
colliding me in those crashes
my hips hold the tension memory of rapes.
I know for sure that the body keeps the score,
I even went on to read his textbook.
I show up every morning
in recovery and it
doesn’t feel
like
it’s
work
but it’s hard
and heavy on the soul
and boring to slog through
and growing, but ultimately slow.
You have to be so consistent with it,
The only work ethic I even have
is for art that I don’t even sell.
I have a few rules down pat.
Things happen in silence.
But I know one thing.
Finding a person
to be pushing your buttons?
Ask who installed them.
I cannot grasp
the depth of you
but I so
delight
in tasting
the physics
of its viscosity,
a child
eagerly
pulling
their chilled hand
in from
where it had been
dancing
on air currents
through expressways,
I cannot understand you
the same way
that a bug
does not understand
the
enormous
human
endeavor
of automobiles
and highway construction
or the change
in the eddies
that presents them
face first
with mirrored glass,
I am temporal,
weak,
fallible,
splat,
and incapable most of all,
incapable of
perceiving your reality,
try as I may
to veil my gnostic turpitude,
I am seen
as I am
and
yet
somehow
unimprisoned,
I did not
before this
know
that love letters
could be written
by the craving
to share
Russian fiction,
please keep
bringing me morsels
my darling,
pull them up
from the nets,
the worthy nuggets
most honest,
that you sail
the tumultuous seascape
of your skull cage
to collect,
while I titter
and bask
and slap
at the tide pool
that I have access to
and play
at being
a toddler philosopher
just beginning
to understand
the meaning
of wet.
For #gish item #158 and #disabilitypride we were asked to make a portrait of a disabled person out of something representing their contributions.
I made this piece in honor of Marsha Linehan, the woman who has saved my life and many others with her creation of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy as a method to treat Borderline Personality Disorder, a disorder that she shares with her patients. It is made with quotes from her textbook and DBT skills.
When it comes to explaining art, especially if it is fairly plain, you always get the question “how do you know when it’s done?”
Of course, it’s never done. No such thing.
But this comes from a basic flaw in understanding the artistic process.
Artists just fix the most wrong thing they can currently see. Then the next most wrong thing they see after that. So it’s an easy assumption to make that by improving the amount and type of flaws an artist can see, they would improve substantially.
But it’s not as if the painting has a certain number of flaws and after each one, check mark that part is done. Because every line and color that gets adjusted changes how the eye perceives. And the more flaws that you are attempting to rework at the same time, the more likely you are to become demotivated and just give up.
This is a perfect metaphor for the process of growth through DBT. Thesis and antithesis reaching synthesis. Followed by re-evaluation. Then do it again. You continue to fix the most wrong thing that you can see. Until… when?
Until the risk of exceeding the limit of your skills is greater than the reward of the fix you are trying to make. “If I push this further am I gonna ruin it?”
This is likely what people find most frustrating about the first line traditional therapies. The skill gap. Your ability to see flaws will improve before your ability to handle them does.
This is the opposite in DBT.
Your ability to see flaws and cognitive distortions improves as you begin using skills and gaining experience with them. It is only then then you begin making the connections as to the true sources and solutions of your behaviors.
Those connections may have only traumatized you if you were still functioning at the same level as before.
You need practice walking up to the line and knowing whether you can take another step or not and you cannot learn that academically.
You’re gonna ruin a lot of work. Eventually you tune in your sensitivity and awareness so you can spend more time in the safe zone of fixing things before you reach the limit of your skills. That’s when you can actually begin the real and profound work safely and know that wherever you end up going with it, you have the capability and control over what’s directly in front of you to be able to handle.
I had stopped making art for 10 years after a cruel drawing professor in college. I also was institutionalized 22 times during that decade. That part was more about identity. It was play that developed the confidence and learning that results in me now being introduced as an artist, and as the person that I’m actually comfortable living as day to day.
Practicing non-judgmentally which gives you the time and experience to develop your own meaningful conclusions, and improving your eye but not practicing systematically, will both allow you to improve. One has gotten you into a productive practice, though, and established a baseline, and done so without relying on installing a harsher critic.
I lived it before I became it.
And it is only now that I feel safe enough to go deeper.
But it is with a better understanding
And a better mindset.
And now… no one can take it away from me.
See I once thought that the goal was to get good at something.
Now I realize you only need to be good enough to fix your mistakes to be quite dangerous.
And you’re already ahead of everyone that’s not even trying.
But is this piece done?
Not if Marsha Linehan says it isn’t.
I’ll be fixing it up digitally to give away as a downloadable if she gives permission.
Today I saw the brain zapping technician that was my favorite, always the gentlest, most uplifting soul, at the pharmacy when I was picking up my meds. I got to tell her that I was doing better, that I was figuring it out. She smiled and asked for a hug and said “That’s why we do this.” I did tell her that ECT hadn’t been a good choice for me, that I didn’t have the adequate coping skills or experience with being happy or the inevitable huge difference that the eventual crash felt like compared to a depression when you were used to no more than “meh” normally. I told her that after my first suicide attempt, when they tried ECT again I lost 8 months of memory. She told me it wasn’t uncommon, and a number of patients coming out of depression feel weird and unable to tell if they’ll ever feel normal. We talked about institutionalization and crime and how we as a nation feel 4 years at a state hospital is too mean but we are totally okay with the resulting homelessness and prisons full of mentally ill. She made me promise that if I ever lost this hope again, that I’d “let them fight for me, because we’ve done it. We’ve made people better.”
I said, “yeah, hope is not the winning. Hope is the battle.”
“And we’ve already won the war. Anyways, I gotta get goin.”
I do not like that I noticed that the only thing in her hand was a fifth. I do not like that I worry about the drinking habits of people I haven’t seen in nearly a decade.
If I’m rubber
and you’re glue,
I think maybe
we need to look
a little deeper
at material properties
cuz it might be
more accurate
that I’m a
rare earth magnet
and you’re
austenetic stainless steel,
because
I’m strong
and shiny
and brittle
with a
secret core
that fragments
into shrapnel
and
you
were
never
all
that
magnetic
in
the
first
place.
Albert Ross
go ahead,
clutch
onto the
version of me
that you see
in your head.
the illness
of my
has-beens
and
human beans
is falling away
in my own.
I am re-making
my missed takes
in exciting
new ways.
you are wrong
and you
will flaunt your
wrongosity
with flags trailing
from tandem bikes
and flower crowns
and marching bands
stomping femininely.
the day
will come
when the
burden of
being wrong
will hang
from your neck
because the truth
will be evident,
marching into reality
day by day.
until then
you can
cling to
your version
of me,
like water
trailing through
my leg hair.