thunder dulled, westshore expressway
one of my favorite memories of being a child is being in the car in the rain (i was always in the backseat, carried between new jersey and staten island), hearing the boom of long-haul trucks, the rapping of windshield wipers, the thin trickle of sky water over the phthalo green ford escort. it was the greatest comfort i knew. i dreamed of rain moving 70 miles per hour.
i learned early how to remake it. in the shower, i cover my ears and press with all my strength. i make a low, steady growl, like thunder dulled by cheap glass. i rock back and forth into a pile of shampoo bottles on the shower floor — the clicking of turn signals, windshield wipers, my mother’s chewing gum, all of it returning to me in small, plastic patterns while hard water falls to my head.
when the world feels too sharp, i build weather inside my own head. i press until the sound becomes distance. i make motion where there is none. somewhere between new jersey and staten island, between thunder and glass, i am still in the backseat — not because i never learned to steer but because survival is letting the storm carry you. and if you listen closely enough you realize you are not being carried at all.
i bring my own rain, mumbling, pulling from fantasies even when i am dry to swallow.
one year in berlin
I haven’t shed a tear in years. When the weight of that becomes too much to swallow, I try to make myself cry. I remember that immaculate feeling — how everything would shine afterward, how everything would leave with a silent and silvery goodbye.
My only therapist is my psychiatrist. I speak to her internationally on the phone. Someone else picks up my meds, so that another person can pick those meds up, and finally bring them to me.
Maybe next visit, I’ll tell her I miss crying.
I’m okay. I’m fine. But I just feel like I’d be better if I could cry — physically, fully, freely.
Before medication, I used to cry maybe two, sometimes four times a day. Maybe that’s what I’m chasing — that kind of release. That could be a door, no?
Or maybe it’s not that I need to cry — maybe it’s that my current damming is creating this need to blame my inability to move forward on the fact that I can’t cry. Maybe it’s just another way I’m trying to make sense of the stuckness.
