I woke at 3 am like I do every God-forsaken morning. I am kidding. I like being up at this hour. I like singing on my ukulele as the sun rises. I was looking for the chords to The Drugs Don't Work by The Verve when I bumped into another page. My inspiration book comes with me everywhere. It's been ten years of writing articles that I'm paid generously to write, one book that was published (that all I see are flaws in), and then about ten other books that no one (probably) will ever see. A woman loses her inspiration after a while. So my book, comes everywhere with me, AND I have about 10-15 of them. There is usually one favorite at a time. I don't carry a library with me.
Anyway.I was looking for the chords and I bumped into another page. The words, grabbed me at first. I didn't know why or who. My cognition is being swept away by ten years with multiple sclerosis. I practice instruments, do brain games etc. My memory is still shot.
The one thing I ALWAYS know is that there's always a "who". God put me here for human connection and I am so deeply connected to others, that it's almost a problem. Whatever someone chooses, my heart pays a consequence. Especially, when you love so hard and their choice is suicide. I don't really know how to circumvent that, build a fort and live at the base of it - I pretty much just listen to sad songs for hours and hours in the wee hours of the morning until my husband gently puts his hands on my shoulders and asks me to stop hurting myself. Sidenote: when it comes to clinical depression - I don't know how much of a choice it is. When depression takes hold, to wriggle yourself free can be nearly impossible. I don't believe he thought of this as a choice.
A record can spin like a blade to me. They leave me bleeding. Maybe I like the idea that I am sacrificing something of myself for them? I am my own masochist. Music is so carefully discerned and chosen. It isn't "light" to me. It's heavy, and it can be deadly. A psychic once told me that, and she's probably the only psychic I ever believed because she saw me in my office for hours at crazy times, listening to sad songs and crying.
She told me I needed to stop, or I too become ghost-like.
I was born mourning. Truly. I've always had this huge amount of empathy and love in my chest, non-discerning, and maybe God wants it there, but it's been such a bitch to carry, and so very hard for me to get up sometimes. People always focus on my multiple sclerosis. Physically, it has been easier to get up from MS than such losses. Without my husband's gentle touch on my shoulders, his eye-contact, I don't know if I'd still be on the ground from my twenties.
I just found this. It is for Scott. I have no recollection of writing it. If you are hurting and wanting to hurt yourself - God I beg you, go to bed. Wait 'til morning. The head is a bit more clear, and talk to someone, anyone. Call a hotline. Or, just drive yourself to a hospital. If you just hold on...it does get better. I know for certain. Scott may feel nothing right now, he may feel eternal peace. But I, have never gotten "better" or recovered. And it sucks.
The truth is, depression sucks. I'd rather he be better. That said, it still hurts and music still grips me for hours while I wonder where such a light can possibly go. He is not dim. Even an ocean can't swallow something that radiant.
Frightened Rabbits and the Undertoe
Peace is a tear in my eye. Hate is some tattered tear in my second-hand heart. Or tare. Some counterweight to conclude I am barely there without you. I used to think they were world's apart, but I'm not so sure anymore.
It's just the difference before the peaceful shoreline and a raging shore. Wrinkling toes and a wave that drowns you. One is sand castles washed away like mandalas and the other is death. A fine, gentle line between.
Stitched up, you can see the seams where you tore me open when you decided to sacrifice yourself in the ocean. There's no reason you should've been thinking of me or my skin, anyway. Just wish you could've processed the skin you were in, how lovely it had been, for the most part. The alcohol was never kind. But it never touched your kindness or your fingers.
Sometimes I wonder how arrogant we must be to think the gods want us. It's arrogance or sickness. Maybe they are one in the same. But God bless you in your self-deprecating name. You were something else. More than that.
My heart goes back to, "I want him...here." And for a millisecond I am faithless. I put my cross down, close my eyes, and wrap my arms around your chest. Must pick it up again and go forward. Someday, someday.
I will feel this less. I hold out hope for that day.
I'm trying to shake the hands of "karma", forgiving you.
Knowing full well, karma doesn't "get" the things we do...to ourselves.
Sweating, your most beautiful melodies played, tipping your hate for yourself. You were always gracious about your talent. Open about this self-hate. If she would've stayed. If LA was kinder? You'd love yourself then? Not sure I believe in Karma anymore.
I just know my heart, sleeps at your mother's door, trying to hear a heartbeat. Making sure she's okay. Of course she isn't. My sleep there is fruitless. But the empathy in my chest will never leave. It lays there with a Scottish accent, always listening.
Sometimes I swear I can taste the spit of your mic. You ranted and raved how you were nothing. I finished your sentence inside my head...,"But loved. You are nothing, but so very loved."
And I am a simple woman who will never understand why that was never enough. So I keep spinning your music, looking for answers and bleeding willingly, feeling your depths, waiting for my husband to knock on the door and save me from jumping too.
You were my idol, but Scott...I can't be like you. It's a terrible thing to say, and needing to say it just pulls me under.
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