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Mirror Uncovered 

April 9, 2017 makes it seven months.

Seven months from the time of your death and how long we existed together in time.

I don’t know how to let go, say goodbye.

But, as I move on, I have to let go of everything.  I am not the same woman.  Not just from Dysautonomia  (Yes, I’m altered for life, but I mean a completely different Soul).

April 10, 2016, I was destroyed.  Never to return. This change in my life shifted every fiber of my past, present, and disabled future.

Then, five months later, you die.  

Abandoned was the theme of 2016, and I can no longer drown here inside it.

So, my decisions to leave, become someone else is all I have left to say.

You took your own life, an act I have tried to conquer since I was seventeen.  And with all the loss I experienced before and after your death my Soul is gone.

I’m in complete darkness 

And that’s fine.
Pain of division is nothing
Joy of dissolution is everything

Mother of creation wait, embrace the souls of a lost world
Carry them away
Darkness negative receptive
Pour firmament between our waters
Separate the space
Mother of destruction wait with a belt of
Skulls strap me down
And send the ship away
Progress with the process, mine the souls
From their casts
Pour form and reshape’  Mudvayne 


*You would be so ashamed of where I am at. Giving in, tortured by someone else’s pain who sees me as a dishonest painful Woman, individual, Soul.

And as I uncover my mirror you know that’s Far from all truth.

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Original Post

March 30, 2016.

Preface:
I Began this opus in January.
I did not think I could write, even a paragraph.
This is not complete.
It never will
Be.

What do you call Self Destruction?
Is it distinction, misery, death, art?
Well, on March 30, 2015, my life ended.
Does that count?

It was a Monday, had a Job I loved, a new Career path for me as a Professor of Applied Mathematics.
As I was driving the 20 miles (one way) something was happening to me, my heart was racing, left arm going numb, right side of my being giving away.

I park the truck, and as I step down, I collapsed on the unpaved parkway.
I picked up my teacher belongings and somehow made my way through the Industrial site.

Sweat covering my eyes, I walk into my office as my Boss awaits our afternoon meeting.
I sit, what I didn’t know was Tachycardia pouring over my keyboard.
I think I’m having a Heart Attack.
I excuse myself.
Semi concsious, I find myself in the Womens bathroom stall, my body changing.
I couldn’t control my mind as my heart rate was killing me softly.
Waves of movements, time nauseating me.
I couldn’t move myself from this.
I kept telling my Soul, you have had 16 Surgeries, you were on Chemotherapy twice, move.
Instead, my life was ending.

I crept back to my Office, my Hipster Boss was waiting with a smile.
I can I tell her I’m dying and I have no fucking clue why.

I look at her, my fierce blue eyes weakened from the pain, I ask her quietly to find an Ambulance.

I change my mind, as her and my other Boss drive me to the local E.R.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, as I sat dying.
My male Boss in panic.
My female Boss calling my Mother.

I’m on the table, hard to breathe, and I hear:
‘Is there a chance your Pregnant? ‘

I wanted to yell
You fucking pig, do you know anything about the persistence of loss?
I watched the blood of my life spill onto my Parents bathroom floor when I was 17.
He was Mi Hijo, Juan Alejandro.
I then had a Total Abdominal Hysterectomy when I was 23.
I’m 34 now, do the math.

No. No, I am not Pregnant I hastily replied.

But, All I literally could think of was:

‘”So withdrawn and feeling numb
Watching life come all undone
My life
A disarray
And I
Fade away
I am down on my knees
Praying beyond belief
The silence deafens my ears
And welds the shackles
Onto my fears
I have lost all faith.'”
FF

Why is this happening to me again?
Hasn’t my body been through enough?

An Influenza Test, Chest X-Ray, Ultra Sound (All negative)
I was left with nothing, not even a Doctor to evaluate me.

2 days later, I was Inpatient.
5 MRIs, Multiple X-Rays, and Labs.

Nothing.

So, it was left to believe I was mentally unstable, dreaming all of this pain up.

The Neurologist assigned to my treatment actually told me
“It’s in your head. There’s nothing wrong with you. All the Tests came back Negative.”

This is a problem for me.

But, before I could state my case, a
Psychologist was standing at the foot of my hospital bed, with an Intern.

Dr. Razzouk.

He had my Medical Files from my Hematologist.

‘You have been through a lot. Your Medical Conditions are very serious and all of them together (12) must very difficult for you.
How do you cope?
What is going on now?’

I looked at him with all the pain I felt knowing damn well he had copies of my Sealed Medical Files, and I thought
this anyabaszó
as I kept my mouth shut.

In silence, in between, no one believed me (more tests, Neck Surgery for my Occipital Neuropathy, and E.R Visits), until
May 29, 2015, when Dr. Aguilar, a top Electrophysiology diagnosed me with
Dysautonomia.

Now.

It’s been almost a year.
They tell me, You will never be the same little girl.
I’m fading into a ghost of what was self.
No one hears me crying as the door locks. I’m supposed to be the forever Soldier beyond those walls that are crumbling.

Dysautonomia has left me disabled, hurt, dismantled, sick, alone.

Why?

image

You’ll never understand what it’s like to already be chronically ill, then even within all your life long medical suffering, you truly become a hostage in your own body.
I’ll never understand.

This is not a dream.
We are unable to transmit to your existence.
The interference is your health.
If you are receiving this, your soul is still running.
It recognizes you have never been defeated.
Our Broadcast
0 3 3 0 2 0 1 5
says your consciousness is fading away.
Disabled
Terminated.

Generation ?

As I finish yet another stressful service of emails and meetings, and watch my Hours dwindled once more, I think about a television series.

Thirtysomething.

I am in the  (very slow) process of re-viewing (again) the Series.  I’m paused on S1 EP8.

I connect with this show minus the reality of my current age when the Series was actually on the air (I do remember my Parents watching it live).

To be “Thirtysomething,” Divorced, No Children, and in my seasons, Disabled is a haunting reflection of what the Series’ concept was back when Yuppies and Reaganomics filled the airwaves.  

I think I relate most to ‘Gary’ the unmarried English Professor who is anti-Establishment.

He lives in a gloomy apartment  (which I think is fabulous), still holds onto the Past, meaning his Radical/Left Ideology, doesn’t want Children, and prefers to play racquet ball then attend birthday parties.

When he does not receive Tenure, his persona is altered.  This is me, when I became Disabled on 3/30/15.

He quits. What’s the fucking point of working yourself to the bone (literally) and to be passed over because he’s Creative, a Non-Conformist?

I felt the same.  I was an Adjunct ESL and English Instructor, having to Educate at two Colleges to earn enough just to survive.  *I do not hold a PhD, so Tenure is out.

I left my last Ajunct Position because I could not take what Education has become: Common Core Curriculum.  

As an College Instructor trying to teach English Composition 101, is now impossible.  My Students read only ONE Book their entire Highschool Career!!!

I moved on.  Teaching Preschool.  Of course, I get a Staphylococcus Infection (in my Sinus) and for five months, Unemployed, on my Staph Deathbed.

After Malaria Drugs cured me, I am back in the game as Gary was. 

But, I remained in the Education Field ad he became apart of Urban Planning and Development.

I became an Applied Mathematics Instructor emphasis in CNC (Computer Numerical Control).

I don’t know, but I woke up one day, excellent in Mathematics  (let’s clarify, Applied Mathematics).

I taught Applied Mathematics/Adult Education (once again).  Students that wanted to be Welders or CNC Operators have to take the TABE Exam (by law). The Mathematical Requirements are Ninth and Eleventh Grade Entry Math Levels.  

My Students were at a 5th-7th Grade Math Level. *This was called the Bridge Program. Started by my former Boss and Myself.

Gary was put in-charge of the severe Homeless epidemic problem in Philadelphia (where the Series takes place).  He meets a Woman and she exposes him to her daily struggles in an economy built for the rich.  

He becomes overwhelmed with what little support is given to the Organization he works for.  He begins to view the World and himself differently.  

I am angry at the American Education System and how it turned so many students into ghosts.  How the fuck are my Adult Ed. Students  (all former Vets. some serving in Vietnam) at a 5th Grade Math Level?   *Serve your Country, but never become more than a Custodian.

Bullshit.

My Passion for this new Bridge Program was my Mission.  I hit the ground running hard. Educating my Adult Ed. Students Long Division by hand, Fractions, and never giving up on them.  

Until March 30, 2015, when I Collapsed and was rushed to the Emergency Room.

The End.

I could never Educate outside my home again.

As Gary, he ends up having a Child (Emma), getting married  (to the Woman whom he met at the Organization) and he dies in S4.

He is the only Character that is killed off.

Why?

Think about it.

The Left Wing English Professor rejected from Tenure Works To Try And Solve The Homeless Problem While Never Assimilating To The Capital Idea (Yes he does have a baby, Out of Wedlock), And Continues His Passion For A Better World, And He Is Hit By Car While He Rides His Bicycle Home, Killed Instantly.

Relate?

The Left Wing College Instructor Teaching At Two Colleges To Survive, Quits, Returns To Educate Children, Infected with Staphylococcus Almost Perishing, Again Returns To Academia Trying to Save People From What Is Called Working Class  While Never Assimilating To ANY Fucking Capital Chains (I can’t have children, but at 34 no one bothered me much anymore about being Motherless), And Continues My Passion For A Better World, And On March 30, 2015, Disabled Instantly.
It’s us Renegades that pay the price for having a conscious, understanding that our Work as Educators is forever. 

Not settling for a Mortgage, two cars, dinner parties, emptiness.

But, when is it our time?  Killed off before we even begin.

Now, Thirtysomething, vanishing before my eyes and who I once was.

A Hole In The Sun

This is the week.

Two years ago, my life, shifted, altered, ruined in permanence.  

Dysautonomia.

A word I have adjusted to.  

A Disease so catastrophic to the body, one’s heart, soul, and mind become stuck, interrupted forever. There is no return.  A Disability is a loss. A beginning with no end.

Yet, I am supposed to accept it, continue to live as I deteriorate and now losing my House  (I have Ninety-Days to Relocate).  *My Landlord decided he wants to sell the Property  (which from the bottom of me, I know is a lie.  I have resided here for 6 years.  His ‘Non Renewable Lease’ decision is due to my Ex-Husband).

So, once again in Dysautonomia, I have to start over as if becoming  Disabled wasn’t enough.

I have to let another life pass away.

First, when I was eight. (Molestation. For A Year)

Second, when I was nineteen. (Suicide Survivor x3)

Third, when I was twenty-three (Total Abdominal Hysterectomy).

I thought I was finished with reincarnating in waking hours.

No.

Dysautonomia ended who I was. 

This concept of ‘Passing Way’ what once was, is something recent I’ve acquired.

My new Counselor educated me on the process of Grieving Dysautonomia  (which I have not).

This Week, I have to begin the process of my past, Pre-Dysautonomia.

Why?

What’s left, but a girl who is losing her house (after six years), can never return to Teaching College, Receive a M.F.A then Ph.D., Travel the World.

Nothing.

For Nicholas

Original Post
March 16, 2013
Edited
March 16, 2016

My only Saturday Post.

Today, was your death.
Suicide.

Why did you do it?
Finding yourself in the corners of your suicide closet, noose in hand, ready to exit your successful life.

My mortality deems you already dead before you turned two.
She chose You, your Mother.
It’s as if a piece of her extinction was passed through you as the gas curtains closed upon her.
Tragedy at its best.
Defeat at its worst.

You, look so much like her.
She would have loved you more.

image

Dr. Nicholas Hughes in 2000 in his office at the University of Alaska Fairbanks campus.
Photo by Dave Partee.

Nick And The Candle Stick

”I am a miner. The light burns blue. Waxy stalactites Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom. Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls, Cold homicides. They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium Icicles, old echoer. Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes. And the fish, the fish—-Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives, A piranha Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes. The candle Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten. O love, how did you get here? O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep, Your crossed position. The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby. The pain You wake to is not yours.

Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses. With soft rugs—-

The last of Victoriana. Let the stars Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric Atoms that cripple drip Into the terrible well,

You are the one Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.”

Sylvia Plath

*My own Mother called me on March 16, 2009, telling me
Nicholas Hughes killed himself.
I had no need to ask ”Who?”
Shocked then anger came over me as if I controlled the weather.
My fondness expired for Plath’s own destiny, but her work remains as my exemplar.

The Trauma Parade

Originally Published:

3/4/2016.

It has been 28 years since I escaped my
Kidnaping.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016, I visited the site where it all began.
*(As well as the house I lived at where the year long pain occurred).

Everything in between was different.
Stop lights, more parents, safety.

My Memories, the same:
Walking home from Third Grade, heading west bound toward the
Memorial Rock as a Silver Hatchback approached me.

The driver screaming out my first name, informing me to get in the car with four other men.
I walked faster as my eight year old body could.
I had already experienced his pedophile wrath, and I knew what awaited me inside that silver car with plastic red bucket seats.

He persisted.
Putting the car in Gear 1 to follow my footsteps away.
His way of controlling my fear.

As I looked at the car creeping beside me, I could see the faces of the other 4 men.
One, belonging to his best friend.
The other three, strangers.
One of the strangers spoke,
‘Just grab her and go.’

As the driver threatened to tell if I didn’t get into the car with them.

I yelled,
Where am I going to sit?

And from their facial responses, I took off running, to save my life.

As I ran, I knew inside my childhood heart, I would have been gang raped and in a dumpster.

I made it safe to my friend’s house who gave his secret to me
(He had a hidden go-cart when he had to escape the violence inside his home).
I never found the go-cart, but the
Police and the driver’s Father located me walking alone down one of the busiest streets in town.
I was returned right back into the Trauma Parade.

image

The Driver became a repeat/violent Offender,
NEVER spending a second of his predacious life incarcerated.
*(He even had multiple children of his own, one he harmed when he was a child).
The U.S Judical System could care less about the Safety of Children
(Especially, during the Reagan Administration).

So, as an Adult Educator, I became a
Licensed State Mandate Reporter so any child in my former Classrooms would never have to experience becoming the unknown from the Trauma of Sexual Abuse.

*The violence actually began when I came home from school (third grade) and found him and his friend (from the car) in the process of attacking my brother who was only three at the time.
I fought them off until they both overpowered me.
That day, would become the first day of my Year of Hell.

‘Whatever you’re looking for
Hey, don’t come around here no more
Stop walking down my street
Don’t come around here no more
Who you expect to meet?
Don’t come around here no more
And whatever you’re looking for
Hey don’t come around here no more.’ Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers

Tunnels Of Tomorrow

All the things I have not come to terms with.  I will never understand.                                           Your Death.  

I found myself at one of our establishments on Saturday’s moonlight.

The last time I made an adventure there, I was alone, but you were alive.

Before, you, IPA Lagunitas  me, predictable. Laughing.  Making my dark days happy.  Your demons, quiet.

I could be me, never some part in someone elses play.  

I learned to let go, just be.  I even was strong enough to let you tease me.  Something I have NEVER been good at (due to the real abuse I’ve taken).

As I sat there with my Boyfriend (Now, Fiancé), I thought of you.

Two out of the four people we knew, are gone. Tending Bar somewhere else or on the wagon.

We had a good time.  I actually ate.  And enjoyed the few moments I could.  We traveled to our Jewel-Osco after.  A place that is so trivial, but still so painful for me.  To walk down the aging grocery aisles without you picking on me, your ‘Sweet Jesus,’ or your laughter is a tunnel of sorrow. 

Now, 

It’s too hard.  I’m trapped here with fucking Dysautonomia, so much pain, heartache leftover and new abandonment, and your death.

Everywhere I go, there is a piece of you that remains

That’s not all.

I cannot take, live with or rise above anymore.