i am still broken. no i’ve finally broken myself. i’ve shattered myself. i’m ruined amongst the pieces of who i used to be and i’m trying to fit the pieces together. i am trying to make sense of myself. i am trying to be.
when my daughter hurt herself, i told her i had becomevery scared. she said that i didnt sound very scared. and how can i tell her? how can i tell her that it’s all despair and madness and cacophony? how do i tell her that i’m coping.
what an ugly fucking word. what a joke i’ve become.

there are things i let go of everyday. trivial things. monumental things. i let go. my uncle, onset of cancer. my father, mystery stomach pains. family i’ve estranged myself from for decades at this point.
and then there are things i cannot. things i should know better and let go off, but i won’t. i can’t. call it pride, call it what it is: stupidity, but mine. mine.

is it because my life has been so trivial, the despair i feel over nothing worth mentioning?
this is partly why i resent therapy, or the idea of it: it rationalizes, trivializes, minimizes.
perhaps that is unfair. perhaps my perception of things has been unfair.
sometime i feel like it’s all been a joke, that there is, beneath the surface, a cruel and grinding reality that is waiting to chew us all up. or rather me.
it’s been a long time since i’ve made any sense whatsoever. or anything beautiful for that matter.
i look in the mirror and it’s all beast, it’s all naked aggravated thick flesh.
i hear myself speak and i cringe: why did i just say that? it’s as if i am dreaming a horrible nightmare and i am callous and impatient and i am screaming from within this isn’t me, this isn’t me, but it is.
deep down inside, this must be me.

at least one word. at least one thing.
ioanna and mikey, rough housing and wrestling and oh the feel of them like the promise of sleep that always escapes me, the weight of a promise i cannot fulfill but keeps me grounded, keeps me close to the shore.

is this the end, have we reached? the end to sorrow and pain and remorse and regret and the naggling and anxiety that all of this could’ve been better, that you could’ve done better by them for them? is this end?
no. it goes on like this. forever and more, cascading series of spirals and spirals. the trick is to keep your head about, or rather to keep your head out of it as much as possible.

and the webwork and the spindlewbes arch into the ether of all that is and all i will be and the coulds and shouldn’ts mean nothing, the hopes and laments mean nothing, the regrest and guilt once paramount become transparent, only the love of this, the children beside me, my love beside me, this in front of me, the capacity, the mere potential: yes, this can be enough, this can be extraordinary.