I am taking time, to heal.
Birds don’t bother me anymore.
A crow comes at the same time every morning,
and it’s slowly become part of this healing.
It caws and I yawn.
I wait for it,
much like I wait for my stomach to begin churning and talking before I get out of bed each morning.
I’m usually alone by the time I get up.
My husband is working hard to keep us living in the luxury of our 450 square feet in the middle of Los Angeles.
Meanwhile, I am contemplating, at age 39, if I should go back to school or not?
It’s an interesting time, the day to day.
This time alone, hurts.
I am in the company of myself,
and all the dialogue that had been drowned out with busy office work is on the surface and she’s a bully.
I didn’t realize how loud her hate was.
How loud she tries to convince me that my past is a petrified forest.
That I’m bound at the feet.
That I want the easy way out because it has been such a tragic existence.
Please hear me out.
I mean, these voices, they’re just voices.
And as pathetic as this all may sound, it is real, and it is nails to a cross, fingers in the eye-sockets.
Sometimes I sit in my filth all day, remind myself to drink water, but usually, I let myself starve.
I enjoy the depletion, feels Holy, romantic and tragic.
I watch the hours go by and remind myself of my age in 3-hour increments.
“You are 39, and in 100 days you will be 40.”
Much has happened, and yet, you still comb your hair as if you are trying to shake off his scent.
You still smile and cry and eat as if the food you stuff in your mouth will somehow fill the void he left.
You are a child always because you are trying to reclaim yourself year by year, day by day, decade by decade.
You scrape the last bit of everything on your plate as if you are scraping every last bit of yourself.
It’s all very obvious and very sad and it’s how I heal while the crow caws at my window.
It’s how I heal as I listen to my stomach begin to churn and talk before I get out of bed each morning.