Of All the Things I've Lost

I is confused as to howz this workz...and no I wills not be farming.

Like ·  · December 14, 2009 at 7:08pm


I fucking miss you the most bro.

Hope

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast; 
Man never Is, but always To be blest. 
The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.” 

― Alexander Pope, Essay on Man and Other Poems

I've always told myself that the reason I've made it to 30 is my abundance of hope. I want my life to be different and I try to have faith that one day it will be. One day I'll finally be happy. But the truth is that it's not my hope that's kept me going, for in my darkest moments there is no hope to be found, no joy in just being alive. What has never failed me though is my tenacity. I refuse to let the universe win. We're locked in a crazy battle and the universe and I have been fighting for the upper hand my entire life. 

And so to the universe I have only one thing to say: bring it bitch.

Who needs hope when you've got a universe trying to destroy you? I am not a wide-eyed dreamer, I'm a pissed off fighter and I will never back down from a challenge.

- Michelle

She's Living Like A Disaster

She said "Kill me faster"
With strawberry gashes all over


You never know what's going on inside someone else's head. I recently read a book by Jay Asher called Thirteen Reasons Why, the story of a high school girl who kills herself and leaves behind tape recordings exposing the 13 people who's actions or words or beliefs lead her to the choice to end her life. Don't misunderstand, she isn't blaming these people for her decision, but rather saying "I'm done, and here's why."

Who would have thought that shortly after reading it someone I knew would walk the same path? Minus the carefully explained rationale.

I chose the book because I'm fascinated by inter-connectivity. Every single decision or choice you make affects someone somewhere, the only thing that varies is to what degree someone else is affected by you. And yet we act recklessly and ignore the warning messages flashing in our minds. We choose to see only what we want to see, we never see anyone else for who they truly are.

You'd never guess I spent almost every single morning during the last month waking up to the image of my wrists slit open. And even if you could guess you sure as hell wouldn't want to. You have no idea how difficult it is the go to work after that wake up call. And it's not like I can tell anyone this. Anyone I would tell knows that I'm a cutter (in remission for 4 years) and that I've tried to kill myself, and I already know their response: get angry, berate me for even thinking of harming myself (as though it's a fucking conscious decision on my part, and make me swear that I will never do that. Oh and they usually remind me how selfish suicide is.

And to that, in the words of Kid Cudi, I'm screaming out "Fuck that!" You have absolutely no fucking clue the weight of the memories I carry. I have survived more personal hell than most people in our industrialized first world country can fathom, it's simply outside the scope of their experience. And still I can't even speak fully of it, can't allow the words that would ruin so many lives to pass through my lips and finally grant me release, which just makes me want to scream even more. All of the weight is on me and I have bared it entirely by myself for far too fucking long. At some point all these choked up, silent screams get to be just a little too fucking much and I just don't want to fight anymore.

What's the point? It hurts so much.

Pardon me for my moment of weakness. I'm triggered and I don't know how to handle it. I wish Bryan was here.

But he's not. Because he too gave up, it just took him 3 years to do it. He was hell bent on self-destruction and by god he flourished on his victory lap. If you don't believe me, read his blog. It's all laid out in black and white and filed under "self-loathing." I should have known, I should have been able to reach him. If anyone had any chance of saving my brother if he couldn't save himself, it was me. And I failed him. I got too caught up in my own life and bullshit and I lost my brother.

But if anything I've written here worries you about the state of my own mental health, I can assure you I'm safe. Bryan died and I'm forced to live. I might not like it, I might be incredibly fucking angry that my choice to stop trying and just be free of all of this shit was taken from me. But taken it was. And this recent death forces my hand even more. I can never take my own life. I had my chance but now, I just can't. It's silly isn't it? It was ok to think about something which would hurt every single person who cares about me before Bryan died, because I wouldn't be around to experience the effects. And here is where I do think suicide would be selfish: as someone who has survived losing the person closest to them in such a heart-breaking way, I know exactly how much pain I would be putting my mother through. And my father. And every other person I love. And I am definitely selfish, but not that selfish.

But you never know what's going on inside someone else's head. Or heart. And I can understand just being tired of being in pain. Jesus christ can I understand.

- Michelle
Suicide isn't painless when you leave everyone in pain

I Should Have Known

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats, The Wind Among The Reeds, 1899

http://revsperminute.blogspot.com/2011/01/after-everything-ive-done-i-hate-myself.html

Because I know exactly how you felt B. I wish I could tell you that.

Michelle

- I would have stayed up with you all night had I known how to save a life

You Should Know, I'm Kind of Bad Ass

I am a survivor of sexual assault. There, I said it. This may not be a surprise to some, but will most likely be a surprise to the majority of my family. I have spent most of my life with my mouth shut, accepting the role of the "over-emotional" child for reasons I won't disclose. But I had my reasons. 

Two years ago I performed in UC Berkeley's 9th annual production of the Vagina Monologues. I performed an original piece that I wrote, discussing my own experiences with sexual assault. I spent 6 months in a safe, loving and supportive community of beautiful womyn as I evolved into an entirely new human being. I learned how to love myself, be gentle with myself, forgive myself and open my heart to share my stories with others. I began to remember the girl I used to be. And I loved that girl.

I am a rather private person. I deal with my pain alone, I don't ask for help and I don't know how to accept it when it's offered. This is why most people in my life don't know what I've survived, how monumental it is that I'm not only still breathing but I'm damn near thriving. And I am thriving because of my participation in the Vagina Monologues. I told my story to 2,400 people, I let every single one of them into my secret pain and I allowed 35 inspiring womyn to help me learn to love every part of who I am. And I am not afraid to acknowledge that it took some serious brass balls to do what I did.

But I am not perfect. I still struggle. Losing my beloved brother a year ago shattered me. It has been a slow recovery, but I believe I am a better person today than I was a year ago. And I was a better person one year ago than I was a year before that. Every year for the last 3 years I have worked hard to change myself into the person I want to be, which is essentially a happy, loving person who refuses to let their past define who they are. 

July 4th 2008 was the beginning of the major turning point in my life. I was hospitalized on a 5150 order for a 3-day observation. For those unaware of the term, 5150 is the code police and hospitals use for a person they deem "a danger to themselves or others." A 5150 hold can be released at any point during the 3 day observation period, but when your hospital stay begins on Friday July 4th, expect that you will be in the hospital for the entire 3 days while the doctor with the power to release you is too busy nursing a hangover to bother "observing" you. A 5150 code is typically used for acute episodes where the person may be in danger but the danger is short-lived. If the doctor determines you are still at risk at the end of 3 days, your 5150 hold expires and you are placed under a 5250 hold. This is an indefinite hold which can only be released by your attending physician/psychiatrist. 

Point of Information: In the state of California, if you are held under a 5150 code you are barred from purchasing a gun for 5 years. If you are ever held under a 5250 order, you may never purchase a gun or have one in your possession. I am barred from purchasing a gun until July of 2013.

My 3 day stay at Alta Bates Herrick campus was intense and utterly awful. I spent 1 day in the "drug addicts and suicide attempts" ward where I had a psychotic and catatonic roommate. I wasn't even sure that I was a suicide attempt, yet I was surrounded by long-term 5250 residents who were actively suicidal. During "art therapy," I was placed next to a man with a jagged neck wound from trying to slit his own throat. At the time, I was a recently relapsed cutter and the nurses knew I was at risk of being triggered. I ran out of the room crying and called my dad, begging him to get me released. I was 26 years old and completely helpless.

However, I have amazing parents and was lucky to get assigned a caring nurse. My dad explained his and my fear that I would be worse after this hospital stay than going into it, and that the best way for me to get the help I needed was in a less triggering environment. On day 2 I was moved to the eating disorder ward. At least in there I didn't have to hide food in my room since there was food everywhere (in the suicide ward I was too terrified to eat with my fellow patients so I snuck food into my room and ate under my covers). However, I have also been plagued with eating disorders throughout my life, and though this ward was preferable to the suicide ward, some of the patterns I observed patients displaying were worked into my own habits after my release. I wish I could say the 100 pounds I've lost over the last few years was due to exercise and a healthy diet, but anorexia and bulimia take the credit for that. Though not eating half my weight in Cheez-Its and pepsi every week helped me from gaining the weight back once I stopped throwing up daily.

At the end of my 3 day hold I finally met with my doctor. They're supposed to meet with you every day because the maximum hold time is 3 days but the minimum is 1 visit with a doctor who clears you for release. But again, holiday weekend so I got screwed and was forced to stay the full 3 days. I was determined to no longer be a suicide risk and was cleared for release.

The three days I meant in a psych ward were traumatic and terrifying, but in a way I'm grateful for the experience because it helped me reach a life-altering conclusion: I don't want to die, I just want to be someone else, anyone else really. I don't want my past anymore. I can't keep dragging it behind me. But I can't change who I've been, I only have control over who I choose to be in this moment. And that realization saved me.

Approximately 9 months after my hospitalization, I made the single best decision of my life: I moved into the Berkeley Student Coops. Before living in the coops, I lived by myself in Oakland and spent most of my time completely isolated from people. I had very few friends and, thanks to years of self-isolation and mental health struggles, I had no idea how to change the life I hated so much. So I decided to confront my biggest fear, other people, and moved into a forced-socialization environment. Thanks to the coops, I have met some incredible people, I have built a support system of close friends and awesome acquaintances who accept me, love me, and challenge me. I'm happier today than I've ever been, and it's 9am the morning I go home to honor my brother Bryan's life with my incredibly complicated but loving family. 

But the thing is, if we as a society actually acknowledged that every single day children are brutally abused and sexually assaulted, maybe one less child will have to grow up to be me. I know the kind of person I was well on my way to becoming, and I am damn proud of myself for turning my perspective around and finding the courage to make hard but healthy choices for myself. But let's be honest, I'm a resilliant and strong person and not everyone shares those traits. Some people never recover from childhood sexual assault. And the thing is, if we stopped being so god damned secretive about it, if we stopped allowing our shame and fear and failures to silence our voices, if we taught our children that predators come in different shapes and sizes, some familiar and some strangers, but that no matter what the scenario it is never never fucking never that child's fault, then maybe one less child will have to suffer as much pain as I have.

I just wish that one single adult in my childhood who noticed I was fucked up, be it a relative or a teacher or a neighbor, had sat me down and asked if I was okay. Because I wasn't. I haven't been okay since I was 9.

Don't get me wrong though, knowing your own strength is a powerful thing.

Michelle

- Don't waste your whole life trying to get back what was taken away

A Lifelong Wait for a Hospital Stay

Change. Heartbreak. Love. Family. Loss. Change.

It has been a year of change. A year ago today I was blissfully unaware of how drastically my life was going to fall down around me, tragedy raining from the sky and my helpless hands hugging my head desperately to shield me from the chaos.

I have cried more in this past year than I have cried over the course of my entire life. I have broken down, I have fallen to my knees and wrapped my arms around my body while it shook with pain and betrayal. Yet I have also walked down the streets of Berkeley, singing softly to myself while admiring the sun shining through the trees. I have laughed and I have loved and I have never felt more alive and awake and aware and alone.

It's been a rough year.

The week my brother spent in the hospital before he passed away is a period in my life I rarely speak of. It simply hurts too much. But I need to. I can't keep living my life in fear of letting people in, of exposure, of vulnerability. 

In some ways it was the best week of my life. I stayed at my sisters house in Sacramento and spent every single day in the waiting room of ICU with my family. I spent a week holding Bryan's hand and talking to him and reading to him from his favorite book (and mine too), Lamb by Christopher Moore. My family made each other laugh with stories of Bryan, held each other while we cried with pain, and made heart-breaking decisions as a family. My wonderful housemates from Hip House called me to check in and offer their support, and gave me love and comfort during and after this experience. Although I was dying inside, I spent that week feeling loved and supported.

On February 21st 2011 my brother was found unconscious on the floor of his bedroom. His heart had stopped. CPR was performed and the paramedics were able to get him on life support. He stayed on life support for a week before the doctors determined that Bryan was brain dead. His body was being kept alive by machines but my brother was gone. 

I have difficulty accepting this. It's no secret that Bryan and I were very close. We had a close connection, a bond that we couldn't really explain but was always there as background noise. And my week spent in the hospital with B proved to me that our connection couldn't be broken, it was still lingering.

On the first day that Bryan was hospitalized, I was in Berkeley trying to figure out how I was going to get home to Sac. I called my parents for an update and my parents happened to be in Bryan's room when I called. My dad set his ringtone for me as the song "Michelle" by The Beatles, and when they started singing my name Bryan's blood pressure spiked. It may have just been the noise, but I like to think he knew it was me.

During the week that Bryan was on life support, the doctors tried to determine the extent of his brain damage and assess any possibility of recovery. Unfortunately, B's body was wracked with seizures that entire week, which made it difficult for the doctors to run their tests and significantly affected his body's ability to heal itself. However, there were a few powerful moments in which Bryan responded to him. And those moments made it impossible for me to agree with the decision to turn off B's life support. I was the sole 'no' vote in my family for two reasons.

The first and most important is that Bryan and I had made a promise to each other, that we would never give up on the other person or allow the other to give up on themselves. I feel as though in some ways I am guilty of breaking that promise, but I refused to so blatantly do so by allowing him to die. Besides, it still felt like Bryan was there somewhere, trapped inside his body but begging me not to let him go. And I feel this because even though he didn't respond to the doctor's tests most of the week, he did respond for me. I was in his room alone, reading to him from Lamb. I wanted so badly for Bryan to laugh with me, to be able to hear his favorite words spoken in his sister's voice and to know that I once again swooped in with laughter in his moment of need. But B couldn't respond. And I knew it was my fault. I leant him the money he used to go out on his final night, the money used to pay for that which killed him. I left him in Sacramento when I moved to Berkeley and I allowed him to distance himself from me, to push me away and close himself off. And rather than march my ass over to Sacramento and force him to face me, I chose the easy way out and responded in kind. And I apologized over and over for letting him down, for letting him give up on himself.

I started to break down. As my body shook tears fell onto his standard issue hospital blanket, Bryan's blood pressure and heart rate started to spike. I knew that was bad, because his body can't heal under those conditions and he needed to stay calm. I immediately started lightly rubbing his arm, I forced myself to calm down and talk to him peacefully. I told him it was ok, that I knew above all else he loved me and he knew I loved him. That I was sad because I hated seeing him like this, I was scared that I was going to lose his love in my life, that I needed him to stay here with me. I told him all these things and I begged him to calm down and let his body heal. And he did calm down. I continued to read to him and hope that somewhere inside he heard and was laughing.

Later that day his doctor came in to test his body's response to stimuli. I asked if I could stay in the room with him and they let me, so I held Bryan's hand and ran my fingers through his hair and whispered encouragement. For the first time all week, B responded to the stimulus tests. His eyes fluttered when they brushed his eye lashes, his toes curls when they tickled his feet. Test after test and Bryan responded. But in the end, it wasn't enough. I completely understand my family's decision to turn off life support, and I supported them even as I disagreed with them. And thankfully, my family understood and was still capable of making the right decision, when I couldn't. I know that I didn't give up on Bryan, I just wish he knew that.

I don't know what I believe, which I suppose means I don't believe in anything. But I like to thank Bryan is finally at peace, and maybe watching over his little sister like he did when he was alive.

- Michelle

And though you're dead and gone, believe me, your memory will carry on. We'll carry on.

The sharp knife of a short life

If I die young, bury me in satin

Lay me down on a, bed of roses

Sink me in the river, at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother

She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh well

Life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no

Ain't even grey, but she buries her baby

The sharp knife of a short life, well

I've had just enough time

If I die young, bury me in satin

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Sink me in the river at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

The sharp knife of a short life, well

I've had just enough time

And I'll be wearing white, when I come into your kingdom

I'm as green as the ring on my little cold finger,

I've never known the lovin' of a man

But it sure felt nice when he was holdin' my hand,

There's a boy here in town, says he'll love me forever,

Who would have thought forever could be severed by

The sharp knife of a short life, well,

I've had just enough time

So put on your best boys and I'll wear my pearls

What I never did is done

A penny for my thoughts, oh no, I'll sell 'em for a dollar

They're worth so much more after I'm a goner

And maybe then you'll hear the words I been singin'

Funny when you're dead how people start listenin'

If I die young, bury me in satin

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Sink me in the river at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

The ballad of a dove

Go with peace and love

Gather up your tears, keep 'em in your pocket

Save 'em for a time when you're really gonna need 'em, oh

The sharp knife of a short life, well

I've had just enough time

So put on your best boys and I'll wear my pearls

Michelle