Exhaustion of the Mind

I met my new psychiatrist for the first time today, too tired to play my usual “mask” game where I baffle the Doctor with my genius insanity. I really like her, she wore kind clothes. A soft grey and black cardigan. It made her look comfortable…safe…but smart enough to deal with the likes of me. I have that whole “I am the most psychotic” ego trip, still. I don’t know if this ego will ever let me go, it seems to run under it’s own power.

I found an old poem that my Mom had written to my Father some years ago. The paper was a little yellowed piece from one of those tiny personal notebooks. She always seemed to carry one in her purse- a tradition I now continue. I don’t know if I should give the poem to Dad, even though it is his- most days he doesn’t remember her, and when I remind him of Mom he cries all day. But I feel a moral obligation to share this poem with him, because in it she declares her love for him. Will his grief shorten his life more than it already has? Will it kick his Alzheimer’s into a higher gear than the doctor says it already is? The physician already says he has less than 6 months to live, and her death has sped him into the grave so fast. I have watched him wither away from life, why would I hurt him more?

The truth is : I am selfish. And I am terrified of losing Daddy. The 4th anniversary of her death is Friday, the first day of Spring, and her birthday. I always know when the day falls, even without a calendar or a watch. In fact, each month that passes, I grieve on the 21st.

I just can’t bear to deal with his sadness, or being the cause of it, on the same week that I mourn her loss so exquisitely. I think I might  crack into little shards, tinkling onto this tile floor.

Maybe I could wait a while- let my sadness ebb a little before I give it to him. After all, she never gave it to him, it was in a bin of old papers to be burned. it was like a knife in my belly when I found it this evening. It, and a little envelope, marked: “to be opened in the event of our death…”

I am afraid to open it , also.

I will dream on it, and keep you posted.

Goodnight.

African Lily, one of my favorites!
African Lily, one of my favorites!

Author: ST Martin

I am an Artist, Poet and Author. A Survivor of Violent Sexual Abuse and Rape, I have lived thru Severe Domestic Violence, Twenty Three years of Addiction and Alcoholism, Family Dysfunction, Chronic Pain, Dependence on Opioids, and 2 Venomous Snake Bites...I have Been Stabbed, Shot at, Tied to a Tree and Choked Unconscious. A Quarter Horse Rolled on Me, as did a Lawn Tractor. I also Wrecked a Harley into a Tree! I also have PTSD and Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder, and spent my 18th birthday in a Locked Psychiatric Ward. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color...

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