When I felt drained
by other’s unconsciousness,
I sat on my bedroom floor
and listened to book and
record sets from Power
Records, while I detached
myself into a trance-like
state, until each feeling
inside me felt like a character
I could narrate
into my own story
and version of heroism.
I’d become a master of
redirecting my parent’s
and friend’s reward-seeking,
become proficient at
dissolving their noise
I felt slowly hunted by.
I intuitively knew those
closest to me often didn’t know
when they were hurting
themselves and others,
and so couldn’t be relied on
to simply be safe.
They would often
wear me down
and burn me out
with each of their
misguided attempts to
support me,
the real conspiracy
being in this only paper
that matters that
they avoided nurturing
themselves
if it meant admitting that
they were who they
were mostly worried about.
“You need to get out more”
my friends would say to me
like insecure suitors,
as if I was a bombshell
they were hitting on at the bar.
Years of waiting
for their shadows
to stop playing
duck, duck, goose,
sit down,
and watch a movie
got dangerous.
I guess that’s why I decided
I had to make a commitment
to parenting my inner child
and being “simple” and
“stubborn” about preserving
a low-key, solitary life,
about safeguarding
my phlegmatic temperament
even in highly-active situations,
so that the enthusiasms
of the well-meaning
but actually bad for me,
wouldn’t have rein to
reflect one another’s
inverted happiness
back onto me.
I had to create a refuge
from my family,
but while still allowing them
their control, otherwise
feelings or people,
literally got hurt in all the
unfocused and chaotic energy.
Now my therapist refers to me
as a conversational
karate master in the way
I can remove an argument
entirely with someone
by validating all parties
in a miscommunication,
but still reframe what matters to me,
because she and I know
I shouldn’t expect others
to do the the work of
befriending their own darkness,
the way I have since I was little,
when all I wanted
was to feel basic safety,
and truly couldn’t rely on others
to give it to me.
Sitting there, alone,
on the floor of my bedroom
at seven-years-old
like I was inside a record,
its needling vibrations
repairing what had been
broken earlier,
because against
my better judgement
I decided to leave the house
instead of remaining inside
where deeply accepting
myself just the way I was
seemed like a selfish
thing that I was afraid
might remove me from
the family of humanity entirely,
I had no clue
that by staying inside
I was actually
avoiding hell
and making myself more
happy and less lonely,
that I was actually embodying
an extremely active lifestyle
spent meditating, writing
autobiography across
the inside of my head,
and self-caring myself
into the same next day
knowing I’d need to become
an expert in self-acceptance
if I was to survive
the unconsciousness
of the emotionally blind
and unregulated world.
Why couldn’t I be right
when I was right,
and right when I was wrong,
if it kept me from hating myself
or aggressively projecting
my dirty laundry onto others
under the guise of charity?
I could generate within myself
the quiet I most needed to
bathe in if I was to remain
clear-headed about
what it meant to be me.