I have so many ******* regrets.

I am crushed under the weight of it. Crushed.

I learned how to feel nothing. a waking nightmare of nothingness. With a known tsunami of sadness just beyond the walls, keeping the feelings at bay.

But you smell the saltwater in the air.

I'd like to get drenched.

Wash me away.
Take me away.
Take it all away.
Leave me with nothing.
Leave nothing.

Which will be far more than the nothingness I feel.

It scorched the Earth beneath my feet,
Forever tainted and augmented how I experience my world,
the world around me.

Things look different. Taste odd. Sound funny.

You can never go back. Never undo.

What's done is done.

And now,
Well, now,
You must live in the aftermath.

There has only ever been the aftermath.
  
The before time was a story you'd tell yourself to sleep better
        at night.
Stories of being Loved, Seen, Cared for, Known.
All fairytales that you'd gorge yourself on,
Imagine living in.

Anything to take away the pain,
Anything to make the loneliness stop.

As you grew, you leaned on other things to take away the
        feelings: cutting, eating, distracting, dissociating.

Make it numb.
Make it tolerable.                    
Livable.
It hardened you.
Broke parts of you.
While the world around you continued to take.

You tried to stay afloat.

Sometimes, flirting with the idea of going under,
Wishing and praying to let the waves wash you away.
Never letting them.

Always trying.
                        
Trying to rebuild from the rubble at your feet.

Some time, along the way, forgetting,
                                                                ­   it wasn't your bomb.
                                                           ­                                       
                                     You didn't detonate.

It wasn't your dilapidated, abused house - you Just lived there.

It wasn't.
It isn't.
It wasn't your fault.
It never was.

I am a therapist

But

I wanted to be an artist


Clay under my fingernails, in my curls, drying on my skin.
Filling up my moleskine
Occupying my thoughts, my dreams,
each moment of every day




Now.....

Now, I listen to people's pain, their sorrow, their hurt.

5 years of grad school, fancy acronyms at the end of my name, they can call me doctor...some do. some insist. perhaps it makes them feel like I am more than just an imperfect human like they are.

My clients come to me with their pain, I see them, I hear them, I try, I try so hard to soothe them, make them feel worthy, make them feel good enough. make them feel loved. deserving of love.

Some days, being a psychologist provides so much meaning to my life, other days...other days I cry and punish myself for not pursuing art.

Why didn't I do it?
Why was I so scared?
Why did I let the **** talking from my parents and the judgements of my family keep me from doing what I loved?

WHY.



Hey, you want to know how to make me cry instantaneously?
               Ask me about what I gave up to be where I am today.


        what I lost for the acronyms,
        what I lost for the title,
        what I lost for the salary,
        what I lost so my mom could tell people her daughter was a
                            "doctor" (not a real one even still)

Ask me what I lost.

Ask me how I lay awake at night, stare off into space, doing math in my mind, thinking, wondering, planning out how to grow my practice to make enough to rent a studio space, buy a kiln, and make art once again.

Ask me why I got a doctorate in psychology so all I could think about was how to make art again.


Ask me.
I dare you.


My own therapist just did and my make up smeared.
I think sobbed is the technical term.

Or perhaps, I just let all the feelings and sadness bleed out of me. every now and again they do

every now and again I let down my defenses, remove the distractions, and find the time to really think and reflect on what I lost.
what I gave up to allow myself to make money off of listening to people.
I allow myself to be used and profit from it.


JUST like my family uses me and takes up far too much space.

I provide care to others because it's my job, but it's also what I've always known how to do, what I was taught to do.

Taking care of others is ******* exhausting.
I love my job.
I hate my job.


Ya know what?

I never hated art.
I never did.
Art never took from me.
Clay never used me and spit me out or told me things like "I'm not getting anything from you" like my clients have told me.

clay Doesn't take.
clay only gave.
ceramics only ever gave.

WHY the **** did I not allow myself to take?
WHY did I create a life for myself where I am continuously giving and people are continuously taking?

I am so ******* empty and so ******* tired.

I just want to make art.

all i ever wanted was to make art.

So this is love.
Wanting to be near it.
Shaking to touch,
To feel it against my skin.
I am in love with clay.
For Ceramics is the wood that fuels my fire.
I need it in my life.

Perhaps that is a void
One of many voids that cannot be filled by people
Where for art thou clay.
I miss thee so.
My heart yearns,
Calls out.
Can you hear me?

Return to me
Mother earth
Return to me

You goddess of dirt, mud, and all things kind
Come back to me.
The break has been painful, causing me to shrivel within
Splinters forming at the core of my being.
Water rushing in and freezing, expanding the cracks.
Without clay there.
How can I possibly mend the tear?

I need the sustenance for my soul
I am called to it.
It beckons to me.
And I am drawn to it
A slave really
Never in my life have I found a medium
That satisfies me the way clay has.
Can and Does.

Don’t leave me here
Alone to fend for myself in this dark world.
Can’t you hear me calling out?
The ghost of memories past call out your name
Your presence
Your spirit
Mother earth
Where have you gone
I miss you so
Return
Return
And never leave again

How do I mend my relationship with my body?
How do I hate myself, less?

How could I?
How dare I?

The world doesn't.
It tells me all the reasons why I shouldn't.
                                                      ­                     I mustn't.

I must hate myself.

I must hate my body, that is what I deserve.
What my body deserves

Love is reserved for the thin.
                                the beautiful.

The beautiful.
I could never be beautiful.

It's a lie,
when they say it.
It's a lie.
when they say I am.

I am beautiful from the neck up.

but you'd never use that word,
                            designate it to my body.
                                                           ­  to the rest of me.

The rest of me should be tossed away.
                                              discarded.


Please sir, can I keep my head?
It's the only place I live, the only place I am allowed to be.

I am not allowed to be beautiful. not allowed to be thin.
that was not the hand I was dealt. not my lot in life.




I exist in the world with my shame exposed.

                                                       ­       On display.


Do you know how that feels?




No hiding.


No escaping.


No pretending.




I am fat.  
My body is fat.



and from first glance, you can see my unworthiness.

                                                  ­      My lack of deservedness

It's always there.

My body
My body gets looked at, talked about, shamed.

My body doesn't fit comfortably in an airline seat and my body keeps getting fatter.

My body offends and disgusts you.

My body absorbs the blows.
       the shocks
              it reverberates

the ripples

Take in more food.

EAT.

no one loves you.
no one ever could.

you're too FAT.
                   too hideous.

                   unlovable

So, I abuse my body.
                           I hurt it.
         give it more. move it less.
It grows, my own self-loathing grows.

Like water to a plant.
         Your gaze and comments like the sun    

My body continues to sprout.
upwards
outwards
all aroundwards

Making it harder to fit.
                  harder to move.
                  harder to Be.

I wish they loved my body, maybe I could have too.

Maybe I could have too.

My moods swing.
Sharp left,
sharp right,
spinning,
spiraling.

This time has me losing my footing,
sinking,
floating off,
untethered.

Breathe.

Remember,
you can swim.

This is hard.

Some days,
I
try
to survive.

Other days,
I
am
drowning.

Breathe.

It will be okay,
again.

You will be okay,
again.

We will be okay,
again.

Remember,
you are a survivor.

We are survivors.