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  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    with a wink.

    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.

    “The Gorge”

  • Susan rich5A083CFB-300B-4199-BB17-F6C0EA72CF82.jpeg

  • He calls to me: “see what comes from the reconciliation.”

  • things I like:
    symmetry and
    the act of naming things,
    the synthesis of dream and
    disorderly thinking,  and my bout
    of many hidden rituals
    like a drunk blossom,
    full and suddenly
    noticed

    “Leo”

  • “I let grass grow over everything you do.”

  • here is the hardest sentence ever written:

     

    body dysmorphic disorder and an eating disorder under the large umbrella of an anxiety disorder that is mostly categorized as OCD that was masked by dissociative daydreaming which caused me to drink heavily and binge eat to help escape the fact that I was both anxious and escaping (when i wasnt starving myself, counting calories or obsessively going to gym)which led to depression which is increased in the winter and created chronic suicidal ideation because i felt like no one listened understood my peculiar rituals and ocd and then led to a severe psychosomatic disorder that manifests many hypochondriac ways but most recently, globus hystericus, which means I don’t eat because I will choke to death and die and somehow bringing it all to surface in one giant flood means we finally we got to the bottom of it: all that trauma that started in childhood. ah, freedom.

  • the act of naming things, but get to the bottom of it

    maladaptive daydreaming hid me from my monster. I dissociated to escape:

    Obsessive Compulsive Disorder/Body Dysmorphic Disorder

    • Having things symmetrical or in a perfect order–everything has to be perfect

     

    • Ordering and arranging things in a particular, precise way–has to make sense in order, the right numbered order or we have to start over.
    • Repeatedly checking on things, such as repeatedly checking to see if the door is locked or that the oven is off–repeatedly making lists, repeatedly going over lists, telling myself the same list
    • Compulsive counting–compulsively checking the time, needing to know what time it is, needing to know the minutes are passing
    • Excessive cleaning and/or handwashing—overshowering, constantly looking at dirty apartment, “my dishes are never clean” “nothing is clean” I don’t want to clean.
    • Obsessively touching stomach to feel if it is skinnier
    • obsessively pulling up shirt to look at stomach
    • obsessively thinking about stomach
    • if stomach is perfect it is the right order, things are right, correct.
      • cannot look in mirrors or obsessively look in mirrors
      • controlled eating
      • obsessive exercise
      • binge eating
      • eating does not bring joy, stressful, now I have globus hystericus and think I will choke if i eat
      • I have to stand up drink water so I dont choke, say mantra.
      • “Another person, refusing to eat because of an obsession about choking or contamination, may become extremely thin and develop medical complications.”

     

     

    • Can’t control his or her thoughts or behaviors, even when those thoughts or behaviors are recognized as excessive–constant
    • Spends at least 1 hour a day on these thoughts or behaviors–constant state of ritual
    • Doesn’t get pleasure when performing the behaviors or rituals, but may feel brief relief from the anxiety the thoughts cause–constant obsession with lists, order, everything is right. if things are right, no one dies. I won’t hurt myself or others if things are right.
    • Experiences significant problems in their daily life due to these thoughts or behaviors

    Some individuals with OCD also have a tic disorder. Motor tics are sudden, brief, repetitive movements, such as eye blinking and other eye movements, facial grimacing, shoulder shrugging, and head or shoulder jerking.—constant teeth grinding, constantly playing with a straw, moving hands, nodding.

     

    When their distress gets overwhelming, people with OCD will often engage in compulsions: repetitive activities aimed at getting rid of distress and regaining a sense of control. Compulsions develop over time, and sometimes they have nothing obvious in common with the content of the obsession. Anything that relieves distress is reinforcing, which means it’s going to seem more appealing the next time that distress shows up.

     

    –the straw is the repeated behavior that I use. I pick up the straw and clench my jaw and pace and have the obsessive thoughts. I then spiral in the obsession and compulsion which is why I go on long walks so I can act out without it seeming too dangerous.

    Drinking to numb the anxiety:

     

    Symptoms may come and go, ease over time, or worsen. People with OCD may try to help themselves by avoiding situations that trigger their obsessions, or they may use alcohol or drugs to calm themselves.

     

     

    I have OCD. that is what I am healing this year.  if I put down the straw, I will collapse. it is my final tic to remove.

  •  

    I was so broke
    and depressed.   sometimes I forget
    that. it was the depression that was pinning me
    to my apartment after you left;
    keeping me locked there
    keeping me imprisoned.
    I let someone use my old Access card to pick their
    lock so it did come in handy
    after all.

    I’ve put on no weight but I’m
    satiated and all security is an illusion.
    numbness had me
    making more terminable plans
    with bathtubs
    bu some small joy always carried me:
    my cat Alize,
    always and

    a used and discarded turquoise shelf
    I found when I was out.
    I hung it loosely on the wall,
    without commitment and the wood
    became immediately blackened by my incense cones.
    the corners splintered and were
    dripping rosary,
    rarely dusted and topped with pictures
    of my deceased:
    Nana, Papa, Anselm Hollo,
    other clients, friends I knew
    in childhood and
    unknown cousins,
    guinea pigs,
    first dog Pepper,
    my first dead brother
    or third dead uncle.
    always drink or suicide,
    something tragic when it comes
    to my family but
    I’m still here and
    brave, I think.
    in a few different ways
    but I want cleansing

    so I tear it from the wall,
    I’m stripping the floral siding
    with my fingernails,
    peeling the paint back to white
    to present to you
    a dusted start.
    I wear black skirts with lace
    lining for the cats,
    rain boots when I go out,
    drawn shades with a smirk,
    and nothing when you start
    to come about.

    6.

  • “we’re not conquering cities,
    we’re conquering different parts of ourselves.”

     

    –notes to self

  •  

    well, they always start
    the same way:
    in winter, it always starts in
    winter when I am my weakest.
    I am usually unsettled,
    raving at the window,
    the frost,
    the cracks in my joints announcing
    themselves in arthritic temper.
      you’re so young
    I’m so young at this.

    inexplicably manic
    during the darkest months,
    at times I know I should
    be sleeping but  I am reaching
    for anything that reaches
    back.

    in truth, I am a nihilist and
    men didn’t teach me that
    nothing ever matters and
    nothing is ever coming back.
    I watch my days get dragged away by tides
    that become encroaching swells
    and think to myself,
    well, it always starts
    with a storm.

    I am a nihilist,
    nobody had to teach me
    that and no men
    held that void quite like
    I can hold that void.  
    they mocked me and I let
    them and mired in my
    constructed reality I now feel
    a thirty year repression
    birthing from a well,
    from a heavy pour
    and it carries eels like
    lightning, the nose of sharks,
    their discarded carcasses like
    past betrayals coming next.
    you like rain?
    a little deluge for your
    flight.

    I feel no obligation
    to anything:
    my rectitude,
    our plans,
    or my penciled tips
    on how to revitalize
    warehouse row,
    I’m tired and
    my want for self grows and ends
    in impatient provocation,
    your spiral notebook,
    the bottom of the ocean
    as the engine fails.
    and you say
    well, anything can be
    contained in a cloud.

    to which I reply,
    catastrophe as well

    “the well”

  •  

    i’ve been out to lunch since we got here.
    it’s another change in seasons,
    spring and everyone is out to
    brunch celebrating
    maternal lessons,

    begotten lies, or if they’re more
    triumphant; forgotten
    spite.    
    spring hats,
    spring sandals,
    spring grief,
    sometimes things just go away
    like missing pieces:
    backs of earrings in the hotel room
    at your youngest cousin’s wedding,
    origami florets you sprinkled at your mother’s ankles
    when you were just learning how to fix
    the pancakes to give appreciation;
    diplomas, expired passports, birth certificates,
    various certifications,
    everything a lover gave you,
    hand me downs, or cute owl
    pajama sets that were xmas gifts
    callously discarded in the great
     throw everything the fuck away fest.
         I have nothing left.
    anything that reminds you of your
    lineage: scrapbooks and family
    heirlooms, voicemails from your dead
    brother pleading for you to
    come back, the ashes swinging from
    your neck, the letter from
    your dad,

    they don’t really mean much.
    you’re here and you can prove it if they ask
    with this giant gaping hole in the center of
    everything
    that you at last had the guts to crack;
    the diamond she stole,
    all winter blooms,
    the time you had left,
    grand ideas slipping out of your ears like ripples of
    eureka!
    plopping on your floor for the ants to devour
    before they ever land.
    you should have tried harder.

    because love is boundless I can’t possess it;
    it consumes me with its humility,
    strangles like history,
    swallows like tidal waves of
    unyielding southern humidity,
    and  I can’t escape it.
    feelings for the flesh that steal me are so
    palpable, like ghosts, I’m moaning
    exorcism! and synonyms for
    hurry up.
    the climax is the body’s clever parapraxis,
    and love?
    I want this thing gone

    so I can be empty with my tea
    and good ideas,
    alone.
    I knit a sweater full of verses I’ve never heard,
    wrap it tightly for the winter.
    wear the world like vapor,
    my fortune cookie says
    and something adds:

    my dear girl, you are so lonely
    you have created all of this
              (the world just falls from my shoulders)
    you are mourning events,
    people, places & things that never existed
                          (cut it open, pull it out)
    wipe those ruby red eyes
         and take a look around
                    (before it disintegrates)
    but my house is a burning building
    so I better bounce.

    I had one fawn over me
    but he fell in the giant yawn
    I stomped in the yard
    and like my bright wishes,
    he’s also passing me by
    carrying something I don’t get
    because it’s real and it’s found
    he is holding it and I am
         eyes shut tight   catarina
    thinking about it
    again when someone grabs  
    my arm.

    “how to forget everything day 67”

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