The blood stops short trapped before a hair tie, until I release the bun of tension: post exercise of body-induced drama. This is the captivating magic of night.
The mind works itself into heavy persuasion. The body labors with intense urging. The heart never questions what the goals are or what state of peak condition or overwhelmed fatness I stand in. A sober thought I do entertain is how someone can not understand the significance of body awareness and its dynamism.
I have a passionate addiction to adrenaline and to the exclusive kick of the way my muscles drum within its act of compulsion. The heart skips, skips and skips uninhibited. It beats obsessively and storms out my mouth like an aggressive bird. It ignites the fight and frenzy over the psyche and tissue land of freedom.
I’ve failed many times and am more successful because of every stoppage. And now every weakness is formed into substantial strength and what strength has already been established has now constructed itself into marble and stone.
The focus is better determined than years previous. The focus is better established than the last set and the mind-muscle connection tastes stronger than the last seething rep. I’ve been sucked into a craving that’s unaware of its bounds. I throw my fists into the air to battle and enter new coordination and balance ground.
My chest hovers over the floor, shoulders and triceps contract, hum and weep pushing up 200lbs plus over and over again. The brace of my abdominals is my body’s endless support and savior. Now there’s a surge spreading like a wild forest fire burning each of my hamstring fibers and into every angle and groove of my glutes with a various amount of hip thrust and single-leg pelvic bridges I can muster under time and tension. The inner thigh screams by its own distress signals and fleshly vulnerability. The burn degrees increase and I pull my center deeply to the spine to further the accuracy of the focal point along with the present.
I grimace in pain and drill my teeth into my own mouth. I start to elevate and disappear like smoke. I’m high now and there’s an exit. I’m high and there are no thoughts struggling its way to birth other thoughts. I’m high and suddenly there are no problems in the world. There is no suffering. There is only bliss and light. There is only presence and heaven. There is only the state of pure being.
Dr. Endocrinologist referred me to a nurse educator who I believe holds dykeish (is this a word and did I spell this correctly?) qualities because she made jokes (that I didn’t think were that funny) yet blushed with tears flooding her eyes like she was on a date with me that lasted two hours according to her notes. She even googled her address in front of me. Then showed me the trail and mileage of when her and her daughter walked from home to school on their journey to lose additional weight. Odd, no?
Anyhow, she explained in more detail about diabetes, showed me videos and we went through the correct ways to use a One Touch Verio. Lastly, she informs me that I can get rid of the diabetes since it’s in the early stage. Then goes on to assume I eat white rice and beans because I’m Hispanic. I said, “No I’m Italian, and that’s where diabetes came from; you know the pasta.” She chuckled. I think we left off great after that date because she said if you ever want more education, just make another appointment to come see me.
Then there’s this psychiatrist who’s in the wrong field for the discussion subject of choice were forever about weight loss, even though at our last session she says,”Stand up. Oh, you have lost weight” as she orders me to step on a hippopotamus scale. She thought it her duty to give unsolicited nutritional advice in her horrible fucking Dolph Lundgren accent: No peas. No carrots. Zero carbs. Don’t eat carbs at all. This includes sweet potatoes! Maybe one day when you lose all the weight you can eat carbs again. Don’t weightlift anymore. Weightlifting makes you bulky. You’ll never lose weight that way. Only cardio! Jump. Walk. You know what I’m saying.
Every session felt like I watched a bad sitcom with my presence in the hot seat as this insensitive cunt tried to tell me who I was based on 3 fifteen minute conversations we engaged in. Then she tried to question my purpose in life, inquire if I ever soul search and spoke about people who sleep past midnight aren’t normal. She took the cake by getting angrier than I was because doctors diagnosed me diabetic and it didn’t matter if it was the beginning stages.
There were many things that amused me about her terrible character, but what got me is the fact that she works in a mental health industry yet treats (many) patients (according to many who work in the building with her) like shit and never bothers to read anyone’s chart because she believes she’s too good to do so. The thing with putting people in boxes is it isn’t accurate even though on the surface it seems the people you deal with are all the time, which I expressed to her. Then I never saw the cunt again.
Thank god I’m not some shrimpy insecure person. Thank god I don’t allow other people’s opinions to affect me or my life decisions. Thank god I’m not a newcomer and have been weightlifting for over 13 years and swear by it. So, I’m a professional yo-yo dieter, but I’ve also had my share of steady weight loss, conditioned fitness and extra curves that come with it. I’ve always been proud, but I believe some people want to come in your life and not necessarily lecture or cast dirty spells on you, but they want to destroy whatever good you hold for their own reasons. I swear that’s what it is.
An angelic bird, close partner and an acquaintance each whispered to see a podiatrist. Once again I had to verbally fight for a referral to see a podiatrist and prayed for the doctor to be a woman for I could use thoroughness and words of light from maternal grace. Well, I got a woman and one of the first things she mentioned was, “If you didn’t have diabetes, your insurance wouldn’t cover the orthopedic shoe cost.” (Life, working in mysterious ways again.) Goes on further to say: With the shoes, both your ankles should feel stable; you’ll be even and wobble less since you’ll have built in arches. You’ll experience less pain as you walk. It’ll be good for you.
What this all boils down to is I’m still under construction. This is probably why I haven’t written much on any of these blogs lately because I’m not in the best mindset and part of me doesn’t want to display the pessimism in every single one of my entries.
It’s disappointing, this long journey I’ve been riding on, how I continuously see this trend of people (doctors, therapists, psychiatrists, endocrinologists, etc) who are in these fields to assist and inspire people to live better healthier lives physically, emotionally, mentally, etc, but fail to do so. How is it and when does it begin for some people that a job just becomes a job and not what it was intended for? I guess I believe in practicality and being above and beyond with sensibilities like empathetic (empath) abilities along with a higher vision for existence depending on the occupation.
Still, I don’t want to take nothing away from the two people who did give me hope of course – the dyke nurse educator and podiatrist. The first gave me positive pep talk, smiles, and probably touched me a few times too many since she thought we were on a date, but she came off focused, direct with the right balance of sincerity, care and concern throughout. Or maybe she was just being extra nice to me because she enjoyed my presence? Who really knows? It doesn’t matter because she was one of the nice ones who did her job and assisted in the best way she knew how.
As for the podiatrist, she mentioned that the good thing about my foot/ankle dilemma is it’ll get better over time, not worse. The little that she did say carried weight. I needed to once again get the surge back, the kind where I can remain on the optimistic wave, so I can keep fighting and more importantly never give up.
The fable of the world doesn’t exist.
Ask the hologram of his kiss.
The dreams we dreamt evaporated.
Ask the schemes of the advocated.
The blindfold is fool’s gold.
Ask time; it never grows old.
And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.
The moment arrives and befalls.
Like the highs and lows of cholesterol.
The things I wish for are transient.
Like the ambiance of accidents.
The faith in my chest is insoluble.
Like consolation in the uncontrollable.
And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.
The memories spin on its own axis.
And feelings give way to its blackness.
The wind whispers your sweet name.
And I’m allowed to say hi without blame.
The seasons change vast and fluid.
And warm and cold weather are reputed.
And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.
Written previously, recently revised.
We welcomed each other first with high spirited voices talking into our cell phones and waving from across the street like lost little kindergarten classmates. Then we greeted like sisters with tight long bear-hugs in the same way we always have because there are a few things in life that never change. I could hear her wailing happiness beating from her gut than her chest and out into the public and onto my ear. I smile in her hair with immediate joy but reserved the sound of my joyfulness.
Xyza is an undercover mentor, a maternal-like figure, full of flashes of hippie love, extraordinary kindness and massive angelic light that illuminates from her aura. I’m also an undercover mentor, half in age, full of loyal compassion, extraordinary hospitality and thoughtfulness that leave the innocent light on in the darkness of which I grow.
In the center of this embrace I reflect over our countless meet-ups and how it never fails, my constant awkwardness in the hub of sharing love and how despite iself, I’m genuinely able to digest her white magic, even if it leaves me depleted afterward. Xyza looks tenderly beautiful with her strawberry blonde shoulder-length bob. I compliment her on the new length when she declared, “I had a vision of myself twenty years from now, me with long gray hair and a flower in it off to the side.”
I love the visions she shares with me.
We settle in a Thai restaurant not far from her parked car. Upon sitting, the server asks, “Are you tourists?” “No”, we replied. Xyza turns my way inching up her nose until it crinkles with a question, “How come everyone thinks I’m a tourist? I was born in New York, but live just outside the city. I guess.. because I travel a great deal.” I nod in agreement and chimed, “Your aura never has that grounded feel from being in one place too long.”
But, with me it’s totally different; I’m a New Yorker who’s considerably considerate whereas I allow people to hit me with their bags as I stand overt with an introverted atmosphere on the train or bus. Unlike Xyza, my roots are established in New York and it’s on display when I talk about my suspicions concerning the worldview. I may come across as myopic, but I consider myself to be purely grounded.
Thirty minutes of conversation and I’ve been following Xyza’s lead because she’s paying so I never lay a finger on the menu. The server comes over to nudge us politely – then Thai Chive Pancakes, Vegetable Spring Rolls and a glorious Mango Salad along with unsweetened ice tea lands sweetly before our eyes. I continued following Xyza’s lead and didn’t touch a single carrot slinky. I sat glued in passivity to the tales of my friend.
I listen to her speak about her ex-husband and how she’s pretty sure a demon owns him. I listen when she said she knows of two men who have transcended beyond the physical and how they both married wonderful women, but not perfect women. (It made me wonder, what constitutes a perfect woman according to a sixty-year old woman.) I listen on in when she said she doesn’t want to play the romantic game from a male’s physical perspective, nor does she have any desire to play the woman’s perspective which is to trap a man in a relationship. Of course, I agree. I believe life is too short to live conventionally.
When Xyza decides to come up for air, I volunteer my own discourse.
I speak about isolation from the world and if canceling my gym membership is the wrong thing to do because at least this is a place where I can maintain some social skills. I speak about having elevated to a place where physical sex is no longer an obligation of mine, nor is it ever a want. I speak about the tiny things that make me happy like being by the water, the vision of living in a beach house single with two pets: A husky dog and a petite cat. I speak about not understanding the point of being in a relationship with men when being the opposite gender I’ve yet to connect and remain on the same wavelength. I always feel superior.
We understood each other the way women and friends frequently do and we continued to eat, sip, laugh and talk the summery night away.
I sit and prick my finger with the thinnest needle I’ve ever seen. It feels as thin as a loose-leaf page between my fingers. This needle reminds me of the first time I tried to grasp what was taking place on the table after I let the alcohol dry and stomach lbs of anxiety to push a simple white surrender button that has no problem piercing me at its own inorganic intention. That bee-stinger reminds me of my family’s hang ups every time I glance over the medical history list and check off every sick inheritance. It’s one more thing to put on the death record. The son of a bitch needle reminds me of where my life has been and where it’s going.
I think about who I’m becoming? I think about the coincidences that tie into another coincidence like a necklace and how I never believe much in coincidences or in necklaces that are meant to break with the purpose and strange intent to try and shake up my faith. I believe in life’s orchestration and in every gift given by higher sources. I think about my faith, motivation and temperament. How much fight I have in me? How to keep positive mantras by the altar of my heart and how to deal them out as needed, as well as how to go about feeding my spiritual backyard with water when it’s looking dry as a bone due to inner turmoil.
The small round dot of red reminds me of a ladybug. I believe the ladybug is searching for answers life can’t always give while I’m still breathing, punching and kicking alive. The ladybug is on a quest for numbers in low ranges and metabolic disorders to be of order. I’m checking my blood sugar, but I call her ladybug because it verbally and visually sounds prettier than the faults I hold as a human. The New Year brought me diabetes and I’m not sure how to feel about this progressive disease that had a lot to do with taking my mother’s life.
What does the bigger picture hold?
The surgeon says, “Are you aware diabetes further affects the ligaments.tendons in your foot and how your foot heals from surgery?” I don’t take advice from anyone who butchers human bodies for a living because even though what they do for a living can be helpful, there’s something inhumane about cutting into human bodies. Let alone, the discord for why surgeons lack brainpower, logic sense, human emotion and emotional intelligence. I can’t tell you the countless times I’ve been in his cold office and every single time I’ve felt like I was touched and centered by a black-hole; the entire light of my thirty-something being vanish in a space where I was beginning to be invisible to myself.
Then there’s my primary doctor who’s younger than I and mentally more fucked than I am says it’s in the controlled phase, don’t worry so much she blurts carelessly. Is she telling the 29 million Americans with diabetes not to worry too? Yet in the same session casually mentions how her supervisor said you would be a good candidate for bypass surgery as if I resemble a hippopotamus of sort. Anyone who hacks into human bodies for a living with a scalpel is god-awful fucking people. No thank you I know how to lose weight on my own even though these gargoyles of depression won’t get off my shoulders and every painful step and every stretch of my Achilles heel is a partial reminder where the mess of my life went awry.
So I asked for a referral to see the endocrinologist, which took me a year plus to get because I didn’t become a candidate until the diabetes clock decided to tick its way in because a 40lb weight gain in a 2 year span doesn’t constitute as a person having a real problem other than depression or hatred in America. So, do I consider the diabetes to be a blessing in disguise? Well, I certainly believe it came on time!
Now Dr. Endocrinologist doesn’t dish any hope at all, but he talked openly about his country, how poor he was as a kid and how he’d go hungry and learned the power of discipline through starvation unlike the Americans who have every convenience and option rolled out for them like a red carpet. He went on to say I know I’ll get diabetes eventually because it’s hereditary, but I do my best to prevent it by not eating all the wonderful fatty and carby things I would love to eat now. Then he wrapped up with a spiel of willpower and the difficulty most people have when it comes to willpower. And I kept looking at him, like do you know who the fuck I am? Then I realized no this is your first meeting and he talks like his because he doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, so I don’t hold his appalling lecture personally.
He goes on to say 50% of your pancreas is shot and will never work the way it once did. Then right away I felt like a dying tulip on the side of neglected roadkill sitting on the thought of my pancreas dying a whole ten years prior according to him. The only thing I did agree with is the way his eyes lit up with sinful fire as he said, “What is wrong with your primary doctor? It’s crazy for her to mention bypass surgery for 3 reasons: 1. That’s not a solution. 2. Most people lose 50% of their weight the first year, but gain it ALL back because most people aren’t disciplined. 3. You don’t even know the basics of endocrinology.
To be continued..
The other half of me: Link here! Thank you for reading. 🙂
I don’t want to teach. I don’t want a leech. I don’t want you hanging over my head like a gorgeous chandelier. I don’t want you knowing anything about my severe bipolar gears. I don’t want your arm wrapped around mine. I don’t pine when impermanence is exorbitant and stands like an almighty saint on my shrine.
I don’t want every moment to be bursting of sunrays. I don’t want to use you for every essay. I don’t want your breath around me twenty-four hours a day. I don’t want any part of your happiness or your pity party or blame. I don’t want to share our pains and heavy existential hurricanes. I don’t want to be the “ex” to your exclaim.
I’m not into pacts by blood or marriages and certificates. I’m not into the mothering and the smothering of willingness. I’m not into decreasing my space into a tiny box to suit anyone or anything because I am ubiquitous. I’m not into cuddles that make a person feel connected to humanity. I’m not into systems manufacturing normality. I’m not into turning a blind eye to lesser insanities.
I’m not into him and hers and the chest of drawers. I’m not into sacrificing my time and energy for you and yours. I’m not into folklore when trying to coexist has been known to set across great wars. I’m not into careless tongues that mouth everything undone. I’m not into romantic love and the drug it promises only once you dare to plunge. I’m not into the togetherness of us, but the individuality of one.
God. I apologize to everyone. I haven’t been inspired lately. I write on the side when I can (and I suppose I can put up all my Part 2 postings that were to be continued despite how awful they read?), but it’s hard to feel like I can write something blog-worthy and share it with the rest of you guys. I can only write from the heart or what I’m personally experiencing at the moment so I’ll share some recent events with you’s. How’s that? Thanks for reading!
I’ve been on an interesting ride these last few years when it comes to seeing therapists and psychiatrists. At the age of twelve I was diagnosed with Depression. I had old features, black circles under eyes, razor cuts on my arms and protruding ribs from starving myself at the time to show for it. However, decades later it seemed I’ve graduated a few years ago (2013) because now new psychiatrists and therapists have diagnosed me: Bipolar. This explains all the wicked instant mood swings, triggers that were really landmines and how come many of my relationships as well as friendships have failed.
Of course I debated with these so-called experts about nature and nurture because I’m suspicious of everything and everyone that isn’t me. I debated about all the things that come from my family’s blood and all the things that come from social disease and conditioning. Still, in the center I fought with myself and knew the truth: There were cracks in the instances and in between all these instances is where I was getting worse.
I’d go into subterranean dark places for leisure, fun and to isolate myself from the world. I’d write in essays, poems and prose my suicidal ideations which continued from childhood. I’d meet with a new friend called anxiety again and again and again questioning the past, present and future concerning everything that became (or was) broken. Was I going to make it another day in this physical realm? My other good friend (since I was 5) came knocking hard on my door and I’d go through all my cycles of chronic loneliness, hopelessness and meaninglessness and stare at the bottomless grief that arrives to taint and place a million holes in my mind, spirit and heart.
Those cracks in the instances became clear as well as my past history when I was going through one of my most tragic experiences at the age of 12 – signed over to two mental hospitals for over six months – I was fed medication for the supposed imbalances in my brain. First was Prozac, and then came Lithium. And of course, I didn’t agree with medication being fed to anyone less than 18 years of age, but my mother didn’t share the same views as her 12 year old. I had zero control as any kid does at that age and was subjected to doctor’s tests, special diets, wondering what was love and how did it look like and was it true I wasn’t normal and these two medications would be the cure everybody else was looking for?
Prozac made me hyper – so hyper that cartwheels became my favorite thing to perform. I couldn’t stop! However throughout the day I’d have hallucinations (of what? I don’t remember anymore – but I’m sure I wrote about it in a lost book for the universe to know) and during the night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I’d have white flashes come over my eyes like strobe lights. And when I finally fell into deep sleep, the nightmares were horrible – once I dreamt of giving birth to a demonic alien baby. (Why would a 12 year old dream of having a baby?)
After the hyperactivity, doctors thought to give me Lithium because my grandmother took it and they had reason to believe it succeeded. (I’m not sure how?) But something tells me this was all a plot for me to lie on their silver platter to undergo a Spinal Tap procedure. Lithium had its own issues and the dosage was higher – I had to take it 3 times a day. With this medication came weekly blood work because mercury and other dangerous things a doctor wouldn’t inform you about were concerns. Then there were countless yeast infections my tiny body couldn’t handle. Lastly, long-term usage meant my kidney and thyroid would be altered, better yet, damaged to a degree in the future.
So every time a current psychiatrist or therapist would bring up the idea of medication to balance the chemicals in my brain – it’s not a wonder why I would say FUCK NO for years on end! But a few months ago before bringing on the New Year, I made one of the biggest decisions of my adult life and figured I’ll try medication to stabilize my moods and prevent sudden manic highs and lowly lows. The reason why I decided to try it is because I’m committed to fixing all aspects of myself.
Then again, who’s to say I need fixing if it’s not someone outside me like a relative, a partner or a societal authoritative figure who keeps claiming there’s something about me I need to fix?
To be continued.
You know what’s to come.
You hear war drums.
You heard about the hunter in me.
You know I’m butter toffee.
You heard I bruise egos.
You know I’m blacker than Negroes.
You heard I have a million sins.
You know I don’t fix things.
You can’t stop yourself.
You like the pains and welts.
You know the sum of what’s to come.
You love my Puerto Rican in your rum.
You like the ecstasy and high I bring.
You enjoy how I leave you on brink.
You like the bountiful sex I give.
You love me so much to forgive.
You know exactly what’s to come.
You can hear the bass and thrums.
I can’t bring you safety baby.
I’m high, low, manic, crazy.
I’m not stupid to guard your heart.
I can’t even blueprint my art.
I can’t be like you: Lost in love.
I’m dead inside – a little too tough.
You know shamelessly what’s to come.
Interestingly enough you’re off the cuff.
I’m going to hurt you like the others.
I’ll haunt like the suffering of mothers.
I’m going to give you a world of hurt.
I wouldn’t be able to without teamwork.
You heard of ruin and what’s to come.
Now you’re my next chewing gum.