When nightfall comes ’round, and it’s time for sleep, something deep inside of me awakens. Thoughts of life, what could be and what is, fly through my brain, as hard, and fast, as a bullet train.

I close my eyes, as tight as I can, tossing and turning amongst fluffy pillows and comfort. Yet, thoughts crash, one into another and another, and I am helpless to stop the electric visions that sparkle and crackle themselves into existence behind my weary eyes.

Things I never wanted to see again, play out before me. Transported, I am caught; locked into an experiential prison made just for me. Eyes wide open, now, unable to see what is, as my entire being is caught in the headlights of a few very long moments in time. They found me. It is mine to wait until they have finished, that I may hide from them, once more.

Finally, the butterflies come. They flutter, doing their gentle dance within my heart. I am grateful that they came for me…to save me…that I won’t be lost to the night. The vision is broken, as I flutter away with them, reveling in all that was ever good in me.

It was a love/hate thing. Some days, a soft spot, others, a freight train. It was a really great thing, until it wasn’t; a love conquers all thing. Until it didn’t. It was me and him, and him and whoever, picket fences and kids and a dog. A rain tree, two palm trees, and the feeling of safety, wrapped up in his arms. Betrayal, truth, goodnight kisses, and parties and holidays I wouldn’t have missed. Fights that went on day and night, neither of us really wrong, or right. Falling apart and together, at once, unable to let go but too blind to watch the pain that was etched in the lines of our faces. Empty promises, cold embraces. We still stayed together as though we were one. Then, one April, he was gone.

Dear Doc,

I hope all is well with you. I believe that things are looking up for me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…making some decisions; that sort of thing.

I decided that I’m getting off of these fucking majic pills you have me on. They don’t work. They only make me a new kind of crazy and put me that much further from my true self. What you call ‘the best on the market’ are little more than slave masters, shaking about in shiny bottles. Fuck that bullshit. Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck you.

I pay you five bucks a minute for you to ignore the things in my life that have given me PTSD. And, let me tell you something; the T was pretty fucking traumatic, and it went on for decades. Why aren’t we talking about THAT instead of you giving me bullshit assignments? A man can pay a fucking whore fifty bucks just to talk and get more insight than you have. I’m done, doc. I’ll still come see you now and then, so that you can see how fucking good I’m doing on my own. I bet you won’t even be able to tell the difference. Pills…no pills? Hmmmm…

I’m manic as fuck right now. You know what? I fucking LOVE it. God, I’ve been so dumbed down for so long that I almost forgot what this is like. I want to dance around the house and sing and make the bed and sweep the floor and do the dishes, all at the same time! I want to write this letter to you and then listen to Lil Keke and Fat Pat, all chopped and screwed. I want to sit here, in this chair, feeling like the entire universe is inside my head and I want to FEEL it dancing in my brain. Because it feels like I’m alive. And it’s exhausting. But it’s worth it.

I’m going to go now, Doc. I apologize for the disrespect, but I meant what I said. I meant to say it differently, but I’m not going to edit it. It is what it is, Doc. It’s my life and I need to live it my way, whatever that means and whatever the outcome is. I know I’ll crash. Maybe tomorrow…maybe six months from now. But, at least, I’ll have this time when I feel like I can see color again. I can feel again. So much that I can barely contain it. It’s terrible and wonderful, all at once. And I love it. Because it’s me.

Adios, Doc

-Elle

I feel disaffected and alone.
The Kings of my youth have fallen; nothing but dust and broken bits scattered about a desert of forked tongues. Nothing of substance to cling to, in the glaring light of truth.

Better men live among sewage, begging for bread.

I don’t feel known by anyone since Bennie died. For better, or worse, he knew me.

I miss being known. I miss having someone who can look at me and know what I’m thinking. I miss conversations with someone who knew they were intellectually superior, but would hear me out, anyway. I miss holding the rough hand of an oilfield man. And the smell of crude oil and sweat on his neck, when  he held me close.

I miss who he was, before the pills; wild nights when we were beyond love and friendship. We were free, then. Together. Untethered from the restraints of man’s law, answering only to one another.

Of all that I miss of this man that I grew to hate, and love, in equal measure, what I miss most is, through the pain, and chaos, he made me feel alive. The stakes were always high, and the losses, devastating, but I could feel the blood in my veins as it rejoiced in the feeling of my own mortality.

It already feels like midnight here, in Mayberry. Peering through the window, into the vantablack mysterium, my eyes roam, to and fro, wishing that the darkness would brighten, only a touch, so that I could watch for wild things. But the darkness prevails, denying my eyes the pleasure of gazing upon its mystery.

There’s just something about this night; something I could absolutely fall in love with. I don’t know what that something is, or how it came to be, but that’s the enigmatic nature of love, I suppose. Being unable to see anything, I can see everything I please; Reality as beautiful as it was when two small boys ran, rough and tumble, through my life. The story plays like a movie against the backdrop of darkest night. I cannot stop smiling.

Thank You, Lord, for giving me those most precious days that I have ever known.❤️

Early morning’s rolling thunder has passed, leaving behind a blanket of grey. Dawn struggles to move on; to make way for a jealous Sun to take the stage. The grey, victoriously, holds Dawn where it stands. I can almost hear laughter from the heavens, as Night looks over its shoulder, enjoying the show.

The Sun is dead and gone, hiding in places beyond my sight, as it awaits resurrection by morning. Darkness has taken its place, quickly… comfortably; lounging like a fat cat, reveling in its own comfort, here in the land of Mayberry.

I have so much to say, but my voice struggles to be heard. It stagnates within my throat; a firm-hand choke in the making. Frustrated, I rise to my feet, leaving the comfort of the old leather chair that my mother gave me. I walk to my door, emboldened by the sunlight, peering at me through broken rain clouds that hover over the land of  Mayberry.

Door open, before an audience of pines, I force captive words to come forth… to find bravery in the fact that they exist… offering them the opportunity to believe in themselves. I begin to speak to my silent judges. Voice loud, I empty my heart into my own, small, universe. Minding my posture, graceful conviction resonating throughout the East Texas woods, until there is nothing more to say. Then, I turn away from the pines and take my place, once again, in the old leather chair that my mother gave me.

The light rain continues its fall here, on this chilly Mayberry morning. I adore the gentle care which is taken by the sky to give, and the earth, to receive, the blessing of rain. It is a joy to open eyes on such a morning, when earth and sky are so very loving to one another.