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.

A storm rages in Mayberry tonight. Thunder rolls, and huge raindrops explode as they hit my roof. Gone are the angel kisses of this afternoon. Mother Nature seems angry tonight; She is vengeful and wild. Wind howls and my mind races with worry about tornadoes. Now and then, the wind kicks up, causing the big trees near my house to sway a little too much for my liking. Off and on, I peer through my window, trying to catch sight of the rainfall that I love so much, but the night is black as pitch, giving cover to all things as far as my eyes can see, save for the occasional flash of lightning.

As I lie here, amongst the pillows and comfort, I feel so grateful to be in this place. I close my eyes as the storm rages on, wholly distracted from the things that haunt me by way of dreams, yet I know they’ll arrive as soon as sleep comes to me. Alone, here in the country, means being truly alone. There is no one here to wake me from fitful sleep; no one to hold me when I wake up screaming in the night. No matter, I have taught myself to carry on, bravado at the fore, followed by all the strength I can muster. I expected to be frightened to live here like this. I am not. Because there is nothing that goes bump in the night that can rival the demons that dwell, quite comfortably, in the recesses of my mind. As I begin to drift off, I know that I will see them soon. Another battle to fight; one more to win. This is MY home. This is my place of solace. I’ll not have it any other way.

Despite the Sun’s best efforts, grey wins the day, as storms thunderously roll in. There is nothing more beautiful than a Mayberry storm. Grey skies calm the soul as rain weighs heavy on pine branches. Big drops splash against my window panes whenever the wind kicks up. And the sound…oh, my God, the sound; It is the most soothing sound I’ve ever heard. There are no cars, or sirens, or rumblings of refineries, to drown out the sound of angel kisses as they splash against the thirsty ground.

When it rains, I can’t help but wonder where the critters go. I stare out into the woods, as far into them as they’ll allow, but the world seems to disappear into the treeline, surrendering itself to the mysteries that lie in wait beyond it. I rarely venture into the woods. The life inside them overwhelms me, and I recall stories of magical things and dancing spirits, told to me by old women in my family. Beautiful, though they may be, the woods are no place for me. Not now. I have no business there. I’m no hunter, nor am I a sorceress; I am a woman, alone and vulnerable to things beyond my reasoning.