2013.02.06.

trigger warning: s**cidality

note — idk about gender anymore

2013 february 6, on stolen Kizh Lands {coercively called by colonizers as "los angeles"}

... wrote about suicide one week ago. Nearly six months ago, someone killed me. My lungs are heavy; the burden of being a woman {because it is a weight I must bear} chokes my torso. I fear many things, and my own death — at my own hands — is one of them.

Once upon a time, I wrote things. I wrote words. I told stories to someone else other than myself and my imaginary friends. Once upon a time, I felt things in my chest, until they all, treasure and everything inside, were shattered one day and I didn't want to live anymore. There are things that are difficult; the things like your brain making you feel like you have given up; the times when you can no longer control what you think or feel or believe, or lack thereof —

Still I believe. Still I sit and stand and sleep, and some days are better than the others. My belly aches. My body is tired, and some days I end up sleeping twelve hours, and waking up still in the dark in this windowless, wall-less wonderland. Hummingbirds sing, into my ear.

I do not know where I am going, but I know that I will leave this place one day, someday soon. It is time for me, now, to be the one to leave, to leave somebody else — because I am not strong enough yet to stand on my own, I cannot be so selfish as to lean against another and crumble somebody else, too. It is hard. It is hard sometimes but I still have yet to feel... so I stay, drowning in my own selfishness.

The stories I have lived up until this point don't make much sense to me. It is truly as if I have died and have not so much been born again but given a big and hearty resetting. My bones, my bones — how I wait for them to settle back into the places where they're meant to sit. Am I meant to settle, anywhere, I wonder? A week and a half ago as I watched a lesser-known independent band open a show for someartist else I had meant to see, they and I talked about my moving. "Maybe you didn't stay long enough," in New York, they meant. Long enough to know if I liked it or not, they meant, but no — I did, I did. I did not like the lack of space, the lack of trees, the lack of clean air, the lack of the ability to see the sky past the manmade cement phalli that populated and polluted and pierced the clouds...

"I think that's true, plus I have wanderlust, but I think because I can decide to live anywhere and I'm not tied down and I don't have a family, I'm just looking for where I want to build my sense of home somewhere, a homebase, a true feeling of home. That's the real reason I want to wander. Not for the sake of traveling, necessarily."

How beautiful, they replied.