OXY.

Today, for the first time in—longer than I can remember, I felt
oxytocin.
I recognized her, a foreign yet familiar company—my body in utero. Holding Winston is something I always do?
I don’t know when or why my body decreased production of this hormone, but I can’t deny its emphatic homecoming. I can feel it dancing through my veins, a tangible revival in my bloodstream.
I feel human again still
I know she cannot stay.

This time, I don’t perform. I don’t fold the mouse into a crane. I no longer conceal the insatiable leech inside me, consuming all the parts of me that once felt alive.
Though I was honest: “I’m not ok!”
This time, I am thorough.
my brain: a time bomb
my lack of hope: lethal
my tomorrows in total u n f o l d
from
my fists.

I’m doing the things I know to do: Intensive therapy 9-3pm, 12-step meetings daily, regular doctor appointments, all the DHS paperwork in the world. I am socializing. I am altering meds once again. I am staying in motion, staying surrounded, feeding my body and my soul, pushing myself to stay in the middle, leaning into discomfort—showing up and staying, even when my tears do too.

And still, the uninvited arrives,
taking
MORE
than its share.
devouring all drive, leaving me gutted and lifeless—a silhouette.

He seems bigger than before,
shadowing all light
p u l ling me back
in.

Every time I start to feel like I can breathe, that I might be okay—a level of despair clutches my chest
stealing my breath.
I am brought to my knees in heavy nausea.
upon
A china hutch of grief me.

It’s never been this constant, I’ve never felt this tired.
I’m afraid of my own anger.
ANGER, disguised as reason,
defending a freedom:
IT IS THEM WHO ARE FRUSTRATINGLY IRRATIONAL:
“I need you to stay alive for my own comfort, but I wont speak to you. I demand you stay and suffer, as this boulder slowly crushes you—as I look the other way. You have to stay, but I cannot sit beside you or witness your pain.

My mind whispers in
understanding,
“Maybe it’s too painful for them…”
——————ANGER cuts in:
“THEN communicate a FUCKING boundary. Silence?
That is not anxiety or alarm.
That is apathy.

My body agrees.
If they’re choosing silence
they do not get a fucking vote.

ENTER: anger’s penance shame
I am so selfish.

How can I shelter in fear when so many have bravely paved the path before me? Who am I to feel afraid?
This is pride month not
hide month.

The truth is, I don’t feel proud. And the shame that comes with this confession silences me.
AFRAID to protest. AFRAID to go to pride. AFRAID to continue my transition.

I want to blame trauma—
“A family, a whole church, turns away in disdain!”
I want to say I no longer have an army|beside me.
No matter the reason
my shame is my responsibility
and this shame will surely kill me

Is the alternative any different?

My soul cannot carry their hatred. It’s already inside me. My own mother’s voice, one of the most generous, loving humans I’ve known. If those I thought loved me can spew hate, what can strangers do?

Will I die from the pressure building inside of me? Am I the parasite, hiding in my chrysalis eating myself alive?

When I zoom o u t
I see myself making a choice.
Even when the four red letters
are in my sight— I stay.
I swallow more shame,
succumbing to voices
that never were mine.

I blame the current administration for shattering my spiritual values.

Did I jump or f
all into this
pit
of helplessness?
A pit filled with an overwhelming majority who voted for an avariciously cruel bigot and RAPIST.
A pit reverberating with hateful comments and death threats,
A pit overflowing with freewill
holding all I know of
humanity in question.

I believe in compassion and inclusivity. I believe we are all connected. I believe we are all doing our best.
My faith has one foot
in the grave.

I lack the power I’m sure I need to bring back hope. Am I ignoring the power I do have?
I want to believe in good.
My brain makes it hard to see.

Though I know this flavor of anguish will pass, I still wonder—can a body withstand this much weight? Do I have enough energy to keep holding on? Am I too tired to lift my head to
see there are more hands?

I cannot willingly choose
a relief; permanent.
still, I pray
I will die in my sleep.