SONGS FOR INSOMNIACS: with my top hat in my hands

song 8


Here is me in my body, looking down on a girl I’ve known for centuries.

Wait. No. That’s not right. Is it?

What is body?

Fingers? Arms. God, I need help to become armed. And legged.

Ew. Yuck. Woah. Slow down. Too much. I’m out.


Here is me in my body, standing beside a girl I’ve loved for centuries.

I wish she could hear me. She thinks she can hear me but she can’t hear me.

She doesn’t know what it’s like to be comfortable in her body. She feels needy but she hides it.

She attributes needy to her incremental deaths. Tiny deaths as the French have said.

She knows to truly flow she must stay in her body but to be in her body is to walk, yet again, through another charnel ground.

She resists the torture. She has started to believe she deserves more.

But there is still torture. The way out is the way in and it’s always harder for these beautiful creatures because they’ve been there before.

She told me that once. My beloved. She tells me everything. Even when she isn’t sure I can hear her.

This blessed child loves us all so much that she tells me in great detail the hell she walks through so we can work together to make this kind of suffering less difficult.

I am divine. I am worthy of love. And up here it’s not even hard to believe.

Up here everyone shines like Love. Up here we are all beautiful and flawless.

It’s where I belong.

Some days, months, years, I believe this.

I don’t belong down there with the people who are critical and judgey and cruel and lacking hope and filled with sorrow.

The grief is the worst, God. I can’t stand it. I have to sit it each time and it’s fucking terrifying.

I know I used to swear a lot and that part of me still swears a lot, but this is my now self swearing, you know.

It is fucking terrifying to approach the yawn of grief on this earth fully in my body.

When it gets too heavy I zip back to You.

It’s even hard to cry these days, you know. I cannot feel this grief run through me and wake up mid sob in these aching bones, these reticent thighs, this simultaneous awareness that tells me that this experience is hell. That it could be better. That others believe it should be different.

Here is me in my body after waking through the sobs. Coming back violently. No need to remember my breath when my body is working hard to push this weight.

And I say, I can’t do this anymore.

I need to know what it feels like to be held. I know the grief will be easier to allow if I can be held.

But I can’t just walk up to a stranger on the train and say, hey, I’m feeling sad today. Will you hold me.

And I can’t trap some poor man on Tinder into a first date not knowing that when I say string-free snuggles, I’m not using a euphemism.

I said out loud recently that it’s been four years single. Free. Without. He laughed at me. But, of course, he doesn’t know why. He wasn’t laughing at me. He was laughing at being single.

So, I kind of feel stuck.

Half in, half out. I need to be vigilant and it’s just me and my divine guardians here, so I’ve split myself.

I’m not sure this is the best way anymore, God. But which way is through? And of course I’m going to resist when it’s so fucking hard.

What do You expect? Has it been that long since any of my angels have been walking on hell?

No offence, Earth. You’re great, really. It’s just that, you know, once you know viscerally the intense beauty of a plane where there is no suffering, no fear, no anger, no violence, everything else looks idk like an opportunity to hurt or get hurt.

I’m so sick of both.

But I can’t do this alone. I can’t.

And I know that I come across to people I meet – for the most part – as a person who has it all under control all by myself.

At least from afar. At least to those who haven’t seen me in my ugliest neediest most terrified moments.

But that’s part of it. This being me alone, working my security almost fully alone. I know Mikey has my back but that’s not what I mean.

To be vulnerable for me isn’t as easy as oh hey by the way, when I was a teen I dropped out of school to travel the world and I didn’t really finish so I faked my diploma to get this job.

It’s not as easy as you know the time I told you that I think reading is awesome? Ya well, I lied to feel wanted by you and now that I’ve known you for six months I want to drop that facade because it’s exhausting.

It’s not as simple as, this is harder than I thought, being with you, and I don’t feel like I’m getting anything anymore, I don’t care if my friends think I’m a total dick.

Vulnerability is me trying not to cry before I’m ready to let you hold me, until you’re ready to hold me, because those are things you can’t ask for.

You can’t ask to be loved. I know. I’ve tried.

Vulnerability for me is finding the balance between sharing too little and too much at just the right times and levels of intimacy.

Vulnerability is trusting myself to see and heed the red flags of those who would take advantage of the stories I may one day share.

Vulnerability is even showing someone I want them. Because if I want to be with a person, I can be rejected, hard, but even more than that, when I have really wanted a relationship with someone, it’s disappeared.

Here is me in my body now, for sure. I think. I feel the weight of grief through out the top of my deltoids. I feel my belly rise and fall with my breath.

I’m looking around me. Taking notice of the birds through the window, the blue of the sky. Ignoring the chatter of people around me.

Letting go of all that no longer serves me. The fear. Needless worries.

Surrendering. For now.

After working hard to get there.

Believing, in this moment, that there is a future already that doesn’t have so much pain or work. Where things will come so gracefully that I might even forget what this hell was like.

I don’t know what the bridge looks like.

I only kneel before God, now. But I’ve never experienced saying sorry on my feet.

And who wants a broken heart? Not the kind of broken that comes with being rejected or left, the loss of a loved one.

A kind of broken I fight every day.

Not something to talk about on a first date. But when does something like that come up? I can’t have you feeling invested and hooked on me before you know the truth about the demons that haunt me.

I won’t trick you. It has to be real. It has to be pure. I’ll have it no other way.

I wish I could go back and start with that light. Know where it came from. Not be so confused.

That light has the power to guide me right to you. And I’m not afraid to let it shine anymore.

Here is me leaving my body, not ready to face the barrage of judgement. Not able, yet, to face the consequences of my vulnerability.

Because so far, vulnerability has brought me more pain than joy.

Here is me looking down on my body. What a sweet child. What a darling. She needs extra love right now.

Here is me holding my body, mimicking the angels that always surround me. Folding their wings, their gentle, warm light, around me.

A comfort without expectation. The pure love I lived to get through hell. The love that has never abandoned me.


Author: tendrilwise

Hi, I have a diploma in Journalism, I've published a novel, and I am currently studying psychology. My odd way of viewing the world either gets me kicked out of parties or invited to them. Jenn McKay

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