In the four walls of my pain
there is no window or door
I only hear: beyond the walls
a guard is walking back and forth.
His muffled hollow steps
measure the length of blind time.
Is it still night or already dawn?
It’s dark within my four walls.
What’s he walking back and forth for?
How can he reach me with his scythe,
when there is no window or door
in the cell of my pain?
Somewhere outside, the years must fly
from the fiery bush of life.
Here, the guard walks back and forth -
a phantom with a blind face.
(Source: , via riotingfeminist)
[…] I don’t know, I’m going by my gut here. And my gut reaction to the tweet, as a person who’s survived suicide, was a feeling of compassion and acceptance for the pain he went through, and therefore for the pain I’ve gone through. The thing that “triggered” me was walking into the break room at work and finding the TV that’s usually tuned to sports or TV shows tuned to CNN, which was discussing every specific detail of how he died, and then turning around and finding the entire room full of people watching it. And then walking back into the room 8 hours later and finding that CNN was still on and they were still talking about the same specific details. At that point I just went and walked around the store for awhile because I was too afraid to go be alone in my car, because I had that feeling every suicidal person knows of suicide being really really really close to me, like right up in my bones, and I couldn’t be alone or it would consume me completely. So I know some of what that “contagion” feels like firsthand, and thus if a suicidal person told me that the tweet bothered them, I would respect that. But I don’t respect “experts” telling people how to talk about suicide.
(reblog for commentary)
Been thinking about this.
When does politicizing the body become a way of apologizing for its existence? If the body is only legible as political statement then who does it belong to, how does it not become beholden to the message it carries? I do not want to be able to acknowledge it only as a form of protest, resistance, of writing some other kind of pain, when sometimes the reality of self-destruction is that the body is an object that you want to hurt and then to grieve for; an object beyond the reach of the political. But I have to explain that need to hurt, to struggle with it, in political terms because otherwise the pain is not valid, it is something I should not be feeling hurt by because I reject those narratives at a societal level. Because self-care and self-neglect are ways of resisting, of calling attention to, oppression, but every time I say that of myself I am still apologizing for my existence because I do not matter enough in and of myself to warrant what I do, or fail to do, for myself.