Monday, March 22, 2010

if you're wondering, I know.

What followed my death was an unforeseen expectation. I had always wondered if people would miss me when I did leave earth for an eternity far greater. If I'd be realer. If people realized that I would be a true loss. If I would realize I was a true loss. And I never knew what my conclusion would be, until now. I watched over Deirdre during the following days. People in relation to me insisted on life support, which is what the white coated beings did. Simply to appease those who loved me enough to try to keep my body going even if a spirit no longer resided. I had more freedom to come and go in those days than I did any other time in my life. I roamed the woods in search of something. In search of the faceless man. In search of the lion for reconciliation. In search of my dead father. In search of the past. Anything to help me toward a decision. But to no avail.
I killed Deirdre inside. I killed her and I never meant to hurt a soul alive. I had become no better than those who had killed me little by little, ultimately trapping me inside my own head.

What had happened, my death, to anyone would seem absurd. I was killed psychologically. I was killed within the realm of my mind that brought me to a hidden place of darkness. A place that people never came away from. A place where creatures could kill me with the right stare. I had been sitting with Deirdre beneath our tree, Muse, and was recalling one whom I had become indifferent from. One who reminded me of another that killed me. Both of which looked like wolves cunningly disguised as domesticated dogs. The dream, the happening, whatever it was. The trauma was too great. While in the hospital, I listened to the doctors mull over my strange "death" over and over. They said many things about my psyche. That it wasn't likely that I'd survive this. That I was alive but dead.
I visited myself in the hospital. I looked at myself and it was weird. I saw person after person after person come into that horridly bare room and look at me. Some would talk to me. And I would listen. Some told me that they missed me. Some said they were angry about something I said in 3rd grade about their brother. A very scarce few kissed my forehead lightly and whispered in my ear that they loved me. I didn't care to stick around the hospital. It was a strange silence, save for beeping and the walls wailing. They cried for everything and everyone within their parameter. I would check in on myself every now and then, but never lingering long enough to know anything.

I followed my bosom friend by day. Watching her barely hold on through her classes. Watching her grieve for a supposed loss only to come home to sleep. Only to awake again, crying and shaking from relentless nightmares torturing her battered psyche. I slept beside Deirdre every night. As she tossed and turned in between dreams and nightmares. As she cried in her sleep, dried her tears and sang to her. Her favorite songs. The saddest songs I knew. Ironically, they were the ones with the most peace in them. The sad ones. I knew she wouldn't mind. "Deirdre, love, I'm coming back. I'm not done here yet" Then I would continue to sing: "And if I'm wondering then you show me, If you're wondering I know" 

I will open my door for you, little one.