12 Later Said There are certain things that don’t need to be said for they already are.
A dozen ago, it was these unknown gray wounds that would not heal inside you, would bleed every month, rendering you into a gritting fetus. These wounds had to be sliced out of you, gutted open almost rendering you barren of the possibility to have a child you never thought of. You were too young then, still just more than a child yourself now you say. Even then you felt older than you are now.
And even then you had thought of the dozen and said, “Maybe you should look for someone else. After all, what is the point in being with a woman who may likely not have children?” The dozen said that it didn’t care about that; it just wanted to be with you.
The dozen stayed…Even through the following months of disorders--- insanity--- and you took the dozen with you even when you didn’t want to. You had tried to protect the dozen from yourself as much as you could even as you had spun. You had continued to spin and had become frayed--- and that December the dozen was ready to leave; it didn’t say, didn’t need to.
You wanted to be with the dozen, terrified, you put on a dozen masks and began to hide--- you hid the sickness from the dozen. The dozen stayed and inside, unseen, you struggled to heal yourself, the sickness seeking…The sickness sickening… You had stopped the lithium carbonate then and every other pill that were killing you even as they steadied you.
How many years have you screamed and sobbed, tweaking from these guerillas which the quacks and metallic voices said wouldn’t make a junkie out of you, wrestling with the ghouls inside you as they clawed and raked you again and again --- pain dulled and steadied by booze and will.
Then, getting older, you had said, “I don’t want a child…I don’t want my child to see me like this…” You didn’t want to leave a child with the dozen and the dozen left to explain the horror to your child with, “Mommy’s not feeling well…”
You had tried and still try to find what would heal--- hidden from the dozen, still protecting the dozen, loving the dozen this way--- though you slip, now and then into black holes, worms coming out of your cans, bigger cans more. Once you had said silently, written, “All these, I only really wanted to tell you.”
Life happens and you and the dozen retreated more into the silences of the unspoken years, the distance of everyday, the daily healing and sundering of a dozen years. You are a thin scab.
Not so long ago, you saw a four-year-old boy on the elevator, smiled, said hi and talked. You thought, “I want a child of my own.” Not just your vicarious children--- a boy you cradled as a baby abandoned turned six the other day; a little girl who acts like an old woman; a little girl who’s a tornado, replica of a third sister and mother. Not the children you see in adults, your friends, nor these strangers you birth.
This you said to the dozen and it replied with silence. Nights passed and the dozen said, “The scariest thing finally happened: You want a child. I am thinking that I will be left alone to take care of the child…” Because you drink, sometimes, you disappear…
You shook, holding your rage, “How…dare…you…I am not a bad mother…I will not be a bad mother…” Your mother says so. Your children say so. You say so.
The dozen said instead, “…want reassurance that you will not break under pressure…” An assurance from what was, is, always?
You are here, aren’t you?
You have been here for the past dozen years, haven’t you?
You have been with the dozen, haven’t you?
You are still fighting the inevitable, living, aren’t you?
You don’t need to be told that you will be left to live alone. That you will be returned every time to your family--- like a toy or playmate found to be brutal--- by a dozen that says to want to be with you forever. Like that July or that September when the dozen walked away and left you alone.
You said to the sky, “Understandable… For who could love me…This…” The sky had answered with many voices, “I had…I do…” But you didn’t want the sky: you wanted the dozen.
You walk, sometimes you run, away from the dozen, too. Never to leave, but to protect the dozen from this, from you. The dozen has asked if you could change. You have answered with yes and no, everyday success and failures these past eleven years. These disorders— it is genetics you have been trying to beat. You are alone in this. You will always be alone in this. The dozen saw this a dozen years ago--- that you are alone even surrounded by the crowds drawn to you--- and the dozen had vowed to sit beside you. It was as alone as you were. It loved you.
The dozen says sorry for saying what it deems as necessary. It was unnecessary, still is. And you are asked why you stay with the dozen. For the dozen has forgotten what you are and love becomes conditional: it wants to be normal. It dreams of normal.
It has forgotten to hold out that hand when you are sinking in your black holes. It has forgotten that words are necessary to break the silence that is a flat-line between you. It has forgotten that at the end of the day, your voice hurts that you can no longer speak. It has forgotten that what you really want is to die and so what you do everyday has to be bigger than you. What you do costs you your voice.
If it were up to you, you would sleep and never wake up. The dozen has forgotten to hug or to touch. It has forgotten and dreams of that someday wherein you would no longer be haunted by nightmares. It is a good dream.
Your answer is a riddle, an answer: You love the dozen. You are a thin scab ripped open. You are bleeding. You are still here.
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