Broken Tiles

You’ve got my head spinning so fast that it makes me dizzy. So dizzy that I fall to the ground my hands landing in the rips of the carpet that squares the tile floor. The glass and sheetrock staggered all around sifting and grinding under my fingernails. The blood rushing to my head and falling like droplets, but its not blood; it’s tears. The salt taste rest on my lips as they quiver from the scared that shakes my frame so.

But- I love all of you though, still I am left wondering how I can make a clean break, how can I run as far away to the corner of the world that floats beneath me. Yes I am flying, flying free, breaking free. Yet, I am still chained… to another predestined atmosphere. Will I ever escape this circle? This pattern? This every day life? Will I really break the cycle and go to where I was created? Or will I suffer indefinitely?

For once I thought that giving my all to someone would be easy but I have found that I want most of those parts of myself back. I don’t know who’s going to kiss you when I am gone. I don’t know who will be there to pick your chassis back up and put you back to pieces. We used to be the glue to each others broken pieces, but that glue has turned to opposite ends of the magnet. Pulling our pieces back apart, everything we have built, starting all over again. Every brick I lay as foundation… it gets torn down with words, actions, and ridicule. I feel so defeated. I lay my entire mentally beaten body down and fall back into the clouds. The clouds of denial. The soft clouds that bring stillness to my bag of bones.

I feel desolated, dejected. I feel broken more now that I have ever felt in my life. It’s hard getting that out of my mouth. Because trust me I have been through a lot. It sounds so dirty. I feel dirty, and used and broken and beaten. Yes I know I’ve already said this and I sound like a record skipping just when it gets to my favorite part. but, every time things are going great something bad always happens.

So I cuddle up with my pillow between my legs and one behind my head and one to hold onto throughout the night as I fall asleep and hope that I wake up tomorrow. Or do I? Hinds sight isn’t always so bright.

The second attempt

Tasha Geller-Hollingshead ©copyright 2016

The Therapist

Staring across the room and looking out of the window, I see a man run across the road. He was wearing a black hat that caught my attention. If I look in the right angle I can see as he zips up his black matching coat and run in the black squared shoes he is wearing. The weather, so cold today, and it’s so high up, this building. The sky is sitting even levelled with me today as I embark on another journey with “the therapist”. I wonder if God has a hand in the vision I see in front of me today. Leaping out to grab me and change the proper expression on my face, I am guided to another room. Sometimes I can hear that girl, I can hear her crying in the back ground, around the corner, or is it through the thin four white walls and a not so cushiony carpet that surrounds us again. Less than classy artwork on the walls if I may say so myself, we all are trapped and locked in here. Where is the key? You may ask, why I chose to talk about him today? Out of all the days that come and go in our lives, I choose this particular moment to talk about what most would assume is a less than relevant person in my life right now. Leaving them only to end up being wrong.

Starting with his pointy nose, squinty eyes, and the way he crosses his legs, I would have to say he is the most important person to me that I have to hold dear to my heart. At least, until it’s time for me to give it away to those that are around me 24/7. For now though, my heart is broken and shattered into a tiny little pieces. If I were to sit and try to count all of them, it would be in the millions and the days would drag on while tears fall down my face endlessly. For I am a broken person. I wish I could say that all of my childhood days were happy and I had a happy life. I have never really had a happy life, now that I think back. All of my decisions, those in care of me and their decisions that caused me trauma and pain. The paths I have gone down, had led no where but to sadness. I have many sides to me, some depressing, some mysterious, some happy. I have so much to learn, but will I even give him a chance to help me? What is this thing people call happiness? Is that term really subjective?

(giggle) When you’re talking he will say ok, ok, ok, rather quickly after I speak to cut me off momentarily when I get carried away. He will wait for me to say something rather than asking a question to probe further he will then just say ok. Then a different question, then ok. Then another question, then ok again. Well- followed with a sigh, is the code word and look though, if you pay closely attention you will see and hear it throughout the session. Like a clock that never fails to tick and tock. It is when I know it’s no longer a valid conversation to have, it ends. I know that if I wanted to I could talk about things that could help me, I could get the help I need with him. I am stubborn as a bull my grandmother used to say to me. I see where she was coming from now, even though her opinions could be bought for a dollar a minute, and came true, still, I should have listened to her more. I wish she was here to hear all my complaints and tell me to be grateful for even being alive.

Throughout this long ticking time in session, I reach over to grab his hand, jolting him and startling him. I tell him my deepest dark secrets one at a time. He grins from ear to ear and eerily enough I liked that look. I liked the thrill and excitement that came over his entire face. For I wonder what all goes on inside HIS mind, this trained, well-educated therapist. The one who sits with his chin in his hand and two fingers that point toward his jet black hair. That means the gears are turning, he is thinking very deeply. Years of experience talking to people over and over about the same stuff, I realize why not go ahead and just get it out, something different this time? Why hide who I am anymore, this other side of me? Something that he can actually help me with and I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to know that I have a side that does actually exist in others. The mere fact that I could raise his body out of his chair and cause him to walk around the room tirelessly, showed me that he’s thinking about it. Finally, why did I feel so used, in the end? Was it worth it, opening up this time? Do I still have to question myself and my thoughts on a daily basis? You betcha, but that therapist, that one time. That one day. He understood me and I understood him if only for that ONE minute.

Always, The patient

Tasha Geller-Hollingshead © copyright 2016