Why Do We Run to the Bridge

I said thank you for the flowers over and over in my head. They were pretty, red and full like the ones that were gathered on the bed for our anniversary.

I plucked one entire flower from the stem and sat on the concrete. My body was shivering from the cold. White-knuckled and quivery, I clutched the petals tightly with my fist, staring off into the blurred street lights. All the while the voices faded in and out, buzzing with a familiar static. He came up running in jagged motions. My eyes clicked shut.

Peeling me off the ledge like a child clinging to her father’s leg.

Then we were interrogated by some officials. We’ve been here before… smile and thank them for their civil concerns. Reassure them of your safety. Don’t make any sudden moves.

Go home, shower, lay in her arms. Remember what this felt like years ago? Remember how you love her lips.

Wake up, voices coming through the walls. It’s freezing.  He looks exhausted.

I a m exhaustimg

The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
Wow!
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of
yourself.

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
backwards,
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
tourniquets
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
scream
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

Anyhow,
my hands were wet and
slippery.
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,
unkissable.

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
panty-less
propped up in a cheerleader’s
costume.
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.
Kissable.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

TV Screen at the Gas Station

touch the handle,
it’s gritty
clean your hands

push the card in,
pull it out rapidly
like the screen tells me to do

rapidly

a man in a grey Camry
pulls up behind me
I note the license plate number

and repeat it over
and over
and over

pump the gas

I unscrew the cap
and guide in the nozzle
the TV turns on

Are you talking to me?

23 dollars
maybe I can get coffee
from inside where the

cashier is playing music
and it sounds like
it’s Turkish

I could win the lottery
if I bought a scratcher
but the only problem

is I don’t trust men
on the television screens
that try to con me

Roadkill

it was Friday
that I came wheeling down the
5PM freeway
which was lit by limited sunlight
and everyone was pushing on their brakes
my head was thick
I remember the saturation

suddenly above us there was
a still-warm ungulate beast
lay sprawled in the middle of the
yellow lines
the baskets of eyes
were wide and dark
unrecognizable
poor deer

I wanted to stop among
the traffic and peel it’s
head off the concrete
maybe I could
sit while it slipped
away
but the cars kept
buzzing and
the drained
employees of America
were too eager
to sit down
to gluttonize
to tear off their ties
and fuck their wives

meanwhile I drove all
the way home
wondering if it
had died suddenly
or if it had to wait
until the blood drowned
its brain

Ballerina

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I am the ballerina
in the music box
bending and twirling.
when you need me,
twist the spindle.
I’ll dance.
Pretty pink shoes
revolving counter-clockwise,
the same way every day and every night.
When you’re done, close the lid
and I will tuck myself quietly
beneath my own body,
folded up neatly where I belong.
Tucked away in my own
felted cave
alone with the rings, the copper
and silver metals.
I am quiet and undisruptive.
I will keep myself contained.
Hidden I stay
in the little juke,
always tired,
always wearing thin.
Until you lift the lid.
Happy I am, again.

and then I was a Stripper

One day I just decided that I wanted to audition at a strip club. There was really no thought process behind it. I just suddenly wanted to. I called the club that day and asked when I could come in for an audition. I spoke with the general manager of the club. He was amazing and was completely professional on the phone. He eased my mind about the audition itself and assured me that his club was one worth working for.

On a Tuesday evening I headed out to the club with my make up done and heels ready. As soon as I got there, the bouncer let me in. I met with the manager briefly. He showed me to the dressing rooms, told me to get ready, to pick two songs and get on stage. So, there I was live on stage.

Darling Nikki- Foo Fighters
More Than Human- Rob Zombie

Well, I’ve done this before. Back in 2010 when I was in college, I briefly danced. I don’t remember too much of it due to heavy drug use and a psychotic break (go figure). You can imagine how surprised I was with my muscle memory. The audition went well and he hired me on the spot. I worked that same night.

Tonight will be my third night working. I thoroughly enjoy it, actually. I mostly love the dancing aspect. It’s a fantastic workout and it’s a challenge for me.

It’s not as dirty as most people think it is. A lot of the men that got there are just really lonely. I talked to a couple guys and they were pretty real with me. I can see that a lot of strippers become therapists for these guys. Our opinions are moot. We’re just sounding boards and eye candy.

Now the World Knows! World Mental Health Day 2016

About a year ago, I was contacted by a media group in the UK asking if they could interview me and possibly publish an article about my experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Well, a year later, it’s here.

The Sun, UK has published the interview, as well as the Daily Mail.

What the fuck.

I have mixed emotions…

My main concentration is to raise awareness- with mental illness, DID, suicide prevention, rape… I mean, just things that I’ve personally dealt with. That’s my entire focus. I want people to inform themselves, to know that DID specifically isn’t this silly little game, but it’s YEARS of personal turmoil. It’s trauma, it’s real life pain, confusion and work.

When I started this process of being interviewed, I was in such a different place in therapy, in life, with myself. Now that this has been published, it is actually quite trippy to see my progress.

(I’d also like to point out that there are definitely a few errors on the articles. One of them being that Rogue is a “sex addict.” So not true. )

ANYWAYS, there’s lots I could say on the subject.

And to new readers, yes, I am real. 
Yes, DID is actually a real disorder.
No, I’m not like Sybil. I’m a relatively normal person just like everyone else.

Overall, if you’re curious about Dissociative Identity Disorder, I encourage you to educate yourself.

Here’s a link to an article I wrote regarding DID from a personal standpoint- https://lazarusandlithium.com/10-things-we-want-you-to-know-a-letter-from-a-multiple-to-a-singleton?iframe=true&theme_preview=true

And here’s a link off of NAMI: https://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-Conditions/Dissociative-Disorders

The Mechanic

my feeble Homunculus
red Jew
the top of your hat
is carved out
to fit a small light
I have called you brutal names
my albatross
looking back I see the film
loosely lifted
peering
outwardly your small eyes
in contrast my
hand
raising
to the space between us
as uncertain as dice
you remain
I am not a graduate
nothing on white to
tell that I am licensed
I am a mechanic
like him
rewiring myself, instead
always battling the
electrical currents
always zapping my fingers