Connection

I have been stuck with the image of a young woman I met in New Orleans. I have written about it so many times in different ways, and today I had kind of a sad day. I don't know that it was like the old depression, but I just didn't feel good, but it was for good reason. I talked to one of my best friends Dawn. She just lost one of her best friends. It broke my heart talking to her. I actually listened for once. I always want to give advice or help people, but frommy experience most of the time that is not what people need. I just let her talk. I told her I was just as confused as she was and I couldn't say anything to make her feel better, but I could listen, and I did. It broke my heart, but I felt a spiritual connection. I have missed that so much. I also was sad, because one of my only real friends up here is suffering from depression and still not better yet. She had a really rough day today, and ended up skipping World Peace Initiative to go home. She just left Central, which was needed, but I wished I could have done that when I felt like that. I talked to her for over an hour late tonight trying to keep her mnd of how shitty she felt. I guess, all ot the sadness is what made me feel like I needed to finally write about this image from New Orleans in a way other than just journaling and talking about how crappy it was. I am going to regret staying up so late tomorrow, but I feel a little relieved after the sadness I felt today. I am glad I have writing to help me feel better.

The Conection

In broken streets walked by broken souls and Tourists
with happy faces and college sweatshirts. I hate this place.
New Orleans is too damn cold. I close my eyes, but can't ignore
the image of tortured, screaming souls and floating houses.
It slaps me in the face with a reminder of undeserved suffering,
cruelty, and a careless government. I see her crying alone.
She wipes Her tears on Her sleeves and avoids My eyes.
She walks fast and determined, like Me. Her boring sandy
hair is like Mine too. It could hide traces of the sun if she saw it,
if we saw it. We prefer the moon, anyway. It does not burn.

She disappears in a crowd of empty faces. I hope for her safety, even though
I don't remember what hope is. The hours escape without letting me grasp them.
I find her in a t-shirt shop. Her gray sweater hangs off her shoulders like Mine.
Her despair is paralyzing me, like Mine does my mother. I want to die and she is
dead. Empathy forces a smile at her. She walks toward me. Her request is small, but
the alcohol she breathes makes my burning stomach turn. I hand her my cell phone.
My fear distracts me from the moment when Her hand and My hand Connect. She
hangs up after no Connection. Vulnerability is flooding out her pores the way flooding
poured her soul out into the ocean. She looks around desperate and scared like Me.

She asks for the time, but looks to her watch. She looks at her left wrist.
I look at her left hand. It's swollen like an inflated rubber glove, but there is
no doctor to bring her back to life. My heart races in fear for Her, for Me.
My blood turns cold as hatred flows through it. Hatred for the cold world,
hatred for what she has done, but mostly hate for myself, because I know that
immobilizing darkness she lives in. It is blacker than the blood that has broken
inside of her hand. She is hopeless like Me. We are no longer Beautiful. I am naïve,
a mere idealistic student. I do not know heroin like Her and she does not know
heroines like Me. She might have in brighter days, before depression killed her soul.

I try not to imagine her first shot, but I can't block out the image of a young
girl unable to cope with broken dreams and hearts. Her arm shaking from fear,
she pierces the needle into her skin. She is anxious to fly, even with broken wings.
My mind hurls dark images at me, darker than the blood broken inside her hand.
The blood that feigns for it's fix, it's relief. I try not to see her lying lifeless in a
dirty room. Her weak arm betrayed her. She jabs the relief into her thigh. I hate this
place. I don't want to be here. I don't want to see this. I close my eyes, but can't help
but see her shaking, sweating, moaning cries of Death in a dark alley. It is darker than
the blood that has broken inside her hand from when her veins refused to take that
heartless narcotic. She stabs relief in between each finger. I stare at Her hands. The
hand she pierces with is small, like Mine. I need to vomit like Her, the night before.
Tangled, sticky hair reminds her of the suffering and tears she does not remember.

I am scared. I Disconnect, Detest, Dehumanize, like People who live in fear.
"I hope it all works out for you," I say out of politeness, not concern. She smiles a
hopeless smile like the one I have forced too many times. She is genuine, thankful,
and human. I don't know how to act. I don't know how to act. I swallow vomit.
It hurts my stomach, but I will not let it out. I will not let it out. She is broken and
dead; I am broken and dying. How can I pretend not to know her? We are related by
blood; we both bleed red. I know everything, but love her regardless (she's family).

I pretend not to notice the connection. I laugh when my friend says, "crazy druggie."
I laugh until I cry, since I can't cry any other way. I wipe My tears with My sleeves.