Where It Changes

It Is Time.
For too long I’ve been away for too long we’ve been separated too long apart from each other and in losing them forgetting them I have forgotten myself and in a life that never felt real it is in them that I existed in them that I found myself it is in them that I can both escape and find myself believe in myself belong to myself. In the words I write I can weave myself out of what was, what might have been, and what is because even today even tomorrow I’ll need to try to unlearn goodbye as the first lesson I was ever taught.

It is time.
The world and our lives are made of stories; the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we dream, the stories we live every day. In not having someone to tell them I have to write them down, as if I don’t they shatter and the words left over eventually fill my head as if it were full of buzzing and bees and I can’t hear can’t concentrate can’t find the peace I knew when I did write and the noise inside my head was quieted as if the bees turned into words and with each one written the buzzing and the confusion decreased and I would wake each day knowing who I was and within the knowing I found my strength, and I knew that nothing could stop me.

It is time to come back.
To start writing again, as the words are my therapy, my solace, my serenity. Only in writing can I find myself again, and I have been lost for far too long. Even when I don’t know how to begin I need to find a way, and even if it’s only a few sentences I need to say something, even if what is said makes no sense. I need to find myself again. I need to write the stories, even if they are stories that should have been written long ago.
I need to remember that I am here, that I exist. I need to remember that in some way, I mattered.

It is time.
Time to clean out my head, to finally find the peace I once knew. I need to create the space to think new thoughts or think nothing if I choose.
At times I will bounce from first person, as writing in third person offers in a way a certain protection, as well as lets me use a different language – a different style, a freedom to play.

This is not where my story begins or ends, only where it changes.

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Some days it’s hard to go on. To keep fighting, keep working towards being healthy again. To get out of bed. To remember how strong I used to be, and to believe that I can get there again.
But I have to. I must keep fighting, even when I have no energy to. Even when it’s so hard to give a fuck. Especially then.

I firmly believe that there is a reason that I’m not dead yet, though by all rights I truly should be – and I’d like to believe that reason is to help people.
I have an advantage when it come to that, as few people alive have actually *been* through what I’ve been through, kept fighting, kept dreaming and made it through. I’ve been homeless, been a junkie, a meth-head, a drunk – and I’ve fought through 18 months in hospice to surprise everyone and walk out the door, instead of carted out in a bag, another secret in the night, the only thing left of me being my name in a book they kept by the door, so people could write their memories and say good-bye.

But I’m still here, and whatever the reason is, there is one – but again, I need help. The energy it takes is draining, and not being able to afford the herbs I need by myself weighs me down with stress and anxiety, but there is no way around it. I desperately need YOUR help to purchase the herbs I need – as well as the abdominal binders, compression leggings, nutritious food, books, and all the other little things that help me keep moving *forward*.

I can’t express how much your help has meant to me, how much it has *helped* me. Without it, I can’t honestly say that I would be alive right now, but without question I would be in much worse condition, likely wishing I weren’t alive. You have given me hope and strength to go on when i needed it.

And as much as I loathe it, I am forced to ask again – as I again need your help o get the herbs and other things that I desperately need fo my health and for the surgery I’m trying to get.

If you can, please – send whatever you can afford. The herbs are many and expensive, and I can’t do this without you. If you think that someone else will take care of it, I can assure you – they won’t. The past three times I’ve asked only a few people were kind enough to give – and I know how weary you must be of this, of me asking for help, but believe me – I would much rather not have to at all. Thankfully, your generosity gets me closer to being able to get back to work and not having to ask at all – and instead, being able to give.

So please, give whatever you can afford, as I go through the herbs quickly and always need more. The more you give, the more bottles I can get to carry me through.

My paypal address is casey@kseaflux.com – and yet again, thank you so much for anything you can do!

With love and immense gratitude,
~ Casey

All I Needed

I lay in bed and think of the things I need to get done. The night before as my bed called insistently to me I made the promises, knowing deep inside that I was lying to myself again but like a victim of abuse believing that this time, it would be different. All I need are the words and the pain will go away. This I know to be true.

There was a time, lifetimes ago, when the writing was all I needed. I would shut down my mind and the words came out, scraping the walls of my mind and heart and briefly taking with them the loneliness and frustration of a life that holds on to so many things left undone, like slowly pouring sand on a wet piece of paper until it rips through, crushing the peace and serenity gathered and piled and so fragile underneath. I search for the words again, calling them to me, trying to open up and let them in, let me out.

I started “writing” when I was 13, 14, 15 – somewhere around there. I was the weird kid. The page was my friend in the absence of any others. I wrote when I needed to. The page would listen, and understand in its silence.

I stopped the day I moved out of my motorhome and into the hospice. Though I had come to terms with my death and written about it many times, it was always death at a time of my choosing – and that day I chose to live. I wasn’t ready yet. I still had far to much to do, too many ways to help. So I fought, and in the fight I forgot the words.

Now, by brain gets cluttered with the constant need for help to buy the herbs – herbs that will heal me so eventually I won’t need to think about them anymore. I can come back to the page and know serenity again and, as I was lifetimes ago, I can be happy, I can be healthy, I can work, and I can help.