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.

closer

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.