I am a puzzle person.

I believe jigsaw puzzles are

the most relaxing way to pass time.

I love the concept that

small, almost meaningless pieces

can fit together

to make a picture

and

create meaning.

My son also loves jigsaw puzzles.

we have three rules

for when you get stuck:

1) New side

2) New spot

3) New piece

I am a puzzling person.

(as the cliché goes)

My therapists have told me

they don’t know how I’m so

”balanced”

”put together”

”sane”

You see, I grew up surrounded by

chaos

imbalance

and

neglect

They told me people who grow up

in environments like mine

typically continue patterns of behavior

rather than actively disrupt them.

I am a puzzle of a person.

I believe our lives

are made of small pieces

put together

to create meaning.

However

my puzzle has massive gaps

and appears to be missing pieces.

I have searched for them

and followed our three rules

for the pieces I do have,

but parts remain empty

and the puzzle stays meaningless.

The world’s largest jigsaw puzzle

is made by KODAK

and contains 51,300 pieces.

But everyone knows:

all those pieces have a place

and contribute to the meaning.

As long as it’s done correctly,

there are no gaps.

If a puzzle cannot be completed,

despite a person’s best efforts:

Does the puzzle still have meaning?

Is the puzzle considered broken?

Should I keep trying?

I don't know

if you're ready

to hear this:

Your children need you.

Your grandson needs you.

You need you.

I don't know

if you're ready

to realize this:

I hear the bottles

I see the brown bags in your purse

I watch your eyes change

dilated tears are difficult to hide

No one needs to go to their closet that many times a day

I don't know

if you're ready

to know this:

The bottles tell me how much you're hurting that day

The severity of our slurring tells me how poorly you're coping

The tremors tell me you're more than "not okay"

I don't know

if you're ready

to stop:

You've stopped seeing your counselor

you blame lack of insurance

You've stopped being postive

you blame everything going wrong

You've stopped being happy

you blame everything

I don't know

if you're ready

to hear this:

I don't know how to help

I don't ask anymore

I already know

I don't want to talk to you about it

you'll tell me I'm the reason you have to

There are many things I don't know and even more that I don't understand. But I am certain of this: I am losing you right before my eyes. Your end is coming and I. am. terrified.

“You remind me of her.”

The mother you hate.

The one who told you that you were worthless.

The one you made you hate yourself.

No one has yet agreed;

You have never apologized.

1) how are You?

2) do You really love me as much as You say You do?

3) do You know how much i love You?

4) why did You make my life so difficult?

5) why didn't You make me stronger?

6) why did You make my brain broken?

7) are there really pets in heaven?

8) have You counted the amount of times i have said "i'm sorry" like i have?

9) are You sick of hearing me apologize?

10) will i ever get to be happy?

People always ask me:

"You are an adult. Why do you still like Disney?

It's in a bunch of your poems, but Disney is for

little kids..."

To be honest,

I still don't have an answer

to that question.

Maybe,

in some aspects

I still am a little kid

Everyone knows I'm not actually

an adult

because I fake it

and lie to cover my mistakes

or blame my illnesses

and use them as a crutch

Perhaps it is because

I never got to experience

the quintessential childhood

or adolescence

and I cling to examples

of what my life could have been like

Could be the fact that

I constantly question

whether or not someone could

actually love me

because maybe my fears are true

and I have way too many issues

and a majority of Disney movies

focus on the female

finding her true love

Hopefully

it's just a weird something I like

Everything I write

ends up being depressing

so maybe my creative self-conscious

finds a way to incorporate

something stereotypically happy

into poems about

how messed up my mind is

I could continue over-analyzing myself

and my love of Disney

and making this poem longer than it should be

but maybe instead

I will end early

and leave the question unresolved

I realized the other day that I only know two Disney couples that reproduced: Ariel/Eric, Simba/Nala, and Pongo/Perdita. A mermaid, a lion, and a dog were the only three Disney females to have children. Apparently, Disney princesses aren't allowed to have sex...

Due to this realization, I am officially convinced that I am, in fact, a Disney princess.

Please know: it's not that I don't want to experience that with my could-be-husband, it's more that I am scared of having children. I tell people this secret and they laugh and shrug it off because we both know I'd be a damn good mother.

Understandably, being both a Disney princess and a mother is a scary combination because:

1) statistically, mothers don't fare

too well in Disney movies

and

2) I am terrified that I will pass a

horrible genetic gift to my child.

I fear my child will be born with cravings for solutions found at the bottom of a bottle. I fear my child will wake up with empty tear ducts because the body cannot stop crying when the mind is asleep. I fear my child will need even more medication than I do. I fear my child will lose emotional control faster and more severely than I did. 

I fear my child will be like me.

Did Ariel know that, at the end of the day, she would be a good mother, despite of how different she was? I bet she never assumed her child would need emotional therapy by the time the child was seven-years-old. I already look at mental health costs for two.

Dear future child, if you actually exist and have gotten through this very long poem, please know two things:

1) I have loved you since before

you before you were an inkling

and

2) I pray my failings as a sane

human being have not affected

my ability to be a good mother.

If I have failed you in any way, please know it was my illnesses, not my lack of love. If you did not inherit my demons, go hug your father because his DNA has saved you and he is a true prince for that.

I can't remember shit.

I am the person who jokes:

You think I

remember that?

I can't even remember

what I ate for breakfast.

Typically,

that statement is true.

However,

there are things that my memory

refuses to forget.

My memory knows

that memories can be

the worst form of torture.

I have woken up

praying for amnesia

because my memory

likes to cause pain

when I cannot fight.

My nightmares

could put Stephan King

to shame

because my memory knows exactly

what will deepen my self-dug pit

what will heighten my self-doubt

what will strengthen my fear

of being a disappointment

what will make me crack

I wish I knew

what the hell I ate

for breakfast

and could forget

how broken

life has made me feel.

Tomorrow,

I am having

cereal for breakfast.

I am praying I remember.

I

i watch videos of neurosurgery because

it is much easier to say

"this is so amazing"

than

"i'm in love with a neurosurgeon

who doesn't love me back"

much easier.

II

i watch these videos

because i feel like

i need a reason to remember you.

III

neurosurgery comes up as

"recently viewed"

because i remind myself

why i feel like i don't deserve love

to try to make sense

of my brain's logically painful decision

IV

i am trying

to fill the void you left

when i pushed you out.

most neurosurgery videos

focus on removing something

dangerous or damaging

from the brain

V

it is easier

to hide the sounds of sobbing

when you are watching

something miraculous

VI

you are a neurosurgeon

i am what should be removed

though i made that decision freely

i now know

that i would give up

every heartbeat

past and future

to know that

my tears were not pointless

my heartbreak was not selfish

abandoning hope was the

second worst decision i ever made.

my student said:

my mom is irish.

i said:

i know.

she has really red hair.

he said:

no.

she just really likes alcohol.

i thought:

my mom's not irish...