And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't

So. I finished something:

To Seize A Crown, And Crush A Throne

I started outlining this piece nearly two years ago. Christ, I can barely believe that it’s even been that long since the finale. This is what was born after the finale trauamatized me into breaking a TEN YEAR WRITER’S BLOCK.

I’ve never finished something like this before. I don’t even know how to talk about what this means to me.

Do you wish to fly?
Would you, if wishes were within your grasp
if you could know beyond your shoal
if there was a chance
if you could reconcile time and space
if you thought to face upward
up, up, look and see and know

Feel your bones and trace their shape
rearrange fins to wings
mold your mouth to beak
keep looking up and follow
the magnets in your gut
cut toward the ceiling
shimmering and pierced by light

You can take flight
You can become
You can summon the beat
of the primordial heart and float
upon the current that you trust,
carrying you to a happy danger,
rather than shallow safety

To chase what is cherished but unknown,
that is a wish.
And now that I give this to you,
Little Fish,
I can ask again, in the water’s words:
Do you wish to fly?

The Drive

A family crafted by fate to survive
seldom given rest to live
wrought from what the desperate give
But can never slow the drive

Fierce love to give but to self denied
The elder brother, his father’s son
The Family Business never done
And he learned to let pain drive

The younger, prodigal, once strived
for freedom and the scholar’s path
but a Legacy’s peace can never last
He chose to loose his wrath to drive

A boundless being, practicing at wise
Fell for love and the noble cause
his first mistakes and lessons – loss.
He succumbed to let guilt drive

This fourth and queerest destined life
sown in hate but born in hope
His whole world rough and small in scope
Only knew to let love drive

A child among them, unmarred light
exposed their deepest faults and fears
nurtured in shame, laid bare for years
Could shift the wheel and change the drive

Caught unawares, long bruised by strife
A chance was glimpsed, though frail
Caged by the odds that it would fail
But oh, how long had been the drive

They recalled the crushing grip of Time
parents, siblings, friends all lost
for God’s sport, they had borne the cost
It was time to claim their drive

The End remains unknown, beyond sight
so they fortify themselves in trust,
and love, and unsettled cosmic dust
and in faith, together, take the last drive.

-Heather Hall(oran) / cypresscoydog
08/08/2020

I dreamed of a Red Prince
with an iris growing in
the trellis of his ribs
I have seen this man before
though in different hues
in my youth
a lonely angry boy in shades
of dark blue
my secretly desired one upon whom
my first fantasies bloomed

In my inner cosmos
a tone of that boy birthed a muse
with a violet voice
who called up convictions
that I had yet to form

In my dream
the Red Prince met me
as an equal
in our yearning to be free
from the cloying density
of unfulfilled need

He saw my growing divinity
so recently uncovered
and he met me well
in the meadow of childhood memory
we touched but briefly
and cherished the vellum slip
of soul meeting soul

People who have lost family members to addiction will often say that it’s as if that person has died.

Today is Cory’s birthday.

Recently I have read many articles in which the author recalls the long, harrowing tale of losing someone to extremist, hate-group ideology. These accounts use much of the same language as addiction testimonials: the first signs seemed harmless and easy to shrug off, but nonetheless left the author with a sense of unease. The loved one began exhibiting behavior that was out of character. More and more of their time became devoted to activities that the author either didn’t understand or which repulsed them. The loved one would react angrily, almost violently, to any criticism of their words or actions.

Cory is 27 today. We haven’t spoken in over 2 years.

The most devastating parallel between these two issues is the sense that the loved one has disappeared or been stolen away, replaced by a hateful, alien impostor. They are a changeling, one so skillful that they are able to reproduce even the most subtle of your loved one’s mannerisms, the idiosyncrasies that have imprinted on all of your memories. This is when it hurts the most. This is when the thief is at its cruelest.

Cory had always been sensitive, so much that our father wrote him off as not worthy of his time.

You begin to ask yourself how they can be rescued, “reclaimed”. You imagine battling some great, shapeless void, an open maw in the lightless corners of the universe. You want to defeat the thing that has closed its teeth around them. Inevitably, the result is always something light years from such a triumph. Inevitably, once the last negotiation crumbles to dust, you beg.

Cory’s sense of justice weighs so heavily on him that he once paced a room, in intense physical and psychic pain, shouting and gesticulating at the fate of Prince Oberyn on Game of Thrones. He was furious that Oberyn had failed to avenge his murdered family while he still had the upper hand. Cory would stop to provide cash to every homeless person that he encountered, which often involved a detour to an ATM. He was the first to offer help with grueling, strenuous tasks.

Eventually, you realize that whatever force is at play is beyond all logic, all appeals to human goodness, or even to see bold, plain evil for what it is. Their concepts of these things have metamorphosed so wholly as to be unrecognizable. You find yourself in an old world fairy tale, and you have witnessed a shift into something monstrous. This does not mean, however, that your loved one is now inhuman. On the contrary, it is their persisting humanity that makes this all the more painful. They could not rid themselves of it even if they tried.

I don’t know if Cory has become someone else, of if this was who he was always going to be. Was I too dismissive of his pain, too quick to assume that he shared my strength and resolve simply because we come from the same stock? In the absence of invested parents, did I fail to nurture some critical, vulnerable seed of empathy?

And here is where I am forced to reckon with my survivor’s guilt. I was never capable of being his mother, especially as a child myself, and neither of us is to blame for that weight having been placed upon my shoulders. All the same, even though respecting his agency means abdicating myself of responsibility for his choices. Even as I am already accustomed to expecting very little of my blood kin, to shrugging at their inability to practice truly unconditional love…

All the same, Cory was the one that I never expected to lose. He was the one that I made this mistake of trusting not to choose hate over me. I have never felt more like an orphan, and to grieve the living is an agony that I would never wish on anyone.

(AN: Originally handwritten on 6/24/19)

Fall, 1999 – 12 years old

I was shaken awake, and the first thing that came to my attention was your panicked voice. It wasn’t all that abnormal for you to disturb my sleep on a weeknight, although usually this was accomplished by a loud crying jag or a screaming argument with Agustin (let’s be fair, you were the only one screaming). But we hadn’t seen Agustin in awhile. Maybe this had something to do with him. 

Your words were like little knives, dangling in front of me like a threat but not actually cutting. Not yet. 

“-dial the phone, I can’t hold it. Heather, wake up, you’ve got to call 911. I tried but it keeps slipping out of my hands, you have to call them for me, baby, you’ve got to call-”

I finally sat up. I concluded that I’d better get a grasp on the situation if I wanted to avoid the worst of the outcome. “What is it?” I’m certain that I must have sounded exhausted by your attention, rather than having been roused from sleep in general. Then you shoved the cordless phone at me. It was sticky, like chocolate syrup had been drizzled over it. Before I could get any answers, you got up and walked down the hall toward the bathroom. You movements were agitated, frenetic, and now that I was also upright your words were speeding up and spilling into something almost unintelligible. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, it was an accident, I just wanted to see the blood, I just wanted to bleed, I didn’t want to kill myself, I promise, I wouldn’t leave my babies alone, that’s why I tried to call 911, but I can’t do it, so I need you to-”

I held the phone out to my side with careful fingers as my murky thoughts parsed the details, trying to form them into a scenario that fit. There were a few that I had been avoiding, but at least one was confirmed by the brights streaks of red strung like ribbon across the white porcelain sink. One of your disposable razors still perched on the edge, all pink, pastel plastic, some of it now shattered in what must have been your efforts to free the blade. 

I thought about all the times you’d told me that you wanted to die. I thought about how each time, you’d told me that Cory and I were the only reason that you didn’t go through with it, and that effectively, we were keeping you here. Did this satisfy you, having the opportunity to prove it to me? Did it validate you somehow, putting me in that position, forcing that pact to be fulfilled? I didn’t think about it much in the following couple of days that we stayed as the neighbor’s apartment while you were in a 72hour hold; I was too preoccupied with my the disruption of my routine, the strange, stale smell of every piece of furniture in that home, the quiet panic of seeing a roach or two skitter across the wall just a few inches from my face on an unfamiliar bed. 

I didn’t think about it then, because I was busy. I wasn’t angry then. I’m not sure I’m angry now, but I certainly was for a significant amount of time in the years between. 

I was frustrated during each of your frequent, cruel outbursts, which you tried to excuse by insisting that you couldn’t help it, and that we should know better than to antagonize you.

I was insulted when you insisted that I would also eventually be this way, self-loathing and mistrusting of everyone and incapable of maintaining any relationships, that it was a destiny that you were going to pass to me, as your mother had to you.

I was disgusted by your petty, boorish behavior any time I tried to confide in you the agony that I experienced at school, the constant bullying and humiliation, and that your responses swung between “you need to knock the little bitches’ teeth in” and “wah wah wah, let’s all throw a pity party for Heather!”. 

I never agreed to be the your warden. I’m not so much angry anymore, mom. I’m just disappointed.

Hold fast, Little Sister
for the world is big
equal parts bright and dark
hate and heart
and it cares not which or
what you are
　
The world will test you
assail with words and
touches
and astounding, creative hurts
　
The world is imaginative
in its cruelty
but cannot see you
as your own
it falls short of knowing
　
The world knows it is full
of People
but not a single, beloved
Latinx child
wild of curl
shyly singing in the shadow
of her mother's
First (Lost) girl
　
The world does not
see through its trees
its throngs
those yearning to breathe free
it does not see
the storm beneath your skin
the sins of your parents
sunken into the grooves and
grain of your life
　
Little Sister, hold fast
to every little bliss
to every freedom
to your soon-to-be womanness
and always cherish
your body
your thoughts, both dull and quick
your laugh and your love
no matter to whom
it will stick
　
Hold fast, Little Sister
to your flaws
to your character
against the hungry maw
of the world that
does not know
how to show you
how to grow beyond its smallness
　
Little Sister, hold fast.
You have worlds within you
you have mass and magic
and all things known
and while the world will
give no quarter
fortify yourself
in love and trust
and you will summon
others to share
in what you are
　
In all that you can be
there is hope
the source of all big things
which once were small
so hold fast
　
For the world is big
and though you can not
know it all
you can know a life
bigger than all of us
who came before.

People often talk of their loved ones being "taken" by illnesses. Alzheimer's stole a mother. Cancer stole a child. Addiction destroyed a family. The language that we use in the wake of what are undeniably great personal tragedies allude to forces beyond mortal control. They are phantoms, demons, natural disasters. Self-care under these circumstances is the archetypal battle of good against evil. The suffering are urged to appeal to metaphysical comforts: the "power" of love, of family, the mercy of their chosen god(s). Much praise is also given to their strength of character, for persevering, and never losing hope, as if the only choices that the ill can make involve the lessons of old world fables. But it's not about hope, or gods, or Western, romanticized, pre-packaged concepts of love.

It is about work. Sometimes for several grueling months or years. Sometimes for the rest of a person's life. There will always be aspects of illness that are out of our control. Terminal diagnoses. Chemical imbalances. Unformed organs. The choices that the adults in our lives made for us as children.

My brother has not been taken. But I don't know him anymore. I do not recognize his choices. His dress and speech are becoming more and more unfamiliar. There are things that have been out of his control. Abuse, trauma, and diminished executive function are evident. Lifelong ADHD and depression. He had no say in any of this. It's become more clear, over the years, that paranoia and delusions have taken center stage in the host of things that he never asked for. The choices that he didn't make are vast. But the more he grew, the more legal thresholds that he crossed and the more he exercised his adult freedoms and recognized his own agency, the more he became responsible for the outcomes in his life.

He did not outgrow his illnesses. He did not metamorphose into a young man who had never known abuse. But he did leave behind the total helplessness of childhood. As an adult (without significant developmental delays), his access to and ability to make use of tools and resources is worlds beyond the restraints of childhood. Illnesses can be chronic or unshakable. The desire and willingness to treat them varies. It's very true that mental illness compromises our ability to know of what we are capable, or the clarity with which one can evaluate their own health. Hopelessness, pessimism, and dismal expectations of improvement are par for the course. A person can wish to be healthier, but wholly believe that it is impossible. Still, the wish remains. The miasma of doubt is just another aspect of the illness to be addressed.

But the acknowledgment of the illness is the critical seal to be broken. “Yes, I am sick. No, this is not normal.” Even lesser affronts can sometimes be the start of the process. “I am never happy. I cannot hold a job. My relationships are deteriorating.”. The sufferer has to be willing to admit that something is wrong. Mental illnesses warp our perception of reality. They are NOT reality itself. When a sufferer is presented with evidence that their experience is abnormal, that their pain is extreme and unnecessary, and they dismiss the evidence because it does not align with how they prefer to see the world, they are choosing sickness over health. And I must stress that there is a difference between a diminished capacity to recognize how one's illness functions and interferes with their life, and a refusal to accept illness as a possibility because of a social or moral objection to the concept of being ill.

My brother does not like the idea of himself as a sick person. His chosen beliefs on the sources and nature of human pain and discord don't allow for it. So he positions himself as a lone holy warrior against a sinful world. This is how he accounts for his suffering. To know that he is just as vulnerable to mental illness and capitalistic violence as any other person is anathema to his sense of holy duty. He would rather place his fate in the hands of unknowable religious whims than take advantage of the many tangible, well documented options available to him in the here and now. Because admitting that is he unwell is to admit that faith alone cannot sustain him. Submitting to evidence and fact is to submit to something other than his god and the subsequent delusions. Make no mistake, I am not asserting that religiosity is always tantamount to delusion. I have faith, myself. The difference is that my faith doesn't demand that I close my eyes and ears to evidence, and it does not breed an inherent distrust of any organized system that is designed to offer medical assistance to the chronically, mentally ill.

My brother has some very particular notions about psycho-pharmacology. He has even more particular notions about such medical practices being dispensed through a state or federal source. And his chosen faith has made it very, very easy to justify this distrust. No matter the cost to his health, happiness, or relationships (or in his case, lack thereof), he clings to this source of self-importance and validation. No matter that it continues not to bear any fruit, he still parses his identity through this filter in order to know who he is rather than crafting it for himself. With this, he can avoid the hard, painful work of self-determination. He can avoid the daunting, exhausting, terrifying task of self-care if he never acknowledges being ill. He can avoid reality, and all that comes with it, including a relationship with me.

My brother is choosing sickness over health. He has for years had ample tools, resources, and support and his disposal that he argued against putting to use. He knows that something is wrong, but insists that it is everyone else's something. I love him and respect that he possess agency. That's why I must acknowledge, myself, that this is a conscious choice. No matter how it hurts me. Illness didn't take my brother. He chose to leave with it.