our lives are comprised of stories;

whether written in the stars, our genetics,

childhood circumstances and experiences,

or written of our own accord.

 

the longest running story of my life

began at age 3, my first memory of mind.

sans details, i will just say that it is quite

the existential tale of endless singular,

solitary suffering.

 

from that memory, stories wove webs

of despair, hopeless/helplessness;

tangled weaves of self-loathing

wrapped their delicate and silk-strong

fibers around my heart, spirit.

 

i have lived with a chronic illness

as long as the day, the night, the years.

depression.

 

i'm not speaking of periods of,

i am speaking of

period.

 

the various stories based on that first one

whisper, shout, mumble, rant

tales of woe, within, on & off, daily.

i insistently, fervently, laboriously

edit & rewrite over & over & on & on

as equally long as those first-writes speak.

 

at times i do well.

yet also in line with the twisted power of the nihilistic tellings

at times i do not.

 

the other day i said to a friend: "my life has been wasted, a waste."

as is his teasing, joking, clever, lighten-things-up wont, he responded:

"it hasn't been a waste, it's just been fruitless."

 

he didn't know, that just that day i had been musing

on my childlessness - literal and metaphoric -

musing with sadness, regret,

thinking of those i know who have children,

who have careers.

he didn't know, that as he said that,

even knowing he intended no ill will or harm,

at that moment i felt a tremble of recognition,

of rightness in that sentiment:

 

"o. yes. i have been thinking that.

my life has borne no fruit

with which to nourish myself

and others.

i have not pollinated, fertilized,

i have not accomplished, produced,

from egg, seed to flower to fruit,

that which would've created

greater health & well-being,

greater possibilities of happiness, fulfillment,

that with which to draw from now

and sip, sup, drink, eat, share with loved ones,

that with which to sustain

in these middle-ish-and-on years of my life.

 

barrenness must emanate from this,

others must see this, know this,

instinctively, reasonably,

and choose

not to dine

with me."

 

one greatly abbreviated chapter

in this book i bear.

 

i offer this story

in the hopes of communicating to some of you:

you are not alone.