This is the time of the year where I have lost so many people I care about. My brother was killed by my mom 2 yrs. ago this last Sat, my dad died a couple days before X-mas, my father in law who was like a father in Jan, my first granddaughter died 27 days after birth 2 yrs. next week.

There are so many others too other times of the year.

My T wants to work on this. I am scared. I trust her but I don't know if I can open that box, I don't trust I can handle it. It is SO painful and I am still not completely comfortable with crying. I did today some with T but there is years of grief to work through. My T asked me if I wanted an another session and I don't know what to do. I sure do need some relief because I am in so much pain, but I just don't know if I can do what she will want to do in order to help with this. I used to get punished for crying when I was abused, my T knows this, so crying leaves me feeling very scared.

My brother never had a funeral or anything, I thought I had dealt with a lot of this earlier with my other T, but now with this T of mine, she has me feeling my feeling more. I can't suppress them like I used to. I just don't know if I can ever be brave enough to do this. I feel so weak and this subject makes me feel so vulnerable. My mom still threatens my life so when my brother died of complications from prior child abuse, it is VERY real.

I told my T in an email that I was very scared of losing myself but I don't know what to do, the feelings are so out there right now. These feeling go way back to so many people I have lost. Each one is an ordeal in itself. I just don't know if I am strong enough to to do this. I don't know what to do.

I wrote this prose poem a month ago or so, it is very triggery so please be careful.
x
x
x
x
x
x

Brother

I drank it, even though it was blue like a voodoo elixir of life that would somehow change the fact he was found dead today, but it was just Kool-aid. Autopsies speak in tongues. Too many lesion seizures, merits measured by silver-spooned scabs upon scabs. Racquetballs ricocheted through his brain, maybe it was mine, I don’t remember. Family traditions of playing bowling with our heads, Simon with hot colored light bulbs and finding buckshot before Hoppy and Bugsy are gutted and served, all to honor thy mother. I still don’t like games much. Thirty-six year-old centipedes eventually can’t walk when their legs are plucked one by one from birth.Can anyone stop the spew of a stomach virus? A two lined death notice in an unknown city to announce her accomplishment of putting him in her gum wrapper to toss away; I will never let her chew me anymore.