love letter to my amygdala Ro Cavallaro
dear amy g. dala, there are days i want to scream until my lungs give then cry it out. then there are times where my vision blurs and i dissociate. i watch myself hurdle my ceramics against a brick wall. dropkick my head into a lake. sew my mouth shut. chew my lower lip until my veins burst. these sensations and urges are foreign. i was robbed of the chance to express my anger. after freeing myself from the nineteen year long choke-hold, i can breathe. my lungs swell then collapse, a howling scream echoing from the cave inside me. my head goes numb; tv static engulfs my vision. you have been there through it all, manufacturing my thoughts of suicide, of self-loathing, of bitterness. thoughts of recovery, of relapse, of perseverance. thoughts of fighting, of freedom, of stability. thoughts of love, of light, of safety. i journeyed all this way to reach the finish line. my diseased heart throbs in the most painfully pleasing way. i know i have made it by the earto-ear grin accompanied by tears of thankfulness. if you told me four years ago that i’d be this version of myself, i would laugh, but look at me now.
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