you claim that i'm better than you, when in reality
i’m nothing but a practiced poor player
who knows how to call fire and gold from nothing but words
i stand before you and strut and fret my hour upon the stage
in much the same way i did since i was a child -
and when i became a teenager i found the voice of a haunted pipe organ
that only increased in volume and resonance with time and skill
and when i was 24 i unsexed myself and learned to roar
got some damned spots on my hands
(i roar about them, too)
i learned the difference between hard and soft, between open palms
and hidden knives
and built a cathedral for my pipe organ voice
burnt out like a caravan or a candle a time or nineteen
so don’t ever think you’re better than me
learn to screw your courage to the sticking place
dust off the keys, call the fire
and sing
07/28/2025
-Allēna
Category: Our Poetry
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I call this one “song of experience”.
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“my first madness” – new poem!
This poem has been rattling around my brain for about the last six hours or so, and it finally spilled out of me in full. Enjoy!
****
in the beginning, I craved –
and desire was my first madness
I tirelessly desired everything I
could sink my curved little hands into
I desired everything the world told me I would never have –
and now, I have everything
I only feel ancient, tired, and hungry when I starve myself of that immortal craving
tell me that desire for desire’s sake is evil and I will show you how I creak like an
old house without it
and flow like water with it
and ask, have you never wanted something so bad you were willing to bleed sunlight
for it?-Allēna
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So I sorta snapped.
And republished our second poetry collection, To Dance With a Cyclone because I got very angry at everything and was tired of doing nothing. So I decided to do something that wasn’t nothing about it. I’m gonna see about our other works here shortly. But for now, I need rest. Goodnight, world.
Grab your copy here.
-Lazarus
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A brief compendium of thoughts I thought in the shower tonight after being alone for most of today (another poem)
i.
I find it ironic that the same words that help me sleep are the same words
that keep me awake.
ii.
I imagine in detail what it would be like to program a bot that would
post a random frame from the "wouldn't you like to know, weather boy" meme every hour on the hour.
upon further reflection, I determine that
any internet searches related to this project could double as searches for "how to impress your crush(es)".
iii.
the line between prophecy and insanity is and always has been
thin and blurry at best.
I continue to use it like a jump rope.
iv.
will there be any more room for
slow days in this angry world? -
A poem for today.
I hail from the hellfire that raised me
And the shadows that granted me solace
Black as the Pit from pole to pole -
And I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul -
The years that lay ahead
Are but a shadow of the menace of the trail I've already blazed
I come armed with the horror
Of foresight, hope, teeth, and claw
And you shall find me angry, trembling
But laughing, weeping
Smiling, and
Unafraid.
I have sparred with far greater things than this
I have come out bent, bloody, but
I have faced the void inside me and befriended it, so
You may try and take my eyes, my body,
You may try and come to my door,
You may try and take everything from me
But I am antifragile, incomprehensible
And I know myself far better than you know you.
Attempt to obstruct me, too, if you wish.
You will only come to know what the others know
You will only fight what the others fought.
You will only find what the others found -
That in the end, only I am the master of my fate.
Only I am the captain of my soul.
-20 January 2025, after "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley -
About Time
Hey, everyone. It is I, your trusty, if batshit sorcerer guide, Lazarus. I was talking with Lumine about all manner of things both magical and mundane today, and I have decided It is Time to Have Words With Y’all, and by Words I mean poetry, after the grumpiness of yesterday’s post. Y’all deserve bread AND roses, y’know?
The three pieces I’m about to share make up the backbone of my third poetry collection Singing Molten Gold To the Morning, published at the tail end of 2021 under the name Perzival DHC Dunn-Blackthorne. I’ve noticed some typos in the manuscript, including in the final poem I’m going to share, so I think it may be high time for a reprint once I have the energy.
A lot of this collection deals with my sense of time. I’ve never had a sense of linear time, and it often slips both backwards and forwards in the form of flashbacks, seizures, dissociation, and straight up visions and premonitions of all kinds. I was medicated for several years in an attempt to get this to stop, as my mother, Hera, thought I was crazy because of the little I told her about my mental health and inner world, but the problem here is that no matter how many meds I was put on, up to and including doses of lithium and other drugs that should have probably killed me, the premonitions never fully stopped and I never fully lost my sense of who I was.
And I never stopped writing, either. During the roughly 13 years I was medicated and psychologically tortured alone, I produced an enormous body of work across several creative disciplines that I largely kept between myself and my close people. I simply stopped confiding in her about most of what was going on in my life and mind and worked towards building a life of my own.
Now, I’m on a different medication regimen for the slew of chronic health issues she caused or exacerbated, seeking diagnoses for the rest of them, and have accepted the nonlinear sense of time as… my medicine of sorts, something intrinsically as much a part of me as my neurodivergence, my lack of a gender, or the natural dark brown color of my hair, and will seek medication for it if it starts causing more harm than good. The following poems are meditations on how I experience time, autonomy, and how they are inextricably entwined for me as their own form of magic. Enjoy, let me know your thoughts, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do in the comments section 🤣🤌💛
“one: the end. texas + points east”
somebody,
somewhere…
i remember my heart burning
as i longed for the leaves of the east
count up all of the hours in the day
execute plans with no emotion
execute emotions like they are enemies
i am nothing anymore, completely hollow
such that
all you see is your reflection
it makes no sense to pick up the pieces
of who i once was
she was weak and afraid
i killed her
i am electricity
born from the ashes of my home,
my hell
do not presume you can put a label on me.
you will not learn to hate me.
you will learn to be afraid of me.
to drink about me
and worship me (posthumously)
and eat ash because it’s the closest thing
to who i was
who you thought you had
who you once were
and who you wish you could still find
i was a child then.
i learn things with the wonder i did when i was younger
you grew up too slowly for your taste
i miss the boy you were
even then
even though i was a teacher
you taught me everything i know
i was odd and you were even and steady
my eccentricity was my salvation
and the universe loves irony and wordplay.
“two: the beginning. chapel hill, north carolina”
i had a waking dream last night
someone moved the indigo fabric of spacetime itself
wrapping themself in inky cloth
in chapel hill, north carolina…
the dream told me it wasn’t time to go there yet
i would know when my marching orders come
i have not learned enough to be able to see
what i am looking for for what it is yet
would i see it as a prison now?
or would i see it as coming home?
what if i chew through the bars
of what i am supposed to love?
i fell in love with points east before
and all signs are pointing to that
as my home
you may remember me as a season
a time of day, a concept -
i think of you as places i have yet to walk
i see beginning as end as beginning
i see you as who you are, who you were,
and who you will become
you are resplendent and sweet and beautiful
you are soft and tender and strong
you are cosmic in scope and
infinitesimally small at once
you are that you are.
“three: the endless cycle. pennsylvania and all it contains”
i told you once when i was elsewhere that
buddhism seemed round
you agreed with me, saying it was like a wheel
i used to be scared of going forward
i thought it endless and vast when it is truly
cyclical and you can return to where you
were as easily as listening to your favorite song
some revolutions just take longer than others
the last watch of the night is deep and rich
and sweet like a plum
indigo like the deepest sea
this is where i make my home
i tell my stories after dark
comfortable in the space
between ending and beginning
you remind me of different paths
the road not taken
but all roads lead home
some are just longer than others
more winding -
and home is where you will find me
i’ve burnt and rebuilt so many times
i know great and terrible things
i’ve asked the void questions
and she has answered me.
who is out there?
where are they?
her answer?
go back to the end.I hope you enjoyed this sampler of poetry and I hope you have an amazing day. Stay tuned for more magic, glorious motherfuckers of assorted genders and persuasions. I’ll be around. This has been your esteemed sorcerer, Lazarus, signing off. ✨
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Yay, PTSD Art For The People!
Hey, peeps. This is Allēna. My PTSD is kicking my ass today, but at least y’all get cool art out of it. We appear to be that special kind of creator that gets even more inspiration when our trauma comes back to kick our ass, taking us from decently prolific to FUCKING ON FIRE creatively in order to cope with the emotional pain of it all. Today has been no exception. First up is a poem that spilled out of me this morning before I went back to sleep for about three hours:
Let’s set the scene
The year is 2019
I wake with the dawn and simply try and breathe -
You give me tools and time and I will build my way through this rage
I will sing and chew my way through the bars of
this cage
Five years later and I still can’t sleep
I still feel stuck with the cards close to my
concave chest
When will the craving subside?
When will I stop hungering for more?
Nothing short of everything?
They couldn’t take my mind
No matter how hard they tried
They couldn’t strip me of the things I’ve seen
They could never quite dull the hunger in my eyes
The dawn breaks anew and I lay in a room
still trying to spread these battered wings
surrounded by nothing but windows…And then I got inspired again this evening and painted what my synesthesia makes of “Didn’t It Rain” by Songs: Ohia, one of the songs that sonically shaped our album Metacognition. The PTSD attack is pertaining to the events that set off the hot streak that caused Eight to write and record the bulk of Metacognition, so I figured painting a song that he had on repeat at the time would help get some of the emotions out, and it did. I wasn’t present during that time, so I’m essentially having to process someone else’s trauma right now and all I know to do with it is make art and talk about art. I feel like a mess, even though logically I know it’s pretty damn healthy to process shit this way. Here is the painting for y’all:

Didn’t It Rain by me. I’m not really okay, y’all, but I deal with shit like this regularly enough that I know how to get through it safely, and y’all get cool art in the process. I’m over at Emerson’s currently, but once I’m back at Sheik’s I or whoever else is in front will probably drop some more spare room roaring on here. 💛
Fucking flashbacks.
Anyway…
Stay tuned for more magic!
-Allēna, your traumatized, if hyper-prolific, super-admin. Fuck PTSD up the ass with a Joseph cactus. 😭
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“Guernica” Part 4: Alchemy and Bravery
Hey everyone! This is your boy Eight once more. We took a short break from writing yesterday because we took a lot of emotional damage from writing Part 3 the other day. Kalla handled Part 3 since she wasn’t directly traumatized by any of the events of “Guernica”. However, she felt deeply for Allēna and her teenage plight and still sobbed while she wrote it. So a break was in order. I’m back today to discuss “Guernica” Part 4 and how Allēna held both the visceral and the beautiful in equal measure and alchemized her pain.
We’re gonna do this the same way we did the other three parts (which you can read here, here, and at the link above respectively). I’m gonna show you my performance, then the section’s text, and then I’ll break it down for you. As previously stated in the other posts, you can read the full poem in our collection Singing Molten Gold To The Morning. Without further ado, “Guernica” Part 4!
“Guernica” Part 4: My Performance
I perform “Guernica” Part 4 for y’all! The Text
guernica part iv.
you can paint darkness
and you can paint conflict
but there’s only so much you can paint
if you have never experienced it
i want to paint as much as i possibly can.
etxea is the basque word for home and i find home in things
that hold no home for others.
i feel heard in horror stories and seen in the shocking and visceral.
i’ve made mansions out of sadness and i destroy the happy ones
because something in me
says i don’t deserve them.
fuck that something.
fuck that something.
i’ve seen enough and yet i haven’t
desperation guides my lungs and my mind.
i’ve had enough.
this is why i write now.
when i was 12 they called me selfish
i think in hindsight it was because i wanted love
and they couldn’t give it to me
so i fought with the wind.
i knew i couldn’t chase it
so i fought it. i fought anything
that moved for so long and so hard
that i forgot how to make peace.
it kept me alive..
when i was 7, my dad got sick
and i think that was the beginning of the end.
that was when the war began and it didn’t end
not until i was 18 and by that time, the damage was done.
when i get sad, my inner child screams and cries
and wants love from people unable to provide it.
i wish one of them would’ve told me i was okay
instead of pretending i was the bomb in the corner
or the crazy one in the attic
the scapegoat,
or the black sheep.
i’m not crazy.
what they did was wrong.
sometimes you’re the airplane high in the sky
the reason why they don’t look up anymore
and for a long time
that was them.
i look up now to spite them and ask where
their god is now
now that they’ll make their own hell someday
and have no one to wipe their bloody hands on.I Look Up Now

The gorgeous crystal blue sky Allēna would gaze up at to spite her family around the time she wrote “Guernica” Part 4 (with some light edits added for pizzazz), June 2019. My Thoughts
Like we’ve said in many other posts, we were born fighters. “Guernica” Part 4, to me, sings to me like victory, a victory incredibly hard won. Part 4 marks the transition from victim to victor. She starts to go from someone who had always cowered in fear and allowed others to control the narrative to someone who owned her damn self, owned her voice, and owned her demons. This is the voice of a poet who says “Yeah, I’ve been through some fucked shit, but I’m a powerful alchemist. And goddamnit, I’m going to turn this pain into a powerful story. The world will know what they did to me. The world will know where I came from and where the fuck I’m going. And news flash: it’s a far cry from this hell you people dragged me through.”
Around the time she wrote this, she was beginning to understand that what her mother’s family had done to her was terribly wrong. She didn’t deserve an ounce of that torture. Three things set her down that path to self discovery – the first kind and skilled psychiatrist she’d ever had, the novella Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury and some very important friendships.
Hera’s Plot Begins To Unravel: Allēna’s Compassionate Psychiatrist
You may recall from an earlier post in the series that Hera, our mother, had essentially press ganged us into a medication regimen we didn’t need in an effort to get Allēna, who was the system’s host at the time, to be more compliant and easier to mold into an image her and her family wanted her to be. She vehemently denies this to this day, but she’s lied about everything else up to this point. This is the only explanation that makes any sense.
By the time she even married our first husband, she was on enough of these psychiatric medications to be about a quarter dissociated at all times. Her previous psychiatrists had her on dangerous levels of three different medications – lithium, lamotrigine, and Abilify. All three of these drugs are mood stabilizers. Lithium is essentially a pharmacological lobotomy, and is very harmful for a developing brain. She was put on it at the age of eighteen. I got the body off of it at 23, and mercifully our brain recovered. I’ve heard that most people aren’t so lucky. Often the damage to the thyroid and the resulting cognitive dulling is permanent.
A Chilling Concern
However, the lithium wasn’t what our very compassionate psychiatrist in Alaska was concerned about, which I frankly find telling. She was concerned about the lamotrigine. Upon meeting with her for the first time, she informed Allēna that she was on the highest dose of lamotrigine she had ever seen in her entire career. This woman had been practicing for longer than we’d been alive. She asked Allēna if she could remember how or why her dose was so high.
Our psychiatrist looked like she had seen a ghost when Lēna informed her that no, she had no clue. The dose she was on just wasn’t working, so her doctors kept raising it, often at Hera’s insistence. Hera would often come to our psychiatrist appointments and speak over Allēna, which would piss her off. Then Hera would turn around and use her reaction as evidence for why the dose should be raised.
Sick And Fucking Tired of Hera’s Bullshit
Allēna hated that Hera came with her to most of her appointments, had access to her medical information, and ultimately went to great lengths to keep Hera out of most everything. Hera believed she had a right to control Allēna’s medical care, psychiatry especially, since she was the one paying for it. Privacy laws could get fucked, in her opinion. Her money, her rules. Allēna hated it and hated her for the reactive abuse and other abuses of all stripes.
She didn’t want the meds at all or deal with another adult meddling in her life. Hera had inserted herself into our affairs our entire life and we had been sick of it since Castor was host at about the age of five. She wanted to have a conversation with Hera, adult to adult, about her abuse. But Hera would never do it. So she kept as much from her as possible, which wasn’t very possible in a house in which she had little to no privacy.
Shaking Off Her Chains
Getting out from under Hera’s thumb and finding a psychiatrist that listened was an immense relief. But it did Hera no favors. As she worked with her psychiatrist to come down off of the meds, she found herself viscerally angry at Hera. She cut her off and made her wrath no secret. This took immense courage on her part, as Hera was well-connected and had eyes everywhere, including in Fang, which we’d find out later.
The Next Piece of “Guernica” Part 4: Fahrenheit 451
The next inspiration for “Guernica” Part 4 came about by chance. Allēna was working as a tutor when she wrote the poem. A potential student reached out, asking if she could lecture on Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. She agreed, despite having never read the book. So she devoured it in preparation for the lesson, which never actually ended up happening. However, the book changed her life. She saw herself in the characters and the sharp, quick prose.
She saw how the characters who thought for themselves and read books were persecuted and their possessions burned – and saw her life story in the narrative. Hera homeschooled us for most of our education, and taught us how to critically think and analyze literature. Hera herself had a background as a professional seventh-grade English teacher, and was just as masterful a teacher as she was a cold, abusive, and emotionally absent mother. It’s because of her that we can write blog posts like this. She started us very young. Yet, she punished us harshly when we used those skills to criticize the way she treated us. What a cruel, ironic turn of events!
Allēna found solace within the pages of Fahrenheit, a sort of solace we’d not found in many years. I think the last book she’d related to that hard was Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card. Card’s politics and beliefs aside, Ender‘s Game is a harrowing illustration of what it’s like to be young, gifted, different, and traumatized, much like Fahrenheit is. We still want to get Fahrenheit’s opening line tattooed on the body somewhere. It was a pleasure to burn…
A Resolve Stronger Than Iron
What she’d found in this book and in turn, in herself, strengthened her resolve. She told her story without shame and spat in the faces of anyone who told her she should make up with Hera and consider her perspective. Hera had betrayed her repeatedly. Why should she? She’d had Hera’s perspective shoved down her fucking throat her entire tenure as host. She could recite all her talking points verbatim by that point. Hearing them again was a waste of time and would only piss her off. Hera wanted to control us, and by then, Allēna couldn’t be bothered to give a damn. She had seen Hera for who she was, a conniving snake, and we’ve never given two shits about people like that. Why waste her time on a person who’d only betray her again as soon as she found an opportunity to do so?
The Final Seed of “Guernica” Part 4: A Little Help From Her Friends
Yes, Allēna and the rest of us didn’t want to waste our time on traitorous bitches, but there were many people in our life by that point that were worth our time and effort. Beginning in early 2019, Allēna started making many friends online once it became clear to her that she wouldn’t have much luck making friends locally. Many of the local townsfolk were polite, but just as withdrawn as Fang. She wasn’t going to get anywhere in person with Fang as jealous and controlling as he was, either. If someone even looked in our direction with what looked to be romantic or sexual intent, he’d lose his fucking shit and go as far as to blame Lēna.
So she struck out on her own online and simply stopped introducing her friends to Fang. He’d inevitably start heavily criticizing them behind closed doors, as well. It was no fun for anyone, so she kept her life to herself and stopped asking about his, as well. She wasn’t going to give a flying fuck about someone’s private life or creations when he clearly couldn’t extend the same courtesy.
A Cradle of Masterworks
Many of her friends showed her and later Peri what healthy love actually looked like. They treated her far better than any partner ever had and expected nothing in return except her presence. They were also genuine fans of her work and encouraged her to write and share to her heart’s content. It was this supportive semi-secret virtual environment that helped Allēna begin to process what Hera and her cronies had done to her. Through this process, “Guernica” Part 4 and the full poem spilled out of her.
Peri’s magnum opus, The Secret History of Doloras, was born a few months later in the same supportive cradle. We attribute the fact that our album Light on the Final Day saw the light of day (ha!) at all to one especially loving and persistent friend all the way across the world, as well. We would have never found our voice or the courage to alchemize all of our deep, deep pain without the support and love our friends gave us.
Parting Thoughts on “Guernica” Part 4 (another pun, haha)
In my opinion, Allēna is exceptionally brave. Not only did she stand up to our formidable spymaster of a mother for the first time in our entire family’s history, she persevered through severe neglect and abuse of all stripes and found the guts in the meantime to turn that pain into something aching, visceral, and profoundly beautiful. I fucking love this poem and respect the hell out of my fiery pint sized headmate. I wish she’d had an easier lot in life, but I don’t know if we’d be half as insightful as we are without it. There can be no wisdom without experience and no pain without beauty. Allēna, sweet woman, is one of the rare few that is able to see beauty in the horrible things that happened to her and use these gems to craft a new story, one of resilience, courage, defiance, and ultimately – magic.
Speaking of magic, stay tuned for more of THAT. Part Five is coming up before you know it! Are you ready for another kick in the pants?!
Bastardly yours,
EightBefore you go, we’ve been WebFingered (Jesus, that joke never gets old!) and have triumphantly entered the Fediverse! Follow us @opensorceryy everywhere that’s federated!
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“Guernica” Part 3: The Brain Is The Bomb
Hey, everyone! My name is Kalla. I’m one of the alters in the Ashley system. I haven’t posted here before, but I think having a cool space where we can write about what the fuck ever is a pretty neat idea, so I want to put my two cents in where “Guernica” Part 3 is concerned.
It’s also a bit too soon for the other alters to write about this shit, as many of them consider Part 3 to be the most gut-wrenching and soul-searing part of the poem. So I have stepped in to get them through this fucked up block they’re having and maybe process some of the grief on their behalf. If you are just now coming across this series in the wild, you can find Parts One and Two here and here. And as previously stated in the posts Eight and Ellie wrote, you can find the full poem in our poetry collection Singing Molten Gold to the Morning.
I think this post will follow roughly the same structure of the others – Eight’s performance first, then the text, then my thoughts on it. Without further ado, “Guernica” Part 3!
Eight’s Performance
Eight’s performance of “Guernica” Part 3. The Text of “Guernica” Part 3
guernica iii.
airplanes up in the sky..
i know airplanes.
of course i do.
sometimes you’re the bomber,
sometimes you’re the little town in basque country
down below.
i like to think god laughs at tragedy
so that at least someone finds it funny.
but a brain is the bomb
and there’s a cruel irony in it eating itself
when it was the best brain i’ve ever known.
the roads were clogged with rubble and there was
no way out
there never was
not when the brain is the bomb
and you’re the little town in basque country
down below.
not when the brain belonged to your favorite person
and the bomb is also a death sentence in an MRI scan
and the execution date is to be determined.
so many bombs
making a hole in a heart
so deep that i’m still trying to find the bottom of it
(there’s no bottom)
but i will not die here when i’ve died 10 million times
already and i’m choking on this metaphor as i write
no harm in 10 million and 1
Allēna, summer 2019.

Our father, Xavier, whose death at the age of 47 from brain cancer inspired “Guernica” Part 3 with baby us in what must’ve been fall of 1997, early 1998. My Thoughts
“Guernica” Part 3 is about our father, Xavier, dying when we were 18. He had brain cancer for eleven years. It was a shadow over our entire fucking childhood.
We knew Xavier was going to die from the time we were seven years old. This wasn’t due to any kind of intuitive knowing. He collapsed at the gym a few days prior and fell into a tonic-clonic seizure. He found out what had caused the seizure a short while later, a brain tumor.
We weren’t shielded from any of that. Our parents sat us down at the round kitchen table in the rumpus room and told us everything, sparing no details. This was a terrible burden for a child to bear, especially a highly intelligent child who had already seen too much pain by the age of seven. We had already attended more funerals than weddings, and would go on to lose even more people we deeply loved before even losing him.
A Death Sentence In An MRI Scan, And The Execution Date Is To Be Determined
In 2013, when Allēna was already battling the beginnings of a severe depressive spell that would make her crave death for the better part of the next decade, Xavier got even more terrible news. He went in for a routine MRI scan to see if his tumor – named Cuato by then – had grown any larger. The oncologists came back with good news and bad news. The first tumor hadn’t grown any, but they had found a second one. It turned out to be completely separate from Cuato, called a second primary tumor. This tumor was far more aggressive, and he was given months to live. Though he shattered expectations and went on to live for another three years, this was a death sentence. Allēna had to watch her brilliant father, one of the only people who had ever made her feel understood,
Allēna practically gave up on everything. Xavier was everything to her by that point. She describes the last few years of Xavier’s life as being trapped beneath a sword that is held by a fraying rope. At any moment, that rope could snap, and the sword would fall and impale her.
Suffering Alone And In Pain
Hera became colder the worse Xavier got and the worse Allēna fell into her depression. Without Xavier as a buffer anymore, Hera emotionally, mentally, medically, and occasionally physically abused Allēna. Hera began to massively overmedicate her with psychiatric medication so that she wouldn’t fight back anymore. She used Xavier’s worsening condition as a justification to do the bare minimum and emotionally abandon her when she needed support most.
So for three years, Allēna watched her father wither away, unable to tell anyone about what she was suffering at home. Hera explicitly forbade it and would hurt her worse if she tried. She dealt with a terrible bout of mononucleosis in early 2014, as well.
During that ordeal, she had to diagnose and treat herself for it. It turned out that she had actually gone to the doctor too early. The tests she’d gotten came back with a false negative. It was only when she presented with acute pancreatitis a few months later that they actually found the antibodies in her system that indicated she had had mono at all. By that time, Hera had written her now chronic exhaustion and pain as hypochondria, mental illness, and a ploy for attention.
We still haven’t recovered and are still chasing diagnoses a decade later. We suspect that the bout of mono may have given us lupus, an immensely painful and debilitating chronic illness that is notoriously difficult to diagnose. However, both Hera and later Fang wrote Allēna off as a lazy hypochondriac who just didn’t want to do her work, abandoning her to suffer alone, terrified, and in unimaginable physical and psychological pain.
Like The Sun Itself Went Out
Hera’s abuse and Xavier’s impending death psychologically shattered an already fragile Allēna. When he passed away on February 5, 2016, she felt nothing for five days. It hit her at breakfast back at college on the fifth day.
She describes losing Xavier like it was as though the sun itself went out. Her world became dark, cold, and completely and totally lonely. It took every ounce of strength she had just to drag herself to class and back. She told her professors what was going on, and most of them took mercy on her. She could communicate with her Ancient Greek professor that she was having a very hard time that day with just her eyes. This professor, who we’ll call Ms. Melitta, was a very kind and perceptive angel of a woman, and she outright pleaded with Allēna to go easy on herself. She told Allēna she was proud of her just for showing up even when in her words it looked like she “wanted to be blotted off the face of the Earth”.
Allēna, whose family and life up to that point had always pushed her past her capacity to handle it against her will, had never received that kind of grace before. She broke down ugly crying. It was a balm to her weary, brokenhearted soul. She credits Ms. Melitta and others that year for saving her life. She was seriously contemplating suicide at that point, was sick all the time, barely eating, and was an all around disaster. It’s a miracle in her mind that she still has friends from that college, she was such a disaster.
I Will Not Die Here
At the end of the year, when her professors all gathered to give her her closing remarks, they almost all agreed that they admired that she almost always showed up to class, even if she couldn’t manage to stay the whole time or say or do much at all. Even during one of the most painful times in her life, Allēna kept showing up and putting in an effort through tremendous difficulty, and many of them held her in high regard for that. She had never received that sort of kindness and praise before, and it helped her keep going and not give up.
Showing up became a pattern for all of us. We joke that we “appear under mysterious circumstances”. If we say we’ll be someplace at some time, we will be there and early, come hell or high water. Xavier taught us that nothing less will do. Eight did this when he got his job in Philly – he said he would be there in Philly on Monday the Friday before that in Texas, and there the fuck he was on Philly on Monday, early. Nobody in the office thought he’d even show up, considering he’d have to travel over a thousand miles and move in less than a week to take this job. But that’s the way we were raised, and that’s what we do, obstacles be fucking damned.
We will not die here, we keep saying. We have shit to do. And die we don’t, even though there are often close calls.
Stay tuned for more magic and for Part 4! I’m gonna go to sleep soon, I cried my eyes out writing this.
Love, Kalla
One more thing…
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