Loren Paulsson

We walk through loneliness and fight  these broken battles in our brains. Fear strangles light  and chokes the air. We inhabit sorrow, darkness, toil; Oppressed by what we choose and do not choose. Death promises relief And drives all other thoughts away, We hunger, thirst,  and wander to not be alone. And yet we breath and taste  and make and come to know. Previous  §  Next

When Tina asks – “Why stay alive?” Some answer as though she's asking, “What are the benefits?”  They say, “Surviving makes you stronger,”  or “God's teaching you something,”  or they try to find some other silver lining. Some answer as though she means, “What's happening?”  They say, “brain chemistry”  or “development.”  And there's some insight here.  At a graduate discussion group,  I heard Joshua Seachris, then studying philosophy at the University of Oklahoma, say, "What we want is a framework — a narrative — to make sense  of these existentially charged elements of life.” My question eventually became whether the zebra of reality is randomness  with stripes of meaning  or the other way around. The gradual surprise is that there's anything at all.  Previous  §  Next

As in a dream, Surrounded,  Familiar places stripped of sense. Words not understood Familiar, unrecognized; A rising, nameless, fear. Someone asks if I'm okay, “Fine,”   Wrung out, squeezing. Wandering, Alone, Is small relief. I try to breathe; The singing crowd, Footsteps. A smile Am I okay? I nod. No words, Murmuring buzz, The rising song An admonition closing in; a door! Too bright! The singing squeezing, squeezing Awake, writhing, I try again to breathe. Previous  §  Next

Tears streaming down the drain Un-echoed screams Hand against the shower wall Heart-numbing solitude A covered face That shudders to be touched Sleepless, weary, pacing Unreasoned pain A pillow-smothered sob The shades and curtains drawn Oppressive sun Endless, black-fingered shade Minutes, weeks pass un-named Brain-breaking dark Numb, aching for relief Gasping the leaden air Another breath Another weariness Previous  §  Next

The summer after we'd been married for a year, one friend set an appointment with the doctor,  and I asked another friend to recommend a therapist. Tina cut herself. Her therapist sent literature.  We talked about self-harm and suicide.  Friends reminded me to rest.  We learned to say we'd try  and to turn back if something was too much. In July, we saw Les Mis' in New York City. Something in music  still gave her some hint of life.   In September  Tina contemplated suicide. Her mother came to stay with us.  One night some friends talked Tina out of buying  razor blades and sleeping pills while she wandered the super market. October 5, her therapist called me at work.  I'd just sat down for lunch. Tina couldn't promise to be safe.  We went to the hospital. I locked up medicines, and knives, and scissors.  Her mother came to stay with us again.  Nothing softens the not knowing  what eac...

One morning my wife left this, a gift from her mother, next to her pillow. If you were gone, I'd miss your smile, your giggle, and your laugh; the outline of your forehead, nose, the angle of your chin. If you were gone, I'd miss your warmth, your touch, your tears, hugs, kisses, outstretched arms, your opinions of my clothes. If you were gone, I'd miss shared sunrises on the couch: your coffee, the cat, the smell of autumn through the screen. If you were gone, I'd miss the way you want to be surprised, the way you plan adventures the expressions in your eyes. If you were gone, I'd miss the concert tickets in your purse, the Disney films and Broadway, and the memories we rehearse. If you were gone, I'd miss the days to bring you flowers and the meaning and the colors your living brings to mine. If you were gone, I'd miss your giving and your gentleness, the way you wrap up boxes, gifts for other broken hearts. If you were gone, I'd want you to know that...