a draft I wrote in July 2003

Something I'd write on Sunday not Saturday.
Stepped out this morning.
The Upperwest side, sunny, broken heat morning. Where the men at the deli treat me like their princess, I adore them,
I know now that I am responsible to be involved with everything around me.

This is real
Love me for my mistake. The insane bravery of pulling myself out of the wreckage, (of my own) while bystanders stood.
My regret. I didn't ask for help, I didn't look for help. Much later, I over heard a woman blab a story about her mother who works for a suicide prevention hotline. I wanted to say. I wanted to say to her and gently to the ground at her feet that you mustn't walk so loudly through a unknown forest of souls, but I wouldn't reveal my scars. I don't mean to sound so new, the miles of meditation, silence, indecision, breakfast lunch and dinner alarm clocks, paychecks gasoline $1.89, morning walks, I am so responsible for, I do feel strong, and wholly me, was I sick for so long? This is the conclusion. So when I go, this is what I can't let become complicated. I'm better now, and it's got nothing to do with feeling happy, and it's not a happy ending I was hoping for. (holy it was)
Just the conclusion.
I'm better now.