Hi I'm Andrea Gibson and this is my poem "The Nutritionist." The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables Said if I could get down 13 turnips a day I would be grounded, rooted. Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives. The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight Said for 20 dollars she’d tell me what to do I handed her the twenty, she said “stop worrying darling, you will find a good man soon.” The first psychotherapist said I should spend 3 hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged. I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet. The yogi told me to stretch everything but truth, said focus on the outbreaths, said everyone finds happiness if they can care more about what they can give than what they get. The pharmacist said klonopin, lamictil, lithium, Xanax. The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said The trauma said don’t write this poem. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones But my bones said “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.” My bones said “write the poem.” To the lamplight. Considering the river bed. To the chandelier of your fate hanging by a thread. To everyday you could not get out of bed. To the bulls eye of your wrist To anyone who has ever wanted to die. I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing we can do- Is remind ourselves over and over and over Other people feel this too The tomorrow that has come and gone And it has not gotten better When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried” But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into your spine So let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of their looted buildings You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing A life can be rich like the soil Make food of decay Turn wound into highway Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says “it is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society” I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trust the ones who come undone at the throat Screaming for their pulse to find the fight to pound Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town Calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down What I know about living is the pain is never just ours Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo So I keep a listening for the moment when the grief becomes a window When I can see what I couldn’t see before, through the glass of my most battered dream, I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds. So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better but knowing there is a chance our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet you- you stay here with me, okay? You stay here with me. Raising your bite against the bitter dark Your bright longing Your brilliant fists of loss Friend if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other, my god that’s plenty my god that’s enough my god that is so so much for the light to give each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over “Live” “Live” “Live”
嗨,我是安德烈·吉布森, 这是我的诗作《营养师》。 营养师建议我多吃根菜, 且告诉我,如果一天吃十三棵大头菜, 我便会像种子一样深埋土壤, 根系茁壮。 我的思绪就不会飞向滋生黑暗的地方。 通灵者说,有太多的重担压在我的心上, 只需我付20美元,她便会替我指明方向。 20美元换来的答案便是: “放下忧虑亲爱的,你定会觅得如意君郎。” 第一位心理治疗师建议我, 每天在漆黑的衣柜里,静坐三小时, 闭上双睛,堵住耳朵。 我尝试过一次,但总觉得 坐在衣柜里有一种同性恋的感觉(出柜)。 瑜伽师教我拉伸运动,却闭口不谈真相, 让我将意念集中在呼气, 还说人人都能找到幸福真谛, 只要人人都心怀奉献,而不是索取。 药剂师让我服用安眠药、镇静剂和抗抑郁药。 医生说,抗精神病的药能帮你忘记心理创伤。 不要写这首诗,我的创伤对我说到。 你灵魂深处的哀痛,没有人想知道。 我内心的声音却说, “泰勒·克莱门汀在哈德逊河自尽, 是因为他深信自己会孤老。” 我内心的声音告诉我:“写下这首诗。” 写给灯光。 写给投河了结生命的痛苦灵魂。 写给自己那脆弱但闪耀的灵魂。 写给每天无法离开床榻的自己。 写给你手腕上数不清的针眼。 写给任何有过自杀念头的人。 有人曾对我说,最治愈的事情—— 就是一遍遍提醒自己, 还有其他人正经历同样的痛苦。 日子一天天过去, 但一切并未好转。 那封给母亲的信,只写了一半, 里面写道 “我发誓我尽力了。” 但当我以为我坠到了生命谷底, 一切却开始好转。 没有一种伤痛,会比孤独更深入骨髓。 就让我来告诉你, 我知道那种感觉,你觉得整个世界充满了欢乐, 只有你无助瘫倒,一无所有。 但你并不孤单,即使坚守希望仿佛是一种过错, 你无尽地悔恨,用羞耻感将自己淹没。 即便有着沉重的过去,你也并不脆弱, 而沉重的过去也无法阻挡你的心跳。 有些人永远不会明白, 这颗心脏有着怎样惊人的生命力, 因为有些事情他们未曾经历。 有时我的笑容看起来疲惫不堪, 但我的双手始终紧握着信念的绳索: 人生就像肥沃的土壤, 淤泥里也能结出硕果, 伤口转化为未来之路。 这条路驶来一辆卡车,车尾的贴纸写着, “病态社会,何以知道谁才健康。” 我从不相信落井下石之人, 但我相信那些奄奄一息,或许只剩一线生机, 却还在为生存呐喊和挣扎的人。 在泰勒·克莱门汀跳下乔治·华盛顿桥的四天前, 我坐在自己小镇的酒店房间里, 我该用什么办法,才能吞下一整瓶安眠药。 我所理解的生活,是每个人都有属于自己的痛苦, 而每每受伤,新伤口都会唤起痛苦的记忆。 我一直倾听等待着,当悲伤不再阻塞我的心灵之窗。 我双目清明,看见从前忽略的事物, 浓重的噩梦,也不再阻挡我的思绪。 心灵之窗外,一株蒲公英随风飘散, 散播出数千颗种子。 而当我告诉你,走出这一切有多轻松, 不要迫使我重回困境, 你只需要说:我会陪你一起, 在这扇窗前分担痛苦,等你痊愈, 但你也要明白,或许我们的心只是受了点擦伤, 也或许,最坏的时刻尚未到来。 但我想对你说,无论如何,我都会陪你, 享受这个世界,学会与它共舞,即使不断受伤。 也请你陪着我,好吗? 留在我身边,陪我一起。 武装起自己,对抗黑暗, 渴求光明, 勇敢地面对失去的一切。 我的挚友, 如果在陪伴中,我们唯一要争取的,就是彼此, 那就已经很多了, 那就已经足够了, 神明啊,我们可以分享无尽的光明, 就让我们互相鼓励,一遍遍轻声低吟: “活下去” “活下去” “活下去”