You, in My Arm; I, in You, Not As Robin Williams (Post-MFA Edition)

I'm back from my final residency at Pacific Lutheran University's Rainier Writing Workshop, MFA in hand. "So am I a real writer now?"

Actually, those ten days were tremendously validating. Those of us graduating discussed one another's work. We each gave a public reading. Eight minutes isn't much, but we made it count, all of us! The readings are always one of the highlights of residency, and our class set the bar high. I got to visit with my trinity of mentors--incredible writers, dear spirits, inspiring human beings all three of them. Wordcrafter though I am, I can only put my hand on my heart to express the depth of love, affection, respect I feel for them all: Lia Purpura, Fleda Brown, and Stephen Corey. I'm honored to know all my classmates and many from other cohorts in the program--great writers, special people, several friends for life.
I left the residency with a new mandate to honor my writing, and new possible contacts in my new home. (And yes, it does feel like home here in Tucson!)

But something else happened during that time. We were at residency when Robin Williams passed. Although I'm not a huge movie watcher, his was definitely one of the most ubiquitous and beloved names of my growing up. I've written a little on here fairly recently about some of my own experience with suicide, and even though I shielded myself from the media around his passing, it triggered a lot in me. I relived my own periods at and over that edge. I asked myself all over again why am I still here. I felt like a failure because I never "succeeded." 

A few nights ago I dreamed. I was with a beloved, close friend. We were so close, we could energetically enter one another's bodies and feel one another's physical sensations. Then I cut my arm--my left forearm (as y'all know, I'm left handed, so that's quite a castration) -- I cut it from wrist to elbow, deep and wide. And the instant after I'd done it, I realized my dear friend was "in" my arm at that time. She could feel the cutting and the cut, the pulsing of broken veins, the warmth of spillage. I could feel her feeling it. I was horrified.

When I woke, that moment was with me. Going forward, how can I allow myself to get back to that deceiving place of believing my actions don't affect anyone else?

You are in the veins of my arm. And I'll use that arm for writing now.