The Nutritionist by Andrea Gibson
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”