Amanda Carrasco

I have already spoken of my “yoga” class that is really hotter than hell torture. Today was another good one that covered my tears, but this time was coupled with an anxiety attack in the middle of frickin yoga.  I started hyperventalating but I could just cover my head with my towel and no one new the difference. It’s actually theraputic to lose it in public and no one knows. At least I am hopeful no one notices. Maybe people think I am that crying crazy lady who goes to yoga.

I feel like I repeatedly get kicked in the gut, and the head, and mostly the heart. I was in yoga trying to process the latest roundhouse when I realized that what has happened so far is nothing compared to what is to come in 2019. I spoke a short while ago to my victim services worker and in 2019 I will come face to face with the man who murdered my friend and their kids while I was living with them. Seriously, what can compare to that? The rub on that is that I won’t have by my side who I thought would be there. Some supports have been pulled out from under me.

So Amanda get’s kicked while she is down. I don’t deny I have walked into some situations but I am almost finished writting out my life so far and it’s a doozey. I actually had a short time this past weekend to read everything through and write some more. I have been broken so many times. I have been used and discarded. I have been undervalued but even more importantly, underestimated.

See as the story goes so far, Amanda keeps getting back up. But not only does she get back up but she comes up fighting. There have been several times I have averted death. And so tonight I find my solace in the amazing words of Dylan Thomas because I will never go quietly into that good night. I will rage.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.