rotting

Head spinning
spinning
won't stop

spinning

hurts
and I am

overwhelmed
stuck
foundering
flailing
failing

at

E V - E R - Y - T H I N G

too big
too small
too hot
too scared
too much
not enough
out of time
out of place

out

of

touch

touch

touch

can't

touch

cannot
stay
can't go
anywhere
elsewhere
is there
nowhere, no
somewhere
far

far

far

far away

from
w h o
from
w h a t
from
w h e n
from
me, from
hell
on earth
land
sea
sky
space
time
memory
mind

Nothing
is gone
it's never
gone
it
changes maybe
takes a
different shape but
it's still there
it's there
forever
even if it looks like
it's

rotting

it's just changing shape and
it will never

go

away.


----------


(Bring to this
what you will, I
cannot tell you
what to feel.)

Right Where I Am: 2012

I saw the invitation from Angie on Thursday morning, and I've been attempting to write this post ever since. Opening, rewriting, saving, staring, deleting, closing. Where the hell am I, anyway?

Ironic, that this call to write comes hot on the heels of my decision to stop tracking the days since they died. It was making me feel sad, and stagnant, so I traded the tickers in my sidebar for simple memorial buttons. And I had no twinges about it.

Will you judge me very harshly if I say I don't miss them like I used to? Not that I don't miss them--of course I do. But it's not the same as it used to be.

I don't look around and see where they're not. I don't resent my space or my nice clothes or my paychecks spent only on me. I don't obsess about how big they would be or what milestones they would have achieved by now. I don't worry that total strangers can't have the faintest idea whether I'm a mother or not. That they might look at me and see just another fairly pretty twenty-something who seems to mostly have her shit together. I think the reason I don't worry about that anymore is because I've realized that it actually is who I am now. I've realized I'm not fooling anyone, including myself... because it's no longer a lie.

I've got necklaces and initials. I've got two boxes of baby clothes in the back of my closet. I've got their pages on my blog, and indelible ink on my left thigh: two little doves I designed myself. My wrists are bare, but if I didn't know better, I'd swear their names were written there too. An invisible list. Indelible in its own way.

S has seen my tattoo, and the pictures that hang by my bed. He hasn't asked who they are, and I haven't told. I will, eventually. But not yet. We've been seeing each other for two months; long enough that I realized yesterday it will hurt if we break up. The thought made my stomach drop. It means I'm invested now, you see.

My babies often cross my mind, but for the most part tend to move on quickly. A smile and a nod--they get it. Mama's busy. And anyway, they've got time. They understand forever. They know we've got all the time in the world.

I feel like they each took a piece of my heart with them, when they left. That it is with them, that piece, wherever they are. Always. Except they didn't leave behind a hole, as I first thought. Clever thieves! They filled that small but gaping space with eternity instead. I simply didn't recognize it right away, couldn't sense the shape of it, was confused by its unfamiliar weight. I did not know, at first, that what I thought was lonely emptiness was really the vast wholeness of all things.

----------

Last year's posts: Lissie. No-No.

sweet child of mine

On Saturday some of my customers said "Happy Easter" to me -- most of them in a tone of voice that indicated they were offended that I hadn't said it to them first. (Ignorant bastards.) (Just kidding!) (Not really.)

I just sort of smiled grimly and nodded, because it would be decidedly unprofessional to say, "Fuck you, self-righteous customer with something to celebrate!"

I'm sorry, I'm just not feeling it this year.

----------

Sunday started off all right. A bit of morning banter with my great aunt and her cranky Italian husband, who I love. A little pre-brunch prep. Inspecting the beautiful cherry pies that I had spent four hours making the night before. Hiding some eggs, to be hunted later on.

I had a cheese danish and a coffee (both forbidden luxuries) and some cantelope... and then went back to bed. That part was lovely. I was drowsy from the sugar-crash and had plenty of time before I needed to do anything else. It felt like a holiday. Peaceful. Relaxed. Later, as the house filled with people, my anxiety began to rise; but I was pretty much holding my own. And then.

And then my cousin's idiot boyfriend made a joke about dead babies.

I spent the next 30 minutes bawling my eyes out in my bedroom, getting makeup all over my freshly laundered pillowcases. The worst part about it was knowing that no one was going to come down the hall and sit beside me while I cried. And I couldn't go back out until I was calm again, because I barely knew the 20-some people who were in the house, and I wasn't about to try to explain to them why I was upset. The minutes ticked by, and I felt terrible for isolating, but I didn't know what else to do. Anyone I could talk to about it was busy with family events of their own.

Eventually I had my breathing under control, and could go out and get some food and make small talk as was expected of me, puffy eyed but attempting to smile.

----------

I didn't say "Happy Easter" even once this year. I didn't go to church. I didn't ask anyone if they were doing something special for Sunday. I just plain didn't care.

And I've realized that it bothers me, that I don't care. I've always cared before. But I can't seem to muster a shred of reverence right now, no matter how abstract. I feel so jaded. So angry. So alone.

Supposedly that's who Jesus came for in the first place, though, right? People like me.

----------

I wonder about our traditions sometimes. All the happy-clappy-sunshine, nothing-is-wrong-because-Jesus-is-risen-he-is-risen-indeed. Is that really the only way to remember? It's what I grew up with. Every church service I've been to on Easter Sunday is full of what feels to me like forced optimism. The underlying message being: Somebody died because of you, you horrible person. But it's okay now, because they're alive again. Lucky! That means you're off the hook -- so be happy, damn it!

I don't know, maybe that was just me?

I guess I feel betrayed. I feel like it was all such a sham. Those days when everyone got all excited; sang joyful songs and threw flowers in the air, hugged one another. It was over so quickly. Everything back again to the way it was before. Scary. Unpredictable. Painful.

So Jesus was here, great. But then he left. And now there's just this invisible force wandering around checking up on us, cause Jesus has other things to do.

Ummm?

Yeah; turns out, this is the bulk of the message that I gathered. Awesome. In reading all this over, I think I understand though. I liked Easter before because I felt like some kind of horrible yucky person who deserved bad things to happen to them, and here was this story my church gave me about how it's okay that I'm a bad person because Jesus will help me, thank goodness.

But guess what? I don't think I'm a horrible person anymore. I don't think bad things should happen to me anymore. And I don't think anyone is coming to save me.

----------

Maybe someday I'll believe again that there's a God who cares for me the way a parent should. I want so badly to be somebody's child, deeply loved.

coming closer to the truth

My words appear to have deserted me. Here's another song, instead.

continuous

My thoughts move seamlessly from past to present to future and back again like a pendulum's swing. Will I ever be able to just be here? If I'm honest... do I really want to be?

The past is ugly; I shy away. The present is unstable, the future unknowable. Wishing, always wishing. Wishing what has been had never been, wishing now was better (wishing I was better), wishing I could know what is to come. Back and forth. Constant as pulse or breath. Changing as kaleidescope colors.

Shifting, shifting... *Sigh.*

now and then

This day is so different from last year.

Last year I was invited to Seattle. Last year I sat at my best friend's house and waited for her other guests to arrive; people I'd never met before. People who didn't know that I should have had a firm, round belly that day, showing under my sweater; didn't know that my breasts used to be smaller, that my bras used to fit. Didn't know the me from before, the me who hardly ever cried, who didn't need to wear waterproof mascara every day.

"Did you warn them that I'm a little, um... unstable?" I asked, anxiously.

Last year, in true northwest style, we prepared salmon and arugula and root vegetables and apple-cherry pie for dinner. We drank wine in shades of red and white and rose until the candlelight and the conversation both sparkled with added brilliance, and everything was funnier than usual; and then suddenly, instead of funny, everything was just quiet and comfortable and warm.

Last year, to amuse myself, I threw together ingredients without any measuring involved to make a loaf of pumpkin bread for my hosts -- which turned out to be a thing of such glory that it truly stunned us all; and I can say with confidence that the taste and texture of it shall never be equaled nor accurately reproduced. But that's as it should be.

Last year, when I missed my baby, I pulled out his quilt and worked my pain into it, rather than cry in front of strangers. Though I suppose it was really just my own way of crying in front of strangers.

Last year, I sat and stared out the window at rain dripping slowly off of blood red leaves, and tried to think of something to be thankful for, which felt, at the time, like an exercise in futility. But then I slowly realized that I was sitting in the living room of a person who, for some reason beyond my understanding, really, really cared about me. Who actually wanted me around, despite my sporadic withdrawls and bouts of tears and my inability to see past this moment, then this one, then this.

And I was grateful then, for her and for the handful of other people who felt the same, who would do the same for me. It did not seem like quite enough; it seemed a pitifully small number, in fact, standing between me and a huge, violent, scary world... but I knew it was a start. And while I felt completely ambivalent about whether I lived or died on any given day, I knew that they did not. A year later, those same people continue to be the most important ones in my life.

However. I'm afraid I cannot say with any kind of conviction that I am really happy to still be alive. There are days when I think it hardly matters, one way or the other, and I wonder at times if perhaps my wounds will turn out to be fatal, after all. I must confess, if I died tomorrow, my final thought would be: At last, at last.

But do not worry, dear ones. And do not let your feelings be hurt by my despair; my pain runs deeper than you can ever know, and it is not your responsibility or your fault. I will speak of other things, now, for your sake. Because I love you, too.

----------

Today I am alive, and since I am alive, it is good to be alive in California. It is good that the sun is shining today, despite the cold. It is good that I do not have to see or speak to anyone that I don't want to see or speak to. It is good that I have a place where I can express what I think and feel without fear of retaliation. It is good that later on I will be welcomed to a table, heavy-laden in the best sense of the word.

It is good.

I am thankful for the people who got me here, to this place and to this day. I am thankful for the people who still think it makes sense for me to wake up every morning, the people who believe my life really is worthwhile, despite all. You are brave, to believe such things. I am thankful for the people who read these words of mine, who open up their hearts and who leave a few words of their own in return. You are generous. You are kind.

----------

It is quiet in my room. There is sunlight, stillness, peace. For now, in this moment, and this one, and this: I am thankful.

backwards to go forward

Took a little time out this morning, to regroup, get my head back together. Sat in the B&N Starbucks with my notebook and a warm drink and let some of my fears out onto the page. I'm glad I got out today. I needed to go and do and be in the context of the outside world. Needed to add an experience to the too-short list of Things That Didn't Hurt Me that I carry in my short-term memory. I knew if I turned on the computer I wouldn't leave it till I had to go to work. It was tempting to hole up in my room again all day. But I didn't! Go me.

I've been feeling a little off track, a little (a lot) overwhelmed. I recognize this feeling all too well. It puts me right back to 2007. Which is probably why I've been freaking out, and no wonder. What a year to go back to. Ugh.

But the Big Dream is from that year, so it makes sense, I guess. It didn't work out, before. So I am terrified of failing again, even though I have a way better shot this time around. It's so hard to believe in anything, and harder still to forgive myself for not believing. I don't like to admit how awful everything was. It hurts too much. I want to trust... but trust what? Nothing springs to mind. How can I trust myself, trust "God," trust in anyone or anything, when the vast majority of what I've known of life so far has been betrayal, heartache, violence, pain? Too much. It's just too much. If this is what I am thinking, no wonder I've been eaten up with anxiety. No wonder I've felt so far away. I want to be far away; far from these feelings, far from my past.

In allowing this dream back into my heart, I am forced to face the fact that it has not come true yet, and the reason for it not coming true. The reason that it is beyond scary. The reason I stopped pursuing it, years ago.




Last time I dreamed this dream, I got raped.

[God. My blood pressure plummeted, and I almost just passed out, typing that. I'm sure I must be white as a sheet. Deep breaths.]





3 1/2 years ago, I was getting ready to take the first steps. I had been gathering information, and mustering up my courage in secret, and I was poised to leave my family of origin behind, find my own way, move to California, be a nanny (or a secretary), go to college. I had been doing research, in fact, at my grandparents' house that night. And then my fragile hopes were shattered by a random act of violence, three blocks from their front door and two blocks from mine.

I retreated immediately to the core of myself, and all of my emotions went into hibernation. The devestating message I gleaned from this experience was: You will never escape. How dare you dream? How dare you even try? You are garbage. You are a dumping ground for other people's shit. You have no other purpose but to move through life as a magnet for violence. You will die at the hands of those who wish you harm. You will never escape.

I had suspected as much, for many years. But here was the proof. And here was I, finally old enough to put coherent summation to my suspicions.





And then there was a baby... and then suddenly, there was no baby anymore.

Oh, Ailis! My heart aches for you. Thank you for coming, sweetheart. Thank you for being a spot of warmth and light in the cruel and colorless world I knew. I'm so sorry I am only able to see and express this in retrospect. You did not come from evil, but despite it. I will always hate what happened to me, but I will never regret your life.





I am trying to give myself grace. I have to forgive myself, for needing a different pace than other people. For being different from them in so many ways. I also need to make room inside myself for the idea that there might be a few people out there who can sit with me in my pain, and get it, even never having experienced anything like it themselves. That for every five people out there who have said the exact wrong thing to me, perhaps there is one who would say the exact right thing, given the chance. Maybe those people are out there too, and maybe I will find them someday.

This is the beginning of finding that space, I suppose. A small opening in my thinking, and in my heart.

twenty-five

Day 25 - your day, in great detail

10:02am
I wake up to sunlight streaming in my windows. A welcome sight, after three days of grey and rain. I stayed up too late, and neglected to remove my makeup, so my eyes are burning. I rub at them, even though it gives me twinges of guilt every time, knowing I am damaging the fragile skin and causing myself who-knows-how-many future wrinkles. Sorry, skin!

10:16am
Still not fully awake. Trying to shake off the night's lingering dreams. It is Monday. No work today, thank goodness.

10:25am
I think I will have a few bites of plain yogurt, and a whole wheat English muffin with peanut butter for breakfast. Maybe some cocoa.

10:40am
There is only chunky peanut butter in the cupboard, which I used to avoid because it would hurt my teeth. But I've had some dental work done, so now I can eat crunchy peanut butter again, and I decide that is reason enough for a moment or two of joy.

10:53am
Turn on the computer. While waiting for it to wake up I notice, for the first time, that my tissue box has something written on it in French: de reves et d'inspirations. Something about inspiration? On a tissue box? Also, there are purple cartoon butterflies on it. (Not really my style, but I got it for $1 at Dollar Tree.)

10:58am
Google translate. De reves et d'inspirations = Of dreams and inspiration. Good to know. Purple butterflies of dreams and inspiration? Sure. Why not, tissue box. Why not.

11:07am
By the way, I added a splash of Toffee Nut creamer to my cocoa, and I think it is offically the best idea ever.

11:14am
Login to Blogger. Type out a play-by-play of the morning so far. Try to decide if I should wait, and not publish until later tonight, or publish now and add to the post throughout the day.

11:35am
Decide to publish now.

11:40am
Facebook. (Meh.) Emails. (Only two new messages.) Election news. (Appalling!)

12:01pm
Try to put my feet up while I read; tip computer chair completely over instead. Ouch. Lie on floor for a moment, marveling at my own clumsiness, before getting up and righting the chair and sitting down again to tell you about what just happened.

12:10pm
Curl up like a cat in a puddle of sunshine on my unmade bed. My right shoulder hurts from my fall.

12:16pm
Shower.

12:36pm
Wrapped in towels, I lie down again in the sunlight, watching its slow slide across the bed. I notice, absentmindedly, the tiny patch of hairs on my knee that I somehow miss every time I shave my legs. It is warm, and there are no urgent demands on my time, and I am content to float through this day and not think too deeply about anything.

12:50pm
Getting ready to go run a few errands.

1:00pm
Fashion emergency.

1:27pm
Finally dressed and made up and ready to go.

1:35pm
Driving through town almost on autopilot, I find myself slipping into sad thoughts. I fear that I am broken, irreparably. On the outside I look "normal." But I do not know how to be like everybody else.

1:49pm
At the library. (Whenever I move, one of the first things I do is find out where the nearest library is, and apply for my library card.) I love the library.

1:52pm
Get a call from AT&T, because my bill is overdue. I don't answer; I will pay it on Friday.

2:20pm
Code Brew for lunch. Settle in to read for awhile on the red leather couch with a turkey sandwich and a Chai latte.

2:29pm
"One day a storm came and swept away everything that Emma had, and everything that Emma knew. When it had done all that, it swept away Emma too. It might have been a storm with black winds, with thunder and lightning and rising waves. It might have been a storm with terrible anger and policemen coming to the door, and strangers, hospitals, courtrooms, and nightmares. It might have been a storm with soldiers, and fire, and hiding in cellars listening to shooting overhead. There are different kinds of storms. But Emma faced the storm that swept over her, and found a way to save herself." --Kage Baker, The Hotel Under the Sand

3:05pm
Ready to head home.

4:13pm
Catching up on blogs. This makes me laugh.

4:44pm
Inspired by the internet to do some self-portraits.

5:01pm
Quickly un-inspired by actual results. I need a new camera. Badly.

5:23pm
Back on the computer, exploring youtube. This makes me cry.

5:56pm
I'm formulating a plan, to be divulged at a later date. (It's a nice plan, not a dastardly one. Don't worry.)

6:37pm
Tear myself away from the computer. Realize I'm hungry, but don't feel like making dinner yet. Go find an apple.

6:45pm
Watch the latest SNL on-demand in the living room.

7:40pm
Still don't feel like cooking. Scrounge some leftover meat and peas for dinner. Thank you, Auntie!

8:00pm
Set up sewing table. Oren Lavie & Joshua Radin Radio playing on Pandora, to soothe me into the nighttime.

11:03pm
A final update. I sewed for three hours straight. My back hurts now, but I am oh-so-nearly finished with one of the Christmas gifts I needed to make, so that's good. I am eating a big gob of chocolate birthday cake (plus a little yogurt, instead of ice cream). Then I will brush my teeth and go to bed, read for a little while, go to sleep. I hope the cake doesn't give me bad dreams. I hope instead I do not dream at all.

That was probably more detail than anyone ever wanted; but I had fun with it.
Good night.