Ailis - almost 6 years / Noah - almost 4 years
I don't track days anymore. I have to stop and count on my fingers, now, to be sure of the years that have passed. Ah, they would be so big! Kindergarten, for Lissie, can you imagine...?!
Alas, I cannot.
They have made me a mother but I am deprived of the experiences that make up the stories that make you friends on the outside. Prison terminology seems appropriate to me; babyloss is too much like a life-long sentence for the wrongfully accused, or maybe involuntary committal to a psych ward. Except there is no release for good behavior, no cure, and even if you escape, finally, on a rainbow, there's still a part of your life that almost no one will ever be truly comfortable hearing about unless they've been there too.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.*
My heart is changed. It contains more than I ever thought possible. It is bigger on the inside than on the outside, and through its transformation I became half time-lord, half human, all whole. I have gained a perspective that is dizzying and grounding at once. The universe fits inside of me. Profound and simple and holy and profane. There is room for you too, and in you too.
Mama, mama, be calm. We know how to wait. We are not afraid.
Be calm, mama. We'll wait.
My children are extraordinarily zen. They cannot teach, but I can learn. I suppose that's rather zen in itself.
Into the air, into the earth, into the fire. I am with you.**
Peace. Love. Light.
I am not broken, and neither are you.
*You do not have to be good, Mary Oliver
**Xenocide, Orson Scott Card
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You can read my previous years' posts here: Right Where I Am 2011 (Part I)(Part II) & Right Where I Am 2012, and link up with us on still life with circles.
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
May 31, 2013
September 26, 2012
John Lennon
When I'm dreaming it feels like the most real thing. Until I wake up, and awake feels like the most real thing instead. And if there is another state, after or outside of awake, maybe it's the realest thing yet. Like the first time I ever fainted, and I seemed to see events playing out from a long way off, speeding up and speeding up until I rushed into the present again, into my body and what was happening to it, into pain in my arms where my friends were gripping them to keep me from slipping further away, to keep my body from slipping as far as my mind had gone. I laughed, because they were gripping my arms so tight, as if that could keep me here. As if I were tangible.
I'd only gone for a minute. But I'd gone to where no one could reach me, and it was huge and narrow and pitch black and bright and full of colors and unutterably, ineffably real.
It was more real than my fingertips on a clacking keyboard and skinny dark letters appearing on a flat white screen in an attempt to make you see. It was more real than tick tick tick and imaginary measurements of time, more real than faith or science, more real than pain. And it made me laugh, that they wanted me back. I didn't particularly want to come back, although there was something, something important to do, and I was forgetting. I was already forgetting.
Afternoon ramblings sparked by this John Lennon quote.
I'd only gone for a minute. But I'd gone to where no one could reach me, and it was huge and narrow and pitch black and bright and full of colors and unutterably, ineffably real.
It was more real than my fingertips on a clacking keyboard and skinny dark letters appearing on a flat white screen in an attempt to make you see. It was more real than tick tick tick and imaginary measurements of time, more real than faith or science, more real than pain. And it made me laugh, that they wanted me back. I didn't particularly want to come back, although there was something, something important to do, and I was forgetting. I was already forgetting.
Afternoon ramblings sparked by this John Lennon quote.
April 9, 2012
fine
I'd never been in that alley before; I didn't know where it would let out. Had to turn left instead of right because I came out farther down the street than I thought I would, and then I ran those last two blocks home. I clattered down the stairs to my basement room, curled up as small as I could, fell asleep clenched and gasping. Woke up late, and my roommates had already gone for the day. Dragged myself upstairs to shower, the hottest shower I could stand. Washed my hair twice. Scrubbed my fingers, my palms, under my nails. Sat limp on the floor of the tub and let the water beat down. I listened to it gurgle, loud, watched it swirl in the drain. It could have been an hour, two hours, a hundred. When I came to again I bundled my clothes up in a towel and threw them in the laundry. Hottest setting, lots of detergent. Waited, tense, on the end of my bed for the beep of the washing machine, then the dryer. Hot, hot, kill the germs. Kill the germs. Hot.
When my clothes were clean I put them in a plastic bag, along with the towel that had touched them, and I took the bag out to the dumpster and threw them away. My favorite sweatshirt too, and my earrings, and my shoes -- everything I had been wearing the day before. And the blanket I had slept on top of that night. Garbage now. Gone.
And then I was calm. I was calm because I was in control again. There was no evidence, none. It must have been a dream. It was all a terrible dream I had, and I would soon forget it.
My mum dropped by later.
"How are you?" she said.
"Fine," I said. "I'm fine."
When my clothes were clean I put them in a plastic bag, along with the towel that had touched them, and I took the bag out to the dumpster and threw them away. My favorite sweatshirt too, and my earrings, and my shoes -- everything I had been wearing the day before. And the blanket I had slept on top of that night. Garbage now. Gone.
And then I was calm. I was calm because I was in control again. There was no evidence, none. It must have been a dream. It was all a terrible dream I had, and I would soon forget it.
My mum dropped by later.
"How are you?" she said.
"Fine," I said. "I'm fine."
November 9, 2011
my favorite part
Thanksgiving was always
nine miserable hours in the car
through the day and long into
the deep night
but then
waking up
alone
in a bed piled high
with clean quilts
behind a narrow door that locked
in a little room at the end
of the hall
where the air was warm
and never smelled of damp or rot
it smelled of turkey
which had been in the oven for hours already
and it smelled of forethought, which smells like love
and the sound of coffee percolating
marched purposefully down that hall
soft but persistent
a call to wake up, wake up
it's today
it's morning
and no one is drunk yet
and you are safe for now
and warm
wake up, enjoy it
while you can.
nine miserable hours in the car
through the day and long into
the deep night
but then
waking up
alone
in a bed piled high
with clean quilts
behind a narrow door that locked
in a little room at the end
of the hall
where the air was warm
and never smelled of damp or rot
it smelled of turkey
which had been in the oven for hours already
and it smelled of forethought, which smells like love
and the sound of coffee percolating
marched purposefully down that hall
soft but persistent
a call to wake up, wake up
it's today
it's morning
and no one is drunk yet
and you are safe for now
and warm
wake up, enjoy it
while you can.
February 14, 2011
be mine
I was going to bake a cake for today, but my cousin made about a million cupcakes last night, so I figure there is enough cake in the house for now and I should probably wait. I have no one to make it for anyway, aside from myself, so no one is getting let down.
You may or may not be surprised to hear that I am not a romantic. Like, at all. Many of the things that other girls swoon over or have come to expect on this day, I find silly and contrived... But still, I've always liked Valentine's Day.
As a child I really enjoyed the idea of a day devoted to showing love to one another. School parties were the best! Even the unpopular kids who usually got left out due to classroom politics were showered with hearts and candy on at least this one day -- and that made me happy inside. Even when I was older (in college, and abroad in Australia) I still liked to make handmade valentines for all of my friends, and my little cousins as well. I am not a fan of the commercial aspect of the holiday -- but I won't move to revoke its 'holiday' status just because of that. You don't have to buy anything to make someone feel special. And you don't have to have a romantic relationship to be happy that love exists in this world.
I wish that my little ones were here, so I could shower them with sweet treats and too many kisses. I even wish, for literally the first time, that I'd had a date this Valentine's Day. I don't feel bitter about it; not even a little. Humbled, actually, would be far more accurate...
You know, there's so much more I could say about this, so much I discovered about myself as I thought it all over yesterday and today. But I don't think I can write it down very well right now. So I'll save it for later, tuck it away. And maybe one day we'll have coffee together, and you'll say: "How do you feel about Valentine's Day, Vera?"
And I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything I'm thinking. I promise.
You may or may not be surprised to hear that I am not a romantic. Like, at all. Many of the things that other girls swoon over or have come to expect on this day, I find silly and contrived... But still, I've always liked Valentine's Day.
As a child I really enjoyed the idea of a day devoted to showing love to one another. School parties were the best! Even the unpopular kids who usually got left out due to classroom politics were showered with hearts and candy on at least this one day -- and that made me happy inside. Even when I was older (in college, and abroad in Australia) I still liked to make handmade valentines for all of my friends, and my little cousins as well. I am not a fan of the commercial aspect of the holiday -- but I won't move to revoke its 'holiday' status just because of that. You don't have to buy anything to make someone feel special. And you don't have to have a romantic relationship to be happy that love exists in this world.
I wish that my little ones were here, so I could shower them with sweet treats and too many kisses. I even wish, for literally the first time, that I'd had a date this Valentine's Day. I don't feel bitter about it; not even a little. Humbled, actually, would be far more accurate...
You know, there's so much more I could say about this, so much I discovered about myself as I thought it all over yesterday and today. But I don't think I can write it down very well right now. So I'll save it for later, tuck it away. And maybe one day we'll have coffee together, and you'll say: "How do you feel about Valentine's Day, Vera?"
And I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything I'm thinking. I promise.
January 11, 2011
this day, this beautiful day
Laundry hung carefully on the line. Sudden rain.
Sitting in the car with an oceanside view, eating takeaway pizza. Walking down the beach in a mist of drizzle, arms flung out into the wild wind. Whisper-soft sand between my cold toes.
Movies in the afternoon. (It's what you do, when it rains. You curl up on the couch and watch movies. Right?)
Lamb for dinner, lamingtons for dessert. Authentic Australian.
Drive to find the perfect beach. A million soldier crabs, the sound of them skittering along the shoreline. Two hours searching for a spot with no crabs or people or waves. (Or crabs!) Finally, found.
A small break in the clouds. Stars.
Assembling lanterns in the dark. Lighting candles against the wishes of the whipping wind. Pam burning her thumb again and again, determined to get them lit. Photos. Exquisite pain.
(I remember you, lost babies. I remember you, lost mamas.)
Ocean and wind and heartbeat and breath.
Tiny fish jumping in the shallows. Building a fire on the beach. Feeling so thankful for my amazing friend. Imprinting memories behind my eyes.
Sitting in the car with an oceanside view, eating takeaway pizza. Walking down the beach in a mist of drizzle, arms flung out into the wild wind. Whisper-soft sand between my cold toes.
Movies in the afternoon. (It's what you do, when it rains. You curl up on the couch and watch movies. Right?)
Lamb for dinner, lamingtons for dessert. Authentic Australian.
Drive to find the perfect beach. A million soldier crabs, the sound of them skittering along the shoreline. Two hours searching for a spot with no crabs or people or waves. (Or crabs!) Finally, found.
A small break in the clouds. Stars.
Assembling lanterns in the dark. Lighting candles against the wishes of the whipping wind. Pam burning her thumb again and again, determined to get them lit. Photos. Exquisite pain.
(I remember you, lost babies. I remember you, lost mamas.)
Ocean and wind and heartbeat and breath.
Tiny fish jumping in the shallows. Building a fire on the beach. Feeling so thankful for my amazing friend. Imprinting memories behind my eyes.
January 6, 2011
speaking of stars
Long after dinner was done and the coals in the kettle barbeque gone nearly cold, we stoked them back up again and toasted American marshmallows over the low flames on fondue forks scavenged resourcefully from a kitchen drawer.
Hovering too close for comfort over glowing briquettes, fingers and tongues both burnt willingly on molten globs of sugar. The scrape of the spade across the grate, making golden splinters of light fly in every direction. The unique, peculiar sound of a marshmallow, burning. (Have you ever sat and listened to a marshmallow, burning? It's fantastic.)
Overhead a million million stars glittered in the night sky, like a massive firework whose sparks have never stopped falling toward us. And I thought to myself: I am happy. In this moment, I am as near to happy as I have ever been.
Hovering too close for comfort over glowing briquettes, fingers and tongues both burnt willingly on molten globs of sugar. The scrape of the spade across the grate, making golden splinters of light fly in every direction. The unique, peculiar sound of a marshmallow, burning. (Have you ever sat and listened to a marshmallow, burning? It's fantastic.)
Overhead a million million stars glittered in the night sky, like a massive firework whose sparks have never stopped falling toward us. And I thought to myself: I am happy. In this moment, I am as near to happy as I have ever been.
November 29, 2010
blindsided
I saw the cutest onesies while I was out shopping today. One was black with a red and white electric guitar and said "Daddy's Little Rockstar," and the other was white, and said "I Love My Daddy." Those words pierced me, unexpectedly, and an entire life unlived flashed before my eyes in the space between one heartbeat and the next, leaving me breathless and dizzy and confused. I wandered the store for an additional hour, distracted, aimless.
I am distressed, still, by what has opened up inside of me. Wary of my emotions. Through all my grieving, here is a piece I've tried so hard to hold at arm's length. I don't want to think about Noah's daddy, don't want to think about what he lost. My son, yes -- but his son, too. Our son.
Ours.
I am distressed, still, by what has opened up inside of me. Wary of my emotions. Through all my grieving, here is a piece I've tried so hard to hold at arm's length. I don't want to think about Noah's daddy, don't want to think about what he lost. My son, yes -- but his son, too. Our son.
Ours.
November 25, 2010
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.
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.
November 16, 2010
bad dream
I had a dream the other morning, which set an unpleasant precedent for my day. I have been trying to avoid remembering the details, honestly, but I think now perhaps I will try to get them out... Even though doing so will likely steal most of my words away.
It started with me walking up to my grandparents' house on Glenning St. It was still painted red. I knew my mother and sister were inside, and I was coming to meet them and my grandma for some stupid girls only get-together; but I did not expect to see, outside in the driveway, the crocodile, covered in grease, working on an old car. My stomach dropped. He did not even look up, and I hurried past, into the house. Once inside, I was furious. I went up to the room where my sister and mother and grandmother were hanging out, and they acted like they were glad to see me for about 5 seconds, and then completely ignored me.
As I was sitting there, bored and resentful, I could hear the crocodile clanking around outside and I got so angry, finally I couldn't contain myself any longer. I went up to my grandma and said, "Why is he here? How can you still let him come around? Do I have to remind you that he is a child molester? A CHILD MOLESTER!! You know what he did. You know. So WHY is he HERE?"
As I was speaking, my voice rose and rose, in hopes that he would be able to hear me outside the window, and my grandmother's body became very tense. She was smiling so hard that it looked like a death-grimace, frozen on her face, and her eyes got very big and then crossed and then slid into eachother in a really disturbing way, and her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that they began to melt and fuse into one another. When I finished my short tirade she said, in a reproachful voice, "What do you want me to do?"
"Don't let him come around!" I answered, exasperated.
"I can't do that," she said, frowning now, her hands still melted together.
"Then you won't see me anymore," I said. And I walked out of the room, and out of that house, forever.
----------
I walked for a long time, until I was in some part of a city I didn't recognize. It was kind of post-apocolyptic. There were tumbled down buildings, great slabs of concrete sticking up at odd angles, patches of scraggly grass... and no people. I was very relieved to have found this place. It was as if I had been looking for it all along, and only knew it once I had arrived. I walked around a particular slab of jutting concrete and made my way up broken stairs and twisted paths to a sheltered place, high up. There I lay down what I had been carrying.
It was a body, a woman's body, in a long and flowy white dress. She was clean, and pretty -- and dead; or as good as dead. She was not overweight, but she was heavy, and my arms and back were very tired from carrying her. I was relieved when I was able to lay her there. I did not feel afraid, or even sad; I was just doing what I needed to do. I stood looking at her for a few minutes, as if to be sure she would be okay; then I turned around and climbed back down the way I had come, and walked all the way around the structure, and came to the steep incline of a huge dirt mound. I walked slowly and painstakingly up the mound, and arrived back where I had started, at the base of the concrete slab. I sighed.
I went up the broken stairs again, checked on the body, climbed back down, walked around the building, and arrived at the dirt mound once more. This time, the dirt had some grass growing on it, here and there.
I did this loop over and over again. Each time I arrived at the hill, it had a little more vegetation on it. Eventually there were even tall flowers growing, and the only dirt left was the path I had worn as I walked up over and over. I had the sense of a lot of time passing, as if every time I came around that corner, I was pushing time forward ahead of me, and somehow causing the grass and flowers to grow through sheer force of will. It gave me energy, to think that, and each time I made the loop now, I got a little faster. But just when I was feeling comfortable in this pattern, feeling that I had figured it out, I got to the sheltered place and found that the body I had been keeping vigil with was gone. Gone. I stared at the empty place for awhile, and then staggered back down to finish the loop. Even though I knew deep in my heart that she was gone forever, I didn't know what else to do. When I arrived at the hill this time, other people had appeared, walking on the path and sitting among the flowers, talking and laughing even as sudden clouds roiled virulently overhead. When I got to the top of the hill, my mother was standing there, waiting. She had found me.
"You'll have to come with us, now," she said.
----------
Then I was in a car with my mother and my sister. My sister was driving (but on the right-hand side of the car, which was odd), and my mom and I were in the back. And my mom would not shut up. Every word she said was causing me physical pain, like handfuls of rocks being flung at me. She kept talking and talking, and I kept interrupting her to say, "Could you please stop? Just stop. Just stop talking." But she would not take a hint. And after a while I finally screamed, almost crying, "SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP. STOP TALKING. PLEASE, PLEASE, STOP TALKING!"
And she looked all sad and pathetic, like I'd hurt her feelings; but it shut her up all right. Except my sister was staring at us now, instead of driving, and when I asked her to turn around and please watch the road, she just got defiant and did this slow-blink thing at me that she used to do when she was little and I had to take care of her all the time. It meant: I hear you, and you know it, but I'm still not going to do what you said. So I got pissed then and climbed into the front of the car, where there was a second steering wheel and pedals and everything. I thought, Fine, I'll drive. It's probably the only way I'm ever actually going to get home anyway.
We were coming up on an intersection, and I almost couldn't stop the car in time, but thankfully it was a deserted country road and there was no one else around anyway. "You have got to get these brakes checked," I said to my mom, even though I knew she wasn't listening, because she was too busy being offended. (Ironically, I remembered even in my dream that my parents' cars always had 'brake problems'.)
I took a minute to adjust the mirrors before I started driving again. The rearview mirror had been pointed squarely at my mother; it was grey and very dirty, but I still moved it so I could see out the back window as best I could. My side-mirror was fairly easy to fix. Then I tried to move the one on my sister's side (which was partly shattered), but it wouldn't go where I wanted it, and I thought she was touching it and getting in my way, so I yelled at her and she yelled back and then she put her hands in the air to prove she wasn't touching it. I tried again to adjust it but every time I got it in a place where I could see pretty well, it snapped right back to its original position. So I decided it was just broken, and not her fault after all, and I apologized and left it at that. Then I started driving again.
After putting on an air of injured innocence for quite awhile (which my sister and I simply ignored), my mom suddenly opened her door and jumped out of the car, in an attempt to get us to freak out and feel sorry for her. I could see her out the rearview mirror, sitting in the middle of the road, waiting expectantly for us to stop the car and and turn around and come back for her. We didn't, though.
My sister got kind of upset, but I just muttered "Good riddance," and kept on driving.
So. It wasn't graphic or anything (for me, anyway) but I woke up very unhappy and angry, for a lot of reasons, and my whole body hurt for the rest of the day. Since I don't often remember my dreams in such detail, I figured I better record it. So I did.
PS: Goodness, Karolyn... Have you ever heard anything like it?!
It started with me walking up to my grandparents' house on Glenning St. It was still painted red. I knew my mother and sister were inside, and I was coming to meet them and my grandma for some stupid girls only get-together; but I did not expect to see, outside in the driveway, the crocodile, covered in grease, working on an old car. My stomach dropped. He did not even look up, and I hurried past, into the house. Once inside, I was furious. I went up to the room where my sister and mother and grandmother were hanging out, and they acted like they were glad to see me for about 5 seconds, and then completely ignored me.
As I was sitting there, bored and resentful, I could hear the crocodile clanking around outside and I got so angry, finally I couldn't contain myself any longer. I went up to my grandma and said, "Why is he here? How can you still let him come around? Do I have to remind you that he is a child molester? A CHILD MOLESTER!! You know what he did. You know. So WHY is he HERE?"
As I was speaking, my voice rose and rose, in hopes that he would be able to hear me outside the window, and my grandmother's body became very tense. She was smiling so hard that it looked like a death-grimace, frozen on her face, and her eyes got very big and then crossed and then slid into eachother in a really disturbing way, and her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that they began to melt and fuse into one another. When I finished my short tirade she said, in a reproachful voice, "What do you want me to do?"
"Don't let him come around!" I answered, exasperated.
"I can't do that," she said, frowning now, her hands still melted together.
"Then you won't see me anymore," I said. And I walked out of the room, and out of that house, forever.
----------
I walked for a long time, until I was in some part of a city I didn't recognize. It was kind of post-apocolyptic. There were tumbled down buildings, great slabs of concrete sticking up at odd angles, patches of scraggly grass... and no people. I was very relieved to have found this place. It was as if I had been looking for it all along, and only knew it once I had arrived. I walked around a particular slab of jutting concrete and made my way up broken stairs and twisted paths to a sheltered place, high up. There I lay down what I had been carrying.
It was a body, a woman's body, in a long and flowy white dress. She was clean, and pretty -- and dead; or as good as dead. She was not overweight, but she was heavy, and my arms and back were very tired from carrying her. I was relieved when I was able to lay her there. I did not feel afraid, or even sad; I was just doing what I needed to do. I stood looking at her for a few minutes, as if to be sure she would be okay; then I turned around and climbed back down the way I had come, and walked all the way around the structure, and came to the steep incline of a huge dirt mound. I walked slowly and painstakingly up the mound, and arrived back where I had started, at the base of the concrete slab. I sighed.
I went up the broken stairs again, checked on the body, climbed back down, walked around the building, and arrived at the dirt mound once more. This time, the dirt had some grass growing on it, here and there.
I did this loop over and over again. Each time I arrived at the hill, it had a little more vegetation on it. Eventually there were even tall flowers growing, and the only dirt left was the path I had worn as I walked up over and over. I had the sense of a lot of time passing, as if every time I came around that corner, I was pushing time forward ahead of me, and somehow causing the grass and flowers to grow through sheer force of will. It gave me energy, to think that, and each time I made the loop now, I got a little faster. But just when I was feeling comfortable in this pattern, feeling that I had figured it out, I got to the sheltered place and found that the body I had been keeping vigil with was gone. Gone. I stared at the empty place for awhile, and then staggered back down to finish the loop. Even though I knew deep in my heart that she was gone forever, I didn't know what else to do. When I arrived at the hill this time, other people had appeared, walking on the path and sitting among the flowers, talking and laughing even as sudden clouds roiled virulently overhead. When I got to the top of the hill, my mother was standing there, waiting. She had found me.
"You'll have to come with us, now," she said.
----------
Then I was in a car with my mother and my sister. My sister was driving (but on the right-hand side of the car, which was odd), and my mom and I were in the back. And my mom would not shut up. Every word she said was causing me physical pain, like handfuls of rocks being flung at me. She kept talking and talking, and I kept interrupting her to say, "Could you please stop? Just stop. Just stop talking." But she would not take a hint. And after a while I finally screamed, almost crying, "SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP. STOP TALKING. PLEASE, PLEASE, STOP TALKING!"
And she looked all sad and pathetic, like I'd hurt her feelings; but it shut her up all right. Except my sister was staring at us now, instead of driving, and when I asked her to turn around and please watch the road, she just got defiant and did this slow-blink thing at me that she used to do when she was little and I had to take care of her all the time. It meant: I hear you, and you know it, but I'm still not going to do what you said. So I got pissed then and climbed into the front of the car, where there was a second steering wheel and pedals and everything. I thought, Fine, I'll drive. It's probably the only way I'm ever actually going to get home anyway.
We were coming up on an intersection, and I almost couldn't stop the car in time, but thankfully it was a deserted country road and there was no one else around anyway. "You have got to get these brakes checked," I said to my mom, even though I knew she wasn't listening, because she was too busy being offended. (Ironically, I remembered even in my dream that my parents' cars always had 'brake problems'.)
I took a minute to adjust the mirrors before I started driving again. The rearview mirror had been pointed squarely at my mother; it was grey and very dirty, but I still moved it so I could see out the back window as best I could. My side-mirror was fairly easy to fix. Then I tried to move the one on my sister's side (which was partly shattered), but it wouldn't go where I wanted it, and I thought she was touching it and getting in my way, so I yelled at her and she yelled back and then she put her hands in the air to prove she wasn't touching it. I tried again to adjust it but every time I got it in a place where I could see pretty well, it snapped right back to its original position. So I decided it was just broken, and not her fault after all, and I apologized and left it at that. Then I started driving again.
After putting on an air of injured innocence for quite awhile (which my sister and I simply ignored), my mom suddenly opened her door and jumped out of the car, in an attempt to get us to freak out and feel sorry for her. I could see her out the rearview mirror, sitting in the middle of the road, waiting expectantly for us to stop the car and and turn around and come back for her. We didn't, though.
My sister got kind of upset, but I just muttered "Good riddance," and kept on driving.
So. It wasn't graphic or anything (for me, anyway) but I woke up very unhappy and angry, for a lot of reasons, and my whole body hurt for the rest of the day. Since I don't often remember my dreams in such detail, I figured I better record it. So I did.
PS: Goodness, Karolyn... Have you ever heard anything like it?!
October 29, 2010
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.
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.
October 12, 2010
twelve
Day 12 - something you are OCD about
I used to have literal OCD. It was not fun. I had to sit on a certain side of whatever car I was riding in (depending on the car; I would just know, from looking at it, which side I needed to sit on) and if I couldn't, I would have a panic attack, because I thought we were going to crash and die. Also, even numbers were "good" and odd numbers were... well, not bad exactly, but "less good." Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday were even days, so they were better than Monday or Wednesday or Friday, and less likely to have bad things happen on them. (There is no way I could explain to you what made those days even, it's just how it was.)
If I could stop the microwave countdown so that the number matched within one minute before or after the time on the clock, I would feel like I won a contest. Better yet was if I stopped it on the exact time. That made my day. If I got it wrong, however, I felt like a total failure. When I was anxious about something (like being a total failure) I would flex and press my pointer finger backward against my middle finger in an awkward and painful way, usually on both hands, and count to five over and over and over -- up to a hundred times.
There's more, but I've already scared myself a little, so I can't imagine what any of you must be thinking by now. I'm sane, really, I promise. I've had multiple assesments to prove it. Rest assured; I'm simply traumatized.
----------
When I remember all the things I used to do, all the rules and the little contests I set for myself, I think it's really a miracle I ever achieved anything in school. With all the shit going down at home, all the ways I tried to distract myself from my scary thoughts throughout the day, how the hell did I get good grades? I was kind of amazing.
At the time, I needed to feel like I had some measure of control over something, anything in my life. But I don't do any of those things anymore. I realized as a teenager that it had gotten a little out of hand -- and made me too much like my mother. So I decided to put a stop to it.
I remember the first time I rode on the "wrong" side of a car. I did it on purpose; I let my friends walk in front of me, and then I took the leftover seat. My legs wobbled, and I almost couldn't open the door. I slid into the seat, my heart thumping loudly in my ears, my palms sweaty. I folded my hands tightly in my lap and stared out the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass and telling myself: Probably you will not die. Probably you will not die. Probably you will not die...
I have no idea what everyone else talked about. I was stressed to the max, and didn't retain a word of conversation. But as you might have guessed, we made it safely to where we were going. I did not die.
Thus began the slow and often painful dissolution of my nervous habits and compulsions. And now I am, for the most part, free. Writing this out, I am truly impressed by what I was able to accomplish on my own, how much I was able to overcome, through sheer force of will. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a very powerful thing. But I am more powerful, it turns out. That rocks!
Thanks, Day 12, for giving me a reason to remember my win.
I used to have literal OCD. It was not fun. I had to sit on a certain side of whatever car I was riding in (depending on the car; I would just know, from looking at it, which side I needed to sit on) and if I couldn't, I would have a panic attack, because I thought we were going to crash and die. Also, even numbers were "good" and odd numbers were... well, not bad exactly, but "less good." Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday were even days, so they were better than Monday or Wednesday or Friday, and less likely to have bad things happen on them. (There is no way I could explain to you what made those days even, it's just how it was.)
If I could stop the microwave countdown so that the number matched within one minute before or after the time on the clock, I would feel like I won a contest. Better yet was if I stopped it on the exact time. That made my day. If I got it wrong, however, I felt like a total failure. When I was anxious about something (like being a total failure) I would flex and press my pointer finger backward against my middle finger in an awkward and painful way, usually on both hands, and count to five over and over and over -- up to a hundred times.
There's more, but I've already scared myself a little, so I can't imagine what any of you must be thinking by now. I'm sane, really, I promise. I've had multiple assesments to prove it. Rest assured; I'm simply traumatized.
----------
When I remember all the things I used to do, all the rules and the little contests I set for myself, I think it's really a miracle I ever achieved anything in school. With all the shit going down at home, all the ways I tried to distract myself from my scary thoughts throughout the day, how the hell did I get good grades? I was kind of amazing.
At the time, I needed to feel like I had some measure of control over something, anything in my life. But I don't do any of those things anymore. I realized as a teenager that it had gotten a little out of hand -- and made me too much like my mother. So I decided to put a stop to it.
I remember the first time I rode on the "wrong" side of a car. I did it on purpose; I let my friends walk in front of me, and then I took the leftover seat. My legs wobbled, and I almost couldn't open the door. I slid into the seat, my heart thumping loudly in my ears, my palms sweaty. I folded my hands tightly in my lap and stared out the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass and telling myself: Probably you will not die. Probably you will not die. Probably you will not die...
I have no idea what everyone else talked about. I was stressed to the max, and didn't retain a word of conversation. But as you might have guessed, we made it safely to where we were going. I did not die.
Thus began the slow and often painful dissolution of my nervous habits and compulsions. And now I am, for the most part, free. Writing this out, I am truly impressed by what I was able to accomplish on my own, how much I was able to overcome, through sheer force of will. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a very powerful thing. But I am more powerful, it turns out. That rocks!
Thanks, Day 12, for giving me a reason to remember my win.
September 16, 2010
self preservation
a disturbing memory
I remember when my last cat died; I was 12 years old, and he was the third cat I'd had in as many years. I held him gently in my arms and cried hot tears onto his soft grey fur. His belly sagged unnaturally in my lap, flattened by my mother's minivan, and he cried pitifully and gripped my leg with his front paws. The claws hurt, digging deep into my bare thigh, but I didn't care. My hands fluttered helplessly over his body, hardly wanting to touch him anywhere for fear of causing him more pain. Eventually his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went still, and it was in that moment that I decided I would never love another cat. It just wasn't worthwhile; not anymore. This was the final lesson; I had discovered that I could not keep anything I loved. And I decided I would do what I could to protect myself. I would choose to not-love. I would not-love any more cats. I would not-love any more dogs. I would not-love my clothes. I would not-love my toys. I would not-love myself.
But I would love my parents. My scary, confusing parents. Maybe, if I loved them, someday someone would take them away.
I remember when my last cat died; I was 12 years old, and he was the third cat I'd had in as many years. I held him gently in my arms and cried hot tears onto his soft grey fur. His belly sagged unnaturally in my lap, flattened by my mother's minivan, and he cried pitifully and gripped my leg with his front paws. The claws hurt, digging deep into my bare thigh, but I didn't care. My hands fluttered helplessly over his body, hardly wanting to touch him anywhere for fear of causing him more pain. Eventually his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went still, and it was in that moment that I decided I would never love another cat. It just wasn't worthwhile; not anymore. This was the final lesson; I had discovered that I could not keep anything I loved. And I decided I would do what I could to protect myself. I would choose to not-love. I would not-love any more cats. I would not-love any more dogs. I would not-love my clothes. I would not-love my toys. I would not-love myself.
But I would love my parents. My scary, confusing parents. Maybe, if I loved them, someday someone would take them away.
September 13, 2010
rattled
I get up too fast. There is a great rushing of blood; my vision darkens. In my ears is the rhythm of my own heart's beat, only different. Swift and stacatto, distant and echoing... Can you hear it? Have you heard it before?
It sounds exactly like a fetal doppler: wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop.
Gradually my sight clears. The eerie sound stops as suddenly as it started, which is somehow worse than the jarring onset of the sound itself. I discover, then, that I am cold, and I cannot remember how to breathe.
It sounds exactly like a fetal doppler: wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop-wop.
Gradually my sight clears. The eerie sound stops as suddenly as it started, which is somehow worse than the jarring onset of the sound itself. I discover, then, that I am cold, and I cannot remember how to breathe.
August 26, 2010
symbiotic destruction
My father was a crocodile. My mother was a plover. And I was a baby in a basket, that didn't quite make it down the Nile.
August 8, 2010
comfortable
Yesterday I was at my cousin's birthday party. A few of her friends came; emaciated 16 & 17-year-old girls in microscopic bikinis, painfully self-aware, practicing -- unsuccessfully -- an air of sexy nonchalance. They waded gingerly into the pool, careful not to wet their bleach-blonde, flat-ironed hair, while the rest of us pretended not to notice. I had brought a bathing suit with me, but I wasn't about to join them. I am not fat. But I'm not 16 anymore, either.
When I look at my body now, I don't hate it like I used to. Poor body! I think instead. You have endured horrors, and it was not your fault.
Even after everything that's happened, when I ask my legs to walk, they walk. When I ask my arms to reach, they reach. When I ask my hands to grasp, they will -- mostly -- grasp. My heart keeps beating, too, without my needing to ask at all; my blood flows, my breath goes in, and back out again. Much obliged, heart! Much obliged, lungs!
And, considering what I've been through, if my insides are offended or afraid of things that may seem harmless, (Banana? Lettuce? Sesame?) can I really be angry about it? If my throat begins to close at the smell of strawberries or the taste of stale, mildewed air or the sight of a narrow alley or the near proximity of a pregnant belly, can I really say "Don't be such a sissy!?"
I think I cannot.
This body has performed miracles, too: it has allowed me pleasure when I did not think it possible, and it has carried two children, even if not for very long. It did the best it could, under the circumstances, and I find I cannot blame it if the work could not quite be completed the way I would have liked. Perhaps someday it will be able to; or perhaps it won't. We will find our peace in the knowing, eventually, either way. But in the meantime, I cannot bring myself to resent the fleshy softness of my hips, or the curve of my stomach, definitely a woman's now, at 26, and not a girl's, below which, hidden and pale and unobtrusive as they are, linger stretchmarks of which I am inordinately proud.
And so I end up thinking to myself, God bless those girls, and the untried, elfin beauty of their bodies and their youth. I have been through too much with my own body -- good and bad -- to even dream of trading it for anything else.
And I am comfortable, at last.
When I look at my body now, I don't hate it like I used to. Poor body! I think instead. You have endured horrors, and it was not your fault.
Even after everything that's happened, when I ask my legs to walk, they walk. When I ask my arms to reach, they reach. When I ask my hands to grasp, they will -- mostly -- grasp. My heart keeps beating, too, without my needing to ask at all; my blood flows, my breath goes in, and back out again. Much obliged, heart! Much obliged, lungs!
And, considering what I've been through, if my insides are offended or afraid of things that may seem harmless, (Banana? Lettuce? Sesame?) can I really be angry about it? If my throat begins to close at the smell of strawberries or the taste of stale, mildewed air or the sight of a narrow alley or the near proximity of a pregnant belly, can I really say "Don't be such a sissy!?"
I think I cannot.
This body has performed miracles, too: it has allowed me pleasure when I did not think it possible, and it has carried two children, even if not for very long. It did the best it could, under the circumstances, and I find I cannot blame it if the work could not quite be completed the way I would have liked. Perhaps someday it will be able to; or perhaps it won't. We will find our peace in the knowing, eventually, either way. But in the meantime, I cannot bring myself to resent the fleshy softness of my hips, or the curve of my stomach, definitely a woman's now, at 26, and not a girl's, below which, hidden and pale and unobtrusive as they are, linger stretchmarks of which I am inordinately proud.
And so I end up thinking to myself, God bless those girls, and the untried, elfin beauty of their bodies and their youth. I have been through too much with my own body -- good and bad -- to even dream of trading it for anything else.
And I am comfortable, at last.
August 7, 2010
flicker
It's 1:00 in the morning, I feel like shit, and my head is killing me. I am angry, ashamed, distraught. But I am staying in my body, even though I don't want to. I am looking out through my own eyes.
It only recently occurred to me how many of my memories are from the outside. I can watch most of my childhood -- and the worst of my young adulthood -- like a film reel inside my head. And I wonder now if my unavoidable attraction to mirrors comes from this still feeling different and odd, this newer way of seeing the world. It scares me a little, to think that. But it is still weirdly comforting, to see myself in the mirror; it assures me that this is real, this place, and I am real in it. And when I was little, if I could see myself, I felt like at least someone was watching out for me -- even if it was only me.
That is so sad, and makes my head hurt even worse. I feel like I'm flickering in and out now, like a strobe.
It only recently occurred to me how many of my memories are from the outside. I can watch most of my childhood -- and the worst of my young adulthood -- like a film reel inside my head. And I wonder now if my unavoidable attraction to mirrors comes from this still feeling different and odd, this newer way of seeing the world. It scares me a little, to think that. But it is still weirdly comforting, to see myself in the mirror; it assures me that this is real, this place, and I am real in it. And when I was little, if I could see myself, I felt like at least someone was watching out for me -- even if it was only me.
That is so sad, and makes my head hurt even worse. I feel like I'm flickering in and out now, like a strobe.
August 5, 2010
just wait
The depth of feeling I have for my children opens up an answering chasm inside of me; a gut-wrenching awareness of what has been missing from my life.
--------------------------------------------------
My mother would glare daggers at me from the time I was 10 years old and say, with unwarranted venom: "Just wait till you have your own children someday! Then you'll see."
And I do see, though not in the way that she meant it. I see all the things she never gave me, the ways she never felt about me, and the courage she never had, to do what needed to be done. I see the emotional detachment, the neglect, the abuse. I see myself, and I want to cry and cry and cry, to weep for the little girl I never got to be; and I don't ever want a child of mine to feel remotely what I felt growing up in my parents' house.
But I'm not afraid of that, anymore. I know my children will know that they are wanted and loved. Because I am myself, and I am not my parents. I AM NOT MY PARENTS!! I am not my parents, and I never will be.
--------------------------------------------------
My mother would glare daggers at me from the time I was 10 years old and say, with unwarranted venom: "Just wait till you have your own children someday! Then you'll see."
And I do see, though not in the way that she meant it. I see all the things she never gave me, the ways she never felt about me, and the courage she never had, to do what needed to be done. I see the emotional detachment, the neglect, the abuse. I see myself, and I want to cry and cry and cry, to weep for the little girl I never got to be; and I don't ever want a child of mine to feel remotely what I felt growing up in my parents' house.
But I'm not afraid of that, anymore. I know my children will know that they are wanted and loved. Because I am myself, and I am not my parents. I AM NOT MY PARENTS!! I am not my parents, and I never will be.
July 22, 2010
sliding doors
I have a friend on Facebook, a girl I used to know back when we were teenagers, just starting to formulate our big, bold dreams, and had everything in common the way you do when you're in school together every day and the map of life still seems clear and precise, all spread out before you on the cafeteria table.
My erstwhile friend is nanny to a precious little boy, and is a professional photographer as well, and she has a boyfriend who is a musician in a Christian band. She moved away from her family and built a life for herself in another state. She is involved in youth ministry and, judging by her status updates, apparently lives every day with the blithe assurance that it has been planned out ahead of time, especially for her, by God.
When I was eighteen, I thought that the paragraph above would describe my own mid-twenties precisely. The broad details of her everyday life were the exact dreams of my desperate young adulthood. But for years I could only watch, fascinated and jealous by turns, as other people, like my friend, reached out for what they wanted and -- inexplicably -- got it. I was left behind, paralyzed, caught between the crushing circumstances I had always known and the vast uncertainty of a million possibilities.
I even wondered, for awhile, if my shot at that life had been taken already. If I had missed the boat, and she had gotten there ahead of me and snatched up the life I'd planned, and there was simply nothing left for me when I finally arrived.
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But now, can I tell you the truth? The wonderful, liberating truth? It's this: I don't want to be a professional photographer. And I never really did. (Oh, the confessions that make our hearts race, yet mean so little to anyone else!)
It once seemed like my best avenue of escape. I was good at it; people liked my pictures and would pay money for them. I believed that perhaps this was my golden ticket. Except it never worked out, and I'm pretty sure the fact that my heart wasn't in it (aside from other, more obvious hindrances), was part of the problem.
Sure, I could have taken nice pictures of people -- happy, carefree people -- graduating from highschool, gathered with their loving families, getting married, holding their beautiful babies, and smiling smiling smiling because their lives were so fucking wonderful. It wouldn't be their fault, of course. That's why you get someone to take your picture: to remind you that your life is fucking wonderful. But I would have gone numb inside, after awhile. Moreso than I already was.
The hopes I have now are far richer and more complex than the hopes I had as a child, or even the ones I had just a few years ago. The things I want...
Oh, I hardly dare to speak them, so fragile and real and possible do they seem.
My erstwhile friend is nanny to a precious little boy, and is a professional photographer as well, and she has a boyfriend who is a musician in a Christian band. She moved away from her family and built a life for herself in another state. She is involved in youth ministry and, judging by her status updates, apparently lives every day with the blithe assurance that it has been planned out ahead of time, especially for her, by God.
When I was eighteen, I thought that the paragraph above would describe my own mid-twenties precisely. The broad details of her everyday life were the exact dreams of my desperate young adulthood. But for years I could only watch, fascinated and jealous by turns, as other people, like my friend, reached out for what they wanted and -- inexplicably -- got it. I was left behind, paralyzed, caught between the crushing circumstances I had always known and the vast uncertainty of a million possibilities.
I even wondered, for awhile, if my shot at that life had been taken already. If I had missed the boat, and she had gotten there ahead of me and snatched up the life I'd planned, and there was simply nothing left for me when I finally arrived.
--------------------------------------------------
But now, can I tell you the truth? The wonderful, liberating truth? It's this: I don't want to be a professional photographer. And I never really did. (Oh, the confessions that make our hearts race, yet mean so little to anyone else!)
It once seemed like my best avenue of escape. I was good at it; people liked my pictures and would pay money for them. I believed that perhaps this was my golden ticket. Except it never worked out, and I'm pretty sure the fact that my heart wasn't in it (aside from other, more obvious hindrances), was part of the problem.
Sure, I could have taken nice pictures of people -- happy, carefree people -- graduating from highschool, gathered with their loving families, getting married, holding their beautiful babies, and smiling smiling smiling because their lives were so fucking wonderful. It wouldn't be their fault, of course. That's why you get someone to take your picture: to remind you that your life is fucking wonderful. But I would have gone numb inside, after awhile. Moreso than I already was.
The hopes I have now are far richer and more complex than the hopes I had as a child, or even the ones I had just a few years ago. The things I want...
Oh, I hardly dare to speak them, so fragile and real and possible do they seem.
July 15, 2010
after awhile all the houses start to look the same
-Polinder Rd
-Halverstick Rd
-Glenning St
-Central Rd
-[Glenning St]
-West Mayfield
-Ellis Pl
-Bradley Rd
-Evergreen Way
-[Central Rd]
-Legoe Ave
-Grover St
-[Glenning St]
-Allison Way
-Tacoma Ave South
-South G St
-North L St
-Lawson Rd
-[Allison Way]
-Dayton St
-[Allison Way]
-Canterbury Ct
I have moved 18 times in the last eight years. In my life I have lived in 2 workers' tenements, 1 youth hostel, 1 basement, 2 apartment buildings, and 11 houses. But all I've ever wanted was a home.
Really, mom and dad? Workers' tenements, and then a falling-down rental house, that was the best you could do for us? Really? That is PATHETIC. I am disgusted, looking back as an adult; disgusted that you did not try harder, that you were content to squat in squalor and never reach for more, even for the sake of your children. Lazy, incompetent, selfish... it doesn't matter why. It is what it is. It is pathetic. And I will do better for my family, despite you.
It makes so much more sense, now. That they would take that house and move us there, away from my grandparents, away from everyone. Out in the country, no neighbors to poke their noses into our business. No one to ask questions. That they would never request repairs from the landlords, never allow unexpected guests. Never take us to the doctor unles we were on the brink of death, hardly concious, our bones exposed. Wouldn't get me a driver's liscence or a car. We were an island. Alcatraz in a sea of grass and hay.
The house was on the corner of Central Road. And it felt central, there; it felt like the center of everything. Our secrets held us -- a force like gravity, only darker, stronger -- and the rest of the world spun out around us like a glittering galaxy, full of promise, just beyond my reach.
-Halverstick Rd
-Glenning St
-Central Rd
-[Glenning St]
-West Mayfield
-Ellis Pl
-Bradley Rd
-Evergreen Way
-[Central Rd]
-Legoe Ave
-Grover St
-[Glenning St]
-Allison Way
-Tacoma Ave South
-South G St
-North L St
-Lawson Rd
-[Allison Way]
-Dayton St
-[Allison Way]
-Canterbury Ct
I have moved 18 times in the last eight years. In my life I have lived in 2 workers' tenements, 1 youth hostel, 1 basement, 2 apartment buildings, and 11 houses. But all I've ever wanted was a home.
Really, mom and dad? Workers' tenements, and then a falling-down rental house, that was the best you could do for us? Really? That is PATHETIC. I am disgusted, looking back as an adult; disgusted that you did not try harder, that you were content to squat in squalor and never reach for more, even for the sake of your children. Lazy, incompetent, selfish... it doesn't matter why. It is what it is. It is pathetic. And I will do better for my family, despite you.
It makes so much more sense, now. That they would take that house and move us there, away from my grandparents, away from everyone. Out in the country, no neighbors to poke their noses into our business. No one to ask questions. That they would never request repairs from the landlords, never allow unexpected guests. Never take us to the doctor unles we were on the brink of death, hardly concious, our bones exposed. Wouldn't get me a driver's liscence or a car. We were an island. Alcatraz in a sea of grass and hay.
The house was on the corner of Central Road. And it felt central, there; it felt like the center of everything. Our secrets held us -- a force like gravity, only darker, stronger -- and the rest of the world spun out around us like a glittering galaxy, full of promise, just beyond my reach.
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