raw

My consciousness streams like comets, like meteors. Streams like rivers running madly, racing to the sea. It could be like this all the time; this free flow of thoughts. This sea of ideas. But I am surrounded by sluices and dams, all meticulously handmade... I'm terrified of drowning, you see.

A seamless transition.

That's what we all hope for, isn't it. But does it ever really happen? Is it even possible? I don't know. I think it might be a thing we made up.

I feel like every change I've ever made has been wrenching, like ripping off a band aid--only not done and over then, quickly, like they say it will be, but awful and messy and the sting doesn't fade, it just gets overwritten eventually, maybe, by a new kind of sting that isn't any better, just different.

It is so abrupt, this wide world. Blatant. Blatantly kind; blatantly cruel. Lacking in subtleties.

Oh, subtlety.

How I long for quiet details, rather than this vast, raw experience I've had. Raw like meat. Raw like bones exposed. Raw like animals in the winter in the wild, cold, ravening, merciless. Harsh.

Weeks, months, years. My baby is dead, dead! And it guts me still, in the same beautiful, haunting way it always has and always will, except that my breaths get bigger, now, instead of smaller, and I am so excruciatingly alive I can hardly stand it. I want to cry and sing. Laugh and scream. Shake my fist at the falling sky. Dance. Dance. Dance.

I am alive.

Last night I dreamed I was pregnant, heavily so, and happy. Near the end of the dream, I thought my water broke, but I wasn't sure, because I'd never felt it before. It made me sad, in the dream. I didn't know what to do next, and I was so sad. I felt like less than the other mothers, the ones who had done this before. I felt that I should know.

I was still sad, when I woke up, still unsure.

There is indescribable pain radiating outward from behind my right shoulder blade, as if there were a massive hook through and through my flesh. (It's happened before, right there, though I couldn't tell you why.) I've been almost totally incapacitated for two whole days. Disheartening. I try to breathe into it, but it's deep deep down and it's boiling lava hot and it hurts-hurts-hurts-hurts-hurts, and I'd rather just lie as still as I can, and pretend it's not there.

Story of my life.

Oh god, it hurts. All of it hurts.

But I am fierce, and clever, and strong, and no one has completely gotten the best of me yet.

a conversation

Please, be nice to me. Be gentle. Be kind.

I'm sorry. Sometimes I still expect too much.

Yes.

We are getting better though. The breakdowns are fewer and farther between.
I thought that the fear had become greater, because of it... but now that I'm
looking closely at it I don't think that's true. It's not any better, and it's not any
worse. The fear is the same as it ever was.

Nobody wants to hurt. Pain is scary. And there is so much of it here. Inside.
We have to keep bleeding it out.

I don't like blood.

No one does. It's traumatic. And usually, blood belongs inside; good blood
shouldn't be seen. It shocks us when it's seen. But bad blood must come out.
Old blood, too. Or it turns to poison.

Yes. We know about poison.

Yes.

it's too quiet

Loneliness is eating me alive.
Why does everything I want seem so unattainable?

unfinished

I am seized once again by the need to do something. Something meaningful, for my children. And once again, nothing seems sufficient -- because nothing is sufficient. Because no matter what I do, I can't shake the belief in my gut that they're simply not paying attention, our only time together is over and they're gone forever, and all my antics are an empty charade, and if it's only to placate myself then what the fuck is the point? Why not just give it up, just let it go?

My efforts feel ill-timed, amateur, self-indulgent. Look, Self! Look how much I love them! Look world, look! Look how I miss what I never really had! Look, baby! Look how I would have cared for you. Look at what you're missing! Why didn't you stay? Why was I not enough for you?




Ah.



There it is.




----------

* pause for tears *

----------



I tried to make a painting today, but I didn't finish it. And I feel defeated, I feel like I failed, because I couldn't finish this little 8x10 painting that I had envisioned in my head. And even though I know "real" paintings might take days and weeks and even years, I still feel like I failed. Maybe it's my long history of unfinished creative projects, haunting me. Clothes, blankets, stories, scripts, drawings, paintings, films, piano, guitar, original music... Oh, and babies.

I've still never quite finished a baby.

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.

barriers

I wish I knew how to explain how I feel. Wish I believed there was someone who would understand me, if I could.

exacerbated

Time for some whinging. Feel free to tune out.


----------


I hate my job.

Hate.

Hate, hate, hatehatehate!

Normally, I would quickly add: "But I am thankful that I at least have a job.
I know I'm really lucky."

But do you want to know a secret?

I'm not thankful. I'm not thankful at all.

And I don't really think I'm lucky. (By what stretch of the imagination am I lucky?) I think my life sucks and it's never going to get any easier and why can't someone just take care of this shit for me? That's what I really think. I think I am always going to be poor and I'm never going to be able to pay back my loans or get my own apartment or travel or do anything fun, ever.

I am so tired of working in stupid stores selling stupid shit to stupid people who don't actually need any of it. I am tired of mean bitches talking to me like I'm an idiot, or some kind of lowly servant girl, or a subclass of human. I am tired of busting my ass for a measly $8-minus-taxes an hour, while my lazy coworkers hide in the breakroom or go outside to smoke or leave early without telling anyone. (M says I think I'm better than them -- but I don't think that. I know it.)

I am tired of being so goddam agreeable all the time.

I am tired all. the. time.

They keep telling me I need to smile more.
My first thought is always, unexpectedly, "Fuck you."


----------


I fear that there is no justice in the world.

sixteen

Day 16 - a song that makes you cry (or nearly).

wave of light

Remembering with you. Peace -- Vera

pseudocyesis

I suspect my body of a hysterical pregnancy. My belly is all poochy, I am super sensitive to smells, hungry all the time, need to use the bathroom constantly. I can't suck in my belly, even when I try. It. won't. suck. in. And last week I felt a tiny fluttering, deep inside, which reduced me immediately to a puddle of tears.

The last few days it's only gotten worse, and today at the grocery store, my cashier glanced meaningfully at my belly several times, and then insisted on helping me with my bags, because she thought I was pregnant. Oh, god. I didn't have the heart to tell her she was wrong. (I guess my cute little dress wasn't as slimming as I'd originally thought...)

My counselor doesn't like the word hysterical. She said I'm "half-pregnant," which makes me laugh. It's so hard, because I could enjoy these symptoms if their cause were not so heart-breaking. I think my body just wants to relive those experiences, the ones I wasn't fully present for the first time around. The ones it never got to complete. I would love to be pregnant right now. Love. Love to accept help gladly from a grocery store cashier who thought I looked tired and needed a hand -- in my condition. In my condition! I do need a hand, really, in my condition. The crazy feels a little out of control.


On a partially related note, here is a song I am really feeling right now.

PS: I think the writing prompts are working.

eight

Day 8 - a photo that makes you angry/sad

I recently went through my files and deleted all of the photos that made me angry or sad. They were all photos that had one or both of my parents in them. And now they're gone.

All except this one:


That's my mom, in the background. I don't know why I kept this. But somehow I can't bear to throw it out.

It makes me so sad, looking at this photo. It makes me sad because it ought to make me happy. Oh, look! It's you and me, Mom, on my third birthday! How sweet. But no. It's not sweet. It's poisoned icing on a cake made of worms.

I was happy that day, it's true. I was happy because this was the one day a year, the day of my birthday party, when my needs were above either of theirs. I was happy to be riding a brand new tricycle; not the dirty old one that belonged to the neighbor boy. I was happy because with all these extra people in the house, I was not going to be slapped, berated, or molested.

I wanted the guests to stay and stay and stay. But eventually they all went home. Eventually, my trike got stored under the makeshift lean-to, and the pretty red paint and shiny chrome rusted to orange. Eventually, my fun "watch" with the maze game inside of it broke, and all the colorful beads fell out and were lost.

And not eventually, but instantly, I was not so important anymore, and whatever mommy needed or daddy needed was my responsibility again.

loose

I can feel the edges of my sanity fluttering loose like a tent flap in the wind, and while I think I should probably peg them back down, and soon, there is a part of me that says, Let fly! Go ahead and cause the world a bit of discomfort, for once. Really, what is there left to lose?

livid

One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter. --James Earl Jones

I've been having really awful dreams. Vile nightmares, about the disgusting rat bastard that was my father, and the things he used to do. In the dreams, I am also trying (and failing) to protect my sister from either knowing what is happening to me, or from being hurt herself. I wake up feeling dirty, frustrated, and ashamed, composing hate-mail in my mind.

My response is appropriate. Those feelings are normal and I was not allowed to feel them for many years. And if they are coming up now, it's because some part of me wants to process it and get it out. Some part of me thinks I'm ready. But the rest of me doesn't. The rest of me thinks I will never be ready because this stuff is the ugliest and most repulsive stuff on the planet and I'd rather just pretend it's not there, that it was never there. But I know that it is.

Perhaps I should give in. No one wants to be miserable, so this is a difficult decision to make. But. Right now, I don't have a lot of serious commitments. I work a shitty retail job where I am, as per usual, underappreciated. I'm not back in school yet. I'm not married. This is as good a time as any to fall apart for awhile. To be gentle with myself, not expect too much. Because. You know. After all.

I am so sick of this cycle, though. I always think I've made some progress, I feel good for a little while, and then... and then the dreams come back. I can only hope that the nightmares and the nausea and the helpless rage will become less and less frequent as time goes by, and I allow it to surface and leave me.

one (part i)

Day 1 - a song that reminds you of your child

Reminds me of Lissie:


I only discovered this song recently, but the first time I heard it I immediately thought of my little girl.

At the time (when I was pregnant), I felt so incredibly overwhelmed. I was so emotionally unhealthy, so battered and bruised. Yes, I do believe that I had it in me to be a good mother even then; but oh... it would have been so very hard on us both.

I remember one night, the only night I came out of my denial for long enough to have a vivid memory of doing so. I remember thinking, Oh baby, what are we going to do? I want to be good at this; I want to be able to be everything you need me to be, but I don't know if I can right now. Maybe you should just leave. Maybe you would be better off.

I cannot even describe the guilt I felt for thinking those thoughts, afterward. Even though I had absolutely no control over what happened, I still manage to tell myself all kinds of awful and untrue things. I know in my deepest heart that I only ever wanted what was best for her; and maybe this was it. But what I wouldn't give for an almost-three-year old, fast asleep in my house tonight.

----------

When I would play my song / You used to sing along / I always seem to forget / How fragile are the very strong

I'm sorry I can't steal you / I'm sorry I can't stay / So I'll put bandaids on your knees / And watch you fly away

I'm sending you away tonight / I'll put you on a bird's strong wing / I'm saving you the best way I know how / I hope again one day to hear you sing

distillation of memory

Bathing in someone else's tub, an uncommon luxury
proffered graciously, accepted gratefully.

Hot water and bubbles that shimmer, piled high
above smooth white porcelain walls

and perched on one side, a blue soap
in the shape of a baby dinosaur, smiling.

gone baby gone

I read other women's stories and I can see how the shock of it, the unexpectedness of not getting what you thought you would get, could completely derail a person for quite some time. But when I think of myself, of my own story, the grace I feel is somehow less encompassing.

I was derailed too, at the very very beginning; but the feeling seemed to wear off pretty quickly each time. Perhaps too quickly; perhaps more quickly than is normal or right. Because in my life, very few things have gone how I thought they would go. Much has been stolen from me. I have suffered so many losses, in so many realms. It is almost old hat.

Is my pain somehow less, for being so familiar? Or do I simply hold it farther away from myself? Do I shrug it off, say: This is just how it is for me? Have I acknowledged, truly, in the deepest part of myself, that this loss is COMPLETELY unfair and there is no making it better? That it is NOT OKAY for me to be wounded this way; that it was never okay?

----------

If it weren't for this deeply rooted belief that I deserve to be alone, could I bear my lonliness? If I shed the false "comfort" that this is simply how I am meant to be (alone, forever) would I be able to get up every morning? I wonder. Because if I force the thought: "I did not deserve for my children to die," tears prick my eyes instantly. If I don't deserve it, that makes it so much worse. If I don't deserve it, it's all just tragically unfair. How can I live in a world where it is possible to be hurt this much?

----------

It's horrible and wrong and I wish it was different and yet, because I still seem to eventually lose everything that really matters to me (and only time will ever prove differently), to be honest I can hardly wrap my brain around the idea of a world where my babies don't die. To quote dear Angela: "I don't know what it's like to have a four month old. I only know what it is to miss you with every breath I take."

When (if) I actually have a living child -- an infant, a four month old, a toddler -- will I be able to look at him/her and ONLY see him/her? Or will the ghosts of my first two children manifest themselves around me, distract me from the present, make me prone to unexplainable bouts of tears? Will I suffer a little even as I celebrate each precious milestone? Every time I think to myself: Ah! So this is what it's like?

I think of all these things and in my mind's eye a long road of grief unfolds and stretches and stretches and stretches before me.

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.

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.