I interrupted his physical therapy session with a light touch to his shoulder.
"How are you doing today, Mr. C?"
He turns in his wheelchair, peering up into my face.
There are tears streaming down his weathered face, filling the creases, dripping down into his lap, where his large unused hands lie.
"Well, I think I have been better, although this lady," nodding his head towards the physical therapist standing in front of his wheelchair, "seems to think I am improving in some way."
I respond, "Well that's wonderful! Can you show me your progress?"
His answer, "I am fairly certain she is full of shit."
But. He looks back at the PT and smiles, following her lead. He reaches for the bar on the wall, and slowly eases himself out of the wheelchair, onto his slippered feet. He takes one hand, then the other, off of the bar. And balances himself. And stands.
He turns to face me again, this time looking down towards me, now that he is standing as tall as he can. There are still tears.
I smile, I speak words of encouragement and praise, and then I watch his smile falter to the point of falling.
As he lowers himself back into the wheelchair, I sink down to the floor, squatting next to him. The PT leaves us to ourselves at the end of the hallway. He has recently moved to this floor, the end-stage Alzheimer's & dementia floor.He is skin and bones, covered in tattoos from his time in the military. He is wearing his beret over his thin white hair, sticking out in tufts.
"Mr. C, is there something I can help you with today? Something I can do or say? Are you feeling okay?"
He sits in silence and smiles this pained knowing smile. He shakes his head. His nose is running.
He begins this story. He is looking for the picture of his mother. It is the only one he has left. Since he moved here, he cannot find it. He then begins to talk about how he cannot find his wife, and he is just as worried about her as he is about the missing picture of his mother. He was in her "house" this morning, and "I pray to God that she is okay" because "she has been through so much" and "I know her parents, and they would be so disappointed to hear that she did it again". I am getting confused, but I am nodding, and I reach for one of his hands. It is cold so I begin to gently rub it, transferring some of my warmth.
He watches my hands on his. I watch his face, searching for answers to questions I don't even know to ask. I open my mouth to say...something.....and clamp it closed again when he looks me in the eyes. He puts his free hand on my arm, slides it up slowly, maintaining eye contact. His hand reaches my shoulder; it is cold. It slides up my neck, around my jaw, to my cheek. He pats my cheek, maintaining eye contact. Crying.
"There is nothing you can do. It is okay. There is nothing."
His hand sits on my cheek. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I feel my eyes well up, my face is screaming from the smiling, his hand is growing warm. I want to look away, but know that I must not.
He nods again, and drops his hand.
I stop rubbing his other hand.
He asks me to take him home, so I wheel him to his room, right behind us. On his bed, there are two pictures: one of his mother, and another of his wife. His face lights up when he sees them. I help him to sit on his bed, and tell him I will come visit with him again later. He is caressing the pictures, crying still, when I walk out of his room.
I am standing in the hallway where he cannot see me, thinking about this encounter, trying to control these emotions that probably have nothing to do with him. He calls out to me:
I find out later that he was in his wife's room before I visited with him (who is also in the end stages of Alzheimer's and pretty much sleeps non-stop) when she had a seizure. We aren't even sure that he is always aware that it is his wife, but he was very upset by the seizure. It seems that I found him in a pretty lucid state after that incident.
I find him later in the afternoon, sitting in front of a window staring at nothing, tissues in one hand and the picture of his mother in the other. I kneel down, and focus my eyes in the direction of the window, and comment on the beautiful view. He places his hand on my arm, and tells me "All we can do is pray to God. All we can do is be thankful for His blessings." I agree with him. He opens his mouth, shakes his head as though he has rethought his comment, and says nothing.
"The weight of this is too much alone. Thank you for being with me."
I interrupted his physical therapy session with a light touch to his shoulder.
Day 01 of 30 Days of Truth-Something you hate about yourself.
I find hate to be a very strong word. And asking me to admit to something I hate about myself? Such a loaded request. I always say that I don't hate anything, and maybe that is true, maybe not. So, rather than argue about whether I truly hate something or not, let's just move on to the things I don't like about myself very much (hate):
-I am so damn needy when it comes to a relationship with a male: I want attention! I want you to be able to read my emotions. I want you to want to spend time with me. I want you to miss me. I want you to tell me you miss me. I want you to be touchy-feely with me: let your hand lightly graze my arm, play with my hair, randomly hold my hand.
Honestly, I don't think this is too much to ask, and also? I know that most people want these things. But I crave it so much, like a damn alcoholic craves that bottle of Jim Beam at 8am. I ache for it. And being that I'm not in a relationship at all, it's even worse. But even when I was in one, it was awful. No man likes a needy woman. No man wants a woman who craves sitting next to him on the couch all the time. I know logically that it is super-annoying, but omg, I'm needy.
(I will never re-marry, will I? FUCK.)
-I am super-laidback, which translates into wishy-washy and indecisive: I go with the flow. If I'm hanging out with a friend, and we both decide we are hungry, I don't even care where we go to eat. So I let her decide. And when she asks me "What do you want?" and I say "I don't care", I really don't care. It's not that I don't want to make a decision. But it looks that way, doesn't it? I hate that my laid-back nature screams I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT I WANT TO DO WITH MYSELF, SO PLEASE MAKE THE DECISION FOR ME, BUT MAKE SURE YOU GIVE ME HELL FOR NOT KNOWING WHAT I WANT, FIRST, M'KAY?
(As an aside here, if I am in the mood for something specific, like going to see an independent film, or stuffing my face with sushi, I will for sure say this when we are trying to figure out what to do with ourselves.)
-I am forgiving. To a fault. And while that can be (and is) a wonderful quality to have as a friend/wife/mother/sibling, it is also very frustrating and upsetting to me. Because sometimes I feel like people are taking advantage of it. Because sometimes I don't want to forgive, and I actually fight myself with every fiber of my being to just be fucking pissed off and NOT forgive for once, will ya???, but it never works. I always forgive. And then I'm angry with myself because I forgave, but it didn't really fix anything.
-I love sleeping. Which would be fine if I didn't need a job or have a child. If I had my hammock in my backyard right now, I would be sleeping in it.
-I am a guilty person. I am always filled with this free-floating guilt, and I attach it to the most ridiculous things, like taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon since I have no job. Who gives a shit if I take a nap? Will anyone that really knows me think that I'm a lazy jobless fuck? No. Those that know me are aware that I've applied to every job that interests me, and that I am far from lazy: I've organized my closet, I've scrubbed the bathroom floor, I've painted the bathroom walls, I've organized my personal files, I've cleared out every unnecessary file off of my computer (including the very necessary SOUND FILES, fuck).....I am far from lazy. Yet. I feel so guilt-ridden when I doze off and wake up 2 hours later.
Oh, and the crazy doesn't end there. I feel guilty when I spend $3.52 on a coffee at Starbucks. Or when I get a pedicure, because seriously? I could just paint my toenails myself and save the $30. Better yet, I could use that $30 to buy my daughter some new craft supplies. (Btw, I haven't had a pedicure in well over a year.) I feel guilty when I buy the bread I like, as opposed to the bread everyone else likes. I feel guilty when I look forward to time away from my daughter. Or look forward to taking a shower by myself, just so I don't have to hear "Mom, the water is too hot. Mom, I don't like the smell of your body wash. Mom, why aren't you ready to get out yet?"
GUILT GUILT GUILT.
-I start things, and then don't always finish them as quickly as I planned (0h, there's the fucking GUILT again). Like, I check a book out at the library that's been on my reading list for months, read a chapter, and then....stop reading it. Not because it isn't interesting, but....just...because? Fuck of I know. It's so annoying.
Or I will say "Yep, today is the day I call the insurance company to have my auto insurance policy put in my name only". And then...I don't do it. And I don't do it the next day. Or the next day. And there's no damn reason why. I think about doing it, but I get a bit nervous or anxious or bored, and then...well, maybe I'll do it tomorrow. Ha.
Again, it's so damn annoying. And it makes me look wishy-washy.
-I care what others think. I care that people think I left my marriage, since I'm the one who moved out of the house. I care that I am jobless and people might think I'm lazy. I care that people see me working at the restaurant, and they might think I'm a total loser for not having a job with my f-ing master's degree (yet, I don't think any of the people I work with there are losers). And I tell friends all the time "Who f-ing cares what other people think?", but I can't take my own advice because I DO.
And this, folks, is why I am a walking contradiction.
Full of guilt.
When I was younger, I had this reoccurring dream. Fair warning here: my dreams are usually pretty f-ed up, so FAIR WARNING.
I was in the girls' bathroom of my elementary school, crouched in a stall, clutching a book.
I had a sense that I had stolen the book, although I have no idea why.
It was painfully loud...I was surrounded by the scream of jet engines, and the pornographic beat of thousands of drums, and there was the rumbling of a fierce storm in my chest.
I squatted, with my back against the door, staring at a lone drop of urine on the toilet seat a few inches from my face.
As I grew older and realized I could control some of my actions in these dreams, I would attempt to will my gaze to the floor, or the cover of the book I clutched...anything but that damn drop of urine. Yet my eyes deceived me, and I would be slapped with an intense anger aimed at myself, for not being strong enough.
The roof would blow off, and what was already a powerful sound would somehow amp up. Rather than cover my ears, I would squeeze that book closer into the crook of my arms, closer to my small chest.
Then it got weirder.
Some sort of beast (surely a manifesto of my love for all things Stephen King) would fall from the sky, and begin banging on the stall door, rattling my teeth and my stomach in the process. It would actually knock, to the rhythm of an old ELO song, it's razor-sharp talons scraping the metal door. I would catch myself humming along, even singing the lyrics in my head, knowing I was giving in to what the beast wanted:
I look into the sky, the love you need ain't gonna see you through
And I wonder why the little things you planned ain't coming true
Oh oh Telephone Line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh oh Telephone Line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
The beast would beat the door open, jarring my body, propelling my face into the toilet bowl, and I would smell that drop of urine...it would fill my nostrils and leak down the back of my throat.
At the same time, nuns would float down from the sky, habits billowing in an even breeze, with hazy faces and clear voices speaking a language both foreign & familiar to my little girl ears.
Above the din of all of the noise, they would lift me with a strength only they had. The stall doors would fall away. I would see myself, above myself, and watch the beast-now lying on it's side, slithering in agony upon the dirty floor.
Any relief I felt at being saved was always short-lived, replaced by a sickening sense of dread that started at the pit of my stomach, arching out to my limbs, ending in a lightning bolt of heat and heaviness in my heart.
I would wake to sheets twisted around my body, heart hammering at the base of my throat, the taste of bile filing my mouth. Staring at the ceiling, I would hold my breath until my heart slowed, my mind a blank journal page.
As a child, there seemed to be no effects in the days following this dream. I would go to school, watch Cheers with my Dad, play with Barbies. But over the years, this dream followed me through elementary and middle school, as worn and familiar as the green blanket I still cover up with at night.
Just before entering high school though, this dream became the beacon for something much more terrifying, a signal to me that my heart was about to betray me.
Within days of the dream, my heart would skip a single beat here, make up for it there, and my valve would start this pop and stick dance in protest. I would end up with a heart rate in excess of 200 bpm, my chest a torrent of fiercely jumbled beats fighting for control.
I felt powerless when I would wake from the beast/nun dream, dreading my inability to prepare for the slated episode.
Out of control.
When I had heart surgery several years ago to repair the wayward ways of my heart's rhythm, the dream stopped.
Until a couple of weeks ago.
I didn't think I was dreaming when my valve woke me, with it's almost-forgotten pop and stick dance. I laid in bed holding my breath, staring at a shadow of a tree on my window. My mind was a blank journal page.
My child stirred next to me, so I focused on her hand seeking mine beneath the sheets. As she found and sought refuge in it, I felt the dance end in my chest, and the loss of control take over. I gave in to it, drifting back to sleep.
Our house is not quiet, tranquil, or relaxing by any stretch of any of those words. The dogs are constantly barking, whining, playing, bouncing, shitting, snoring. The TV is old as hell, so it's loud one second, and silent the next. And when I say loud, I mean "Did I wake up in a nursing home?" loud. We all yell over one another in happy voices. My brother stops by almost every night, and that takes it up another few levels.
We are the same way in the car. Let me give you a teeny tiny peek:
Mom: "So, at work today, Bitchface #1 walked in and told me that..."
interrupting, Sister: "Oooo, I like this song! Can you turn it up?"
Me, to Sister: "Hold on a sec." Turn up the radio.
Me, to mom: "Okay, go on."
My girl: "Mother, this is a loud song. I don't like it so much."
Sister: "OMG, she is SO annoying. SERIOUSLY? Just turn the stupid song off..."
My girl: "Oh wait! I do like this song!"
Sister: DEEP SIGH.
Mom: "Soooo, anywho! She tells me that she thinks she should..."
interrupting, My girl: "Is he saying BJ or DJ?"
Sister: "DJ got us falling in love. GAH. Not BJ."
Me: GIGGLING "She said BJ."
Mom: gives me a sideways glance
My girl: "OKAY, I got it. Grandma, Angel rolled her eyes at me!"
My sister: "I didn't do ANYTHING! ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Just whatever!"
Me: smacking the radio off.
Mom: turning around in the seat.
Me & my mom: "OMG, can't you two be nice to one anther?"
Sister and my girl: "She started it!"
All of us: COLLECTIVE DEEP SIGH.
Followed by: Frustration, grrrrr, & approximately 4.2 seconds of angry silence.
Then: "Can you turn the radio back on please?"
After one such incident, my sister says:
"Ooo, turn this up. This is my jam!!!"
My girl glares at her. She's got that shit down.
"Come on! Everyone dance with me!"
So we all start dancing in the jeep, at a redlight. With the windows down and the music blaring.
And for the approximately 3 minutes it takes to listen to the song, we are a silent, happy, bouncy group of 4 girls dancing our hearts out, not a care in the world.
Today, I am full of emotions with no words to mirror them.
Today, I know I cannot write what is stamped on the inside of my heart.
Today, I know I forgive, but cannot forget.
Today, I love just as I did ten years ago:
painfully, with fragile abandon, overflowing with hope and lust,
overcome by fear and concern and uncertainty.
But today, I must not bear these things,
For today, we have been married ten years.
Today, we are far from what we were...but nothing like I thought we would be.
I am me, but different.
You are you, but different.
We are both broken and lost, unchained and unlinked, walking away as we stand frozen in this position of inability...
Regret, anger, placing blame-
None of these weigh heavier or lighter than
the bulk of our unlived dreams
cupped in the palm of your hands.
The lifestrings of you and I
Were intended to merge
Carefully designed to
curve and twist independently
of one another
Each full & rich with hope & promise,
Centered by a common thread.
A crash-course knot in arms and legs,
limbs and lips,
love and lust,
Left us bruised and bitten,
A knot we both desired.
You are freed from this thin thread
my ends frazzled,
my arms outstretched
retreating back into my dreams.
In case you were wondering what the hell I did this weekend, which I'm pretty sure you weren't, but I'm all for making everyone's day when I can, although, now that I think of it...it really isn't possible to make everyone's day all the time, and why the hell do I even try anymore???
Wait. That was an aside we don't want to get into.
Weekend update. Yes. Ahem.
-Fun Friday night with my lovely friend Kristy for her birthday. Awesome friend Zelvis came with (and he drove! Woooo!) and my brownie Biddy met us there. Mojitos, the temporary search for a sexy bodyguard (that so obviously doesn't exist-why do we even bother anymore???), staring at this beautiful woman in a yellow dress because we were sooooo wanting to have long gorgeous legs like hers, giving Zelvis a hard time, and then, OH THEN, we drove around for approximately 20 minutes, following Biddy and her not-so-trusty GPS just to get to f-ing Jack in the Box for their 2 tacos for 99 cents deal. Because Wendy's was not what we wanted. Even though we passed the same Wendy's approximately 4.5 times (don't ask). Even though I'm pretty sure we crossed over the same streets and all of the highways in the Irving/Las Colinas area. We went in a big, huge, Biddy/mojito-induced circle, but it ended in the deliciousness that is Jack in the Box tacos and 99 cent burgers. Yeeeeeee. Worth.every.second.
-Not worth every second? The thirst from hell that resulted the next day. What the hell is it about mojitos that makes me so damn desert-like? I actually got up out of bed THREE times to drink DIRECTLY OUT OF THE FAUCET. No, really. Don't judge me (Words made famous by Kristy's brother, who says them in this very defensive voice that makes me laugh every time).
-My girl attended a half-day cheer camp at the high school around the corner. My not-so-girly girl. And she was adorable. And so far, she is looking forward to performing these cute little cheers on the field at the game this Friday. I cannot even believe I'm finally taking her to a high school football game. That's another post all in of itself.
-The A/C broke in the house. Again. Luckily it wasn't 100+ outside, but omg, it was still miserable.
-My girl made a goal at her second soccer game. And enjoyed herself. And didn't cling to me like a leech, like she did the first quarter of last week's game.
-Saturday I made dinner plans, and then had to cancel them, with a sweet friend I used to work with at CPS. That was just the icing on the cake of a very uneventful day.
-I stayed up too late, watching stupid TV.
-I watched Killers with my mom, sis, and friend. I beat the shit out of the couch with a pillow because of this. Beating the couch? Oh, hee, now THAT is another post. Look for that one later this week. I just can't even begin to discuss the grrrrrrrrr I get.....
-My girl had a fever all day Sunday. Coupled with the broken A/C, it made for a sweaty, clingy day, and not in a good way. We watched School of Rock and Nanny McPhee, did some napping, and then did some more napping.
-I had approximately 4078 mini-meltdowns (4075 of them inside my head) about being jobless and not receiving ONE MOTHERFUCKING SINGLE phone call thus far, in spite of applying for a ton of jobs.
-I found 3 pieces of bouncy ball in a certain someone's poo in the backyard. So gross. But glad he didn't get a blockage.
-I accidently touched Max's who-ha as he slept on the couch next to me. Then threatened him if he even thought about smiling about it. For those of you not familiar, Max is my DOG, people. I do tend to call him my boyfriend, but not because I touch his who-ha. Not that I touch his who-ha often. Or EVER. OMG, how do I back my ass out of THIS paperbag??
-I somehow flung a pair of cuticle scissor type things off of my lap as I was getting off the couch. Like, flung them into my face, barely missing my eyeball. What the hell?
Yes, YES, that's part of the excitement of my weekend.
Again, don't judge me.
-I delurked on Avitable's blog, to tell him his picture looked like it contained penises. WHAT? Go look and tell me the candles don't look like penises.
-I almost went to see Animal Kingdom, which I've really wanted to see for awhile, but the whole kiddo-had-a-fever thing, followed by the broken-A/C thing, followed by the kiddo-stayed-with-me-tonight thing, and well, I didn't see the fucking movie. Guess what I might go see by myself on Wednesday night?
-I didn't work, which I totally should have since I am BROKE BROKE BROKE, but I had requested off for my girl's soccer game and the dinner plans that I had to cancel, and omg....
Matt Duke's Sex and Reruns
This song. Gah. I don't even know where to begin. This guy? His lyrics are just....
right fucking on.
I find friends and lovers, some online sex and reruns
And when I get down I just turn off the light the light the lights
And then this:
When you're lost and confused
But you're too proud to face the truth
Spend up all your money on a band-aide to cover the wound
Time moves like an old man who has no one to go home to,
so strolls through the grocery store:
touching jars of jelly,
tapping on melons,
studying labels on soup cans,
straining to remember the last ingredient in his wife's split pea soup
that made it perfect....
feel the same to me lately.
I am fixed and frozen
in a swirl of change-
and damaged along the way-
I am no good at this.
Most days, I feel hope blossoming within me, and I find strength in this. I feel it taking root, sprouting new leaves, straining to reach new heights.
Today is not one of those days.
My neck is tired from holding my chin up. My eyes feel swollen, burning as they push within the sockets. My body aches from holding onto the hope. I feel the hope itself, wilting, dragging me down with it. I find myself falling from the new heights I was reaching for, sliding back down into this hole, this place of disgusting introspection and self-analyzation, the place worn comfortable by my tears and loneliness.
In this place, I don't want to be positive. And even if I did, I don't need to, and I can't.
I don't even want anyone else to do hope's job for me: I don't want anyone to tell me it will be okay, or that I will get a job soon, or that I will meet someone who craves being with me, or that it's okay to be alone, or that I deserve the best, or that they know how I feel, or that I'm beautiful or good or smart or sweet or fucking nuts.
I give in: to the negative, the sadness, the pity, the endless ocean of bullshit lies I used to believe. I feel my mind and my heart battling it out again: the logical vs. the illogical. The feeling vs. the knowing. The patience vs. the gluttony.I don't know which side is winning, which side I am willing to lose. I'm just too fucking tired today to even figure it out.
In my head, (and in my heart), I know this isn't where I need to be. I know this isn't what is healthy for me, or helpful, or even truthful. Yet...
here I am.
I know it won't last long...maybe just for today this time.
But this day? It will last forever.
I want to scream at myself, within myself, and get my shit together....I want to let the hope grow like a weed, and take over, smother and strangle the negative, the painful, the lonely things I'm feeling. But...
1. We need a bigger house. My mom, my sister, me, my girl, my brother, his girlfriend, and 3 dogs....all in the kitchen while cooking dinner. CLUSTER.FUCK.
2. My brother and I have passed down to my sister the awesome past-time of throwing bouncy balls in the kitchen, at approximately 45mph, at the same time as #1 above.
3. Contrary to popular belief, my brother does not like getting hit in the eye once (or TWICE, actually) by a bouncy ball travelling approximately 45mph.
4. My dogs like bouncy balls.
5. My boxer likes them so much that he ate one tonight.
6. Now I know why we were short a bouncy ball before #2 above, and also why he was trying to eat my fern yesterday.
7. You can indeed google "Can a dog poop a bouncy ball?".
8. You won't necessarily find the answers calming or helpful.
9. You can get 6 loud individuals to shut up if you feed them pasta, bread, and salad.
10. Except for the little one, who decided she wanted pb&j.
11. Paramour's lead Haley sounds like a pirate in the song Only Exception. ("You...AAARG!...the only exception")
12. You can't understand Taylor Swift's lyrics even if said people are stuffing their faces in silence.
13. There's a lot of gas in this house.
14. In fact, sometimes you have to sniff the abandoned shoes and socks by the couch to be sure it isn't stinky feet smell.
15. It's the dogs. I swear.
16. You can indeed drop a beta fish down the kitchen drain (by mistake) and save him.
17. You can do this without the 5 year old knowing.
18. He seems to be okay, although he's not swimming around much.
19. Cleaning his bowl is a bitch, apparently.
20. My brother's coveralls for work have the word WENIS on them.
22. My brother looks like an astonaut in his coveralls. And he's a greenhorn in the company, so he gets to wear a green hardhat and green gloves.
24. He doesn't have a good sense of humor at all times.
25. As a result, we learned that a kid's softball bat will indeed leave welts.
26. Certain unnamed individuals in this house leave gallon containers in the fridge when they have approximately 2.1 cm of liquid in them.
27. Other certain unnamed individuals THROW things into the pantry, so when other unnamed individuals (read: ME) open the door, shit falls out on my head and feet.
28. Other certain unnamed individuals leave glasses all over the house with approximately 2.1 cm of liquid in them.
29. 2.1 cm of liquid looks like a lot when a bouncy ball knocks over a glass going approximately 45mph.
30. A fiesty fly and a dumbass june bug (HELLO?! It is SEPTEMBER) can really keep dogs and people entertained (Video to follow)
So what can I learn at your house in a very small amount of time?
I am not really sure how I have lived a single second without knowing the sexyness and greatness that is Robin Thicke. You better listen to both of these songs in their entirety. And then I dare you to tell me they don't make you feel all sexy and *rawr*. DARE YOU.
The intention was truly there to be silly today. To post something sassy about the Mormons who stopped me in the middle of mowing my front yard, to ask me if I wanted help, and then asked me why I thought being a Christian was "enough"? I could go super-sassy on that situation. I also intended to talk about the anthills the size of Oklahoma, Georgia, and Illinois I ran over with the mower. Have you ever ran over an anthill with a mower? Holy hell. Pretty sure there are ants in different zip codes now. Also? The fuckers bit me. Like I meant to annihilate their kingdom.
Instead, I am stuffed in the corner of my mother's couch, listening to the tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen. Watching my old lady dog dream in her sleep, snoring generously, a drop of snot about to fall off her nose onto the carpet. She moves more in her afternoon naps than she does all week long while awake. I can see the large tumor in her armpit rising and falling with her labored breathing.
I know the time is drawing near.
I can't bear it.
There are so many things I cannot bear right now.
Yet I do, every day.
I get through each day with a ton of laughs. Sincere laughs. I wear my brain out at night, job searching, writing, watching idiotic TV (Helllloooo, Jersey Shore), so that I can fold myself into bed with seconds between a final sigh and then sleep.
I have made my peace with a disasterous situation. I was pushed out of my marriage. I fought and fought, but I finally gave in. I finally just stopped fighting. To survive the hurt, I shut it all off. I moved on......finishing grad school, focusing on my girl, playing with my dogs, laughing with my mother, allowing others to flirt with me, seeking peace within my writing, my music, silence.....
And now, after all trust has been broken, after all the horrible hurtful things said have been imprinted within the deepest walls of my heart.....
....there's allegedly a chance.
A request for forgiveness.
A request to try to make things right.
I forgive, but I cannot forget. I can't scrub the imprints off of my heart. I can't block out the echoes of hurtful things in my mind, when I think of going back, of trying, of full forgiveness.
I cannot bear the hurt again.
I cannot bear the pain I will cause everyone by saying:
I cannot bear to go back.
It hurts just to type that.
How do you throw away 13 years of togetherness? How do you say awful things, how do you strike w/ your actions, and then wake up asking for another chance?
How do I bear this?
I feel as though I am sitting on the edge of something-my future, maybe?-and I'm teetering. Each word and action mean so much, yet, mean nothing.
Here I sit.
The clock continues to tick-tick.
My old lady dog has gone silent in her sleep. I have to touch her with my foot to be sure she is breathing.
I hold my hand to my chest.
I am still breathing.
I'm thinking of you as I paint the walls of my bathroom. No correlation, yet as I concentrate on emptying my brain of all this anger, I find it being replaced by memories of you.
I have no idea where you are, if you're married, if you even think of the 19 year old girl who fell so hard for you...and then broke your heart (and her own). I know I think of her...yearn to be more like her again: carefree, spontaneous, free-falling. Myabe you represent those things to me, or brought them out in me, maybe both, maybe neither.
I remember a lot of laughter, your sink overflowing with dirty dishes, spilling out onto your 2 small counters. A fridge full of beer, bread, milk, & leftover mexican food. The terrible futon couch with a comforting blanket always within reach. Your dark bedroom-tangled sheets, clothes all over the floor. Your poetry stuffed in the top drawer of your nightstand.
Late nights drinking mingle in my mind with the sun rising on us, barely awake on the couch on your porch. Naked and exposed to one another, only breaths between us.
I hadn't thought of that until now.
Do you remember?
As my path takes a new turn, I yearn for all of that again.
I am good with words. I always have been, even when I wasn't aware of it. Most of the time I can describe how I feel, even when it seems impossible to do so. I had a Hello Kitty diary at age 7, and a journal for writing poems by age 8. Give me a pen or pencil, and I could put down on paper what was going on in my head or heart.
But these days, I am at a loss. I don't know where to begin. Or what to write. I'm full of emotions, words, feelings, questions, statements, aches.....
I'm taking a journey I never thought I would. And honestly? I'm scared. Not because I don't think I will be okay, but because I just don't know what is around the bend.
I make it through my days. I stay up late, avoiding sleep, but at the same time yearning for it. It is when I am finally lying beneath my sheets that I feel the rawness of my life the last 9 months or so. I ache. I am exhausted. I can't even cry anymore. I can't even pray most nights. There's a hum coursing through my body. My life is shattered in pieces, scattered carelessly on the floor. Tossed away.
So. The beginning?
I'm getting divorced.
I'm actually not sure if that is the beginning or the end. It just *is*.
I will write about it. I will stumble over my words, struggle with my emotions, and try to find some peace in my life. I will sound like I have it all together. I will sound like I'm falling apart. I will be happy, relieved, content. I will be frightened, angry, crushed. I will be temperamental, depressed, yet confident.
I will continue to be a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend. I will pick up these pieces scattered on the floor, and rebuild myself: stronger, happier, more confident, at peace. I will continue to hope, continue to pray, continue to wish for a fantastic life, a beautiful love, a kind, gentle, & like-minded partner, and more babies.
I will not give up.