A Little Left of Lost

The one that never spoke

2012-01-27T06:00:00.000-06:00

The day I met him, his roommate had just dumped his entire lunch tray on the floor in a fit of coughing: 3 small glasses worth of apple juice, a glass of milk, a flattened roll, some chicken dish with green beans, jello, countless pieces of glass, a warm plate amazingly unbroken, all mixed and mashed and scattered on the floor.
I was in the hallway when I heard the coughing, followed by the crash of the tray. I turned around and entered the room. I spoke to the roommate, made sure he wasn't choking, and surveyed the damage. I began to clean up the large pieces of the mess, dumping them into a trashcan. As I leaned down by his bed to pick up a chunk of glass, his hand reached out and touched the top of my head. I was startled, as I hadn't even realized he was awake.
I looked up to see him staring down at my from the edge of his pillow. Eyes, yellow and red, one a blueish gray color from the cataract. Shiny, feverish, but alive, looking back into mine.

"Hi, Mr. R. I didn't realize you were awake."

His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He began blinking rapidly, touching his tongue to his upper lip, and still tapping my head with one hand.

I finished cleaning up what I could of the mess, and then sat on the edge of his bed, surveying the mess within his bed sheets. His body was mangled, losing the battle with arthritis. His skin was ashy, yet still beautiful blue-black mahogany beneath all those scars. He had no clothes, so it was easy to see that under the sheets, he was skin and bones, a slight skeleton. His hands and head seemed grossly out of proportion with the rest of his body. He had a full head of salt and pepper gray hair-a huge 'fro, in fact.

He reached for my hand, and maintained eye contact.

"Mr. R, is there something I can get you?"

His lips never stopped moving. I bent down, placing my ear near his mouth, straining to hear his words:
".....Need more..."

"What do you need?" I began rearranging his sheets and his pillows and his bones. I moved his call light closer to his other hand. As I moved to re-adjust his neck, he placed his hand on my wrist, mid-stride.

"...time....need more time...."

I stopped.
I am so silly sometimes. I am always doing and helping and thinking and saving. I forget sometimes, that I am not listening.

"What do you mean? More time? For...?"

I placed my hands in my lap. He left his long fingers wrapped around my wrist.
He began slowly tapping his thumb on the underside of my wrist.
I waited.
He maintained eye contact.
I smiled.

Finally:
"....I don't know you.....but....I know of you.....I need more time.....to talk to you....."

And then he fell asleep.

I sat for a few minutes, poised on the edge of his bed, holding my breath, waiting.
He didn't stir.

I left the room confused. I was told he didn't talk, didn't respond to people, rarely responded to touch.

Later that afternoon, I went back by his room. He was seemingly in the same position, unchanged yet different. His eyes followed me as I walked across the room, towards his bed. I smiled and said hello.
His response: "...did you hear?...that I don't talk?"

I laughed out loud. Yes, that's indeed what I had heard.

Only once, in all the time I knew him, did he do this: He laughed. A gruff, throaty laugh, that I almost missed.
*****
I visited him daily. Sometimes he said only a handful of words, sometimes none, sometimes his mouth moved but his throat did not. But he always made eye contact, and I learned his facial expressions-the tiny nuances, the subtle changes in the planes of his cheekbones when he was in pain, the secrets among the creases around his eyes when he smiled.

He grew sicker. Weaker. Thinner.
He talked less.

No one believed that he talked. He was dismissed by so many.
He was homeless prior to landing in our facility.
I don't know his past life; he didn't speak of it. I learned later that he had been in the military.
****

One morning he didn't respond to my voice, didn't make eye contact, didn't speak. I worried for him, as co-workers talked circles around me of who would take his bed when he was gone.
I spent an afternoon with him, in the darkness of his room, listening to the oxygen machine compete for breathing space.
I sat in a chair next to his bed, too afraid that I would somehow hurt him if I sat on the edge of his bed. I reached for his hand at times, rubbing lotion into the ashy lines. I brushed his hair, and leaned over, whispering in his ear, random things, for my sake, not his.
I stayed in his room long after I should have left for the day.
When I said my goodbyes, there was no squeeze of the hand, no whisper on my wrist, no last words.

I got a call a few hours later, that he had passed.

I still feel bad that he essentially died alone. No family. No friends.

I think of him from time to time, and dream of his past, wishing he had spoken more.
His words: "Need more time". They come to mind sometimes, and I smile, recalling his huge head of hair and his deep voice.
I roll those three words around in my mouth, twist them with my tongue, try them up and down and upside down. I learn to deal with the bitter taste they leave, waiting for them to grow sweet.

I have put those three words on my bulletin board at work. Until I figure out their meaning, they are a good reminder for me: slow down, breathe, stop, listen.

Need more time.

The Planets Bend Between Us

2012-01-26T06:00:00.001-06:00

My sister went through this period recently where for about a month, she watched the movie The Notebook every damn day. I'm still questioning her teenage sanity level. Every day I would walk into the living room and get pulled into the story: standing frozen, mid-step, or slowly sinking onto the edge of a chair. I would last all of 10 minutes, tops. Then I would begin to feel this heavy feeling take over my entire body, starting in the core of my chest, spreading outward. Then I would realize what I was getting myself into, and I would bolt out of the room, cursing myself, the movie, and my sister.
I have read the book. It made me cry.
And I love sad love stories.
Or I did.
Now I just want to avoid them and the whirlwind of emotion that comes along with them. I want to climb into bed, pull my comfy blanket over my head, and curl up in a tight, shatter-proof ball.

I started The Time Traveler's Wife a year or so ago. I got so busy with grad school that I didn't finish it. I fully intended to so that I could watch the movie (looks fantastic), but now? Now I don't think I can.

I bought the movie PS I love you for myself. I can't even open the damn DVD box.

I saw The Descendants a couple of months ago. I was not aware of what it was about, apparently. But as soon as the main character found out his wife had been cheating on him, that heavy feeling started in my chest. All the emotions I had felt when my ex said he wanted a divorce? All back, stretching out with cold fingers to fill my body. It gave me little comfort to know that obviously others have felt all that I have felt the last 2 years, or at least similar things. I sat paused, barely breathing, during the entire movie. And I was silent for a good 2 hours after the movie was done.

Saw Crazy Stupid Love soon after. What the hell was I thinking? Another movie where I sat frozen, the only movement my tears sliding down my face, lying to rest on my collarbone.

It's taken all this time for me to figure out that what I want so desperately is also what scares the shit out of me. One in the same. I am both drawn and repelled, a magnet with polar ends, constantly spinning out of control when pushed too closely towards the right field.

I listen to music to calm myself. I read. I write. I tell myself over and over until I am hoarse, that it will be okay, go slow, leave the past behind, smile, breathe.

Breathe.

Sometimes I feel as though I am the only one dizzy with the spinning.

Snuggle bunny

2012-01-10T07:00:00.002-06:00

Cold weather makes me want to sleep. It doesn't help that my room is colder than the rest of my house. It causes me to burrow deeper into my pillows, curled in a ball with the covers up to my chin.

It figures my child would be just like me in this regard.

She doesn't want to wake up in the mornings. She turns away from my voice, and shoves her head under a sea of blankets and stuffed animals. Sometimes she pulls the I-am-gonna-fake-you-out-and-pretend-I-can't-hear-you tactic. It's amazing she can keep a straight face at the silly things I whisper through her crazy curly hair.

"Hey Leroy."
Silence.
"Did you know it snowed last night?"
Silence.
"School is cancelled."
Silence.
"Pull my finger."
.......(inaudible giggle).......Silence.

Or, she wakes up immediately, barely cracking one eye open. She gives the best mean look, shoots fire through those long eyelashes.
And then:
"5 more minutes, Mom."
"Go away, Mama."
"I'm cooooooold!"

It takes all I have sometimes not to crawl back into bed with her, curl my body around hers, and breathe her in.

She's growing so fast; I can barely lift her anymore. She rarely calls me Mama in her silly little way. I am Mom or Mother already. I look at her and I not only see the chubby face of my favorite toddler, but I see the gorgeous teen she will become. It is both breathtaking and heart wrenching at the same time.

I'm waiting for a snow day to come, so I can curl up with her and sleep late (probably only 30 extra minutes, if I know her), while she still fits in the curve of my body perfectly.

Music Lover Monday: Perfect Picture

2011-12-19T06:00:00.000-06:00

No Rest for the Weary

2011-11-13T23:15:00.000-06:00

I don't even know where to begin. I guess I thought that I could 'do' a relationship. I mean, I was in one for over 12 years, so how f-ing hard can it be to start over?? Oh, HA, I am an idiot-I am well aware of this as I type that.
I have no idea what I'm doing. I *think* that I do, and for days on end, the results of my efforts are wonderful: shared laughs, sweet smiles, warm feelings in the very center of my being....
...and then, I don't know. I become afraid. Afraid of hurting him, afraid of being hurt, afraid that I am falling too fast, afraid that I will open up completely and will be torn apart again.
So I squash those feelings.
But they keep resurfacing.
And without realizing it at first, I am becoming defensive. My walls are going back up, after I have let them down with such ease. And I don't know why.
Now I am doing damage to a relationship that is still new. I am acting a way I do not want to act, that is not part of my personality, and it is out of fear.
I am my own worst enemy, but fear is making a run for my money.
Fear.
And the fear is making me withdraw again. From the life I so desperately want and deserve.

Music Lover Monday-On Friday

2011-09-22T23:54:00.000-05:00

I am pretty sure I would go anywhere with him. <3

(No longer) For the taking-Part IV

2011-09-02T06:00:00.031-05:00

Part I
Part II
Part III

It was a week or so before his cousin responded to my email. And when she did, I couldn't breath. I remember standing in my kitchen, and becoming conscious of this tightness in my chest and knowing I needed to breathe, just breathe for damn sake.

He spent all day cleaning his place. He was off for the day.
He waited until almost midnight to eat.
He went to McDonalds, got 2 double cheeseburgers and a drink.
His roommate found him the next morning in his bedroom. There was one double cheeseburger in the bag.
He had waited too long to eat. He had waited too long to take notice of his blood sugar.

As I type these words, I feel my face grow hot with anger and grief, even now. Damn it Kevin, why the hell weren't you paying attention to yourself?? How could you let yourself go so long that you DIED?? It seems so unnecessary.

He was cremated. His ashes were thrown off the California coast, scattered into the Pacific. There is no grave to visit.

Images of him flash in my head, flipping faster and faster through memories, so young, so full of life. And this picture, the most recent of him that I have:

The week I found out about Kevin's death is the same week my now ex-husband told me he no longer wanted to be married to me. To say the least, my emotions about these two things are all twisted and knotted and forever tangled. I tried to push out my thoughts of Kevin's death...I had to focus on my all-of-a-sudden crumbling life. Yet....

I stopped to grab a smoothie and a water on my way to one of my grad classes. I shoved the receipt into my bag without a thought. Sitting in class, I pulled my notepad out of my bag, and the receipt fell into my lap. The total was $5.38.
Between my 2nd & 3rd classes, I ran over to Wendy's for a quick lunch. The total? $5.38.
That evening, after my last class, I met with 2 friends at a local bar. I was sick to my stomach about all the shit going on in my life, and needed my friends. I ordered some foo-foo martini as we all talked. Our server's shift was over, so we had to close our tabs out before getting a new server. My total? $5.38.
It was barely a blip on my radar the first 2 times. But that time? I burst into tears, realizing the impact of 3 damn numbers in a certain order.
The significance? Back in the days of pagers, when my friends would page, they would add their name at the end of phone number so I would know who it was. 538 was Kev, for Kevin.
I sat in that bar and sobbed. I explained to my friends the numbers, the connection between Kevin and I, my grief at losing someone I had already lost, years ago. And someone played this song on the jukebox:

And now I can't hear that damn song without being filled with that overwhelming ache no one can explain but everyone can conjur up in their soul if they just think about it for a second or two.
And the number, 538? I see it all the time. I get it as a total somewhere. I wake up out of a dead sleep and it is 5:38am when I glance over at my alarm clock. I sit in traffic on the way home, and I happen to glance at the clock several times a week when it says 5:38. I don't do it on purpose. And each time, I just sorta laugh, because it's ridiculous.

When I knew there was no saving my marriage, I went to that park, in the hopes that I could find some strength in one of my old 'spots'. I sat in the parking lot of the park, but I couldn't move. I sat there, willing my hands to open the door, my legs to propel me down that path towards that 3rd curve, where I was so hoping I could find some answers, maybe a little bit of peace. But, no. I sat frozen in my car, staring at the walking path, fearful of everything.
I sat there until dusk. I felt very empty, but overwhelmingly full of so much. I closed my eyes for awhile, with my head on the steering wheel, arms cradled, exhausted from the crying, from the thinking, from the reasoning with myself, with God, with no one. I had felt alone for so long, but this was one of the worst moments.
I don't know how long I was asleep. I heard, in my head, someone say my name. I woke with a start, and for a brief moment didn't know where I was, how long I had been there, why I was there. I glanced out the windshield, seeing the path, remembering. I looked at the clock, 5:38. I shook my head, beginning to feel a little crazy about these numbers.

But suddenly? I did not feel so alone. I'm sure I sound as crazy as I felt, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. My body was covered in goosebumps, and I felt a calmness I hadn't felt in a long time. I sat frozen, willing the feeling--him--to stay.

Of course, it passed.

Now: I still see that number on receipts, on the alarm clock. I still hear songs sometimes, and I think of him. And these things pop up at the most appropriate times, and I just smile and shake my head.

And I still grieve for him. I googled his name, and found a video someone posted of him, the year he passed away. And I sat in awe, to hear his laugh and his voice and to see his smile and see him move and be alive.... I cried and cried. I was hoping to find a video of him playing his guitar. I wish so badly that I still had the tapes of the songs he played and sent me. I wish so badly that he was alive....he had such a strong spirit and such a talent for music. It kills me to think that there is music out there, that none of us will ever experience, because it was in his head, his heart, and it was never transposed into a melody we all could hear.
There's a teeny part of me that knows it's ridiculous to grieve for someone I had lost so long ago. But that part of me is also the same part of me that thinks *I* am to blame for my ex-husband no longer loving me. It's irrational. So I push that part of me back down into the darkness, and push forward.

I miss him. I can't believe that after all he went through with drugs, the near-death experience in high school....that he would still ignore his blood sugar.

I walk through my days, carrying his tune within my soul, jumbled up and mixed with the tunes of so many other memories.

Re-post: For the taking-Part III

2011-09-01T06:00:00.000-05:00

Twelve years.
For me: Heartache. Love. Commitment. Marriage. Graduation. Houses. Childbirth. Grad School.
For him: Heartache. Drugs. A child. Sobriety.

While pregnant, I walked the trail by the creek. Kevin came to mind at that 3rd curve, but I shoved him out of my mind, back to his little cave in the center of my heart. I would hear certain songs and my chest would clench.
I did a search for him on Myspace a couple of times, wondering if he was still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but I had an idea that things had not gone well back then.

In 2009, twelve years after that letter, after my life took another path, I received a message from him via Myspace.
He was alive.
And sober.
And healthy.

He apologized; I barely acknowledged it. We emailed back and forth a bit, about life:
He had a son, but rarely saw him, against his will. He was sober. He went to church, played for the band there, was involved in the youth program.
I told him about my path, my marriage, my child, my job.
I expressed relief at knowing he was okay after all these years.
He expressed relief at the fact that I even responded to his email.

A month later, I had a series of dreams about him, struggling, fighting, crying out. I sent him a message, asking if he is okay: Is he struggling with his sobriety? Is he taking care of his diabetes?
He responds that he is doing well, that his diabetes is fine, but we could all use a bit more strength and prayer. He reassures me that he will never go to that place again.

That was 10 months ago.

The night I wrote this post, I heard one of the two songs in the post. That's what prompted the post in the first place. I sat right where I'm sitting now, and felt a hollow pain in my gut. After hitting publish, I went to Myspace to send him a message.
I'm not sure what I would have said in the email. How I was sorry our paths had diverged? How I missed him? How I felt guilty even thinking about the 'us' of 12 years prior, since I adore my hubby? What??
I clicked on his profile, only to see several people's comments saying they would miss him and they loved him. Like an idiot, I left a comment: "Where are you Kevin? Are you okay??"
I then did a google search, feeling the bile rise into my mouth.
He died.

He died a few weeks after our last brief email conversation. I sat in this chair, where I sit now, and sobbed. I emailed his cousin via Myspace, asking her what had happened. I searched my county's medical examiner website, hoping there was an autopsy with his name on it, and dreading it at the same time. There was none.

I found his obit online. It mentions his son's name. I sobbed even more.
I spent a fair amount of time online, searching all over, trying to find out what happened.
I barely slept that night.
I waited for almost 3 weeks for his cousin's response.

Re-post: For the taking-Part II

2011-08-31T06:00:00.002-05:00

I had a spot where I went to think, to write, to just be. I shared it with others. Sometimes we would drive a friend's dirt bike around the area; other times we would climb down to the creek, skip stones, cross at all the low points, sit along the "shore". We shared the day's events, the plans for the weekend, our fears, our dreams, silly jokes, laughs.

I shared this place with Kevin. It was the place we hung out after school, when we both wanted to hide from home, from parents, from aching stresses. It somehow became "our" place.

I went there after the paramedics arrived.

I parked, slid down the dirt to the shore of the creek, grabbed some stones to throw. I couldn't quiet my insides. I didn't know what to do with myself.

***

I heard through mutual friends that he was okay. He was now forced to take notice of his blood sugar, and be responsible with his diabetes. He hadn't eaten, and he didn't have anyone who noticed. If I hadn't of stopped by....well.

We somehow started talking on the phone. Someone told him I had found him. He thanked me. I cried.

***

I graduated high school without ever seeing him again. I started college, discovered college boys, fell hard for a guy in my Tuesday/Thursday History class.

A park was built around our place, a running path shadowing the curve of the creek. Houses went up in the field. I ran 3 miles a day on that path. At the 3rd curve, I would stop, stare down at the creek, and ache. Wonder where he was, how he was, if he was still playing the guitar, skateboarding in the dark, wishing for his "perfect drug". I was so dramatic.

Then.

To be honest, I have absolutely no idea how we found one another. All I know is I got ahold of an address, I wrote a letter, and received a response. He was in California. Had moved there with his younger brother and mom, who was recently remarried. He was clean & sober. He was eating.

He called me. We began talking all the time. I had to buy phone cards. I would lie on the driveway under the pear tree, stare at the stars, and listen to his voice. My life revolved around those phone calls. I would write lyrics & send them to him. He would write music to them, and play the melody over the phone for me.

We made plans. I applied to a college near his home. He got a job. He started looking for apartments. We wrote one another non-stop; I would receive at least one letter a day. There was an old house several blocks from the beach with our names on it; he'd called me as soon as he'd seen it. I can still close my eyes and imagine my sitting on the front steps with a journal on my knees, while he skateboarded on the sidewalk.

We made plans. I was his for the taking.

He was lonely there. His brother was growing up, and had his own friends. His mother was a newlywed. He was sober. I convinced him to apply for jobs, make new friends. We were counting down the days until I would be there.

He got a job, made a few friends. He sounded happy. He would call me late at night, and tell me how peaceful it was to sit along the rocky part of the shore at dawn, just before he surfed. He promised to take me there; it would be our new "place".

The phone calls became a bit sporadic, the letters almost non-existent. I would call and his mother would answer, telling me he wasn't home from work. I worried. That bitch with no self-esteem took over-I was afraid maybe he didn't want me after all? Maybe he didn't want me to move out there? Maybe...?

When we did talk, he was vague, saying he was working extra hours to save up for our house together.

One day I met the mailman at the edge of my driveway, pulling in from class. He handed me two letters: One was an acceptance letter from the college near his home. The other had a California postmark, but I didn't recognize the handwriting. I sat down on the driveway hard, when I read it.

It was from some chick, telling me to leave him the fuck alone, that he had moved on to better things, and suggesting that I do the same. It ended with something about how he was great in bed. My mind twisted those words around and around until I felt like vomiting. I don't even know.

If she was hoping to upset me, she succeeded. I called his house, and got his mother. She was pretty upset, saying she hadn't seen him in three days.

I called back a few days later. She still hadn't seen him. She had a bad feeling, and so did I.

He didn't stay sober. He never called me back. He never wrote me again.

I didn't move to California. I didn't transfer to the school there. And I didn't hear from him for 12 years.

Re-post: For the taking-Part 1

2011-08-30T06:00:00.002-05:00

Originally posted 1/26/10. Reposting so I can finally finish his story.
***
When I wrote this post, I didn't know what I know now. I was in an oblivious stupor, something I wish I could take back.

As I said in that post, I haven't written about him other than the brief entry here. But I am going to do it now. I have to.

Here is what I previously wrote about him:

"I met him when I was almost 17. It was a hard, dark, lonely time in my stupid teenaged life. He was younger than me, by 2 years. I remember standing at my locker, and feeling someone's eyes on me. When I turned around, he was across the hall, staring. When I caught him staring, he blushed, but did not turn away. He maintained eye contact, and amazingly, smiled. There was weeks of this before I finally broke a mutual friend, begging for him to introduce us. I shouldn't have been nervous or worried.

We met in the hall. We were both late to class; the bell had already rang. I was so down that day; I was staring into my locker, when he said my name. I turned around and there he was, same smile, same shine in the eyes.

I fell hard for him. My friends made fun of me, since he was 2 years younger than me. It was I who picked him up when we would get together; he didn't have his license. He was quiet but not with me. He was silly, goofy, kooky with me. He was so brilliantly talented with music. He was one of the first in well over a year that I allowed to read my poetry. I opened my journals and my heart to him. He wasn't like any of the others. He didn't dress like them, he didn't act like them (other than the quiet part). He acted as though I was fragile when we were together, but helped me break myself when I needed it. He taught me to skateboard (I sucked). We talked on the phone for hours. We laid on my driveway & stared at stars while telling one another our deepest thoughts, our strongest fears.

I took his virginity. He broke my heart. Twice. He deserted me when I needed him so badly, the first time. The second time he deserted me, he fell deep into drugs. I couldn't forgive him, for years. I spent YEARS hurting because of him, because of us. I still get angry & disgusted when I think about how we ended. I still ache when I think of his eyes, his voice, his devotion, his dreams."

His name was Kevin.

He was the middle child. His older brother was the same age as me, in the same grade, but never around. He had a younger brother that he was really protective of. His father wasn't around, and his mother worked hard to provide for her boys. I vaguely remember a boyfriend of his mom's, and Kevin telling me that he didn't really like the guy, that the guy scared the shit out of him and his younger brother.

When we met, he smoked weed with other friends in my group. But when he heard from a mutual friend that shit bothered me, he stopped. At least for awhile.

When we were all hanging out, there were times we would drink. And he was a lush. It still makes me smile, thinking of him stumbling all over the place in our friend's house one night. He had two left feet when he was drunk, and he was a gigglebox.

I remember our first kiss, full of beer & Skittles, lust & fear. He was leaned against the living room wall of the now-abandoned home of one of our friends. Why do I remember the look in his eye, but not the taste of his lips?

He was full of music and life. He encouraged me to write. I argued with him about his diabetes. He played the bass guitar while I wrote lyrics to songs still unsung. We fell asleep on the phone many times- I would wake in the morning to the dial tone at the other end of the phone. Or, sometimes, the soft purr of his snore.

He said sweet things that he meant, that crushed my heart.

He was non-judgemental, and careless with his blood sugar.

I took his virginity. I cried.

He wanted more; I wanted more.

Somehow, we wanted different things.

I remember arguing in the kitchen of my father's house. I remember seeing an anger I had never seen before, directed towards me. I let him walk out the door.

*****

Months went by; the rest of the summer burned off, and school started again. I would hear his laugh in the halls sometimes, and my stomach would drop.

I really missed him.

I had heard from others that he was doing drugs, skipping school, working to help his mother pay the bills. I heard he was still ignoring his blood sugar.

I am not made of magic, but I drove by his house anyway, skipping class.

I stood outside the door, nervous and close to tears. He didn't answer. I walked around back, hoping no one saw me. I knew how to sneak in the back door.

I slid up the stairs to the room he shared with his younger brother, melodies luring me behind his closed door. I knocked, whispered his name.

I opened the door and found him sprawled on his bed. He looked peaceful.

He wouldn't wake up.

I'll spare you the details, but I can say that I have never pushed a needle in someone's skin before, or since. I heard my blood rush in my ears. I couldn't breathe. I called 911. I shook him awake, barely. Blood sugar. I ran down the stairs, let the paramedics in, and bailed.

That was the last time I ever saw him.

Knick Knack-Somebody to love

2011-08-29T06:00:00.001-05:00

I feel his pain. Also? She's got some HUGE boobs!!!

My girl

2011-08-23T22:17:00.000-05:00

Tonight I tickled my girl until she lost her breath.
Tonight she said to me: "Will you put me in your pocket so I can be with you all the time?"
Tonight we kissed each other all over, in silly spots, like our earlobs and between our fingers.
Tonight she gave me raspberries on my belly.
Tonight she brushed my hair out of my face and told me I was beautiful.
Tonight she told me she wants to be near me forever, even when I'm old and crabby.
Tonight she held my hand as we laid in bed together, telling me she was happy.

I am still holding my breath.

RemembeRED writing prompt-Worst memory

2011-08-23T07:00:00.011-05:00

We all have them.

Memories that we wish we could forget…things that we wish we could banish from our minds.

Imagine that writing down your worst memory will free you of it.

What is it?

Why does it haunt you?

What could you have done differently?

Write it down and let it go.

***

We pulled into the parking lot of the 8 story office building. My father and I were in the front seat of his Explorer, my 7 year old brother in the back, Nike hat pulled down dangerously low. I didn't need to see those eyes to know what he was thinking. We had both seen her car in the parking lot.
We walked in, so close that our arms were lightly grazing one another, yet not talking, not touching, no eye contact. Stepping off the elevator, our father took the lead, walking down the long hallway with purpose. I went next, reaching out behind me with my hand, searching for his. He grumbled, touching my fingers with his.
The waiting area was empty; she was already in the office.
This was the first family session.
We walked into the room in the same single-file line, except he dropped his hands to his sides when he saw her.
I don't remember the words, just the emotions, like sparks passing between each one of us. Dark eyes, full of rage. Anger. Betrayal. Hurt. Shame. Resignation. Myself, the people pleaser. My brother, full of rage. My father, the antagonist. My mother? Well, I still don't know what verbs or adjectives to use there.
At some point, my brother and I were asked to go out into the waiting area while the therapist spoke with our parents.
I had to drag him out. Screaming, crying, cursing, kicking, smacking, punching, scratching.
In the waiting area, I had to wrestle him into my lap, in this pseudo leg lock move, with half his body being squeezed by my thighs. I fought his hands, swift and forceful. He pulled my hair, scratched at my face, punched me over and over and over and over.

I will never forget the sound of his cry, full of pain and rage and denial and lost dreams.
It broke my heart. I talked through our tears, purring comfort...to no avail. I realized I wasn't going to win this fight, so I stopped protecting myself from the blows. I let him beat on me until he was worn out, exhausting us both. And then: heaving and shaking, there was a quiet moan deep in his throat. He stared at my knee.

On the drive home, I sat in the backseat with him, his head in my lap, both of us crying quietly. My father kept trying to talk to him, to me, but I asked him to JUST STOP. My brother looked up at me, communication between us loud and clear. I ran my fingers through his hair, wiped his tears, rocked him to the rhythm of his moaning.

This memory haunts me still, 17 years later. It swirls within me, makes me ache, reminds me how much I despise divorce and broken dreams and shattered hopes. If I could have taken all of his hurt, his rage, I would have. If I could have replaced all of it with wonder and hope, I would have. If I could have healed, helped.

I walk on eggshells, hoping my daughter doesn't have this experience, that she will never ache like my brother did, like I did, like I do.

I could do without this memory.

Lost

2011-08-16T22:54:00.000-05:00

I have lost my mojo, my need to write, my voice, my desire to exercise, my oomph to better myself, my sass to flirt and open myself up to something wonderful with a man. I don't want to read, or write, or watch TV, or hang out with friends, or grab a coffee or beer and people watch. I love these things. Yet all I want to do is sleep.

I have lost me.

I know the signs. I know what to do, and I did it today. I know it will help, but I can't get past all the negativity floating around in my life right now. I can't get away from my negative bank account, or my past due bills, or the things I need to buy for my girl (who starts 1st grade next week, oh.my.wow.), or the sadness that old friends have fallen off the radar, or the bullshit with the ex, or my loneliness. I can't hide from my anger or my bitterness, that spills over at the most uncomfortable times.

Oh, but I try. I push down the anger and bitterness, and send it back to the deep recesses of my gut. When my melancholy and 'What could have been' get out of control, I turn my back on it.

My loneliness? It never leaves. It strangles and hangs on my body, like an extra limb I didn't know I had, and will probably never grow comfortable with.

All day I work at being positive and hopeful and joyful. And it works. For everyone else. And I will say that a bit of that hope is alive within me; it won't ever leave. As long as I have my girl, I will have hope.

But this act? This gig? It is exhausting.

So I sleep: Instead of walking the dog and exercising, I curl up in a ball and cuddle with my girl, breathing in the scent of her gorgeous hair, until she drifts off. Then I match her breathing, and drift off on my own, where I'm at the mercy of my dreams.

And my dreams? They are cruel and merciless and breathtaking and satisfying and telling. My mind and heart are battling, yet I can't figure out if they are battling one another or battling something else as a team.

I don't wake feeling rested. I wake up out of breath, with heartache the size of so many broken things.

So I pray.

Yet, I have lost my ability to pray. I am down to two simple, yet powerful words:

Please, God.

I am waiting for them to work.

This is what I'm looking for

2011-07-12T05:00:00.002-05:00

Just sayin.

Pain

2011-05-18T05:00:00.000-05:00

I have some things I need to say, that I must get off my chest. And I already know, without a doubt, that saying them here, or saying them over the phone, or texting them, will not be enough. I won't sleep better, I won't feel the dead weight lifted off my heart, I won't walk lighter. Nothing will change. At all.
But if I don't say these things, thrust them out of the neverending swirl in my head, I will surely break. I teeter, even when I am perfectly balanced.

-I blame you for all of this hurt. I don't want to accept any fault, any responsibility, for the broken mess that we became. I seeth with a fury I thought was long-forgotten when our girl cries about missing one of us when she's with the other one of us. I want you to ache, to yearn, to grieve, to teeter, just like she does, just like I do. I want your head to be overflowing at night with the possibilities of the future, with the stresses of tomorrow, with the sorrow of today.
-While I say all of this, I feel guilty. Guilty that I don't want to forgive. Guilty that I still love. Guilty that I can't let the anger go yet. I want to take the high road, be a good example for our girl, show her that strength and hope and love do indeed outweigh all of the brutality of broken promises and divorce.

-I don't know what happened to some of the close friendships I had. I don't know why you and you and you all dropped out of my life...when I most needed someone to stand by me, support me, love me. I don't know what I did, or didn't do, to cause you to disappear during some of the darkest time in my life. I expected to lose friends that we had as a married couple, people I never felt sincerely liked me anyway, but I never expected you.

-I don't want to be played. I am too old for this. I don't want to wonder what you are doing, who you are really with, whether you are really interested or not. I don't want to play guessing games or 'let's pretend we don't really care' games. I trusted you as a friend. I opened up to you. I pushed through my anxiety about crossing that line from friendship to more, and this is what I got. It sounds ridiculously corny to say that I need you to be careful with my heart, but it is true. And sadly, I think I misjudged your intentions. I don't think you even wanted to get near my heart. Being friends is all we should do.

****
I do not feel better. I still feel full of all the wrong things, yet empty. I need to close my eyes and drift away.

Music Lover Monday-Half-boyfriend

2011-05-09T05:00:00.001-05:00

This man is entirely too cute for words. And sexy. And, well, just watch.

Endearing, huh? I want to stick him in my pocket and keep him with me at.all.times.

While I was gone

2011-05-03T05:00:00.000-05:00

It finally happened: I've fallen off the edge of the blogging world. I have dozens of drafts. My journal is full, and a new one is halfway there, with an unopened one waiting on the nightstand. I have dreamt things, seen things, felt things, yet I haven't shared them. I didn't mean to be gone so long.

While I was gone, so much changed.

My girl learned to read. Like, full sentences and chapter books, damn it.

My girl lost 3 teeth (with another to be pulled today because she totally looks like Nanny McPhee, and while she is super cute, and while I'm all for letting a kid be a kid, I cannot bear her Kindergarten graduation pictures to look like this:)

My Daisy dog got older and sicker and slower. But I took her to the vet, she was put on what I call doggy hospice, and she is doing better, even keeping food down!

I traded in my Jeep (wahhhhh!) and bought myself a red truck. Yes, I live in Texas. Yes, I might be a little bit country. I love my truck! It's fast and pretty and clean and fast and new and red and did I mention FAST?

I went a little crazy with the shopping. I bought 4 pairs of shoes, 7 dresses, unknown amounts of jewelry, and a TV. Yes, a TV.

I forgot how to cook. I stopped cooking in early March. I have no idea why. I think it was the time factor, but I also started focusing on other things. So today, I am cooking dinner.

I started looking at houses, to buy. I'm still a little shocked that I'm planning on buying a house....a house that I will pick, that will be just my style.

Oh, and I got divorced. Sigh. That's another post all together. Yet there really are no words.
There are tears, sighs, lost time staring into space. But there are smiles, feelings of peace, laughs.

Yet, after all this time, I still cannot believe it. While I was gone, I changed.

2011-03-22T05:00:00.001-05:00

If you are looking for my sweet side today, you will need to just go look in my archives. Just go over there ----------->.
I am just DONE. Like, DONE. I'm over the stress, over the bullshit, over the LIVING LIFE ON HOLD. I'm done putting myself out there.
It's easy to get prettied up and go out. Easy to smile, laugh, chit-chat about meaningless things. (Fairly) easy to allow a man to buy me a drink. (Fairly) easy to do a little bit of flirty touching on his arm. But from that point on, it gets hard. And that's the shit I'm done with. Because it never ends well. It ends one of two ways: either he gets hurt, or I do.
Take this past weekend:

I'm somewhere with a bunch of people I don't know, and a few I have hung out with a couple of times. Apparently it is a known thing with this group that I am single, and these stupid men think it's funny to make it a game. So three men are wanting to buy me drinks. Yes, yes, I know someone is saying "Holy shit! Why are you complaining about that??" to which I respond: BAH. Because honestly, I can't help but have this internal conversation with myself:

"Man #1 is a total player. Hot, but omg, how the hell could I ever trust a man like that??"

"You do not need to trust him, dumbass. Just have fun!"

"Oh, ha. We are talking about ME here. I DO need to trust him. I'm not here just to have drinks and play. Ultimately, I want something long-term. I am NOT the player type. You know this."

"Oh, and Man #2 is f-ing annoying. Not attractive. Why are you so nice? Get some damn balls and stand up for yourself."

"Dude. Shut it. Man #3...."

"Um, no. Just, no. THAT MAN is the heartbreaker.Run."

I exhaust myself.

Anyway, so Man #2 will NOT take no for an answer when I say he does not need to buy me drinks. And he's a smoker, so as the night continues, he's leaning into my face and I just can't handle it. At the end of the night, he's trying to kiss my neck and tells me that if I'm interested I should meet him outside the bar. Um, NO. (I'm getting the chills just typing this. Ick ick ick!!!)

So why the fuck should I bother at all with Man #2? I mean, he probably expects something after buying me drinks, and I'm a nice woman, so I talked to him, but there was NO SPARK there AT ALL for me.

Man #1 dances his ass off, playfully flirts, but I already shut him down last time we were out. I don't want the man who knows he is hot shit, and hits on every gorgeous woman he meets. Would he be fun to play with?? Oh yes, I'm sure of it. The way he moves on the dance floor....mmmm. ANYWAY.

It's Man #3 that had me in tears driving home. Motherfucker. He's the one I want to run to and away from. Haven't known him long, but we seemed to be on the same page about so many things. Went on a few dates. Awesome conversations, drunk and sober. A shit-ton of similar interests. And then he smacks me in the face after 4 dates with a motherfucking text (DUDE) that he isn't ready for anything serious and thinks I'm nice and a great person (Fuck you) and JUST WANTS TO BE FRIENDS. To which I say: BAH.

Because see, that would be totally fine if not for:

- We had the 'serious' conversation. We both allegedly felt the same:Not looking for serious but don't want to play, need a healthy balance; and don't need to waste time on people who really wouldn't be right in the long-run.

-It was HE who asked ME out on the 4 dates. It was HE who made comments about doing things together this summer. It was HE who approached me.

-And lastly, if he really wanted to be friends, the above text would not have been the last text from him. I didn't hear another motherfucking thing. Nada.

And then he's there this weekend. And he says maybe 25 words to me all night. And is within feet of me all night, and says not a word. AND, this is the icing that takes the cake: He lets his friend talk shitty to me. I stood up for myself, but he just watched it go down.

Motherfucker.

So. I'm done. I'm out. I'm over it all. I don't want to put myself out there, put my guard down, get interested, get hurt. 2010 was one of the worst damn years of my life, and it hurt, over and over and over. And in the wee hours of the morning after the shittiest night out in a really long time, I sat in tears, and I will be DAMNED if I'm doing that anymore.

Nope.

And I want to gut-punch myself for even bothering. For even thinking that I'm being rational about this. For thinking that I really can't be that person who plays with no real feelings. I need to become that person. I need to be the woman who can flirt, play, date, etc., without getting emotionally involved. And while I cringe about becoming that person, I think about my emotions being tangled and trampled, and I ache.

I can't ache anymore.

Music Lover Monday-Let the bitter continue

2011-03-21T05:00:00.001-05:00

My sentiments exactly.

Music Lover Monday-Letting my bitter show

2011-03-07T05:00:00.001-06:00

"...the number of them is insane

every exit's an exboyfriend memory lane

every major street's a minor heart attack

i see a red jeep and i want to paint it black

it could be him or am i tripping

and i'm crashing into everything

i can't wait til you trade that fucker in

by then they will have stuck me in the looney bin..."

Music Lover Monday--I know, I know-it's Nicki Minaj

2011-02-28T05:00:00.002-06:00

Look, I am loving this chick lately, in spite of how uncomfortable it can be to check out her facial expressions. But! Will.i.am? Oh, I can check out his sweet ass, ahem, FACE, any time!

Playing the part

2011-02-23T05:00:00.001-06:00

I ate kick-ass pad thai,
     and I thought of the only meal we shared, taking turns identifying the pop-culture songs being played on a keyboard (you were so much better at it than I).
I drove aimlessly down unfamiliar streets,
    and I thought of your hand on my knee, your thumb grazing my thigh.
I drank several shots of cheap tequila,
     and I thought of the perfect dive bar you took me to,
          and I remember feeling like this moment belonged to someone else....
                surely I didn't deserve to have my way with you.
And I didn't (deserve it)
       but I did (have my way),
It ended too soon.
I sit in this chair, my lap full of journal pages, an unopened Spin magazine, and
I watch these brief memories play-rewind-replay
        in my mind.
In the dark, I know-
I needed more than one night
     to convince you
What took only minutes for my heart to learn.
I find myself thinking of you- at the most inappropriate times,
I find myself dreaming of you-and I wake up in the silence of my room,
    hoping you were dreaming of me too.
I walk a thin line, a fine-toothed edge,
    writing these words, thinking these thoughts,
Yearning for the impossible, just out of reach.
I am being silly
    and unrealistic
       and selfish
          and foolish.
And I am reading between your unwritten lines,
seeking sentiment where there is none,
hoping you will play me like the script in your hands.

Music Lover Monday-They say, they say, they say.....

2011-02-21T05:00:00.001-06:00

"....My love,my velvet rope

Take me away from it all,

When I feel i can't cope

They say, they say, they say

You're no good for me

But i know, I know that's a lie.

And since I'm slow sometimes

I just don't know anymore...."

Music Lover Monday- Valentine's Day edition

2011-02-14T05:00:00.003-06:00

I love this song. It chokes me up every time I hear it, and I come close to chunking my ipod out onto the highway when it plays, but also? Oh, sweet caroline, it is so damn sweet.
I don't know that anyone has ever felt this way about me. I do indeed know that I have felt this way about someone before. I would be so blessed to have a man enter my life that would feel this way.

Happy Valentine's Day to all of you, even those of you that have this kind of mutual relationship that I'm a tad jealous of. :)

And now for my bitter screw-you-love Valentine's pick. You knew I'd do it, right??

"If you need my shame to reclaim your pride...

And when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists

I never did anything to you, man

But no matter what I try

You'll beat me with your bitter lies

So call me crazy, hold me down

Make me cry; get off now, baby-

It won't be long till you'll be

Lying limp in your own hand."

Never give up hope

2011-02-09T00:38:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was a shitty day. In fact, the last several days were shitty in small ways, and I think it just kept piling up inside until I finally burst today.
In short, my jeep has some issues that are going to cost me money I don't have, on top of needing 2 new tires for safety reasons, and then wanting 4 new tires that are better suited to the look I want for my jeep, and the teeny tiny issue of not having the money for any of the above? Did I mention that already?
Then you add the divorce debacle, the stress of trying to pay bills and get the things my girl needs while balancing my own needs (I need to see a dentist SOON) with my own wants (WANT, WANT, Really WANT), the stress at work, my lack of sleep, this constant ache of unidentifiable origins, the impending snow f-ing storm that is supposed to be here by the time this post hits my blog in the AM, and I truly mean it was a disaster in the making.

So, tears while driving from the shop back to work. Tears as I ran into work, hoping the bathroom by the back door was empty so I could clean myself up.

I just don't seem to have much more I can give of myself. I'm tired. I'm worried. I'm stressed. I'm trying to focus most of my attention on my girl because she really needs it right now. I need exercise. I need a bubble bath. I need a damn backrub.

So I get home from work after sitting in an hour's worth of traffic, and there are 2 things in the mail for me besides bills. One is a gift card from Olive Garden as an apology for the shittiest service EVAH about a month ago. Yay!

The other was an envelope addressed to me w/ a return address from Hollywood. I didn't really pay attention to the handwriting. Inside was this:

Went to a Nintendo event awhile back (hosted by Jennie and Shauna) and we had to write out a card to ourself. Here's what I wrote:

Amazing, the timing, no? I needed this. I know this stuff, but I needed to see it, in my own handwriting.

Apartment 122

2011-02-08T06:00:00.001-06:00

Feeling the breeze on my back,
I wake in your twilit room.
I don't want to turn over-
I woke up way too soon.
                                   What is this sadness?
I've got this empty, achy feeling,
My stomach is crazy, churning.
I roll over and gaze at your ceiling
And try to ignore this temporary, desired yearning.
                                   What is this sadness?
I know you've left me here alone,
I'm in your empty bed,
So I stretch out to your side
And pull the covers back over my head.
I can hear your CD quietly playing-
It brings me back to last night-
I swear I hear your voice barely breathing:
           "Stay with me-it feels right."
Right.
Tell me then:
Why am I alone today, in this love-full bed?
And
                                What is this sadness?

Music Lover Monday-Clever trick

2011-02-07T05:00:00.000-06:00

"....So you're gone and i'm haunted

And i bet you are just fine

Did i make it that easy to walk

Right in and out of my life?..."

Heaven?

2011-02-04T05:00:00.001-06:00

Classic case-

Wrong place, wrong time

Followed a dream

that wasn't mine.

Right person,

Right heart,

waved and smiled

with a twinkle of the eye...

But passed it by.

Now here in a deserted

heaven...

I keep following this wish

I never should have

had.

Dust to dust

2011-02-03T05:00:00.001-06:00

Ashes of ourselves, blowing across the floor
Seem to pile and remain forever in the fireplace corner.
No matter that we sweem them up
           and pitch them out the back door-
They wind up back
           just as before:
Drifting in, on logs of mossy memories,
            silent and unnoticed,
To make us stop
                         and
                                  stare
and study their
             jilted presence once more.
Endless nostalgia and hurt
Cramp space for our new chairs....
These ashes cling to the mirror,
And leave us looking for comfort.

Re-appearance

2011-02-01T06:00:00.002-06:00

Yes, I disappeared again. I tripped and fell into someone else's life, but every morning when I look in the mirror, I am again shocked that it is my life. I think about where I was a year ago today....crying, angry, shocked, confused, but relatively comfortable in thinking that everything would just blow over, again. I think about the plans I had for 2010, and how most of them didn't happen. I think about how, this day last year, began a long stretch of sleeping in a big bed alone. Of falling asleep on a wet pillow, curled in the fetal position, listening to music and dead silence all night long. Of waking up just as the sun rose, shocked that I had slept and that I was still breathing.
And really, a year later, I am shocked to find that my life has changed from even that. That this is how it turned out. That 2010 flew by, full of bullshit and sorrow and such intense emotion that I still can't find the proper words. That it is already 2011, that I've already been living in my mother's house for 8 months, almost enough time to have given birth to that second child we never had.
I think back to years ago, and I can now honestly say that I felt him slipping away years ago. And I held on, for dear fucking life, clutching and loving and pleading and pleasing, to no avail. There was very little given for all that I gave; the dreams of those two 19 year olds just slid away, first placed on the backburner, then switched out for new, more bedazzled glittery bullshit hopes. And there I was, the ever-pleasing person that I am, smiling and nodding and gushing over dreams not my own. And why??
Because I loved him.
And I thought that was enough.
I was wrong.
It's never been enough.

I share my bed with my girl. And when she's not with me, I share it with my crazy-ass boxer. Or I don't sleep in it. I share my days with over 48 older adults who have sorrows and heartbreaks much deeper and gutwrenching than mine. I share my heart with a 93 year old woman who weighs 63 lbs. I share my nights with my mother, sister, brother, and daughter, watching stupid TV, or arguing over silly things, or eating too much. I also share my nights with randomly wonderful people. People that surely wouldn't have been in my life a year ago.

I think about writing quite often. The same willow tree catches my eye every morning as I drive to work, and I see words flash before my eyes, words I want to put down in my journal, or here. I think about a house that I wanted for so long, and if I sit with my eyes closed long enough, I can almost imagine myself there, sitting in a chair on the covered back porch, pen in hand. But, this past year taught me that it really doesn't matter where I am, as long as I don't stop doing what I know is right, what I know to be true.

I stopped writing before Christmas. It wasn't in me to talk about my aches or my anger or my fears. It wasn't in me to write about feeling hopeless and lost and dizzy with desire. But I thought about it. Every day.

So. Here I am.
Exposed. Unsure. Tempermental. Weary. Lonely.
But: hopeful.

Music Lover Monday-This is for the douchebags....

2011-01-31T05:00:00.001-06:00

.....oh, you know who you are.

Kanye West "Runaway"

Blessings louder than dreams

2010-12-22T01:32:00.000-06:00

It's no mystery that this year has been hell for me. That I've had my heart torn out, my confidence challenged, my love dissolved. I've tried not to come right out and say things directly here, but several of you know the not-so-fine details.

I had dreams. Dreams of having 3 children, of having a house on a local lake, with a huge living room full of windows with beautiful views. Dreams of my dogs being lazy in the backyard. Dreams of spending quality time with my husband, of fostering that connection we used to have, dreams of making him happy, which in turn would make me happy.
My dreams-the doors have been shut on those dreams.
I don't even think about that lake house in my heart.
I try not to think about the pain and the hurt and the lies and the fancy footwork of someone who is an expert at convincing you of something you don't want, need, or know.
I do think about the other children I won't be having with him.
I do want more children. And I've said it several times, and I mean it-I will have more babies someday.

I know my dreams will change, are changing.
And that's okay.
There's some indescribable feeling related to those dreams...they are forming slowly, painstakingly, and the new growth is fresh moss green.

I'm struggling so much. I can't make ends meet and I don't really have anyone to ask for help. I've had several sweet people offer to help me, but we all know I have NEVER been good at asking for help, or accepting help when it is offered.

Tuesday night I was blessed by Chris (the long-lost @3giraffes). She didn't have to do it, and I really didn't want to let her, but she helped me anyway. And I'm so appreciative. I love her. She's been there when even my family can't.

Last week a doctor at my job wrote me a prescription for my gum infection. He didn't have to do it, but he did it anyway.

Several times last week, I texted two dear friends in a panic, begging for prayers. They both got back to me immediately. They both checked in on my several times throughout the week. They both gave me simple, kind words that worked to calm me, even if only for a couple of hours.

This past weekend my mom bought Christmas presents for my daughter, since I don't get paid until Christmas Eve. She didn't have to do it, and I certainly did not want her to do it, given her own financial struggles, but she did it anyway.

Tuesday morning I woke up feeling down, with a constant, dull ache in the center of my chest. I laid in bed listening to my blood pumping through my veins, and thought about how futile it was to cry, how miserable it was to wake up feeling lost and alone and thrown away. Dreams of yelling and crying and begging were taking up residence in the deep corners of my brain, and I couldn't push them away.

But Tuesday night, I felt better.

Blessings.

I know I am blessed. I know I should be more thankful all the time. I know things could be worse.

I am so thankful that I am loved, that people give me a chance, that others care about my heart and my life.

Thank you-you know who you are. I couldn't do this hell without you.

Free

2010-12-14T06:00:00.001-06:00

My friend Alan and I have had long discussions about divorce, loss of love, desire, & affection in relationships, and feelings that are hard to put into words (rage, stagnation, frustration, loneliness). He's always urged me to keep writing all of this. And I do write pretty personal stuff here. Most of the time, it doesn't frighten me to peel back my thick layers and expose my soft spots-fears, hopes, dreams, faults-but please don't mistake that for being free of fear.

Another friend always talks about how brave and strong I am. How inspiring I am, that I can get up every morning and smile, that I can enjoy things in spite of the torn-up tortured grief I have, that I can have hope and faith and feel love and a teeny seed of peace sprouting within the center of me. Please don't mistake all of that for being free of pain.

Yet another friend reads my blog and tells me "It's all so heavy."; "Don't you write about anything happy?" And I realize my stuff is heavy. My words do weigh me down, sometimes even after I've written them in my journal pages or typed them here. But life is heavy. The good, the bad, the unexpected, the lonely, the unfair, the painful, the unforgivable, the joyful, the blessed. All these things are so heavy, and I speak them to others not to lighten my load, but to share the load, to find companionship and fellowship among all of you who feel what I feel. But I grow weary carrying this all alone, even when I have friends and family who offer to help. Please don't mistake this for being free of strength.

Most days, I am okay. I thank God I'm alive, that I have a mother who cares enough to take me and my daughter in. I feel blessed that my girl is strong, that I have strength I didn't know I had. Most days, I feel strong and happy and almost carefree. But please don't mistake carefree with free of care.

I am all the awful things you can think someone would be w/ a broken heart. I am all the awful things I never wanted to be, and always despised in others. I feel weak and broken and tired and torn and weary and angry and spiteful and dizzily full of rage.

Yet.

I am free.

I make a conscious decision every day to focus on the seedling of peace taking root within myself. And to focus on that tiny whisper of hope floating through the air, catching the breeze and gliding to the ground to rest at my feet. I don't always win the battle-sometimes my focus is uncentered and my gaze falls a bit to the left. But never mistake that for being free of hope.

Music Lover Monday

2010-12-13T06:00:00.002-06:00

Jar of Hearts-Christina Perri

Music Lover Monday-on Tuesday-Home Video Version

2010-12-07T06:00:00.001-06:00

Yes, it's Tuesday. Day late, dollar short. Not the first time.

So, let me just explain this to you. I recorded my sister singing this song awhile ago, but for some reason my crackberry didn't want to let me send it to myself. Then I recorded this one, but it's not as fanfuckintastic as the first one. First off, I'm at a bad angle. More importantly though, is the fact that my kid has an epic meltdown-" goooooooooo pottttyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, graaaaaaaaandmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa don't leeeeeeeeeave meeeeeeee"-right in the middle. Love that my sister and I both sorta meltdown with her.
Anyway, welcome to my world.
(And yes, I am soooo available to use my professional videotaping skills for all of your party/recording needs.)
Enjoy. :)

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

2010-12-03T01:09:00.000-06:00

Mrs. H was probably one of my most-loved residents on the Alzheimer's floor. With disheveled-looking clothing, comfortable slippers, and messy hair, she walked around the unit with a beautiful smile.
She had a voice like maple syrup, thick and sweet. She sang Christian hymns and nursery rhymes easily, her tone as smooth as silk.
My body would become a sea of goosebumps when she would sing Amazing Grace, crooning softly, eyes closed, open face tilted up towards the sky, rocking easily.
Soft skin like tissue paper, warm to the touch. She let me smooth her hair off of her forehead when it fell into her eyes.
She let me grasp her hands when she spoke, eager to caress my arm or knee.
She didn't know who I was, but she knew me.
She always asked how my mother was doing, and asked me to send her regards.
She was polite and sincere in her responses to my questions.
She was a total jokester, making others laugh, brushing off compliments by slighting herself with a laugh in her voice & a silly sparkle in her eye.
She had the most beautiful blue eyes.

One morning, I did not see her in the living room area when I entered the floor, nor did I hear her voice singing out Amazing Grace. I was told she was still in bed. She was no longer able to walk. Just like that.
I went to her room, finding her resting in bed with her eyes closed. She spoke easily, and sang for me when I asked.

A few days later, she could no longer sing.
Or feed herself.
She didn't want to get up to get dressed.
She began hallucinating, mumbling and confusing words, sentences, the past & the present.
She wasn't able to answer my questions, but still purred "Thank you" with a beautiful, face-full smile when I commented on her blue eyes.

The last day of my internship, I sat by her bed, softly massaging her hands and arms. I don't know how long I stayed, singing quietly, studying the plains of emotion on her face, watching the movement behind her closed eyelids, praying that she would open her eyes, say something, smile, anything. I glanced at the pictures of her and her children hung on the wall above her bed, allowing myself to grieve the loss of this wonderful woman.

I am sad that she is in the end stages.
I am relieved that she does not seem to be aware of this, although I worry that she might be.
I am angry, so futily furious, that this disease is taking over, that her brain is dying-bit by bit, haphazardly yet beautifully articulated.

I have not gone back to visit her. I hope that she doesn't know this. I hope that she is still alive. She is the first one that I cannot bear to visit, the first one that I am avoiding not seeing, the first one that I fear hearing about.

I am afraid to see that light of hope extinguished in those aqua eyes.
I ache to think that the walls no longer echo her voice singing Amazing Grace.

I woke from a dream early this morning, where she was sitting on my couch with my mother and deceased grandmother, discussing photography and pianos. When I walked in the room, she motioned me over. I sat at her feet, placing my hands in hers. She pulled my head into her lap, wiping my hair off my forehead, and whispered,
"I once was lost, but now am found; blind, but now I see."

When I raised my head off of her lap, throat tight, she looked down at me with those aqua eyes, shook her head, and began singing the song, clear and strong.

Reprieve

2010-11-30T06:00:00.000-06:00

I sit here with over 30 posts in my drafts. I just have so much swirling around in my head, yet...I sit here, fingers poised softly on the keys...doing nothing.

There are words boiling over, waiting to burst....ideas, hopes, dreams, pleas, accusations, worries, prayers....

Yet I sit here in silence, waiting for the storm to pass, the anger to subside, the pain to dissipate. I hold on to the open smiles, the soft touches, the genuine laughs, the kind whispers, the looks of hope.

Music Lover Monday

2010-11-29T06:00:00.000-06:00

Just because.

To Hell with the Devil-Jim Bianco

Music Lover Monday-Heartfelt

2010-11-15T06:00:00.001-06:00

Death of Me-Tony Lucca

Shuffle, smirk

2010-11-11T06:00:00.000-06:00

She shuffles down the hall, stopping just beyond the threshold of my office. I look up from my work and smile at the sight:
Her hair is a fuzzy mess, with a silly cowlick at her crown. Her glasses are on straight, but they are smudged. She wears a pretty cross around her neck, hanging where her breasts should be. Her shirt is clean, but seems a bit sloppy. Her pants are loose, hands in her pockets. I say good morning, and she looks surprised.
She shuffles in and takes a seat across from me. I ask her silly little questions, and she gives silly little answers. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think she has a sense of humor, and she's poking at me. I could be wrong though. No matter.
After I run out of questions, we sit in silence. It seems comfortable to her, but I squirm.
I go back to my work, glancing up every few minutes. She is focused at something outside the window, but glances over at me with a smirk.
With a grunt, she stands up, shoves her hands back in her pockets, and walks out of my office. As she steps into the hallway, she glances back, catching my eye.
That is all.
I see her numerous times throughout the day, wandering through the halls, entering other residents' rooms, curling up in a chair in the living room. I don't know if she knows where she is, what year it is......but she walks with purpose. I don't see the purpose, I don't understand it, but I know it's there, for her.
Each night as I leave the building, I think of her, shuffling down the hall with that little smile on her face. I think about my own purpose, my own steps, my hands shoved in my pockets, my own wandering. I wonder if I elude that sense of purpose. I wonder if the smile on my face fools everyone. I wonder if it fools me.

Etsy is a weakness for me

2010-11-10T06:00:00.001-06:00

Earlier this year I went on a teeny tiny Etsy shopping spree. I've been trying my hardest not to go batshit crazy now that I have a job. So far, I haven't even gone on Etsy, but I'm not sure I can hold on much longer. Must.browse.etsy.sooooooooooooooon.

1. First, let's talk about this bag. My friend Tracey (Punkrockertracey) was in my aging class with me last Spring. I walked in and almost fell over when I saw her bag. I did fall over when I found out she made it! So, I paid her to have my own. And I LOVE it. I use it alllll the time.

She doesn't have anything in her shop right now, but check back often! If you like the bag, let me know, and I can hook you up with her and she will make one of your very own!

2. Next, please go to Fully Hooked and check out the beautiful work. I bought this cherry blossom ring:

And these bobby pins:

Her stuff is gorgeous, and I will definitely be making future purchases!

3. I bought this wallet from Batwa.The fabric selections are drop dead gorgeous.

4. Lireca made this cute pouch that I used at the restaurant. Now I use it when I don't feel like carrying a purse. My lip gloss, blackberry, cash, and license fit just perfect, and I attach my keys. PERFECT. And super cute. I apparently don't have the 'license' to post the picture here, so here's hoping the link works. Sigh.

Now it's your turn! Show me what you have bought recently that you adore!

Music Lover Monday-Sexy

2010-11-08T06:00:00.002-06:00

Mmmmmmm, this song. Yum.

I got a thing for you-Jim Bianco

DoT #2-Something I love about myself

2010-11-05T06:00:00.000-05:00

There are actually many things I love about myself, although several of them are also double-edged swords: they are great but they also suck. You'll see what I mean.

-I am empathetic...sometimes to a fault.
-I am giving...sometimes to a fault.
-I am determined.
-I am imperfect. I freely admit this. I am proud of my imperfection.
-I have big dreams for myself and my family.
-I am liberal.
-I love my family so much, and will fuck you up if you hurt any of them.
-I am laidback, and enjoy simple things, like spending a solid hour on the couch with someone I care about, or reading a good book.
-I love to try new things.
-I have high expectations for myself, and even for others, but I give others the benefit of the doubt. Meaning, I don't expect people to be at the top of their game all the time. I don't expect perfection. I don't hold people's mistakes or faults or weaknesses against them.
-I am intelligent and I love to learn.
-I am sensitive. I am emotional. I am outspoken about these things. I am honest about my feelings. I wear my heart on my sleeve.
-I love to laugh.
-I have a wonderful sense of humor, and I use it to my advantage when I can. I use it when others are in pain or uncomfortable situations. I use it to smooth things over in crappy situations at work.
-I am unselfish and forgiving and helpful and hopeful and sincere.
-I have hope for others. I have hope for this fantastic human race. That it's not all bullshit, that we aren't all selfish and evil, that there are others out there like me, who give a shit, and will do what is right for the future of our children.
-I love with my whole being, even when it hurts me. Even when I don't want to. Even when I see that it isn't healthy or right or good for me, I love.

I want to teach my daughter that these are good qualities to possess, to aspire to. Redeeming, sincere, wonderful, admirable. That none of these qualities are anything to be ashamed of. That she doesn't need to feel guilty or apologetic or less than.

To teach her this, I have to believe it.
I am working on this. I am working on me.
I am worth it.
And she is definitely worth it.

Heavily worn

2010-11-02T06:00:00.001-05:00

I've discussed this guilt thing here, this emotion that takes over my soul at times, has become another organ inside my body, like my heart or my lungs, but so much less necessary. And as I type this, I know I'm kidding no one when I say "at times".

My memory reaches far back into my childhood, and even back then, there's the tiniest whisper of guilt in some of my earliest memories. It walked with me to school, sharing my footsteps. It spooned with me in bed at night, stealing the covers and making me sweat.

When I felt jealousy towards my foster siblings? Guilt was right there, strangling.
When I felt overwhelmed and confused by my mother's strokes? Guilt held my hand.
Joy at my brother's 2 year old face lighting up when I came home from school? Guilt pinched the soft inside of my arm.
Rage towards my father for so many things? Guilt coursed through these veins.
Even in sleep, where unrealized desires and unspoken words prevail, guilt hung like a fog around my face.

Now:

Guilt for not being strong enough to give total forgiveness.
Guilt at not being able to force myself to learn to love-again- someone who broke me. Guilt at the rage I feel towards him for this.
Guilt for blaming him.
Guilt when I ease into bed next to my girl, watching her chest rise and fall, knowing I haven't done the best job.
Guilt that I'm breaking her, unwittingly, with my actions now.
Guilt when I hate life, even if for a few minutes.
Guilt at being frustrated with those that are trying to help.
Guilt when I find some joy in my days, selfish or not.
Guilt when I cry, when I ache, when I sleep in to avoid all of this.
Guilt when I wake up in the middle of the night, and for one split second, think I'm back in our first house, where things were fresh and frustrating but mixed with love and hope. Guilt that I can't bring that back, that I can't fix what I didn't break.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Learning to let go is hard. Learning to say goodbye to someone who has been gone from my life for awhile is painful. Moving on and finding happiness outside of the one person I thought I would be with until my dying day? Unbelievably rough.

And this guilt, this itchy wool coat a few sizes too small, makes it almost impossible to breathe another day.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-10-20T07:00:00.001-05:00

Where I go to clear my head, which lasts a few minutes until Max lies down in the middle of this pretty scene and proceeds to attack a dead fish.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-10-13T09:56:00.000-05:00

My lemon tree, which has been growing lemons all summer (and YUM!) but this is the first one that actually turned yellow!

Meet Ms. Fuzz E. Head

********
Go check out this post by Nichole and this post. Both inspired by my Weight of Tears post. They are both wonderful writers, and these posts are touching.
I will be back tomorrow to talk about something that was sparked by Nichole's post. I know I've been silent thus far this week.....got a ton on my mind, and I just want to sleep or be outside, but I'm not leaving this space, that's for damn sure. : )

exposed desire

2010-10-08T07:00:00.003-05:00

The last of your kind-
A gentle soul with a wild streak.
I lie in the crook of your arm,
my fingertips playing morse code on the edge of your naked hip,
lips brushing your chest for the sake of the taste.
Your words muffled in my hair,
Your breath on my temple.
I try to burn the feeling of our legs intertwined,
into my heart, and
Your warm palm carefully cupping my bare ass.

You will skillfully make my skin weep,
and then you'll be gone...
I will be left,
too soon,
with a single memory:
the ghost of your tongue
           trailing along my spine
lingering
      around the curve of my neck
ending in a sea of desire-
your lips crashing into mine:
salt water waves eroding rough rock,
               leaving behind smooth sand.

A perfectly suited name

2010-10-06T15:20:00.000-05:00

She is terminal. Almost 20 years ago she had one of the worst cancers possible (how can anyone say one cancer is worse than another? I don't know. But...), causing her to have a total hysterectomy and lose half of her small bowel. Her husband left.
She drove herself to the hospital when she discovered her pants full of blood.
Her husband never returned.

Now.
Now she is here. She survived that, so surely she can survive this. This rectal cancer. This painful, invisible EVIL that is causing her so much pain. Now, on top of it all: burns all over the lower portion of her body, from the chemo.

I am to discuss her options with her. She is not frail at all, only thin. I am taken in by her strength as soon as I cross the threshold of her room. She is in a hospital gown, pulling on sweatpants.

"Have a seat, but first help me with this." So matter-of-fact.

I help her pull her sweatpants up, find a loose shirt. She pulls her gown off, not needing my help, but allowing it. There is a spot on her lower back: red, raw, newly infected. I touch the area ever-so-slightly.

"How does it look today?"

I tell her what I see. She nods. Smiles.

She shows me these gauzy type of disposible underwear that the hospital gave her, just like the ones they gave me after having my daughter. She asks me to find out where she can get them. They are the only things that don't hurt, but tells me "If I can't buy a case, I'll just go commando."

I laugh as my eyes fill with tears. I sit in the chair as she settles onto the edge of her bed, haphazardly leaning on her left hip.

"Please don't cry."

I tell her I won't. But I sorta am. I close my eyes, pushing the vision of her lower back out of my mind.

"My name is Ms. Noble. What is yours?"
I tell her. She smiles.

So. Options.

"Here's my only option, in my head: I am going home. I don't want any more treatment. I want to go home and read and clean my house and sit in my backyard and spend time with my friends and family and I will be damned if I am going to wait for death to show up. Death will have to wait for me."

My eyes fill again, and she begins to giggle. Chimes in a soft breeze.

I discuss the option of hospice, and of a home health agency coming into her home to meet any needs she has. She is polite-she listens and nods in all the right places.

Yet.

She asks to be discharged. She wants to go home. I can't argue with that. I won't.

She reaches across this space between us, this span of 30 years, of health & disease, of faith & fear, and places her hand on my arm. Strength and bravery are transmitted through her cold fingertips.

"You won't argue with me. I know it."

Three days later, she is walking down the hallway on her own. She lights up when she sees me.

"I have a case of those disposible undies in my room. Thank you for finding them!"

I tell her it was the central supply lady who found them.

"I am going home tomorrow."

I tell her I had nothing to do with that either. She made the decision. And I tell her I am happy for her. I ask her what she will do first, when she gets home.

"I will put on my favorite pajama pants and T-shirt, grab a favorite book, make my favorite drink, and go sit out in my backyard. I will enjoy life. I will not feel pain. I will not be afraid."

Her favorite book: To Kill A Mockingbird. Drink: A mimosa.

I walk with her back to her room, talking about books and drinks and gardens and death. I tell her I am struck by her bravery. Again: chimes in a soft breeze.

She runs her hands through her peach-fuzz head of hair.

"There's no bravery. Only love. Life. Faith."

An embrace. A smile full of light. Chimes in a final, soft breeze.

I think of Ms. Noble when I want to curl up in my bed and cry. When I want to turn away from the pain. When I wish for someone to take the discomfort of life away from me, just for a second.

I think of her, and know that I can do this. I can handle this.
I will learn to laugh like windchimes, and push the fear & pain away.

SQUEEEEEEE!

2010-10-06T11:43:00.002-05:00

Full intentions of posting something of substance, but uhhhh......

I JUST GOT OFFERED A JOB! W/ BENEFITS! AND GOOD PAY! AND....ZOMG!

Music Lover Monday-New sexy-voice music

2010-10-04T01:01:00.000-05:00

MMmmmmm, I like this guys' voice. Yum.
You're welcome.

Try-Josh Hoge

(Sorry, Alan. I know you don't care about the sexy voice. *shrugs shoulders*)

Dog days

2010-10-01T07:00:00.000-05:00

I live in a house with 3 dogs: my old lady dog (Daisy), my crazy-I-think-he-shoots-Red-Bull-&-coffee-when-I'm-not-looking boxer (Max), and my sister's humps-anything-that-makes-any-rash-movements Yorkie (Frank). The combination is simeltaneously hilarious and absolute torture.

5:00am-Max is turning tight circles in his crate at approximately 25 mph. The sound of his nails on the plastic bottom of the crate can be heard 2 blocks over.
5:05am-Daisy wakes from the dead and hobbles to my mother's room.
5:07am-After the hobbling, she puts her head on the edge of the bed and begins a deep-throat whine. Also? She basically wiggles the entire time, since she cannot keep her weight on all 4 legs at the same time. Shuffle-switch-shuffle-switch. Oh, and THUMP THUMP THUMP: her tail hitting the wall as she wags away.
5:10am-My mom gets up & lets Daisy out, who barely makes it off the porch before she pops a squat and pees.
5:12am-Still peeing.
5:13am-Still peeing.
5:14am-Mom lets Daisy in. Frank shows up out of nowhere, wanting to go out. Daisy in; Frank out.
5:17am-Frank in.
5:18am-Max is still furiously turning circles in his crate. We avoid letting him out toooooo early because....well, you'll see.
5:20am-Daisy is hobbling in front of the empty food dish. This is probably the most alert she is all damn day. Actually, not probably but for sure, without a doubt.
5:21am-Mom fills the dog bowls.
5:24am-Mom bends down to unlock Max's crate, hoping to prepare for the upcoming clusterfuck by standing on her heels only.
5:24:01am-Max tears ass out of the crate like a racing horse out of it's chute, crashing into my mother's legs, barely missing her feet, pounces up on the couch, takes off of the pillows on the couch, and careens towards the back door. Frank has decided that he CANNOT handle Max's energy level, so he is going to go all alpha dog on Max.
5:24:30am-Frank flies out of the kitchen and yap yap yaps at Max's face. He actually gets Max's big jowls several times a week.
5:25am-My mom makes her way through the alpha dog debacle to the back door, and shoos them out.
5:30am-The 2 males are done pissing on each other's pissing spots in the backyard. Max is either oblivious to the alpha dog debacle, or doesn't give a shit (I'm going with option #2). He just wants to PLAY.
5:31am-All 3 dogs are now in the kitchen, where Daisy has managed to snarf down 2 bowls of dog food in less than 5 minutes. Fantastic. Max sniffs tentatively towards the bowls, and Daisy goes all alpha dog on his ass: snotting, growling, snarling, drooling, snapping.
5:32am-Max takes this as a sign of "OH YAY! She wants to PLAAAAAAAAAY!" And goes ape-shit in the house.
5:33am-Daisy lies down in front of the empty dog dishes, and glares at Max as he bounds through the house at warp speed.
5:34am-Frank is done eating the leftovers, and has decided that Max is just too damn hyper. Again with the biting of the jowls. Max continues to think Frank is playing.
5:35am-Frank is now too excited for his own good, and begins trying to hump Max, who in turn thinks Frank is playing a new game.
5:36am-Frank moves on to Daisy: "Ooooo, old lady dog that doesn't fight me when I try to hump!" Except, he forgot that she is the most alert this first hour of her day, and she turns on him, doing the snotting, growling, snarling, drooling, snapping thing.
5:36:30am-Frank takes off for my sister's room, to lick his wounds (just injured pride, as Daisy doesn't really actually get him).
5:37am-7:00am-Max stands at my closed door and SNIFF SNIFF SNIFFSNIFFSNIFF 's. When the sniffing doesn't work, he begins talking and whining. And scratching on the door. Just 2 scratches at a time: Scratch-scratch. whine. talk. whine. sniffsniffsniffsniffsniffsniff
7:01am-I open my door and tell him to shut the hell up. If I let him in, he bounces on the bed & pisses off my girl. So I try to avoid that until she is up and dressed. However, Frank always sneaks in & then STARES AT ME while I brush my teeth. Wth??
7:02am-Max is put off by not being allowed in the room, so he bounces his ass through the house, tongue hanging out with a smile on his sweet face, and goes to torture my mother and sister as they are getting ready for work and school. He jumps on their beds, nips at their feet and hands, jumps up on them, licks random body parts, and then begins digging in the bathroom trashcan.
When he drags out all the trash, my mom locks him in his crate, where he begins the tight circles in his crate again.
8:20am-When I get home from dropping my girl off at school, I let him out and he takes off around the house again. He refuses to go out in the backyard. Daisy is now laid out in her usual spot in the middle of the living room, nose running, snoring loudly. She is oblivious to most of Max's antics all damn day long.
8:30am-I take Max for a walk, where he pulls me the entire time, and stops approximately 1000 times in the 45 minutes we are out. He also marks his territory on the same damn branches, corners, and bushes every day. Why?? So annoying.
9:15am-We are back from the walk. Max's tongue is almost touching the ground, but he is STILL NOT WORN OUT. He drinks a gallon of water. Daisy doesn't even know we have been gone. Frank? Has barked the ENTIRE time we were gone. He was in his crate, and he is covered in his own slobber from barking furiously at our absence.

I don't even have the energy to tell you what the rest of the day is like, but seriously? All fucking day I am letting them out, letting them in, yelling at Frank to stop staring at me while I'm on the computer, yelling at Max to stop getting into every fucking thing, and Daisy just snores away.

At night, I take Max for a walk. Yet, every night, at about 10:30pm, he stands at the back door and talks to me. But when I open the door, he backs away. Actually, lately he has taken to running into his crate when I open the back door. What the hell, dog? This is where I am done with his cute personality and I yell at him to get the hell outside or shut the hell up, or I chase him around the house in the hopes that I can chase him out the back door. My exercise for the day.

Then he comes back in, and tears around the house again, bouncing on and off of furniture, knocking over shit, trying to get into my sister's room, and just batshit crazy. Daisy? Still asleep, with my feet rubbing her side. Frank? He has ran around trying to alpha dog Max into shutting the f- up. When he fails at this, he then begins to try to hump everyone and everything. When he fails at this, he jumps up in my mom's lap, where he pants disgusting dog breath in her face. Then she pushes him off the couch, and he hides under my bed.
Finally I convince Max to get up on the couch between my mom and I.
Then? He lies there and farts the most disgusting dog farts ever.
All with a smile on his face.
These f-ing dogs run our house.

The weight of tears

2010-09-30T07:00:00.001-05:00

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."
Oh. Well.
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.
Silence.

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:

"Thank you."

*****
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.

Then:

"The weight of this is too much alone. Thank you for being with me."

30 DoT->Hate is a strong word

2010-09-29T15:50:00.000-05:00

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.

Bah.

And this, folks, is why I am a walking contradiction.
Full of guilt.

30 Days of Truth

2010-09-29T07:00:00.002-05:00

Okay, I saw this on JennyGracewhatsherbutt's blog, who got it from Avitable, who got it from this person or this person or this person or this person, or...shit, I don't even know. I clicked on his links, which led to other people saying they got it from other people, and well, here we are. I even saw cute little buttons on Homesick Cajun's blog, but I still don't know if she created this, or if any of the little buttons really are specific to the challenge, or. Well, whatever.

Copy and paste if you like it; apparently there are about 4000 of us who already have. :) Whoever invented these writing prompts, thank you! You are a genius!

And because I am bored and jobless and going batshit crazy in a house with 3 dogs and not enough sugar, I created a damn button/badge thing for it. I don't even know. Just go with it, okay?

Button/badge:

So, yeah. I didn't say I was a button/badge-making genius, did I?

Ahem.

Actual prompts:

Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.

Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.

Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.

Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.

Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.

Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.

Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.

Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.

Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.

Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.

Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.

Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.

Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)

Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)

Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it

Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.

Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.

Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.

Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?

Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.

Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?

Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.

Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.

Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)

Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.

Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?

Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?

Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?

Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.

Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

I'm going to start this weekend, and work it in between my other posts.

There you have it.

Blue days, black nights

2010-09-28T00:38:00.000-05:00

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.
Irate.
Weak.
Smothered.

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.

Music Lover Monday-For my sister

2010-09-27T07:00:00.001-05:00

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.

Neon Trees-Animal

Ten for Today

2010-09-23T07:00:00.003-05:00

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
dying silently,
cupped in the palm of your hands.

Unknotted

2010-09-22T07:00:00.007-05:00

The lifestrings of you and I
Were intended to merge
and tangle...

First:
Carefully designed to
curve and twist independently
of one another
Each full & rich with hope & promise,
Centered by a common thread.

Then:
A crash-course knot in arms and legs,
limbs and lips,
love and lust,
Left us bruised and bitten,
A knot we both desired.

Now:
You are freed from this thin thread
and
I
am left,
          shredded
    and
frayed,
my ends frazzled,
     my arms outstretched
          towards you,
retreating back into my dreams.

Don't judge me

2010-09-21T07:00:00.003-05:00

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.....

deep breaths.

-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??

Ahem.

-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....

Yeah, so....there.

Music Lover Monday-Another great Amazon.com find

2010-09-20T07:30:00.005-05:00

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.

Dark out all your demons with white noise, pills, and Jesus

And when I get down I just turn off the lights
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

Just listen.

unfinished and untitled

2010-09-17T16:06:00.000-05:00

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....
and failing.

Waiting
and
wanting
feel the same to me lately.

I am fixed and frozen

in a swirl of change-

dragged

and damaged along the way-

I am no good at this.

Strangled

2010-09-16T14:36:00.000-05:00

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.

Most days.

Today is not one of those days.

Today:
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.
Again.
Fuck.

I know it won't last long...maybe just for today this time.
But this day? It will last forever.
This day?
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...

not today.

Things you can learn at my house in a very small amount of time

2010-09-15T07:00:00.001-05:00

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.

21. This word makes us giggle like 12 year old boys.

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.

23. It's a bad picture, but it makes us giggle anyway.

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?

Music Lover Monday-Sexy RAWR

2010-09-13T07:30:00.001-05:00

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.

Teetering

2010-09-10T13:04:00.000-05:00

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.
Yes.
I am still breathing.

Your couch

2010-09-02T08:00:00.002-05:00

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?

I took a path, maybe unintended, and it was gorgeous in spite of the pain along the way. And this entire time, all these years, I've never thought of the life, trust, love, contentment, and peace in that moment between us, when dawn arrived, warming our faces.

As my path takes a new turn, I yearn for all of that again.

When words fail

2010-09-01T08:00:00.003-05:00

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.

Head over to....

2010-08-27T13:07:00.000-05:00

I guest posted over at @VampireSmitten's blog today. Go over to Eight Days A Week if you are so inclined. :) Be back Monday!!!

The Butterfly Circus

2010-08-24T14:26:00.000-05:00

My love for independent films keeps growing. Enjoy.

raw and undone

2010-07-30T08:00:00.000-05:00

i smell of seaweed-salted waves
and last night's sleep.
sifting sand with fingers and toes
searching for dreams
somebody stole.
time ebbs and flows
-clouds overcast-
my skin covered with your body's steam
-waves play the soundtrack to my soul
and wipe the past clean.

These days

2010-07-29T07:00:00.001-05:00

Exhaustion is setting in
As I stand with outstretched arms
I bear my scars
4 times over.
You laugh when it hurts
But I'm turning on you
I can't believe this has become the life I lead:
Old wounds with fresh marks
Make up my days.

Why?
Why?
There are no answers
just raw words full of jagged edges
and empty promises.

The writing of words

2010-07-28T00:58:00.001-05:00

I read this post by Schmutzie yesterday, and it pulled on my heartstrings. The poem. The words. The honesty. Her process of writing poetry.
I write every day. On a notebook in my jeep in traffic. In my planner. On scraps of paper I find in my purse. On my notebook during class. I open new files on my computer and jot down ideas. I wake up with words running through my mind, echoing from my dreams. I start writing, and sometimes I just let it flow, not worrying about the rhymes or the stanzas or any of the proper English-major shit. Other times, I try too hard, trying to make it fit and flow and ebb with the beat of my heart. But I think what matters is I TRY. I don't give up. And if I never get published, and no one else likes my poetry, I can at least say I was true to myself, true to my passion. (Although, wouldn't it be great to be published??)

I'm learning how to just BE these days. How to be comfortable in my own skin, despite the discomfort. How to be okay with not knowing what I want, where I'm going, what's going to happen in the near future, or the distant future.

Writing helps me. While I don't post much here anymore (which is soooo about to change! In *15* days I will be DONE w/ my master's degree and I will be posting here REGULARLY!!), I write every day with the hopes that I will look down at the page in my lap and see words that give me some peace, some insight, some hidden answer to the mess inside my head these days.

There is no logic to some things in life, I think I've discovered. There's only the way we handle these things in life, the meaning we make and take from these things, the happiness and peace we find despite these things. When I write, I feel the pieces within myself fit together perfectly. When I write, I have that happiness and peace.

I am not afraid of being judged. I am not afraid of being accepted. I am not afraid of being rejected. I am not afraid of being read or not read or misunderstood or ridiculed or hurt or broken. I just AM.

Music Lover Monday-The mainstream-ish song stuck in my head

2010-07-19T08:30:00.002-05:00

I've been told several times the past couple of weeks that I only listen to "mainstream" stuff. Well, maybe I sorta do. I know there's some stuff on my ipod that isn't mainstream too, but whatever. So, here's a mainstream-ish song that has been stuck in my head for, ummmmm, several days? Just over a week? Enjoy (I know I am)!

Pictures (read: the lazy blogger's way of getting back in the game)(the blogging game, that is)

2010-06-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

This girl makes my day:

He is the reason mothers eat their young:

Finally meeting Alan was awesome!:

My sister and I at my graduation:

The sky is amazing:

I adore little kid feet in Converse:

We found bunnies under the slide!:

I hate my expression, but omg, Melody's? Awesome.:

I love my crabby brother:

She is growing up far too fast for me:

No words needed:

Do you SEE what my sister's dog is doing to my old lady dog?? He is taking advantage of a disabled geriatric!!!:

We are STRRRRRONG:

Graduation:

Music Lover Monday-The things I tell myself

2010-06-14T08:00:00.008-05:00

Young girl don’t cry

I’ll be right here when your world starts to fall

Young girl it’s alright

Your tears will dry, you’ll soon be free to fly

When you’re safe inside your room you tend to dream

Of a place where nothing’s harder than it seems

No one ever wants or bothers to explain

Of the heartache life can bring and what it means

Chorus:

When there’s no one else, look inside yourself

Like your oldest friend just trust the voice within

Then you’ll find the strength that will guide your way

You’ll learn to begin to trust the voice within

Young girl don’t hide

You’ll never change if you just run away

Young girl just hold tight

Soon you’re gonna see your brighter day

Now in a world where innocence is quickly claimed

It’s so hard to stand your ground when you’re so afraid

No one reaches out a hand for you to hold

When you look outside look inside to your soul

Chorus

Life is a journey

It can take you anywhere you choose to go

As long as you’re learning

You’ll find all you’ll ever need to know

(be strong)

You’ll break it

(hold on)

You’ll make it

Just don’t forsake it because

No one can tell you what you can’t do

No one can stop you, you know that I’m talking to you

Chorus

Young girl don’t cry I’ll be right here when your world starts to fall

Loss

2010-06-09T08:30:00.001-05:00

On an usual day at my internship, I was doing the usual things. I walked into a familiar room to ask the usual questions of a new resident. Mrs. M was lying in bed, staring at the wall. She was polite, efficiently answering my questions. And then I said the wrong thing, she corrected me, and my heart got stuck in my throat.
I had been told she was married, and had lived at home with her husband prior to falling and breaking her leg. True.
But 3 days into her stay, her husband died.
He kissed her goodbye after a visit, told her he would be back in the morning, walked outside, collapsed and died in the parking lot.
I didn't know.
And I was faced with realizing that I had said something that made this stranger cry, sob, shake. I had said something that hurt her.
She proceeded to tell me that she didn't go to the funeral. She couldn't bring herself to do it. She said she knew I thought she was an awful person for that. I disagreed.
"I know my limits. I knew I couldn't do that. I knew seeing him in a coffin would break me. I don't want to break."
I apologized, but she insisted that she didn't mind talking about it, with tears running down her face.
I tried not to cry, I really did.
Now I see her every day and we talk. And she tells me that she is thankful that I came into her room that day, and listened to her talk about her husband.

Sometimes life isn't fair. Sometimes things happen, completely out of our control, nothing like we planned or could have ever imagined. No one plans to kiss their spouse goodbye and never see them again. No one plans to live 15 years after their spouse dies, and still feel the pang of the loss just the same as if it happened when the sun rose this morning.
Life throws shitty curveballs sometimes.
Her loss was tangible, palpable. It was sufficiating. Even now, I can feel it in my chest. It pulls on my face, weighs heavy on my shoulders.
I can identify with it. Can't we all, on some level?
Lately, loss seems to go hand-in-hand with lost. And fear. And rage. And hope. But mainly lost.

Complicated and confused

2010-06-08T08:00:00.003-05:00

It was a few days before Thanksgiving the day we moved into our last rent house, when the last home we owned flooded. I was determined to have Thanksgiving at my house, even though "my house" was now "4800 square foot home that soooo isn't mine". I was close to a professional at this packing/unpacking thing, but my mom was going to come over and help me focus on organizing the kitchen.
There was a knock at the front door.
Expecting my mom, I called out, "Come in!"
I heard the heavy door slide open, steps on the wood floor entry, and heavy breathing.
"Mom?"
No answer.
I walked around the corner to the entryway, practically colliding with an older woman, much shorter than I. As we came face-to-face, she said "Oh, I am lost".
Lost.
I had no idea who this woman was, but she was shaking like a leaf, fear like candlelight in her eyes, and she couldn't speak a full sentence. She carried her keys and was wearing a Kohls employee nametag.
It took a good 45 minutes to figure out how she had arrived in my temporary home. She was driving home from work, although I figured out that home for her was about 10 miles west of here. She took a wrong turn, got confused, and was then run off the road by a truck, ending up in our little neighborhood. My temporary home was the only house in a cul-de-sac in the back of the neighborhood. She didn't even recognize that we were just moving in; she couldn't tell me her name, her address, her phone number. Her cell phone was in her car, dead. Her purse: a wallet with no money, no license, a couple of crumpled tissues, a subscription bottle with one address, an envelope with another. I figured out that she lived with her adult daughter, that she was taking medication for dementia, that she had no idea where "home" was, let alone how to get there.
I talked with her, trying to calm her, telling her she was safe and everything would be okay. She continued to shake.
I called the police. They sent a very nice officer out, who was patient and understanding. He got a phone number for her daughter, who just seemed annoyed that her mother was lost again, rather than relieved that she was SAFE. The officer took her to both addresses. We let her car stay in our driveway until the next day. When I woke up the next morning, it was gone. I never heard from her or her daughter again.

She was lost. And while it sounds complicated and confusing, she simply found her way to my front door, walking in unannounced. Her path led her to safety, to a home where people are kind, caring, gentle. She was so confused, and there wasn't much I could do to sort things out for her, but I was able to calm her. I was able to tell her she had been found, however briefly it would last.

I find myself thinking of her lately, at the most random times. I woke the other night from a crappy dream, and her frail hands came to mind. I wonder how she is, if she still drives, if she still gets lost. I sympathize with her.

I feel lost. And while it certainly is complicated and confusing, I am trying to find my way to safety. I am trying to find things to calm me, ease my frustration and anxiety, guide me towards happiness and peace. There are days where this path feels endless-will I ever stop being lost? If I stay on this path, where will I turn at the next crossroads? What's the right thing to do? Will someone run me off my path, pull me in a wrong direction, distract me? There are days where I look in the mirror and see that fear reflected in my eyes like candlelight. I am out of control, topsy-turvy, barrelling through my days so I can fall into my cool sheets at night and fade into my dreams. The fear is overpowering, mindnumbing-I taste it like metal on my tongue. Concentration is impossible. Walking a straight line, carrying on a conversation-all impossible.
I want life to be easy. I want my path to lead to someone safe, warm, caring, kind. Someone who can tell me where to go, what to do, what path I'm meant to go down next. I want someone to hold my hand, calm me, whisper "It will be okay".
My mother does these things. And in my heart I know that I will be okay, no matter what. I know that things will work out, one way or another. It's the not knowing that is so hard. It's the not knowing what path to choose, what decisions to make...do I leap back in with a head full of trust? Do I hold my cards close to my heart?

For now, I try to swallow the terror threatening to boil over.
For now, I breathe in and out, slowly, deeply, focused.
For now, I focus on hope, on small joys, on that feeling of calm and peace I used to know.
For now, I accept being lost.

Unwanted absence

2010-06-02T08:00:00.001-05:00

Well hello there. Yes, yes, I am still alive. I haven't forgotten about any of you, and I really do miss you guys. I miss reading your blogs, I miss tweeting w/ you, I miss your comments here, I miss sharing a chunk of my heart with you here, pouring it out, letting it take it's own shape as it settles. I miss writing, like I miss my old man dog. It's always in the back of my head, always this ache in my soul, that I'm wasting valuable time, wasting these thoughts and words, when I should be writing them down, keeping them close.
My semester was full of so many experiences, things I never thought I would face. I love my internship-I feel so comfortable there, and am thankful I get to be there this summer too. I don't even want to think about having to leave there in August. My classes have been challenging, yet I have loved the challenge. My independent study...well, I sorta dropped the ball on that one, but still ended up with an A.
I'm embarking on uncharted territory, for me anyway. I am in a new place in my life, one that feels worn in, beat down, but somewhat familiar. I have so much going on in my head, stifling my words, my writing.
So I fill my head with music, that other thing that is so much me. My ipod is overflowing, and I just keep adding more and more and more......music has always been such a large part of my life, and I intend to keep it that way. It's getting me through this time, along with wonderful friends and the most amazing mother I could ever ask for.

There is no easy way to explain my absence, my mood, my lack of BEING THERE for wonderful people here online. I don't want to drop out of people's lives; I was not made to be a loner. But it's exactly what I've done, and for that I am sad. There are many of you going through things right now that I haven't been able to support you in, and I am sorry. Please know I am thinking of you, praying for you, and loving you from afar.

I WILL be back here. I hope you will too.

Last Tuesday

2010-04-20T07:00:00.001-05:00

I am on the rehab floor today. The social worker is on the phone when I arrive, and I hear her end of a conversation with a son, talking about his mother being upset here. When the social worker gets off the phone, she tells me that the man’s mother is in her 90’s, and is going blind due to macular degeneration. She is upset because people are treating her as though she is dumb or deaf. The social worker asks me to go visit with her about the grievance process and get her side of the story.

I knock softly on the closed door, my heart in my throat. I am not afraid to talk with the crankier residents; in fact, I usually enjoy them. But there’s always that initial anxiety about talking with a new person; I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with their age and everything to do with my own personality.

I hear a soft response to my knock, so I open the door. She is lying in bed, left arm draped over her forehead. She turns towards the door and smiles, looking at the door frame. I ask her if she would mind telling me what happened yesterday morning that upset her. She immediately puts me off, telling me it doesn’t matter, that she’s “an old bat of a lady anyway”, and no one will believe her. I take her hand in mine, surprised at the strength behind her grip, and tell her that I will believe her.

She points to three flower arrangements on her dresser, telling me that they were on the sliding table on the other end of the room. She stated that she asked the night shift CNA if she would mind moving them over to the dresser, since she gets up several times a night to go to the bathroom. She told me that the CNA told her that wasn’t in her job description. I shake my head and ask her “What did you say, Bessie?”

She laughs a full laugh and says “Well dear, I told her that she could move them or pick them up off the floor later when I knocked them over. And as you can see” (pointing at her dresser again),”She moved them.”

I begin to laugh, telling her she is one tough cookie, and I would do anything she says. She smiles, telling me she is not a “hard ass” but she knows when people are being disrespectful. She again tells me not to worry about the situation, but I assure her that I am worried because I don’t want her to be disrespected, and I don’t want this person to treat anyone else that way. She asks me to sit down.

I move to sit in the chair by the window and she stops me. She points to the edge of her bed and says “Sit”. So I sit on the edge of her bed. She pulls back the covers, and starts fumbling with her pants. I ask her what she needs, and with a wide grin she says, “I’m not sure if this is in your job description!” I crack up as she tells me she wants to know how her incision site is healing, as she just had several screws replaced in her hip. Within seconds she has her pants undone and is showing me her hip. She tells me she is going blind, and needs someone to tell her how it looks.

After she’s done flashing me (what is it with my luck here?), she asks me what I’m going to school for. She asks me about my experiences in social work so far. She tells me she studied music, and taught it for over 40 years. She tells me that she grew up on a farm just north of Denton, and found Native American Indian artifacts that she had framed. She talks about all the hard work she has done her entire life, and how her mother and father taught her that she deserves respect. She tells me she isn’t sure why she’s sharing all this, but she’s glad to talk with someone who isn’t trying to make her take a shower or go to the dining room.

One of the flower arrangements is roses. She tells me that she grows roses and tomatoes, and needs to get home to them soon; her son cut those roses and brought them for her. She says she has things to do, even if she is blind. I ask her what she can see, and she says that she sees colors and shapes of things. She asks me to lean into the light, and she tells me I have a beautiful shape. She pats my leg, and says she misses her music.

I turn the radio on for her, and we talk about so many things. One of her sons taught music as well, and has a local school named after him. She travelled with her husband to various Indian reservations, and has so much respect for them. She tells me that she played the piano and organ. And then she begins to cry.

She tells me that she was a chaplain for the county jail system for 17 years. She says that she was initially afraid, but that as soon as she walked through those gates the first time, she knew she was where she belonged. She says that if she hadn’t gone blind, she would still be going. She thinks of those men every day, and prays for them constantly. She asks me “Can you imagine being so lost and so trapped at the same time?” I shake my head, saying “You did a wonderful job of finding them.”

She asks me to open her top dresser drawer as she wipes away her tears. She asks me to grab a small box, which she takes from me. Inside is a harmonica, shiny, worn with love. She plays a hymn that sounds vaguely familiar. I am utterly amazed at the breath inside this woman, who is all of 95 lbs.

When she is done, she tells me she can see the music in her mind. She gingerly places the harmonica back in the box, asking me to put it back in her drawer, which I do.

She tells me: “I was always afraid that someone would hurt me in the jail. I had a feeling it would be some young punk who didn’t care for life, and I always wondered if the older men would stand up for me.”

“One day a young punk told me he was going to kill me. I stood my ground, telling him that wasn’t what needed to happen, when a man my son’s age stood up and told that punk to shut his mouth and leave me alone, that he was messing with God’s people.”

She tells me these men who did awful things were hungry for God, and she left the jail that day finally knowing that God was really working through her, putting love on these men’s hearts. She says that some of them called her “Mom” or “Grandma”. She begins to cry again, saying that she misses being there, and wishes she could have stayed longer.

After the hour-long conversation, I bid her a goodbye, explaining that I have to go to class. She asks, “Can you come back to speak with me? I have not had such good conversation since I went into the hospital.” I tell her that I would like that very much. She tells me she is leaving in 4 short days; she is excited. I feel my heart drop. I don’t want her to go, for my own selfish reasons.

The day before she is to discharge, I stop by her room. After knocking, I enter, where I find her lying in her bed with her arm thrown over her forehead. She turns to face me, and the recognition alights her face when I announce myself. She asks me about school again, how my week has been, if I am feeling okay. She grabs my hand as I kneel next to her bed.

“I had a dream about someone, and I think maybe it was you.” She asks me to stand by the window in her room, which I do without question. She squints and then her eyes widen.

“Oh yes, it was you.”

I ask her what the dream was about, and she tells me that the woman was lost, but had a strong voice, and she kept telling the woman to follow the sunshine. She laughs: “I must sound like a crazy woman.” I assure her she does not; I give great consideration to my dreams. I confide in her that I may indeed be lost right now, but I will definitely follow the sunshine, thanks to her. She laughs again, as her eyes fill.

I notice just how small her wrists are, and focus on the visible bones of her fingers. I tell her that I may sound like a crazy woman because I will miss her, although we have just met. This brings full tears for her, and then for me, and I am embarrassed, uncomfortable, yet- I’m not. She begins to laugh again, squeezes my hand, and says “Well we can be crazy together.”

She is anxious to get back to her roses and tomato plants. She tells me to drive carefully, and to take care of myself. I thank her again for her time, the sharing of her words and her life. I am sad to know that I will most likely never see her again. As I’m walking out the door, she says with laughter in her voice, “Oh, and please follow the sunshine!”

Music Lover Monday

2010-04-19T07:00:00.001-05:00

Does everyone want someone to feel like this about them? No? Just me? Well, listen anyway:

She is Love by Parachute

That day

2010-04-06T07:00:00.001-05:00

This in-between is killing me
Strangling my love,
                          my hope,
                          my light.
I am fighting the weakness,
          the weed of giving up,
Of stopping this unwanted fight.
The shit is old,
The silence: sick
Lying in the glow of the alarm clock
My throat is thick...
These words are filling up my mind,
Leaking down my arms into these hands
that defy me by wanting to still touch you.
I hear my heart in my dreams
It screams
    and rages
Cries
    and prays....
Hope is fading
As dawn breaks.

A Little Left of Lost

The one that never spoke

The Planets Bend Between Us

Snuggle bunny

Music Lover Monday: Perfect Picture

No Rest for the Weary

Music Lover Monday-On Friday

(No longer) For the taking-Part IV

Re-post: For the taking-Part III

Re-post: For the taking-Part II

Re-post: For the taking-Part 1

Knick Knack-Somebody to love

My girl

RemembeRED writing prompt-Worst memory

Lost

*This* is what I'm looking for

Pain

Music Lover Monday-Half-boyfriend

While I was gone

Music Lover Monday-Let the bitter continue

Music Lover Monday-Letting my bitter show

Music Lover Monday--I know, I know-it's Nicki Minaj

Playing the part

Music Lover Monday-They say, they say, they say.....

Music Lover Monday- Valentine's Day edition

Never give up hope

Apartment 122

Music Lover Monday-Clever trick

Heaven?

Dust to dust

Re-appearance

Music Lover Monday-This is for the douchebags....

Blessings louder than dreams

Free

Music Lover Monday

Music Lover Monday-on Tuesday-Home Video Version

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

Reprieve

Music Lover Monday

Music Lover Monday-Heartfelt

Shuffle, smirk

Etsy is a weakness for me

Music Lover Monday-Sexy

DoT #2-Something I love about myself

Heavily worn

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

exposed desire

A perfectly suited name

SQUEEEEEEE!

Music Lover Monday-New sexy-voice music

Dog days

The weight of tears

30 DoT->Hate is a strong word

30 Days of Truth

Blue days, black nights

Music Lover Monday-For my sister

Ten for Today

Unknotted

Don't judge me

Music Lover Monday-Another great Amazon.com find

unfinished and untitled

Strangled

Things you can learn at my house in a very small amount of time

Music Lover Monday-Sexy *RAWR*

Teetering

Your couch

When words fail

Head over to....

The Butterfly Circus

raw and undone

These days

The writing of words

Music Lover Monday-The mainstream-ish song stuck in my head

Pictures (read: the lazy blogger's way of getting back in the game)(the blogging game, that is)

Music Lover Monday-The things I tell myself

Loss

Complicated and confused

Unwanted absence

Last Tuesday

This is what I'm looking for

Music Lover Monday-Sexy RAWR