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11:05 p.m. - 12/21/02
international i-love-tracy day.
I feel weird...like I need to write something important. Like I need to talk about it, but not because it's on my mind. Just because it's what I'm supposed to do. I forget that some anniversaries are like this. I forget that I didn't even know this time last year. I forget that outside it feels like April, and you'd never guess it's nearly Christmas Eve, just the way I never would have guessed that so soon after I hugged her goodbye, I'd never be able to again. I felt like I should have called Sara today, too, since we didn't talk in the past few days as planned. I know she probably tried to call, and we just didn't connect. I did actually dial her once, about an hour before I left for the doctor, just to check in, but no one answered. I feel bad in some ways, like I should have been there for her, especially today, but I guess that isn't accurate. I mean, I need to be there for me, too. She has other people. Though I know how important it is to have other people who know the girl you're crying over. And I do want to talk to her soon. Next few days. Tomorrow maybe.

It would help to get my voice back first. I have a cold, and even the vast supply of oranges isn't helping. I think I od-ed on oranges back in the atomgirl days, but today they sound like total magic. Oranges, soup...what more could a girl ask for (other than the ability to talk or breathe?) Funny how a cold supplies a microcosm of my personal development.

Anyway. The morning was fairly decent, which was kind of disturbing. I felt ok in the morning. I sat with the new dog, and I crocheted a little with the particular scheen which (after a bit of post-purchase anxiety) I really do recognize as one she used. I did freak out about the fact that I hadn't called Sara, especially since plans were being made to pick up Joe, and drive him back here, which would keep me out until at least seven or eight. Not that I couldn't call her then, but I hated the idea of her wanting to talk and not getting me when she called. I wasn't sure if I would want to go out after the appointment anyway, or if I'd prefer a night at home with the dog and on the phone. Post-therapy plans are always difficult, and today was not an exception by any means. After yesterday, I expected I'd either want to crawl into a closet and cry, or go out for a night on the town where I wouldn't have to think. I felt guilty about the latter, but I knew it might be true. And I guess I know that I have plenty of days to grieve, even though I only have one first-year. I guess I know that I'll cry plenty of days with no numerical significance because of what has happened. And I imagine Tracy wouldn't choose to stay in on a Saturday night giving the option, but one never knows.

After mad planning sessions, Sarah and I ended up in a car together driving into the city for my appointment. We ended up being about fifteen minutes late, which I knew could only mean that the doctor would be on time, as he never is otherwise. Luckily, Sarah was meeting John at the building where I see the doctor, and John had run into said doctor and told him we were running just a little late. And then when I went in and knocked lightly on his door, I apologized for being late, and he told me it was fine; he usually keeps me waiting much longer- which was a nice way to put it. I think I'm a little sensitive to kindness these days. What? A kind word? A gentle touch? When Sarah got in yesterday, I kept going up and hugging her, and I was in total shock. Because I never have people in my house that I can just grab around the waist or shoulder. I never have people who do the same with me. And I do right now, and it's weird, and it's wonderful. I want it much.

That's actually what we started the session talking about: what I want my life to be. Somehow we ended up talking about my oldest brother, Dale, and how he's building this life where he lives in the suburbs, has 2.5 kids, a wife, and a job in advertising- the sort of life that would make me want to take a running leap off a high cliff. He asked if it wasn't the difference between Dale and me so much as my (justifiable) lack of enthusiasm about the female role in that situation. I hadn't thought of that, really, but as he pointed out being the guy in the fifties world (if you're like my brother and actually want to be) is very different than being the girl. It's kind of like the opposite of what happened to my dad: my dad felt pressure to be the provider from the fifties world he grew up in, but he actually wanted to be the housewife. Ok, maybe not the housewife. But he didn't want to be the dominant figure in the household. I was completely confused by the studies on family dynamics in households with high occurences in eating disorders, until I realized that the roles were switched here. Anyway, none of this is all that important. We talked about the traditional male role and the traditional female role, and how I didn't want them, and I tried to explain what I did want, as little as I know about it. I want to be loved. I want supportive relationships with people who are close by. I want my own space, but I don't want it to be all that vast. I told him about Cameron's plan to build a dormitory for adults, since everyone seems to want it so badly, and how I'm completely primed to move in. I told him that I don't want to have kids, a statment the entire world responds to with, "Oh, but you're seventeen. I mean, it's good that you don't want to have kids right now, but you will eventually." Granted, that could be accurate, but it's still condescending as hell. Even Silje was surprised when I told her I don't want to have kids. Be an aunt? Spoil them for a week or two a year? Have a fraction of the joy in exchange for a fraction of the responsibility? Ok. I can handle that. But the idea of having and/or raising children makes me grimace. I imagine a child who feels about me the way I've felt about my parents. And I've talked about childbirth here, I think. My view of carrying a child (which would almost require me to have sex, another important point) is somewhat similar to my sister's view of organ donation: this is my body. It's one area in which I can be selfish.

That doesn't sway me on organ donation at all, but it does articulate how I feel, in part, about having kids. I think I'd feel invaded, having a child in me, the same way I'd feel invaded by sex. The same way I've felt invaded many times over, in my body. I don't know where those feelings came from, but they're there, and they're real, and I don't want to magnify them. I can't imagine guiding someone through life that way. Forming relationships as binding, perhaps. I think part of what seems so odd to me about kid-having is that the kid would have no say. The idea of establishing a life-long relationship with someone I don't know, no matter how much I would love them or they me, just seems bizarre. Which I know is bizarre in the scheme of tradition. But like I said before, tradition and I don't get along much.

I avoided the relationship part of the aspiration fairly thoroughly. I said something about wanting close relationships, mentiong that I'm not sure whether that means one exclusive relationship or just a lot of people that I'm close to. I said something about the idea of marriage being somewhat awful to me also, and I can't imagine ever being married, even if I could be (a statement mostly intended to keep him from going down any Mary and boy thoughts in his head.) And later we talked about how my disinterest in the traditional path contributed to my inability to understand the traditional high school social scene- for instance, my friends insistence that I date my close (male) friends. It went along fairly smoothly, and then he said something about how a person's desire for sexual experimentation can push them toward dating also, and if for whatever reason, a person isn't interested in that- it's been traumatic, they aren't ready, whatever else- they might not move into dating at that point either. I just sort of froze on the couch, nodding and unable to speak for a reason entirely unrelated to my cold. After about a minute he said to me that he felt like we'd been driving and hit a speed bump, and I smiled and agreed. I told him I wasn't sure what to say; my head has sort of clicked off, and I didn't have words. I told him a story about Scott being at college and not really caring about sex yet because he's so excited to finally be able to hold hands- which I think is marvelous. Not because he "shouldn't" be having sex, but because he just never got this simple experience, and he's as thrilled as any thirteen (or is it eight) year-old would be. He's not skipping it, which I think is cool. It seemed relevant, I guess- or maybe I just wanted to continue the conversation without having to talk about me. I don't know why, but I just can't seem to talk about it with him. Maybe I should talk about that first. Maybe I should tell him how since my friends started having crushes I've been designated the girl who doesn't feel those things. I've been told not to, told I don't feel, made mute by my own initial uncertainty. By the time I started to feel anything, everyone was long-convinced I never would. I can't imagine talking about it, and I know that isn't all of what goes into this pain, but I do think it contributes. My parents proximity contributes also. I totally trust him, and I totally hate the idea that my parents will "find out." Find out what exactly? I have no idea. They can't exactly discover I like girls when I don't know myself. I think I'm just afraid to ask the questions, like no matter what my answers are, the fact that I've questioned it will haunt me. People will find out I wasn't sure and whatever I determine, that will follow. Which is crap because uncertainty comes from not venturing into the questions, but I'm just *so scared* to be myself on so many levels. So scared.

He told me that one of my monsters that really is a gerbil is the idea that anyone with extra years has extra wisdom. Having my brother or my parents say, "this is the truth" may seem to carry more weight than a four-year-old's perception, but honestly? it's all emotional. The four-year-old just doesn't say it in a way that disarms all your self-esteem before the punctuation hits. And I know that. In my head, I know that I have come to places that even my so-called elders haven't allowed themselves to see yet. But when someone tells me my perception's wrong, I still fall apart internally. Emotively, I still can't quite sustain.

Though I did think to myself the other day about Rogers, and how I've spent the year afraid they'll reject my idea of them as family, as home. I've been thinking about the staff and how they *work* there as reason they won't understand, not realizing...I lived there. I mean, I *lived* there. So isn't it just as much mine as it is there? Maybe it's more mine. And maybe it's ok if I have my own ideas about it. Maybe I'm allowed to know my own life more fully than anyone else. Maybe it isn't easier to see from a distance, looking in. Objectivity is only valid in a world that doesn't value the emotional reality, in a world where cool precision overrides empathetic accuracy. I never could do cool and precise.

I asked him then if I could show him something. I didn't hear him respond, but I wasn't really asking, so it didn't matter. I rooted through my purse (which I never carry, but wanted to make sure what I brought was safe) until I found the pocket I had put it in: one of Tracy's tiny senior portraits. I handed it to him, and he looked at it, confused by the '02 date (her class year, not the time it was taken) and quietly taking her in. He told me there was an openness in her smile, that he could see how I was taken in by her. And so for awhile we talked about her, and about how I was doing with the day. I told him about yesterday's craziness, how today was better except that I hadn't wanted to talk about it, until then- which he said he had guessed. But I didn't really like that he'd guessed it. It needs to be my job to say so, doesn't it? I don't know. We did talk, though. I started to cry a few times, at simple things like him saying "your love for her"...All day I had been feeling unable to cry and doing everything to keep myself from breaking down (ambivalence, somewhat) and when we were talking it would just float up and go down again. In my life, I've never been able to cry more than once after a death. I don't think I ever grieved like this before, and I don't know why, but I guess I must have loved her more deeply than I knew. I must still love her. I have memories of her from the past year, I said, and oh that helps. It helps to know that I have been with her, even though seventy percent of the time I don't believe I have. It helps to know that every time I experienced her presence, it didn't even occur to me to doubt it, even though afterward it always did. Oh, she's here. She's here. I told him about Tori's intro to "Your Cloud" and my knees went weak; it affected me more fully than it had at the concert itself, I think. I told him about the line from Horses "the threads that are golden don't break easily" and he said, "I think I'm starting to understand why she" (Tori) "means so much to you." I told him it was like hearing the exact right thing in the exact right language, and that meant a lot. And he seemed to understand where I was coming from better after that. I don't like the idea that I carry Tracy around, even though I am changed because I know her. I do things I wouldn't do otherwise because of her influence. But I don't like the idea that she's restricted to me- which is why the "she goes through your heart" line was so perfect. Through. Like I'm a portal; I'm good for her, but I don't define her whole experience.

He told me earlier, too, that it sounded like a really nice dream I had. He didn't understand why anyone would want to dismantle it, as it sounded like a really good life. I told him about how powerful it had been for me to find my voice at Rogers, after my writing has substituted so long for real communication, and how I wanted to help other people find that, whether it was through speech or writing or drama or art or music or whatever else. And he seemed to understand that, and I wished I could have just said, "and I want to cuddle with a girl who loves me every night, or at least that sounds less scary to me than other things" but I couldn't get it out. I'll get it out soon. I will. After all, I showed him the picture of Trace which I was never able to show Harriet, despite how much I wanted to share it. And I started talking about her even when he hadn't asked. If I can do that, at some point I will be able to do more.

I don't know what I'm opening up when I start to talk about that. I don't know what the issues are I'm keeping quiet on. I don't know if it's about sex or relationships or orientation or abuse or everything at once. I have no idea what will come up, or what my parents will hear, and that frightens me. He'd never tell them. Maybe I'm afraid I will...

I did end up going with Sarah and John to gather Joe. And I realized another facet of my ed-origin that had never occurred to me before: it was a method of independence. I *hated* being dependent on people, especially as my siblings became less and less so. I hated not being able to pay for things myself, and so if I didn't need it, I didn't have to ask. If I'm out with my siblings, it's so hard to say, I need food. And part of that is my issue with having needs, but part of it I know would be different if I had the money in my purse to pay for a bite- which I didn't today. I hadn't brought it with me. And I started to see how scary that is. I need to know I can provide for myself, with all my needs. I'm learning that about emotional needs; I need to see it with practical ones also. And I'm terrified. But I'll learn.

I think I might need to get a valid permit again, at which point I can start talking to John and/or Joe about helping me learn to drive. I'm not going to push it, but I need to see that I can do these things, whether I want to do them or not. I can't end up forty and still afraid to leave home...I have to far to go, never to leave.

So, Tracy, dear, thank you for visiting me today. I know you had lots of other people to spend time with, and you probably wanted some moments to yourself as well. But I was glad to be with you; I always am. Thank you for being safe, and knowing how much I miss you, and everything else that's hard that I don't want to say right here right now. Thank you for helping me through this past year, and for staying so close, when so many people are so very far away. I love you, and I hope you know that now. I hope I learn to let that be ok.

oh and- guess what. scary as it is, I heard a Christina Aguilera song I liked today. and if me being capable of hearing pop is not your influence, I don't know where it came from. I didn't hear Superman, but maybe that just means you've gotten through that. maybe you know now that you can fly, and it's not naive. being only human hardly holds us back.

take care ok? and visit. because I need more memories. always.

love-
chord

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