8:12 p.m. - 07/19/03
my amulet, my patronus, protects me. and phoenix tears are healing.
I remembered something else about the dream where I was running between all the different rooms. I woke up at one point, and put myself back to sleep (because the storylines of these dreams are seductive, and I end up half-wanting to return to them), but before I did, I remember thinking that one point of it was that I seemed to be running from all sorts of other people/ situations, but I was really running from myself. I felt like that was something important but not important enough to be the "point" of the dream (because it doesn't click with me as, "that really is what's going on with me right now!"), so I went back to sleep. I didn't get a migraine; bless that fact. I am feeling horribly sick right now, but it isn't migraine-sick. I have a sore throat/ headache combo that's been around so often lately I'm starting to wonder if it's a side effect of the new sleeping med. Must speak with the doc about that.
*
(resumed over an hour later...)
*
Talk about forgetting to knock on wood. I'm pretty positive the headache is as migraine now, and I'm developing the devilborn queasiness on top of it. Grrr. That puts a damper on previously dry things. Believe it or not, I had a seriously decent day today, despite some difficult moments. I'm not sure how, but lately I can feel Rogers in a way I haven't been able to in so long. I can be lying in bed and feel the sweetness and softness inside as if I were there. When I talk to people who love me, the feeling comes up again. It makes every good moment downright marvelous, and I really hope a time comes when I know how to summon it, instead of just benefitting when it presents itself. But maybe I'm already learning how to summon it. Maybe summoning it has to do with knowing, no matter what anyone says, that I am carrying my home (which I found at Rogers) with me in my heart, that it will always be mine, and that I can continue to seek current contact on top of that constant connection, and build a new home because of the love I experienced there.
I'm starting to think that the home charm I found (to give myself for my "real birthday") is more than simply a charm to carry on a chain around my wrist. I'm thinking perhaps it's an amulet of serious mysterious powers. It's a little silver house with a brown top (brown like Rogers) and a red heart (as in RED has my heart...oh, gods, I'm corny) and whenever I touched it in Brigadoon (I kept it in my pocket and occasionally stole a moment to stroke it), I felt stronger. Just by the power of the reality I connect to the small symbol - better. I'm thinking maybe I'll string it, and put it around my neck, so that it can be like the doctor said, still - the way it's been with "one" and scarves...so that I have them hanging 'round my neck. And it's better than having something made to say Brave (though I may still do that at some point) because people won't understand the real significance unless they act. In that aspect it is, actually, exactly like my name. I dismissed "Rogers" as a possibility and took up "Brave" partly because Rogers would be obvious to people I did not want to know. And like when people will see the home symbol, people hear Brave and think they know the meaning, i.e. the reason that I chose it. In actuality, there are several reasons, and people don't know unless they ask. ...So yes. Once again home is good. I have some other plans for my real-birthday, too, but none of them are too big. At least this year, I have it firmly rooted inside me that this is simply "two years without purging" not any sign that I have to be perfect in my recovery from now until the end of time. Maybe by next year's, I'll have it firmly rooted in me that my home was my home is my home will always be my home. Maybe when I begin my fourth abstinent year, I'll know that all the time. I'd like that.
But you want to know about my beautifully soft-and-sweet day. And the hard things wrapped in sweetness. (Oh, dear, I've eaten enough chocolates to have their imagery infiltrate my writing. Quick, send strawberries.) And I want to conquer this headache enough to do it justice. Let's see how close I get.
Marybeth has once again graced us with her presence. She arrived last night, while I actually managed to nap for the first time in days of "must be productive" and "must be alert." I was a little anxious about her visit; (actually, my nerves have been pretty wracked in general lately.) I feel like I could use about three alprazolam right now, and there's no real reason for that. I think it's just the continuing stress (as in, not my usual routine) of the past four days. I had a good time in Brigadoon, but it did seriously attack my calmness - mainly because I never knew what was going to happen next. Every "alone" moment I had was blown apart by the possibility of someone suddenly knocking on the door. Not long after I got back, Marybeth arrived, and that's a good thing; it's just that I haven't had much time to breathe in between it all. As usual when I'm anxious, I worry more. So I was worrying about her visit, which normally wouldn't be so nervewracking, especially the portion of it that would take place today while my mom was working in the city, between Just The Two of Us. (The one-on-one moments with my grandma - and to some extent even with my dad - were fairly anxiety-provoking because I felt a responsibility to keep the moment from becoming awkward.) [God, I can barely type. I'm taking an alprazolam. This is ridiculous. I'm not taking three, but I'm not standing for this either.]
In actuality, as is always the case, I really enjoyed the time we had to ourselves. I managed to mildly flood the kitchen by putting the wrong soap in the dishwasher (I was bailing suds that looked remarkably like Cream of Wheat...) and that's always a good form of entertainment. We had the normally more-serious talks of our time alone, in which we discuss life and recovery (as if I know the difference). It was so wonderful I got distracted, started rambling (I was friggin gabby...wait, that happens often...why does it still seem weird?), and didn't even see the hours fly by on the clock. I talked to her about the company and the new piece, which is actually three pieces - what it's about and how much it (even in theory) has managed to move me. (Mostly, I'm just really encouraged by the way the character most obviously representative of me has healed through the course of the piece, and I look forward to seeing that staged.)
As usual, the recovery talk was the most heart-poking. I got choked up a few times, though I didn't actually give into the tears. I talked with her about how I came to not have seen Tammy in several months, and how much better I'm feeling about myself, and (even) about nourish and caged. After I'd been talking for awhile, and we were finishing the discussion on the company's upcoming project and moving back into the recovery talk, when I would explain to her in more detail what the sites are about (and actually give her the addresses, with instructions not to follow any link that would bring her to this journal), she told me she was proud of me. We'd been talking about my life as a prodigy, what it's like to be 16 or 17 or 18 and in New York seeing your plays produced, so I smiled a little, took in the compliment, and thanked her. Later, we were sitting on the couch, and I was about to explain how caged came into existence and what its purpose (in my mind) is, but was mostly just talking about my own recovery and continued life, and she said, "You know, earlier, when I told you I was proud of you...I didn't just mean because of the writing. In fact, that's a very small part of it. What you're doing with your writing is amazing, but to me, this is even more incredible...and I just wanted you to know that."
I nearly burst from all the peace rushing to the surface. Instead, I leaned over and hugged her (that's the second hug I've initiated this week ... go me) and thanked her for recognizing that. I told her that I feel it's true also, and that most people tend to focus on the writing, so it was really amazing to hear someone verbalize around what I feel I have to be most proud of... Later, we were watching Harry Potter (oh, yes) and for some reason, I ended up sticking my tongue out at her (I'd been banned from talking, due to my sore throat, which I was aggravating through speech), and she told me, "You know, every time you stick your tongue out at a nun, you have to reexamine your vocation." I asked if I even had a vocation and pointed out that I am unemployed. She said I did, and I was already doing it, and then my mom said something equally touching but not equally encoded, and I said, "Don't you both give me reasons to cry." Mom asked what Marybeth had said that was worth tears, and I said she'd only alluded to something, then went quiet with a quick, "We have our secrets, too. That's what you get for going off to work..." I just hugged her goodnight, as I may very well not see her before she leaves in the morning, and we dittoed each other's statments until we'd basically both said, "It was a wonderfully regenerating talk as always. Thank you. You're a very important person in my life, and I love you." It's amazing how love like that can fill you up. I felt like I do talking to Sara, which leads me to the other very important part of the day where...I talked to Sara.
Or actually, it doesn't, because in the middle of all the Marybeth-loveliness Britt called to make an actual plan about our meeting, and she had read my entry about Brigadoon when she magically found access to a computer, so she knew about the song incident at the Subway. And when we were talking about meeting up, she mentioned it, and I started to retell the story. I said something like, "It was so wonderful because I wouldn't have even recognized it enough to pay attention except that it was on your mix CD, and then when that line" (and she flies to a place where she's loved) "came on, I felt so much better, thinking about that place, and how one of the people who would be there was the reason I knew this song." I felt filled with love then, too, and that's a very peaceful, spiritually grounded feeling. Mmm. It's the way I feel when I'm the most in myself.
And now we've made it to the Sara call. Oh, Sara-calls. I don't know how to explain them. We can talk about the hardest things, and it's still not possible for me to say talking to her was anything less than wonderful. She was "home" on pass, and had some particularly difficult things to share, but somehow - maybe because we're so safe together and there are always difficult things to face, whether we're sharing them or not - I felt safer having talked to her. She's facing several exceedingly difficult challenges, one of which I also need to face, and I think I've managed to vicariously experience the tripped-switch that starts me on that task. It's the challenge of looking at one situation from two exactly opposite ends of the spectrum - from both extremes. Feeling and thinking everything you would if the situation were day and everything you would if the situation were night because really it's a mixture of both, and you can't ever be sure how much. I compared it, a bit shabbily - it made more sense in my head than it did coming out of my mouth - to trying to understand the ratio of my parents' individual involvement in the divorce decision. Except, this one is even more difficult. This one has to do with Tracy.
(And Sara, sweetheart, if you read this and don't want it up here for the world to see, just let me know. Because I believe you have that right to the point I'm hesitant to post it without asking...)
Sara shared with me a few important words from a conversation she had with Dave, and I have to say, even this many miles away, the way that man works (though not the ends I reach because of it) still manages to rub me entirely the wrong way. Grrrah. I remember now why I couldn't handle him when we were on the same premises. But then, this topic is difficult to the point I'd probably feel as intensely even without Dave's "methods." Ok. Just put it out there, Mary... Where does it start?
Sara had this really important dream. She said that in it, she was standing on one side of a pool, and the pool was shaped like a sharply-angled s, sort of like a five, and she and the pool were in the middle of the jungle. This place also happened to be Rogers, and around her were the many people - whom she didn't really see, but whom she understood to be all the Rogers people. On the other side of the pool was a podium, and a middle-aged woman was speaking about something. Twice, while this woman was talking, Tracy ran out of the crowd toward the water, and Sara remembers thinking, "Oh, we're not supposed to do that!" ... Then, a third time, Tracy ran all the way around the pool to the other side, and she just stared into the water, like she was deciding where to dive, but the woman behind the podium came up and pushed her in.
She hit her head on the bottom of the pool and died.
(Do yourself a favor and take a breath as deep as I just did. It helps.)
Now obviously, this is an awful dream. It takes an already horrible tragedy and adds all these new images to the pain...so the first thing I managed to get out of my mouth was amazement at Sara's ability to wake up from it, talk about it, feel about it, and so forth - because the intensity of that has to be just incredible. I forgot to mention that the part where Tracy looked in and hit her head replayed over and over again. I don't think Sara herself would have forgotten that detail... Gods. It's so wrong.
I was seriously out of voice and out of time (my mom was expecting a call) but I asked if I could tell her what I'd thought of while she spoke, what real-life circumstances it had reminded me of. I told her that while I was at Rogers, Tracy semi-attempted suicide twice. The first time, she attempted it; she drank chemicals and had to be taken into the hospital. The second time, (for which Sara wasn't there) she disappeared for a few hours in the night, and when she showed up, she was really out of it, and said she'd just been on first floor. The staff, obviously, had been looking for her, and knew that the story wasn't true; eventually, she told us she'd been down by the lake, planning...suicide... When I first heard about the pool, it made me think instantly of that night at the lake, and then when I heard she'd run out twice before going all the way around, I instantly thought of the two attempts (or attempt and near-attempt) that preceded the one that killed her. In my head I wondered if the s-shape of the pool had to do with "s"uicide...but mostly I just thought about the weird logic of two sort of halfway-trips and one that took her all the way to the other side. Weird considering Sara wasn't there to know about the second one. It's entirely my interpretation of the dream, and so there's no saying that's what it means (to anyone but me)...but obviously it brings up a lot.
She told me she'd been talking with Dave, and Dave had said that when he thought about Tracy in hindsight, she seemed like "a walking dead person." That's a phrase that knocks the wind out of me. (Actually, I'm pretty much typing without air; it'll be interesting to see how I talk about this, when I next have the opportunity.) Instantly, my brain kicked in with ways to undermine Dave (defensive, but legitimately so: Dave's position makes him seem like some sort of All-Knowing TruthTeller, but the real truth is he's human also, and he's also giving a subjective interpretation of a subjective experience. He's also dealing with the fact that she didn't make it, and one possible explanation of his statement is that he can't remember the parts of her that were so alive because it makes her death so painful.) He also said that he didn't feel like she was a full person; her depression took so much of her away that (as I put it later) she wasn't always present. He said, because of that, none of us really knew her. That hit low and stung deep because of course, I've been fighting to know that I was connected to her, and am legitimately grieving a true loss. Tears are testimony, and you just can't say we aren't connected. Can you say I never knew her? (At one extreme) not at all, and (at the other) yes, entirely. There's truth in every one of those statements Dave made. I remember how blank and dimension-less she could look, the way she'd disappear inside herself, until you felt, watching her, that she couldn't see through her own eyes. I remember that I never really knew why she was struggling, not the way I did with so many other of the girls, whose stories poured out in group therapy over the months I spent with them. (That part makes me really, really glad that Jenna, for whom that one point is also true, went back and let the guard down. I feel she's safer knowing she went back.) I didn't have many conversations with her, and almost none of the deep, long talks that were so constantly occuring at Rogers. I assumed she was having them with Tori. I assumed she was having them with someone else because I was.
There's truth in the possibility that I didn't know her. There's truth in the image of her as the walking dead. There's also truth in what Sara maintained - that she really did want to get better. There's also truth in the spark I remember in her eye and the brightness in her smile. There's truth in the way love shone through her so brilliantly that it maybe masked how rarely it showed up. I remember that life in her looked more like life than it did in most people I know. If that was by comparison, I can't say. I don't want to say that. This is the back-and-forth that needs to be two oppositely-directed, simultaneous forths. I need to tell you all the reasons that the darker version is absolutely true, and all the reasons that the brighter version is.
And I will. Over time. Sara and I agreed; we have a long way to go discerning around all of this.
As for me, I know one thing no matter what. The connection was real. Whether I knew her or not, whether she was alive or not, whether she wanted to die or not, the love and the tie was real. I know that because there were other people who came through Rogers, whom I never got to know (not because they weren't there to know but because friendships formed or didn't form based on where people were at a given time, and sometimes - in the whole length of being with someone, we were never in the right spaces to relate) who I still think about and feel strongly connected to. All of those girls are in my heart forever. Whether they're Sara or Jenna or Rae or Rosie or Oshiana or Molly or Jennie. The degree to which I knew them does not matter. There's still a cord, like a light beam but strong and entirely unbreakable, connecting us. And even though I'm having some small pain right now foreshadowing the big pain that will be walking through the darkest version of the story, I know that. I know that enough to know that I don't want it taken away from me. I don't want to be told I wasn't a part of her life, that she was dead while I knew her, that I never met her or cared for her or loved her...because I did and I was. And I am.
And the sad has taken over the sweet, and the good feelings are missing in action, but that's ok. This is a place I need to go, and I have a sister with whom I can share the journey. A sister who danced around the RCs office when she got her latest package. Who understood every item in the manner I gave it. Who I love enough to heal my heart and let me sleep.
Another day, I'll take steps in telling both extremes. Tonight, I will sleep and love and hold tight to the amulet.
chord
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