9:20 p.m. - 09/16/03
::show them all how you [[can]] survive::
People underrate coincidence. The intricate weaving of two circumstances, so exactly, so incredibly. It's tantalizing. I've been cleaning my room (for a whole five minutes or so), becoming depressed over the amount of used kleenex scattered about, testifying to my many crying jags as of late, when I came upon a stack of cards, mostly for graduation. The last one I pulled out was from my grandmother, a beautiful, special eighteenth birthday card, with one of her absolutely flawless jokes inside. And love, of course. And just as I was threatening to get emotional, my stereo (which I've completely forgotten) plays, "You are alive. Oh, yes, you are alive."
I very much believe in music.
It's two weeks today, though I find myself not as inclined to count, not as caught up in the passing of time as I am with Tracy. Maybe it's one of the differences, resulting from the fact that my grandma's death was so much more peaceful and right. I deal with my grief, and that's a huge load, but it's not the mess of grief as complicated by all those things so wrong as in what happened to Trace. It feels wrong because I don't get to see her and hear her and love her short-distance, but I know from my last days with her that it isn't wrong, and I know through my faith that she is, in another form, alive. I still love her, more than I could a memory.
And I do plan to finish telling the story of those few days at least once, so don't think I've forgotten. I wish I'd have gotten to it by now, but my energy level is so low, I do little except sleep and read. I had a good night tonight and used the energy to reply to some e-mail and do the little bit of cleaning that led to finding the letter. I also tried to call Rogers. (With two days to go.) A woman I don't know (but have hung up on, sadly, more times than this) answered, and before I could think, I hit the button to turn off the phone. Flight. I stared at the phone two seconds later thinking, "Urugh! What did I just do? You know, it is possible to say, 'Hi, I'm Mary, I was a resident there awhile back, but we don't know each other. I was just calling to touch base. Anyone else around?'" I felt too silly to call back right afterward and do so, though. But just making the call brought some enthusiasm back into me. I haven't been looking forward to it at all (which I find, in further reading, is also similar to the time just after I arrived in D!@#$%^; when I wasn't anxious over them, I tended to dread calling, though I was usually ecstatic or peaceful afterward, just like now), but when I actually when through the ritual, it helped. Even though I didn't speak to anyone. Knowing that I would call back, laughing at myself for completely losing my head at the strange voice.
There's really not a lot to say. I miss my dad, and I'm so hurt that he left. I hate that he can't just come back, and he and Mom can resume their discord, and I can return to my old role in the family, or to building my new one - completely separate from what they need of me as a result of the divorce. Dad started a job teaching religion to middle schoolers yesterday. I actually became excited talking to him about it, probably because I love learning, and I love helping people learn, and I'm nowhere near school myself...but there was still the old ache of, "Great. Go and foster good relationships with someone else's children." Odd (and awful) as this sounds, it actually occurred to me that he might have taken this job as a form of redemption. He's so terrified that we (my siblings and I) don't love him anymore; maybe he's desperate to have proof that he's not the problem, that other kids love him just fine. Then again, maybe he just wants to make the rent.
Meanwhile, my mom has witches everywhere (and unlike the department stores, I doubt hers will come down after Halloween) and where there aren't witches, there are paintings. Her paintings, which are really incredible...despite the fact that 80% of them are of naked women. Why? No one knows. They aren't sexual in nature, and I know as well as I know anything that she isn't gay. She just always paints nude figures. So here I am with her, her pain, her ten million goddess books, her witches, and her art. And the scariest thing is, I'm starting to depend on her. To attach to her. I want her to hold me when I'm crying; I've even let her do it. She's tucked me in, for God's sake. (Not routinely, but once or twice...) And I'm terrified because the last time I held onto her like this was during the worst of my illness (not to mention the fact that I grew up knowing it wasn't safe to need her.) But I don't know it feels different this time. She really has changed, at least in part, through her work with the doctor. She's made a lot of progress, and he's been able to translate a lot of what I could never communicate to her, helping our relationship indirectly.
So it's ok, even if it's weird. It's not D!@#$%^, and I mustn't forget the merit of that. Mainly, I just need to get some of my own shit up on the walls. I'll save working out my relationship with my dad for another week. I'll save the Jackie Chan kicks at eating disorders for after I've gotten some rest. (Though I must say, to have a brain so actively eating disordered as mine has been recently, and be so behaviorally "normal" is basically a marvel. Miraculous. Tough and sometimes requiring escapist tactics, but I'm still fighting hard. I'm still struggling against the current when it's not in my favor. And there's much to be said for that. Like with coincidence. Struggling, too, we underrate.)
chord
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