10:03 p.m. - 12/15/03
I must confess: tonight I love you less . than I will tomorrow morning.
a letter home, c/o a connection that goes beyond mailboxes.
dear Everyone,
tonight I once again felt overwhelmed by the difficulties in my life right now, by the pain of isolation, the fear for my friends in their illness, the loss, the holiday, my mom and dad, the fact that I can't lean on my doctor right this moment. he's in the hospital; he had this awful viral thing settle into his joints and leave a bad infection in his leg. he actually went into surgery; I just found that out today. everyone says he's doing really well; they just keep adding a week to how much time we have before he'll be back. I'm so glad he's ok - I really don't know what I'd do if that blow went to the extreme - and I'm trying to take care of myself as best I can in the meantime, but goodness it's hard. I still can't seem to call up a friend when I'm having a hard night; tonight, for instance, I knew I just needed to cry, but I couldn't make myself dial someone and let them listen. I know how sweet and supportive my friends would be; I just hate having to call on that. I got this letter a few days ago that really cut me deep, and tonight I was crying - again - over my fear of losing the girl who wrote it. I threw in the rest of my troubles, too, but mainly it was that fear. I did try to call you, (at red), even though I don't think I know anyone on second floor, second shift anymore. I got someone I didn't know; he sounded nice, but I hung up on him anyway. I gathered my bearings, put on my shoes, and went downstairs to get the mail. I sent the response to that really wonderful girl's really awful letter today. It was in a blue envelope with fish in the corner and a compass on the back, and I kissed her name before I put it in the mail. When I went downstairs, there was an envelope with her handwriting waiting for me. I was in total shock; I mean, I mailed the letter a few hours earlier- she couldn't have responded so quickly. And I was a little scared to open it, knowing what had happened to me Thursday. So I sat down by the phone, ready to call my mom if it was bad, but not wanting to call her preemptively, in case it wasn't, in case it was like the letter I read after writing my response, the one she handed to me two years ago, the one that heals the same spots that feel sore. I opened it: A short message of holiday greetings and a handwritten note about trying in therapy and working to be upbeat, despite how she feels. Still no signature, but she did write my name this time. And the part at the end - about the love she sends me - sounded more like sincerity and less like a kick in the stomach. It's good to know that she's fighting, that she wrote that letter, like I thought - in her illness, on a bad day... It's not like this isn't her reality - it's not like things aren't bad - but at least there's reason to hope. Beyond the fact that I love her, and I have to hope or I lose all.
I fell back on what you taught me. I've depleted every speck of energy I have, so I fell onto the couch, surrounded myself with blankets, ate a snack, watched a comedy, and crocheted like I had a quota to make. It was good to spin the hook through the yarn, tying myself to you. I miss you so much, and even though I know you know that, and I know I can keep up with you...sometimes, it's just nice to stop and know that I have ways of looking like home. I have habits and awarenesses and mannerisms that would in all likelihood bring out a "that's our girl!" from a biological family. I like knowing that I'm yours, even though it's intrinsic in that teaching that I be my own. I like being connected to you, loving you, even tonight when I feel like a crazy, crazy girl because these connections and the reality of the people I'm connected to, cause the pain. I keep asking what the pain is for, but lately, I've been thinking - I never ask that about joy. Joy seems to justify itself; pain still seems to need a point. I don't know where that turn of thought goes yet, but maybe it'll bring me somewhere close to you. I think I might write out a few Christmas cards tomorrow and maybe wrap the presents I secured for my family (oh.so.broke) ... I'm looking forward to the next time I write you and the next time I talk to you and the next letter that shows up in my mailbox, inbox, the next call that makes my phone ring its terrible squawk, and is you... I look forward to loving you.
Three years ago on New Year's, the bulimia of my eating disorder took over. This year, I want to start something good. I'm going to a fresh page to make some clean marks. To learn once again that even a small separation - like not writing in the same journal I've written in since I knew you - doesn't change the connection. Even a big separation can't change it. But what I like most is that I'm still alive, and so I don't have to deal with the greatest sort of distance. I just wanted to tell you...because I've been caught up in the pain of the holiday-reality and the fuzziness of holiday-fantasy, that I'm really glad to have a second family. A first Home. A second chance at a first try. I love you, I love you, I love you so much it's sickening, and I wish I could come home for the holidays, but until we've established a base, until I've managed to get all the hearts that hold my home in the same room at the same time, I'll settle for the fact that we're always together. And tonight, when I hung up on a good-hearted stranger, you were still there to talk me through...
All my love in all my heart,
your Mary
�
�
