10:07 p.m. - 06/08/03
[ melody played in a penny arcade. o::)
It's simple even though it seems impossible; if it undermines you, stay away. If you can't handle it right now, even if you love them, do not read. Write instead. Steady your footing through your words, and come back when even their words are about you. It's dangerous, when that egocentricism starts to disappear; you forget to look out for yourself. So stick now to your own journal, which is itself a bit to handle lately. And, girl, start talking in the first person again, a'ight?
hi...
So, yesterday was beyond difficult. Sometimes you feel like a warrior just for making it through the day.^ I spent a brief interlude trying to contact a friend, which was not a good idea and so I'm glad it didn't happen (good instincts, not im-ing me), before breaking down (almost?) entirely, and sobbing silently in front of the computer. My mom came in one time, and didn't notice that I was crying, which made me feel like the situation was even more hopeless. Then she came in again, and I couldn't hide what was happening, which made me feel not-exactly-better also. It's a very difficult moment, when your mother is comforting you as you bawl over the fact that living with her will never be the same as being home. It's less difficult because she doesn't know that's why you're (I'm...) crying, but still a bit unsettling. It doesn't help that every time (do you like those absolutes? I love them, personally) she finds me crying like that, she says, "Who?!" which translates to, "Who died?!" and when I shake my head, she says, "What?!" which translates to, "What horrible and completely unexpected disaster has fallen out of the sky and crushed you?!" neither of which feel particularly good. Especially considering that the majority of times I'm crying really hard, I haven't received any new news. The answer to "Who?" is me, and the answer to "What?" is the same as always. The person who's fallen apart, leaving me in this impossibly broken state is not a distant friend fallen (more) sick, hospitalized, or worse...it's just me. The transpired event is nothing new. Sometimes I wish people could all understand that one thing. "How are you doing?" "Oh...um...it's been a hard day." "Something happen?" "Yeah. My roommate died...well, that was 17 months ago. But that's what's wrong." Or how about, "Something happen?" "Yeah. I was uprooted from the only home and family I've ever had and have lost contact with nearly everyone who played a part in giving me that hope. Then again, it was a hospital...but that's what's wrong."
It isn't possible that I'm the only person on the planet whose feelings don't come with an expiration date. At least, that's what I'm hoping. I don't want to be that sort of freak...
I'd say it was the pictures, mainly, but if there hadn't been that, the feelings would have found another way to crest and pummel, soak and shred. It's not possible that I could have received anything more wonderful in the mail than actual pictures of people at Rogers (unless someone wanted to mail him/herself, Flat Stanley style), and the night I opened them, I laid them all out on the carpet just beside my bed. I would have slept with them if it were possible to do so safely. I would have made my skin out of those pictures, that night, happily. After all, that place is all I can imagine wanting ...ever... to be.
(This is one of those moments when the doctor would say, "That's why I'm here. You keep doing what you can, and I'll hold onto the other beliefs" or something basically similar. I hear he rents an apartment in the city, but I swear he spends more time in my head than he does at - his - home...There are plenty other embedded, half-imagined versions of people I know for him to hang with, though. I mean, a girl has to have alternatives to talking to herself, occasionally.)
The pictures (anyway) were therefore lying by my bed, and Day Two of having them didn't go as well. Day Two of having them was filled less with "look, remember that face" and more of, "look, we're all together, and we're all ok, and I remember that day, and why can't it be like that; now everyone's separate or in pain or out of reach." That escalated and eventually I was in the all-too-familar territory of lying in bed, in the not-quite-dark, wishing it were late enough to go to bed. Wishing I could cry or sleep or do something, instead of lying like a lichen, feeling lifeless.
I tried to draw Jenna from one of the photos and created someone who could have looked like her, with enough erasing and reworking, a not-so-entirely-bad sketch for someone who hasn't sketched that way in about four years, which of course freaked me out because it didn't look like her, and, that simple point drove home the more complex (i.e. painful) reality: I cannot recreate them. I can't recreate Tracy by writing her poems; I can't build Jenna in a sketchbook. These are lessons learned the hard way.
I just broke down again. Watching some of the most amazing people I've ever met fight for their lives, lose that fight, disappear from my own life/ fight...it's the hardest thing in the world for me. It's harder than ed-glorification, which rips my insides like fabric; it's harder than making myself eat on the hardest days. At least on those hard days, I can know that it's a slip-up in my brain's computing causing all this pain, and undoubtedly within a few days (at this point, thank Love) I'll feel less shamed and greater appetite again. Even as I'm overwhelmed with feeling this, I start looking for escapes, for solutions, and there simply aren't any. There simply isn't a way out. Forgetting's not an option; if I could make it one, I'd have to face the fact that it's impossible. (Since I don't want it to be, that's comforting.) Going back, somehow pushing everyone back into a safe and heart-healing proximity - these things are equally impossible. And you would not believe the energy I've spent trying not to believe that. I've spent so much energy trying to find something I can do, and maybe that doesn't exist. But it has to, doesn't it? Because living this way, continually, for years upon years upon years, when love and pain and heartbreak and homesickness do not expire, seems impossible.
Love shouldn't be gauged in sacrifices, but it's sick how much I'd give to have them back. I had a party today with two of my brothers and two of my parents, and I had a really good time. It struck me in the middle of that how much I love my family-of-origin, and how I'm lucky to have them, the way I'm blessed to have Rogers. How they bring me joy I wouldn't want to lose. And I talk so constantly about the ways they don't stack up, which isn't fair to me because the dynamic of today was not in keeping with the normal dynamic, and what I had at Rogers was extraordinary and consistent, and damnit...it simply isn't fair to me because what sort of wretched court holds someone accountable for who or how desperately they love?
The normal "solution" (i.e. temporary remedy) to this situation is distraction: keep my mind off it; I'll feel better eventually. Emotions are not like illness; they break and let you rest. Last night, I could find none of that. It had escalated beyond distraction; I wasn't allowed to focus on anything else. When my mom found me, I asked her to call the doctor, who returned the call promptly (never a good sign.) He said that he was on a cell that would break any second, and I'd be asleep before he reached a stable phone. He said to take another sleeping pill (which I didn't because two worked fine the night before, and I didn't want to be drowsy all day, though I very much regretted this during my sleepless night - remind to listen to the doctor who seems to know all about everything) and to know we would talk in the morning. I went to bed (my mom wanted to "sit by my bed" but I wouldn't let her; I think she was scared I'd do something)...she really believed something bad had happened - yesterday. I picked up HP and the Goblet of Fire, and made my way a few chapters into it, before falling asleep. A good choice: I definitely need to be somewhere else, where magic is more immediate, and I'll be all refreshed for the fifth book...
And he did call this morning. I told him distraction was the key, and he agreed. So we talked about the party, and how I would have fun, and how he would think about this for me, and bring it up Thursday on my behalf...so I was entirely free to postpone dealing with it. I made him re-promise that this didn't mean we were forgetting about it, and he was very much obliging, and I didn't have to tell him all the gory details, which was nice, considering it's hard to distract yourself from something you've just shoveled to the surface...
I guess we'll talk about it Thursday. The pictures are still by my bed. I threw clothes on them, so they aren't visible. My brother John's new CD is in my possession today, and I still haven't (re-)listened to the song he wrote for me and Tracy (I heard it once before.) That's what I mean about the photos only doing the inevitable. I can't quite stomach that song yet (though I want, really really badly to hear it again) ... so it's being postponed as well. Maybe when my new computer arrives, I'll be ready to play it...
In other news, I played the most vicious game of air hockey I've ever encountered today. (I was intent on beating my brother Joe, who had heard this was my goal, and had taken his normally competitive spirit up a notch). Bruises and cuts were earned along with points. Several times the puck flew off the table, into the air, generally toward small children (eep!), and once down the stairs toward the first floor of the arcade. It was fabulous. Unfortunately, (though praise Godd, I didn't lose) we tied. We tied, and the air on the table kicked off, angering both of us, still thirsty for victory. My favorite moment? I delivered a message from my sister (who called this morning to congratulate me and generally talk - because we haven't in forever) in a smug little voice, about halfway through the game. Basically, it went, "Oh, by the way, I'm supposed to remind you that Sarah once beat you at air hockey," - Joe's blood pressure rises, I smash the puck toward his goal, and *bam* score a point. It was fabulous. Two hits for one. No worries, though. Competition is actually a form of connection for us, and it generally leads to good. Besides, he whipped me at every other game we played.
I have to say, it was hard to take in that this was a "graduation" party. I think I needed the hat. Maybe I'll build myself one at some point. In the meantime, I think I have other ways to keep myself occupied. Though honestly? - after yesterday - and knowing those emotions are pushing at the surface, begging permission to bubble up? - I wouldn't mind a few other forms of distraction. Or maybe a "worst case scenario" pill that knocks me out directly after I swallow it.
Or maybe just therapy, and reading, and computer, and therapy, and journaling, and friendship, and therapy, and time.
chord
^Alix Olson
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