The Lady and the Milktiger

Once upon a time there was a Young Lady- twenty years young, to be exact- who was, for the first time in her life, going to live alone.  She was an introvert, so this wasn't as daunting as it might have been, and anyway several of her best friends were living in the apartments across the hallway and directly beneath her- but still, it was going to be odd, to come home to an empty apartment every day, and so she decided to get a cat.

She went to the animal shelter with her grandfather, and when they got there a small, pale orange kitten yowled at them, and reached out and popped the Young Lady's grandfather on the head: they took to one another immediately.  The Young Lady, however, diligently walked through the entire shelter and saw all the available cats and kittens, before coming back to the noisy one, who was still "talking" loudly to anyone who would listen.

It would be nice to have someone answer when I say hello, thought the Young Lady, and so she adopted the kitten, whom she dubbed "Milktiger Kink" for his stunted, kinked tail, and the fact that his markings made him look like nothing so much as a tiger cub who had been dipped in milk.

She called him Kink for short, and brought him home to the little one-bedroom apartment, where he did, indeed, fill it with noise.

Kink, as it turned out, was a bit of a hellspawn.  An evil, demonic hellspawn that gave the Young Lady (and others) a number of scars over the course of his kitten-and-young-adulthood.  But the Young Lady had claimed responsibility for his life, and that meant sticking with him, no matter how bloodthirsty and vicious he could be.

Fortunately for the Young Lady, Kink finally mellowed out around age seven.  How much this had to do with her moving him 3000 miles cross-country so she could get married, the world may never know.  But the fact remained that Kink eventually settled down into a perfectly reasonable, non-attack-cat, who shared his human with first a husband, then a second cat, then two rats, a dog, and eventually two small humans who could be a little hazy on the concept of "gentle"- and not a one of them was ever so much as bloodied.

And then one day, about eighteen years after he'd come into her life, the Lady noticed that Kink seemed to be... going blind.

And she knew that the Downward Spiral was beginning.

Or, rather, that it was Accelerating- after all, it had been nearly a year since they'd had to start giving him fluids, and changed his diet to support his kidneys.

So the Lady took Kink in for his annual check up, and the doctor confirmed what she'd feared: he had gone completely blind, his blood pressure was high, and his kidneys were failing.

There were things that could be done to extend his life, the doctor said- but the Lady chose not to do them.  Instead the Lady chose to bring Kink home so he could have a few final days of cheese and tuna and goodbyes to family and old friends.  And then, two weeks later, she took him back to the doctor for his Final Visit.

Because the Lady had claimed responsibility for his life, and that meant sticking with him, no matter how painful.

Pride (Words for a Memorial Gathering)

(As always, this is what I wrote, but not necessarily what I said.)

***

When I was young child, I felt sorry for the kids who had two "Grandmas".  How confusing it must be, to have the same name for two different people, always having to throw on a modifier to clarify who you were talking about.  I took smug pride in my possession of an "Oma", obviously the superior arrangement- just as German was obviously the superior ancestry.

Oma and I got along brilliantly when I was small: she taught me about important things like proper silverware etiquette, the best kind of bread to feed ducks, and how to behave in a sauna.  She would spend hours cooking and baking with me, or watching the dramatic performances I dragged my little brother into, or swimming with me in pools and lakes.  She would blow bubbles for me to chase, and we were special friends.  Our relationship was a simple one, and easy.  We loved one another.

As I got older, and began the transition into adulthood, it became apparent that I had a lot in common with Oma- and that commonality lead to, shall we say, friction.  Both of us smart, both of us strong-willed, both of us so certain we were right.  I struggled between wanting so badly for her to be proud of me, and not wanting to care at all what she thought.  She would bait me, and I would overreact.  Our relationship was a complex one, and not easy.  We loved one another.

I got older still, undeniably a woman by anyone's measure.  I brought Nathan into the family and I swear- I swear that was the best thing I ever did for my relationship with Oma.  She adored him, and her adoration of him made her think better of my decision-making abilities.  And I was more confident in my self and my life choices, less likely to take offense where none was intended, and more able to laugh things off.  Our relationship became mature, and good.  We loved one another.

And then, almost four years ago, I had my son, TLG.  Oma was getting older, more physically fragile- she couldn't play with her youngest great-grandson in the garden as she had with me, but she could- and did- admire him as he wore her own son's handed-down lederhosen; could give him little cars to play with; could blow bubbles for him to chase.  Their relationship was a simple one, and easy.  They loved one another- and it enriched my love for her.  I think seeing me as a mother enriched her love for me, as well.  Our mutual respect deepened, and we were proud to be called similar.

The last time I saw Oma, she was in a garden, surrounded by people she loved, and who loved her.  TLG was using Opa's cane as a wizard's staff, magically "turning" us into various animals.  Opa became an elephant, Nathan a newt- but then TLG turned to Oma (better known to him as Ur-Uma), and said, "Poof!  You're a lion!" and she smiled and laughed, tired from her recent medical ordeals, but delighted by his choice.

A lion, I thought.  How appropriate.  Not just because she was born under the sign of Leo, but because she was strong and fierce like a lioness, protecting and providing for her family, her pride.  Queen of her surroundings by sheer force of will- and the ability to roar when necessary.

She is gone now, which adds some complexity back into our relationship, but the love remains as strong as ever.

As does the pride.

Jerk Brain VS The Unicorn Blessing

I've been having some issues lately with Jerk Brain.  Which is to say, Jerk Brain has been saying stupid things like,

-I am fat
-I am slovenly
-I am lazy
-I am greedy
-Everything is terrible
-Let's just not leave bed ever okay?

So the past few days have been a long slog of actively ignoring Jerk Brain, and forcing myself to do Normal Things, like get up and do yoga and go to work and, oh, I don't know, eat.  But I've been managing, and yesterday I sent out a plea to various loved ones to send me pictures of unicorns to cheer me up.  I specified that stick-figure squiggles were 100% acceptable.

It worked ridiculously well.  And now I'm going to share those unicorns with you, in case you also need cheering up.

Fierce

The first one I got back was, appropriately enough, from my husband.  I married him for his drawing skills, so obviously I have a high bar for his sketches, and he definitely came through with some technical greatness.  Not to mention spousal greatness for actually responding so quickly.  Plus look at how that unicorn is tossing it's head, as though it's slicing open the belly of Depression.

Pink Power

The second one back was this gem, which I thought was deliciously 90s, and also pretty fierce.  This pinky-purple unicorn is glowing with the ability to trample Jerk Brain into the ground.

Annotated

This one is actually my favorite- I loved that my friend was sitting, waiting for his appointment, but he heard my cry for attention and grabbed the nearest thing at hand to satisfy it.  Also, as a fan of words + pictures, this gets bonus points for utilizing both.  That uniorn beast and that magician are going to magic Depression back to the dark ages.

Sparkly!

The artist of this fine specimen informed me that he is "fertilizing the world with happiness!" which seemed like exactly what I needed.  Not to mention I can just see this unicorn crapping happiness all over Depression until it drowns in it.  Because Depression can't swim, which is why it can't follow me into the ocean.

RAINBOW

The final unicorn came in the evening, lighting up my after-work-hours with a neon rainbow and a certain Psychotic Glee in her blue eyes that will surely be the last thing stupid Depression sees as her multi-color horn pierces its skull.

My little blessing of unicorns was just freaking miraculous.  It made me so happy that my friends cared enough to indulge me in my random demands for comfort, especially since most of my friends don't consider themselves artists.  They did something they're not comfortable doing, just to help me out.  Now that's freaking magical.

On a Random Wednesday in January, I Miss You Terribly

I'm walking down the street, in the bitter bitter cold, and I'm talking to my mom on the phone, and she's probably having a hard time understanding me, because my voice is breaking as I'm speaking and I'm trying so hard to keep from crying and failing utterly and I don't know how coherent I'm being, anyway.

"I'm so pissed that I'm so... so pathetically desperate for stories of my father that I'm willing to ignore that part of my brain trying to warn me that something might not be right in this situation.  And part of the pain and frustration comes from... it's just... I do deeply appreciate my friends who want to be there for me, when I'm missing him, but what I really want, what's really contributing to this sadness, is my craving for people who knew him.  It's just- I only have so many memories of him, and I don't get to make any more.  So sometimes... sometimes I just want to supplement with other people's memories."






(Never stop telling stories of people you once knew.  In the end, that's all we have.)

Head Doctors

Earlier this year Nathan said something very wise to me, regarding the importance of seeking health-care for mental-health issues:

"Look, if you had an antler stuck in your head, you'd go to the head-doctor, right?  Like, an antler that was making you mean..."

Sure, it sounds silly, but it really stuck with me.  I found myself doodling it today:

Owwwww

Feeling It

i didn't feel like "a mother"
for a very long time
not when i lost
that first fluttering heartbeat
or the second
not when i birthed
the fully formed third(first)
not when i held him
in my arms
instead of
my womb

not when i nursed him
or read to him
and called him by name
not when i walked with him
in the sunshine
or the snow
not when other people
called me
"a mother"
not when i woke
night after night after night
and sleep deprivation
became the new normal
not when I had to
go back to work
and felt sick to my stomach at leaving him
not when he crawled
or stood
reaching out for me
laughing

but yesterday
yesterday
when i heard the news
and i wept
for another woman
that's when i finally
finally
realized
what it meant
to be a mother
and that of course
of course
i feel like one

Unnatural

My friend's daughter died, and I am devastated.

I am devastated for her because she is my friend, and her sorrow makes me sorrow.  That much, I might have expected.

What I did not realize- could not realize- is that from now until forever, I am devastated for her and other people like her because I am a parent now, and I have some inkling of the horror.

Her daughter was not a baby.  Her daughter was not a child, or a teenager.  Her daughter was a grown woman, just three years younger than me.

But her daughter was a baby.  A chubby baby just like mine, standing tall and triumphant, but not quite certain how to take that first step.  Her daughter was a child, running in from outside just to say, "I love you mommy!"; was a teenager who rolled her eyes but took advice anyway.  Her daughter was her daughter and suddenly I understand that the fear never, ever stops.  I thought surely he would get to the age where I'd stop constantly worrying about him dying, about me not being able to save him but she was thirty-two with a baby of her own and she still died.

Which brings us to the next level of my devastation.

That baby's mother died.  That chubby little baby will never get to know its mother, except through other's stories.  What if I die and all that's left for my son is words on the page?  It's not enough.  Not enough,  not enough.

I am selfish in my grief, turning it inward, making it about me and my fear, if only because I don't know what else to do.  If only because I know there is nothing I can do.  Babies die, even when they are parents themselves, and all the phone calls and hugs and casseroles and tears in the world won't change the fact that her greatest fear happened, long after she shouldn't have had to be afraid of it any more.

At my father's funeral my grandmother wept, "A mother shouldn't have to bury her children."  At the time I couldn't understand that: after all, they were adults.  Adults know people who die- adults go to funerals all the time.  Everyone knows that.  It's little kids who weren't supposed to lose their parents, in my mind.

And, of course, they're not.

But she was right; parents shouldn't have to bury their children, no matter what the age of those children.  That's the difference.  Someday (hopefully a long, long time from now) my mother will die, and I will mourn, but it will be part of the natural order of things, my burying her.

There it nothing natural about my friend burying her daughter.

The Doll in the Garden of My Mind

It is fascinating to me, how hard a brain will work to protect a heart.

Two of the books I uncovered at my mom's house were The Doll in the Garden: A Ghost Story, by Mary Downing Hahn, and When the Dolls Woke, by Marjorie Filley Stover.  I remembered the story lines of both of them perfectly clearly.  I also distinctly remember preferring Woke.  In fact, I was a little puzzled that I'd kept Garden, but I decided to go ahead and reread it, and in fact to reread it before Woke, so as to save the best for last.

And so I started reading.

(Twenty-seven-year-old spoilers to follow)

I soon discovered that, for all I could tell you every little plot twist that happened in the book, I had completely forgotten every tiny detail relating to the fact that the main character's father had recently died of cancer.  It was just sort of... removed from my memory, whole-cloth, like you might cut out a star from a piece of construction paper.  Even as I read that he'd died of cancer, I still didn't remember the revelations that would come later in the story- namely that the girl had overwhelming feelings of guilt over being too afraid to kiss her father right before he died, because of all the tubes and machines.

I may have started bawling in the break room.

And I realized... this book probably had a massive impact on how I handled my dad's illness.

Looking back at that time, I'm always sort of vaguely baffled by some of the surprisingly mature and self-aware decisions I made.  For example, when I achieved menarche while visiting him in the hospital in Mississippi, I realized we didn't have time for me to play the stereotypical embarrassed preteen.  I knew in my gut that it would make him happy to know that his daughter was becoming a woman, and so I told him- and every other adult in the room.  And there were a lot of them.  And I think my subsequent, "Feels like I'm wearing a diaper," grumbling brought everyone a certain welcomed levity in the midst of a very dark time.

It was a strangely cold and logical decision for a not-quite-thirteen-year-old to make, and I've wondered, in the intervening years, where I got the awareness to make it.

Now I think perhaps that reading Garden when I was younger showed me how terrible regret could be, especially when it came to the death of a parent.  And so I took that lesson and tried very hard to make sure that I wouldn't have any.

And then my brain just went and sterilized my memory.

If I'm being honest, I don't really remember much around the time that my dad got sick and died.  It wasn't that long a span- he was diagnosed in February and died in November.  Nine months.

(The irony.)

Anyway, my point is that there's more or less a whole year of my life that is mostly missing- I have the occasional highlight, like the menstruation story, or watching MTV for the first time at my great-aunt's house, or standing outside the funeral home with my two best friends- but for the most part... it's been clipped away, just like the dad in Garden.

And yet I kept the book, perhaps because somewhere deep in my psyche I knew it was valuable, knew it was worth saving.  It makes me wonder if, someday, I'll get the missing pieces of 1994 back, too.

It makes me wonder if I want to.

Insignificance

I had a conversation with a friend tonight, about the way you feel when the sky stretches out so endless above you that you might just drown among the stars that you will never, ever reach, and how insignificant that makes you feel.

Apparently that feeling of insignificance triggers different responses in the two of us.  For me there's a sort of desperate longing, but also a comfort.  Like it's all going to be okay, because in the end, I'm only a tiny tiny part of a much greater whole that I can never hope to understand, and I have faith that there is a Pattern there.  For my friend it is sheer despair, a sort of what's-the-point-of-anything*.

I wish I could make that better for them.  But one of the unfortunate parts of growing up is realizing that you can't actually save anyone from their own demons- there is no way to love someone healthy, no such thing as a white knight who can rescue someone from Depression.  Only the afflicted can fight their battles, and the most anyone else can do is stand by them, offering support and encouragement and ass-kicking as needed.

And then try not to blame themselves if the war is lost.








*(Of course, that's not to say I haven't also had that reaction at various points in my life.  But by and large, I think I come down on the, "It's going to be okay," side.)

Missing Koopa

I woke up thinking of Koopa this morning, for no particular reason that I can discern.  I lay in bed, in the early morning light, examining those feelings.

On the one hand, there is sadness.  Sadness for my baby girl that died, that I never got to meet.  On the other hand, if she'd lived, we wouldn't have Neeps.  And I don't want to not have Neeps.  So there's also guilt.

It complicates the grief somewhat.

But I'm not unused to that sort of conflict- after all, I miss my dad and wish he hadn't died, but if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have the life I have.  And I like the life I had.  So.  Yeah.

Complex.

And then in the evening I got on Facebook and saw everyone freaking out (with delight or dread) over the new Anne of Green Gables adaptation, and many, many females of my acquaintance (and their acquaintance) expressing an identification with Anne.  One friend-of-a-friend in particular said, "Anne is me."

I clicked on her comment to say in a joking sort of way, "I certainly hope not, given what happens in later books!" but then I realized that her avatar was a picture of an extremely-familiar sight: a fetus far too tiny to ever live, cradled in the palm of her hand.

"Oh," I thought.  "Oh, my poor sister."

Because yes, Anne is her.  And Anne is me.  And Anne is everyone who has ever lost their baby.  I remember reading that book in the bath, and bawling, because suddenly Anne and I had more in common than I'd ever dreamed.

There's no clever quip to end this entry.  Just a dull and complicated sort of sadness, and a fierce gratefulness for the joys that balance it out.

Reverse Course

Think of one dramatic event from your life and write the event backwards.

I sleep.  He tucks me into bed, saying he'll join me soon.  She leaves, promising to be back if we need anything.  They take me home.  I'm glad he wasn't alone.  My husband is there, and my best friend.  I do wake up.  The lights are very bright in the OR, but I don't notice them for long before the darkness returns.  He kisses me.  She brings him to me.  Someone tries to tell me I can't- the other nurse, tone brooking no argument, says she'll find him herself.  I want to see my husband, I plead.  I might not wake up.  I have to sign forms saying I understand I might not wake up. Someone draws him away, to wait for me in the recovery room.  The kind EMT wheels me down corridor after corridor, my husband walking beside me.  They have to take me in for surgery.  We've just pumped a lot of very cold fluid into you.  You will be, he says.  The EMT asks if I'm cold, but I'm not.  I know she will come, so he doesn't have to be alone.  I tell him to update to my boss, and tell my best friend.  I'm okay.  It's okay, I say, voice thready.  I smile.  I open my eyes, and it's my husband.  I can feel the love radiating from the hand, and I think, what a compassionate nurse.  I turn my face to the touch, nuzzling into it.  Things start to come back, but I am so lonely- and then a warm hand touches my bare shoulder, just where it meets the neck.  I am at peace.  Everything is fading, and I think, at least they know I love them.  Textures of rough cloth and smooth cold metal against my naked skin, the slither of tubing, the pierce of many needles.  It's dark- but there is movement in the darkness.  Maybe not entirely lost, tho'- I think I hear my husband screaming at them to do something.  I slump over, consciousness fleeing.  She passes me paperwork to fill out.  I tell the disinterested nurse that I am hemorrhaging.  We make it to the head of the line.  I am feeling weaker.  It seems so unfair to me, to have to wait in line at an emergency room, but I don't want to make trouble.  We have to wait in line.  He wheels me in while my husband parks the car.  We pull up to patient-unloading, and an orderly asks me if I want a wheelchair: I do.  We go, and I text my boss to tell him I may or may not be in tomorrow.  My husband returns home, and I tell him we need to go to the hospital.  I call the nurse-line: they tell me to get to the emergency room.  I'm regretting sending him to the store.  I'm bleeding more- and maybe it's not nothing.  I tell him to go ahead and go to the store.  My husband is worried, but I tell him it's probably nothing; it's not at all uncommon to have bleeding after a miscarriage.  I am bleeding.

What I Am (Not)

What I Am Not

black
brown
christian
atheist
gay
straight
male
transexual
childless
parent to multiple children
a single parent
a grandparent
vegetarian
a veteran
in law enforcement
a lawyer 
a musician
an engineer
underage
an elder


What I Am

A person who cares deeply about a bunch of her friends who also happen to fall into one or more of the above categories.

(just something to keep in mind as we converse)

Jack, Wrangle, and the Star Stuff (Unfinished)

Here is a bit from the next installment of what I've been referring to as my "Books for Mortal Children" series, which started with the Rainbow Bridge story.  This one is being written for my friends who maybe don't want to teach an expectation of an afterlife, because they aren't so sure they themselves believe in it.  To them I say (/literally said): I don't know that I believe in an afterlife.  But I believe in stories."

***

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Jack.  Jack had a best friend named Wrangle, and the two of them loved playing together- almost as much as they loved one another, which is to say, quit a bit indeed.

One day Jack said to Wrangle, "What game will be play today, Wrangle?" and Wrangle said, "Today were are going to build things, Jack.”

“Okay, Wrangle!” said Jack.  “Let me get my blocks!”

“Actually, Jack,” said Wrangle.  “I would like to use my blocks today, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, Wrangle!” said Jack.  “We’ve never built anything with your blocks before.”

“Well,” said Wrangle, “That’s because my blocks are very special. In fact, they’re not shaped like your blocks at all, you see?” and Wrangle held out a box marked “Building Blocks”.  When Jack looked in the blocks he saw that it was true- Wrangle’s blocks were different from his.  In fact, they looked a bit like-

“Stars!” said Jack.  “They glitter just like stars!”

“Yes, they do,” said Wrangle.  “That’s why I call them my star stuff.”

“What can we build with star stuff, Wrangle?” asked Jack.

“Whatever we can dream of, Jack,” said Wrangle.

“Let’s build a castle!” said Jack, and they did.  It was a big, beautiful castle, and Jack was very proud of it, but after a while he said,

“Let’s build something else, Wrangle.”

“Okay, Jack,” said Wrangle.  “Let’s build… a space station!”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I would like to build a space station!”  And he turned to the box marked, “Building Blocks”, but it was empty.  “Oh no, Wrangle!” he said, “There’s no more star stuff!”

“That’s okay, Jack,” said Wrangle.  “We can just take the castle apart, and use the star stuff to build the space station.”

And they did.

In fact, they built many things that day, not just a castle and a space station.  They took the space station apart and used the star stuff to build a mountain.  They took the mountain apart and used the star stuff to build a tree.  They took the tree apart and built a dragon that lived in the deepest part of the ocean.  They built a whole herd of elephants, and a playground, and even a giant pillow big enough for the both of them to rest on.  Sometimes Jack wished they had enough star stuff to keep something and build the next thing, but there just wasn’t- and wishing wouldn’t make it so.

***

It's not quite done yet, obviously.  I'm still hashing out the last little bit, but I feel like I should have it pretty soon.

("Soon" being a very relative term these days, of course.)

Untrue Things Jerk Brain Has Said to Me Recently

Things Jerk Brain has said over the past week or so:

-you don't hold your child enough
-in fact you don't pay him enough attention in general
-when you go back to work, Neeps is going to forget who you are and love his daycare providers more than you
-you don't have your shit together at all
-you're so irresponsible
-you're so dumb
-you are a complete failure
-you're worthless

Things I have said back:

-shut up
-go away
-you're not welcome here
-fuck you
-you're so full of shit
-variations on the above

Just now, as I sat down at the computer, It said, "Maybe you'll stop sucking and write something for a change." 

To which I replied, "I write stuff all the time.  In fact, right now I'm going to write about how stupid and wrong you are."

And I am.

See, the thing is, Jerk Brain took it just a little too far tonight.  It tried to tell me I'm not the best mother for Neeps.  And I looked over at my son, ready to feel that familiar sweep of despair, but the fierce, fanged love roared up out of my chest and I whispered,

"Yes I am."

Because yeah, sometimes I can totally see where Jerk Brain might have a point about a lot of my personal failings.  But not this.  It's like saying, "Humans breathe water."- it's just objectively wrong.  There's no condition in which is might be not-wrong.  It's ludicrous to the point of jarring me out of Jerk Brain's grip.  Because first of all, no one could possibly love Neeps more than I do.  But it's more than that- because love is not enough, never enough, in any given relationship.  So let's talk about some of the non-love ways in which I am/will continue to be a damn fine mother for my* son.

-I am not physically, verbally, or emotionally abusive
-I am gainfully employed, with good health insurance
-I have a damn fine lifemate/child-rearing-partner
-We have planned for fiscal emergencies, so if shit hits the fan, Neeps will be okay
-I have an amazing family (blood and otherwise) to help pick up the slack as needed
-I don't do drugs
-I read to him
-I give him lots of physical affection
-I communicate super well, and I will listen to him when he talks, no matter how "trivial"
-I am setting a good example of a (mostly) healthy lifestyle
-I will foster his independence and curiosity
-I will always be willing to play pretend with him
-I will treat him like he is an individual with his own thoughts and feelings
-I will hold him to high standards, so he will learn to do the same for himself (but not, like, cripplingly so)
-I will let him fail, even if it rips my heart out to do it.  Because he needs to learn it's not the end of the world
-I will always make sure he knows he's loved, even if I'm not here

The more bullets I put on this list, the straighter I sit, and the more positive things spring into my mind.  This is good, because those things are crowding out Jerk Brain's stupid little voice.

And now?  Now I'm going to go refill my water bottle, and settle in to some fiction writing.  Because fuck Jerk Brain.




*This is very specific to only me, and only my offspring.  Other people will have different criteria for their lives, and this is in no way meant to be What I Think You Should Be Doing, so don't let your version of Jerk Brain convince you it is.

Where is My Spoonful of Sugar?

I had a horrific nightmare last night.  I wish I could say it was the worst I've had in years, but it's more like it was the worst I've had in weeks.  And as you might expect, they've all featured my newest, greatest fear: that of Neeps dying- specifically through some fault of my own.

So I wake up from this most recent nightmare (in which I was screaming because you can't be in that much emotional pain and not let some of it out) to the darkness of my bedroom, with my husband sleeping on one side of me and my son grunting away fitfully on the other: both safe, both breathing, both fine.  And yet I can't escape the emotional impact of that dream; it's crushing my chest like a physical weight, squeezing tears from the corners of my eyes.  And the thought falls over me like a heavy blanket that I can't fight my way free of;

What's the point of loving anything, when it makes you so vulnerable to suffering?

Now, this is not exactly a new thought in the life of O, but it's the first time it's descended so forcefully in well over a decade.  It's something I'd thought I'd put to rest- but now the stakes are so much higher.  I do eventually manage to go back to sleep, but when I wake up for the day, the gray blanket is still there.

It's no surprise, really.  I could feel Depression creeping up this past week, in fact it officially Arrived yesterday, but I was so exhausted that I didn't take any of my Preventative Measures.  I didn't want to.  I didn't care.  The tiny voice in the back of my head had been saying for a few days, "If you don't take your medicine (ie, physical activity and outdoor time) you're going to get sick," but I had been ignoring it.  And so now, today, as I wandered around alternating between devastated and deadened, that voice got a little sterner and said, "If you don't take your medicine, you're not going to get better."  And also Nathan noticed my mood and stepped in.

Thus, full of numbness (expect for the part that was full of resentment) I did my fucking yoga.  I ate my fucking breakfast.  I took a fucking shower.  I took a gods damned walk.  I didn't allow myself to dwell on the fact that I've trapped myself well and proper by bringing a helpless infant into the world.  An infant who will cut my heart out by dying young, or whose heart I will cut out by doing the same.  An infant I will fail over and over again, especially if I can't even be trusted to do the things I need to do to stay healthy.

No, I was obviously very successful in not allowing myself to dwell on anything like that.

The thing is, I really do feel better.  Not good, but better.  And I know it's because my "medicine" is working.  And I know that, in a day or two, it will pass, and I won't really even remember it being bad at all.  I'll think that I can surely take a couple days off from healthy habits.

But I can't.

Where You Went (20 Years)

This is not the photo I had planned for today.

Originally I thought of the title (which I did use) and decided that I would take a photo of the night sky.  And of course, as we all know, nothing would show up, because iPhones are only so powerful.  And I would post that picture of empty black, and it would be this whole commentary on how you can know something is there even if you can't see it.  Even if there's no evidence of it.  Even if it looks like nothing at all.

But then I started snapping, and it was just too bleak.  Because sometimes it doesn't matter what the truth is: sometimes we have to craft a prettier story or lose ourselves.  Even if we have to take the truth and flip it and twist it and invert it until it comes close to being something we can live with.  There can be truth within lies.  And some lies are truer than truth.

Because it doesn't hurt anyone, to pretend there is one star out there, shining so brightly that it overcomes all the limitations of our current understanding.

It doesn't hurt anyone, to knowingly build a better truth.

Smoothing the Rough Patches

Remember when I said that I got Nathan woodworking lessons for our five year anniversary?  Well there's actually more to that story.  You see, they were originally scheduled for June 12th, 13th, and 14th.  June 12th was a Thursday, and my second day back at work after the miscarriage.  That evening, of course, is when I hemorrhaged, and ended up in the ER.  Needless to say, Nathan did not go to the second or third day.

After things had settled down a bit, I reached out to the woodworking studio and arranged for Nathan to finish up the lessons.  That's what he's been doing yesterday and today, and this evening he brought home a lovely little box:

like butter

Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, I joked that I hadn't even bled out or anything- that's progress!  And he admitted that he'd had paranoid thoughts of his own while he was in class.  It's a weird thing- we're both really happy that he's finally getting to do this thing he's wanted to do for so long, but we're also... skittish.

Some of you know that I've been avoiding Facebook recently.  There are a few reasons for this, but the main reason is that I sort of can't take any more photos of babies right now.  It's just a little too painful- or (and this is honestly worse) I find myself feeling nothing about these babies that I'm supposed to love.  Which makes me feel like an awful human being.  I understand that I'm not, of course, but I also understand that I am a grown-ass woman, and if something is making me feel bad, then I need to remove myself from the situation rather than bitching and moaning about what "other people" are doing or expecting of me.  Hence the Facebook hiatus.

I decided to pop back on last night, because I needed an address from the messaging portion of the site, and unfortunately the first thing I saw were pictures of a woman who is five months pregnant.  A woman whom I love deeply.  And I just... cringed.  Which told me that yep, I've made the right decision to stay away for the time being.

(I've had to check old messages twice since then, and I've taken to covering the majority of the screen with my hand until I have nothing but text displayed.  It's working quite well.)

Anyway, all of that was to sort of put a moment from this morning into context; I was out with Isis on her PT walk, and she was upset about not being allowed to chase a rabbit.  This prompted me to say to her,

"Yeah, well, I was supposed to be six months pregnant and in Scotland right now, so suck it up."

::sigh::

I came across a beautiful quote this afternoon, by the poet Edward Hirsch:

"I don't like the whole language of healing, which seems to me so false. As soon as something happens to us in America, everyone begins talking about healing. But before you heal, you have to mourn. And I found that poetry doesn't shield you from grief, but it does give you an expression of that grief."

I feel like I'm definitely guilty of trying to heal first and then mourn.  I've been in such a hurry just to fucking be okay, that I sort of forgot that still being sad three months after my miscarriage isn't exactly unexpected, and it doesn't mean I'm weak or pathetic or obsessive.  It just means that I need to cut myself some fucking slack.

Anyway, in honor of Mr. Hirsch's words, here are two poems that do a good job of expression some of the things I've felt.  The first is one I penned, the second is by Matsuo Bashō.  I feel they go together quite well, although I did not come across the one by Bashō until about a month after I'd penned mine.  I guess it just goes to show that certain aspects of grief are universal.

Even the sky
Cannot be silent
In her grief 

*** 

All crying done
Nothing remains
But the shell of a cicada

Everybody's Talking About It, So Why Don't We?

Here's the thing about dealing with Depression: if you've been dealing with it for long enough (and twenty years is plenty long enough, thanks) you start to recognize the "It's Coming" symptoms.  If you're really lucky, you've also learned to maybe brace yourself a bit for the inevitable.  Knowing that It's Coming means you recognize Depression when it shows up, and recognizing Depression when it shows up is a large part of not falling for the whole, "This is just the way life is, and the way it is, is empty and pointless," shtick that Depression likes to bring along.

For me the warning signs are a combination of factors. First I start to feel more sensitive to things- not emotionally, mind you. Physically. Lights are brighter, sounds are louder, my body feels like it has some low-grade tingly adrenaline running through it at all times, especially through my stomach, and my feet, bizarrely enough. This leads into a bit of a manic period, which isn't so bad. I'm on, and shit gets done, especially Creative Shit. But then it starts to leach away- everything does, but the clearest indicator is the loss of body heat.  I become cold. Always cold. That's how I know that Depression is on the doorstep, if not already inside.

It's inside today. I woke up and there it was, crouched in my chest and making itself comfortable in the over-crowded chambers of my heart. I greeted it with the sort of resigned familiarity that you reserve for particularly unwanted- yet unavoidable- house guests, and then I went back to sleep because dealing with Depression is Exhausting.

That's what I was thinking to myself later, as I was brushing my teeth; I know the things I need to do to battle my Depression, but gods damn it, I get so tired of it. It's so much easier just to give up and give in and stay in bed and sleep until it goes away again. Isn't this just making it worse? my brain whines.  Wouldn't succumbing to the Depression be so much easier than this constant trying?

Obviously it would be. But I've already set up my Auto-Pilot Program, and by gods I'm going to keep running it. Show up at Work, do the Things, send the Emails.  Smile when you talk and make Jokes and go through the fucking motions.

I resent every moment of it. I have every right to be Depressed, sulks my brain, and it's just bullshit that I'm not allowing myself to wallow.

No, I say right back, in that voice that sounds suspiciously like my mother's. I have a right to be sad. I do not have a right to derail my life, not while other people count on me. And they do.

Some lessons take root deeper than others. Deeper than Depression can reach, down past the brain and the blood and the heart and the bones, down into whatever it is that will be inside of me for as long as there is a me.  Sometimes my ability/tendency to shut off my emotions in favor of logic is a frightening thing to me, because it makes me feel less human than the people around me.  Other times I think it's the only thing that allows me to continue functioning, especially in the face of Depression, which overwhelms so many other aspects of my Self.

Anyway there's no real point to this entry- it's just me processing things with words, as I do.  And this too, shall pass.

It always does.

Stranger to the Bone

This is a post about my body.

No, this is a post about how my body looks.

No, this is a post about how I feel about how my body looks.

And it's a topic which has been weighing heavily on my mind, lately.  So this post is about exploring how I feel, and if I accidentally offend anyone with my stumbling words, I beg you to understand that I don't mean to be insensitive or hurtful with any of this.  I'm just in a strange place right now.

lemme take a selfie

I haven't always been in the best shape.  I did pretty well throughout childhood and most of adolescence: I was a swimmer and active and it showed.  But then came senior year, and knee surgery, and enforced idleness followed by a lingering terror of re-injuring myself, followed by yet another knee surgery barely a year later... long story short, I was overweight for quite some time- like six years quite some time.  It took a devastating breakup and completely losing and re-finding myself (and surfing) to give me the tools I needed to take my own physical fitness in hand.  And I did.  And I still do.  Because it's important to me to be healthy and fit and strong, but beyond all those noble things, it's important that I look good naked and be physically desirable to myself.  That's right, myself.  Sure it's nice to get compliments from other individuals, and I know my husband thinks I'm sexy no matter how much additional jiggle I have, but the person whose head I'm really trying to turn is my own*.

(Hey, we've all got our own fitness motivations, eh?)

And to be honest, for the past five years or so, one of the reasons I've felt like I need to not just be fit but look fit is because I'm not a mother.  Because in my head it's okay for mothers to be soft.  Their bodies have gone through this amazing wringer, and they came out on the other side with a brand new human, and a body that reflects that rite of passage.  Moms earn their bodies and they have every right to have less-than-perky boobs, and less-than-taut tummies, and they are beautiful and amazing and who the hell has time to work out for two hours every day when you're feeding something every four hours!  But me?  I didn't have a kid, so I didn't have any outside (inside?) influences on my shape.  The only thing changing my body was me.

Except... that's not true anymore.

Pregnancy changed my body.  Both times.  And the first time around it was only a few weeks worth of change, and things went back to normal fairly quickly.  This time, however?  Some of the changes seem a little more permanent.  Here it is, two months after the miscarriage, and my breasts remain larger than they were pre-pregnancy.  My belly remains rounded.  My hips remain widened.  That last one is not something I can "work back into shape".  It is a new shape, a strange shape.  A strange new shape that doesn't come with a strange new human.  And I'm... not really sure how I feel about it.

Oh, I know how I ought to feel about it.  Love and support for this body that has carried me through so much.  But knowing how you ought to feel very rarely has anything to do with how you do feel.  Sure, I can fake it until I make it, and I will, but sometimes you just want to take a moment and acknowledge how fucked up a situation is before you go back to ripping the silver linings out of it.

The breasts are annoying.  The belly is depressing.  The hips are... weird.  I spent 33 years with only the barest hint of hips, and now suddenly I have to pay attention to how I pull a dress on, lest I get stuck.  It's just strange.  I know I will get used to the breasts, and I will get rid of the belly, and as for the hips... well I suppose I'll get used to them eventually, too.  Of course, one of my girlfriends (who made it all the way through pregnancy into motherhood) told me it took a full year for her hips to go back.  So maybe there's hope for that, too, in the long run.

But is that even what I want?  For my bones to creep back to what they were?  Or do I want them to stay, the last lingering evidence of something that might have been?

I don't know.






*(I recognize that I'm a bit of a hypocrite with this, in that I cut others a lot more slack with their bodies than I do with my own in terms of what I find sufficiently attractive to get down with.  I think that's because the more I like someone, the more attractive I find them physically, regardless of how insulated their six pack is.  But I'm way too familiar with myself and my own bullshit to fall for any of my own personality-based charm: thus I must rely solely on the physical charms, which of course sets the standards higher.)  (Does that even begin to make sense?)

Giving Up Ghosts

My due date was this week.

I think I expected to be sadder than I was, more depressed- which is not to say I wasn't sad or depressed, but, to quote myself, "You can tell I'm sad because I'm so angry."

(Yes, anger.  My default emotion.)

The entire experience was complicated by the fact that I really, truly believed I'd gotten pregnant this month.  I'd been nauseated for almost two weeks, my period was late by almost a full week... The writer in me couldn't help but rapturize to herself,

Oh perfection, oh synchronicity!  To discover I'm harboring new life just when the-baby-that-wasn't would have arrived.

Except not, of course.

So much for my perfect narrative.

So that's it, then.  My ghost pregnancy has run it's course, and I will no longer be plagued by "I should be this many months pregnant by now!" realizations stabbing me in the uterus with grief.  My little ghost embryo grew into a ghost fetus, and got itself ghost born back into the ghostly aether.  Perhaps now "my baby would be this old," thoughts will start showing up instead, but somehow I doubt that.  I never knew a baby- just a pregnancy, which should have lasted nine months.  Those months have fallen off the calendar, and I'm both sad and glad to see the last of them.

The experience of being so sure this month (coupled, obviously, with being so wrong) has brought me to a place I wasn't sure I'd ever get to.  Nathan and I have been trying to breed for four years now, with only the one failed-success.  We've talked, in the past, about how far down the Infertility Treatment Rabbit Hole we'd be willing to go, but I'd never actually felt like the time was right to pursue anything beyond clinging to the belief that "It will happen if it's meant to."

Well today I got to that place.  I don't know what, exactly, makes this time different, but it is.  So there's another ghost I'm letting go of- the idea that I could have a baby naturally.

I'm not really sure yet how I feel about that- writing this is part of how I'm processing things.  Maybe I'll change my mind tomorrow, maybe I won't.  But either way, I think I'm done with ghosts for a while.