Until We Are Fine

Last week, I was taking too many pills. Not purposefully, but also not by accident.
This week, I’m more solid, starting somewhat anew. Still tired and afraid, but possessing a bit of momentum. Not quite hope, but an expectancy.

I’m trying to move ahead, and have several supportive friends and family members who have helped me unburden. There are moments I feel adrift, propelled by the winds of pointlessness. Then I remember others, and decide to finish buttering the bread, get the dish from the sink to the dishwasher. I decide to answer a ringing telephone. Pretend. 

It will get better, at some point. It already has. But I’m still tired and can’t sleep, still sweaty but freezing. This isn’t going where I meant it to go. 

We have to ask for help. If we don’t ask, no one knows. They just think we’re mean or shy or FINE. But we are not fine, are we?

We are not fine. 

But…

Eat the bread. Drink the tea. Hug the child. Pet the dog. Write the poem. 

Until we are fine, or a facet thereof.

Maybe It Doesn’t Help

Asking for help doesn’t seem to be as effective as I advertise it to be. “Ask for help! Don’t go through it alone!” It seems that asking for help just makes people think you are crazy. And makes them think a) they are saviors to your cause, making it about them rather than about the hurting person, or b) they get angry because you’ve lost your marbles and the inconvenience of it pisses them off.

Either way, not what I was expecting. And I won’t ask for help again.

Drown My Sorrow

I could die in this closet tonight and no one would know until tomorrow around noon. Look right through me.

I won’t do it. It’s too mundane and makes too much sense right now. And I know that what makes sense now is crazy. So I won’t follow the crazy. But I am staying in my closet for now.

I’m in the hangers. I have too much. Stuff. Shame. Fear. Anger. Grief. Resentment. Fraudulence. I am never who I pretend to be.

But I do not know who I am, so the pretending is easy. Pens and poems and sadness do not a human make.

Right? Or am I wrong?

I Am Mother

What was your mother like? she asked, with pad and expensive pen in hand.

Like any mother, maybe. Locked in the bathroom, in the tub crying. Taking litte blue pills when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Dad would come home and always pick the bathroom lock. Try to soothe her in his rough around the edges ways, sit on the floor at the edge of the tub until he could get her to crawl out, off balance and dripping wet and cold from the hours-old water.

Mostly what he did helped, but her cry eyes would swell for days, and she always tried to line them with wax pencil, thinking it hid her secrets behind what she called a smoky eye. She seemed to think a melancholy look was beautiful.

I thought sometimes she faked the crying in the bathroom thing for attention. But Dad said no, that if she didn’t hide in the bath, she’d have walked out into our Wyoming desert with the coyotes, lain down in the sagebrush, and we’d have never found her again.

I wondered why she didn’t just leave us if she was so unhappy. Go to California or something, someplace with sun and not so much snow and coal. But I knew in my heart she was too faithful and loving and afraid to know what real leaving was.

Dying, she could do, if she’d have loved us just a little less. But she loved us more than the sun, more than the God she wrestled with, more than the stones and bones and Bibles she kept in her special drawer, and mostly she loved us more than herself.

And that was maybe what saved us all.

Simply Flawed

I don’t enjoy feeling like someone is angry at me, and not knowing what I did. No one enjoys it, I’m sure. It does seem like some people deal with it a bit better than others, though. Water off a duck’s back and such. Wish I could be that way. But instead, I’m a dweller. An over-analyzer. And possibly somewhat paranoid.

Character flaw. Just adding it to the list now. Some days I feel there are just far too many flaws than time to fix them.

I’m tired today, and so grateful it’s Friday. My job is a heavy backpack that I like to sling onto the floor with a clunk once Friday at five rolls around. Then comes the disappointment over those all too high Friday night expectations. I’m not 25 any more. Hell, I don’t know if I was ever 25. I’ve been a mom since 18. On once you’re a mom, there seems to be no age but your child’s.

I’m out of energy, out of motivation, and running out of hope in this dead end high desert disaster. The barrenness sometimes seeps right into me, gets me to the core, and I have to do what I can with books and home facials and online shopping to get to another day.

My life is measured by the delivery of Amazon boxes.

At least it’s something.

An Intro to Melancholia

My life on the high desert. It’s been nearly three years, and I’ve not yet fully acclimated. I’d consider the ocean to be my natural habitat, but this high desert home is dry and acidic. It has its own strange beauty (the deer and the antelope know), and at times it sweeps me away with its vast emptiness and grand, violet-blue sky. But the openness of it is discomforting, disquieting.

There is a book I read in college, Giants in the Earth, about an immigrant woman from Norway, who is led by her husband to the prairies of South Dakota. The vastness overcomes her, and she climbs into her steamer trunk to escape the desolation, to hide from the emptiness, to cocoon.

Sometimes think I’ll climb into my closet, curl up in a back corner in my smallest kitty-cat self, and try to relearn how to breathe.

Instead, though, I play with mineral pigments and soaps, a buy sparkly costume jewelry. I reorganize my writing desk and bookshelves. I watch documentaries and ridiculously embarrassing historical dramas. Anything with jewelry and extravagant fashion.

I like pretty things.

I have blogged for a number of years. So many evolutions have occurred, so many life changes. Reading back makes me tired. I love blogging. There is something so satisfying about writing out the heart, knowing that someone unknown may read it, and possibly relate. And there is something about public writing that holds one accountable, even if the writing is anonymously written, and anonymously read.

This blog is more a journal than anything. I am not here to teach, to advise or inspire. I am not in any position to guide anyone else, although there can be lessons learned from the mistakes I’ve so often made.

Primarily, I am writing here in order to keep my sense of self solid, to hear bones rattling in an empty  house. The high desert sometimes suffocates, and this might be a place I come to breathe.

 

18588846_10210542883346224_3463528939692029114_o