Hard Way Home

I have divided you up into camps. Three of them. I have discovered your camps more than created them. True, it may be unfair to clump you all together, but I have exactly no emotional energy to waste anymore -- so you are where you are. Most of you surprised me, ending up in sections of my heart that I never thought I'd put you. Keeping me on my toes.

I want to thank you all. Even the ones in the "doesn't give a fuck" camp - you've helped me along, liberated me. Down to bare bones vulnerability, in my darkest closet of self-loathing, you set me free. I don't have to worry about you anymore. Now, don't get me wrong, ok? This isn't to say that I don't *care* about you. Because I do. I just know that in times of need or reciprocation, I can't count on you - so I won't expect it. You know what I mean?

There was a moment, crying in my hallway, I didn't think I could stand up - nor did I want to - ever again. Decomposing in my hallway in July was exactly what I wanted to do. Sobbing paralleled to a grief untouched by daylight. A few of you came in with your flashlights -- everyone else walked around, barely glancing my way.

Those of you with flashlights: holy shit, I am the luckiest. And you know who you are.

You're a Human Thing

"I am, thank god, a writer and editor, not a father confessor. But I do believe that our culture is set up to maximize individual guilt, and that one needs to resist it. Whatever happened may or may not have been wise (you have to make that decision), but it is not unusual, or damnable, or changeable. Whenever we mess up--if that in fact is what you've done (I'm not so sure)--the only thing one can do is vow to change; nothing else is useful or doable. I've been married to the same person now for approx. 125 years. We don't think marriage is something ordained by god; it's something that two people decide on because they're happy with one another (despite of course ups and downs).

I've been writing a poem...and in it I quote David Ignatow, who says to himself after a stretch of self-loathing: 'so finally I wave myself back in.' Good advice."

***********
One day I will die. Right? And hopefully my shortcomings are overshadowed by the good things - I'm not sure they will be, but I have no control over that. I just know that until I can come to peace with my fuck ups and failures, I will try and try and try to surround myself with people who still see me as a human, and a deserving one at that.

The two paragraphs opening this post are two paragraphs from my current professor/mentor. I've read them a million times.  If there was a way to steep my body in these words, I'd do it. And I have a list forever scrolling in my heart of the handful of people who surrounded their wagons around me when I was shivering in the darkness -- one day, when this thing isn't defining me, I'm going to write each of you a love letter. (I've started composing them already)

And here's what I want to say and I mean it: Right now I don't have enough bones in my body to carry what's on my back, but little by little (some days not) I'm learning to.

I'm learning a girl can keep it together.

I Wish I Could Be Alone but Not Lonely

My cat, Greg, caught and ate a moth yesterday. He's heroic. He knows how much their erratic flying causes me panic, so he marches downstairs from his swanky spare room, bats them around and then, inevitably, eats them.

I'm usually grateful. I was yesterday, too, don't think I wasn't, but I felt pity for the moth. There was a point when the dusty creature was still alive, barely, and Greg dropped it on the floor to investigate it before chomping it apart. Broke my heart.

When Greg relinquished it, it hobbled towards his foot. Greg moved his paw away. Then, the tattered moth did it again - ran towards his attacker. I had to put my head down; the poignancy of the moment was worth regarding.

I'm still seized by the entirety of that minute. It was a micro-world, life changing bit of the universe. I'm stuck there, swirling in pain for the living.

I am living, but slowly dying. 

you live, you learn

The water always works it's magic into my body. Early morning fog, heavy like grief - mayflies resting easily - the smell of slate rocks and dew. It's alchemy. It's medicinal. It's a balmy affair, sincere with understanding. There is never a trip to the lake that leaves me unsatisfied.

Can I say those things even if this trip was wrought with a dissonance so uncomfortable I had to shift my heart; stick my hand under my sternum and adjust that thing, slippery with pain? I think I can. The thing about magic is it's mysterious. And we can let it be.

Let me just tell you this: my cousin killed a snake. I begged him not to. Tried to reason with him. Please, you know? I said. I said, it doesn't make sense to kill for the sake of killing. That snake is hurting no one, that snake is just being a snake. Sitting in the water like we do. Sitting and resting like the mayflies. Sitting like this lake sits - peaceful and full of life and essential his surroundings.

My papa, with his wide brimmed hat to shade his nose from the sun, said he was an adult before he could give respect to life the way it deserves. He confided he used to kill birds. He used to kill birds with a gun to just kill birds with a gun. And, he continued, he wished he didn't. He has shame folded up and hidden in his back pocket. "We grow up," he reminded me.

He said he remembers when he used to hate gay people, too. More shame, more sadness. But we grow up, he said. We grow into love. We grow into understanding. Be gentle with him, he said. Be gentle with him, he'll grow.

The next morning, his friend at the dock died. Heart attack in his houseboat. His widow called my papa first - and we cried and cried. We sat with her while she shook and drank her coffee. My papa promised the dead man's wife that he will finish the eaves-trough on the starboard side - and he'll maintain the boat while she's away. We love you, he told her. We loved him, too. And together, drinking coffee in the quiet, sitting at a table that 4 hours before a dead man sat, we gave life the respect it deserves.

We grow up, you know? We grow into understanding and love. And, this now, I'm sure of.

for the life of me, i can not remember

"Remember who you wanted to be." What kind of guilt trip is that goddamned bumper sticker trying to evoke? Hey you, old Saturn, YOU remember who YOU wanted to be. Don't go around pointing your dirty fingers at me, in my face.

I know, I know...

It wasn't personal. But it sure seems like it could be these days.

I'm way off, guys. And sometimes it really is debilitating. But sometimes, it's okay.

It's a hard one. Tonight, I'll let it wash over me however it chooses - but mostly, I'm hoping for a baptism.

heavenly shades of night are falling

I know I've said this before, but, guys, I hold grudges. I hold them tenderly, infants I coddle and nurture and help grow, until they're too big. So, then, I put them down on the ground and walk along side them. They become part of who I am. Remember that girl who hurt my feelings by ditching me for the cool group in COLLEGE? I remember her. With disdain.

What about that family who used to sit in my section when I would sling pizzas and beers... the family with the kids who threw macaroni in my face, the family with the kids who minced up straw papers like expensive garlic. I remember them. The kids, okay, that's excusable, right? They're kids. But those grown-ups couldn't rip their fat faces from their iPads and Netbooks long enough to.. well... parent. Those kids are growing up with no hope. Those grown-ups deserve a well-fed grudge. And I'm just the gal for the job.

Okay? Got it? I understand where it comes from. I do. It's lengthy and vulnerable and for another post. But it has everything to do with trying so hard to be the peace-maker as a child and failing - marinating in a world of not being in control. Those things make me miserably hateful to strangers who suck major dick and incredibly devastated/broken-hearted when the people I love can't reciprocate the way I want them to. It seems like peace-making as a child and holding grudges don't go together, but they do. Believe me. Anyway, like I said earlier, that's for another post.

But, coming back to my original point, I hold grudges. But sometimes I don't want to. Sometimes I see things that make me want to be the "water off my back" girl. Sometimes I don't want to bite my nails because I'm so angry I can't do anything else. Sometimes I want to avoid the anxiety I have about confronting this weird toxin. All the time I want to be better. Better and better. But I just don't know how.

And let's be honest, I'm not sure I have the energy to put forth the effort. Especially when these people just don't understand how hard life can be. People fucking die and people fucking hurt and i'm fearful, like, all the goddamn time-- and here you are, nonchalantly allowing your children to throw macaroni in my sad face while I'm just trying to live.

I know. I'm selfish. But I've never claimed to be a good person. 

ole sweet song (Guilt, shame and pain)

I don't really want to talk about the summer my best friend died in my lap. After all, it was all my fault.

She was a tiny little fucker - gray hair, runt status and sharp little teeth she used on everybody who got in our way. She curled her little flea-ridden body up on my pillow every single night for six solid years, until the day she died in a stranger's yard, my tears falling in her beard.
I need you to know, I can't really go into much detail. This really fucks me up like no body's business, so I'll tell you bare bones.

The divorce was final. We were living in the country where she chased mice, ran like wild fire after the horses and acted like she was the biggest dog ever to be born. She helped me through 6th grade at a rural school where people hadn't even heard of the Violent Femmes. She reminded me of my dad and my old house and that one time my drunk dad kicked her the length of the dining room. I held her - well, no that's not right. She was an extension of who I was. She was a tiny part of my soul running around.

One day we brought 2 strays home. They infected our land with Canine parvovirus type 2, or parvo for short.

Little goddamned, lonely dicks. They just needed love, too. But instead, they infected her. Right before a big trip to Michigan to visit my mom's boyfriend's family.

She got really sick right before we left. My mom made me decide: take her to the vet or take her with us. Either way she'll probably die. I chose to take her. Guess what? She died. In misery. In pain. Vomiting blood, shitting blood, but still remaining my best friend.

We put her in a box then put that box in a garbage bag and put her little, tiny, beautiful body in the trunk.

I died with her.

it's been a really, really messed up week (Guilt, Shame and Pain: take 1)

I've been thinking about doing a series of sorts on this blog. I know some writers who do this kind of thing and seems pretty successful. [Don't read that last sentence and think that I think I'm a successful writer - I just mimic the good ones]. So, I asked a few friends (two, to be exact) - they both thought it was an okay idea; let's give it a go, I thought.

Now, the theme is terrible. I mean, really heart wrenching - but the things I want to write about, I just can't shake 'em. I've tried poems - can't do it. This is it. This is the venue - I know it. I can feel it.

The last thing I want to say, before I intro my poor blogpost to death is this: Don't worry, guys. I've grown up to be a pretty function adult human being. Okay. Guilt, Shame and Pain.

It's tough being in sixth grade. In a new school. With your parent's divorce weighing heavy on everybody's mind. And a new boyfriend for your mom, who happens to also be your dad's sister's ex-husband. Did you catch that? Seriously. Looming step-dad is my ex-uncle. So, yeah, going back to the beginning, being in sixth grade sucks.

It was a time of sassy sarcasm, teeny tiny budding boobs, and really bad skin. My fuck-you attitude was incorrigible, down-right filthy compared to "this time last year", or so I heard people say. But what the hell? Could you blame me? Didn't think so.

I did enjoy reading beauty magazines. Weird, because I was the farthest thing from seventeen magazine that you could find. Honestly. However, it kept me tethered to an idea that things could be fine. I could, maybe one day, be pretty. I could, maybe one day, just focus on boy problems. I could, maybe one day, not worry about every little goddamned thing that I was worrying about. Look at these girls with freckles and teeth without gaps! Normalcy.

One summer day, I read that plunging your mascara brush in and out of the tube to load the brush with mascara was a falsity. IN ACTUALITY, it dried the make-up out! WHAT?! This was a mind-blowing revelation. I told everyone I came in contact with, because, every woman I knew who wore mascara did this very thing! I wanted it to stop. I wanted lots of things in the world to stop - starting with my inner turmoil, but one step at a time, I thought. Let's get this mascara fiasco under control.

Simultaneously, I wasn't speaking to my mother. She was a traitor, as far as I was concerned. New city, new boyfriend (ex-brother-in-law), new house - BUT the same make-up routine. I knew she pumped that mascara brush - I just really, seriously OCD like needed this to end.

One day, in our small white car, I worked up the courage to be a daughter again and just tell her this new thing I learned. I envisioned her taking heed to my words and thanking me for this - boy, won't this save us money - wow! erica, you're becoming a little woman. You know, stuff like that. Turns out, she was hurting beyond control, too, but I didn't know. You know?

I told her.

She made fun of me. I mean, out right. "OH!" she said. "She thinks she knows more about make-up than me" speaking to the new boyfriend.

"Don't *tell* me how to do my make up" directed right at me.

I cried. Very hard for a few minutes. And even more that night.

I come back to that day a lot. More than I should, I suppose.

If that's movin up then i'm movin out

Let's talk about healing. But first, let's talk about our bodies. More specifically, my body. It's really damaged. I've done a terrible job at maintaining my beautiful carbon instrument. Seriously. I have. My back is a knotted mess of anxiety and stress. I don't know how to combat this. I'm too uptight, wound-up and high strung. Meditation? I don't know. Give me suggestions. I need help.**

I got a deep tissue massage today and a few times I nearly puked all my basil and orange infused water up. The pain, sometimes, was unbearable. How do I heal from this travesty? What have I done to bring this on?

I need to heal.






**Note: If you think about giving me stupid suggestions, which includes things that are stupid, keep them to yourself. Don't, I repeat, DON'T tell me to pray or to chill out or dumb things like that, k? Cool.