Look What They've Done to My Brain

It occurred to me, it might not be water pressure - it could be the shower head. I, then, did what anyone would do. I took the shower head off. It was disastrous for a moment, a fleeting and soaking moment, I probably should've waited until I was OUT of the shower, but it didn't seem right.

I had this weird little minute in the shower - water was unpredictable and heavy on my head and hot on my skin. Clark vacated, so I was alone in the bathroom. I don't know how to tell you this without just telling you this: I was having fun. This brief, chance moment in time nothing *really* was happening. Nothing really except everything was happening.

And as I stepped out of the shower (with a clear plan in mind: after work stop by Meijer to pick up a new shower head, new vinyl linings, and maybe, a loaf of bread) I realized that probably (knock on wood) I am coming back around. I survived this summer. I survived last winter. I survived the fall of my humanity. I survived hurting everyone around me (they survived, too). While kicking and gasping and fighting for life, patient people presented themselves to gently hold my head out of the water or convince me, wildly, to not give up.

There were other people, too. People who would theorize about my undoing and let it be known they had their theories. One certain person came to mind this morning: she's just doing this for attention she told one of my friends. He, of course, told me. That's okay, I needed to know who and how and why people were fighting me when I was fighting me. It's a particularly cruel thing to say about someone who, on a good day, could only stand up to lie back down again. And cry.

She's still out there in my immediate surroundings, I haven't seen her and that's okay. I don't really want to. I can't shake the thought that while I was crying myself to sleep she was telling mutual friends caviler-like that I wasn't hurting. Like she knew. Like anyone knew. She's still out there and I'm still out here - needing a shower head.

I'm coming back around. I survived summer and the winter before.

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.

Don't Expect Me to Cry

In middle school, I tried to learn to sew. It didn't work out too well - my  Home Ec. teacher, Mrs. Bunner, looked at one of my seams and, defeated (as one must get teaching middle school kids how to sew), asked me: "What are you doing at that machine, Erica? Riding the wave?" (Don't worry, guys. I told her No.)

I won't forget Mrs. Bunner. Honestly. She taught me how to write a check. And to clean up the kitchen as you go. And that it was just fine that boys wanted to take Home Ec. She was a good lady, really. I shouldn't have called her Mrs. Bun-Head. Not only did it NOT make sense, it wasn't very nice. She also practiced a thing she called Uppers. If she heard a student say something negative about another student, she made the sour-puss say 3 nice things about the other kid. It's a nice ritual, you know? I can get caught up in negative shit so easily. And I do. Even if it was just to make Mrs. Bunner happy, the naysayer would have to buck up and pick out good stuff.

It's a goddamned attitude changer, I'll tell you that much. So, today I'm going to find some Uppers in my life - and even though, instead of being grateful, I want to be mad, I'm going to Mrs. Bunner the fuck out of today. You ready?

1. I have a bike. I have a bike that I love - It's sturdy and big and it folds in half. I inherited very little from my dad -among strong teeth, a slight problem with alcohol and easily toned muscles, he, also, left me this bike.  I ride this fucker with a serious outlook.  I ride it with a backpack and cutoffs and look like a 12 year old boy. I ride it with dresses on. And through high water. And to the bars. I'd ride it to hell and back.

2. Nirvana's Unplugged Album exists. It's so good and it's so good every single time I listen to it. I remember when I first bought this cd. Sirens started sounding: "Alert! Alert! This album will outlast most albums for you, young Erica." It has. I've grown with it. And who would've thought some punk-ass young kids from Seattle could do an acoustic set that would resonate with so many people for so many years? Jesus Christ, you know? Just listen to it. Listen to the first 3 seconds of Oh Me and tell me you don't feel it in your bones.

3.  One day I know I will be far from the spot I'm in now. And that's the best Upper I can think of.

Three (three, three) for my heart-ache

I want to make a grand statement, but I'm fearful.

Declaring that I have survived the winter is probably a little premature. I want to strain my ears for the spring time quartet. It's too early, though. It's too early. Be careful.

Proceed with caution. Quit longing for day-lilies and bumble bees to get wrapped up in my hair. Help me stop thinking about mud to my knees in May. I want to throw a few stones to see if I can hit summer in the face, is she that close? (She isn't.) I want to dip my cup in the long-evening purples of dusk and drink it like smooth bourbon (I can't). I want to walk around and grab little squirrels by their little hands and hold them close - congratulate them for living. (I won't).  Anyway, winter is still here. She's dying, but even fading things can kill someone's spirit if one is not careful.

This is what I want to say: I survived the worst winter to date.

This is what I want to say (also): I barely survived. If you see the magnolia buds on my street, ask them to hurry - and to please bring reinforcements.