Never quite whole again

Went to the gym. Did dishes, made my bed. All that stuff I promised I’d get back to – I did it. Even opened up my script and wrote 2000 words.

And it felt right to get back to the day to day. Solid, real. Reminded myself where I am. When I am. Who I am.

But I am still mourning, and it’s a private grief. There is not one person in my life today who met L, so for them it’s like saying a celebrity died – distant and cerebral. Even heard from someone I shared my sob story with, who said just that, which is why I bring it up…because the statement felt cold. Really? You’ll compare my losing someone I spent every day of my 20s with the death of a celebrity? You think that compares? Cold.

Maybe I’m just being a bitch. Maybe the person who said that really did get shaken down to their bones. Maybe, in secret, they flew off to the UK and spent many long afternoons and evenings with their hero, David Bowie. Maybe they remember Bowie shooting pool with them. Being at their side when their parents died. Maybe they spent hours on the phone, all hours of the day or night, talking. Just like I did with L.

Or maybe not.

No one says ‘I love you’ to me. Not even in writing. I do. I tell people I love them at the end of my letters. That is, I tell them I love them if I truly do love them. I don’t just write it for everyone. It’s a select bunch, I’ll give you that. Not many I’d say it to. And I know not everyone is comfortable saying it. Not everyone can say it, even in the written word. There are several people in my life who aren’t in the habit of saying it, yet I know they care about me because of how they treat me. They are there for me, consistently. To talk, to help, to console. They never say ‘why are we talking about this again’ or ‘gee, I just don’t have time to deal with your crises anymore’.

Still. I’d like to hear the words echoed back to me.

Writing has become a thing. A real thing in my life. Not something I do when the mood strikes me, but something I sit and do regardless of my mood. And thank you, Goddess, for it! Hours typing away, creating dialogue and story lines…hours I don’t think about myself, or my sorrow, or the (possible) lack of love in my life.

I think I could finally write for a living now. Punch in the hours, type in the words.

The script is going well. Strong. Strong characters, strong statements. I need to modify a few things in Act 1. Add in one or two historical references. Make sure I’m not using contractions (I know I have to comb over the beginning for those). But I don’t want to modify Act 1 yet. Keep moving forward. Get through the whole thing. Otherwise, I run the risk of spending the rest of the week editing Act 1 – which is truly silly, since I haven’t written the end yet. Finish it off, THEN go back and tinker with the beginning. You know that!

Go! Write! Forget!


Strange how I bury my sorrow in words that remember.

Today is another gym day. Get my ass over there and sweat. Regret, after 7 minutes, getting on the cross trainer. Feel I’m gonna vomit after 20 minutes on said cross trainer. Then over that hump. Into the endorphins. Smile, when my legs burn. Laugh at the sweat dripping off me. I wonder if L kept up on exercise. Is this the reason I’m living longer than my mates? Because I get off on it? Do I have an addictive side that’s so hung up on exercise highs I return to physical activity throughout my life in order to feed my need?

Fucking hell. Can I finally turn that weakness into a strength?

Find my soul a little more forgiving. My urge to grasp happiness a bit more conscious and aware. My weaknesses are not insurmountable mountains in my path, hampering my every move, but flat spaces of nothingness I can build on.

If the value of a person lies in the lessons they teach us, L was valued very highly, indeed.

No wonder they say growing old is scary. It sure as fuck is! Hearing about or, worse yet, seeing the people you know and care about die – fucking die – is terrifying.

…People want to talk so much about money and finances these days. What’s your 401K look like? How much is in your portfolio? But no one ever talks about our emotional investments. How we invest so much in the people in our lives. Not just the big memories, but the day to day stuff. The dreams, even. Dreams of them, of seeing them again. And when we lose someone, we go bankrupt. Immediately. All of that is lost. The comfortable chit-chat and grousing over our routines. The irritating habits we snap at each other for, then later regret mentioning. The things we think we’d like to be rid of, and the things we think we can’t live without. Gone, in an instant.

We are left in an open wound of love and sorrow, and facing the huge obstacle of putting our lives back together again. But we are missing a piece.

And while working a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle maybe be fun even if a piece is missing, the picture is never complete.

We are never quite whole again.


On the See-Saw


Last night I had the frustrating task of figuring out the following cryptic message: It’s got the Doctor Who guy who had armageddon in it. From this, my brother expected me to understand the following: The film we were about to watch, Lesbian Vampire Killers, included in its cast James Corden who starred in the Doctor Who episode ‘The Lodger’ as Doctor Who’s roommate AND who ended up (in another episode) having a baby, Alfie, who like to be called Stormageddon (according to the Doctor).

Sometimes my brother’s short hand way of speaking really makes me want to strangle him.

I have been thinking deep and heavy thoughts. They’re not surface thoughts; those I can at least glimpse as they flit by my mind. These thoughts are too deep to access. They keep me preoccupied no matter what’s going on around me. I sit in front of the tv, offering a smile and/or laugh when my brother does so I don’t seem too off. I don’t really hear what’s going on. In fact, last night I had that weird thing happen to me where English is being spoken but I can’t understand a word of it. It’s just mush, syllables with no particular meaning. Flying over my head, smiles, laughter and mush, as I sit stony faced because some part of my brain is in overtime and I can’t access it.

Really hard to keep my frustration from screaming out of me right now. I gotta stand back a little: I can see this woman who looks unhappy – I know she doesn’t feel that way, but she looks that way from the outside. She is quiet, too quiet….. And with good fucking reason. Every goddamn time I open my fucking mouth my brother INSISTS on making analogies to himself. Yesterday I was talking about my writing, he turned it into a conversation about music. Goddamn it! Sometimes I wish he’d just let my statements stand in the air without comment. I need to tell him something, not have him turn it around so I can relate to him. HEAR me, will you? And I can’t come down on him too hard because he still doesn’t have any goddamn pills from the fucking doctors to slow down his ADHD. I know what the fuck is going on with him. He’s doing fucking great, other than continually interrupting me until I’m ready to crawl out of my fucking skin.

And I’m scared ’cause I want to write again, but not like I did before. I want to write like I WANTED to before, but couldn’t. I feel like I can now. Like I can address some of those dark memories in my head and finally give them the dirt and sweat and cum smeared all over their faces like I remember. I want to write the ugly out, in glorious 3D splat with fountains of shit flying everywhere. No hiding behind humor or metaphor. And I know my brother will hate it. He’s the number one fan of my fiction. My humorous fiction. He asks for more stories from me all the time. And I like to write that, when I’m there. But what’s brewing isn’t funny, it isn’t nice, it isn’t rated YA. It’s gonna be ugly literature, stuff I never wanted to read. Stuff I’m afraid he’ll reject because it’s too raw. I tried to tell him that. I really did. All I got was the music analogy, which frankly lost me after the second sentence. My verbal skills have gone to shit. Or maybe he just doesn’t give me enough time to get things OUT. I don’t know anymore. Too fucking frustrated.

My body still isn’t healthy, which frustrates me more. I guess I’m not over this manic episode after all. Thought I was when I was getting ill; it slowed me down enough to fool me. Now that I’m on the mend I realize I’m not slowed down at all. I want to fly right now, zoom away into words and sounds and never, ever come back down to earth cause why fucking bother? Everything here is too slow.

I am tired and wound up and I need more sleep today, I can tell. Feel like I could lay my head down on my desk right now and snooze for four more hours.

Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Been through a whole box of tissues.

Do not want to do today.

Where is my warrior princess? The blood thirsty bitch who screams ‘NEVER!’ as she dives into battle? Must have been up fighting all night. I DID wake up soaked in sweat again. It wasn’t even warm last night, so must have been fighting something.

Do not want to admit this, but I’ll put myself down today. Drug myself out, so I keep calm and get more sleep. I know it ain’t the best way to go. But right now I’m facing drugging myself asleep and resting today, or running too fast and hard and coming up even more ill tomorrow. This is a life long pattern for me, and why I take months to heal from simple illnesses. I’m trying to break myself of it.

Still haven’t made the call yet for a new counseling appointment. I keep telling myself I will when I get better. I’d at least like to be able to hear what’s going on, and right now my ears are still pretty clogged up. All excuses. I’m just avoiding it. It’s the last fucking thing I should be doing, and I’m letting myself do it.

Sometimes the thing I despair the most about it my own perceived weakness. Intellectually, I know that. I know I’m not weak; I am, in fact, the opposite. I can write out an entire argument on my own behalf detailing exactly how strong and brave I am. I could do it right now. My heart still wouldn’t accept it, tho. It’s still sad because some part of me has her hands thrown up in the air again. That ‘I just can’t deal with this shit right now’ attitude that seeps through every facet of my fucking life. And I tell myself it’s just the remnants of my illness. I’m just off my game. But I’m not off my game, I’m on the see-saw. It’s just tipping and teetering, which throws my balance off. Never did have a good sense of balance.

So deep breath, try again.

I acknowledge I’m probably in a mixed episode right now. I acknowledge my emotions are topsy-turvy, that I’ll be up one minute and crying the next. I acknowledge my own frustrations. I acknowledge that I have a problem. That’s ok. It’s ok to have a problem. It’s ok to be frustrated when you’re ill. It’s ok to ask for help.

Trying to decide if I can make a promise to myself today and follow through. And I’m still on the fence. What I want to do is carry through with the idea that’s it’s ok to ask for help. I should stop at the doctor’s office and see if she can see me today. This sinus infection or whatever has been going on for over a week now, and I probably need something to help me heal. Can I bring myself to do that? Face the embarrassment of having to resort to English ’cause I can’t explain all this in Dutch? Face the walk over there, and then maybe the wait or the need to return later in the day when she has some time free? Do I have it in me today to do this for myself?

I will try. I will not promise myself because I don’t know that I’m up to it. But I will try. I will put on my shoes and get dressed before noon. I will walk over to the doctor’s office and ask if she can see me today.

And the see-saw tips down towards exhaustion……