Friday, July 15, 2022

Sometimes

 





                Sometimes a fire grows so bright that you can't stand the heat. You trample it out of fear and live             with the embers. For the embers are bright enough; emit enough light to last a lifetime. You stand         in the awesome power of the embers, so thankful for the warmth. Surely, this fire will never go out.


He tells you it won't. It's different. You know it's not, but you let him teach you the lie. He knows its a lie         too, but you're only a child and can't handle the truth. So he gazes into your eyes and plays prince                 charming. Such a beautiful sacrifice, to let one's fire burn out for another. You didn't know you were             supposed to be fanning the flames.


When you realize, it's too late. You walk out to the campfire after a beautiful night of rain and see the embers smoking, not smoldering. You still don't believe it. 


"It just needs a little fuel," you tell yourself. "It's stronger than that, surely..."


So you add the fuel. And you cling. And you devolve into merely a shadow of your former self. You're             ready now, to fan the fire, but it's far too late. The fire went out years ago while you were preoccupied             with yourself. There's no reviving it now. You start to wonder if the fire ever burned, or if that was just your imagination again. Have you always been alone?


The fire won't light. So you stand outside. And cry in the rain.

Friday, December 10, 2021

Emotionally Homeless

 

I don’t belong here. I wake up every day in a state

that I don’t know,

that I don’t belong in.

In 2011 I tried to make my life better by giving it away.

I’m in CA. I could go back to Michigan

but my life there is gone; I gave it away.

I’ve never felt so alone.


You don’t know what it’s like to be a toxic POS.

To ruin everything

you touch.


You don’t know what it’s like when the only thing

you could possibly do

to make people’s lives better is to leave

them alone. When everything you touch turns

to shit. When you show your love by insults and

abuse.


“You don’t have to act like this. You haven’t in the past.” 


The excuse is gone. How do I tell them I don’t have control?

That I simply just… Do.


I know it’s not what you want, but I have to go. Paradoxically,

the only way I can ensure you get proper treatment is to leave.

Who loses then? Me. Always. It’s always me.

Is it what I deserve?


I’m so tired of always losing. Some days I wake up

happy and feel accomplished. Other days I

wake up scared and alone, wondering where

the fuck I am, and who the fuck these people are

that don’t even know me.


But I’m here now, and I don’t have a choice.

No home to go to. No one to tell. If I do, it’s I’m

“being dramatic”, “stop being such an idiot”, “

You don’t care about me” “I don’t understand you”


“You’re acting like a child.”


I don’t belong in this world, and I don’t want to be.

I didn’t want to be born. I’d think I somehow

ended up in the wrong place, but

I don’t think God would make such a mistake.


I know my purpose isn’t to suffer, yet it seems my

purpose is only to harm those that I care about.

I don’t want to be here anymore.


I want to go home.


 But I don’t have a home;

I gave it away years ago.

Sunday, September 5, 2021

Sole Holder of Memories

Sole Holder of Memories

Sole Holder of Memories



“Remember when we were standing on my back porch in Jamaica, drinking Red Stripe at night, and that cockroach flew in out of nowhere and smacked me right in the face?” We’d both laugh. It’s getting harder to remember the sound of your laughter.


I hated the things, but it happened so quickly that I didn’t even have time to be upset before it was over. I processed it myself after the fact while laughing it off; likely smoking a Cravin’ A Cigarette.


When people serve in the Peace Corps, it’s not actually a 2 year experience like most colloquially think.


It’s 2 years and 3 months. It’s two years at your ‘post’, but before that you spend 3 months in country training, before you’re cut loose. Within those three months, you become bonded to your fellow volunteers. You didn’t get to pick your captives, but if you get lucky enough, each one becomes utterly unforgettable; irreplaceable. Our group was tightly bonded.


When you get your site assignment, that’s when the nerves really kick in. What site did you get? Did you get a more urban setting like you requested? How close are you to the airport, the ocean? What route will you take into town to visit the office? But most importantly, who in the hell is somewhat close to you, and are you happy with who that is?


I lucked out in getting the placement I did, in St. Ann’s Bay. At least I think so. I was right on the north coast; 2 blocks walking distance from the ocean. The bus ride to town would only be about 3 hours. I was an hour from MoBay and 20 minutes from Ochi, a huge tourist destination. Ochi would become my reprieve when I was overwhelmed. Could always go to Ochi and blend in. Until I’d go into the shop to buy a pack of Cravin’ A’s, or haggle down an American taxed taxi fare.


“You’re not a tourist; you live here.” 

“You’re right” I’d say, “Tanks. Ya (h)ear?”

“Alright. Ok. Bless.”


Each group on island shares the island with the previous group. I was in group 82. Ross and Tina were in group 81. You came later. You were in group 83. My first year was shared with group 81, and boy did they take care of me. The initial meeting was such a sigh of relief. Finally a chance to ask a fellow more seasoned volunteer what the hell I was supposed to be doing. “How do I pay my electric bill?” You could always text. Phone credit in JA is not cheap, but all volunteers had free call and text to each other within the phone plan that was worked out. This became invaluable. “You remember when Charlie did X?” I’d hear an 81-er say. 


“Who’s that?” I’d ask.

“Oh, that was a 79-er.” they’d say with wistful nostalgia. “He was awesome.” I don’t know who that is. I likely never will.


I remember when Tina took me to the market, to “her girl”. Now I knew where and how to buy my produce. Another sigh of relief. Now I knew how to flag a taxi, and how to ask for a stop.


“Driva. One stop up a Middle St.” The car barreling forward at 80 mph would stop at Middle Street like I asked, and people would make room for me to climb over them to exit.




After my first year, Group 81 finished out their service and went home. I remember the last hangouts, the last hugs, the last drinks, and the last tears. Re-integrating into American society is harder than integrating into your host country, TEN fold. No one back “home” knows the first thing about you anymore, or how to relate or how to talk to you. Everyone’s moved on; lives have changed and rearranged. Your ‘place’ no longer exists, and so you have to try to make a new one.


When group 83 came, I was leary. “Who are these people?” I’d ask myself. These aren’t MY people. I’ll have to start all over again. But whoever it is, whoever I get in my town I’ll have to take care of. It’s the right thing to do, 81 did it for me. They’ll be my responsibility, and in this lonely barren place, I welcome that. I look forward to meeting you.


When I met you, you weren’t what I was expecting. You were a bit younger than me, and were beautiful with long dark wavy hair. You had the body of a model, and I was intimidated. In my head I thought, what brought you here? You don’t seem like a misfit or a reject like I often felt. You must be one of the well adjusted volunteers who’ll have an easy time, but never leave their house, only talk to other Americans, and keep up a stock pile of Nutella.


I don’t know what you thought of me, but I probably came across as cool and experienced and safe. That’s how my friends in group 81 appeared to me. Through you I learned that even the pretty girls have problems. An obvious thing. I never realized how immature I was until I lived in Jamaica. And while there I was on a collision course. I was a mess, just a ball of action acting, without much thought. That was my strategy; that’s how I survived the incredible mind fuck that it is to try to assimilate into a completely foreign culture. You’ll start to think you get it, then realize you know absolutely nothing. 


I loved coming over to your house, Ross and Tina’s old house. I felt such comfort with you, and through our walks and talks we built our bond, and I began to love you. I still remember the day you told me I was your best friend. I didn’t realize the gravity. I didn’t realize the honor.


I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry you got stuck with such a horrible influence and disaster of an elder volunteer. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong. I’m sorry I stayed with a man that did the things he did, which caused us to fall out, and for me to have my last 8 months taken from me. I’m sorry I got pulled out early. I’m sorry I left you alone.


I’m sorry it took me so long to learn, and I’m sorry it seemed like you may have followed in my awful sinkhole footsteps. We do stupid things when we’re isolated, lonely and confused.


I reached out to you; you didn’t want to talk. I don’t blame you. I said things I wish I hadn’t. “How can you live a meaningful life with no belief in a higher power?” I asked. I was disrespectful.  And the next thing I knew? You were transformed. You were no longer the same person. The girl who didn’t believe in marriage was married. The girl who didn’t believe in God was a devout church goer. I wasn’t mad at you. Of course you weren’t the same; none of us were; I never expected you to be.


I was just so happy to read your words, that you began speaking to me again and wanted me back in your life. You were back now, in the US. You moved to Tennessee. You were a teacher. We had so much to talk about. We made plans to arrange to talk on the phone, to catch up. I wanted to hear everything, every insignificant detail, every perception you made, every conclusion you had drawn, every situation you had deduced. You were SO smart. You always were. I was still deep in my trauma, but a part of me came back to life when I read your email that you forgave me. I couldn’t wait to talk to you again.



The call never came to be. When I found out you passed away, I was at work, with my students. I remember reading the headlines: twice. Your husband passed away? That's awful! I must move up the call; reach out! My brain flatout refused to process what I was reading correctly. I messaged a mutual friend. “Stephanie died?”


“Yes.” I was told. “It’s awful.”


Even though you were safe back home, you were in Jamaica when it happened, which somehow feels fitting, and somehow makes it hurt more. It was a car accident. You died likely instantly.





“I never want to die.” You told me years before. We were sitting in your living room, listening to the sounds outside.

“Really?” My clinical depression asked the question.

“Yeah.” you said. “Life is awesome. If I could live forever, I would.”


I thought this was childish at the time. I heard your words again in your voice while I read that headline.


I miss you so much. I think about you nearly every day. You were my best friend too, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I can’t think too long or the pain becomes just too much to bear. And I feel responsible. I know that’s illogical. But I was 82 and you were 83. And I WASN’T there.


So now I hold those memories, our memories, swimming in the ocean, our walk into the shopping district through the back way, through the hospital and the horses. The drinks on your porch and mine. You dyed my hair, we cried over boys. I hold those memories tight, I cling to them as if they will no longer exist if I let go. For I am the sole holder of those memories, you were the only other one there. And they’re so precious to me; I’ll tell you again one day, when I’m there.


“Remember when we were standing on my back porch in Jamaica?”


Life is awesome. If I could live forever, I would.


It’s getting harder to remember the sound of your laughter.

Friday, November 8, 2019

It's me; I'm ma'am.

I've got a growth on my eyebrow. It hurts when I touch it. I should look it up, incase it's dangerous. Just to stay on top of things. It's good to stay on top of things.

Maybe it's not a growth. Maybe it's from the VR headset that I wore yesterday for a paid study. My neck hurts, and my shoulders. The headset was much heavier than I thought it would be. But I managed to keep my head level. At first I didn't think I was going to be able to, that I would embarrass myself. But I did it. I held my head level. And I followed all of the researcher's directions. I did good, I think with pride. Because I followed directions. If nothing else, I can listen and I can follow directions. I've prided myself on that, because if nothing else.

Not everyone can, you know, follow directions. I learned this when I was working in Juvenile Detention. And I prided myself on my ability to, because if nothing else, I could be useful. All I’ve ever wanted out of life is to be useful. If nothing else. At 37, it no longer feels like enough.

I went grocery shopping late at night. While in line with way more things than I should be buying, I let a couple of guys go before me. They each only had one item. There was a lady in front of me with some bags in her cart and three random items. She got out of line.

The cashier inquires, can I ask you a question?

Yes.

Can you go look for that lady with the bags in her cart outside, and tell her to come here?

Oh, that crazy-looking lady?

The young cashier giggles. The guy behind me snorts. I feel good. I said what everyone was thinking, for sure, and I made them laugh. I've still got my charm.

I go outside and I can't find her. I see the cashier and I tell her so. She's gone.

I just wanted to ask her a question, she says as she works the line by herself. I wanted to know why she's not up here.

Oh, she works here?

Yeah.

She works there. I didn't say something funny or clever. I'm not a cool girl, who you think you might want to be friends with. I'm not even a girl, I'm a lady. I'M the crazy lady.

"Ma'am" is a difficult word for me. When I was younger, it was said to me a couple of times and I smirked. I wasn't old enough to be a ma'm. In my twenties I looked young for my age, in my early thirties, I was mistaken for 25. I liked it, but I never thought too much about it. I should have thought more about it. If nothing else.

I never knew it would be so hard.

"Ma'm" is a woman or lady. She's not a girl, or a chick, she's older. Maybe not OLD old, but she's old. She's instantly dismissed, and always out of touch. She's called "ma'am" as a curtesy, as to not offend her, by girls and boys, and men and women alike. She's not someone you would ask about music advice, or where the cool spots are in town. She's just some lady. I'M just some lady.

It's hard not to think back on all the wasted years. If I could only go back to being a pretentious twenty-two year old fuck, I could do it all over again differently. The thoughts are painful, and so bittersweet. There's no going back. And besides, the daydreams fade when I remember that I'm lazy, and that I sure really did love poison. It would be like a B-List version of 'Groundhog's Day' with a MUCH much lower budget, and horrible acting. And the main character would be perpetually drunk or hung-over. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

I should have enjoyed it more, being young.

If nothing else.


Friday, January 25, 2013

.

And when he told me to turn the music off, that it was making him think too much, I thought to myself that I just wanted him to sink down under the blanket with me, and that deep down I feel we all have some terrible suffereing that needs to be comforted. I mean, its painful to be alive, right? But what the hell does that say about me?

#seachange.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Blip on the radar

You were my blip on the radar, radar-\
Just short of passing, shooting star.

You were my timing to get it right-\
You were my landing, in cold fright, its alright..

I'll never see you again I am sure of that now.
And it getting easier scares me somehow
Like I want to stay the same, or lose my brain
Like a firefly in a masquito net
Like a trip on a wire.
Like a cage.
Like life.
Like-