This empty life…

He called me “hon”.

He is not prone to terms of endearment. This isn’t a man who slips into language like a diner’s waitress.

After no communication for days. Maybe a week.

I’ve lost track of time.

These days time is like taffy. Stretching, clinging, sticking.

The point is it just slipped out so casually.

And I want to bash my head into a wall repeatedly.

There’s a reason I grew up loving paperback mysteries, Stephen King, and Wes Craven movies. This isn’t a girl who believes in fairy-tale-happy-ending bullshit.

I am my father’s daughter.

And I know better.

I know that there isn’t some white knight who is gonna swoop in at the last minute and make all the hurt disappear. There isn’t even a constant weight on the other side of my bed, much less in less explicit facets of my life.

I am on my own. Always. Regardless of where I’m stuck in time.

Only a single friend has told me “You deserve to have him stay. You give so much.”

All others are silent. And it shows me what I already know, in that deepest heart of mine. That truest heart. That constant companion that’s been there since when I was little.

There’s no point in giving. There is no deserving.

There is only the taffy stretch of time and the constant stickiness of pain.

“Cigarettes” by The Wreckers

Social Media destruction

Nothing like the past knock-knock-knocking on your door.

Knew I should have gotten a louder “fuck off” doorbell.

Thought I burned that bridge long ago and now find that there’s some sort of vine growing out of the wreckage and trying to curl itself around my neck.

I thought that scar was a faint white impression of the wound it once was. But there’s some scab left to be picked.

It’s simple words on a screen that lend power to the climbing foliage. To pick at the surface of skin.

I have only myself to blame.

For many months I’ve debated on deactivating my Facebook account. Honestly, if there was a way I could simply use the messenger and not anything else, I would more likely do it. It’s the messenger I don’t want to part with. The main way I communicate with friends I’m not physically close to (like ones I know through this community!).

Today while updating my profile picture to something a bit more festive, I somehow accidentally caused my timeline to switch to 2006.

I should have immediately closed out.

A sane person would.

This jigsawed brain made the decision to continue scrolling. Scrolling through a smattering of words from a period of my life I’d long tried to purge from my being.

Words include lame jokes with friends. Basic life updates about school and work.

And posts from Her.

I have moved multiple times since my 5 year relationship with Katherine, but it still haunts me. Almost daily. I love my current house. So very much.

And yet at night my dreams are permeated with the rooms I lived in with Her. The house I lived at with Her. There is no rhyme or reason.

I barely dream of my current partner at all. I don’t understand this flawed thinking at all.

And now it isn’t even just my subconscious.

I don’t understand why I scrolled. Why I took that screenshot. Why I saved it. Why I include it in this post.

Social media is a toxin. A dangerously addictive substance beyond heroin, meth, or alcohol. It speaks sweetly and dresses up flawlessly. But behind those honeyed words and slick threads is a sinister hole of festering stink.

And I don’t even mean the vindictive way they use profiles for marketing. Note your interests. Or track “trending” topics.

I mean how it harbors a storage of memories you didn’t even know still remained. Memories to be purged. You recklessly thought you’d never have to see again.

A simple click.

Words across a page.

October so far…

This month has been very rough.

My stepsister had her baby within mere days of my grandfather passing away. And both of those things happened within days of my miscarriage anniversary. Also my health has been super bad lately. Yay autoimmune disorders.

I don’t really feel like discussing or whining or seeming as depressed as I am. So here are some pics commemorating this month so far.

My grandfather and me when I was young.

An awful painting I did for a friend’s wine and painting party.

Zoe’s favorite sleeping position.

Zoe trying to comfort me on the couch

Stuck

Stuck in baby blues as the anniversary of the worst day of my life approaches. Nothing to describe this loss. I always hope the next year will be better. So far they are not.

Every year hurts just as much as the last.

Especially when I get my period near the date. Most triggering 4 days of the month.

I just want it to be Halloween soon.

Trying to get past this date. Trying really hard.

Tracking Dirt

Sometimes family isn’t about blood. And sometimes it is.

---

She was eleven when she first knew he was not trustworthy. Her mother had married him and was expecting the second brother.

Sitting on the couch, she read a Baby-Sitters Club book. The house was quiet. She still felt jittery in this unfamiliar place. She wished they would spend 100% of the time at the house on the corner lot, instead of a mere 40-50% (at best).

Bang!

She flinched at the door slamming and glanced up. Her stepfather loomed near the front door, staring down at the floor. He quickly looked up at her and snarled, “Did you track dirt into my house? You know to wipe your feet!”

She looked down at her bare feet, clean of any dirt or debris. She tried to remember if she’d been outside recently. Logic said no. She was a good ways into her book and she was pretty sure she’d read it in only one sitting so far. The tracks on the carpet were outlined in shoe treads. Her shoes were neatly placed on the mat next to the front door. She looked back up with a pleasant expression, preparing to relay all these steps that had given her the logical conclusion that she had not tracked dirt into his house.

Her stepfather was now closer, stomping his ways towards her. His expression ferocious. She dropped her book.

“I didn’t.” She whispered, “I take them off when I come in. I don’t wear them on the carpet.” Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows of the room. He stopped just above her and leaned down. She made herself very still and her eyes did not meet his. She would be a good girl. Good girls do not cry or plead. Good girls merely listen.

“You will treat this house with respect. You will not dirty it. Do you understand me??” He hissed. She quickly nodded. Good girls respond to questions without complaint.

The stepfather did not agree with these rules apparently. His hand was suddenly clamped around her wrists. Her breath froze deep in her chest. She was a statue. She was ice. She was far away. Someone listened though.

“Did you get dirt on your hands too??” His hand tightened as he examined her palms. She made no sound. She was above pain. Good girls do not feel pain. “Wash your hands this instant.” The command registered with who listened and the moment the wrists were released, the girl was upstairs and in the bathroom.

Click

She does not remember who locked the bathroom door. She does remember that she is supposed to wash her hands. It is done quickly, barely noting the fact that her hands are already clear of dirt. An angry part of her catalogues that fact away though.

Asshole it murmurs. It can say that word silently, deep in the recesses of the girl’s brain. Things are safe there.

She finishes and carefully opens the door and peeks out. Coast is clear. She darts quickly to her room and closes the door.

Click

Again, there is no memory of locking the door. But it is locked. That is certain.

It is especially certain when the knob is tried mere minutes later and the door does not give way.

“What the hell?!” yells the stepfather from outside. The girl curls up into a small ball on her bed. Perhaps she can stop resembling a person. That might help. “Did you lock my fucking door? This is not your house!” The door is rattled. Girl is a tiny stone. She is a pebble. She is not a person.

The door is rattled again.

Then suddenly it splinters open.

Her breath freezes deep inside again. She unravels herself and lets the bits float up and away. It is a tactic she is good at. She can be seeds on the wind.

He is above her on the bed.

She is dandelion fuzz, granting wishes to all the little children of summer.

Her wrists are clamped again. He thrusts a small rectangular object in her face. Only part of the title registers in her fractured brain. B-A-B-Y-S-I-

“Don’t leave your shit downstairs.”

She is the fizz in a root beer float. The bubbles in a bath. She bobs on the surface with the rubber dolphin and Mermaid Barbie.

“Do you understand me?”

She is the spray of a sprinkler in summer. The droplets making tiny rainbows in the air.

“Hey. Do you understand me?!” The grip on her wrists tightens again. The pain crackles her brain and gives rise to someone. The eyes undeaden and she is no longer a pebble. She stares up at the stepfather.

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a murmur, but it is enough. The wrists are released and he leaves as suddenly as he came in.

The fractured doorframe and her splintered brain the only looming reminder.

And she had been doing so well.

Birthday

This past Monday was my birthday.

No magical number or anything. Just a general “you’re getting older” sort of day. I felt very adult by the fact that I actually scheduled a doctor’s appointment for that day. It was a bit stressful for me and my system, but I don’t really want to discuss that right now.

The main gift from my mother was a simple DVD.

It turned out to be a compilation of all these family video clips from when I was a toddler. From before we moved to Ohio. For some reason I cannot entirely comprehend, I was terrified to watch this DVD. I let it sit.

With the freshly filled script of Ativan, I finally brought myself to watch it the other day.

It was a roller coaster of emotion. As expected, I suppose.

I’m going to list my main observations in a list to sort them out better.

1.) I have not always been shy. Through various clips I am very outspoken and interact joyfully with all relatives and friends of my family. This was surprising to see.

2.) There are multiple Christmas clips (from two or three years’ worth of holidays) and though I don’t recognize the event itself, there are gifts/toys that I recognize. There are gifts that Armes especially exclaims over from deep inside my brain. It gives me a smile and yet deeply wounds me at the same time.

3.) My paternal grandmother is featured prominently in many of these clips. She passed when I was 8. I do not remember her unless I really think about it. I remember how she used to collect the Beanie Baby toys McDonalds had for a time. She wasn’t a fan of fast food, but she collected as many as she could just for me because I loved stuffed animals (and Beanie Babies). I remember that she would use any excuse to send me a package in the mail. I used to even get “First Day of School” packages with little gifts.
It’s hard to remember the funeral. But I do remember that for months afterwards, I talked about how her “ghost” watched me and tried to protect me. Dad tried to logically explain how that wasn’t possible until he’d had enough and told me to “cut it out”. I stopped talking about her altogether. I remember that many years later, when we moved to our new house (his current house) and the basement seemed to be creepy and weird to my friends, I told them I wasn’t afraid because “Grandma watched out for me”. I don’t think I even entirely knew what I meant.
It was shocking to see her face on the screen. And yet…her face is not unfamiliar to me. I can’t explain it well.

4.) My father only briefly appears in two clips.

5.) There are clips at the beginning where my mother seems to be recording “for” my father (because he is deployed with the military at the time) and tries to get me to talk to him. My toddler-literal-mind doesn’t understand though. At one point she asks me to “say bye-bye to Daddy on the camera” and I say “Bye Camera!”.

6.) The first clip to feature my father, (more than halfway through the 80 minute DVD) he is putting together a child’s desk for me. I ask him who broke the desk (it’s laid out in many pieces on the floor). He patiently explains that it isn’t broken, just taken apart and he’s putting it back together. He shows me the instructions with pictures. I study it intently for a good 45 seconds. I cannot place this interaction emotionally in my brain. I don’t know how to feel. I feel like I should know how to feel.

7.) The second clip is my birthday. Dad is icing my cake. Not Mom, as I would have expected. It is another moment I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to connect this father on film with the one I know who seems so distant and anti-child.

8.) Though my father is not in the clip, there is a clip of me talking to him on the phone. I am very serious in my discussion (though I can barely understand what toddler-me is saying). I am upset when Mom tells me I have to say goodbye and hangup soon.

9.) I want to watch this again so I can catch more details and try to not be so switchy during the whole thing. But I can’t bring myself yet. Perhaps in another week or two.

Harp

The first true story I ever wrote was about a harp.

Sure, I’d done semi-serious scribbles all throughout my childhood. Little snippets of thoughts, plans, notes, ideas, dreams.

Little half-chapters of a novel I’d hypothetically like to finish “in the future” (spoiler alert: my middle school writings never became full novels).

In 8th grade I had an English teacher who was also captain of our Power of the Pen club. She was very into short stories and daily journal writings. One day, she had a line of fourteen pictures* taped to the chalkboard, little captions underneath. They were fascinating pictures. She was holding a cheap kids plastic fire hat. Bright red.

“Today, you are going to draw a number from this hat and write a short story based on the picture and caption it goes with.”

I drew number 7. To this day, my lucky number.

It corresponded to a serene picture of a river with a harp sitting peacefully on a bank.

The caption read, “So it’s true, he thought. It’s really true.”

“The Harp”: So it’s true he thought, it’s really true

I was to write a story based on this. The story I wrote isn’t really that important. It was a sort of fantasy genre bit that involved a harp that could teleport you when played. The point is, after I turned in that story things changed.

The teacher kept me after class the next day and asked me to join Power of the Pen. And the writing bug bit me hard. I’ve always been a compulsive scribbler, but now there seemed to be a point.

---

Many years later, at the pinnacle of happiness in a relationship I hadn’t yet realized the negatives of yet, I was merely meandering around a trinket store with Katherine.

Then I saw it.

It was simple, really. Nothing gaudy. Nothing truly crafty like a lot of my jewelry. Basic, stark silver and small.

I loved it immediately. I was brought back to that day. That rush I had completing a story that was the first to be read by others. To be awarded merit and praise.

I needed that necklace.

And in one of the good moments she had so much in the early years, Katherine saw my lust and she bought it for me.

One of the first things she bought me. I have numerous other pieces of jewelry she showered me with. But this necklace has always stuck with me.
She doesn’t actually know the story behind it. I never shared it in detail. When she asked why I was struck by a harp (I play piano) I vaguely explained about how it reminded me of my childhood. It wasn’t important to share.

Last night I dreamed that I did share it with her. And she got it. She really got it.

This morning I wore the necklace. I don’t even know why. I haven’t dreamed about her in months. Almost a year now. But somehow this dream made me violently nostalgic for the past.

I have no clue why. I’m a fucking idiot basically. Why would I want that back again?

And yet, as I worry the necklace like it’s a stone in my pocket, I wish. I hope. I dream.

And I feel the urge to scribble.

*Those familiar with the Mysteries of Harris Burdick get a high five. Those who are curious: go here.

5 months

I never thought 5 months could be a whole lifetime.

I never thought 5 months would haunt me for a lifetime.

I never thought 5 months could fit in a single shoebox.

I never thought 5 months would be so hard to forget.

I never thought 5 months would scar so deep.

I never thought 5 months could have love bloom so completely.

I never thought 5 months could cause heartbreak.

I never thought 5 months would be all I got.

Her name was going to be Cordelia.

Before

Something amazing happened the other day.

It started badly.

I was speaking with my father about childhood memories.  He was appalled to discover I didn’t have any distinct memories from before we moved to Ohio.

Which is obviously because that’s when the splintering happened.  But my father is in high denial about that stuff.

Suddenly though, I remarked, “Well, I remember when I was playing by an old tree stump and got stung by a bee. And it scared me. I think I ran over to you.”

My dad broke into a smile.

“That was in Boston. You were probably 3 years old. It was one of the only times you ran to me before your mom.”

I stared.

Boston?

That’s before the splinter.

I have absolutely no other memories of Boston. That’s even before we went back to Chicago for a time.

I remembered something from before! And not just a couple months before.  Years before!

I’m holding this memory close as a candle to keep away the creeping darkness.

Photo Credit

Lost heart

I’m not sure where my heart is at the moment.  I feel hollow and empty and uncaring.  I know my last post made it seem like I was struggling with the whole “fuck Army” thing, but I’m not.  It makes me feel pretty bitchy and heartless to not even dwell on him once I’ve formally decided we’re through. 

I really haven’t been able to find it within myself to really care a lot about life on any sort of deeper level in a long time.

I think I may have left my heart somewhere.

My theory is either Chicago or Kentucky.

______________________________

Chicago is my home town, where the majority of my family is, where I spent all my summers and holidays up until two years ago. 

I love this place more than I think most of me realizes.

I miss the museums, I miss the stores, I miss the plays, I miss the food, I miss the people.  I even miss the train a little bit.

I lean my forehead against the cool window and watch the lights of buildings flash past in the night.  It’s late- one of the last trains back to my grandparents’ house.  The day was long but enjoyable.  Germany sits in the seat across from me.  The cramped nature of the train has our knees brushing, but we’ve been friends long enough that it doesn’t faze us.  She grins at me. She isn’t normally so into exploring a city at random, but we managed to find a bit of everything that we’d both enjoy.  Tomorrow we plan on going to Six Flags, where she will be the first person to get me to ride a roller coaster and enjoy it.  I know I am always safe with Germany.  And happy.  She makes my heart full.  We make a pact to be friends forever.

I never thought distance would feel so far.

______________________________

But Kentucky…
Kentucky is the complete opposite.  I have no family down their. 
Except Katherine’s.  Her whole family is from Kentucky.  They became my family for 5 years when we would drive down their at least once a month, if not every other weekend.

There’s no culture really, no shopping (Wal-mart doesn’t count), no trains (for people), no plays.

But the food is homemade, mostly from scratch, and amazing.  It’s where I had my first illicit taste of alcohol. 
It’s where I learned to just hear nature breath.

I got to wake up and walk outside to this every single day I was down there.

Everyone was so sweet to me, despite me being a “Yankee”.  It was supposed to become my second home.

She tried to get me to drive the four wheeler, but since I’d never even tried a car, I refused in terror.  I watched her zip across the backyard towards the rising hills that made up a good portion of her grandparents’ land.  Her grandpa laughed next to me.
“It’s not that dangerous.  Just looks that way.  She isn’t actually going that much faster than a car on a road.”
Katherine zips back around and pauses next to me.  She gives me an enticing smile.
“Come on. Get on. You can trust me.”  I hesitate a moment, but then my eyes meet her’s and she’s right.  I do trust her.  With anything.  With everything.
There is nothing like whipping up and down the hills of Kentucky, wind swirling, dodging branches, and arms wrapped around the person you love.

Loved.

______________________________

Maybe my heart is just dust.

Maybe it’s better that way.