sarahannecan

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Thirty-Two: In Which, I'm Haunted in the Springtime.

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind." -"In Memoriam, [Ring Out, Wild Bells" by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Her favorite flowers were daffodils.

Of course, I didn’t learn this until after she died. I learned so many things about her when she died.

Her favorite flowers were daffodils and she had a cow named Johnny Cash when she was a kid. She loved Johnny Cash. And Merle Haggard. And Patsy Cline.

We played their music that night in April, gathered around her, telling stories about cows and the FHA and how stubborn she was. My mother, not Johnny Cash the cow.

Her favorite flowers were daffodils and she died the same month they make their way out of the ground and into the sun. They’re everywhere. Every year, in memoriam.  I see them, but I don’t feel her. And I don’t know what that says, really–the fact that she’s not here anymore, but her favorite flower haunts me. Had they always been around, the daffodils? Had they always remained buried, deeply rooted, until it was time to rise?

We share the same eternal grief, she and I. Another fact I wasn’t fully aware of until her death. It’s heavy and it’s overcast and it’s sneaky. It leaves others wondering how we’re still carrying it. It leaves us wondering the same. It hurts, and I’m tired, but the thought of living without, of relinquishing even a bit of its control, feels like a disservice. Feels like forgetfulness. Feels like abandonment.

Her favorite flowers were daffodils and when she was dating my father, she used to say, “Penny for your thoughts?” in the quiet moments between them. I learned this as we ordered flowers for her memorial service. Through muffled tears he asked me to help him tell the florist, to finish the sentence for him. But I didn’t know what it was he was trying to say. I know now. 

I know that she was whole once, that she was loving once.

There are so many things I didn’t learn until after she died, and yet, I still don’t know enough.

Who was she before the depression? Before the drugs? Before the abuse? Is there a parallel lifetime where she is my mother and I am not a burden to her? Is there a universe where she wants me as her daughter, and I want her as my mother?

We share the same eternal grief, and it’s heavy and it’s hope. It’s the thought that I can love her out of Death, into Life. Out of the ground, in time, to rise.

Her favorite flowers were daffodils, the flowers I grieve into life each April.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Thirty-One: In Which, I’m Building A House.

“Now I sit and wait for nobody but me. Nobody but me. I’ve been expecting something to have happened for me by now, Somehow. Without saying it all out loud. Nobody’s going to save me, Nobody’s going to save me.”

Maria Kelly, “Nobody But Me”

I send the text with slight remorse. It’s gentle, but straight to the point. It’s less than an hour after the date. It doesn’t seem polite to drag out the inevitable, but it seems harsh to put a stop to things so fast. There is no perfect recipe for a failed attempt.

I let the dogs out. I shower. I ready for the new day tomorrow.

He responds. Kind words, as expected—“Blessings to you as you try to find the right match for you.” I smile but shrink away from the religious undertones.

My friends say that I often pursue what I know is destined to fail. I’m attracted to the flighty, the non-committal. I chase what doesn’t want to be chased because I know it’s a safe bet; it’s destined to fail so the failure stings less. And they’re right. I do.

There is no sting from his words. My pride is the only thing wounded in this moment.

The other day over dinner, we were discussing the type of person I’m drawn to. Someone was mentioned and I said, “They’re really nice, but they’re just not my type.”

My friend responded, “Well, maybe it’s time for a new type.”

She shrugged, we all laughed, the night carried on.

But the words lingered, they danced. They floated around my mind long enough to drive me to tonight’s date. He was not my type—timid, reserved. I kept telling myself (and others) that he was much too nice for me, knowing full well that I am worthy of kindness, that any person I could see myself spending time with would have to compassionate and kind. But he was too nice. There was something too withdrawn about him, too nervous an energy.

It’s something I’ve discussed in therapy, too. This idea that I seek chaos and hurt because it’s familiar. Because it provides a sense of normalcy. The unexpected feels safe; it feels like home. It’s not even a romantic thing, necessarily. I worry my friends will leave me if I’m too much myself. I worry that if I show any meekness, any sadness, any vulnerability, it’ll become too much. I’ll become too much. What I have to offer will become too much or too little or too in between.

And so I’ve become the angry friend. The friend that you call when you need someone to hype you up. The friend that you call when you’ve been wronged. The friend that you call when you have big emotions because you need help you navigating them. As long as I’m not expected to show my own, I can be there for yours.

Anger is such an easy thing. Sadness, loneliness, those are the ones I can’t understand.

I am terrified of loneliness. Not of being alone, that I love. I can spend days, weeks alone and absolutely thrive.

Loneliness is what scares me. The idea of being so alone in this world that I could spend days and weeks alone, and no one would bat an eye at it. The idea of reaching an old age and eating alone at a restaurant, staring mildly off into memories long past. The idea of experiencing tragedies without anyone by my side to help me work through them. The idea of big celebrations with no one on the other line to hear my joy. The idea of living through moments big and small, day in and day out, with no one who knows my heart, mind, body, or soul.

It’s in the little things. It’s in the days where you come home, soul tired from another exhausting day at work, with no one to comfort you. It’s in the moments where the people you hold closest to your heart seem to be moving further away from you, passing by you, frozen in the nostalgia of their love.

It’s in the text you send to a boy after another date gone wrong.

I’m grateful that I’ve built the community I have. I’m grateful that I’m surrounded by warm, considerate, welcoming friends. I’m grateful for their kindness and their transparency and their grace to let me live as openly and expressively as I want.

My fear of loneliness doesn’t take away from the fact that I celebrate them, in their moments big and small. It doesn’t take away from the love I have for them as they experience moments of tragedy or loss. I am grateful to be a part of this shared nostalgia we’re building.

I’m afraid that if I don’t progress the same as them--in relationships, in the GRAND SCHEME checklist we’ve all been given—that I’ll serve no purpose for them. That I’ll become the friend they take pity on. That I’ll be deemed lonely just because I’m alone.

I check the locks on the doors. I unplug the lights on the tree. I make my way to my room.

Another attempt has been made. Another brick has been placed. Soon, my walls will build a house without chaos. Calm will light the fireplace, and Joy will crackle on the record player. I will feel safe in my own arms, and there will be no fear of Abandonment, no rejection of Safety.

Until then, I turn off the lamp and shudder to think of what lies in the dark.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Thirty: In Which, I’m Not Cut Out for this Virtual Living.

“I'll find you. Don't worry. Just be on your own and I'll find you.” -Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book

“Andrew liked you!” 

My phone has just lit up with another “match.”  This one, Andrew, likes, “fly fishing, cooking, whiskey, great food and great conversation.”  He’s left the oxford comma out, not me.  I wouldn’t dare.

His first profile photo is of him wearing a “THE WAR ON DRUGS” t-shirt, holding up a peace sign.  He’s either a fan of really bad policy or of, what some might call, only kind of decent music.

He’s 35. He drinks but doesn’t smoke.  He’s a technical consultant.  He mentions not having children, but avoids the question of whether he wants them.

His photos are as “classically masculine” as one might imagine.  In one, he’s holding a fishing pole and decked out in flannel.  The next shows him in an ice rink, wearing a Yazoo Beer hockey suit, staring down the ice.  The final photo shows him glaring into the camera, the lighting behind him a dark red; the caption reads, “tough guy.”

I do not imagine riding off into the sunset with him.  I do not imagine getting dinner with him at an upscale restaurant.  I do not imagine grand gestures of romance and fanciful, whimsical love. I swipe left and flip my phone over.  Uninterested, it seems, not only in this man, but in this forced way of living.

I just don’t believe I’m built for online dating.  The incessant swiping, the banal conversation, the constant profile updates.  It’s too much work to upkeep a world that exists only because I’ve created it.

I do believe that I’ll find love one day.  I really do.  I haven’t lost that hope.  I don’t know how it will come.  Whether it will be quietly, when I’m not expecting it; slowly, after getting to know someone over a certain length of time; periodically, at the times when I allow it in.  Or whether it will live in the love I have for my friends, my family.  

But I don’t imagine it coming in this form.  This shallow, hollow, game-like form.  This expedited, pressure-filled form.

I’ve lived romances of late-night conversations that melted into the morning.  I’ve experienced passionate escapes, unsure of where the relationship was taking us, but glad to be on the ride.  I’ve grown accustomed to the warmth of someone next to me as we drift off to sleep, and I’ve felt the joy of waking to their smile the next day.  

And now, for years, I’ve learned how to find these same experiences on my own.  I’ve journeyed across the country with nothing but my suitcase and my dogs.  I’ve sat under star-lit country skies, and swam in cool, refreshing waters. I’ve spent quiet nights in cozy cafes, and busy mornings in bustling cities.  Not a moment has been a regret; not a step has been forgotten.

And I know that, one day, I’ll start over yet again.  That all of these escapades will be revisited with the same joy, humility, and curiosity that I first viewed them.  That I will come back to these roads I’ve traveled, side-by-side with someone I love, and I will wonder how I ever did it alone.  I will stand in awe of the woman I was.  I will honor her, and I will love her, just as I have honored and loved all the past iterations of myself. My partner and I will view where I’ve been, and we’ll thank the star-lit skies that guided us to each other.  We’ll celebrate the ponderings of cozy cafes and the rushed gratitude of bustling cities.  We’ll acknowledge our pasts, hold them close to our hearts, and release them, free them to be their own, untethered stories.

There may be no sunset to ride off into.  There may be no huge, romantic gestures.  But there will be relief.  There will be solace.  There will be love that encapsulates all iterations of our past, present, and future selves.  There will be the pure beauty of bringing my whole self to another whole being, and creating a new, indominable force with them.  There will be laughter, tears, and everything in between.

And there will, without a doubt, always be an oxford comma.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Nine:  In Which, I Turn to Delphi.

“Let him who will, love the pattern woman who will always do as she’s told; I can’t abide her.  I flee who chases me, and chase who flees me.” -Ovid

You’ve just told me, “We were in different places emotionally, but with hindsight, you were the most compatible person for me I think I’ve known.”  The words that follow are kind, full of heart and love.  Affirmations of what you see in me, thoughts about what strengths and pitfalls our relationship, had it come to fruition, might’ve faced.  

I respond that you have a strong hold over a piece of my heart even now, even with time and distance between us.  Even after years of seeing what you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, acknowledge.  Even after knowing better and telling myself, time and time again, that I deserved a deeper love.  I deserved reciprocity.  I deserved someone who could feel these things without denying them, without rejecting them.

And that’s the problem.  I fight others’ guards.  I try to break down others’ walls while fortifying my own.  I build Thebes and keep you from its discovery.  I’ll beg you to stop being stubborn while petulantly guarding my own heart.  I’ll tell you my feelings for you, then run away from them as soon as you deny them.  

These feelings, like fanciful nymphs, will still creep into my days, tiptoe through my memories, sing a quiet tune of melancholy.  Some days, not expecting their call, I’ll give in.  I’ll lament over what could have been.  I’ll allow myself to feel a sort of sadness.  Find a warmth and comfort in them that I could never find in you.  Other days, I’m painfully aware of their presence.  Their lurking, haunting ways.  I know that if I can just outpace them, I’ll be fine.  If I can just distract myself for long enough, I won’t have to feel.  I won’t have to acknowledge.  I won’t have to think on all the ways that we would have been perfect together.

How your coolness calms my fire.  How my passion negates your indifference.  How our conversations carry light and darkness in perfect unison; able to discard the night only in service of the sunrise our discussion has ushered in.

You once told me I’d been a muse to you.  When I’ve thought on this, I’ve dreamt I’m your Erato, able to guide your pen in whimsical, flowery meter.  Or perhaps your Euterpe, when you sit at night in your room, whiskey nearby, strumming chords I’ll never hear.

Now, however, I know I’m Melpomene.  There is nothing but destruction and lost causes in my wake.  The thought of a love built with you is a tragedy in and of itself.  Your wavering feelings are sirens, guiding me off-course and refusing to obey my direction.  You cannot lead what will not regard you.

As quickly as you give, you take away.  You say, “I don’t dwell much on what could have been, it’s a fruitless endeavor.”  But I am of Hesperides--I guard the fruit, I do not offer it.  

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Eight: In Which, Two Years Later, I Write to Understand.

“Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair

It was a normal day.  Everything was going as planned.

I drove to my school in Phoenix, stopping by the same Starbucks I always went to—the one where the barista looked like Clark Kent and they always got my drink wrong.  But it was okay.  Because the barista looked like Clark Kent. I entered my classroom and prepared for the day.  I sharpened pencils.  I put down chairs.  I left my classroom and picked the kids up from the playground.  I began teaching.  Nothing was different.  Nothing had changed.

My dad called me around 10:30, but I was teaching and couldn’t answer.  I text him to tell him I’d return his call as soon as I could.  At 11:00, I took the kids to lunch and walked over to the music teacher’s classroom.  He and I had things to catch up on.  We laughed and worried and talked through some issues.

My dad called again, and this time I answered with an, “I’m so sorry!  I forgot you called! What’s going…”

He didn’t let me finish.  He was crying.  He told me that Mom was hurt.  That they were on their way to a hospital in Gilbert.  That he wasn’t sure it was going to be okay.

My mom had always been sick.  She was diagnosed with Muscular Dystrophy early on.  She had diabetes.  She had blood clots and pulmonary embolisms. She had the ability to turn the smallest inconvenience into pancreatitis.  There had been many brushes with death in the past.  When I was younger, I had a small backpack that I’d fill with a Gameboy and books, crayons and coloring books, pencils and toys.  It sat by my door, ready to go, for the late-night hospital visits we’d often take.  Some of my earliest memories include my mother being connected to tubes and machines.  Our family trip to Disneyland ending in blood clots and doctors.

I froze in the music room.  My friend stood near, listening to my stilted conversation, filling in my paused breathing.

I got off the phone with my dad and immediately began apologizing to my friend.  In a rush, I ran out the door and found my principal.  I, again, apologized.  I tried to relay the information without crying in front of the surrounding children, and then I ran to my classroom.

The art teacher was hanging things in the hallway.  When she saw me, she came over and asked what was wrong.  I couldn’t speak.  I couldn’t breathe.  I just kept repeating that my mom was sick.  That something happened.  That this time something was different.  I just knew something was different.  I cried.  I broke down sobbing.  She rushed me into the room.  She helped me pack my things.  She walked me to my car. 

I sat in the parking lot for a few moments before driving.  I had to pull myself together to be able to see clearly on the road.  I put the car in reverse.  I made it to the highway, and then I called every friend I knew.

I called Andrea, who has been a sister to me my entire life.  I told her about my dad’s call, how his voice was composed, but broken.  How I really thought she needed to get there as soon as she could.  I called Kevin and told him I was scared and that, no, I didn’t think he should leave work.  I just needed to tell him so that he could tell the rest of the boys.  I called Sarah O. and cried, really cried, over all the things I’d never said and never done to make things better.  I called my sister and we thought that maybe she’d pull through—things had looked bleak before, hadn’t they?  Maybe this was just another false alarm.

I entered my condo.  I let the dogs out and changed my clothes.  I paced the room.  I didn’t want to be the first one at the hospital.  I wanted someone else to take that burden, to carry that weight.

I called one last set of friends, Kaylen and Niko.  I told them what was happening and tried not to cry.  I paced.  I shuddered.  I asked for relief and comfort and a grace that I didn’t deserve.  I knew that the longer I stayed on the phone, the longer it took for reality to set in.  We ended the conversation, and I drove to the hospital.

It was just down the road from where I lived.  I pulled into the lot, sure that I wouldn’t be the first to arrive.  As I parked, I saw a helicopter land on the helipad.  I knew it was her.

I walked through the automatic doors and found the help desk.  I asked them where Julie Schicker was.  They told me to wait one moment, they’d be right back.  A woman emerged from the back and introduced herself.  She walked me to where my mother was.

I watched as the doctors lifted her from the gurney to the bed.  I watched as they placed the life-sustaining machines into her.

I did not cry.  I could not cry.

The woman who walked me back asked for my name.  She gave me hers.  She asked how I was related.  She asked if anyone else was coming.  She asked what had happened.  She offered solace and peace and empathy in a moment of panic and uncertainty.  She and I stood just outside the curtained area as the doctors continued to try to revive my mother.

I asked her who she was, and she said that she was the resident social worker. I asked her why she was there.  Was this a sign that my mother was in real bad shape?  Her answer was sweet, but vague.  It served its purpose.

My sister was the next to arrive.  She walked quickly up to me and grabbed me into a hug.  When she tried to let go to see my mother, I held on to her.  I warned her not to look.  She took both hands and pushed me away.  The social worker put her hand on my shoulder.  Told me that this is another reaction to grief.  Told me to try and be patient.  My sister looked at the doctors surrounding my mother.  She put her hand to her face.  She paced.

Finally, my father arrived.  His eyes were red.  His shoulders were slumped.  He walked directly to me and hugged me.  He did not push me away.

The social worker introduced herself.  She offered strength and warmth.  She listened and she encouraged.

We all stood standing outside the curtain, waiting for a sign.  Begging for an answer.  

Eventually, they began to wheel my mother out from behind the curtain.  We watched eagerly as they moved her to another floor.  A small, stout woman in scrubs came rushing over to us.

“Do you know this woman?”

“She’s my wife,” my father replied.

“There is too much blood on her brain.  We’re going to move fast, but I cannot guarantee that anything can be done.  I just want to let you know ahead of time.  This will probably be a long night,” she replied in a terse manner.

My father nodded, my sister wept.  I stared at the woman, resolute, needing clarity.  I said, “Are you saying she’s going to die?”

The nurse looked at me, furrowed her brow, and meekly replied, “I’m saying you need to be prepared for that answer.”

I did not cry.  I could not cry.

My mom and I didn’t get along.  She spent much of my adolescence addicted to pain killers, and I couldn’t forgive her for the hurtful things she did and said when high.  Even when she became sicker and my dad regulated her pills, I couldn’t forgive her.  Even when she was lonely and sad and depressed, I couldn’t forgive her.  I was stubborn and hurt and angry, and I couldn’t forgive her.  

She was stubborn and unapologetic, and she couldn’t forgive me.

But I never stopped trying.  She never stopped either.  We both never stopped trying at having a relationship with each other.  We never stopped trying.  And now, here I was, faced with the reality that our efforts were in vain.  That she was going to die without knowing that I loved her.  That she was going to die, and I would never know if she was proud of me.

I became the spokesperson for the nurse.  My father would ask a question that no one knew the answer to, and I’d go and find the nurse to ask it.  I made sure my father ate, and I stayed by his side while we waited for my grandmother to come and say her goodbyes.

Andrea held my hand and pulled me close as my mother took her last breath.  When the heart monitor turned off, I let loose the dam of tears I’d been holding back all night.  For the first time in my life, I wailed.  I wept.  I let loose the floodgates.

A short while later, I was left alone to say goodbye to my mother.  I held her hand, I kissed her cheek.  I whispered the words, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.  I hoped they would become a prayer, that she would hear them wherever she’d gone.  That she would forgive me, finally.  Peacefully.

As we left the hospital, my father and I side-by-side, I asked him if my mother knew I loved her.

“Yes, she did.  Very much so,” he whispered.

“Was she proud of me?” I managed to respond.

“Yes, she was.  She was so very proud of you,” he said tearfully.

I nodded my head. I held my chin up.  I knew it was time for silence, for solace. I looked at my father and realized that nothing was normal.  It could no longer go as planned.

I did not cry.  I could not cry.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Seven: In Which, It’s Been a Year Since I’ve Written.

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.” ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

“You know what?  That’s the reason I picked you up tonight.  There it is.”

I listen to these words leave my Uber driver’s mouth and play with the weight of them as they float in the space between the two of us.  

He’s just finished telling me that his mother passed away six years ago from a brain tumor.  We share this together, the loss of a mother. We share the experience of losing a parent, of losing a piece of our foundation.

The music filters softly through the speaker in his mid-sized car.  He takes the turns sharply, leaning into the steering wheel as though he’s unsure it will respond to his touch.  As though he’s scared to let loose his grip.  His body moves forward and backward as he looks in the rear view mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of my response.

“I suppose it is,” I say. “It’s hard though, isn’t it? Losing your parent before your friends do?  It’s just isolating, that grief.”

“Yeah!” he responds. Forward and backward, shifting left to right.  “It’s crazy ‘cause everyone wants to be there for you, but you don’t know what you need and they don’t know what to say.”

And that, to me, is what grief is.  The unknowing.  The darkness. The loneliness of it all.

The lights of the car shine ahead on the curving road.  Although there are houses surrounding us, nothing moves.  All is quiet.  You’d never believe anyone lived behind those shutters.  A light flickers and shuts off.  Only the moonlight is left.

“I couldn’t write music for a year or two.  That’s why I quit my band and moved here.  I just couldn’t do it.  I shut everyone out.  My bandmates are still in Mississippi.  I’m writing again now though.  I do mostly electronic.”  

Side to side, forward and backward.  I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or on something.  Maybe he used to be on something and the aftermath lingers in his muscles.  How very like grief everything seems to be.  How it all seems to stay long past its welcome.

“What kind of music do you write?”

He answers with a nondescript genre: electronic meets indie meets post-modern punk.  He’s kind and passionate about the work he’s doing.  He explains that the music he’s writing now is based on a recent breakup.  The car slows as he pulls up to my house.

“Thank you so much for sharing all of that with me,” I say.  And I mean it.  

I make my way out of the car and amble toward the house.  The night air is cold.  The street is dimly lit.  The lights in the house are off and all is still.  You’d never believe anyone lived behind those shutters.

How very like grief everything seems to be.  How very much like a destination that no one wants to return to.  How very scared we all are to let it go.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Six:  In Which, I Don’t Understand Grief.

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” -C.S. Lewis

I am not the same Me that you met all those months ago.

This version of me is broken.  This version is downtrodden.  She’s sad, vulnerable, selfish, and lost.  She is a thesaurus of words with the common definition of Grief.

I am tired of pretending that I have any of this under control.  I am tired of acting as though I’ve been through a grieving period and can continue walking, head held high, anxious for the promise of tomorrow.

I.

Am.

Lost.

I’ve felt grief before. I’ve suffered at the hands of tragedy and trauma enough times to know that these things come in waves.  I understand that I need to have grace with myself and with others.  I’m aware that not everyone can empathize with this experience and that I will have to experience the majority of these overwhelming feelings on my own.

But have you taken the time to consider the depths of my sadness?  I’ve never felt it to the extent I am now.  I’ve never gone so deep without a light to guide my way back.  

Do you not understand then that when you asked me to go to lunch, I was curled on my kitchen floor weeping?  Not crying. Not tearing up.  Weeping.  Maniacally, uncontrollably, despairingly.  It came quietly at first and then, oh-so-aggressively, it came ferocious and loud. It came in shudders and moans; it came in flowing tears and pounding migraines.  

I hushed it away long enough for the length of the call, letting it overpower me with the hit of an “End Call” button.

Because I am not in control of it.  Something will remind me of how my mom was when I was younger.  I’ll be transported back to that Halloween that she took me to an improvised, manufactured neighborhood in the mall to go trick-or-treating because she was too scared of our real neighborhood.  I’ll remember the first fight we had when we went to go see Mulan because I wanted to sit with my friends. I’ll remember her asking me to sing, “I’m an Arizona Star,” to friends and family and remember her singing Journey on long road trips.  I remember and remember and remember. I get lost in the memories.  My heart beats faster and I can no longer remember where everything went wrong.

But it did.  Somewhere along the way.  It all went wrong.

Something will remind me that my mother and I did not have a fairy tale relationship; that I could’ve been more forgiving, she more patient.  Regret steeps in then, heavy and unyielding with its questions: Did she know that I loved her?  Was she proud of me?  What could I have done to move away from the past and towards forgiveness?  Why was she destined to lead such a tumultuous and lonely life?  Am I headed down the same path?  The questions fly in, one immediately after the other, and I lose my balance.  I lose my perspective.  I lose the grace and patience and empathy that I’m supposed to have for others, and I am unable to apply it to myself.  I just want to be held.  I just want to be reassured.  I just want to know that she is okay and that she has found joy and that she can rest, finally, peacefully.  

But I can have none of these things.  Reassurance is a gift for the logical; it is denied those who cannot grasp the concept of a circumstance.  

I fall into myself.  I let the pain take over for a tortuous hour or two.  I allow myself to heave out misery and recoil in fear.  I wallow in my anger and my disappointment.  I revel in the questions of guilt and wonder at my lack of self-control. 

 I allow rage to fuel me, to prepare me for Round Two. 

This, after all, is just the opening act.  The next act of grief is waiting, patiently, backstage. Eager to steal the spotlight, to have the stage.

I spend the next indeterminate amount of time considering what I need to make myself feel better. Do I call the friend I just rejected?  No, she’s made other plans by now.  Do I call this one?  No, she’s bound to be busy with her children.  Do I call that one?  No, surely he’s at work.  What about the multitude of other friends, all of whom have said they’re “just a phone call away”?

No, Grief whispers, You shouldn’t spread this destruction around.  You were not placed on this Earth to bring others down, but to lift them up.  Suffer through this alone.  Don’t bring others into this.

And so I don’t call any of them.  Instead, I dig around.  I type some words here and there.  I make a cup of tea. I think through the old standbys, each one sounding disappointing and lackluster.  I don’t want to read.  I don’t want to work out.  I don’t want to eat junk food.  I don’t want to sleep.  I don’t want to remain awake.  I don’t want to clean or to bake or to walk the dog or to etc.,etc. etc.

I sit in silence.  I wait for the panic and the sadness to recede. For just enough time.  Just long enough to put my mask back on.  Just for a moment to call you and apologize for not going to lunch.  

“I was in my emotions,” I tell you, “But I’ve got a grip on it now.”

You quickly forgive me. We make plans for later in the week, long enough to arrange myself and prepare a spectral image of who I once was. We give salutations, exchange love.

And I retreat to the kitchen floor, silently and catatonically receding back into the comforting arms of Grief.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Five: In Which, My Root Chakra is all Wrong.

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”

-William Shakespeare

Things I’ve done to try and find comfort tonight:

Eaten Thai food.  Or, eaten the Thai rolls, but not the entrée itself.

Watched Frasier.

Tried to watch Disney movies.  Got frustrated with Hulu.

Drank tea.  Two kinds.  One hot, one cold.

Read Harry Potter.

Read American Gods.

Gotten a drink with a friend.

Listened to soft rock. Soft rock is supposed to help calm anxious dogs.

Pet my dog.  The overly anxious one, not the cuddly one.

Pet my dog while listening to soft rock and drinking tea.  The hot kind.

Scrolled through Facebook. Deleted negative people from my feed. 

Cried.  But only a couple of tears.  The contained cry.

Thought through old memories and looked through old photos.

Cried again.  The heaving kind.  The “no bars held” kind.

Felt regret.  Dove into that regret.  Quickly regretted feeling regretful.

Stopped crying long enough to pet my dog.  The cuddly one.

Contained cried.

Text a friend.  And another.  Didn’t hear back.  Sometimes people don’t know what to say.

Reminded myself that pain is temporary.  That loneliness is fleeting.

Sat in silence. Wondered how it got to be this quiet.  

Breathed deep.

(Everyone is running on; I can’t catch my breath)

Breathed deeper.

Felt stuck.

Breathed deepest.

Felt my heart.  Reminded myself I was still here.

Released my breath.  

Realized I was still here; if “here” is a place I don’t want to be.   If “here” is alone and scared.  If “here” is a place of misunderstanding and grief.  If “here” is where you are not and where you will never be again.  I am “here”.  And I am waiting.  I am waiting to feel whole again.

Wrote a list.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Four:  In Which, I Have to Say Goodbye.

“The world gives us so much pain And here you are making gold out of it. there is nothing purer than that. -Rupi Kaur

My mom and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye.  Or eye-to-nose.  Or eye-to foot.  In fact, most of the time we were looking in completely opposite directions.  See, the problem is, my mother- a stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed woman- made the grave mistake of raising a stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed woman.  We fought loud and we fought often.  We fought over clothes: What looked best?  What was too revealing?  What was too prudent?  We fought over politics, the details of which I won’t delve into now.  We fought over boys-- she didn’t like anyone I dated.  I didn’t like that she was right about them.

My mother was stubborn, opinionated, and strong-willed, and we rarely saw eye-to-eye, but she loved so deeply.  She felt so intensely.  She continuously went out of her way to care for those around her.  From her family, to her friends, to the retired veteran that she insisted on paying for at a restaurant.  Every. Time.  She loved.  She loved fiercely.  She loved powerfully.

She loved.

She loved.

She loved.

My mom and I rarely saw eye-to-eye, and we rarely looked in the same direction, but she never stopped teaching me about strength.  My mother was the most resilient force to be reckoned with.  In addition to her many medical ailments, my mother experienced some of the darkest, most painful experiences any human can face.  It may have changed her, of course it did.  But she never gave up.  She always wanted to love.  She always wanted to be loved. Through it all, she continued wanting to argue and push and laugh and sing and dance and cry and live.  She just wanted to live.  Free and joyful.  Open and vulnerable. And now she is.  She has finally been reunited with those she has missed for so long.  For too long.  She is holding them in her arms and feeling the peace and levity that she has so long yearned for.

My mom and I didn’t always get see eye-to-eye.  We rarely looked in the same direction.  Now she’s looking toward home, and I’m looking forward to seeing her again.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Three:  In Which, I Realize A Fear.

“Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.” -May Sarton

And he was just standing there.

This man.

Clearly homeless.

Scraggled, blurry, hiding his beer behind the trash can and trying to ask for change.

He couldn’t.

The alcohol had turned his tongue to liquid and his brain to numb nirvana.

I smiled and looked down as he reached a hand out to me, and I truly feel like I’ve let humanity down.

You see, when I tell you I’m starting to feel lonely, I don’t think you understand me.

You think I’m worried about coming home alone.

Eating alone.

Sleeping alone.

You think I’m missing a partner, that I’m falling into a vulnerable state of singledom; that eventually someone will come along who erases this loneliness, and we will live happily together.  Never alone again.

But even I know that all relationships must end.  Friendly or romantic; tragically or otherwise.

You see, this is not your “supermarket-commonplace-name brand” kind of lonely.  This is not the lonely you feel when it’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re single.  Again.

This is not the kind of lonely you get when you see the old man open the door for his wife whom he kisses on the way into the store.

This is not the kind of lonely you feel when you’re dancing alone at a friend’s wedding where all the other guests are coupled off.

No.  The lonely I feel runs deeper than that.  The lonely I feel is a soul-breaking kind of hurt.  The lonely I feel aches in my muscles as I watch my father take care of a woman who’s starting to forget who he is.  It escapes my body in tears and goosebumps as he watches a woman he used to love deteriorate before his eyes.  As she uses the lips she once used to whisper sweet anythings to curse him for not being “a very good caretaker.”  As he breaks his back over and over again to provide for her and for me and as I realize I’ll never display enough gratitude to the man who gave me life and continues to give and give and give and give without receiving one damn thing.

The kind of lonely I feel bruises and breaks as I fight the urge to erase her loneliness.  As I try to tell myself that I cannot be what she needs without drowning my own needs in the wake of her misery.  It hovers over me like a cartoon rain cloud, constantly reminding me of the vitriol she’s spilled before and trying to understand and empathize with her lonely.  She asks me not to go, but then questions why I’m there.  She doesn’t say hello when I enter a room, but she cries if I leave too soon.  They type of lonely I’m talking about runs in my DNA.  It controls my empathy and my anger, and it doesn’t control them well.

The type of lonely I’m talking about is a woman confined to a wheelchair, physically and mentally unable to carry her weight--the baggage of her years acting as anchors on an empty sea.  She is an island, eroded and forgotten.  Her kind of lonely is the result of decades of fighting, years of surrendering.  Her kind of lonely was giving life to two children and burying them a short time later.  Her kind of lonely was a divorce at a young age after abuse took over.  Her kind of lonely relied on pain killers to escape.  Her kind of lonely could be drowned out with prescriptions and highs unlike any she’d felt in years.  Her kind of lonely was mountains of highs, and deep, dark valleys of lows.  Her kind of lonely drew others in and guilted them into staying with her as she cried.

I sat in my car and watched the man for a while.  He’d hide the beer when someone came out of the store, and resume drinking it when they left.

I wanted to talk to him.  I wanted to reach him.  I wanted him to know that he didn’t have to suffer his lonely alone.

But I was scared of what he might do.  I was fearful of what he might say.

I broke my ties with humanity.

I left him to his lonely.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-Two: In Which, I Love What is Supposed to be Unlovable.

“:  I will be open.          I think he never loved me:   He loved the bright beaches, the little lips of foam   that ride small waves, he loved the veer of gulls:   he said with a gay mouth: I love you.          Grow to know me.”

-Muriel Rukeyser, “Effort at Speech Between Two People”

One of the reasons you were hesitant to date me was because of the gap in my teeth.  You found it unattractive.

I’ve always loved the gap in my teeth.  I love that it’s dead center in a mouth that can hardly contain its excitement.  It draws people to my energy.  It makes me quirky.  It falls smack dab in the middle of a mouth that speaks words of truth and kindness and passion.  If my eyes are the window to my soul, maybe the gap in my teeth is the hallway to my fire.

The gap in my teeth has been the least of my worries.  I’ve worried about the size of my thighs, the roundness of my face.  I’ve been concerned with how many freckles I have, and the fact that I have chubby fingers.  I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a thin waist and a thinner eyebrows to match.  

But I’ve never worried about the gap in my teeth.

I wonder if there was more you found unattractive in me.

The other day, someone told me that they don’t find redheads attractive.  I wonder if you felt that way.  This isn’t new.  I’ve heard this before.

I’ve always loved my red hair.  I love that it’s darker in the winter than it is in the summer.  I love that it has mixtures of bright red, dark auburn, and a few stray grays.  I love that my pale skin emphasizes the redness of my locks and the golden of my eyes. The fire within me is so hot, so ready to pierce and burn and electrify, that it seeps its way out through my hair. It cannot, will not, be contained.

I’ve worried about the clothes I wear that, perhaps, they don’t hug the curves you claimed to love so many years ago.  I’ve worried that I’ve grown complacent with my looks.  I am concerned that I don’t eat healthy enough, that I don’t exercise enough.  I’ve worried that I’m too feminine; I’ve worried that I’m not feminine enough.  

I wonder if she laughs the way I did.  Does she laugh so that you can hear her across the room and know that she is content and joyful?  I wonder if she has the same inquisitive spirit.  Does she wake you up in the middle of the night to ask if you believe in souls?  Does she push you to wonder why you’ve stopped pursuing your dreams?  I wonder if you feel loved and cared for.  Do you know, without a doubt, that she would listen on the other line, as you drunkenly make your way through the Nashville gutters?  Does she know the extent of your darkness, and does she love you anyway?

I’m sure she has perfect teeth.  I’m sure she has beautiful hair.

But does she love you as powerfully, as fully, as fiery as I did?

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty-One:  In Which, I Live in an Attic.

“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?" "They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer. "And what is hell? Can you tell me that?" "A pit full of fire." "And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?" "No, sir." "What must you do to avoid it?" I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come was objectionable: "I must keep in good health and not die.” ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

When I say I love Victorian Literature, people often shudder and scoff.  They either think it’s arrogant to have a favorite era of writing, or they have a favorite era of writing that’s so much superior to the dramatic Victorian decades.

Which is fair.  Because it is dramatic.  But I love it.  I really love it.

I love the Gothic romance. I am not unaccustomed to the idea of loving a man who is too damaged or broken to love me.

But it takes it even further.  It becomes the idea of loving a man who is too damaged or broken to love me, until I make a change.  Until suddenly I am no longer a childhood playmate, but a woman haunting his moor.  A woman displaced and outspoken.  A woman who still loves him even though he is a burnt, despairing, disfigured man, blinded by the fires of the life I left behind with him.

I love the characters. 

 Not necessarily with the main characters, fighting for their place in the Victorian landscape.  No, more with the idea of being the “other.”

I identify with the “other” characters.

The characters who provide comic relief during an otherwise heavy topic.  The characters who don’t provide much to the whole story; rather, they’re there to provide some sort of moral support. 

Or, actually, the ones who aren’t meant to provide anything because they’ve been abandoned or neglected by the love interest of the lead female character.

Yes, this is me.  I am the woman in the attic.  Good enough to keep around, but not to present to the world. Just like your woman from the provinces, I will set your world alight to garner your attention.  I will die among the flames, just for your acknowledgment.

And in the end, it will mean nothing.

In the end, it will lead you to your true love, and cast me into the shadows.

I love Victorian Literature because it reassures me that pain is love and love is an apparition.  It’s a quiet whisper in the corridor that haunts you; constantly reminding you it’s there, just out of your reach, and never truly in your possession.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Twenty: In Which, I Remember.

“She made broken look beautiful and strong look invincible. She walked with the Universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings.” ― Ariana Dancu

My grandmother’s hands were cold to the touch. Always. The skin on them was so thin, you could see beneath it.  Her veins ran the warmest color blue. Transparent.  Just like her. You always knew where you stood.   She spoke so gentle, you’d never realize the painfully brutal truth she had just laid bare until you found yourself taking the steps to correct the wrongdoings you hadn’t realized you’d committed.

But she had.

And she’d loved you anyway.

My grandmother’s hands were cold to the touch. Always. But she insisted on an embracing those she loved. She held us in trials and tribulations, gently patting our arms and reassuring us that her girls could do anything. Even when we thought we couldn’t, we knew we could because she insisted, she demanded that we did. So we fought. So we persisted. So we struggled and rebounded and clawed our way back up. Anything to make her proud.

And so she remained.

Softly reminding us that she cared, or sternly setting us straight, She always resolved to a (cold) warm embrace. My grandmother’s hands were cold to the touch. Always. But they built generations of strong-willed women. They taught us that courage is found within, not without. She reminded us that we did not need anyone to lift us up, So long as we were our own strong foundation, But that companionship and vulnerability were beautiful things. She built us.  She strengthened us. Her hands created the nest for us to flourish in and provided the comforts we needed to realize our truths. She taught us strength and grace; humility and patience. My grandmother’s hands were cold to the touch. Always. But her words, her demeanor, her love for humanity... They were as warm as the blue blood running through her impossibly visible veins.

And as I feel my pale hands grow colder each day, I am grateful for the transparent strength that lives on in me.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Nineteen:  In Which, I Marched Today.

Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.   Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries?

-Maya Angelou

I marched for women’s rights today.  Many people would argue this is silly.  We have all the rights we need.  All the rights that men have.  I disagree.

I have a memory of a plane ride that I very rarely tell other people.  I’d like to share it with you now.

I was on one of my first solo flights.  I was coming home from Texas.  I was sixteen.

I sat patiently in my seat as passengers filed in, smiling meekly at them as they searched for their number. Eyes glancing at me, darting to the letters and numbers above.  I diverted my eyes every now and again to stare out the window at the gray sky surrounding.  

He entered after everyone else was seated.  He was an older gentleman, in his seventies?  Eighties?  He walked in, hunched over, and quickly grinned at me.  I cannot tell you now if the grin was malevolent.  I can only say that it unnerved me; it sickened me.

He was balding. Little wisps of white hair poked out of a pale skin.  Liver spots covered his head in patches.  He shuffled into his seat, right next to me, and stared straight ahead.  A younger man in his…40’s?  50’s?  with darker hair sat next to him.  In my mind he was with him, perhaps as a caretaker.  I don’t know if that’s the truth.  Years distance me from this event.  I confuse this instance with other similar occurrences.

We sat next to each other. His breathing was heavy.  It interrupted my thoughts of the outside world. It drew me to this exact moment on the plane.  Heavy, rattling breathing.  It smelled of coffee and cigarettes.  I could think of nothing but his breathing.  I could think of nothing but his presence.  I could think of nothing but standing on guard.

The flight took off.  I had chosen not to look at him.  I had chosen to stare out the window.  I had chosen, like so many of us do, to wait it out. To not judge a book by its cover. To consider the fact that he was an old man.  He was not dangerous.  I was being paranoid.  Why are women always so paranoid?

We were in the air around twenty minutes when I felt his hand on my knee.  I turned.  He was no longer staring ahead.  He was staring directly at me.  That disgusting smile was spread across his face.  His black, beady eyes staring into mine.  I asked him what he was doing.

“I’ve been admiring your legs since I came on this plane,” he said.  His breathe smelled so much of stale coffee and Marlboros.  His eyes seemed smaller than I originally thought. He seemed stronger than I originally thought.  Taller than I originally thought.  More dangerous than I originally thought.  His hand moved from my knee up my thigh.  “Your legs are so nice.  I’ve been wanting to touch them.”  

I froze in disbelief. The flight attendant was a few seats behind us.  There was no one around to see what was happening.  The younger man a seat away was awake, but said and did nothing.  When I think back on this story, I hate him more than the man who was touching me.

His hand slipped higher up my leg.  It was veiny, gray, cold.

“No,” I whispered, “No. Stop.”

“Stop?” he said, seemingly confused.  “But why?” His tar-stained teeth poked out in different, awkward angles.  He looked rotten to me now, like garbage that had sat in the sun for too long.  The stench of his breath, the weight of the moment, the crooked smile beneath squinted eyes… He moved his hand higher.  He squeezed.

I did not know what to do. In retrospect, being the woman I am now, I know exactly what I would’ve done.  I would’ve screamed.  I would’ve demanded a new seat.  I would’ve used every dirty word I’ve ever known to belittle and berate him for being a pedophile.  I would have torn him apart with my words, limb by limb, until he felt all the discomfort he’d made me feel in that exact moment.

“No,” in a feeble whisper, was all I could manage to get out.

At that, he removed his hand and said, “Fine.”  I pretended to go to sleep for the next three hours.  Keeping an eye on his hands the entire time.

I walked away from that plane ride shaken.  Hurt. Angry that he had tried something like that, furious that I hadn’t spoken up about it.  I vowed then to never be quiet about it again.

Here I am eleven years later, a much more confident and outspoken woman.  I do not have all the time in the world to tell you the other instances of sexual assault and abuse I have experienced since.

I can tell you that both long-term relationships I’ve been in have ended because the man left me with bruises.

I can tell you that when others hear that, they accuse me of not being strong enough to leave sooner. And I can tell you that my reply to them has contained some expletives.

I can tell you that I’ve turned down aggressive men for dates and been called some names for doing so.

I can tell you that there have been other men to touch me without my permission, other men who felt it was their right to intrude on my personal space for their own pleasure.  I can tell you that I’ve made sure that they will never do it again.

I can tell you that I know when men use “locker talk,” it is not just because “boys will be boys.”  It is because those particular men do not have respect for women.

I can tell you that when a man says that he can touch a woman however he wants because he is an authority figure, my blood boils and my heart aches.

I can tell you that when that same man tries to deny those claims and pass it off as commonplace, my blood boils and my heart aches.

I can tell you that the man who touched me on that plane would deny it today, if he could.  The two men who hit me before they accused me of “Forcing them to do it,” would deny it today if you asked them.

I can tell you that I don’t hide the abuses anymore.  I project them.  I make them known.  Because my abusers should be ashamed, not me.  They should feel pain for their actions, not me.

I marched today because I cannot live without a voice.  I marched today because I need the girls in this world to know that they are important. That they are strong.  That they are empowered.  I must stand up so that they are not forced to sit down.  I must fight for equality because we’ve come too far to be denied again.  I must continue to seek love and beauty and peace in a world that has all too often shown me darkness.  I marched today for the other women who fight every day for this same resolution.  

I marched today to fight. And the fight will carry on.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Eighteen:  In Which, I Get All Caught Up in My Feelings.

And I'm just a shadow of your thoughts in me But sun is setting, shadows growing A long cast figure will turn into night It's like nothing in this world ever sleeps

Oh sometimes the blues is just a passing bird And why can't that always be Tossing aside from your birches crown Just enough dark to see How you're the light over me

-The Tallest Man on Earth

Most days my favorite color is grey.  Or black. They are not sad colors to me. They are the color of steel.  They are the color of the night sky in the middle of a desert winter.  They are the color of rainy days and airplanes taking me far away from here. They are the color of long walks in a city I don’t know and the color of the train that brings me back to reality. They complement my figure.  I wear them to show joy and wear them to show grief. They are my solace and my sadness. They are my favorite colors.

However, when most people ask me what color I’m most drawn to, I always say turquoise.  Turquoise is the color of my great-grandmother’s necklace. It is the color of light-heartedness and gleeful times.  It is a color that attracts others in.  It is a color that holds them in their warmth and assures them that the world is full of beauty, light, and sunsets.  It is the color of the Southwest, my home.  It represents the Grand Canyon, and Arizonan culture, and hot summer days.  It is my favorite color, if anyone who does not know the full extent of me.

You will know the difference.

You will know my black and grey pensive sunsets and my turquoise sunrises.  You will understand that I find joy in both scenarios.  You will understand that these colors, just as my circumstances, do not define me.  They will surprise you day in and day out, but you will meet the challenge. You will know when I want to drink tea and escape in a book.  You will know when I want to be in the great company of others, drinking wine and dancing.

There are times when the steel hard colors overpower the buoyant and jovial greens.  On these days, I am harsh.  I am resistant to affections.  I am skeptical of motives.  On these days, I will tell you that I don’t need you.  On these days, I will declare myself independent and stoic. I will set up a safeguard against your kind words or loving embraces.  I will hide in a fortress of menial tasks, declaring them more important than you.  I will lash out or draw in, but you will not move.  You will understand that I am hurt.  That no matter the present, there are days when my past comes glaringly back to haunt me.  I will love you with my entirety even on these days, and it will be enough for you. You will break down, brick by brick, the walls I have built against you.  The steel will melt.  I will melt. Bluish green hues will shine on the deserted battlefield.

I am scared. Terrified really.  These are the days when the grey and the black and the turquoise all mix into one. I can’t tell the colors apart from one another and I can’t discern whether I am supposed to be happy or anxious or humble or proud. I will react by overreacting.  I will analyze every little aspect in order to uncover the meaning behind it all.  I will write lists and clean the apartment and bake.  I will always bake on days like these.  And even though I always say that I am not the kind of person who needs affection, words of affirmation, confirmation that you love me…Even though I will always argue that I am confident enough to not rely on you…You will know better.  You will hold me.  You will assure me that all is well.  You will help me check off my lists.  You will help me clean the bathroom (because you know it’s my least favorite room to clean). You will insist that you bake with me, even though I’m worried you’ll mess it up.  You will understand that on the days that I cannot see the true colors of myself, I need you to reassure me that they’re still there.  That they’re beautiful.  That they matter and that they are important.

There are many ways that I will love you as well.  I will know what records you need and when to play them.  I will know what wine you drink when you’re happy, and what whiskey to buy you when you’re sad.  I will know when you need space—that giving you space does not mean leaving you, it means being there in whatever way you need me.  I will know your favorite books and in what months you read them.  You will have a laugh for when you’re joyful that will start in your belly and radiate throughout the room.  I will take pride in bringing that laughter out of you. On days when you push me away, I will remain.  I will not walk away from you because you do not walk away from me.  I will not walk away from you because I know the man you are. I will not walk away from you because your colors will mix with mine and beautiful new canvases will be created.  I will know your joy and your heartache, and how your past has a sneaky way of influencing your day.  I will know what words to say and what songs to sing when you don’t feel like you’re the man you want to be.  I will love you with my entirety, even on the days when your harsher colors dim and lessen your brighter colors.

Most days my favorite color is grey.  Or black. They are the color of guitar cases and piano keys.  They are the color of my favorite movies and worn out library books.  They are calming.  They are soothing. 

They remind me of you.  

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Seventeen:  In Which, Love Is A Losing Game.

Self professed... profound Till the chips were down ...know you're a gambling man Love is a losing hand

Though I battle blind Love is a fate resigned Memories mar my mind Love is a fate resigned

-Amy Winehouse

I’m going to lose you.

I don’t know much, but I do know this: I’m going to lose you.

And, to be quite clear and quite honest, I don’t know who “you” are.  Not yet.  But eventually I’ll meet you.  Eventually I’ll grow fond of you.  And eventually I’ll lose you.

And you’ll never know it hurt me.  I won’t let you.  You’ll feel bad.  Parting will not be something you want to go through and once you say the words, I’ll respond with tears.  You’ll feel terrible for about twenty-four hours, and then I won’t speak to you. I won’t reach out to you.  I’ll block you from my mind, erase you from my heart.  You’ll call or text or find some means of reaching out, and when I don’t respond, you’ll assume I’m over it.

I’m not.

But I’ve lost you.  And I won’t fight to get you back.

Because I needed to feel that you loved me.  The whole time that’s all I needed: to feel like you loved me.

But because of guards and walls and past hurts and woes, you could not love me the way I needed you to. Or, because of guards and walls and past hurts and woes, I will not accept the love you offer.  I’ll ask myself if perhaps you stopped loving me because I stopped acting like I needed you.  I’ll pace and blame and torture myself believing that if only I’d loved you more, you might’ve hung around.  For a while, I’ll believe that I’m unattractive.  That I’m unworthy.  That I’m unlovable.  I won’t eat, or I’ll eat an exorbitant amount.  I won’t wear makeup, or I’ll wear an exorbitant amount.  I won’t cry, or I won’t get out of bed for two days.  

Getting over you, losing you, will be difficult, but it will not be my end.  

And I won’t know how to feel about that. Because I wanted to love you.  I wanted to give you my all.

When I was younger, I was terrified to tell boys I had a crush on them.  There was a pit in my stomach that I only felt in those moments. The moments where I stood, palms sweaty, heart beating fast, in front of someone the junior high social caste told me was out of my league.  He would look at me, waiting patiently, trying to be polite as I stammered out my feelings.  When all was said and done, I would run back to class and into the loving, gossipy arms of my girlfriends.  We’d discuss the outcome.  They’d comfort me.  And then we’d learn Spanish.

I was liberated of my feelings but shackled by my fear and pride.  

And that’s how it will have felt with you.

At first, I will be vulnerable and excited.  I will tell you all the things I feel about you and this thing we’re doing.  Perhaps you’ll be excited too.  Maybe you’ll be vulnerable too.  Possibly that’s how we start dating.  

Then, there will be a change. I will feel like I’m investing more time than you.  I will feel that I’m investing more feelings than you.  My pride will start to shout that I’m making a fool of myself.  It will, more than likely, not be a result of anything you’ve done.  But, the change will come.

I will reveal less.  

I will downgrade my excitement.

I will guard myself, protecting myself from potential joy, from potential heartache.  

I will withdraw.  

I will recede.

And then I’ll lose you.

And you’ll never even know it hurt.

[sarahannecan]

Post Number Sixteen:  In Which, I Salute the Pops.

“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”

-Umberto Eco

I don’t know how we become who we are.

I have a strange and strong feeling that somehow who we are is partially to blame on who we’re surrounded by growing up.  I suppose that’s the accepted way of looking at things.

Genetics.  Nature vs. Nurture.  All that.

I owe a lot of who I am to him.  I’ll never deny that.  My father is seen in my inability to understand limitations and my sometimes hard to control sarcasm. He is the reason I know how to change a tire and the reason I’m offended when people are surprised I know how to change the oil. He is the reason I can quote Dumb and Dumber and the reason I can list all thirteen dwarves from The Hobbit.  He’s taught me about faith and confidence, humility and patience.  My father is the reason I am the woman I am today.

When I was six, he was called to serve in North Korea.

I can remember walking into the house after school that day, being greeted by the solemn looks on my parents’ faces.  I can remember them trying to explain to my young self what exactly was about to happen:

Daddy has to go to another country.

No, we can’t go with him because Mommy is sick.

Yes, a year is a long time.  No, he won’t be allowed to visit.

I don’t know who will cook the pancakes on Sundays.

I couldn’t grasp it.  I didn’t understand it.  But, it still happened.

We moved out of our house, away from Arizona, to live with my grandmother in New Mexico.

There are many things that happened over the course of that year that impact me to this day.  That was where Mom struggled with her blood clots. That was the house that she was prescribed pain killers.  I found peace in puzzles and tears in maternal instincts.

There are many things that happened over the course of that year that impact me to this day, but perhaps the greatest impact is that of my father’s love.  

The day before he left, we walked out to the creek behind my grandmother’s house.  The creek was dry, as it often was, and the cattle were close by. It was summer, almost fall, and nature was in between choosing what it was going to be.  The sun wasn’t faithful enough to the withering trees, but the leaves hadn’t yet fallen from their graces.  My father walked me to one right behind our garden, a tree that you could see from the kitchen window if you stood on the step stool Grams had left there.

“Find a smooth rock,” he said.

I looked around.  That one’s too rough.  That one’s too flat.  This one’s not big enough.

I had to find a big one. I had to prove I was strong enough to carry the weight.  Strong enough to hold my ground.  When finally I handed him the densest stone I could find, he wedged it deep between two branches of the tree.  It was high, out of my reach.  Even if I climbed up the surrounding stones, it would be too far for me to touch it.

“When you can reach this rock, all on your own, I’ll be home,” he said.

We made our way back past the barbed wire fence, back into my new home.  The next day he was gone.

For months, I still didn’t understand what was happening.  I was convinced that my father was hiding somewhere in the house. I’d sneak quietly into rooms, crouching to peek under beds, combat crawling across the floor to fling doors open, hoping he’d be hiding behind the clothes in the closet.

But he wasn’t.  He wasn’t there at all.

My mind couldn’t comprehend it.  He had always been there before.

Every day after my father left for Korea, I would go out to the creek to touch the rock.  I climbed and shimmied up the tree.  I viciously shook the trunk and kicked the bark hoping the rock would budge.  I asked my older cousins to get it down.

Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.

But still, I’d go out, every day, hoping that this would be the day I’d reach it.  This would be the day he came home.

A year later, sitting in the living room of my grandmother’s house, the door open to the brightness of the day, a breeze flowing through… a truck pulled up in the driveway.  The dust settled down around the red Nissan pickup and I realized there were two people riding shotgun.  Not just my mom…Who was that stranger next to her?

His hair was cut close, his combat boots hit the gravel quickly, solemnly.  He walked with pride and dignity, his hands clenched by his side.  As soon as his fatigues were in view of the front door, the dog started barking wildly.

“Hey, Belle!  How ya doin’, sweetheart!”

Wait.  How did he know her?

My grandmother started crying.  She ran up to him and hugged him close.  My mom stood behind him with a quiet smile, hands by her side, eyes watching me.  The stranger turned toward me.  “Heya, kid.  How’s it goin’?”  

And then it hit me.

My father had come home.

That day, we chased butterflies with a net.  We rolled in a small pile of leaves with the dog.  We ate dinner, together again, as a family.

Shortly before sundown, we went out to the rock, I still couldn’t reach it.  I showed my father how I had tried so hard to get the rock down.  I struggled to climb up the tree and shake its branches.  The rock was unfazed.  It sat, firmly, in between the two branches.  I was afraid that this meant my father would have to leave again.  I began to cry and plead with him.

If you just hold me up, I can get it!  You don’t have to go.  I can go inside and grab a chair!  I’ll try climbing again!

My father reached high above me and, not for the first time in my life, I looked up to him.  He grabbed the rock, placed it softly in my hands, and smiled.  He was not leaving again, he assured me.

I walked back toward the house, the rock I had been reaching for all year beside me.