Writing About Not Writing

 The simplest way to say it is abrupt. Like dropping a coffee cup on your foot. Now your toe hurts, you have a mess on the floor, and no coffee. But it's over. You can't spill it any further than the floor.

In therapy, I tried to explain my fear of putting the words down. Saying them out loud or writing them down... it became real. Suddenly I was responsible for the action of my words. Unsaid: they were bullets unfired, matches unlit. 

Knowing that it is over doesn't make the ending any easier. The words are still full of resentment and frustration and anger. None of that matters when it is actually OVER. When there is still hope, still some glimmer that things might change, resentment, frustration, anger and fear all play tag inside the mind. Some days, I feel like the last kid waiting to be chosen for a team, knowing full well I cant play worth a damn... but I dont want to be picked last. 

Each night, as the house winds down, I have been trying to sit and write. To compose ideas as much as to compose myself. But really, it is avoiding going upstairs to bed. Avoiding the conflict, avoiding the crying rage that inflicts my wife. Avoiding the stories I have heard hundreds of times now. Stories of abuse, neglect, trauma, and fear. All of her anxiety floods our bed with woe. She won't kiss me anymore. Not for years now. She blames the chiropractor who touched her years before we were married. I look around our house and I see memories of the love and compassion, now covered in shadows and cobwebs. 

She doesn't remember anything more than about 2 or three years ago. Except for her childhood. That is bright as sunshine and hot as summer asphalt. Indelible. College trauma is still like a new penny. But our life together for over twenty years may as well be written in cuneiform. It requires translation. Anything that jogs her memory only makes her afraid that she is losing more of her memory every day. If I say "remember when we _____?" The inevitable answer is no, followed by angry tears. Anger at me for remembering, anger at herself for having no memory of it at all, and then even more anger and fear that somehow everything about this recollection is a judgment. 

It has made me afraid to recall the time before now. We were happy once. Sure, there were antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, you name it. There were explosive violent times dealing with my ex-wife. There was the coma. There were all the surgeries after the coma. But we were happy once. There was always a future to look towards. 

So now that I have written this and stamped it into being... I have to say that writing it is easy. I haven't written much in the last two decades. Work stuff, emails and shit. Writing feelings, meaningful writing has eluded me probably for the same reason her memories refuse to come when she calls. They are afraid. I have been afraid to write the honest things that I feel out of fear that they will reveal things I am terrified to see in the daylight. 

A title is just a placeholder for what everything really means when you get to the end. Here we are, at the end. It's over. Maybe the title will change, maybe the ending will change. 

Everyday. Loneliness

 Every day that passes leaves me farther down the road. I imagined that by not dying, life would be easier. Instead I find myself wondering if I should have chosen differently. The road is hot and dry. Baked sun bounced off the tarmac burns the underside of my eyelids. Dry heat swells my tongue, leaving me wordless. 

For a time, Death was a friend I looked forward to visiting with. We spent a great many years together. It was a difficult relationship with lots of that c'mere, c'mere, go'way, go'way. The closer we got, the stronger the pull apart it seemed. So much time spent divvying up the record albums, over and over. 

Books on the shelf went into boxes. The assumption was that we would be moving. Forward. Onward. Instead we moved apart. The tiller that steered the ship broke. Then the mast snapped in two. Over five years now, adrift.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink. 

It is hard now, to look upon those boxes, sealed with tape and not to wonder if the pages still have words. Have the pictures faded too? Are the road maps stained with oil or with rat shit?

We have grown apart. You and I. In years past we stood back to back, cudgels in hand, ready to fight off all comers. Now we sit rooms apart, silent but for the solitary sounds within our heads. The music doesn't cross between us as it once did. Even the bread grows stale. Only shadows are shared, overlapping but never becoming one. 

Each passing day leaves me wondering if I have enough shoe leather for another journey. My lungs are filled with water. My eyes are rheumy too. All this water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. 

Weeks without rain have left me cracked inside, dust falling softly into dark places. My wooden joints ache with stiffness even in repose. Relax they said. I was better off walking. At least then my legs could carry this burden. 

Impossible or Out of Reach

There are over twenty years worth of accumulated memories crammed into the space where I was unconscious during the coma. Memories that are as complete as the best memory or the worst nightmare. Details as mundane as the weekly shopping list or as amazing as the smell of fresh-squeezed lemons.  Between the olfactory memories and the tangible details like the texture of cinders under my bare feet while walking up a country road in winter.... it makes for memory which is simultaneously impossible and yet memorable in a way in which my daily life or even my dreams have never been. 

Conversations with the dead

How do you talk to the dead? How do you finish conversations that never happened? How do you find resolution when the person you desperately need to talk to is gone? How do you speak to both sides when all you have is your voice and no other?

These were my questions I asked myself in the shower. How do I have the unspoken conversations? I think the answer is to just begin. Let the conversation carry the words downstream and see where the are carried.

Part of me is scared that someone reading this would think that this conversation happened in real time in real space. In fact the conversations have only happened in my head, so far. I am curious to see what the conversations become as they leave the confines of my skull and grow wings. 

I am debating whether or not it would be prudent to record these conversations via audio or here. There are merits to both. I know that spoken word is quicker but it also requires some scripting to keep the erms and ahs and uhs to a minimum. I know I sure dont want to listen to that crap. I guess if the recording idea works, it could also pave the way for a written transcript that might be worth reading. We'll see if I speak like I write. 

Pushing Rewind on the Memory Playlist

 When I left for college, the backseat of my Mercury Marquis was filled nearly to to point of blocking the rear window. If I twisted just right, I could retrieve tapes throughout the day, ensuring that my drive was never limited by local FM stations. Instead I could revel in the freedom of the open road accompanied by the songs that had captivated me through my final years of high school. If I remember correctly, there were close to two hundred tapes in the backseat. I figured I would make it all the way to Massachusetts and never have to repeat a single tape. It didnt quite work out that way.

I found myself three days later, pulling into the parking lot of my college. A day early and no where to sleep. The dorms wouldn't open for another day, so I treated myself to another McDonalds dinner and retired early, pushing my pillow against the passenger side window. With the windows rolled down, I listened through the night to the slow sounds that I would come to know as the hourly bus drove through campus on its way into town. Other than a few passes by security, I was left to my own devices. For three days I had driven with my collection of tapes to keep me company. Now I felt like they failed me. The sound didnt fit the location. 

Early in the morning, before the sun had risen over the apple orchard, I heard the slam of a nearby car door. Parents dropping off their kids. Damn! That was early. Within the hour, I was hip deep in the moving-in process, anxious to have everything out of my car and into my narrow little room. It didn't take very many trips before everything was laid out and packed into my new life. I had brought a small tape deck radio boombox with me. In my head, I figured it was best to leave my big component stereo system at home in Florida, since there it would be safe. Picking out the first tape to play in my new room was critical... what would set the tone? Something raucous? Something soulful? Something playful? Straight up rock and roll? I kept opening the little drawers with all of my tapes and finding nothing that seemed the speak to the moment. 

At the end of the hall was a shared bathroom (of which I shall write another time).  From the door second from the bathroom entrance came the most fascinating song. 

In April when your barge sailed through

I fell in love with you

Alas my paramour alack
A stranger to me 'til the test comes back

Chorus:
Oh the micro-organism

Oh the micro-organism  

I was in love! I dont think I have ever rushed to finish peeing for a song before. I came out of the bathroom hoping to catch more of the song. 

The cowslips bloom and the bluebells too
Here's advice I'll give to you
Rattle your sword before you strike
And never kiss anyone you like

Oh my god! I laughed so hard! I had never heard anything like this. I knocked on my hallmate's door, desperate to find out who this could be. Matt turned out to be the kindest gentle soul from Minneapolis. By the end of the day he had copied this Boiled in Lead tape and included Rare Air on the other side. That tape started life part two. 

Answering the Call

 The phone rings. 

You pick up the call.

Answering: Hi, how are you? 

When the mind rings...

    What's that?

Who is it? When is it?

Oh, it's you. It's been so long. 

The call goes on and on

Over time and years missed.

    Birthdays that no one celebrated,

hearts broken and never fully mended.

Sad times, alone and afraid.

    Remembering being so close and so unsure. 

Neighbors walking straight down the street 

Looking up to see the streetlamps.

    

The line quiets.

    Checking in, yeah, I should probably go.

Just wanted to know you were okay. Oh, okay.

And then the silence. 

The heart breaking again knowing the distance is too far.

    The lament for not having called before. Being too busy.

Cruel calendars of years past only note the passing days

not the passing of memories. 

    All the days spent apart. There would be more days ahead, 

more calls to make. 

Blue Child, Red Anger, and the Badger

 Thankfully the titles I use on my blogposts are so esoteric that there is no chance anyone would ever search for them. I'm essentially un-searchable. This in turn, allows me to write with greater impunity.

A few weeks ago, my therapy session evolved into a discussion about loneliness and the body sensation of that alone-ness. We didnt have nearly enough time to delve into it, so we put it off for a few weeks. This past week we picked up right where we left off. (that seldom happens). So, let us begin with loneliness.

I described the loneliness as a cold child, bluish. Part of this somatic therapy is to describe the part of the body that associates with feelings or trauma. In this case, the blue child was felt in my thighs, in my quads. Like a sad tightness. Cold, and still. 

As we explored the feeling I started to recognize that the loneliness feeling itself wasn't as scary as it had felt in the past. I could feel a brisk breeze moving through the feeling memory. 

It was at that point the desire to control and change the feeling welled up. For the first time, I could see the red anger as a shape as well as a body part. The old-blood red bat shape filled my field of view, blocking the blue child completely from view. Immediately, I was swallowing back hot tears and feeling the shape echoing into my spine and my lower back. As we explored this red anger and control, I became aware that for as fierce as the feeling was, it was scarier than I expected. It was also adult. Old. The old that we are told we have to become. The grown-up that children are told we have to become in order to stop being the immature, child-like creatures we were. I knew the red-blood shape of control and anger like a mask of my own face. It fit. Wet, hot, stifling and blocking everything from view. I struggled to stay with this feeling. Everything about this made me want to run away.

Then, out of the upper field of my vision, there appeared a slender badger. Slowly pushing the red-blood shape down, the badger tried to let me know that I could push past this raw, angry, adult feeling. I could just go off with the badger and everything would be better. With guidance, I found myself reassuring the furry face of the badger that in fact, I was safe. I had help. I would be okay. I thanked him and reminded him that I saw him. I could join him another time. As I said this aloud, he curled up, just inside my field of view, and stuck his tongue out at me. I call him Distraction. Distraction needed to wait a little while.

I refocused my attention on the red-blood shape that kept pulsing against my vision. New distractions arose from the underside of my arms. Flapping up into frame, huge black ravens began pecking and tearing at the red bat shape. Burning and piercing through the leathery burgundy was confusing and scary. I felt more ravens coming from around my shoulders. Here to interrupt and stop this blood-red feeling that enveloped my vision. 

Again, I had to say aloud that I was safe. That I saw these beautiful black ravens for the caring wings that could carry me far away. I told them, gently, that I would be fine. That I saw them and that I recognized their effort to care for me. They burned like small tears in old movie film strips. 

I was sweating profusely at this point, struggling hard to maintain my focus on this bat-winged shape that remained positioned securely in front of my eyes. As I explored the feeling, the part that kept screaming for attention was my lower back. The seat of my pain and struggle for so much of my adult life. Two back surgeries and endless days and nights of pain, suffering and frustration. I needed a drink. 

A quick gulp of cold water. Not really an interruption... just a swallow. The coolness changed my focus immediately. I looked back up at the screen and there was the most picturesque mountain lake, complete with blue cloudless skies and a stunning white float plane, parked near shore. Nothing could take away this stagnant heat, this stifling putrescence... like getting on the float plane and lifting away on cool mountain breezes. Another distraction. Another dissociation. One step and I was away. Far away. 

I held the vision in my mind for a moment, reassuring myself that the float plane would be there when I needed it. That the mountain breeze would still be blowing when I was finished working on the task of the day. That the glacial lake would still be cool and refreshing when I was ready to step into it. 

With that, I came back to the blood-red bat shape and found it leathery, cordovan red, slowly losing its vibrancy and threat. Each time I refocused on the shape I saw it smaller, less important. The tears welling up in my eyes burned a little less. They cooled quickly on my cheeks. 

As I recognized the blood-red bat-shape as adult control, as the desire to force and shape... and saw how that feeling was expected of me, it changed. I could see the blue cold child with different compassionate eyes. It was also the end of the session. Pulling me out of the quasi-hypnotic state, I felt my arms had joined to my legs... struts to hold me upright. Everything from my fingertips to my shoulders was rock hard, locked into place. 

End of session, time to come back into the room. Suddenly there was color and daylight all around me. I know it is still there waiting for my next session. I know that the badger is still sticking his tongue out and is ready to distract me from more pain. The ravens await inside my arms, in case I need to be lifted away. And the blue cold child waits too.