Written 04/27/12

It becomes a rhythm, the mantra

Dead, death, died, deceased

Then his name over and over again.

I can't decide if I am attempting to lessen the impact of the reality by constantly reintroducing the knowledge or if I am just torturing myself for no good reason.

Probably a bit of both.  At least now my nails don't cut into my palms when I begin my recital.

I will take that as a step one.

I can't even comprehend a step two.

Dreaming of Hallucinations

Something is in the hallway.  I can hear it breathing low and harsh.  There is a scrapping against the wall and the stairs creak.  It is heavy, the stairs are sturdy.  I can see the shadow growing as it lumbers closer.  It gets past the carpet and I can hear the click of nails on the tile.

I am in my 30's and I am hiding under my blanket like a 5year old.  Something is coming for me.  I am terrified and I cannot move other then to shake.

I try to call Emily tell her about the beast.  Once she answers, I talk rapidly trying to explain.  She tells me she can't understand, that she can't hear me well.  I look at my phone and realize why.  It's melting.  Plastic dripping from my hand.  I drop the remainder and pile on more blankets over myself.

Then I hear a voice, it sounds familiar.  It is Pen, my roommate, she sounds worried.  Does she see the thing in the hallway?  I lift the blankets off my head and then close my eyes tight in fear.  There is a woman in my room that has Pen's voice, but is not Pen.  I do not recognize this person.  I peek again, body of a woman svelte and tall with the head of a raven.  I think it is Pen, she has an affinity for ravens.  So I try, I tell her that I do not recognize her, but I think she is Pen.  I ask her if she knows what is in the hall.  She shakes her head at me and the feathers flutter.  It's too much, its too real.  I hide back under my covers.  I know there is something wrong, but I can't look again.

I ask her if she really is Pen to get others, others I hope to recognize. I hear her leave, and the beast in the hallway follows her. Nails clicking away and the harsh breathing softening the farther it goes.

I don't leave the safety of my blankets.

Micah & Emily, I hear them.  I hear them, but when I peel back my covers.  It is not them.  I don't understand. Again with the human bodies and bird heads.  I think if I wasn't so terrified I would be enthralled with the beauty before me.

Because I like it

Burning the Old Year
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.  
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,  
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,  
lists of vegetables, partial poems.  
Orange swirling flame of days,  
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,  
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.  
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,  
only the things I didn’t do  
crackle after the blazing dies.

Year Two

Year one was binary.  I bounced between numb and overwhelming emotion.  There was no in-between.

This year is different.  The drowning feeling has dissipated somewhat, which means the numbness of self protection hasn't kicked in.  I have a sneaking suspicion I am the frog in the pot.  Last year, the pot was too hot, too obvious so I could kick out, get away at times. This year, it is more of a bath temperature.  I know something is wrong, but I can't pinpoint it.  The level raises up to my throat inciting fear of drowning but not actually ever coming up past my chin.  I think it is a red herring to distract me from the heating pot.

Something seems to be coming, but I don't know what or from where.  I have no ability to bolster my defenses anyway, so it doesn't matter.  At this point, I just hope I can absorb as much as possible to minimize collateral damage.

Breathing

I feel like I haven't gotten a deep breath in months.  I keep waiting for my chest to rise and then the sweet simple joy of breathing to hit me.  It hasn't.  I've lost the talent to enjoy breathing.  To relish a basic movement of life.

My hands look old in the light of the monitor.  All lines and veins stand out.  I watch myself type these words and wonder if my face reflects as my hands do.  I feel as old as I must look right now.  Sleepless nights only looked dashing when I was 20.  Now, I look just as I feel; sad & tired.

Each month has become an exercise in corset wearing.  Slow shallow breathing; not deep enough to spread the ribs and cause them to creak in pain against the boning.  Not quick enough to cause hyperventilation and loss of consciousnesses.

Corset breathing and a simple mantra of it will be better next month.  This is the fourth month of this mantra and frankly I didn't really believe it in July or the months before.  I hope the mantra is true for September.  Just a little bit better is all I need.  I need a little something to keep up my good faith.

Or maybe I will just go buy a corset.  If I am stuck with the breath, I might as well get the waistline to go with it.

August

It is August, the other side of April.  It is another month, but for the sheer grace of a beautiful child born in this month, I would wish it to perdition.

August and I have never gotten along.  Frankly, neither have April and I.  They have always been transition months to me and this year has sparked its best battle yet. Transition means change and while I open my arms to change and the challenge it brings, April and August seems to have particular cruelty to their flavor of change.  Except for two beautiful children.  For them alone, I would be happy to suffer Augusts & Aprils all year long, if it ensured their lives.

I am not beaten by the changes that have occurred in my life.  Humbled, devastated with emotions that pour out of me willy-nilly like I am a cracked vase, but the transition months will not win.

I am not new to loss and I am not new to grief.  I have learned to appreciate its talent in coming in waves.  I've remembered how to navigate my own memories and impulses to swim deeply in sorrow. It is one thing to dwell, it is another to drown.

I am not allowed to drown.  Although, I can never live for two, I can do my damnedest to not leave two children with another painful memory and one with an absence of even that.

Do you ever wonder if your chest was cracked open and your heart lifted out if it would be riddled with holes, some that made it all the way through and some that only were noticeable when your heart was held to the light.  Paper thin tissue holding on, perhaps.  I like to think that the paper thin tissues are cracks that have started to heal, but I have a suspicion that they are just marks of steady wear and soon even that sheer bit will be gone.  Maybe this is how people die of heartbreak, their heart is so thin and fragile like coral that one more hole just shatters the complete organ.  Does the the heart ever actually heal or does it simply scab over and harden?  I hope it heals, despite this pain I really don't want a hard heart.  I already have a hard head ;)