Posts Tagged ‘life’

35 years of journal writing

June 17, 2014

journalI have been writing in a journal since 1979, since I was 11-years old. This photo marks 35 years of writing and showcases over 105 journals. It does not include the years I wrote online, the short stories I wrote and ultimately published, the blogs I wrote or the myriad notes I saved. Outside the frame of this photo, but on the shelf, there is a pile of smaller journals that were unnumbered and thus, left out of the picture.

Like a long road, or a straight line that pushes past a horizon with no end in sight,  these journals move forward in time along with me. They are how I tell time. They are time. They are me.

The very first binding you see is where I met one of my best friends with whom I am still very close. I was in 6th grade. In 1989, I lived in Paris. In 1990, I bartended in Greenland. In 1997, I met and married my first husband and lived in Spain. In 1998 my son Daniel was born. In 2000, Julien was born. In 2004, my father died, I graduated college and I divorced. In 2007, I quit smoking ( for the second and final time). In 2008, the economy crashed. In 2009, I met Doug.  In these journals exist every broken heart I’ve ever had, every best friend, every mediocre friend,  every major event, and a gazillion minor events. My Prince phase, my Paris phase, my speak-with-a-British-accent/Spinal Tap phase, my sex phase, my I-want-to-be-a-nun-phase, my travel agent phase, my travel writing phase, my waitress phase, my ignore-all-responsibilities-and-take-off-to-London phase, my mommy phase, my college phase, my grad school phase, my corporate shareholder phase. If I slept with you, you’re in these journals. If I partied with you, you’re in these journals. If I loved you, you’re in these journals. If I worked with you and found you any bit entertaining, you’re in these journals. If I cried on your shoulder, or begged you to stay, or hated your fucking guts, you’re in these journals.

I made it to Volume 100 in 2010. That year, my interest in journal writing waned and I didn’t write much. I thought I’d accomplished all my goals and there was nothing more to write. If I wrote at all it was online and it was basically me logging every morsel of food that went into my body. In OCD fashion, I tracked breakfast, lunch, dinner, exercise, vitamins, water intake, sex, periods, moods, and how much caffeine or chocolate I allowed myself on any give day. But when I noticed myself getting sicker and depressed, I thought it might help if I gave up the tracking and went back to actually writing in a hard bound journal. So, by 2013, I cracked open the spine of Volume 103 and started writing at my desk again. I felt more me. 

I’m not one to live in the past, although, with these journals, it’s very hard for me to escape my past. That can be bitter-sweet. If I forgot where we had Christmas dinner in 2009 and with whom, I just have to look it up. Voila. The journals are all dated and numbered and memorable dates are easy to find. If I want to laugh again about a trip I took, it’s there. If I want to look back and read silly things my kids said when they were toddlers, it’s there. I can’t tell you how many times I laughed reading early grade school journal entries with friends. The drawback is that sometimes–most of the time– they dredge up the old me. Old insecurities, old hopes and fears, crushed dreams. Things I’ve long overcome or given up. But, things that, nevertheless, make me feel sorry for the girl who wrote them. She never vanishes; she never grows up. She’s always looking up and out of the pages at me with this arrogance that I no longer possess. And I think, what the hell is up with you? You’re such a fuck up. You’re making all these stupid mistakes. You’re stuck, and you don’t even know it.

And no matter how hard I try,  I can’t  help her.

And since she can’t help herself. It’s frustrating reading.

But I too am stuck. Unlike others, who leave no trace of the guy or girl they used to be, and who can freely choose to rewrite their history with bold new assuredness (Sure, I was always confident), I cannot. I need only to flip to Volume 26, 36, 57, 99 to read, “I have failed,” and I am quickly reminded that there is no rewriting the past. The presumptuous, foolish, imperfectly charming  young girl of these journals is here to stay. If anything comforts me it’s the thought that I created her, separate from myself. And like a flesh and blood character in a novel, you can read about her and she exists. And when you’re sick of her, you can close the book and get back to your real life.

But I guess, with the exception of my two sons, she really is one of my greatest accomplishments. The girl of my journals. And while she only takes up such a small amount of shelf space in my house, she represents my near entire existence on this planet. And much like when we’re cremated, and the entirety of who we are, in the end,  fits into a space no bigger than a shoe box, so too does she. Small. Contained. Alive.

For now, my time line moves onward. The pages fill. My new goal is to get to Volume 2oo. Or at least fill up the rest of the space on the shelf. I figure it should take me another 30 years. That puts me at 75-years-old. That’s enough. By then I would hope that that girl will have grown up and that she will no longer summon in me pity and a sense of helplessness, but rather, joy and pride in knowing that she made something of her life.

I only have 95 journals left to get there.

Fertility

November 14, 2009



Moon_pregnant_by_Slacklap

I’m pushing a cart around the perimeter of Whole Foods, doing everything right. Imported Aji from Ecuador and catfish from the Yangtze River. Consuming with purpose, hopeful in the power of these products to cleanse my system of toxic junk and prepare the terrain for procreation. Can I afford it? Probably not. But can any of us afford what it takes these days to create humanity from one simple seed?

Life is fertile and tenacious, the scientists say. Even when I was a little girl, my mother said to me, “Someday you will have a child of your own.” And so every month I await the discovery of my body’s capacity for creation. And every month I am reminded of my body’s knack for destruction. I haven’t given up yet. I’m buying those products, which, I’m told by doctors and specialists, are the key to fertility, the essential building blocks of creation itself.  Shop around the outer edge, they say; it’s the final frontier of real food: the organic produce, the unprocessed cheeses, the wild caught fish, the grass-fed, antibiotic-free beef. Buy local. Forget the Yangtze River. So, I’m taking their advice and orbiting the perimeter and placing in my cart, among other things, dandelion, for folate; maca for progesterone; bee pollen for ovarian health; algae for hormone balance; a statue of the Hindu fertility goddess Lakshmi for luck, and yet another book about proper nutrition for moms.

There were four million, three-hundred, seventeen thousand, one hundred and nineteen babies born in the United States last year; a baby boom, said USA Today. Two-point-one children for each mother. In Niger, the women are having seven-point-five children each. In Burundi, six. They’re baby-making machines over there, eating nothing but bark and crickets, and yet my worship of prenatal vitamins and ovulation calculators only ever gets me closer to a better understanding of the waiting room of the fertility clinic. Seven point five babies to every Niger woman, all without a kit to chart their basal body temperature. I can’t even have one. Did I mention that?

It’s not as if I don’t have a fertile, healthy husband who’s willing to match up every one of my eggs with copious amounts of his own reproductive seed. Jack’s sperm are well over twenty-million per milliliter of semen: he never smoked, he eats well, he doesn’t wear tight jeans (though he did during undergrad). He’s in good shape; he never even rode a bicycle, which is known to damage blood vessels and cause impotence. He’s a runner. He’s even dodged the venereal disease bullet. He’s not the problem.

I’m the problem. Despite having an hourglass figure, a sturdy, medium-framed structure and good, strong bones, despite being told in my teens that the thirty-six inch width of my hips was a good indication of being able to birth babies (lots of them), despite the fact that I dance and teach Pilates and take extra folic acid, despite all the hours I meditate and the eight glasses of water I drink a day, despite the fact that I do everything in my power to be a normal human being, my uterus can’t seem to hold on to an egg. And it’s not like I waited too long to get started either. Twenty-seven, by today’s standards, is early. When I went to my endocrinologist, the doctors (and there were many) tested every level of hormone to make sure I was producing enough progesterone and estrogen and every other kind of hormone necessary for pregnancy. They laid me flat on a tilted table, asked me to place my feet in stirrups, and stuck their hands up inside me, one by one, visit after visit, pressing their fingers against my uterus; three inches long, two inches wide, one inch thick. Your uterus, they all agreed, is exemplary. I have no obstructions in my fallopian tubes, no fibroids or genetic defects, and my eggs are said to be young and plump and still quite perky, if that’s how you can even describe the egg of a woman of thirty-two. I even ovulate on a perfect thirty-day cycle. Without fail, my period arrives on the waxing moon. The waxing. Not the waning or the crescent, but the waxing. The becoming. The growing. That lunar phase which presents every creature on the planet with the promise and the right to a full moon. The promise that, in days to come, the oceans will rise according to the gravitational tug of a ball up in the sky and force life out of the tide and upon the land.

I have been trying for five years and all I have to show for it are three miscarriages, two poorly placed blastocysts, and an Isabelline yellow nursery down the hall from the master bedroom that was preconceived shortly before miscarriage number two. And I can’t deny that I have debris inside me that has built to toxic proportions, namely—a growing, nagging, malignant hatred of pregnant women.  In fact, I’m in the same obnoxious classification with sexist men who look down at women’s breasts before looking into their eyes. My eyes gravitate toward the belly before they do the face.  Which brings me back to Whole Foods; which is why I am surprised I notice this woman’s bag before anything as I make my way out of produce. On any normal day, I wouldn’t. On any normal day, I would be practicing kegel exercises down the aisles, or more likely, focusing on reducing my levels of stress. I would be breathing. Breathing in deeply through the nose; pregnant with the oxygen of the world, ingesting the same floating atoms of Buddha, Jesus and Mohammad.

But the planets align themselves in weird ways sometimes and the doctor’s visits over the past few weeks weren’t exactly filled with news I wanted to hear.  It started as it usually does. I was spotting, but I was late; I was nauseous and my breasts hurt, sure signs of pregnancy, despite two negative pregnancy tests. I was still hopeful. So, I went to the doctor for a blood test, only to learn I’m having a bad reaction to the Clomid, and well—It seems, Mrs. Jones, the Clomid is causing hostile fertile mucous and thinning your uterine wall. You’re not pregnant at all, she said. In fact, your progesterone is low. That discovery usually means one thing: more weekly shots of progesterone and possibly months of Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder or, as Jack calls it, insanity. Something he can no longer deal with anymore despite years of giving me daily injections, coming to scan appointments with me, and holding my hand during embryo transfers. In fact, he’s told me, flat out, this is it. “This is our last chance.” He tells me my health and well-being are in jeopardy, our marriage is in jeopardy, his peace of mind is in jeopardy. That, lately, I’ve turned into a monster because of all these drugs. “Every month that goes by, you lose a little of yourself, Elaine.” And I used to feel sorry for myself. Sure, I did. Many times I felt like giving up. But I’m not a quitter. Everything is in the right place. I’m only waiting for the icing on the cake. I have to give my biology one last shot.

So, I’m right there, scooping out organic oatmeal in bulk and I notice this woman’s bag before anything. She comes swerving into me with this canvas tote bag, hanging by a loop around her arm, as if she’s the only human being within in a five-mile radius of anyone else, and on the bag are the imprinted words, “I’m Saving the Planet, What Are You Doing?”

I’m Saving the Planet, What Are You Doing? The words reverberate through me in a whiny, disparaging voice I imagine is hers. I have until the end of the whole grains aisle to think about it, before we loop around and pass each other again. Until I can figure out which is worse: a woman who flaunts a bag like that, or the fact that I can answer the question so easily.

I recycle all my paper, cans and bottles. I’ve bought fluorescent lights for all my lighting fixtures. I plant trees every spring. And how about this: I’m not repopulating the earth. How about that for doing my part?

It’s not so easy, you know, talking about infertility. People look at you like you’re a freak if you can’t make a baby; if you can’t do the simplest of human tasks. They think that God doesn’t want you to have a baby. If God wanted you to have a baby, you would have had one already, they say. Everything is for a reason. Besides, infertility is part of population control. I’ve heard that one too. It’s the same argument that says that homosexuality and natural disaster and man’s inherent proclivity for war are all part of God’s master plan to weed out the sick and those of us with bad genes; weed out people like us who weren’t supposed to be here in the first place.

But there are young girls in bad neighborhoods having so many babies they’re using abortion as a means of birth control. They’re young girls in good neighborhoods giving birth in toilets in high school locker rooms, or dropping babies into dumpsters. Some are smoking cigarettes and crack and shooting heroin and eating chicken fingers all day—they will spend an entire life time without having eaten the fruit of one organic pear from Whole Foods—and yet, they’re populating the earth.

But this is Berkley Hills. It’s a world of perfection, where you get what you want. Where all things are possible—boob jobs, BMWs and babies.  And no one deviates from the plan. There is a plan. At least that’s what I’ve always believed, or rather, what I’ve always aspired to follow.

Like when Jack and I first got married. Friends were actually jealous. “Hope we don’t have a tough time keeping up with the Joneses,” they said.  And the first thing that everyone asked us on our wedding day was, “When are the babies coming?” My mother came up and nudged me, with a smile upon her face and said, “Make me a grandmother.” Oh, the expectations. We had talked about kids when we got engaged. We wanted two children, a girl and a boy, the perfect nuclear family. But we would wait a few years before having them; we would wait three years. Three years was perfect. It would allow Jack to finish up interning and establish himself in a good architecture firm. We could renovate the old farmhouse we bought in Walnut Creek, and I could finish my graduate work in Sociology. Besides, everyone in our circle was waiting. Brian and Heather had gotten married shortly after us, and they waited. Same with Paul and Gwen. Mark and Laurel married the same year we did. In fact, we were going to synchronize and have our babies at the same time so that our children could play together, grow up together, go to the same schools together and date together.

Those first three years were, what can I say, Utopian. Jack and I spent weekends hiking in Yosemite, up by Tioga and Glacier Point. We skied in Tahoe in the Spring and even spent a meandering, circuitous summer following Sal Paradise’s route through San Francisco, down to Fresno, then Selma, then LA and back up again. I felt free. The heavy burden of becoming a woman had not yet arrived. The literature of infertility had not yet taught me to fear “unnatural” foods, Tupperware and tap water. What did Baby Gap mean to me, then? Nothing but a distant idea, a cultural phenomenon that so many of my friends and I would get sucked into, like shopaholics so easily do with one glossy print ad in a fashion magazine. Little did I know that so much of my pleasure would come from a baby product and not an actual, flesh and blood baby. Jack and I never saw it coming.

When I got pregnant, that first time, along with everyone else, it wasn’t so much a gift or the result of any hard work, but rather a mindless function of my inherent biology. I was happy, sure. But I didn’t feel insane amounts of relief or gratitude as much as I felt the simple ordinariness of entitlement. I was procreating. I was doing what my body was meant to do. I was following the plan. And to have given it any more thought than that would be to express superfluous amounts of giddiness for something like trash pick-up on Mondays, or eggs on the menu at a diner. I had just gone off the pill and Jack and I were pleasantly surprised that it took so quickly. I admit, though it’s hard, but I was smug. And then, after eleven weeks of nausea, sleepiness, sore breasts and the luxury of complete incomprehension of failure, I lost the embryo. It was natural, the docs said. More women than you think miscarry on their first try.  And I believed them. And kept trying. And then “trying” soon replaced “following the plan.” We were deviating from the plan. One year, then two, then three, now five. Soon the plan—that flawless recipe for the perfect life—slumped into abysmal death. Five years of mood-altering fertility drugs and forcing Jack to perform within hours of my ovulating; expecting him to cut client meetings short at the first sign of a rise in body temperature; and then angrily accusing him, after all that, of insensitivity, of not doing enough, not understanding. Sometimes, many times, I hated him for reasons as uncomplicated as the secretly satisfying knowledge he possessed of his ability to produce healthy sperm, and the quiet pleasure he took in recognizing that he wasn’t at fault. I have always resented the fact that he was never half the slave to this as I was. I know the flow of blood between my legs as well as a Buddhist monk knows the sound of his master’s prayer bell.

And it’s not like we were doing something different. It’s not like we asked for anything anyone else didn’t already have. Everyone in Walnut Creek and Berkley Hills drank from the same tap, we all bought the same milk, we all breathed the same air. We were just like everyone else. But when Heather had her first and then her second, and Gwen had a boy, and Laurel had twins right at the three-year mark, I felt an enormous pressure to catch up. And by this point, I felt not so much the need to have a child, but rather to possess a child like one possesses the trendiest car or the latest stainless steel appliance. It was like everyone was getting granite countertops, except us. People weren’t keeping up with the Joneses, the Joneses were trying desperately to keep up with everyone else and failing miserably. I used to have dreams every night that my teeth were falling out, or that I was lost in a house with many rooms and couldn’t find my way out. And each year that passed, and every time we had to attend a child’s party and watch someone else’s baby crawl for the first time, or say its first words, there was a part of me that sunk into oblivion. Soon, we weren’t even invited to the kid-themed parties anymore.

I breathe in and try to remember a happier past—the farm we lived on in New Hampshire when I was seven. It was a hundred acre farm with rolling hills enclosed by a lush forest of tall pines. We lived off the land like early pioneers; we actually had nothing. My father plodded through fields on his tractor and my mother baked her own breads and tended a garden riotous and overgrown with cucumbers and gigantic tomatoes that ended up rotting by the dozens because there were so many. My brothers and I did nothing but lay in the grass all day, looking up a sky popping with cumulonimbus clouds that stretched across an indolent world from one end to the other.  Life was easy and empty. Back then you could smoke a pack a day and have ten healthy kids. I even dare to say that there was space in the atmosphere for carbon dioxide, and acid rain was an easy fix. At least our ignorance made it so. But now this. A woman’s glib reminder of humanity’s conceivably impotent future, scrawled on a canvas bag. It takes away

“Excuse me,” I pluck up the courage to approach her, moving my cart toward the center of the aisle, butting up towards hers. I point to her bag.  “Don’t you think you’re being a little self-righteous? It doesn’t seem likely that the planet’s future lies in whether or not you’ve bought that bag.”

The woman stands in front of me, dumbfounded. And I wait the delayed ten seconds or so it takes for her to have her light bulb moment. I want to see acknowledgment. I suppose I want her to giggle sheepishly and just tell me it was a mindless last minute purchase. She didn’t even realize there was such a ridiculous message on the bag. But that doesn’t happen.  Instead, her face twists into a sneer. She pushes my cart aside with hers, and laughs at me.

“Lighten up, lady. It’s just a bag.” She disappears around the corner.

I stand clenching the handle of the cart, not moving, fuming with anger. Breathe in. Breathe out. The last thing I need is confrontation, but at this point I’m seething with humiliation. As I round the corner, I am in the canned goods aisle and she’s heading my way from the opposite direction, her face still furled with annoyance. I toss a can of organic split pea soup into the cart eying her up with thin, indignant eyes.

I wait till she gets closer. And that’s when I see what I must have known all along. That’s when she parts her coat and stands erect, that’s why she has the right to be so smug, and why she eats the same foods that all American women of child-bearing age are told to eat but probably don’t have to. That’s when I look down and see the globe below her breasts, and know the world is getting bigger. She’s having a baby.

I need something to crush. Something to hit. And as I seal my eyelids shut and brace myself against the metal frame of the cart, the pain is sharp. I see stars; stars that aren’t the infinitely beautiful stars of which we are made, but rather, flashes of red, deathly light that come when your eyeball fluid has been ripped from the back of your eyes by the crack of a blunt object. I am reminded once again of my inability to be a woman, to be normal, to be what I thought nature and God wanted me to be. There’s a toy store on every corner; you can’t walk through the mall without passing a hundred Baby Gaps and Kids Gaps and Gymborees. Disney Land is the fixed fantasy of our nation and I am kept at the gates, shunned, repulsed and barren. The world is made for children, isn’t it? And even the biggest hypocrites can have them.

I stand enraged in the middle of the aisle, fearing that if I move I will destroy something. Is it the trihalomethanes in the tap water? The hormones in the milk? The birth control pills I took during college? Do I use too much bleach for my whites? Do I drink too much coffee? Is it Nutrasweet? Plastic? Mercury in the fish?

“It can’t be just me.” I catch myself saying this out loud, noticing eyes upon me. And for a moment my face feels hot with shame, my knees buckle underneath me. What, after all, is the breaking point of the soul? What does being different look like when it’s so obvious?  I shake my head from side to side as the momentary shame shifts back to anger; a deep, clear, meaningful anger that recognizes the ugliness of truth. I snap to. The lady with the bag must be two aisles ahead of me now; that would be frozen foods. And so I move my cart with its shaky wheels, humming a tuneless mantra in my dry mouth to replace the dearth of focus that I feel consuming me. I just want to mention the absurdity and the hypocrisy of carrying that bag in that condition. That’s all. I just want to let her know that buying one tote bag is nothing compared to the amount of waste and pollution and excess her baby will bring upon the earth. That by her bringing one extra human onto this planet it will cause one hundred and thirty six thousand pounds of garbage to be dumped into some landfill. How’s that for saving the planet?

And then I see her, having forgotten all about me by this point, wearing that kind of self-entitled, superior look that is so common of expectant women. They call it a glow. Her posture yielding, pliant, curving into her spine. Her head lowered, looking in toward the frozen food case. I move close, close enough that I can see that she’s wearing a Tag watch, and that her fingernails are painted pink. But I move subtly, staring into the cases of frozen foods, wondering exactly what to say next, or possibly, what to do. I’m so close I can smell the organic shampoo in her hair.

And then it all kind of happens in a garbled, muddled sort of way, quickly and absurdly, the way things happen when you’re confused and smothered and have no voice, like you’re flailing your arms about in a puddle, trying not to drown. Like a year ago, when Jack told me that was it. “It’s over.” And he had packed his bags and moved in with Mark and Laurel.  He said he couldn’t make me happy. That nothing could make me happy. And he feared that even if we did have a baby, it wouldn’t be enough. “There’s always that next high; you’re never satisfied, never content to just be.” And it was true. Once we were married, I pushed to renovate the house; I pushed for the two cars in the driveway, and I pushed for the kid. Well, I could have everything else, but I couldn’t have the kid. And that made me mad. I blamed everything and everyone and it broke Jack and it isolated me. But when my husband threatened to leave, it frightened the hell out of me the same way death frightens me, or aloneness. Enormous, immobilizing, humbling. Almost too much to comprehend. So I pretended that everything was under control.

Coolly, I said, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other, “Let’s just try one more time.”  And as was his nature, he gave me a second chance. But it would be a lie to say that anything in me ever gave up fighting or believing in the injustice of my life. It would be wrong to think that a woman who cannot have a baby for no apparent reason is capable of just giving up and accepting such a freakish fate.

In my hand I am holding the can of split pea; it just so happens to be the first thing I grab. I’m holding onto it for support, really. And I’m holding it so tightly that my knuckles turn white as death. And, I don’t know, I just begin cornering this woman into the freezer without her realizing it, because it kind of works out that way, because it’s easy. Because no one shops in the frozen foods aisles in the suburbs, midday. Because it’s unfair. And the only words that are about to come out of me are, Why you; why not me? But I don’t say them. Instead, I imagine myself bringing the can I am holding down upon her head in a crushing blow, the edge of it scraping a gash across her face, and I imagine striking her again and again and again and again. And I imagine one gets to a point where the toil of energy lifts and action becomes effortless. How hard could it be, really? To just push her into the freezer, where she can’t run, and hit her over and over and over again with a can until she slumps to the ground in a bloody mess?

When Gwen had her second baby, there was no rhyme or reason to it. The stars were not aligned. She ate burgers and fries long before she conceived. She even took hits off Paul’s cigarettes and drank wine with dinner during her second trimester. At the time, Jack and I weren’t doing very well. We were fighting constantly and we had lost all hope of having a baby as the IVFs weren’t taking—it was right before he threatened to leave for good. But Paul and Gwen invited us to see the new baby. And even though I suspect they pitied us, we went to the hospital anyway, with the honest intention of showing our support and praise. They named the baby David and he was seven pounds ten ounces. He was nineteen and three-fourths inches long and he had ten fingers and ten toes. His hair was a black tuft on the top of his head and he whimpered more than cried. He was a helpless, cherubic ball of life in my arms, when I finally decided to hold him, and though I initially feared I wouldn’t give him back, I did. Almost with pleasure. It was the first time I remember feeling indifferent toward a baby; unmoved. And to be honest, it scared me. I had carried with me the desire to possess something for so long that when I finally found myself in its presence, I could not recognize it as anything remotely familiar to that which I had so desperately wanted all along. Perhaps the smallness of one life has always been too big a gift for me.

There’s a sick, malignant feeling in my stomach as I realize what I am about to do, but it’s too late to remove myself from my guilty proximity, regain composure and go along my merry way. The woman turns, abruptly, from peering into the freezer, and sensing my closeness, screams.

“Get the hell away from me, bitch.”

I try to move out of her way to give her space, she’s got it all wrong, but she panics and slams the freezer door into my face, blinding my left eye. I can feel the cold crack of condensation on my cheekbone, which turns hot from impact. And as she backs into the open aisle, pushing me away, I lose my footing and stumble into my cart, falling backward onto the floor, scraping my head, neck, shoulder, back along the metal of the cart’s frame, which is jammed against the freezer door. Like having an invisible hand drag a sharp, jagged wire across my core, I feel ripped open, slit. The pop of my back or hip or perhaps even my skull draws in the energy and emotion of a crowd. And it’s at this moment I try to reach up to explain to anyone who will listen that it was all a miscalculation, despite the throbbing in my brain, it was a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt her. But it’s too late. The momentum is there. She is screaming wildly.

“This woman tried to attack me! This woman tried to attack me!”

I feel the heavy, accusatory arms of a security guard, or maybe it’s a bag checker upon me, not helping me up, but holding me down. My face grows hotter as I see others moving in closer, surrounding me, and I can now feel the slow, warm trickle of blood matting my hair and making its way onto the cement floor in a pool around me. I try to speak, to explain that I had just come too close to her, I realize that now, but I wasn’t going to do anything. But no one is listening. And then, things just play out like they do in classic scenarios of disorder and chaos: a stranger gasps—a crowd gathers—the victim points a finger at the accused—police are called in. And before I know it, I am restrained like a wild animal to the floor, a knee thrust into my lower back, shoulders, pinned; my face, tacked to the cement. I’m not fighting back. I don’t have the will. It happens that quickly.

Pain is not something that grows slowly and steadily. Sure, there are instances of that. When the reality of a life not lived strikes you one morning unsuspectingly, there is a dull, moaning pain that makes itself felt in the aching of muscles and bone. But there is another kind of pain that comes without warning, which is so sharp and abrupt that it comes with rage; like the skull-crushing, brain-splitting cracking of a solid wood rafter, crashing down on your head, out of the blue. You did nothing wrong. In fact, you did everything right. You were always so cautious. You were just starting to figure it all out and get there. But then you wake up one day with the chalky white realization that your life is a sham.

My head is throbbing like the hard, heavy pulse of a racing heart, the buzz and hiss of the crowd has encircled me. People want to get a look at “the monster.” And I can’t help but wonder if I am, after all, a monster, just like Jack said.  I am dizzy and can’t breathe well. And I’m shivering and cold and wondering what the likelihood is of getting a blanket, or calling my husband. I’m wondering if he will even come and get me out of this mess; tell the police something as simple as “Look, she’s under a lot of stress. It’s probably just the fertility treatments. Heck, she might even be pregnant.” I’m wondering if this is still a part of our second chance, or if it’s his last straw. I’m guessing it’s the latter. And yet I feel an eerie sense of stillness, something more akin to exhaustion, like when prisoners of war are finally released after captivity and wander into the light blindly, humbled. There’s no fight left in them, no happiness. Only a catastrophic fear of their newly imposed freedom. I think of Emilie Cady’s quote from a Buddhist text I read years ago, “Individual people stumble over pebbles, never over mountains.”

Within my line of sight is the pregnant woman with the bag. Her hand is on her belly, protectively, as she talks to a police officer. I so often remember as a child placing my hand over my distended belly after a big Sunday dinner, or shoving a pillow under a stretched out shirt. I’d stare at myself in the mirror, pretending I was pregnant; heck, I’d even pretend I was giving birth, feigning pain like they do in stupid movies. It was never about a baby. It was about mindless fun. I can’t explain it. It was biology. I just wanted it because it was my nature to want it. I never wanted a baby for the right reasons. I know that now. The universe has a weird way of denying you things it knows you can’t take care of. Or maybe, that’s not the case at all. Maybe nature gives us more than we deserve; more gifts than we know what to do with. And the only way to see the glut and abundance is when we don’t have it, or when it buries us alive.

Bits & Pieces: the day after

April 29, 2009

The_rear_view_mirror_by_theofficesupplies

It’s the day after. I’m married. I’m taking my husband back to the airport so that he can catch his flight back to Spain.  But my car breaks down on the side of the road in Cherry Hill. It just dies at 276,000 miles. I think it’s symbolic. The official end of my old life so that I may begin the new. I break down across the street from a hotel where a Rapid Rover is parked by the valet. I race over to the driver and asked if he will take “my husband” to the Philadelphia International Airport. He says, sure, so I pay him because R has no money. I kiss R goodbye. I cry. He zips off down Route 70 in a van. I won’t see him until Christmas Eve.

I am alone.

I go inside the hotel and call triple A for a tow, from the hotel payphone. I wait by the side of the road for two hours, counting on my fingers the days until I will see him again, catching the sparkle of gold around my finger at nine, then nineteen, then twenty-nine.

Who reads this shit?

November 14, 2008

It’s almost 9 and I’m poised to hop in my car and head to the gym to attempt, once again, a 5K on the tread mill before my knees give out. I should stick with the bike. Bike is safer. And yet, as runners know so well (something which, I myself am learning for the first time), nothing compares to the feeling of energy your body generates when your legs propel you down the road– or in my case, propel me no where closer to anything but the dashboard of my hamster wheel. 

So, I was reading Citizen of the Month, checking out his links page and was overwhelmed at the gazillion people out there blogging. Not that this hadn’t occurred to me years ago. Because it had. And I became obsessed with wanting my own blog until I realized I had nothing to say or too much to say. For that matter, there’s always been a fine line between exposing what I think is “interesting” and going overboard– 

Example of going overboard:  I was telling Nuria last night that I had it in me a while ago to publish my diaries from the divorce. When I started transcribing them though, the reading was tedious. I came off as sounding uglier than the ex. Here’s this pathetic woman allowing her husband to do the stupidest shit and instead of taking action, all she does is bitch about it. And to make matters worse, she hasn’t a shred of dignity left and ends up sleeping with him as a means of shutting him up. And she writes: “it’s all for the kids. Keep it together for the kids.” Then there was my mother on my case, saying, “what are you adding to the world by writing something like that?” and “what will the children think when they read that some day?”

Needless to say,…I gave up the divorce journals and the blogging.

There is something so self-serving about blogging. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. I feel the egocentrism oozing from my skin sometimes. I’m privy to certain people’s judgments about bearing my soul on places like facebook and myspace. And quite frankly, the attention some people seek in their blatant “LOOK AT ME” status updates is quite ugly. As the lovely Ms. Meagan McCamy said, facebook can be kind of like walking through a hospital in a hospital gown with yer ass showing, but you’re in denial that you’re an exhibitionist. 

Thing is, I love the written word. I love to write. I write on napkins at restaurants. I write on public restroom walls. I write a million emails a day. And I have written in a journal since age eleven. I have 97 hard-bound volumes that line the bookshelves of my office like doctor’s reference manuals. Writing is a part of me. Keeps me real. Keeps me raw. And so is sharing the goods and exposing the reality of who I am–who people are. I can’t tell you how often I come across friends of mine that say things like, “John and Mary have the perfect marriage.” And i think, bullshit. John probably wears women’s pantyhose and Mary is anorexic because John is a control-freak. Their kids have A.D.D. and they both had to tap into John’s 401K because Mary is a shopaholic. People are so disturbingly into protecting their perfect identities and looking good that when something does go wrong (and it does), the amount of shame and humiliation is enough to bury them.

I’m not talking about airing one’s dirty laundry. I’m talking about being real. Anyway. 

There was a point to this. And the point is– whether blogging is self-serving or not, so be it. I’m not going to change. I love reading other people’s secrets. I’m glad there are a million people out there doing it. It goes to show not how egocentric people are, but rather, how we all need to reach out and touch others. There’s no shame in that.  I am drawn to confessions. And i love sharing in the commitment people undertake to expose themselves to the world. It’s not so much for attention, as it is a manner in which to communicate. It is not so much egocentric, as it is a belief in oneself that his or her words have impact. It is a way in which so many people try to connect. Try to feel alive. It’s why Dante wrote his Inferno, why da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa. Why S has tattoos. And G wears her hair in a ponytail. It’s why the tiger lily is so f’ing orange. Because inside we are not empty.