Dear Robin

Things have been different around here since you left. As a person who knows the high and the low and has envisioned the step you took, I was greatly affected by your decision. Many seemed comforted to find out you were facing a serious chronic illness. As if suddenly it all made sense.

The People magazine with your face on the cover stared at me for too many days from its place on top of the bathroom trashcan. One day I picked it up with a huff, deciding People had retouched your eye color. They made your eyes look too blue, like a black and white movie with the colors painted in. It reminded me of that movie you were in that I can’t remember the name of.

There were a few retrospective shows, some repeat performances, yada, yada. Then with Joan and football as distractions, everybody settled back down into their relative existences.

Today I read a whole magazine about you while I waited in a really long line in Safeway.

Look, what I really want to say is this. I don’t know what was going on in your mind right before you did what you did. But, why hanging? Because you couldn’t take it back?

I don’t want to talk bad about the dead. And I’ve been feeling spiritual lately and thinking a lot about compassion and not doing harm. But I’m pissed.

Look, what I really want to say, and I hope you take it in the best way possible, is fuck you.

Fuck you for going through with it and fuck you for getting to go when I’m still here and fuck you for setting such a fucking bad example and how could you do this to your kids????

How could I do it to my kid? Have I not yet been where you were, in the space right after you cross every con off your list?

Fuck, I’m sorry, Robin. You don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything. You’re just on the receiving end of a lot of things I’m pissed about right now.

That’s about all I’ve got for now, Robin. Except, say Hi to my dad for me, will ya?

Love, T

 

Blogging Mind

I can’t believe I’m here.  I’ve seen this moment many times in my mind, but this is the first time that it has actually happened. I’m sitting in front of my computer, my (Christmas) “new” Rock star iMac. This is the vision I have held in my head. That of me sitting in front of the computer, writing. What I pictured when I thought that I would know that I was better was exactly this thing I am doing right NOW.

The keyboard feels awkward beneath my fingers, and the search for a comfortable spot to hold my body is there, yes. But I’m doing this thing. This blogging thing.

See, I really blog ALL THE FUCKING TIME! IN MY FUCKING MIND!!! But nothing has made it this far, to actual materialization in front of me. Not since sometime around last Christmas. I wrote two posts. The Healing, and the Healing, part 2. (My mind just pointed out that this sitting at the computer thing is still not comfortable. I told it to shut the fuck up).

Well what would you follow-up a couple of posts about healing with? My Blogging Mind had a lot to say about that. But not a nary post was made. ‘Til right now. (Of course, my mind just reminded me, that this isn’t even posted yet).

So, why am I here? I shouldn’t be. Not unless I have some idea that I’m going to inhabit this pathetic life I’m existing in. Not unless my behavior indicates to me that I am acting like someone who plans on living instead of waiting to die. My mind has a lot to say about that. And truthfully, recently, I’ve been ambivalent. Once you have a child, it seems your “golden ticket” to suicide isn’t really much fun to imagine anymore. (I despised what I just wrote so much just now that I had to erase it).

I remember in my earlier years, I used to wonder about who would care if I killed myself, mostly at that time I wondered if any of my siblings would notice. Then there were many years when I didn’t have that particular thought at all. I still would think of suicide, since it has been one of my seemingly favorite pastimes, but it didn’t involve the wondering about reactions. Now both of my parents are dead and none of my siblings and I are on good terms. Two of them I don’t even speak to and that has been my choice. And yet, the suicidal thoughts are once again tinged with these wonderings. On worse days, I imagine either they would have a party, or worse yet, just remain indifferent.

I’ve been wounded and I can’t seem to recover.

I have two endings to my “healing” menage a trois. On the rarest of good days healing has begun and continues and the curve will have a steady uphill path to me becoming that mythical person I used to be. If I had it my way at some point the path would level out and I would be able to look behind me at it. On the many other of the less hopeful days, the deranged days, there is something much bigger than what we have already found and the nasty truth is about to reveal itself with a vengeance, most decidedly to punish me for the many days I have layed and wished that I had something terminal so it would end.

Today I started a list: How to get out of depression (my mind finds this terribly lame)

Step One

Impress yourself. (Right now that sounds like bullshit to my mind, but it is factual).

Step Two

Do something a little outside your comfort zone. Acknowledge to yourself that you just blew your own mind, and ignore the other asshole (in your own mind) in there that starts yelling about how it wasn’t enough, didn’t count, blah the fuckin’ blah.

When I wrote it, I thought, “This is not the day to impress myself” and went about my business. Which is usually laying in bed thinking about how miserable I feel.

But then I wrote this post.

Hush

I’ll think I’m doing OK. I walk around, sleep, eat, breathe, and show up wherever I’m supposed to be. For the most part nothing has changed in the day-to-day of things. And then suddenly something will remind me, and a cavernous space opens up inside of me that has no ending. I start to fall through it. And then I remember.

English: Wind chime close-up

Photo credit: Wikipedia

I had a mother once.

It happened today in Safeway. I was there at the pharmacy picking up the latest pain remedy, and Trazadone for sleep. There was going to be a wait, so I cruised the miscellaneous aisle where they keep all the summer “grab-me” items. That’s where it happened. A large Raggedy Ann doll was lying sideways in a summer lawn chair, smiling at me with her eyes agape. The image transported me back, forty plus years ago. I had a doll just like that. I remember relishing its sweet smiling face. I’m pretty sure it was lovingly hand-made by my mother. I loved that doll fiercely.

I had the same feeling two days ago as I went through her jewelry box. It was the same one I remember pouring over as a young girl. The box was covered in gold fabric of some kind, and had darkened with age. A rush of old memories laced with her delicate perfume went up my nose as I opened it.  It used to sit on top of her dresser, with strings of beads and shiny things hanging out of it.  I eagerly anticipated the times when she would dress up to go dancing with my father and let me go through her jewelry. I delighted in the sparkle of the rhinestones and crystals, and how the dangly ones caught the light as she moved.

I feel her when the wind blows through my hair. I hear her in the tinkle of wind chimes and when it is quiet enough to hear the song of a solitary songbird. I feel her urging me to live, to take in, to capture, and to create. She reminds me that the most fulfilling time of her life began at about the age that I am now. I know that if she had my body and my mind, she would not waste them.

“The time is now,” she whispers.