Wrapped in blue

Subtle are the chains that bind us, woven of fear, and failure, forged in pain and doubt, and bound with hope and faith. It is faith that holds us through the night, keeping lights burning even when the fuel runs out. It is hope that makes us skew a vicious attack into a simple bid for our attention. We train ourselves to look for the good in people, force our eyes to see what might simply not exist. It is this vulnerability with provides the holes to set the hooks that undo us.

There is beauty in believing in good; there is is danger in believing in absolutes. Nobody, I repeat, nobody is all one or the other. This is not Hollywood, where the bad guy carries a creepy mustache and is someone you've never met before. In fact, finding the 'bad guy' might be equated to a 'Where's Waldo?' from the space shuttle--or it might be as easy as looking in the mirror or a sweet photo. Statistics state that we know our abusers, our attackers, our stalkers, and our killers. They are people we know lightly, people we love, and people we marry.

They will use our parents, our pets, our children, our reputations, and our weakness to bring us to heel. They will beg, they will lie, and they will promise to be different. They will fail to deliver. Every time. If they feel threatened, they will begin the cycle anew, pushing farther and farther over the bounds of acceptability, breaking through the conditioned behaviours of civilization until the boundaries are gone and there is nothing left but a body. Once it's realized that a person can be touched without retaliation, that they can be struck or choked or bloodied without a true price being extracted, the course is set. Until there is a cost, there are no boundaries. It is a simple step from speaking words that cut to cutting skin that bleeds. From there it is but a simple thing for rage to turn to violence that leaves marks and love to turn into something that takes a life.

They are the people we trust with our hearts, our lives, and our children. They are people we believe in, and to admit that they might bring harm to us is to admit that maybe, just maybe we were wrong about them. That we have to love ourselves enough to be wrong, and to value ourselves more than someone else. It's so much easier to leave it alone to save yourself the hassle. It is so much easier to believe in the goodness of a killer, isn't it?

Truth

I am usually so very clever with words. I use them argue, tell people that I love them, display my ridiculous side, and order my Chalupa at Taco Bell. I've used them to win spelling bees, teach classes, help my daughter with her ABCs, and even tell someone I was leaving them forever. So why am I speechless now?

I think it has to do with truth. The people who love me know I try to speak truth. Even when it sucks and it makes people mad at me. I may soften the blow a bit, or I may not. But I am known for my honesty. This is where truth becomes painful. I cannot make up words, I cannot make up things that I think and feel. Sometimes I think things that other people don't dare. Sometimes I follow a thought to its bitter end, shattering the illusions that most people build to protect themselves from being hurt. And sometimes I say those things out loud, to the dismay of others. It is when I am silent, though, that I am probably thinking the hardest...

I feel as though I am pacing at the top of a ridge. I keep coming to the edge of it and turning back for fear of the slide I may take if I place my foot the wrong way. I have tried to speak out loud first...write a message, a letter, a poem, a SONNET EVEN...and yet I cannot put words together to say what it is I wish to say. Unfortunately, the dirty limerick in my head is not appropriate for the situation, so I keep hammering my brain until the right words come. I have walked around in odd places, looking for inspiration. I have listened to music and looked at artwork, and still...nothing.

What does one say when life is terribly unfair? What do you say to someone when you cannot comprehend how they get up in the morning and function? How do you tell someone you are proud of them without sounding overbearing and out-of-line? How do you tell someone that they make you a little ashamed of yourself when it comes to whining about life? How do you express amazement that this person can do something you failed at, and under the worst set of conditions? How do you relay to someone you barely know (and know through an often-awkward set of circumstances) that they make you look at your life a little differently, without sounding like you're saying "Hey--your life sucks worse than mine, at least..."?

The truth is, I have nothing to say that doesn't come across as either trite, condescending, or patronizing. My words sound hollow to me because she is living it, while I am merely watching. My interest is colored by involvement, and by the impact it indirectly has on my life. I have no right to say anything. All I can do is watch, wait, and quietly support the one I can reach and reach out to. That is my statement, I suppose. That I will be the one who watches, the one who says nothing but perhaps does things instead.

I feel I don't have the right to do anything else. Maybe these words are the right ones. They aren't pretty, they aren't refined...but at least they're true.

Dum vita est spes est

Two Letters, One Story

I sent a letter today; a letter that was a scratch on the surface of truth. In this font is the letter that was sent to my daughter, in this font is the letter that I wrote to file for a later date. It is all that I would say if I could. However, her age and her censor do not allow for it. Read on...

Dear Emma,

I am writing this letter to tell you that I love you and miss you.

Dear Emma,

I just wrote you a letter that says only an nth of what is in my heart. I cannot, however, say to you that we miss our little girl. I have the woman that I love here but not my daughter.

I cannot tell you this now, because your father would tear this letter up and you would never see it. You would not, perhaps, understand what I am trying to say, anyway. But know this: my life is incomplete in some way I cannot describe.

California is sunny and warm and there are lots of cars and tall, tall buildings. The ocean is here, which is a lot like the lake but it tastes salty. There are trees here that smell like medicine and there were lizards in my old house. I live near tall hills and a soccer field where little kids play and it reminds me of you.

I am sometimes only half-aware of my surroundings; my mind is full of 'what if' and memories. But I thank god for the memories, as they are finally becoming recollections of pleasant things. I am slowly, slowly disentangling memories of you from the memories of pain. I am remembering holding you feeding you, and laughing with you. I remember that I was a good mom to you at one point. I am learning to forgive myself for struggling, and for not being able to always be a good mom. For a woman with an astounding vocabulary, I find myself struggling now to tell you how I feel.

I fear what your father will tell you about me. I fear more your anger when you are older, and that uou might somehow think that you were lacking in any way. You are not. It is I that lacked the ability to be the best for you. You are amazing, little one. So smart, so deep. You were my buddy and my best friend, and my baby. I loved the smell of your hair and the feeling of your warm little self cuddled up in my arms, and the sight of those amazing blue eyes all crinkled up with laughter.

I am hoping to see you soon, Baby, and hear all about school and your new friends.

Everywhere I go there is something that reminds me of you. A song, a sight, or something that is said to or by me. You are my daughter, always, and always a part of me. I miss you...

Love,

Mommy