Unexpected Lives

In all fairness, I really hate it when people write vomitously unrealistic crap about their relationships, when they tell people they are made for each other when they fight all the time. Or when they are sure they have met Mr/Ms Right two weeks after they met (and one week-three-days after they start sleeping together) and they ramble on and on about how great this person is in a public forum, only to rip them to shreds a week later when they break up.

This isn't one of those moments.

I'll instead relate that I live with someone that I can laugh at, laugh with, and who is probably the only person I will allow to laugh at me within strict guidelines. Somebody I can talk about poop with, someone who knows when I am off, and someone I can feed my food experiments to. Someone I can actually sleep next to (this is rare) and someone I don't mind driving me around. (Also rare and there are days I am a pain about it.) The only person I have ever wondered what I'd do without...then answered that it woould probably involve a lot of sticky notes with directions and a lot of sad music. I would brood, I expect. I would be a workaholic and an entirely too serious person, for even when I am yelling that I want to go home sometimes it's not the best idea anyway and maybe she's smarter than me when it comes to that kind of stuff.

And yes, I am the yeller in this relationship. Most of the time it's play-fighting that defuses the real stuff, and sometimes it's the real stuff and thank god it only lasts about a minute. That's about the time her face changes and I feel like maybe I should really think about whether or not its really worth yelling about. And before you think that's an act of fear, think again. It an act of self-control and maturity. Back in the day I would have ridden whatever horse I was on until it died, regardless of how petty it was. Now I think a little bit more (sometimes belatedly) and realize that it really is ridiculous and often has nothing to do with her at all. She's just a vent for something else I can't get at and how fair is that really?

It comes down to balance and she is mine. She makes me laugh, shooshes me when I am out of line, and makes me melt with a look. I love her, and I want to stay this was a long time. It's been two years, not two weeks, and I think we're doing pretty well. We've had three fights we can remember, and they were mainly unrelated to us and more related to everything and I think that's an important distinction.

I guess what I am saying is that I really wish there was some way I could quantify what it feels like to be in comfortable, passionate, friendly love with. To actually want people to meet the person you love because they are fun and they bring out the best in you instead of the worst. Too bad they really haven't invented a proper word for it, really...

Magic Tree

It's funny how easy it is to give advice without ever really acknowledging that you are talking to yourself.

I remember telling someone that they had to decide where they were going to be. That they could not perpetually be in two places, trying to hang on to a place that was irrelevant while never quite committing to the place that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I think I exempted myself, saying quietly that I didn't count, that mothers can't make that choice and that my situation is different.

But it's not.

I think I chose, and I think that its a choice I am going to question perhaps all of my life. Instead of desperately stretching for that next plane ticket, that next visit and living in a dangerous place and being broke every day had become an untenable situation for my mental stability. At some point, I have to look next to me and the person whose presence in California I am solely responsible for and ask if she deserves better. And ask if maybe I do, too.

So the focus became on getting out of here and improving the every day quality of life as much as possible. Going to see Emma is now something I will do if I can instead of always scrambling to get back there as soon as I get off the plane. It was time to focus on where I was instead of always looking somewhere else. I have always looked somewhere else because it's easier to spin it in any direction you choose--what's in front of you is there in sharp relief and reality.

Damn reality sometimes...lol

So I am packing boxes and putting away a year's worth of acquired objects and stories. This will always be our first home in California, the place we didn't have to leave. The first place that was ours ever, and the place where we learned who we really are as a couple. That in itself makes it a special place, despite the trash in the yard and the broken glass in the streets.

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?

Simple Things

"Stability is a good thing"

I have to agree. There are things that I look for in my everyday life; things like "Where'd you go?" and the sound of the fan over the stove. I know that I have to turn on the heater before bed, and that at some point in the evening Twitch will ask the cats if they like violence ala Eminem. I know that I sleep on that side of the bed, and that tomorrow morning I will check out in the shower and make us 'late' (read: on time if we hurry, by my book). I will come home to the sounds again, and the routine, and the couch and loveseat and my laptop on the little table.

It's nothing fancy, and we are still struggling, but overall, I am happy to have a home and grateful to have the person I share that home with.

Bird in flight

Dear Life:

Here I go again. My baby is only an hour and a half away, and she might as well be on the other side of the world. I can't hold her, I can't see her, and I can't tell her I love her. Tomorrow I get on a plane and leave her behind. I feel like I might just throw up from that. After all, I have what I fought for: a chance at a career, a relationship that is stable and loving, and a chance to start over. At moments like these, that all rings hollow compared to the sound of "I love you, Mommy" whispered just before my daughter falls asleep. ..

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