Pleasure Notes

It’s been 10 months, today, since Jamie died and I still feel every facet of the grief like a cloak that, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to shed.

I was leaving a comment on someone’s blog yesterday and became curious to know more about some of the other commentors with whom I was unfamiliar. Upon clicking on their gravatars, windows opened up to reveal lists of other blogs using the same spam protection service that they frequent. I was curious to know what blogs would make up my list, so I clicked on my own gravatar and immediately was hit square between the eyes by Jamie’s Yellow Suitcase Tumblr blog, at the top of my list. Before I could stop myself, I clicked on the link. I hadn’t visited the site since before we took the trip.

I was assaulted by her – her image, her voice, her laugh, her memories, her predictions. I read how many times she flippantly mentioned dying or having a coronary, as we all do in dramatic fashion, and I could feel the synapses in my brain disconnect one by one. I listened to her recorded memories that are mine as well. I saw things I’d never seen before. The reality of her loss slammed into me with the force of a ballistic missile. I was shaky and near tears for the rest of the day. If I’m honest, I’ll say I am still.

by SwEeTie/flickr

It isn’t like this hasn’t happened before. I’m reminded of her every single goddamn day. I wish I wasn’t. I really don’t like the feelings the memories stir. But I don’t like the alternative either – that I’ll forget.

I’m reminded of her when I look at the table on which one of her favorite photos sat until it was too much for me to see. I’m reminded of her every time I open my TweetDeck and see certain people in my stream. I’m reminded of her every time I wear her boots with which her mom preferred to bequeath me rather than send to a thrift store. I’m reminded of her every time my chest tightens or I twist my ankle or I think about Ireland or traveling or curbs or books or friendship or bacon or…

Thank goddess I’m no longer in an environment in which I also get mistaken for her and called her name. That was a torture I cannot even begin to process, months later.

by photophilde/flickr

Sometimes I hate her. She made me see a brighter world only to abandon it without revealing her trick.

Sometimes I wish I’d never known her. Then I wouldn’t have to feel this debilitating sadness.

Sometimes I think it should have been me instead of her, because she appeared to do and be and live with so much more skill than I feel I possess.

Sometimes I think her death was my fault, because I’m the one who suggested turning that corner and stepping up on that curb over which she tripped.

Sometimes I think I no longer have any right to grieve, that still feeling so much after so many months makes me crazy. I certainly feel crazy when the overwhelming need to sob continues to take my breath away. After all, I wasn’t family. We hadn’t been friends for a lifetime. We’d known each other for two years. TWO YEARS. That’s all. That’s an Associates Degree.

by scarbody/flickr

How can I possibly still be trapped in the web of her?

I can still see her falling. I can still hear how we laughed about it, and how she admonished herself for her clumsiness and how I got irritated with her, but said nothing, for taking pictures of her ankle to post on her blog rather than taking the aspirin I gave her.

I haven’t gotten to the point where I can remember her, or our friendship, or our moments spent together and laugh. Ironic, since so much of our time was spent laughing.

by awfulsara/flickr

I don’t know what it will take to shed this second skin she passed off on me when she passed away. What I do know, however, is that I’m pissed as shit that I’m still wearing it. I’ve done everything I know to do to get it off. I desperately grabbed onto a job as my lifeboat and then almost drowned when it sprang a leak. I turned to sex, to food, to therapy, to writing, to my pillow, to the sun. Yet, the mantle hasn’t budged. Perhaps it will take leaving this city, as her husband did. But if I do that, I’ll be wearing her boots even more.

Someone wise would probably say, it just takes time. Fuck time.

Yesterday, Lindsey from A Design So Vast, highlighted an Isabel Allende quote:

“I didn’t know then that sadness is never entirely gone; it lives on forever just below the skin.”

I look forward, with hope, to the day this sadness sinks below the skin. It will feel like such a relief.

3-8-10

Some days start a little later than others, and it can feel like you’re already behind the curve. Don’t let that convince you to toss the day away. You can make an impact on someone or something in a single moment, a split-second.

It isn’t more time we need, but more clarity.

The Academy Awards are tonight. I know this because the helicopters have already started hovering overhead and various street closures have added to the normal traffic pretzel for days now. I will attend a viewing party tonight where I will judge emaciated women’s wardrobe choices and cry as stars thank their agents for actually earning their 10 percent. At the moment, however, I’m awash in awards of my own and I’m utterly speechless.

Within the last week, three fabulous, inspiring and authentically lovely bloggers have bestowed blogging awards on yours truly. I am humbled. I am also giggly and blushing. Thank you to Dian, Alana and Bonnie. Knowing you has opened my world and brought me such joy. And thank you to every single reader who has ever landed here at Pleasure Notes. Your presence keeps me showing up to the page; you are invaluable.

Because I’m a bit overwhelmed by all the badge love, it may take me a minute to pay it all forward. It’s delightful to see some of the same names on all the lists in which I was included. I wish I could re-award them all as I proceed. Somehow, I’ve fallen into an incredibly powerful circle of people who are unafraid to speak from the heart and reveal all their colors. I hope, as I complete my own obligation to the award rules, that I can expand the circle and can show at least a few of the rock stars I follow how much I adore them.

In the meantime, however, I’m going to try to convince Harry Winston to let me borrow a few baubles. A three-time nominee certainly deserves her bling, n’est pas?

I’ve just spent a week in Boston to help out my newly pregnant, severely nauseous, and head-cold-suffering sister-in-law keep tabs on my adorable, brilliant and exuberant 2-1/2 year old niece while my brother was out of town. It has been one of the most delightful, simple and exhausting weeks of my life.

Having spent my entire adulthood living hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from my family, the days and nights when I am with them hold particular significance. Getting to watch the little girl who slays my heart every single day from morning til night for numerous days in succession is a rare privilege. Slipping into leisurely and spontaneous conversations with my sister-in-law over piles of clean laundry is just as special. Watching the ground-shaking joy that lit up my niece’s face and enveloped all of us when my brother arrived home last night is a memory I will treasure.

My heart expands. My throat tightens. It is love.

I’ve always been fiercely independent, perhaps too much so. Only recently have I realized been struck dumb by the awareness of how very much I miss the unique community that family provides. The tight, protective hug I receive from my brother. The giggle shared with my sister-in-law. The cuddles and stern instructions given to me by my niece. I want these things in my life more than once every year or so.

I miss my family. Terribly. Now I must act on that awareness.

What is your view of family – the one you grew up with rather than the one with whom you share a home? Is your engagement with your family what you wish it to be? How would you change it? And what about it do you value?

by Pregnancy Education/flickr

Perhaps there is a man out there who will someday sweep me off my feet, or whose feet I will knock out from under him. Perhaps not. The likelihood that, if it happens, it will occur before my uterus retires for this lifetime is slim. I do not have the financial means nor heart’s desire to get pregnant on my own. Therefore, there is an extremely high probability that I will not have children of my own. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable reality to examine. I don’t want any more grief. I’m not sure what my feelings should be about it. I have NO CLUE what they actually are.

I’ve always been clear that I would never want to duplicate the same mistakes my parents made while raising me. There is much about family life, as I’ve perceived it, that isn’t worth repeating or perpetuating. I’m definitely not confident that I would be anything more than a complete, derelict, basket case of a mother. Note: That is not a reflection of my own mother, I swear.

On the other hand, I adore children and they tend to adore me. At least until they hit those terrible twos. Then, they become mean, vindictive little monsters and inflict mortal wounds upon my psyche with alarming accuracy and ease.

I’ve also always thought that the physical and emotional experience of pregnancy is such an integral part of being female that foregoing it makes me something less than a complete woman. I want to know what it feels like to create life. Without the extra hair growth, stretch marks, nausea, increased hormonal imbalance, and potential for torn bits, of course.

Most of my friends have at least one child. My sister-in-law is pregnant with her second. Being of a certain age and not having children makes me OTHER THAN. I’m excluded from the club. And yes, there is a club. Anyone who thinks otherwise is either still so young as to be annoyingly idealistic or so deeply entrenched in parentdom as to be oblivious to the prevalence of a specific social paradigm to which women are supposed to adhere.

I wouldn’t mind this if I overtly wished to make some contrarian statement with my childless or child-free state. I don’t. I tend to like a lot of the folks who are card-carrying members of the Parent Class. Yet somehow I’ve ended up on the wrong side of the tracks.

I know many women who have lost a child, whether by miscarriage or other tragic life events. I simply can’t comprehend such pain. I have absolutely no wish to know it. And how does it compare to that of knowing you’ll never have that which someone else had but then lost? I’m too chicken to want to find out.

If fact, any condition that involves FEELINGS tends to give me the heebie-jeebies. This is somewhat problematic since my emotions have always had more influence on my actions than my mind. In order to survive this conundrum, I dart about the edges of life, rarely engaging completely and shying away from anything or anyone that might potentially carry the scent of COMMITMENT, of any kind.

Parenting is the ultimate commitment.

By exhibiting what some might consider subconscious, passive-aggressive behavior, I’ve steered clear of it. Now I find myself on an entirely different road, with no visible exits. And I’m consumed with thoughts of what the view might be like in that other direction. I feel like someone else took over the controls of my life. I didn’t actively CHOOSE to be where I am.

It’s crazy-making.

Then, of course, there’s the little issue of my secret ponderings. I wonder if maybe it’s not too late. I consider the dangers of relinquishing this amorphous dream, which I’ve never fully embraced, of having a child by someone with whom I want to create and share the magic of life. If I accept it will never materialize, am I killing the possibility that it might?

This, too, is crazy-making.

The only solution I’ve discovered for quieting my brain about this issue while avoiding as many feelings as possible is to create other life questions over which I can go mad…

Why is my left boob sagging to a disproportionately greater degree than my right?

How will I pay my bills in ten years? Should I have walked away from that guy in 1992?

Am I the only person who is intimidated by the Foreman’s Grill?

Why are dust bunnies and mildew trying to take over my home?

Just think, I spend hours caught up with these questions. What if I had A KID in this condition? I just saw you shudder!

Yes, sarcasm and humor make relinquishing a dream slightly more palatable, but it still kinda blows chunks. One more think I don’t think I could handle? A puking kid. But then again, I do clean up after my cat.

So, at the moment, I exist in a bitter-sweet purgatory of inaction. The dream drifts away while I’m still trying to decipher it. Perhaps, I simply need to wake up and focus on the concrete moments of pleasure in my day rather the hanging out with the Oneiroi…

Have you ever relinquished a dream? Have you ever held on to one despite yourself? have you ever felt like an accidental rebel without a cause?