The Long Kiss Goodbye

Light spreads in between the the leaves of the magnolia tree and falls into the kitchen through the window.  A brown, Gucci purse, sat on the side of the table.  The walls needed painted as they bore the tell tale signs of young children.  The chairs were haphazardly spread out.  The remaining paper plates positioned at each seat indicated that tiny hands created lunch.  The tile on the floor was cold from the AC that was running.  They were patterned white squares with overlapping, black diamond shapes.  Some of the doors of the oak cabinets were open, revealing either dishes or non perishables.  The phone on the counter was ringing.  Small voices echoed through the room, ignoring the call on the line.  A man's bellowing exclamations about the, approximate, 100 lights being on as he shut the garage door behind him, drowned out the flowing, girly giggles.  He is carrying a gallon of milk in one hand and a plastic bag of groceries in another.  He reaches for the fridge to store the milk while a little girl tries to inspect the bag for treats.  Another girl appears and they ask, nearly in unison, what he got for them at the store.  A little boy dawdles in, curious about what the girls are doing.

A woman comes in, looking worn out, and asks what he purchased.  He retorts with something sarcastic.  She wants to go out to eat for dinner.  He chooses the restaurant in Lewisburg.  She hates Lewisburg.  She wants to go to Cracker Barrel.  One of the girls chimes in with a vote for Lewisburg.  The other sides with the woman.  He asks if they are all going to go out looking like that.  Now, all 3 ladies join forces to barrage him with hurt looks and whining.  They all go their separate ways and their voices trail off into different directions while they change clothes.  

They reconvene at their starting point.  They have all freshened up and they are all excited.  They haven't decided on a destination.  They argue it while determining which car to take, who gets what seat, and if she's going to be smoking those God Damned cigarettes all the way there.  One by one, they go out the front door, turn right onto the path towards the driveway.  The door closes, their sounds diminish as they approach the green van and pile in, and it backs out onto the street towards the sunset.  

Conversations with Anorexia

"These pants don't fit anymore.  They are too tight.  I'm not a size 4." - Me

She replies, "It's because you are fat."

"But, I was eating like a 'normal' person.  I wasn't restricting.  I wasn't counting.  I only stepped on that scale twice and that's because I was holding my purse and it was kind of heavy so I put it down to get a real weight.  And I subtracted 3 pounds because I shouldn't be punished because I was wearing clothes.  I just participated in life, like I was supposed to."

And she said "Now, you have muffin top.  And if you bend over in those jeans, the ass is going to rip out.  And your reunion is coming up so all of your flaws will be on display.  They will judge you just as they did before.  But, I can help you.  See those fat rolls?  See that extra chin starting to appear?  See that ring that your husband gave you that's sitting in a box because you gained 10 pounds?  See those cute pants in the closet that are too small?  I can fix all of that.  And you'll be happy again."

I know what I should have said to her.  I should have said to her - "A size 6 isn't the end of the world.  It means I need new pants and that I should clear out this closet.  It means that I really enjoyed the desserts with my family and all of the garlic bread nights.  It means that where I was at the time mattered more to me than perfectionism.  My pants size doesn't define me.  I like the taste of food.  My hair isn't falling out.  My gums don't bleed all the time.  My periods are almost normal again.   I can go outside without a jacket. "

But I let everything else speak for me.  I let 2 years of a crazy workplace speak for me.  Some stupid racist bitch, a misogynist pig of a boss, the office slut that slept her way to the top - I let them take the wheel.  I let the new boss who made rape jokes and disgusting comments about my body speak for me. I let the rejection letter for my writing take over.   I let every asshole in my life, every *thing* that I can't control, every bad feeling, every annoyance - I gave them the reins.  Because if I stood up for myself instead of letting everyone in my life have constant input and control - they'd get upset.  It's much simpler if I just sit here, quietly.  

Instead my response went more like this - 

"Maybe for just a little while.  Just until my pants fit again.  Just until I can look in the mirror and not be disgusted with the reflection.  It'll only take a few weeks.  I can drop 10 and it'll be easy.  Then, when I am back down to that, I can maintain it with clean eating and Pilates.  Just until I feel better....."

A Tout le Monde

For many years, he was there.  He was part of my collective.  He was part of my life.  He was my little brother.  He was my best friends first love.  He was a fellow autism parent.  He was kind.  He was sensitive.  He was my friend.  

I'm struggling with so many feelings surrounding his passing.  I'm full of so many words that feel so hollow and so much silence that feels so solid.  

Some people are angry with him for ending his life the way he did.  He left his son to walk this world without him.  He left his father to grieve his remaining days for another child that he outlived.  He left his friends to mourn a deeply loved person who was there one minute and gone the next.  On his way out, he left a painful goodbye on Facebook.  His agonized final words forever immortalized in those black and white letters.  

Steve was one of the people who shaped me into being me.  He influenced me.  His essence is a part of who I am.  His fingerprint is on my life.  They say that you should choose your friends wisely because you become most like those you have around you.  And I chose them well.  So many years of sitting in my bedroom, listening to music, inventing games, sharing pain, sharing laughs, sharing silence, sharing parts of books, poetry, drinks, joints, sharing who we were.  Every memory contains a part of him.  He was there for everything.  He was there every day until I divorced my first husband when I was 21.  Almost every single day from the time I was 15 until I was 21 - Steve was a staple of my every day.  Of course, we saw each other here and there since then.  We live in the same city.  We interacted on social media.  We talked about our sons' autism and the struggles.  We mourned the loss of each one of our fallen brothers together.   Our last conversation was discussing his appreciation for life after some near death experiences and the passing of other dear ones.  I didn't know that the last thing I would ever say to him would be that I was glad that he was alive.  

Some people are struggling with why he ended his life the way he did.  He walked out to the garage and in one trigger pull, he was gone.  I hid in that very garage once when I was dealing with parents who just didn't understand.  Why did he do it?  What set him off?  What drove him to that point?  What pushed him?  

Having known Steve for as long as I have in the way that I did - I'm neither angry or curious.  Because, I understand.  I almost was Steve.  I'm just sad.  There isn't a word powerful enough to express it.  I'm just sad.  And I feel guilty.  I know that anguish.  I almost put my family through it.  Knowing how this feels - to be on the other side of suicide - I'm so sorry that I ever, ever, ever even contemplated it for a second.  I feel so tremendously awful for considering doing this to my loved ones.  I feel selfish for feeling that way when my focus should be him.

But I feel so guilty that I wasn't able to do something to help Steve.  How can I call myself a friend?  I didn't know that it was this bad for him.  But I did, in a way.  I was not surprised.  Because, deep down, I knew.  After all, I knew that Steve was always sad.  He always struggled.  He had many moments of happiness when we were kids.  But, he was not ever the kind of person that would outwardly express much of what he was feeling.  He felt so much.  He felt everything.  It was like a radio on full blast for him all the time.  He couldn't shut off the sounds.  He could just go numb to it every now and then.  We just accepted that he wasn't the type to smile much.  We all met when we were going through the worst of the worst so we just kind of held each other together.  It is because we were all there together that we all made it as far as we did.  

I also just get it.  I have been so low that nothing else mattered.  I have felt that weight.  Part of me wishes that the part of my soul that understands could hug the part of his soul that was so tortured - just to say goodbye.  As much as it hurts me that he is gone - I completely just understand.  Some pain is just so insurmountable.  Some coping mechanisms just lose their potency over time.  Sometimes, your soul just grows so weary that you can't take another day.  Sometimes, the drugs aren't strong enough.  Sometimes, the volume is just too loud.  Sometimes the treble is so high your ears bleed.  Sometimes, the bass is so deep that it rattles your insides.  Sometimes, the balance is just too far away.  Suicide is not weakness.  Suicide is being strong for so long that your knees give.  There's a reason that holding up the heavens was a punishment for Atlas.  No one volunteers to carry that burden.

I just wish there was some way that I could have helped lighten the load.  Even for just a minute.  

Smells Like Teen Spirit

I can honestly say that 1993 was one of the best years of my life.  I was adopted into my unique, marijuana-addled chosen family.  This little family is where I came to discover unconditional love, uninhibited weirdness, stun guns, bongs, what an Astro van can do down a highway, how many people can fit into said Astro Van (18, by the way), Pantera, Marilyn Manson, LSD, euphemisms for masturbation, Fargunglehaas, poetry, deep thinking, sex, every flavor of Mad Dog 20/20, crowd surfing, higher plane innocence, brotherly love, sisterly bonds, and The Anarchist's Cookbook.

Ron, Kaiser, Bailey, Forgy, Cordell, Ted, Bill, Steve, and Jess - this motley crew became my inner circle that year.  It was Ted who would break the news to me of Kurt Cobain's death after a day of skipping school to get high.  Cordell would be my first love and baby daddy (though, the baby didn't make it beyond the beginning of the second trimester).  Forgy would become my brother and live with me and my family.  He left this world a few years back. To this day, Jess is still my best friend, my heterosexual life partner.  More people would flux in and out of our little collection - a few Jason's, a Jeremy, a Jeromy (passed in 2013), a Mark (stolen by cancer when he was 15), some Scotts, a Jared, a Matheny, a Ryan.  Then, a James, who would become my first husband.  The core of us tended to stick together, like thieves.

If there was something illegal or absurd to get into - we'd find it.  One time, Kaiser stuck his head out of the window of Ron's van while we were driving and his glasses flew off into Forgy's yard by accident.  Another time, Ryan got so drunk that he passed out under my Blazer in Bailey's front yard and we got a dolly and carted him into the house, shot him off of the dolly onto the floor at the base of the toilet, threw some crackers at him and advised him not to die.   One time, some skeezy bastard who outweighed me by about 150 pounds tried to rape me at a party and Jason K crashed the door down - not intentionally to save me - thinking it was the bathroom, so that he could vomit all over the floor.    There was the time that the guys had no weed nor money to purchase it so they captured a moth that was happily dancing in the light while we listened to Cake and Sodomy and then put it into a six foot gravity bong and smoked it.  Ryan passed away last year. Jason passed several days after Ryan.

One of the best memories ever was the Works bomb.  There was this horrendous pit of spiders that was in Ron's back yard.  (Ron had this amazing Star Wars mural in his bedroom spanning all 4 walls) The spiders would come in and bite Ron in his sleep.  In a moment of bored sobriety, the guys decided that they were going to do something about it.  They had a copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook and decided to put it to good use.  They'd build this Work's Bomb and blow the shit out of those fucking spiders, once and for all.  I, of course, had no part of this.  I merely observed in terrified amusement.  I watched as they created the thing in a Mountain Dew Bottle.  They mustered up the balls and headed into the back yard and I stayed in the house.  I waited in Ron's room, watching the small, rectangular window that was so high that it almost touched the ceiling.  I could hear their laughter from the other side of the brick.  I could hear them philosophize over the enormity of the pit and it's various species of arachnids.  They almost sounded intrigued.  Then Steve says "Let's blow those little fuckers up, man".  I could hear them strategize.  Then, a noise so loud that my ears rang.  The window went black.  Then silence.  That's when I decided that rather than be the one picking up chunks of my friends from the grass or wrestle limbs from the dog's jaws - I'd just leave now.  I took off out of the front door and headed towards my Blazer.  I got in and started the engine.

Then, one by one, my friends made their way to the front lawn.

Screaming.

Beating themselves.

Screaming.

Crying.

And screaming.

They were covered in spiders.

I locked my doors.

They ran to my car, begging me for help.

Steve, with his puppy dog brown eyes and his stringy, blonde hair peppered with spiders of all sizes, pressed his baby face against my window and asked me to kill him.  Saying "I've seen hell".  Then they started smacking each other.  They eventually moved on to the "Stop, Drop, and Roll" technique that was the most successful.

This will remain in my heart as one of my all time favorite moments in history.

Last night, Steve took his own life.

I have found it difficult to throttle my tears.  This was my inner circle.  He was the youngest of us all.  And by far, the most sensitive.  He was beautiful and quiet.  And I'll never see him again.

We think that the hardest part of aging is the crow's feet at our eyes or decreased elasticity of our skin.  Sometimes, I find myself picking apart my maturing body and start to feel like it's all flying by so fast.

The actual hardest part of getting older is all the goodbyes that we aren't ready for.

Rest peacefully, Sven.

Mother

Parenting is hard work. 

Even so, I usually adore every second of it, including the parts that require disciplinary action. 

This part?  

This part where I can't fix the broken pieces, the part where I can't trade places with them, the part where the pain cannot be eased by a kiss, the part where I don't have the cure and a sugary snack doesn't hold a sufficient distraction.

This part can go straight to hell.

This is the part of Motherhood that I would give up if I could.

Still no answers.

Just tests.

Just test results that are sitting on someone's desk.

Just nerve wracking agony of the unknown.

It's not comforting anymore.

I know too much.

God I just want to fix it.

Today, he was sick and in pain from the spinal tap. I rushed home. Part of the threads holding my strength together started to fray. I'm coming unglued. I don't know what to do. This fear is so heavy. I can't make it stop. His body is fighting itself and I can't fix it.

Why? WHY IS THIS HIS LIFE? WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE HIS REALITY?

Is this the beginning?
Is this the start of many terrifying moments?

I didn't sign on for this.

I signed on for the cereal box motherhood. I knew it was going to be hard. But this? No, I didn't. I didn't ask for Autism and Multiple Sclerosis. I didn't know this was even an option. I didn't know that this was a potential outcome.

No, I wouldn't trade a fraction of a second for any reason in the world.

But why did it have to get so fucking complicated?

And I thought that I hid it well. Then he points out that I am frantically cleaning the kitchen. He points out that it's because I'm a nervous wreck. He points it out. He does this because he knows. He is being the rock right now. I'm supposed to be the rock.

This rock is wearing down.

Just as they sent him to a sterile room with a sterile needle to go into his delicate spine - my phone rings. It's The Middle Son. Some little bitches are terrorizing him at school because he walks funny and wears weird clothes. And I can't rush to his side because I'm already at the side and I have to try to triage which kid I have to be there for and the same time in two places. And I want to knock the ever living fuck out of these assholes for picking on my boy and I want to cure the kid down the hall and I can't do both or either.

I didn't sign on for this.

And the hits keep coming...

Before the age of 18 The Oldest learned a lot of words that the average teenager doesn’t learn: Nevus, melanoma, bed rest, skin grafts, staples, stitches, donor site, graft rejection, mepilex, compression garment, Shriner’s, anesthesia, Bacitracin…..

That was more than enough.  Those days leading to the malignant/benign verdict were long.  So long that seconds were weeks. 

And here we are again. Feeling every second hand on every clock , in every country, in every state, in every home on Earth.

Every call makes me flinch.

There’s anxiety in my chest and I don’t really know what to do besides stand here.  I feel like I have to do something.

Research makes me crazy.  Looking at him makes me crazy.  Not because he’s doing anything wrong but because there is this beautiful person, this incredible young man and something is under the surface of his skin and I don’t know what it is but it’s bad.  Not “cancer” bad but “potentially debilitating” bad.  And I feel like we used up our dodged bullet pass.  Do we get more than one in a lifetime? 

The blind spot appeared a few months ago in his left eye.  Blood work was all negative.  We thought the MRI was clean.  Turns out, we just have a stupid doctor.  Optic neuritis is kind of a big deal.  “A little inflammation” is kind of a big deal.  It’s an indication of Clinically Isolated Syndrome, Neuromyelitis Optica, or Multiple Sclerosis. 

Those words take my breath away. 

Shock tinnitus set in.  The doctor noticed The Oldest’s feet start to shake and my face paling.  He smiled a lot.  He’s a kindly, older gentleman.  He’s probably someone’s grandfather.  He tried to be comforting, reassuring, and soft.  It was like giving us a sweet little teddy bear that was filled with brimstone. 

Now we get to learn a lot of words that near 20 year olds shouldn’t have to learn: Spinal Tap, medication regimen, relapses, flare ups...

He should be learning about college parties, poor life choices excused by immaturity, the usual rites of passage that “normal” twenty somethings get to experience. 

And he just keeps going.  He puts the one foot in front of the other with a brave face and it makes me so fucking mad that I could scream. 

I want to take beautiful things and smash them to pieces.  I want to feel something shatter and split apart that isn’t inside of him or inside of me.  I want something to pay.  I want this stolen time to be replaced.  I want him to have a different, long, pain free, wheel chair free life. 

I’m so angry that I can’t even cry.  The back of my throat hurts and my eyes water and the tips of my fingers ache.  But the tears won't budge.  Because the dam will break and I will drown.

I want to grimace when someone else tells me their story.  I don’t want to empathize.  I want to comfort, not connect. 

I want this to be some terrible mistake. 

I want this to be a nightmare that we will wake up from. 

I want this to be just a warning shot, a brush, a miss, deflected….

But all the want in the world will not make it so.

Today, we have some lab work to complete and a spinal tap to schedule. 

Today, we go through the regular motions of life and try to ignore the monster living inside of him who’s name we don’t know.  

2015

Wow, this year.....

Well....

It's been incredible.  Incredibly awesome.  Incredibly stressful.

I'm titling it: The Year I Got Too Old for This Shit (Mostly).

I'm too old for petty drama. Though, I think I was born too old for that.  I'm too old for insecurity.  I'm too old for selfies with my tits on display.  I'm too old for giving a shit about someone else's opinion (unless they put it in my face).  I'm too old for Donald Trump and his followers and their bullshit.  Ya'll are fucked up, kay?  I'm too old to apologize for that.  In fact, I don't think I ever would, at any age.  But that's why you like me, right?  Because I speak my mind?  exxxxxxxactly  I'm too old for political fights and religious arguments.  I'm also secure in my beliefs so much so that I don't need to post about it non stop. I have a fulfilled enough life that politics don't define me.  I wish that for others.  I'm blessed enough to be happy and grateful and I wish to spread that shit everywhere.

In some ways, my age has caught up with me.  I'm 37.  I have 4 (5-ish, with Bonus Daughter) kids.  I'm too old for their fighting.  And to argue over chores.  I'm noticing changes to my appearance that are starting to give to age.  A few gray hairs.  My hands aren't as youthful as they once were.  Minuscule things, superficial things.  Things I'm mostly okay with. Growing old is an honor and far too many would trade places with me.  I will do so gracefully.  And, because Carrie Fisher.

We went to a Smashing Pumpkins/Marilyn Manson show and were too told to try to mosh.  Not that there was any moshing anyway.  Billy Corgan was also too old to mosh, so it was okay.  Actually, a friend and I both had migraines and by the end of the epic light show, we both turned our backs to the stage and watched the drunk people dance.  And then, out of maturity, we mimicked them.  Because we are too old to give a shit.  Then, we went to the Foo Fighters' 20th Anniversary show in Indiana.  Yeah, 20 years.  I've seen Nirvana (October 30, 1993, Hara Arena) and I always feel like that was just yesterday.  To go see the FF's and think that it was their 20th anniversary?  When John Popper took the stage to join - I'm sure there were people (read: kids) in the crowd that didn't know who he was instantaneously.  It was an incredible show that I enjoyed with the boy I've known for almost 22 years.  And, like old people, we just picked a nice spot to sit in, watch, and listen.

I learned the value of good health insurance when The Youngest Boy's appendix popped.  Heavy words like: deductible, co-pay, maximum out of pocket, etc.  They're all in my, almost regular, vocabulary.  Because then, The Oldest developed a blind spot in one eye.  And we still don't know why.  When the initial eye doctor effed up - I was too old to give a shit about the girls lack of experience or understanding.  When some unsupervised kids knocked a bike rack over onto my head resulting in a concussion that sent me to the ER for 7 hours, I was too old to give a shit why their parents brought them to a beer festival.  I was also too old to give a shit why their mother was angry at me - a sober woman enjoying a Bavarian cream puff with my husband at an art museum whilst pondering the skyline - when her shitty parenting is what got us both in the situation.  I'm too old to want to pay for my medical bills in excess of $5k.  So, she can do it.  I got too old to jump up and knock her on her ass.  That should, in and of itself, solidify that I'm an old fogey.  I didn't hit any of the people I wanted to.

We further nailed our age down by becoming soccer parents, Cub Scout parents, Science Olympiad parents, college kid parents, then Soccer and Science Olympiad Coaches, and parents who go to bed at 10 for work in the morning.  We came up with lineup lists, sensible halftime snacks, and told boys to keep their hands out of their pants during a game.  We stood outside while The Youngest Boy sold popcorn to pizza parlor patrons.  We got up at 8 am to yell at referees who were not much older than The Oldest.  We watched The Middle Son break out of his shell and explain science to small children with ease.  We also watched as he won a Super Smash Brother's competition with expert precision. He became a teenager.  He even made his first girlfriend.  He's also writing a full video game with his own music and sprites. We watched The Oldest become a college student, majoring in history.  We watched Mini Me learn to read and write out of no where.

I'm so old that I lost 4 friends this year.  3 to drugs and one to unknown causes.  I'm too old for heroin.  We're too old for heroin.  When I think of their faces and the times we had - I still visualize them as teenagers, in the back of Ron's van, being crazy.  The fact that they never left 2015 breaks my heart in such a way that words would not justify.  Our generation, Gen X, seems to be able to party like rock stars while mastering parenthood and careers and still get up in the morning until we don't.  I'm grateful that I don't understand that life.  I'm pained that Ryan, Jason K, Jason B, and James will not be on the next leg of this journey.  There will always be empty seats in their memory. Then the thought hit me - from here, the list will grow.

I'm old enough to fly to Seattle without my parents and spend a glorious weekend with my husband.  Sightseeing, once in a lifetime opportunities, historical ventures....  I graffiti'd a museum exhibit.  We went to sit under the bridge on the muddy banks of the Wishkah river and only some people will understand the magnitude of that.  Because you're old too.  We went to Kurt's childhood home, went to his old haunts, walked around Aberdeen for hours and ate dinner in the town that inspired legends.  Then, we found the city of Olympia.  Some wish to retire to Florida.  Not me, you'll find me in the Washington State capital, sipping on some Burial Grounds coffee and walking the beautiful streets.  We peacefully strolled, arm in arm, in love with a city filled with fall colors and our favorite treasures - a record store, an antique shop, delicious coffee, a live theatre...  Now, I'm homesick for it.  Then, after my dearest ripped me away from the perfectly amazing love affair I was having with it.  We went to downtown Seattle and ventured to the Seattle Art Museum.  I'm too old for the bedpans and Ford Taurus' hanging from the ceilings. But not too old to stand in awe of a 16th century marble statue of Aphrodite.

To further drive home the fact that I'm too old for this shit - we went to the EMP Museum's 90's Nightmare Prom themed party.  We were the only ones who actually went to a prom in the 90's.  It was interesting to get the perspective of our coming of age via 20 somethings in Seattle.  I'm not sure they understand.  That's okay, I'm too old to understand their shit too.  The next morning we got up early to eat in Collections Cafe, owned by Dale Chihuly.  His work makes me happy.  He and William Morris.  It was such a supreme experience and I felt like I was home.  We then ventured into the Chihuly Gardens and my breath was taken.  We followed that up with a ride up to the top of the Space Needle where I decided that I was too old for my fear of heights and seeing the beautiful city was more important.  Plus, there hadn't been any falls from the Space Needle in a long time, so I felt confident.  We rounded out the day and trip by driving to Kurt's home where his life ended.  It was cold and dark and surreal.  And standing by the side of the only person I know that would ever feel the moment as ardently as I made the whole experience so remarkable.

I've added "Crochet Artist" to my resume.  Which makes me really old.  Only old women do that.  But, I stitch such things as Ninja Turtles, Dr. Who items, video game characters... Usually hats and my first blanket.  Now, I can say that I've done them.  And, I'm old enough to know the value of that.

We did a great many things, also, that proved you can never be too old for this shit.  Like attending Comic Con in full cosplay as Kitty Pryde and Wolverine.  Took an inordinate amount of selfies with Oreo cookies in every flavor, took the kids to see Weird Al, drove to Chicago for our second annual road trip to Godzilla (g-fest), played miniature golf, turned our house into Arendelle for Mini Me's birthday, dressed up for Halloween, did goofy shit at the store and befriended a really wonderful cashier who retired yesterday, binge watched every comic book based television series available, we fed jello and pudding shots to our adult family members and just generally had a spectacular year.

 And I'm finally old enough to appreciate every second of it.