Disposable Teens

Another member of my pack passed on, just before Christmas.

Ron was the glue.  Most every event that ever happened in the history of all the things - he was the integral part.  Whether he drove us there or provided the party location - he was the key.

I met Ron on a chilly September Friday night.  Thinking on it, I can still feel that moment.  I feel the crispness of the air.  I can smell the Fall.  I remember that I was wearing a black shirt and black pants with black combat boots.  My hair was in a pony tail to show off my 1993 undercut.  He walked in - in all of his 6'4" intimidation.  He was wearing black jeans and a black and purple windbreaker.  Ron was a huge guy.  Like, seriously huge.  He wasn't just on the football team - he was the football team.  He was 18, the oldest of us all.  He was so quiet.  And so much the opposite of his exterior.

I'm blessed enough to have this initial encounter immortalized on video tape.  That night changed my entire existence.  That night I found my family.  From that night forward we convened in my bedroom or in Ron's van or at his house.  He had this cat, Garfield, that probably saw more than the average cat would or should ever see.  His whole bedroom was this phenomenal mural of Star Wars.  It was commissioned by his father who passed away just before we met.  He was truly a geek in the most exquisite of ways.  He tore through books and could quote just about any poet and philosopher.  He refused every offer of alcohol even though he'd procure it.  He'd deny any hit from a bowl or bong.  He'd push away the cigarettes.

He was so kind and gentle.  He showered us with lavish (in teen terms) gifts filled with great thought and deliberation.  I wish I could find the necklace he got me.  It was Egyptian styled - blacks and golds.  He was one man that could make the most hilarious of euphemisms for masturbation (Robin and the Batpole was the best) and still have the taste of a gentleman.  He was so shy and reserved... at first.  He was a puzzle that you either wanted to figure out or leave completely alone.  I loved him instantly.

He'd take us to concerts - Pantera, White Zombie, The Breeders, Slayer, Tool - And because of his size, he'd let me sit on his shoulders so that I could see the stage as I was so small.  Once, I got totally shitfaced drunk on ridiculous amounts of Mad Dog and I took my clothes off.  Gently and carefully, he covered me up and protected me.  A lessor man would have taken advantage.  For his chivalry, I planted on him his first, grape flavored, french kiss.  He was classy enough to not speak of it again.  He was the first man that I'd ever feel safe next to.

Eventually, his resistance to alcohol gave.  And slowly behind it came the pot.  And cocaine followed.  He got into several car accidents where I worried that I'd never see him again.  Now, that moment has arrived.  I can remember walking behind him through The Narrows Pet Cemetery, leaves rustling under our feet.  I remember thinking that it'd take a force of epic proportion to take him down.  And it has.

My heart hurts so much.  Similar to the way that it did when Steve passed earlier.  I can feel the lump in my throat climbing and tears are waiting for more opportune moments to break free.  My dear friend is gone.

And these are the moments where time hasn't passed.  I don't care how many years it's been.  He was still in here - in my heart, in my soul, in my identity.  He is as much a part of me as I am.  Because we formed each other many years ago.  For some, there was some implied expiration date on this friendship.  A relationship shelf life that I don't believe exists.  If I have once called you a friend - time does not prevail - love does.

I love you Ronald McDonald.  Thank you for being a formative energy in my life.  Thank you for picking me up when I called.  Thank you for giving me a chance.  Thank you for the years we shared in our rooms and cars and homes and beings.  Thank you for being safe.   Thank you for Come As You Are.  Thank you for the big belly laughs and my first hit from a 6 foot gravity bong that required me standing on your bed when I was 17 years old.  Thank you for the trips to Taco Bell.  Thank you for being there for the birth of my first child and for standing at my first wedding.  Thank you for accepting me.  Thank you for allowing me into your life for the time that I was.

I will miss seeing you from time to time and sharing a laugh and memory.  May you fly free from the pains that bound you on Earth.  Someday, I hope many, many years from now - I hope to see you, Ryan, Jason, Bryan, and Steve again.  Maybe hang out like we did for just a minute.

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.