Monday, January 25, 2010

"Don't lose your faith in me
And I will try not to lose faith in you
Don't put your trust in walls
'Cause walls will only crush you when they fall

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now"

I will never be a woman.
I will never stand upright.
I will never see straight.

There’s a point in every vacation where you realize that you sort of wish you were back to your normal life where you have responsibility and schedules. The kind of vacation where clocks are unnecessary, calendars are irrelevant and naps are primary devices for passing the time. Since my life has become a vacation, I’m beginning to feel as though the world and I have become distant acquaintances. I hope to be reunited soon; eased gently and welcomed with fervor.

Six months. Six months is one half of twelve months which is one year. I have waited approximately seven years (2,555 days, 61,320 hours) to be the person I have evolved into over the past six months. The person I have become can only be attributed to the love I have found and the supplier of the aforesaid love. It’s apparent that this relationship has taken a different road at a different speed than most relationships I’ve been privy to witness. Six months and we can already see the future; we already consider ourselves partners in all that we do. We care for and about each other as if we were one in the same. Looking back, it seems as though this is all I’ve ever known; as if this is where all of my fortunes and misfortunes alike have lead me to. I’ve been planted here, with him. My roots, for the first time feel solid and nurtured. I’ve forgotten what it is to be alone and have only retained the joy that comes with waking up in love.

I wish that it didn’t come to mind as often as it does. And even if that wish could not be granted I would demand to not have these thoughts fill me with panic; doubting myself and what we’ve built. But I just can’t escape it. I’ve been told that first love is the sweetest. This I’ve learned to be true. To be someone’s second, third or fourth love…well, it doesn’t feel as poetic or as electric. It’s insecurity, yes. But more than that it is a constant, aching notion that you (I) will never be good enough. You (I) dwell on the beautiful qualities that you’re (I‘m) convinced managed to hold the others before you (me) in your lovers orbit and you (I) feel as though you (I) will never make them as happy as the formers. When smiles creep upon their faces without traces, you (I) assume that it’s because of a past life and a love that was shared there. Or when that one song finds it’s way and you know that the sadness or happiness is not caused by you (me) but instead, one who loved them (him) first. It is selfish, I know, to want to erase the world leaving only the two of us. It is selfish to want his past, present and future. I wish I was strong enough to be here now. Trying with all of my power, I am learning to let what we have take us to wherever we are meant to be. I can wish on stars, pennies and dead dandelions all I want. All I can really do is love and graciously accept the love I’ve been given.

It fell through the cracks.
It was fiction.
I am just a pretty girl who had her picture taken once.
Period, no ellipsis.

A byline. A tiny byline in smeared black newspaper print.
I couldn’t ask for more but I will work for it.

I can’t imagine a violin sounding anything but sad.

Dancing to songs that can only be appreciated when intoxicated, I had assumed that the climax of my night was the twenty minute search for a missing member of our three person party; darting through smoke and pulsating lights. Or perhaps it was that drunken confidence that convinced me that I was the only girl on the dance floor and everyone was there to stand in awe of my beauty and revolutionary dance moves (i.e.; simultaneously tossing my hair around, swaying my hips, catching myself from falling all while sipping my vodka cranberry.)As life was winding down, becoming one of those nights you look back on a week later and think, “I should have more nights like that.” Laughing, foggy eyed and minded, I was dropped off to a congregation of inebriated familiars gathered on the porch. From the moment I returned home, the night took a sharp turn. Shot for shot, missing undergarments, secret meetings in the shower, sneaking cigarettes, teasing our others…seemingly normal for a party of drunken friends. We ventured outside (me being the only one to go sans shoes.) to show the world (our neighbors) the flesh colored gifts attached to our chest. Our uproarious, mischievous behavior was that of thirteen year old girls; Yes it was shameful, but our careless actions embodied the free spirit of when we were children. With complete disregard for our usually sound judgment, we squealed with delight.

With one clumsy misstep backwards, a bottle shattered from under my foot. I saw blood. More blood than I knew I was capable of spilling from my body. My mind was much too clouded to fully understand that it was I who broke the bottle and the blood belonged to me. I don’t remember much, except for a hysterical car ride where, in between dramatic sobs, I verbally rejected the idea of going to a hospital. “I don’t have insurance, please take me home.” They drove anyway. A wheelchair, automatic doors, several nurses. Yes, I was a clearly intoxicated girl on a Saturday night who was frantically rushed to the emergency with a ‘cut” foot. This is a hard situation for nurses who see real trauma and real tragedy on a daily basis to take seriously. They brushed it off until they unwrapped the makeshift bandage (a roll of medical gauze and a men’s tank top.) blood poured from me, catching them off guard. According to my elephant, I was overly calm, underplaying the severity of my condition as I was rushed to where a doctor with a thick Indian accent would eventually prick my foot with more shots than I could count and would haphazardly sew the gaping laceration; my little, glass filled accident. When offered an I.V of pain medication that would prepare me for the shots and the needlework, I refused, restating my “I don’t have insurance” speech because I assumed that it would cost more if they would have given it to me. Another lapse of darkness. I held his arm and cried. It was the worst pain I had felt, or remember feeling. I cried for my father, who was nowhere to be found. “Mam, please calm down these are just shots.” the doctor kept saying. It took what seemed to be hours until I was able to lie still without being prodded with needles and thread. I slept. My love stayed by my side, holding my hand, stroking my hair. In one of my moments of alertness, I heard a doctor in the curtained room to my right discuss the patients miscarriage, the cause for her emergency visit. It felt nightmarish to hear those words in real life. One of, what I imagine to be, the greatest tragedies one can experience. Elephant, who was also listening, assured me that she wasn‘t far along. Kissing my hand, he assured me that it was okay. After another period of sleep, his parents came and I felt an immediate flood of love and warmth, the very kinds that only family can ensure.

At some point, the hospital said I could leave. It was somewhere around seven am. I hobbled into a wheel chair, nausea overcame me. It was then that my head tipped back, my skin turned a shade of green, my vitals dropped and I urinated all over myself. They pulled me from the chair, stripped me of my soiled clothes, hooked me up to wires and monitors. When I came to, I was overcome with bright lights. When I came to, they had shut the curtains, surrounding me with discontent. I couldn’t translated the whirs and beeps of the surrounding machines, but I hoped with all my might that my last moments alive would not be set to the soundtrack of such artificial, ugly noises. And I certainly hoped that I would not spend my last moments without hearing the familiar jingle jangle of my fathers keys, or without a kiss on the forehead from my Elephant. “This is the bed people die in.” the attending nurse said to me. So there was a moment where I thought I was both dying and with child. It wasn’t until typing this that I realize how very suiting that situation would be for a made for t.v movie. But I was neither dying (although I felt otherwise) or with child (for which I had no evidence to believe this to be true in the first place.)

He thought I was going to die and I was more in love than ever. After hours of being pumped with hydrating fluids and hours of waiting, I was able to leave. My father never came, despite having talked to him. When I did get to hear his voice, he judged me. Instead of being comforted by his fatherly concern or his eagerness to see me, I was in shock that the one person I was conditioned to believe would always be there for me, not only failed to be by my side but showed complete disinterest in my well being.

It felt great to be home. The one home that, for the past six months, has never faltered in his love for me. It feels great to know that I am taken care of.

I can’t promise to deny myself of cynicism.
But I can promise to give all that I can
And love the best I know how.
Because I know in my heart that good does exist.
And as long as I believe that to be true, I think I’ll be okay.

The candy colored flowers are falling,
defenselessly over the vase
I've been them.
But then I found the sun.

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