Goldilocks' Revenge

I told him. As soon as I saw it in the window I started screaming, 'GET BACK IN THE CAR! GET BACK IN THE CAR' but he made a face and kept walking toward the house and couldn't see what I could see on the other side of the soffit and the big red sugar maple. I knew by the look on his face he was thinking 'hysterical female' but I was losing it for good reason. He was about to walk into a bear.

We have about an acre and a half of woods, a corner property. Across the road and on one side are some neighbors but not too close. Three seasons of the year there is enough tree cover to obscure a clear view, a constant source of frustration to a former neighbor from Newark who eventually couldn't hack country living and moved back home. I could literally sunbathe nude from my own back deck except for the fact that neighbors were so friendly that they often dropped by unannounced and it could be a little awkward. And then at holiday parties it would be awkward again when they'd remind me after they'd had a few drinks and slapped Spouse on the shoulder hard enough to knock him over telling him what a lucky man he was. He despised being told that almost as much as 'Attaboy.'

We're on a circle, again an end property and across the road is the back of a llama farm, and on another side is 70 acres of undeveloped property, then the home of a dead mobster's younger more stupid brother who couldn't be trusted to take charge of the 'family' business so was put in charge of the immediate family's landscaping (read: wood chippers) business, then the Russians, then the Kowalskis' who threw awesome Christmas parties and so on. Behind them was another 70 acres or so of land in conservatorship and directly between us and the Russians was a small circle of woods on our property that was sweet because with our house set back a bit it made it look a little like a fairy cottage from a distance and if you squinted just right. 

Our driveway was a large circle or lazy 'D' with the bit of woods in the center and it was through this set-up that I was able to see many animals meandering about, from my giant atrium window in the living room.

Because of all this beautiful land and the way it's situated, there are several bear as well as fox dens. Besides the blue spruces, hemlocks, sassafras and white pines, there are in inordinate amount of oaks on the property probably because there are an inordinate amount of fat happy squirrels waddling around hoarding what has amounted to thousands upon thousand of acorns over the years. In the fall, my driveway has so many acorns on it that although it is paved, it sounds like one is driving on gravel as the acorns pop and crack whenever we maneuver around the circle.

When it rains or is damp, it can be quite slick and so on this cool fall day, copper oak leaves dancing in the air, I could hear the crunch of tire on acorn announcing Spouse had arrived home so I walked over to the front door to greet him. I had been cooking dinner but the kitchen was hot from the oven and I took off my top and stood in my bra the living room not far from the door but where I knew I couldn't be seen from outside when I saw what I thought was my neighbor from Newark's big German Shepherd but it didn't look like a German Shepherd and my mind tried to fit around this large animal rubbing its back on a tree and I realized this animal was not on a leash and my neighbor was nowhere in sight and it dawned on me that the only thing separating me from this BEAR was a pane of glass and ten feet which was okay, but Spouse was already stepping out of his car, his work shoes crunch crunch crunch and I started screaming at the front door while watching the bear startle from the window and they literally ran toward each other like a choreographed ballet, and if not so terrifying, it was piss-in-your-pants funny.

They nearly brushed each other as the bear veered off into the little circle and Spouse ran up the four steps and opened the full-view screen/glass storm door, flew inside, slammed the big door shut, LOCKED IT, then threw his body against the door, glaring at me, ME, who warned him to get back in the car. He was hyperventilating and began shouting at me why didn't I say, 'BEAR! BEAR!' and I told him honestly because the last time I said, 'BEAR! BEAR!' it was to the Russian as he was mending his 8-foot chain link fence, his back to an approaching mother bear and two darling cubs and when I called out to the Russian he just said, 'WHAT? WHAT?' so I just pointed and he ran around in a circle a few times then climbed over his fence just as the mother heard me screaming at him and took off in the opposite direction so I knew that saying, "BEAR! BEAR!' might cause Spouse to allamande left or dosido with Yogi and figured he'd trust me enough to just fucking do what I was asking but he shouted at me NEXT TIME to just don't say anything. I burst out laughing and said, 'FINE' and that was it.

In July we have a giant annual cookout and invite everyone we know. Everyone in town is invited and they can bring anything and anyone with them. We have a great time, many of my friends and family come from long distances to make this party and in anticipation I requested my brother Donny to dig a large fire-pit in the little circle of woods so we could have a bonfire that year.

He spent the week at the house and did nothing but play video games and watch movies and nothing was being done about my fire-pit and I'd had a terrible case of bronchitis which required me to go on a 6 or 8 day regimen of steroids and I developed a very rare side-effect. I became manic and somewhat psychotic for about 24 hours and before I knew it, not only was a fire-pit dug, but it was completed beautifully and frantically by both Donny AND Spouse as I sat in a lawn chair sipping diet decaf iced tea with a pick-axe by my side.

Every now and then they would surreptitiously look up at me and then look at each other but they completed their task, I congratulated them on a great job and Spouse disappeared and returned with a Xanax and a martini for me and a diet soda for Donny then went to hide in the basement. Donny and I sat in the driveway late into the evening talking and laughing and I came down from my side-effect and we joked about that too and suddenly I saw movement behind him and at the same time smelled a very familiar odor and the floodlight wasn't working because Spouse kept putting off borrowing the ladder from the Russian to change the bulb but I distinctly saw a large mammal walking right behind Donny on all fours and I simultaneously got up, grabbed him by the collar and dragged both of us up the steps into the house.

Our noses pressed against the screen door we heard the chuffing and the movement through old brush and debris and I told him to take a deep whiff and he thought it was the most amazing thing and we stood together holding each other and laughing, our hearts beating and adrenaline pumping and we left everything as it was, locked up and went to to bed.

The following morning I told Spouse and although he was thrilled he'd survived the night considering my behavior the day before, he wasn't in any hurry to change the bulb on the floodlight even though I'd expressed concern that a bear might sneak up on us. He chortled and said yeah and dismissed me. He also reminded me about the original bear incident and took the opportunity to chide me again and I said, 'Yes dear. Fuck you very much,' and kept typing as he turned the remote to FOX News.

Now, the Russian liked me. He was the head of some union in Brighton Beach and he and his wife, when I was sick would bring me little care packages of salmon and caviar and other tasty morsels and one day had walked in the house looking for Spouse who had said to him earlier unbeknownst to me, 'Yeah just come in when you get a chance to look at this 'thing'' and ran into a very shocked me standing there trying on a black silk teddy. I was unaware of his presence until he said with his charming accent, 'Vell, Helllllllooooo Beeyooooteefool' and I twirled around in surprise and ever since then he would volunteer to do some kind of electrical work for free.

Thanks to that black teddy, we didn't have to pay a penny to have four ceiling fans, a light fixture and several extra electrical outlets installed. So I personally asked him to please change the bulb and he not only did, but he provided the bulb himself which I thought was very kind. And no, he never once asked for payment, ever. Spouse was livid that I went over his head because he said he was getting to it and I made him look bad and I said he could do bad all by himself and as of that night I would no longer remind him or warn him or do shit for him again since he was always so insulted anytime I offered to help and he said, 'FINE', and that evening ended remarkably well too.

So last night I heard some leaves crunching in the driveway and the cats were in the window and I thought, 'Oh they see Daddy is home' and got up and sure enough he was but strangely he stopped the car midway up the driveway and briefly tapped the horn. I figured he was on the phone with his buddy and wasn't looking for me especially since he insisted he neither wanted nor needed my help but I was curious so I got up and stood behind the cats and saw him standing outside the car, looking at one of the tires. And then I saw the bear behind him. And I remembered that he ordered me not to tell him, not to warn him, not to help him so I let him have his way and the bear ate him.

The End.

 The detective leaned back, his chair squeaking and took the thumb nail he was absentmindedly gnawing on out of his mouth and said, 'So that's your story Mrs. Goldilocks.' It wasn't a question, really. I smiled sweetly and said, 'It's 'miss'. I kept my maiden name. Yes' I sadly sighed. 'It's all true, all there, every last word.' He smiled and said, 'I'm very sorry for your loss. You're free to go, but here's my card, and my personal number on the back, if there's anything else I could do for you.'
I took the blanket off my shoulders to give back to him and he said, 'It's cold outside and all you're wearing is that little black thing. I think you can keep it and maybe return to it me at a later date?' So I smiled and said, 'Oh THANK YOU Officer *glanced at card* Wolf.' and hightailed it out of there.

Sleepwalker At Chiller Theatre

This is a re-post from another blog I used to contribute to. It's one of my favorites so I thought I share it here.

Sleepwalker At Chiller Theatre

We had a deal. I would try my best to not get up in the middle of the night all night long to watch the test pattern on the big TV in the den, and he would let me watch monster movies with him on Saturday night. I demanded every night but he explained they weren't on every night and Daddy needed his sleep. He also asked me to stop jumping up reaching for the chain-pull to the ceiling light because I'd snapped it off several times and moved the easy chairs together to climb on them and click it on directly from the beveled glass fixture itself and then leave the chairs there in the dark in the middle of the night for him to trip over on his way to his middle of the night job but he didn't understand that I was afraid of stepping on lava so the only way I wouldn't go up in flames was by commuting throughout the house via furniture. It all seemed very cut and dry to me and I didn't really get why he was being so obstinate. I was four. He was 34. God, man, grow up.

They couldn't do anything about my sleepwalking though, well except install slide locks at the top of every door leading outside because they'd found me in the street or garden in my granny nightgown at 3am standing in the moonlight eyes wide open but vividly dreaming. This is not something an elderly neighbor with a heart condition wants to see when she puts her cat out or something else for my father to find upon returning home from a swing shift. They also couldn't negotiate with me when in my sleep I'd drag chairs over to the doors to climb on them (lava, too) and unlock the doors and go outside anyway,. I suppose that in my dreams it made perfect sense.

When I was six-months-old my father decided it was time for me to sleep through the night and thus began his fakakta Get Elaine To Sleep mission which failed or succeeded spectacularly depending on who you asked because YES, I did go to sleep and YES, I did sleep through the night but it didn't stop me from getting up and doing everything anyway. At six months, mobility is an issue but there does come a point in development when cribs are the toddler equivalent of K2 and therefore must be conquered no matter the personal risk: bruised tush, black eye, bloody nose--many casualties including the tragic broken bodies of colleagues I was unable to bring back to home base, my teddy bear (Teddy) and doll baby (Smakata which is Polish for 'snot-nose' a favorite endearment of my Grandmother for me), and a Dawn doll who not by her own fault was missing a head. I also held in my possession specific Tinker Toy and Lego parts that technically belonged to my brother David, parts that were uncommon and necessary to assemble anything remotely resembling a 'thing' so were of great value in terms of currency, negotiation and manipulation. I was an intrepid, shrewd, if somewhat reckless adventurer. I knew how to haggle with the natives and learned their primitive lingo. It was at this time when I became an insomniac.

Either I would sleep and walk, or not sleep at all so at night I was either dreaming technicolor musicals rivaling any Bollywood extravaganza (while exploring) or use my imagination while wide awake to dream up and plot my future adventures and any revenge against anyone who may have recently wronged me. I also pondered the meaning of life and what would happen after I died, like would my 'being' cease to exist or go somewhere else or if my brothers would consider playing Gilligan's Island using their bunk beds as the pitiful broken Minnow because I wanted more than anything to be Ginger. I didn't like her at all. I liked Lovey, Mrs. Thurston Howell III because she was the only one with a partner on the whole friggin island for the entire length of the series, while no one else seemed to pair up (well except for the Skipper and Gilligan-not that there's anything wrong with that) which I thought was really stupid. There is strength in numbers (as evidenced by my siblings and extended family) and maybe if they did they could have built a new boat especially since the Professor could make anything out of coconuts including a shortwave radio which incidentally didn't get them off the island either. The whole thing was frustrating but Ginger had the best wardrobe so of course I had to 'be her' when we played. Then during my midnight musings I would look to up to find my father standing in my doorway and say softly, 'Elaine, go to sleep.' and I'd roll over and pretend. Until Saturday night.

On WPIX in New York from 1971-1982 old thrillers, monster movies and horror movies would be aired on Chiller Theatre. It actually began during the 60's with an on-air host and then eventually morphed into a six-fingered claymation hand rising out of the mists replete with spooky music as the opening for the show. Then they played some good but mostly godawful movies. Other little girls had puppies and kittens posters on their walls. I had Christopher Lee and Vincent Price and various pages from Monster Magazine taped to mine and would 'borrow' my uncle's monster mags to read in the basement whenever I had a chance and he wasn't in his room. My dad and I would settle in on the couch and I would snuggle up against him. He was big and warm and cuddly and he would put his arm around me and tell me I was hot like a little furnace and made him sweat and he'd drink lots of ice water but he still let me cling to him like a monkey and ask him incessantly, 'What did that man mean, Daddy' and, "What did he say, Daddy' to the degree where he never had a moment's peace or got to see any movie all the way through, in my presence.

I tried hard to keep awake. I practiced keeping my eyes open and holding them open and considered using Lincoln Logs to prop them but though better of it but eventually sleep would overtake me and finally my father would shut off the TV and carry me to bed and I would fuss and he'd tell me to go to sleep and sometimes, eventually I did.

I cherish those times with  my dad. Now he's become really cantankerous and misses my mother terribly and calls me constantly to ask me how I'm doing or to complain about 'some shit on the Food Channel'. I  don't see him as often as I should because I need to take him in small doses and he worries too much about me which makes me feel horribly guilty but we talk a lot and every now and then I do go over there and watch a scary movie with him and he calls me his little girl, his little sleepwalker, his little dreamer. He says it proudly and with such love. And when I can't sleep at night, when the Ambien and the Xanax and even a martini doesn't help, I hear his voice softly saying, 'Go to sleep, Elaine' and sometimes I do.

At Any Size

I just discovered that I was probably unfriended by someone I mostly respected and was also deleted from their Facebook groups because of a recent status that I made mentioning that I had lost half my body weight (at my highest) and I was proud of myself for that and for many things I've accomplished, lived through and learned.

The funny thing is that these groups are about celebrating size diversity and I took pains to say in my status that I don't recommend any diet, any pill, any eating plan, nothing, nor do I consider myself a role model because the majority of the weight I lost was done so unhealthily, that I nearly died from complications several times.

How bad? I was hospitalized with malnutrition, I stopped producing blood and all my hair fell out. My body was covered in bruises and sores and lumps and while my metabolic specialist and nutritionist were high-fiving each other at my bedside over what an amazing weight-loss success I was, the head of my medical team was quietly telling my husband to make funeral arrangements because they didn't know how to stop a catastrophic complication that they couldn't even identify.

 Antibiotics were eating my blood vessels, it was discovered that I was immune to morphine, and my blood was pink (lovely shade). When I was coherent, which admittedly at the time was not frequent,  I threw the hospital nutritionist out of my room because she demanded that I eat at least 1000 calories a day and I screeched (rather incoherently) that I wasn't going to ruin all my hard work with so many calories and threw her out. She came back and asked me what it would take to get me to eat and I told her I would eat fruit. So she agreed to it. She asked me if I would just try to eat 1000 calories and I looked at her for five minutes so she asked me if I would just SAY I would try so I said yes.

 She told me every time I ate some protein or something else, I could ask for anything, never mind the menu, I would be rewarded with fruit. The problem was well, problematic. I loathed 'food as reward' but fruit was all I wanted so I put 'fruit plate' down for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And then thought better of it and added soy milk and yogurt. That was my acquiescence, my temporary surrender so I could get out of the hospital and back to my mission to be treated like a human being. That's all I wanted, not to be thin but to be seen and respected as a fellow human rather than a living target of derision or an invisible but unwanted undesirable entity.

The purpose of my blog has never been about being fat. It's about me, my life's journey, my thoughts about many things, many of which has nothing to do with fat. That's why I don't post links to it on size acceptance groups and related sites, saying HERE'S MY FAT BLOG, because being fat is not all there is to me. Oh, maybe it is or was part of my identity, especially since I've never been thin a day in my life, but I've never dreamed of being thin. Not even when I was ignored by crushes in school, not asked to the prom, told by some unfortunate soul that he would marry me if only I'd lose 100 lbs., not even when I was at my heaviest and could no longer walk without strain or anxiety, or fit behind the wheel of my car. I didn't want to be thin. I wanted to be myself, only thinner.

 Thin enough to not worry about falling and not being able to get up (it happened anyway), Thin enough to fit into an ambulance, and on a stretcher, thin enough to wear the clothes, made for me, that I used to model, thin enough where I could see my facial features, thin enough where I wasn't waiting to die and asking my ex-husband, 'If I died, what if?" every.single.day. Thin enough where I could sing a song, and hold one note without losing my breath and coughing for five minutes, thin enough where I didn't have to pee every time I stood up, or wet myself when I laughed or sneezed and sometimes didn't make it to the bathroom, thin enough where people didn't look at me with pity and family and friends didn't look at me with fear.....thin enough.

I don't hide the fact that I'm losing weight. Here is the truth: I used to weigh 679 lbs. At the very end of '07 I was hospitalized with pneumonia and my first ever hospital stay was so traumatic that against my husband's wishes (that's another story for another day) I decided to have a gastric bypass, yes, the dreaded WLS or weight loss surgery. Something I had been totally against for years and now, deciding it was either that or die, chose to pursue it. I picked the best guy in New Jersey and by the time my appointment came around, I'd already lost 106 lbs. It was the first time I was weighed since the hospital and I was so shocked and delighted that I wailed.

 The surgeon was a complete dick and demanded that I get up on the exam table. There was no way I could so he had to examine me from a chair and told me he would do the surgery IF I lost another 100 lbs and get up on his exam table. Meanwhile, I was told to complete a list of requirements to have the surgery and like a good trooper, I did all of them, except for the last one and to set the surgical date. While I was losing that 100 lbs. I would check into his clinic periodically to be examined and report my progress and one day I fell.

 One of the specialists in charge of me, when she was told that five men were unable to lift me (my legs were numb from sitting on the exam table-yeah I made it) told them to call the paramedics or fire department and if they had to put a hole in the wall or get a crane to get me up they could do it. I asked who said that and the office manager didn't want to tell me. Finally someone else did and when I realized it was my own specialist, and the disgust on her face whenever I saw her was NOT imagined as I thought and truly wanted to give her credit that it was MY sensitivity and not HER, I grabbed the office manager and told him they had to help me up NOW and they got two more guys and lifted me easily. As soon as blood flow and pins and needles appeared, I was fine and in fact walked out of the clinic on my own, trailing my little oxygen tank behind me. I lost that 100 lbs. and told the surgeon and that specialist to go fuck themselves. I would lose the rest on my own.

Except I lost my way. No...I didn't gain it back. Well, I gained a few back, but according to statistics, even with that bit I gained back, I'm still over the five year limit, so I'm considered a success but still fat and not happy fat. Happier with myself but I wanted to be able to walk around a mall, a supermarket and run up and down stairs. Even maybe hike and do some sightseeing.  My regular doctor told me that I could try going back to work, and I did and complications began to worsen so I had to stop which caused a war in my house with my husband thinking how grossly unfair it was that he had to work and I didn't.

 Nevermind that I was collecting permanent disability, he thought it was NOT FAIR and he didn't want me to lose weight in the first place so he set out to make my life a living hell and he did a damned good job. He would only talk to me if it was about food. He would only touch me to hand me a plate. He would only make eye-contact to say...no, nothing is wrong, why do you ask? and then make a hasty disappearance to the basement or out with his best buddy. I was miserable and lonely. I began to gain again. The only 'love' he gave me was food and I took his crumbs literally until....

So angry that I was not the woman he said that he wanted so big, so dependent on him that I could never leave him, he injured me. What he did, when he did it, how he did it, is so unspeakable but it was enough for me to hold a bottle of Percocet in my hand and consider swallowing it and at the last moment I said no..he was not worth me taking my life. I was worth more. So I talked to a friend, who got me in touch with a domestic crisis center, got myself an advocate and an attorney, talked with my doctor and his staff, and I began to line up my ducks in a row. I had to leave a lot earlier than I was ready for, but I had some clothes, my laptop, cellphone, jewelry, my car and my cat and I drove off into the sunset. I still haven't returned and it's my house, but I'm free.

A funny thing happened. I had a meltdown as soon as I got to my dad's and back to the doctor I went. He asked me a few protocol questions, closely watching me and rather than hospitalize me, he got me in touch with a therapist. The same therapist, it so happens that my advocate at the shelter had been talking to about taking me on. We arranged a pay-schedule and I met her but I knew I would love her from the thirty-second phone conversation we had when I was visiting the crisis center.

 It turned out she was Dutch and someone I loved and trusted was Dutch and somehow it was like a sign from God (or Odin, or The Flying Spaghetti Monster) that we were meant to be and we started to work in earnest. I began mediation too. I also started to get my health back in order and before I knew it, I'd begun losing weight without trying. Oh, a newly developed ulcer helped but it wasn't the only thing. Okay and a broken heart, but that eventually died down too and I was still losing weight and before I knew it, I had lost 100 lbs. from the time I left my ex. In fact, now I'm closing in on my elementary school weight (still no featherweight) but this is the thinnest I've been as an adult and now am in uncharted territory. Is my weight, my size, my bulk, part of my identity? Will I feel like the me I was when I was 700, 600, 500, 400 lbs?

I've got news for you. I'm the same person. I've been through so much hell and back that had nothing to do with weight that I changed for the better as I learned from my experiences but the core person inside, is still me. I look in the mirror and marvel that I have a dimple in my chin that I've never seen before IN MY LIFE but I look in my eyes and see, like the Lost Boy said and saw in Peter Pan's eyes in Hook, THERE YOU ARE!  It's still me. Still always going to be me although maybe a better me because like wine and whiskey, I get better with age.

But then there's the new dilemma; where do I fit in now? I still believe in size acceptance. I'm still fat. I'm just smaller. Do I belong? Am I allowed to say, I lost 350 lbs without offending someone enough where they delete me because they believe I've betrayed them and the cause? I believe in the cause, but does the cause believe in me enough to die for me, like it seems it asks of me? Don't diet or you're betraying us all. Diets don't work, you'll put all the weight back on....well...I never said I was on a diet...plus I fully admit I struggle with an eating disorder but I've also kept the weight off for over five years now...so whatever is going on did work. Does that make me better than anyone? Hell no. In fact, I'm sad because I feel like I've been kicked out of my favorite club and well, it appears that slowly, I am. I'm in a kind of limbo. My friends either support or tolerate me (or a healthy combination of both) but for the most part, haven't abandoned me. Does it make a difference if when I talk about it, it's not that I'm bragging but that I'm so stunned I've gotten this far?

I have this really expensive skin serum that I put on every morning and night and to tell the truth, I would rather go without lunch than to do without that particular product. Every time I apply it, whatever is leftover, I gently rub on the back of my hands because hands age too and I'd like them to match my ever-youthful glowing face, but sometimes I'm short some serum so only one hand gets it unless I make an effort to save a little bit for the other hand. I remember that my hands are the same age and have been with me from the beginning and I need to take good care of them. They support me, literally. And it makes me think of disenfranchised people who were once fat, or fatter and for whatever reason and by whatever means, lost that weight. The Size Acceptance movement talks about body autonomy but does that only mean that you must love your body exactly as it is and are not allowed to change it even if to you it's actually because you love it? Does free will and love for self allow former and smaller fatties a place at the table? Are we allowed to protest unfairness, sign petitions, and join groups or are we marginalized and rejected from possibly the only place in the world where we ever thought we would find acceptance?  I wonder.

Meanwhile, I'm taking care of me, the same me I always was. I hope when I reach the point where I feel my best (and I will get there) I hope the people who I've always inspired and encouraged will still be there with me, because they inspire and encourage me. At any size. 

No Goodbyes For Spooky Oats

Someday, a few years down the line, I'm going to cross your mind and you're going to try to convince yourself it's too late and it may be for some things, but it isn't for everything. It isn't for things like Hawaiian flowers and serendipity and believing in seagulls of light. It isn't for little boy dreams and Peter Pan and Wendy and swanky hotels in Prague where you take notes while I talk to geniuses after massages that you normally hate because you don't like to be kneaded.

I never told you I had a crooked tailbone too. I thought your head might implode with all the synchronicities that were flying around while you were ducking and I was laughing because you got bitchslapped and rightly so. I understand now. It's okay.

When I was lost and alone, you kept reaching out to me and offering your hand like in the painting of the little boy and girl crossing a broken bridge with a guardian angel standing behind them and you wore me down until I couldn't help but love you no matter how much I fought it. I fought it because I didn't believe I had anything to offer you and I was so stuck in my circumstances and then I said oh fuck it and asked you and you said no and I loved you anyway and in any capacity but then you came back and said fuck it and my heart soared and so did yours too, at least for a moment. I believed that we could work and beat the odds but I couldn't believe enough for both of us. I can only be a lucky charm if you believe, Sparky.  How could I not keep trying in the end, if you kept trying with me in the beginning? What you taught me about unconditional love when I was too blind to see it, I learned it all from you and could give it back freely. You eat my peppers; I eat your cheese.

I don't know how you feel right now and I'm not going to guess. I've been so sick, literally, agonizing over all of this that I had to accept it. Aggie still roots for you, you know. She says to leave a little window open for you but she put away the little wooden clogs that used to be on the bench outside the waiting room because I ask her not to teach me any more words because it hurts too much. Words I will never be able to appalling try out on you, and songs you will never let me hear. No road trip together. No elephant pics. No more song links or short stories or fairy tales or love letters. Yours is the last fairy tale, so treasure it. It might be worth something when I'm famous. I proved myself with the loveletters, though, didn't I? I thought I found a loophole but I fucked myself over big time. You always said I was so strong but did you ever think that you had the power to almost break me?

No laying on a crappy motel room bed talking about Nairobi or beating up spiders in bathrooms with tennis rackets. Not ever hearing you say, Snoes. But whenever I see a tiny deer I will think of you. Whenever I get a butterfly in my stomach, I will think of you. Whenever my tongue gets burnt on hot bacon or pork belly, I'll think of you and whenever I see that seagull on the ceiling, I will think of you. I will ever imagine the hug at the airport that doesn't exist because you're as embedded in my soul as my own name. No matter what you've done, or what you think, you are still a giver of light.

We are all damaged, just by different degrees so I won't condemn you but I have to move on. No, there isn't anyone else but I want there to be because I can't live in a void and I need to be needed and loved.  My love, no matter how unconditional or perfect, can't make you accept it or believe it, so I have to accept your choices. Right now I can't see your name or your picture anywhere because it keeps me suspended in a limbo of pain that my body and my heart just can't deal with and that's not good for me because I'm in it all alone. I used to feel you everywhere with me but you severed that silver thread.

Every good thing I said to you, I meant and still do. Every dream I had about you, I still dream for you. I wish you love. I wish you undiluted bliss. I wish your every passion be ignited and fulfilled and that you remember that someone adored you exactly as you were and believed in you. You will always be Sparky and Spooky Oats and the door will always be open a little bit for you. My friendship never ever dies. Ever. That's just how I am and you know that.

I know you may not be reading these anymore, but I know some friend of yours will so I hope they pass this on to you with love because it's written with more love than any words can ever convey.

Take good care of yourself, please...please... and when it's fucking cold out, don't forget to put on a sweater.

Spirit and Fire

My sister used to wear a shirt that made me both cringe and howl laughing. It was a wifebeater (charming) and she ironed on the words FUCKING WHORE and it was deliberately two sizes too small and she'd wear it whenever she'd go out for the mail or answer the door for a package. Sometimes no panties. She was a free spirit. My brother David, a mailman, got lots of reports from his coworkers on what my sister would or wouldn't wear when she'd answer the door. She wouldn't be shamed. God I loved that nerve, that screw you attitude. She said I was her hero, but she was mine too.

I found it among her things after she'd died. Of everything she had, all the boxes full of shit, nothing made me cry more than that shirt. I remember the last time I saw her wearing it, I was probably still living in the area, and was picking something up from her apartment and waiting outside for her, and she came out with some new guy. She was barefoot and wearing leggings and that godawful shirt and she pointed her chin in his direction and said, 'That's Brian', and he said to me, 'I'ma gon' marry your sister. I keep telling her', and I met her eyes and said to him ruefully,  'Brother, you got delusions of grandeur. You're just a flavor of the month', and she burst out laughing and I drove off. Nobody told Lisa what to do. Nobody ever would. She died with fire inside her.

I couldn't fit into that shirt when I found it so I'd wrap it around a pillow and cry all night, many nights missing her. Missing her power and her fire and spirit. And today I found it. I forgot that I'd grabbed it and stuffed it in a bag with the few meager things I took when I left the asshole. I put it on and it fit perfectly. Yes, she died with fire inside her, but she left her spirit for me.

For Myself

I read somewhere that the last emotion for anyone to hold onto is hope.
and I know for myself that's true.
every relationship...it was down to an atom of hope. Even after the love had gone. It was hope.
and now I hope for myself. Me.
and my friends.
and tomorrow.

Giving Up the Ghost

I don't have an impressive chain of iniquities growing heavier each day with new links, at least as far as I know. I do, however, have a bracelet that has taken on more and more symbolism as time (and life) passes by and with these thoughts, I drove down the hill and slowed as I usually do to see if you were outside. You were but your back was turned to the road and you didn't see me, which is good. I know you're angry and you need to work it off. You're also wearing that orange sweatshirt that you  keep insisting you don't own. I got your message and thank you for at least responding and for not saying what you could have. We go back a long way and I need you. I need all my friends but I need you because you're real in my life and not some phantom on the other side of a screen.

You told me to go to that jeweler so I did and he fixed the clasp beautifully. There was a screw-up because the clerk forgot to write down 'written appraisal' so of course there was none although I'd asked her three times if she wrote it down. I thought it odd that it would cost so little for an appraisal but I did ask and when I showed up today, I should have known.

The owner himself slipped it on my wrist and as he walked away I asked about the appraisal and he was mortified about the mix-up and I took the bracelet off again and told him I needed it anyway and would come back for it. He gave me a price, told me how long it would take and turned away but then turned back to me and said, You know, I can give you a ballpark of how much the diamonds are worth, how much the gold is worth, how much the resale is if you sold it privately and how much it would cost to buy retail--but ballpark only, and I shrugged and said, Okay but I will bring it back because I intend to sell it. My eyes filled with tears but he didn't see it because he'd already turned toward a light and had the loupe up to his eye, examining the stones. He called back to me asking if it was one or two carats, explaining a real appraisal would involve actually weighing each stone and I told him it was absolutely two carats and after a few minutes he gave me the figures and also waived the repair fee because of the snafu. The value of the bracelet was more than I imagined (should I sell it privately) and I thought of the person who was so totally worth selling it for so we could spend a month driving around the south seeing friends and giant balls of lint and waterfalls inside caverns. I thought of ghosts.

I passed the entrance to the security gate of the community I live in and instead drove on to the state park nearby. I was listening to sad soft music and felt exactly that, sad and soft and lost and vulnerable and plaintive and pathetic and I pulled up to the lake and stared out at the water. I'd brought my Kindle in case I felt like stopping at an overlook or sitting outside and getting some air but I didn't even bother taking it out of its slipcase.

Alone in the parking lot, I leaned back and realized I really had to adjust the seat because I had gotten smaller and farther away from the wheel and would ask you, if you ever talked to me again, to help adjust it, just as you programmed the GPS for me, just as you popped the hood of my car, and demanded I go to this mechanic and that pizzaria, just as you always called me every morning so you could hear my 'sexy sleepy voice' and thought, you may never talk to me again. You're that mad. I've never seen you so mad, so quietly seething. I always said you were cute when you were mad but I knew that was just temper and irritation and it was true anyway but this was different and I didn't know how to make amends. I still don't. I think because I can't. Because you want something you can't have that I won't give and you know it, you know it and you can't have everything and I won't let you make a choice even if you wanted to. I'm not a dessert or a side dish. I'm not an indiscretion and you were right the last time, that we would both want more and I deserve more and I didn't start this again! I stayed away for ten fucking years to give both of us a chance BECAUSE of how I felt, because I didn't want you to feel you had to choose and nothing would ever be legitimate between us if you did and part of what I loved was your loyalty to her and I'm sorry you can't understand that.

You said you had to be crazy because you keep coming back like a bad penny over and over again and you couldn't stop and I said that's one of the many things I loved about you, to calm you down but I didn't expect the anguish in your voice saying I didn't love you, didn't love anything about you, it wasn't true but it WAS and is and you were so angry I had to hang up and now you brood and sulk.

How could I tell you how much I felt when I know that whenever I tell ANYONE how much I feel they get overwhelmed and run and then you say that's because they're asses even though I know I'm the common denominator and you say it's not true because of you and you're right but that doesn't make it any better. It will never make it any better. We can never begin what you want again.

There are leaves that still cling to the birches around my car and spring hangs in the air, expectant and fresh and clean and I see one leaf finally give up the ghost and let go and float away on the water. It  makes way for new buds, new growth, new life and I wonder if it still clung to only what it knew, would the new grow around the old or did the old need to go for the new to arrive? I drifted with that leaf and thought of another.

You are a changeling that occupies the body of the man who stood at the altar with tears in his eyes promising me forever. The most gentle man I ever knew became the cruelest and I never knew why or how I became the object of your hatred the more I loved you and begged you to love me. I clung to the skeleton of our marriage and lived with this ephemeral effigy and punishing poltergeist and fled that tomb that reeked of desolation and never let the sun in, the sun I craved and would die without. I left in the middle of a storm but your name haunts me though I never have to go there again but I lived with your ghost for so long that with one swallow I almost became one myself. You are cut off and cast out. You are the ghost that I left behind and exorcised from my life forever.

Then there is you, the second ghost, the one I knew least but loved most. I wrote about you all over this place and have notebooks full of scribbles and journals filled with screams of impotence because I am no more to you. Meaningless and invisible. I have been erased from your life for whatever reason, no goodbye, like a death, no final words, not even a fuck you, just dead air and me screaming in my own head. I hate myself for every single tear and curse every reminder of you and they are everywhere because you are embedded in my life now, engraved like a tattoo and everyone knows it. People want me to hate you and I could never hate you and though you used to pore over every word I wrote, you don't anymore and will likely not read this so I can safely say no matter what, I will never hate you. I will never forget you. I may curse you to the end of time but I will still love you and you owe me a song you fucker. It's my goddamn song. If you ever change a word of it, if you ever give it to someone else I will haunt you from the grave because it's mine and for a few months, so were you and no one loved you more and that's why you ran. I will never forgive you for taking your friendship away. A love might not have worked but you promised we'd be friends always and you lied and I would never have done to you what you did to me. To hurt you this much is incomprehensible; I would injure myself first. Live with remorse and regret rather than fix what you know you can, when you know I believed in your brilliance, your light, your beauty and you threw me away like a rag and like the dead you won't talk to me. You are the ghost I pray will still appear.

Last but really the first ghost. You gave me the kiss that ignited something so tangible others could see it. The fire I had to run from, because I knew you could consume me but give me nothing in return. I make you miserable because you feel it too but you will only get lost and the deeper you get the harder it will be to find your way out. We both know this. We both know this is why you're angry. I won't give you what you want because you won't give me what I need and I won't let you anyway but don't you ever doubt that I loved you. Don't ever tell me what I felt because you lived in my heart longer than anyone. You are the ghost that wants to be free but won't release yourself.

At the end of December, I spent a weekend with a friend and her family and I was sick the whole night. I sent my last communication to Spooky Oats and after the ball dropped in Times Square, I excused myself. I tossed and turned in bed, and had the chills and my friend's dog even lay on top of me, seemingly knowing that I wasn't well. My friend came up to check on me and I ran past her to the bathroom and was sick again and again. I lay down again in misery and counted the hours. I prayed for everyone I knew. I used guided imagery to try to sleep. I meditated. And when I heard birdsong and saw the sun creeping up from the big bay window, I felt someone slip into bed beside me, weight push the bed down on that side, the covers pulled up and something brush against my leg. I wasn't afraid, more perplexed, and half knowing what I wouldn't find, I still turned saying the dog's name and there was no one beside me. It was then I fell into a deep sleep until I was awakened by conversation in the hallway and got up and did my usual morning routine.

I made my way downstairs and nearly all the guests had gone home. I sat in the den on a loveseat across from my friend and I studied her face. She stopped talking and looked back at me. I asked her if 'things' ever happened in the house and she froze and asked why. I told her what happened and she called out, 'MAAAAAAA !!!!' and her mother came running and my friend told me to tell her mother what I just said. Her mother listened and smiled. She said, 'You know C's father died here, on a New Years Eve, just like last night. The room you slept in was her and her sister's room when they were small and before he went to bed every night, he would check on them, sometimes several times. Were you afraid?' I told her no, in fact, that after that I was able to sleep after being sick all night. Since then, a flicker of his shadow which appeared only to them, appears to me now, regularly, and I feel safe and protected. This is the ghost that gives me sleep and peace.

I don't know why he chose to make himself known to me. Maybe because I was lonely. Maybe because I mourn over ghosts living and dead. Maybe because I had lost all hope with Spooky Oats when I needed him more than ever. I have learned, through loss, that we don't always get a reason. We live and die with questions on our lips and in our hearts. Maybe Joe wanted me to know I wasn't as alone as I thought or maybe he thought I was a little girl who just needed someone to tuck her in and check in on her one last time. Whatever the reason, it was enough to give this leaf the courage to take hold of the breeze and trust that the coming spring would bring new life.