Revisitation Of Sound Advice

I'm still drawn to the grownup children of violence -- the people who keep secrets and show off lies -- but I keep them at a safe distance and politely decline to play. I have a strict and repressive code of conduct for myself, and I will not fight, nor debate, nor will I even speak to people who might cause me to fall down again, to follow that reckless, thoughtless slide down into the rage.

Those of us who grew up fighting know each other without telling these stories, we can smell it maybe, or perhaps see it in a way a hand rests on a table.  Maybe we hold our bodies differently, maybe the message crosses our faces before we even know that we have given the secret away.  I do not consciously try to convey information with my body, but I've never been harassed by strangers.  When I walk through a large crowd people move swiftly out of my way.

by Bee Lavender, from Lessons In Taxidermy

Soft Skull Press, 2005

Revised Older Post

When I was younger and they said, "you're just like your father," I thought it was a compliment.

I'm sorry, Dad: I can't make them understand. I wish I could say I still don't get it, but I think I do. You must have been so tired.

In this proud land we grew up strong

We were wanted all along

I was taught to fight, taught to win

I never thought I could fail.

No fight left, or so it seems:

I am a man whose dreams have all deserted.

I've changed my face, I've changed my name,

But no one wants you when you lose.

Don't give up

You have friends.

Don't give up

You're not beaten yet.

Don't give up, I know you can make it good.

Though I saw it all around,

I never thought that I could be affected.

Thought that we'd be last to go,

It's so strange the way things turn.

Drove the night toward my home,

the place where I was born upon the lakeside.

As daylight broke, I saw the earth:

The trees had burned down to the ground.

Don't give up: You still have us.

Don't give up: We don't need much of anything.

Don't give up: Somewhere, there's a place where we belong.

Rest your head - you worry too much.

It's gonna be alright.

When times get rough, you can fall back on us.

Don't give up, please: Don't give up.

Got to walk out of here,

I can't take it anymore.

Gonna stand on that bridge,

Keep my eyes down below.

Whatever may come, 

and whatever may go:

The river's flowing.

Moved on to another town,

Tried hard to settle down.

For every job, so many men:

So many men no on needs.

Don't give up:

'Cause you have friends.

No reason to be ashamed.

You still have us.

We're proud of who you are.

You know it's never been easy.

Don't give up:

'Cause somewhere there's a place where we belong.

Mercy, Mercy Me

After my previous posts in which I detail the horrific event that was my husband's death by suicide and the parts in which my son and I played, I was overwhelmed by the amount of compassion shown to me by fellow Bandmembers* and Pranksters*: Thank you, every one of you, you have no idea how cathartic it has been to put it out there in detail and have been met with such love.

FLINGS A WHOLE BUNCH OF MOTHERFUCKIN' GLITTER, Y'ALL*. Like, whoa.

I'm sorry to say that things have taken a bad turn: Y'see, I haven't told you about the stuff between then and now, the struggles that have been never-ending, some big and some small, all of them significant in and of themselves, all of them further traumatizing, cumulatively. But the latest development in WTF Has Happened To My Real Life? is crazy-making, crazy-sounding and if I didn't feel safe here, if I didn't believe that those of you who look at me sideways (ok: e-Look at e-Me, e-Sideways) will surely reserve your negativity (wouldja, please?) and doubts for what I hope is a whole lotta bunk that makes my hat my dinner in the end (and I will gladly eat it if I'm wrong -- I'll eat all my hats, and I've got hats, lotsa hats), I wouldn't even bother writing this down because it's just insane. Speaking of THINGS THAT SUCK, BULLSHIT, ISOLATION, ESTRANGEMENT, and (heyzeuspleaseletthisonebewrong) CHILD LOSS...

...insanity. Unbelievable insanity. Couldn't sound more fictional if I'd written it fictionally.

Not fictional. Factual. Actual. Horrible.

But first:

1. Blame. Shame. Self- and otherwise. Totally natural, sucky, painful, understandable. Everyone involved -- which is to say, everyone who knew the Husband and me and the Boy in any capacity -- seemed to feel a degree of blame and shame. To qualify any of our experience and reactions and feelings as anything but unique, individual and valid would be selfish: Anyone with any knowledge of suicide-survival knows that compassionately, intellectually, academically, all reactions are unique, individual and valid. Anyone who refutes or denies the survivors' right to their own emotions is, plainly put, an uneducated asshole. Sorry.

2. I have been subjected to a lot of blame and shame put on me by the other survivors; while these pointing fingers have hurt and left bruises and bumps, I am nothing if not careful to acknowledge that I HAVE NO IDEA HOW ANYONE ELSE FEELS. Not even the Boy, no matter what he tells me, and his feelings are evolving momentarily, which means I have to roll with the punches that come at a good speed from a rapidly-growing fist. Even when they hurt, I have no choice but to give them credence and respect and love him unconditionally -- not only by academic standards, because I understand that his emotions are his own even when they are hurtful -- but because I believe him and respect him and love him unconditionally out of motherly compulsion and a sometimes-outrageous level of human compassion. I confess that I am ever-forgiving of most people's hurtful behavior toward me (except when I'm not, but I will touch on some of that here shortly), I confess that I take a lot of flack from folks who say, "what is wrong with you? How can you let that go? How can you forgive [insert perceived/real/whatever atrocity here]?"

Because I do. It's all I know, it's my compulsion, it's my reflex, it's part of who I am. Personally, I like that I am inclined toward such forgiveness; I like that I was not taught it but that it flows through me naturally...I certainly have PLENTY of reasons not to forgive, forget, let go and let love, but my spirit does not behave this way. I am grateful for that.

3. That declaration made: I am being tested right now on the highest level of that credo, of my personal motto of Resolution Not Dissolution, and if I don't get an honorary PhD over this one for sticking to that rule, I will go in the complete opposite direction and I think there's a jail cell at the end of that road. I am being strong and brave with great deliberation these days in a way I've never been and lemme tell you, Pranksters: Shit is Hard. Really, really hard.

I've never been a heavy drinker -- in fact, until I was 29, I could count on my fingers the number of times I'd been truly wasted, drunk -- ever. I spent over 20 years in the restaurant/bar business and have enjoyed my role as the straight one, the goody-goody, the only staff member who didn't answer the call to the service bar for shots that are practically mandatory in the service industry; before the suicide, at my last restaurant job, I drank one of my two shift drinks at the bar after clocking out, then took the second one home in a thermos that I'd store in the back seat during the ride home and not touch it until I was sitting on my back porch at 2-3am. I wasn't even comfortable driving with two drinks in me; my boss disapproved of this for years and I conspired with the bartenders to make a covert switch-and-drop before walking out the door so that I could get away with it. I now know that he simply didn't believe that I really did save that drink until I got home; I still feel no regret for this behavior. Not that it's even relevant anymore...the point being that while I don't need a witness for this, I am compelled to clarify it only to bring to light that substance abuse is often borne of trauma: On par with only veterans of warfare [as compared to survivors of other trauma], it is reported that 60-80%* of suicide survivors struggle with a level of substance abuse at some point during the grieving and recovery process. We are particularly prone to relapse, chronic illness, incarceration and recidivism -- even with no prior history of substance use at all.

*(this number is not to negate the suffering of survivors of abuse, loss, assault or illness, I simply use it to make a personal point. I realize and have that same aforementioned love and compassion for all struggling survivors of whatever trauma; forgive me if my use of statistics strikes any reader as better-than: It is not my intent.)

Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying I started this journey clean and sober -- on the contrary, I spent years as a pot-head, dabbler in psychedelics, long-time tobacco user; I worked in the restaurant business for so long that it would be a practical lie to say I'd not been exposed to cocaine/methamphetamine abuse and have at least tried them...aside from the marijuana, however, I had never had a propensity towards chronic use or abuse: I simply do not enjoy being intoxicated. I am small and I vomit...vomiting is not fun. Especially when the point of using illicit substances, criminal or no, is often to have fun. I did not, however, get any reward from opiates, the idea of needles was/is terrifying to me and I live in Baltimore, where heroin is king and I have been to too many funerals...I am afraid of heroin, and any pain-killers I'd ever used were for the purpose of alleviating pain that was too great for ibuprofen or aspirin.

And then I met this guy, after the suicide, a guy who was fresh off a separation and who was a devoted and loving father to a 2-year-old beautiful girl and who loved me and the Boy and who was a talented musician and a dedicated worker and a terrific lover and a very heavy drinker...and a lover of opiates. Specifically, opiate-based pain medication. Not an addict, not someone who was constantly in pursuit of pills, not a "junkie" (a word I hate, by the way): Simply someone who found pleasure in the feeling these drugs gave him and who acted as if I were sprouting a second head when it came to light that I had a 30-count bottle of vicodin stored in the medicine cabinet of which three (3) pills had been consumed since their prescription six months prior:

"You have a whole bottle of vicodin? Why didn't I know this?" he asked humorously.

"Um, because you never asked for an inventory of the medicine cabinet?" I responded in kind, "you have to file form 1184 for that list."

"No, seriously," he said, "why do you have those?

"Because I had [unknown virus requiring visit to ER], they were prescribed, I took one a day until my pain was manageable and switched to ibuprofen. What's the big deal?"

"Um, can I have some?" he asked with nervous laughter, and I told him, "go crazy, I don't like them, they make me puke."

And to be fair: He didn't down them quickly, the 27 remaining pills lasted a long time and it was not an issue for him nor for me: People use drugs, I know this and I'm fine with it. I also understand that there are limits, there is abuse and that powerlessness is often a result of drug use. I understand better, now, because I ended up addicted to oxycodone for an 8-month stretch about a year after the above conversation; I am now sympathetic to yet another aspect of something I didn't used to understand as a result of my own suffering. And for the most part, save for the heady beginnings of opiate addiction that we call the Dragon We Chase, that we rarely experience again but that a lot of us die trying to catch: It was suffering, to the Nth degree. I gave a good chunk of money to dealers, one of whom is now in federal prison (having nothing to do with me, but for whom I have a good deal of sorrow and over said sorrow I have been lambasted and berated, but the drug trade is insidious and everyone involved in it is human and remember when I said I am overly-compassionate? I am told that my love for this prisoner -- not that kind of love, smutty -- is great example of my hippy-dippy love fest with existence), spent a goodly amount of time in so-called "Pain Management" centers (pill mills, candy stores...effortless. Sick-making) and it shouldn't surprise anyone that these love-affairs -- the one with my boyfriend and the one with the drugs -- ended on an ugly, sad and disastrous note. Several hours after proposing marriage to me, with the Boy in his lap (who had been trying out "Daddy" on him for two weeks), with great sincerity, tears and all in front of a half-dozen dinner guests that the Boy and I accepted with great joy and happiness, I found myself fighting for my life on the floor of my kitchen when he took issue with me refusing to give him his car keys as he stook stark naked before me, in a blacked-out state of intoxication, crying about how unworthy he was of my love and affection.

I gave him a warning: If you try to leave in your car, I will call the police. You are wasted, you aren't leaving, go to bed and we will discuss this tomorrow.

(I hate this part, because for as much oxycodone as I'd ingested that day: I was stone-sober. It took me only eight months to bottom out, to hit "maintenance level," and all I had to show for it, at the time, was a collection of blankets and snuggies and hoodies with cigarette burns in them courtesy of nod-outs on the porch while chain-smoking: No more fun, lots of potential disaster. This part turns out better than it will seem, initially).

And so he grabbed my phone, pushed me down on the floor onto my back, pressed his knee into my sternum while crushing my trachea with his forearm, and covered my mouth and nose with his giant hand: He was trying to kill me, and he was entirely unaware of it. I bit his hand, over and over, and every time he'd pull it off I'd taste the blood in my mouth as I screamed for help, screamed, "somebody please help me!!!" as the Boy lay in his bed in the room directly above the kitchen. In the same house where just a few years earlier, his father had committed a different and equally devastating act of violence against our family and the result, while not fatal in the true sense of the word, was the death of a second family for him.

I want to say, here and now before I continue: My Dear Sweet Boy, Love of My Life, My Reason For Being, My EVERYTHING: I am so fucking sorry for everything that has happened and that keeps happening. Mama is making changes, Bahboo, Mama is getting healthy again because she knows that she cannot care for you if she doesn't care for herself. Mama knew this before Daddy died, but she forgot and she is so very ashamed. I hope you can forgive me, my sweet love: I am in so much pain right now over my mistakes, I miss you terribly and I am doing everything I can to make it right so that you can come home. You are so brave, I am so proud of you, and I hope you are having fun with your cousins and that you don't have the pain that I have, that you don't feel as profoundly sad and hopeless as I do right now because I would go to the ends of this earth to take from you a fraction of this pain: It is immeasurable, Bahboo, it is something I pray to g-d you cannot feel. Rest assured that there are Legos running from the faucets here, waiting for you to come home, and that I am hell-bent on giving you a happy life from here on out. And that I will teach you things that I never imagined needing to, but that I know now are vital to your ultimate health and happiness. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you: I'm moving as fast as I can, baby, hang on.

(Mama also knows that she switched between first and third person in that paragraph but she doesn't care and refuses to change it.)

Lest anyone think that that was what separated us: It wasn't. It was simply the beginning of my journey to my bottom. I could honestly die right now from the pain of all this, just will it to happen, it feels so close some nights but I need to stress something: I am not now, nor have I ever been suicidal. Any reference to death in anything I write is hyperbolic and should never be read as a desire to take my own life: I WANT TO STAY ALIVE, I WANT TO BE HAPPY AGAIN, I WANT MY FUCKING SON BACK GODDAMNIT. In and not in that order, necessarily.

Get stoked: There's more! But there's also laundry. Love yous.

ps: I need a family law attorney ON THE FUCKING DOUBLE if anyone knows a good one, cheap, in the Baltimore area. Please. I'm begging.

pps: Dear Bureaucrats Who Make Nauseatingly-Biased Decisions Based On Hearsay, Absence of Fancy-Looking Lawyers and Single-Motherhood As An Apparent Handicap To Be At The Very Least Shamed If Not Punished And Criminalized, Especially When Said Single Motherhood Occurs In A Violent Fashion To A Previously Successful and Talented and Happy Woman With A History Of Mental Illness Whose Own Biological Family Is Testifying Against Her And Who Never Once Claimed To Be A Lawyer Yet Is Expected To Reasonably Represent Herself In Court As One Person vs Nine Persons: FUCK YOU OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

You suck.

Kindly refresh your memories over that part in law school where the defendant is "innocent until proven guilty," and that the plaintiff is responsible for the "burden of proof." What you did in that courtroom was embarrassing to me, to Americans, to the judicial system and was BULLSHIT. Had you addressed a single issue on that protective order**, I would have walked out of there and gone to get the Boy; instead, you treated it as a trial (it was not, it was a hearing) and by law -- FACTS, PEOPLE: I'M SMART AND I CAN READ -- you abused your position and took advantage of my vulnerability by not adhering to the simple LAW that declares, again: the Plaintiff is responsible for the Burden of Proof with regard to the charges on the order. All of which are bullshit, none of which were addressed.

*if anyone is interested in the asterisked portions addressed at the beginning, please drop me a private note.

**the law states that during the hearing to determine whether a temporary protective order will become permanent, extended or dismissed, the only thing that can happen, lawfully, is that the plaintiff be given the opportunity to address the simple charges listed on the order -- nothing more than the charges listed -- and the burden of proof lies on said plaintiff. Not one single element of that order was addressed. The attorneys saw me standing there by myself and blatantly took advantage of a situation they had a chance at getting away with and they did, and the judge allowed it. Shame on them. I don't know if y'all know this: I'M NOT A LAWYER, I don't know "I object!" from "I'm on fire!"

I'll Tell You What's Going On

I barely had a moment to register that we were all about to die when the police pulled up, sidearms drawn and pointed at him, shouting drop the weapon.

My husband looked down at me and said, “y’happy now? You've left me no choice but to shoot myself now: Sleep tight, love."

Then he shut the door behind us and locked it.

The neighbors across the street took their evenings on their glider and they waved to us to come over. The police surrounded us with giant shields to guard us from gunfire and ushered us carefully and swiftly down the front stairs, one of them carrying The Boy.

I had so many thoughts coursing through my head; I wished I had clothes on; I didn’t feel at all inside reality; and I had never so much as spoken a word to these people in whose home I was waiting for I didn’t even know what at the time.

We were ordered to stand clear of the front windows; I was asked a battery of questions, all of them empathetic and accusatory at once, asking for the details leading up to their arrival and I can’t remember what I said beyond what I’ve documented here, albeit with a lot fewer specifics.

I remember their house was air-conditioned – something to which we were not accustomed – and the Boy was cold so the Wife gave him a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of socks to wear while distracting him with milk and cookies. I remember him asking me, “Ma, they only have cow’s milk — am I allowed to have cow’s milk? I’m not allowed to have cow’s milk, Ma,” and I told him that this one time it would be fine, an exception was made and he was blissful eating cookies-I’d-never-fed-him and the forbidden cow’s milk.

The Neighbor-Husband was calm and spoke to me in a soothing voice, I recall him telling me that he’d been through this before, it was hell in the moment but that ultimately it would be better and as he said that, we heard another shot come from the house.

The police were suddenly present again and told us that we needed to relocate, we were not safe so close to the, “assailant,” and they ushered us out the back door, again carrying The Boy who complained he not finished with his snack and the utility belt of the officer carrying him hurt his leg. Behind the shields we were rushed, barefoot and mostly naked, through a number of backyards littered with dog shit and overgrown with sharp thistle that bit at my soles until finally we reached the end of our street and were parked behind a barricade of squad cars and ordered to sit down and stay down.

I was told there was a woman with flame-colored hair on the other side of the main road that wanted to take the Boy — my sister-in-law, the one who’d been on the phone. She’d been told I would be waiting for an undetermined amount of time, that a small child was present and could she find a place for him until we sussed it all out?

And my hair, as it is now, was a bright and deep shade of pink which prompted joking by the multitude of police officers about a sale on hair dye, it must have been a family affair. I carried my Boy across police lines and handed him to his aunt over yellow tape as she tearfully embraced me, telling me she loved me, that we would all be okay no matter what.

It is so tragically textbook how wrong she was.

I took inventory of my surroundings and realized that my neighborhood had suddenly become a hostage zone: yellow tape every which way, all residents ordered to stay indoors and away from windows, the main road — an interstate — off of which we lived blocked off as far as I could see. I stood, naked and trembling in the parking lot of the Dunkin' Donuts waiting for someone to give me direction, any direction.

Finally, my brother-in-law appeared by my side, visibly agitated. He’d tried to make his way down the street but was stopped by the police, told that the “assailant” was still armed and unaccounted for and that no one would be allowed within a certain distance of the house until the “assailant’s” condition was confirmed.

I blurted loudly, “he’s shot himself this time, what’re you waiting for? He could bleed to death and you’re doing nothing!” I was regarded with pity by a crew of men I’d come to know over the next four hours as the Mediums.

The Mediums were our connection to what was taking place at “the domicile.” They explained that because I had phoned in a suicide that had, in fact, been a “dummy shot,” they could not say with certainty whether or not the second shot was actually the One, or if it was just another “dummy.” If it were the latter and they entered “the domicile” to find him alive and armed, they would have no choice but to shoot him. They did not want to do that.

And so we waited, for four long hours, until the sun was long down and a Baltimore summer storm blew through, soaking us, and the Kenyan immigrants that held their service at the corner church were begging to be let out and my family arrived. My mother, my uncle, my sister and her husband, my grandmother, and my best friends and me and my brother-in-law sharing what would be our last moments of real togetherness, all of us (except for the Kenyans…and it’s hot in that church, I felt so guilty) standing in the July rain and me proudly refusing my sister’s shoes.

Four hours later, we watched the Mediums walking back up the street, taking off their riot gear piece by piece and lighting cigarettes and staring grimly at their feet to tell us what I already knew: that he was dead in his closet, a single gunshot wound to the right temple, likely hours old and they were sorry, so sorry, and there were more questions. All I wanted to do was get in that fucking house.

But there was more waiting.

The coroner was tied up elsewhere, his arrival time unpredictable, and as strongly as a pink-haired woman with bare feet in her underwear in the parking lot of a donut shop could assert herself, I said, “I am going to my house, I am cold and naked and my husband is dead and my grandmother has to pee and this has gone on long enough: I will walk down there, with my grandmother and if you arrest us, so be it, but I’d suggest at this point you just let us pass.”

And so they did, and so we all walked in the road and ignored the shouting Kenyans and the neighbors that were finally allowed out of their homes and wanted information. We ignored all of them so my grandmother could pee and I could put clothes on and so that Brian wouldn’t be alone as he had been for so many hours.

It surprises me still that we all voiced, in our own way, that we were most concerned with being in his company. We all believed it must have been so lonely for him to lie there alone while the neighborhood stood still and made sure that the man with the Irish accent in the green house with the hyper Boy and the pink-haired wife was not a threat to the police. When, after all this time, it was discovered that he had, in fact, died from that second shot I heard from across the street while my Boy ignorantly enjoyed his forbidden treat.

His brother demanded to see him; when he was finally granted permission I, too, was asked if I wanted to view the “deceased,” but I declined. I couldn’t imagine anything more gruesome. Brother-in-law was quick: up the stairs with urgency, his wailing audible for what was likely blocks, then back down again within a minute.

Until much later, I couldn’t imagine what drove his desire. I reminded myself, over and over when my own dear sister was holding my hand, walking me through the house, helping me make up my mind as to what I needed, for how long and for what purpose, that I had my only sibling, right next to me, warm and breathing and alive. How would I react if she were up in that closet? I couldn’t know; I don’t want to know and I pray – selfishly – I go before her because I never want to know.

After his brother came downstairs, sobbing and moaning,  I ascended the stairs intent on procuring sundries and clothing for an extended stay elsewhere. There were medics in the closet, the medical examiner hadn’t yet arrived, but there were the guys in the hot and stuffy room that smelled of iron and salt.

They were taking notes and measurements, oblivious to my presence. They had me believe, the police officers who’d been my liaisons for the past five hours, that they were making exceptions for us: letting us back into the house before the M.E., giving his brother permission to see Brian in his final state, allowing us to undo what wreckage they’d made in their “rescue efforts.”

I felt special, in an odd sort of way, privileged, brittle and grateful that I wasn’t treated more poorly. I didn’t know that this was, in fact, true. I was being treated less poorly, less criminally than most suicide survivors: I was not interrogated (much), I was not taken to the police station, I was never a suspect: Brian's death was plainly a suicide, he was kind enough to make that abundantly clear.  It was possibly the least ambiguous thing he'd ever done.

I didn’t own luggage, wouldn’t have been able to find it if I had, so I grabbed a blue plastic laundry basket and overturned it, emptying it of its dirty contents to blindly, unconsciously fill it with clothing, toiletries, books and pillows. The medics were still in the closet, they’d taken a lamp from my nightstand and dragged it to the entrance — the closet had no electricity and it was night, late by then. I worked in the bathroom while they were in the bedroom.

When I’d finished packing shampoos, cleansers, brushes and sponges, I asked permission to enter the bedroom — my own bedroom — and was granted a respectful “yes.” I placed another basket on the bed with the intent of filling it with clothing from the dresser when the medics stepped out of the room, into the overly-lit hallway to tidy up some notes. There were police in the hall, measuring bullet holes, being respectfully somber and quiet. I was alone for a minute, maybe two.

His body was on its side, its left side, not really laying down but bent that way; he’d been squatting on the floor of the closet under some hanging clothes, surrounded by piles of t-shirts and boxer shorts that were, in the end, mostly garbage.

I couldn’t see much blood at first, some spatter but there were so many clothes on the floor that it was mostly absorbed by the material. His eyes were open, slightly, as was his mouth; there was blood coming from his crooked nose and some around the entry wound in his right temple. A bit had trickled down toward his eye and was sticky in his brow and lashes; his hair, however, was soaked.

He'd fired that shot hours before, he’d bled a lot and although it was mostly contained under his head, there was still a lot of it. His arms were funnily contorted, his ribcage twisted and protruding in the way that it always did now breathless and still, his legs sprawled in a way that made it clear he was not sleeping.

I crouched frozen in that doorway for what felt like an hour until I heard the medics talking in the hall and realized, I had no permission to be viewing this and I jumped away before I was caught.

I calmly descended the stairs, no tears, full of freeze and fear and breathless shock. His brother, my sister and her husband were seated at the dining table; I sat nervously with them. They didn’t know I’d looked. I forgot moments later that I’d done so.

For the first and only time, I put ashtrays on that table and allowed smoking in the common area; I offered drinks and made one for myself. D played DJ, playing songs for Brian that he could not hear; my sister’s husband righted furniture, folded blankets and straightened toys while I washed the dishes left from the evening’s unfinished tea, while my sister packed a cooler full of vitamins and medication I would need for the coming week.

A detective asked me, “why are you washing dishes?” and I replied, “what would you have me be doing? They’re not going to do themselves,” all of this while Brian still lay above us, waiting to be shuttled to his next appointment.

Finally, the medical examiner arrived, took his brief assessment with what cut and dry evidence lay before him, and the medics performed their final task of bagging him and carrying him to the ambulance. We saw him off while blaring the Clash’s Robber Dub. A few years later, the Boy would ask me, “was Daddy a bank robber?” and tea came out of my nose.

I plodded around anxiously until the memory of those short minutes was buried, I did not want to remember, I wanted to undo what I’d seen.

And so I managed, for two years, to forget that I’d looked.

What's Going On?

If you are feeling desperate, alone or helpless, or know someone who is

call 1-800-273-TALK (8255) to talk to a counselor at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

On 15 July 2007, I asked my husband for a divorce.

We’d been intimate only a handful of times since I’d become pregnant with our son more than four years prior. I had my emotional and mental issues which I was committed to conquer, he had his, too, but his promises to seek help were far less enthusiastic.

While he took to the initial ultimatum of “Treat Yourself or Street Yourself,” his commitment waned and it took but a few months for me to realize that he was not invested his mental health, that moving along was my best option. I began a practical plan to move on: I saved money, devoted myself to my Ashtanga practice, threw myself into my work and my spirituality.

I wanted a clean break; to walk away without guilt or remorse, to be the better person. I found out in the short span of twelve hours that there would be no better person. We would both embody victor and victim, pain would override all logic and I would be burdened, time undefined, by both roles.

We can never know these things until they happen.

And they so rarely happen — no, wait: they happen so frequently but are so under-the-rug that we rarely hear of them, and so there are few frames of reference to guide us through what I declare the Single Most Excruciating and Life-Destroying Event of My Own — so much so that, given the opportunity, I’ve felt more often than not that I’d rather live forever in a loveless marriage than to experience it again.

I would turn back time. I would have stayed. It is not a reason, I know, to stay in a situation where one feels stifled, abused, neglected or disdained, but the aftermath is surreally horrifying, indescribable, heartbreaking.

I find myself with too many words, every one of them wrong, click/delete, click/delete, click/delete, my constant internal dialogue. I attempt to make sense of it and find the right in it and I weep sometimes from the cacophony.

I fear it will destroy me.

I asked for a divorce.

I’d done so a handful of times but was shot down by threats of, “My family is rich! I'll get the best counsellor and we'll take the Boy and there’s nothing you can do. Your poor, trashy family can’t – won’t – help you.” I resented it but he was right. My family is poor and by educational and demographic standards we are trash, generations deep in the lowest tax bracket. I couldn’t see a way out (his family is considerably more affluent than mine but make no mistake: they are of no pedigree, no better pigs than my own, with brighter lipstick, I know now), so I’d let it go.

I remained miserable. I remained sad, lonely and restrained by my husband’s scare tactics. I was finally validated by a good friend who’d been on vacation with us but left early, saying little more than, “I can’t stay, I have to leave but so do you. You need to find your courage and strength, take the Boy and get out of this marriage. It’s painful to watch you crumble.”

When we came home from vacation, I performed the usual post-holiday rituals: airing out the house, putting away clean clothes and laundering the dirty ones. I set out, like I did every night, two small dishes: one containing my medications and supplements and one containing his.

On the mornings he worked, he rose before the sun to make a thermos of tea, take a small breakfast of a muffin and follow it with the contents of his dish. When I awoke, I’d take mine and put the dishes aside to be refilled that evening. This ritual was performed without fail.

Sunday morning, I rose at 6AM for my weekly ashtanga practice in a small studio by the water. I devoted that day’s practice to the courage to say, “no more.” After, per ritual, I took a small breakfast and espresso with my fellow Ashtangis. This time I talked about my plan, and I parted with a flip, “see y’all, I’m off to ruin someone’s life,” in my usual sarcastic manner.

I am careful(er) now when I utter such inanities — I never know when they might be truer than I intend.

I got home to find he and The Boy puttering around, Sunday-morning-style. I asked to speak to him on the porch. Bolstered by the heat of my ujjayi pranayama, or ocean breath which fuels the rigor of ashtanga, I felt confident and clear-headed. I calmly said, “I’m done. I don’t want to be married to you anymore. I am not happy and neither are you. I have no plan, no idea where I’m going. I need to tell you now while I am brave enough that I mean it and no one — not you, nor your family nor your family’s money will stop me. If you wish, I will leave now, I can go to my sister’s or to Heather’s, but I leave that up to you.”

It should be said that we lived in a big house, an old bungalow built in the early ’20s with two spare bedrooms and our schedules were completely opposing. The idea of us staying under the same roof for a period was not outrageous in the least.

Surprisingly, he took a deep breath and said, “I agree. You’re miserable, I’m angry. I’m sick of arguing all the time, you want more from me than I have and I want the same from you. You don’t have to leave, I think you should stay in the bedroom since that’s where the Boy will search you out at night when he wakes up — I’ll move into the back guest room.”

He stood up and put his arms out to me, we embraced, kissed and thanked each other for the release.

I declare, without exaggeration, that this was one of the bigger moments of relief and joy in my life. I’d been prepared for a battle, and in his embrace I felt my shoulders relax and tears pour from my eyes; I realized then that I could not recall the last time in our marriage when I had felt relaxed in his arms. This is what words like bittersweet should be reserved for, a perfect description of that moment.

And so he climbed the stairs to the second floor and began the task of moving his necessities to the guest room. I followed him with fresh sheets, pillows freshly dry-cleaned and vacuum-sealed intended for guests. I helped him make a bed and set up his nightstand with a book he’d been reading about the Iroquoi and a spare alarm clock. I even put a framed photo of The Boy on the table so that he might feel more comfortable in his temporary setup, watched over by the person whom he’d declared “My One True Love,” which I’d never challenged or resented because I felt the same way.

The Boy had not been born, in my opinion, to further unify a marriage of two people but to give each individual a real purpose and recognize our higher callings. I can now safely say that I believe we were together only to make The Boy, we two spiritual orphans from shattered upbringings who wanted nothing more than to be feel and to be perceived as normal.

I asked if there was anything else I could do, he kissed my cheek and sadly told me, “no, love, you’ve done plenty and I’m so very sorry,” and I felt myself well-up some, so I quickly retreated and hopped down the stairs to find The Boy.

The afternoon ticked on, and he realized that he was to start driving a company van the next morning, the first day of his promotion to Apprentice Carpenter. He asked if I minded driving him to the shop to pick up the van. I said of course not, I was happy to, and we piled into the car, the three of us, and set off on the twenty-minute drive.

Shortly into the ride – I cannot recall the catalyst anymore – we began to bicker and finger-point. I wouldn’t remember it, possibly, if the Boy hadn’t pleaded from the backseat, “please, please stop fighting, Ma, Da, please, I can’t hear it anymore!” clapping his hands over his ears, kicking the back of my seat with his then-still-tiny feet. We were silent the remainder of the drive.

When we arrived at the shop, I asked if he wanted me to wait and he declined, saying, “g’on home, now, I’ll be right behind ya.” So we went. We got home without incident, The Boy and me, and there we waited for three long hours for his return. I tried not to be concerned. I kept my fingers away from the phone because what business was it of mine where he was? I doubted he’d been in an accident.

I thought he was likely having pints at the local, talking with his older brother or pub mates, catching a repeat of an Arsenal match. When he returned he did not smell of alcohol but of anger and resentment. It was imprinted in every footstep and syllable he laid down.

Something had changed, I couldn’t know what and it doesn’t matter. I felt as if I needed to give berth to the force-field surrounding him. I worried our time under the same roof would be painful.

And so begins the part where my discomfort flared and I became uncertain whether or not I had made the right decision. If I had made the right decision, was it prudent to stay in such a hostile environment? There were places to go: my sister’s, my best friend’s; countless others would have happily made a bed and welcomed us for the short-but-indefinite period I would need to procure a small flat for The Boy and me.

My credit was outstanding, I had a decent amount of money saved and it was the middle of the month, which gave us two whole weeks to find something suitable and clean – should I stay? I decided to stay the night, gauge the environment from now until tomorrow and make my decision in the morning.

The handlebars came off the Boy’s trike mid-ride and he called, “Ma! Da! My trike is broke!” and I hollered up to him upstairs, “hey, the handlebars came off the Boy’s trike, can you give a hand, please?”

No answer. But I heard the footsteps, heavy, across the upper floor and down the stairs; he walked determinedly toward me and opened the tool drawer in the utility room, pointed and said, “fix it yourself, you’re going to need to learn how to do these things anyway. Why not start now?”

Cutting, it was, but also true, so I grabbed an adjustable wrench and both types of screwdrivers. Lo, I fixed it in a minute. When I returned to the utility room to put the tools away, he announced, “I’ve taken all your Xanax.”

I’m sorry to say that my reaction was to laugh, for I realized this was, in fact, War. I said with a grin, appropriating his accent, “fat lotta good that’ll do ya. They make those pills for crazy people who want to die and you’d need ten times that many to do more than enjoy a good nap. Sleep tight!” as I turned heel and walked off, shaken but not visibly so.

I would not be rattled, I was determined, he was convincing me that my decision to leave was the right one, stocking my larder with his every word. It was early evening and time to eat, so I asked, “I’m fixing tea [dinner, in Irish, it's a whole other story] for The Boy, are you hungry?”

He replied, “Fuck you.”

I took that to mean no, and while he retreated back upstairs I set to preparing enough salads, vegetables and breaded chicken for the three of us in case he changed his mind. While I was cooking, the Boy was up and down the stairs, dividing his attention between the two of us and blissfully unaware of any unusual tension. There was constant tension, the Boy was sadly accustomed to it. I put the tea on the table, called for The Boy and we sat down in the sweltering dining room to eat our evening meal.

Within a few bites, he came down to the dining room where he took from the liquor cabinet a bottle of the Balvenie, 12-years aged, single malt and reserved for nips and toasts on special occasions. He poured nearly a pint of it, set it down to grasp the Boy’s face with both hands, kiss him on the head and said, “be a good boy for yer Ma now, eat all yer tea and don’t forget that your Da loves you best,” then picked up the glass without so much as a glance in my direction and went back upstairs.

A few minutes passed when the Boy put down his fork and said, earnestly, “Ma, is daddy really gonna shoot himself in the head with a gun?” My entire body flushed red and hot as I handed the phone to the Boy and said, “if you hear any loud noises, call 911 – only if you hear a loud noise, y’understand me?” He nodded, showing the first bit of fright I’d seen on his face that day.

I ran up the stairs and shouted his name. He did not answer; I found him crouched in his closet — as I said, our house was old and in the master bedroom were two full-sized walk-in closets — wearing only his trainers, a pair of Dickie’s shorts with a pair of red plaid boxers showing over the top.

In his hand, elbow bent and pointing upward, was a handgun I recognized as his grandfather’s service sidearm from WWI and I said, “Jaysus, what’re you doin’?! You scared the Boy half t’death, that piece o’shit doesn’t even work! This is pure melodrama, I won’t have it, I’m calling your brother.”

He replied, “do what ya will, y’always do – what th’fuck do I care, anyway? You’re ruining my life, tell whoever you want, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.”

I steadied my breath before returning to the dining room, assuring the Boy that all was well, Daddy was a bit drunk and sad but that no, he was not going to shoot himself. I grasped his face in the same manner his father had shortly before, kissing his baby lips, then I took the phone out on the back deck and called his brother, explaining the situation and asking him to please come over, I could not handle keeping the Boy ignorant and calming down his brother at the same time.

Exasperated, he said, “what the fuck?! That old thing? It doesn’t even work, does it?” and I told him, of course it didn’t work, I wouldn’t have allowed it in the house had it been operable.” He said, “of course, you’re right, I’m sorry he’s such a handful, I’ll be right over.” Again I took my place at the table and it wasn’t five minutes later that we heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired directly above our heads.

I leapt from my chair, grabbed the Boy and both phones and ran, full-speed out the front door, shutting it behind me and sitting on the top step.

Shaking, I called 911 and asked, “can someone come quickly, my husband just shot himself, no I didn’t know he had a gun, well, I knew he did but I didn’t think it worked, yes, we’d been arguing, we were planning a separation would someone please come?!?” The Boy sat calmly next to me, wide-eyed, not saying a word (it may be the quietest he’s ever been while awake).

We were clad in little more than underwear: I hadn’t changed out of my yoga clothes, so I sat on our steps in little more than glorified boy-shorts and a sports bra; the Boy wore nothing but a pair of underpants. I phoned my brother-in-law; he did not answer. I called his wife and told her, hysterically, what was happening. She stayed on the phone with me until I felt the door open behind me, revealing the Husband as I’d seen him upstairs.

Shocked, I told my sister-in-law that he was, actually, alive and standing right behind me and she said, “oh, thank g-d, I will phone D and tell him to hustle.”

He was grinning so drunkenly, it was frightening, but I was furious. My anger overrode my fear as I screamed, “what the fuck is your problem? What are you doing?”

He replied, “Jes shootin’ the place up, baby.”

I told him that I thought he was dead, that he’d killed himself and the police were on their way and so was his brother and at that point the Boy said, “Da! Can I see your gun again?” and when I looked to my right I saw, level with my head, the pistol that was, indeed, quite operable. Without answering the Boy’s question he asked, “Ya ready t’go now?”

When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt.

Well, you mind, some, but you cannot alter your course and you'd be a right fool to try, lest you set things off course and be hurt much, much worse...at the very worst, you are never hurt at all. I don't fancy that a type of life worth having.

My darling friend, a new blogger with very true stories of being hurt and becoming real, gets the funistrada (not real, you know) honor of being not only the reason for the rebirth of this squeaky old thing, but of having been hurt, wildly and beyond my own imagination in a way that has made her one of the realest women I know.

the Velveteen Hoodrat is most worthy of your blog roll and of a counting, twice over, of all the blessings you have ever had...more importantly, it is indeed the greatest resource that I have when I need reminding that I am defined -- Made Real -- by both my good and my bad.

If I know her as I hope I do, I hope also that mucking up the order in which you devour her writing pisses her off -- and how! Because she gives as good as I do and if you know me as I hope you do: Ain't nobody can give quite like me in a fury...except the Rabbit, the Rabbit is a force and a flower and a bitch and a beauty and when you read -- out of order, mind you, but I'll deal with the Rabbit, go on now -- the story that compelled me to know the woman who can withstand such insanity without so much as an apology or an excuse, you will go back and read it all and if you thank me...well, I'm not here to be petted, I just love you and want to give you presents.

the Headline Read: Couple Accused In Grisly Slaying

Presents aren't always chocolates, perfumes or diamonds: Sometimes you get socks, underwear and a new toothbrush.

for Brian, from Incendiary by Chris Cleave:

"If on that day you killed life, then it was on that day that I killed love."

The Wait

the Wait is upon me, this time with a Weight, as heavy as an anvil on my chest, like lead beads lining my shoes and not unlike a wet wool sweater that wants off but can't make it over my head.

I couldn't have anticipated this, not in a million years. A decade ago I sat on the carpet in the bedroom of a rented condo that I shared with my sister, a corded phone attached to my ear with my hand over the mouthpiece to muffle my sobs, wanting to beg for more time, for the dozenth time to make good what seemed impossible but I stayed silent and I let go, weeping, I hung up the receiver and turned my back on what I believed to be irreparable and I walked away. It would be the first heartbreak I'd ever feel, an ache I had never experienced and I spent a good year wishing it away, pushing it to the back of my mind and stuffing it into a closet of oh-wells that would never be revisited. A major depression followed, a fog of time I buffered with job-hopping and mediocre dates with men who would never really know me, relationships that, in retrospect, were doomed for failure and I touched on that deep ache in tiny fractions that added up to the Biggest One until it became, finally, the Past.

I didn't know where you'd gone or with whom; there were rumors of sightings, speculations of your endings-up, angry jokes made at your expense that were supposed to make me feel better but left me feeling, still, as if even these minor humors were betrayals of what I'd thought to be The Only Chance I'd Ever Know, the Only One Who'd Ever Really Loved Me. Finally, blissfully, I stopped wondering and hoping and looking; Google became a thing and I typed your name, your full name, once only to come up empty-screened and I never did it again, I was sure I had no reason to wonder anymore: You were gone, it was over and past and done and what lesson I'd learned I had to make up for myself because I really hadn't learned one, at all, I only knew that the pain was almost out the door and then it was.

And so I met a man, another one with whom I'd set another house on fire and we made a baby, another one, this one to be born and while I occasionally had to reflect, during internal exams and questions asked by midwives and doctors, about any previous pregnancies, full-term or not, it was on this one I focused, this baby-to-be and the new Fire Starter and you were dormant, you were quiet and no more than a memory I barely remembered. This was peaceful, at the time, this is what I'd suffered for, to forget you and assign you your rightful place as Behind Me Somewhere and Where I Don't Know.

And first there was the ex-girlfriend, who recognized me through photos I didn't know you still had, approaching me during a rare adult moment when the Boy was off on a sleep over with my mother being fed with bottles of breast milk I'd pumped for such an occasion...the ex-girlfriend, with the pale skin and the shaking hands and the curly, reddish hair, with the current boyfriend with whom my husband had shared secrets and then some, it was a surreal evening for the both of us but the Husband was unfazed, seemingly, he drank his draught beer and reminisced with the Boyfriend while I heard sad stories, one-sided, of her survival of You and your stormy relationship and she begged for commiseration and I had none for her, I nodded and uh-huh'd and agreed to an online relationship with her but only in politeness, I really had no interest. I didn't want to share my story, our story, I couldn't tell her the intimate things that were woven so expertly into the fabric of who I'd become and the trivial stuff I've never had time for...I was glad that she stopped trying, eventually, and while I was slightly sad for her that she'd had less-than-good memories of your time together, I was more jealous that she'd had your time at all and I was apathetic and she gave up. And away you went again, it was easier that time, I still didn't know where you were or what you were doing and I had a home and a child and a job and a husband, you remained a relevant memory but you'd faded -- I had no photos to remind me or to share with the Husband, I had nothing but a red ball cap with a single white star on it that I wore to conceal my matted hair on trips to the grocery when I was too tired to do more than put a lid on it.

And there I was, in my space, in the smoky loud bar that was My Own Place with My Own Friends and I confess that when I saw your face at table 15, the one just to the left of the door, my heart leapt to my throat and I hurried to the side of my closest friend, the Bartender, the only one to whom I'd told about you and said, "it's Him, He's here, I don't know if I can do this," and he told me that I could do it, that I had it in me and that I was safe and that all I had to do was to be courteous and not show any emotion stronger than the false sense of friendliness I would show to anyone who was putting a dent in my mortgage payment. I could have asked one of my coworkers to take over the table, I nearly did, I was affronted by a drop in blood pressure and a ringing in my ears that distracted me and threw off my rhythm but then I remembered that I was not only alive but pretty happy, right then, I had a beautiful child sleeping at home and I was protected not only by my best friends, my coworkers, but by my perseverance and sticktoitiveness that had gotten me to a place of not-caring-much-at-all-anymore, so I did it. I couldn't tell you what you ate, I remember your date asked for a water refill and I don't remember if you drank beer or coke or both (but I think it was coke); what I do remember is that I was inclined to NOT hook you up in any way, that I felt, consciously, in no way obligated to you to give you a thing: I had felt abandoned by you, I had felt shut out by you and I clung to that feeling during your stay so that I could keep my wits about me, and I dropped your check just as soon as you responded, "no, thanks," when I asked if you'd like anything else. And I felt guilty, in spite of myself, for not at least buying you a beer in place of the hug and the kiss and the cheek-press that I'd really, in my heart, wanted to give you. And so you left, and I had a shot or two to calm myself, to cut the electricity that was surging up and down and all through me in a way that both confused me and frustrated me.

And the next day I typed out our story, from first sight to last word and every ugly and beautiful moment in between, and I let myself remember for as long as it took me to write it and reread it several times until I printed it out, set it on fire in an old coffee can and deleted the file. I intended to put it to rest for good, to not revisit the details deliberately as long as I had control of it.

And there was this time, at the Waverly Library, where I took the Boy from time to time, when I found myself on a play mat with a man I swore was You, so sure of it that I asked a friend to watch the Boy while I made a frantic call to my sister, telling her that you were right there, with your boy child, in the library with me and that no matter what kind of eye contact I made or small talk I attempted you were ignorant of my identity and I couldn't imagine how you couldn't know it was me, your ignorance was surely willful, and she implored me to breathe and stay calm and to remember that the door was open and that I could walk out of it if I needed to -- I did not have to stay, I had nothing to prove. I went back inside and the man whom I'd thought was You was kind enough to roll up his sleeves, revealing bare skin that had never been tattooed and I nearly wept with relief: I was heartbroken, for a moment, that you could forget me or worse, that you could willfully ignore me. And so it was not the case, just a very bizarre instance of mistaken identity.

And then there was tragedy, and the medicines I used to numb the pain of that trauma, the trauma itself being enough to erase a good bit of my memory for what I was afraid would be permanent but I didn't care, the trauma was too big and what had occurred before it seemed so small and I had current responsibilities that were tremendous and left no room for nostalgia or what-if, and the medicines led to more trauma and sadness and did nothing more than to push me into another kind of regret hole that was surmountable, finally, by the cessation of the medicines and a change in geography. And then it was just the Boy and Me and a tiny space in which we'd creatively cram our many possessions and there was adjustment, sure, and there were a few bed-warmers to distract me during times of great pain and emptiness.

Only once during the Adjustment did I see your face, once in a photo that I did not possess but that was in the album of an uncle's wedding we'd attended, early in our courtship, during which my mother had attempted to shame us for our shameless display of earnest affection -- that heady, early time when hands were nearly always on and lips were inseparable, no matter how untoward it appeared in settings both formal and not; I was thin then as I am now, in a pink dress with a single tattoo, you were looking at me with half a smile and your hand on your chin and you wore a tie, the only time I'd ever see you in one, and I know without seeing it that we both wished we were elsewhere. I stared at that photo for a long time, looking for a sign of bad to come but there was no sadness then, not yet, we were still perfect.

And then you found me, again, on that ubiquitous social networking site where most everyone and their grandparents are present and you asked for my "friendship" and I admit that I granted it, briefly, if only to see you again and to know where you were and if you were "in a relationship," I got the information I needed, I saw what I wanted to see but I was too afraid to let you back in, I had felt that electricity that night in the bar and I didn't want to risk it, it seemed dangerous and my trauma was in my lap and I was a mess, I couldn't let you in so I canceled it and this time: I shut You out in the way I'd perceived you'd done for me all those years before. Pathetic victory, it was.

And then, a year or so later when the Boy claimed the red ball cap with the single white star as his favorite and realized its purpose as a sun visor and asked, "is this your hat?" and I told him that no, it had belonged to an old friend with whom I no longer spoke and, as any dutiful 7-year-old would, he continued to ask and I found myself telling an abbreviated version of Us, the one without the sadness and the contempt and the regret, and he begged an answer to, "so where is he and why isn't he here? Is it okay for me to wear the hat?" and I told him I insisted, I wanted to see it on him and I spent many nights lying awake wondering if I should open that door again, just to see, and the answer did not come easily to me and frankly, I don't know right now if it was the right one.

And I opened a real door and through it You walked, taller than I'd remembered but almost identical, with the same smile and the voice I couldn't forget if I'd wanted to and an embrace, a sincere embrace that emanated and radiated the exact energy that had instigated all that inappropriate PDA and hasty commitments to Forever and I was terrified and thrilled and thought, "you're home, you're finally home," and we took a long walk through fractured sunlight shone down on railroad tracks, through a dank tunnel and talked over each other, almost manically and our rhythm felt exactly the same and the only difference I felt, amidst all the mania and the nervousness and the excitement, was the maturity that only comes with age and the realization that we'd never truly been adults together. And we were frank and apologetic, in ways that needed to be said for our own consciences but, at least for me, required no audible explanation because I could feel your regret in your steps and your calmness and I felt as if I'd just won the best prize I'd never imagined and I'd neglected to read the small print.

And we walked on to the abandoned building devoid of all but rubble and LSD-fueled graffiti, the building that had once housed people with the same disease that I have but for whom, in their days, there was no hope or home to return to or a stalwart past-lover to walk ahead with a proverbial flashlight and say, finally, "watch your step, follow close," and I felt at once heartbroken for my fellows who'd died sick and alone, and safe in the knowledge that I would never know that fate. And I believed then that You would be the one who would keep me from that fate: That we would finally know our In-Sickness-And-In-Health, all these years later. And later that evening, while we sat chastely tangled on the small sofa for so many hours into the early morning before finally giving in to comforting affection, we agreed to Try, I realized that I'd never wanted something so strongly in my life and the Wait, in that moment and for several days following, seemed as if it might not be so bad.

And so I realized that, in fact, it is so hard, it is so excruciating and painful and heavy, on my chest and in my shoes and behind my eyes and even in my hands, that I feel, every other minute, as if I cannot do it, it is impossible and masochistic and not even a certainty.

And every other minute, it feels as if it isn't a choice at all, that it is another test of endurance and strength that is my duty to fulfill and g-d help me if these aren't the moments that hook me.

And so I wait.