Her mother and grandmother always stressed the importance of thank you notes. Any gift she was given warranted a written, stamped, snail mail paper slice of appreciation. With this in mind, at the close of the year, she sat down one night in her pajamas and wrote him the thank you she felt he deserved. And she realized as she gripped the pen in her right hand, this would be the last handwritten note he'd ever receive from her...(and he used to love her notes).
To you,
The sun is setting on this tumultuous year and I still don't know where my current world began. When I reach back into my brain, into my heart (only sometimes) and try to pinpoint your location, your birth, I really cannot find it. Perhaps it is shadowed or buried. I don't really know.
But if anything, despite the words I could select tonight (and these are the ones that explode out when no one is here to listen) I choose to write you this thank you note.
For you gave me gifts despite your ardent attempts to give nothing.
Thank you, my departed someone, for making me so much stronger - for making me the fighter I am today.
For without you, I might never have learned this incredible sensation of survival.
Lady Lunacy
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
James
She finished her paperwork and submitted it to the clerk at the front desk. Shifting her purse to the other shoulder, she turned to Dr. Heathrow and asked "Where do I meet James?"
"You'll meet him in the nursery," the doctor replied. "My guess is he's already there pruning the roses. He really likes wild roses."
Dr. Heathrow smiled to herself. She shuffled through the papers a moment and then added, "Down the hall to the right. You'll see the morning light diffusing through the dirty glass. He'll be the only one in there at this hour."
She headed toward the nursery wondering about this James. What would make him drink himself stupid and then careen through a mall? How does he deal with the guilt? Does he even feel shame or remorse for what he's done? Based upon the doctor's comments, James didn't sound all that scary, all that demented. Maybe people just misunderstood him, his intentions, just like people misunderstood her all the time. She smiled inwardly.
At the end of the hallway, she observed morning sunshine penetrating a set of opaque glass doors. Behind them she could see a figure moving about in the haze and humidity. She watched a moment, transfixed by the beauty in the grime. She could see brilliant oranges, reds, purples, yellows, pinks spilling through the glass despite the handprints and density of age. The greens played polka dots around the colors as they danced about the retro glass. It was nearly psychadelic, like a good trip. How appropriate, she thought. She pushed the doors open and walked into the early day fog.
"Good morning," she called into the mist.
No response. She could hear only the sound of a sprayer emitting soft drops.
"James?" she added.
Again nothing. At the end of a row of hyacinths and geraniums, she spotted him again showering the baby plants with a small hose.
"Are you James?" she spoke as she moved toward the man hunched over the plants.
"What? Oh hello. I wasn't paying any attention. Who are you? What are you doing here in my spot?" he asked, half casually, half accusingly.
"Dr. Heathrow sent me down here to help you. I think she wants us to talk and I think she also wants to put me to work," she said warmly hoping he'd respond favorably.
"I see, community service it is then. You can fill pots with fresh soil. I have bulbs I want to plant before the frost" he gestured outside to a small patch of barren dirt.
"I don't really see a need to talk much," he added. "I keep to myself and no, I don't want to talk about what happened at the mall. Don't even ask me."
Well this wasn't working out quite right. She squatted next to the pots and began digging out soil with a trowel she found nearby. She watched as James delicately spritzed the leaves of a ficus in the corner. It was as if they were his children, his only loves. He seemed to gaze adoringly at their leaves, their structures. He appeared to be studying them while also silently worshipping them too.
James wore what looked like an old pair of designer jeans, maybe Polo or Calvin Klein. They were frayed at the cuffs. His plaid shirt was covered by a bright orange sweater. She noticed a small hole in the back. His square glasses tipped on his nose as he leaned forward, a stray hair or two falling with them. His brown locks were near perfectly place save those few that escaped over his brow. He worked slowly and deliberately, his body knowing it had all the time in the universe with the foliage.
How beautiful it would be to have this kind of time, she thought to herself as she filled pots.
He turned to her. "You're making a mess. Look at that!"
Startled, she looked around her. She'd spilled a clump of soil on the ground. He rushed to her, grabbed a nearby hand broom and dust pan and swept it up nimbly.
"Try to keep it in the pot, okay? I don't like mess."
He frowned and went back to the ficus tree. She sat there almost hurt by the curt reprimand.
If he weren't in the crazy house, she might just feel badly about it.
As she continued to spoon soil, her mind floated upwards and out to another time when she knew a garden. Her thoughts drifted to rows of corn, sunflowers, tomatos, kalarabi, beans, carrots, and lettuces. And for a moment she wanted to shed a tear for all of the growth and memory though her heart smiled at what once was before.
"You'll meet him in the nursery," the doctor replied. "My guess is he's already there pruning the roses. He really likes wild roses."
Dr. Heathrow smiled to herself. She shuffled through the papers a moment and then added, "Down the hall to the right. You'll see the morning light diffusing through the dirty glass. He'll be the only one in there at this hour."
She headed toward the nursery wondering about this James. What would make him drink himself stupid and then careen through a mall? How does he deal with the guilt? Does he even feel shame or remorse for what he's done? Based upon the doctor's comments, James didn't sound all that scary, all that demented. Maybe people just misunderstood him, his intentions, just like people misunderstood her all the time. She smiled inwardly.
At the end of the hallway, she observed morning sunshine penetrating a set of opaque glass doors. Behind them she could see a figure moving about in the haze and humidity. She watched a moment, transfixed by the beauty in the grime. She could see brilliant oranges, reds, purples, yellows, pinks spilling through the glass despite the handprints and density of age. The greens played polka dots around the colors as they danced about the retro glass. It was nearly psychadelic, like a good trip. How appropriate, she thought. She pushed the doors open and walked into the early day fog.
"Good morning," she called into the mist.
No response. She could hear only the sound of a sprayer emitting soft drops.
"James?" she added.
Again nothing. At the end of a row of hyacinths and geraniums, she spotted him again showering the baby plants with a small hose.
"Are you James?" she spoke as she moved toward the man hunched over the plants.
"What? Oh hello. I wasn't paying any attention. Who are you? What are you doing here in my spot?" he asked, half casually, half accusingly.
"Dr. Heathrow sent me down here to help you. I think she wants us to talk and I think she also wants to put me to work," she said warmly hoping he'd respond favorably.
"I see, community service it is then. You can fill pots with fresh soil. I have bulbs I want to plant before the frost" he gestured outside to a small patch of barren dirt.
"I don't really see a need to talk much," he added. "I keep to myself and no, I don't want to talk about what happened at the mall. Don't even ask me."
Well this wasn't working out quite right. She squatted next to the pots and began digging out soil with a trowel she found nearby. She watched as James delicately spritzed the leaves of a ficus in the corner. It was as if they were his children, his only loves. He seemed to gaze adoringly at their leaves, their structures. He appeared to be studying them while also silently worshipping them too.
James wore what looked like an old pair of designer jeans, maybe Polo or Calvin Klein. They were frayed at the cuffs. His plaid shirt was covered by a bright orange sweater. She noticed a small hole in the back. His square glasses tipped on his nose as he leaned forward, a stray hair or two falling with them. His brown locks were near perfectly place save those few that escaped over his brow. He worked slowly and deliberately, his body knowing it had all the time in the universe with the foliage.
How beautiful it would be to have this kind of time, she thought to herself as she filled pots.
He turned to her. "You're making a mess. Look at that!"
Startled, she looked around her. She'd spilled a clump of soil on the ground. He rushed to her, grabbed a nearby hand broom and dust pan and swept it up nimbly.
"Try to keep it in the pot, okay? I don't like mess."
He frowned and went back to the ficus tree. She sat there almost hurt by the curt reprimand.
If he weren't in the crazy house, she might just feel badly about it.
As she continued to spoon soil, her mind floated upwards and out to another time when she knew a garden. Her thoughts drifted to rows of corn, sunflowers, tomatos, kalarabi, beans, carrots, and lettuces. And for a moment she wanted to shed a tear for all of the growth and memory though her heart smiled at what once was before.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Best Wishes...
It's December, early in the month.
We now have bitter cold and lots of snow.
And it reminds me....of that time when everything started.
You know, when the elements brought with it a new lease on life.
And you can't see it where you are.
But it's beautiful.
And I was thinking of it all this morning, because here at this hour it's so quiet.
And I wanted to share this soft moment with you.
Wishing you happiness where you are.
Because it's been an entire year.
And that what you are doing today brings you a smile.
Despite everything else, what goes on right now, I can still smile too.
We now have bitter cold and lots of snow.
And it reminds me....of that time when everything started.
You know, when the elements brought with it a new lease on life.
And you can't see it where you are.
But it's beautiful.
And I was thinking of it all this morning, because here at this hour it's so quiet.
And I wanted to share this soft moment with you.
Wishing you happiness where you are.
Because it's been an entire year.
And that what you are doing today brings you a smile.
Despite everything else, what goes on right now, I can still smile too.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
What She Tried to Say Once...But it Wouldn't Come Out
When it came right down to it, she really just wanted to find her real voice.
When the noise stopped and she was finally alone, the following poured from her lips and echoed in her room, in the hollows of the darkness. She cried as she spoke not because of her wounded heart, but because the words caught on the back of her teeth so often and were always tardy, always leaving her muted when she so desperately needed them. Anger waved through her meloncholy because she felt so PC, so numbed, so incredibly passive, when inside, she climbed the walls with fury.
And in the peaceful quiet of the 12:30 am, she said aloud, but only to herself...
Despite age and experience
I was here first.
I am here, alone, despite your crowding.
Inside me,
Are all my thoughts of you.
Everything I hide, all I conceal,
Protects you from your rage, your pain.
If you knew how strong I am,
How you truly cannot wound,
A bit of you would die inside.
I don't want you to die. Live with me.
So I shelter you from yourself, from your fear.
And this burden I bear has no words, no sounds
For it is muted against so many trivial things.
We all want so badly to be loved, don't we?
We all want to be accepted,
So damn this futility,
This wretched loathing that brings the lash, the grit.
Be quiet. Be at peace.
You cannot reach me. I am inside.
I am deep underneath, buried beneath the barbs, your hate.
My own sanctuary I created,
My own nightmare in which I only seek solace,
From you.
So say "good night" and go.
Kick tires and scream into the black.
You cannot touch. You cannot feel.
Mourn only this shade, this image.
For it is all you have.
This nightmare was but only your dream.
So wake, say "good night,"
And go.
When the noise stopped and she was finally alone, the following poured from her lips and echoed in her room, in the hollows of the darkness. She cried as she spoke not because of her wounded heart, but because the words caught on the back of her teeth so often and were always tardy, always leaving her muted when she so desperately needed them. Anger waved through her meloncholy because she felt so PC, so numbed, so incredibly passive, when inside, she climbed the walls with fury.
And in the peaceful quiet of the 12:30 am, she said aloud, but only to herself...
Despite age and experience
I was here first.
I am here, alone, despite your crowding.
Inside me,
Are all my thoughts of you.
Everything I hide, all I conceal,
Protects you from your rage, your pain.
If you knew how strong I am,
How you truly cannot wound,
A bit of you would die inside.
I don't want you to die. Live with me.
So I shelter you from yourself, from your fear.
And this burden I bear has no words, no sounds
For it is muted against so many trivial things.
We all want so badly to be loved, don't we?
We all want to be accepted,
So damn this futility,
This wretched loathing that brings the lash, the grit.
Be quiet. Be at peace.
You cannot reach me. I am inside.
I am deep underneath, buried beneath the barbs, your hate.
My own sanctuary I created,
My own nightmare in which I only seek solace,
From you.
So say "good night" and go.
Kick tires and scream into the black.
You cannot touch. You cannot feel.
Mourn only this shade, this image.
For it is all you have.
This nightmare was but only your dream.
So wake, say "good night,"
And go.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Warm Memory #6
It was amidst a cacophany of whirling traffic, slushing ice, and a flattening trumpet that she caught sight of his smile again. Wide, open and full of trickery and spice. It was as if his eyes and mouth formed a relationship existing apart from the rest of him.
This smile, this laughing, genuine grin, always took her by surprise. It was reminiscent of those days on the playground when her friends challenged her to jump from her swing as it flew higher and higher from the ground.
She always jumped. Always landed hard, but on her feet.
And it was this sparkling smile, the one that popped and fizzed when it hit her, that seemed to say "Come play with me."
She wanted to tell him how she felt about the smile, what it made her think about. But for the time being, she kept it in, enjoying it in solitude for the time being.
This smile, this laughing, genuine grin, always took her by surprise. It was reminiscent of those days on the playground when her friends challenged her to jump from her swing as it flew higher and higher from the ground.
She always jumped. Always landed hard, but on her feet.
And it was this sparkling smile, the one that popped and fizzed when it hit her, that seemed to say "Come play with me."
She wanted to tell him how she felt about the smile, what it made her think about. But for the time being, she kept it in, enjoying it in solitude for the time being.
Cold Memory #6 - Her Third Skin
When it failed the second time, it numbed her. The words "I love you" and "I want to be with you" felt hollow, like pennies thrown into the bottom of a tin bucket, not a wishing well.
The letters seemed to bounce around her arms, her ears, her shoulders, and even her legs.
She could no longer feel it in her fingertips or her toes. They seemed to rest there a moment, pooling like raindrops, but then they beaded and slipped away.
And she hated herself because she couldn't believe them, couldn't use them to insure herself through another few months. She knew too well their haste, their aftertaste. She wanted to cry selfish tears, but the skin around her eyes had grown so thick; it no longer needed the moisture.
She wanted to turn over, to go back and make it all true again, but the thought of overexposure, of more cuts, and ultimately the devastating loss of more layers petrified her to numbness. And she sat staring out the window, eyes trained on the leaves falling into the darkness. The sun was dying and soon it would be too cold to feel this.
The phone felt like lead and it drooped lazily against her as her ears took in the sounds, the confessions, the darkest of what could be real about her, could be real about him.
And she hated herself for disbelieving, but was left no option.
She could no longer be fooled in this third skin.
God just once she wants to be fooled; she wants so badly not to see it coming again.
It was only after a few weeks that he took it all back; the phone died.
And she cried only once, wishing one time she could be wrong about all of it.
But in this quiet, knowing darkness, she knew not what lay upon her horizon...knew not that it would be what could thaw everything...
The letters seemed to bounce around her arms, her ears, her shoulders, and even her legs.
She could no longer feel it in her fingertips or her toes. They seemed to rest there a moment, pooling like raindrops, but then they beaded and slipped away.
And she hated herself because she couldn't believe them, couldn't use them to insure herself through another few months. She knew too well their haste, their aftertaste. She wanted to cry selfish tears, but the skin around her eyes had grown so thick; it no longer needed the moisture.
She wanted to turn over, to go back and make it all true again, but the thought of overexposure, of more cuts, and ultimately the devastating loss of more layers petrified her to numbness. And she sat staring out the window, eyes trained on the leaves falling into the darkness. The sun was dying and soon it would be too cold to feel this.
The phone felt like lead and it drooped lazily against her as her ears took in the sounds, the confessions, the darkest of what could be real about her, could be real about him.
And she hated herself for disbelieving, but was left no option.
She could no longer be fooled in this third skin.
God just once she wants to be fooled; she wants so badly not to see it coming again.
It was only after a few weeks that he took it all back; the phone died.
And she cried only once, wishing one time she could be wrong about all of it.
But in this quiet, knowing darkness, she knew not what lay upon her horizon...knew not that it would be what could thaw everything...
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Bottom of the Big Girl Purse
As she waits to meet James, she digs to the bottom of her enormous purse. It had been ages since she'd peered down to see what created all the weight. She really needed to lighten her load.
She found her notebook, the one with all the scratchings and observations, and inside were the poems she'd lost so many years ago...
Lullaby
Sleep soundly…
And know that I am dreaming of you
Be still…
For I am near
Close your heavy eyes…
For my arms will cradle you during your darkest storms
Sleep…sleep…
Cast your cares upon an ocean of slumber
I will protect you
Rest your weary head…
For I am beside you
No solitary moment will ever find you
Sleep…sleep…
Dream only of happiness
I will hold your burdens
In the caverns of my willing heart
Quiet…
Imagine my arms around you
For they are there to shield you
Sleep…sleep…
Do not fear
For I will always be here
In your heart’s deepest memory
This warmth will keep you safe
Until we meet once more
Sleep…
RESIST
Resist the hand that pulled you
Remember its reasons
Resist the shame, know who she is
You saw her, ahead, at the finish line
Resist the temptation to fall
It’s easier to be slower than the rest
Resist the earth who holds your feet
Your weight is already too heavy
Resist the wind. Remember his sting
He knows the desire you keep
He whispered it to you when you pushed him out of the way
Resist the game that winning is
That life is
Resist
“You are your own worst enemy.”
I AM
Among crayons, I am the white one
Among pebbles, I am the jagged stone
Among oceans, I am the quiet stream
Among cards, I am the joker
Among fruits, I am the tomato
Among friends, I am the secret
Among luxury cars, I am the Ford Pinto
Among smiles, I am the sly grin
Among birds, I am the ostrich
Among candles, I am the one you can’t blow out
Among the letters in your hand,
The one you didn’t read was mine.
And after reading those words, images created nearly ten years ago, she wondered why she would have discovered them just now. Why here? Why in this mournful and solemn place? Why admist so much pain and solitude?
She then remembered that all the beauty, all of the peace and clarity she knew so well, was that which came forth triumphantly through all the tragedy.
And she smiled openly for the first time that morning, realizing just how far she went to get back there.
She found her notebook, the one with all the scratchings and observations, and inside were the poems she'd lost so many years ago...
Lullaby
Sleep soundly…
And know that I am dreaming of you
Be still…
For I am near
Close your heavy eyes…
For my arms will cradle you during your darkest storms
Sleep…sleep…
Cast your cares upon an ocean of slumber
I will protect you
Rest your weary head…
For I am beside you
No solitary moment will ever find you
Sleep…sleep…
Dream only of happiness
I will hold your burdens
In the caverns of my willing heart
Quiet…
Imagine my arms around you
For they are there to shield you
Sleep…sleep…
Do not fear
For I will always be here
In your heart’s deepest memory
This warmth will keep you safe
Until we meet once more
Sleep…
RESIST
Resist the hand that pulled you
Remember its reasons
Resist the shame, know who she is
You saw her, ahead, at the finish line
Resist the temptation to fall
It’s easier to be slower than the rest
Resist the earth who holds your feet
Your weight is already too heavy
Resist the wind. Remember his sting
He knows the desire you keep
He whispered it to you when you pushed him out of the way
Resist the game that winning is
That life is
Resist
“You are your own worst enemy.”
I AM
Among crayons, I am the white one
Among pebbles, I am the jagged stone
Among oceans, I am the quiet stream
Among cards, I am the joker
Among fruits, I am the tomato
Among friends, I am the secret
Among luxury cars, I am the Ford Pinto
Among smiles, I am the sly grin
Among birds, I am the ostrich
Among candles, I am the one you can’t blow out
Among the letters in your hand,
The one you didn’t read was mine.
And after reading those words, images created nearly ten years ago, she wondered why she would have discovered them just now. Why here? Why in this mournful and solemn place? Why admist so much pain and solitude?
She then remembered that all the beauty, all of the peace and clarity she knew so well, was that which came forth triumphantly through all the tragedy.
And she smiled openly for the first time that morning, realizing just how far she went to get back there.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Her First Assignment...
Exiting the restroom, she searches for the main office. She scanned the muted taupe walls for signs. (Why did they always soften the colors in hospitals and clinics? Does it really decrease the amount of panic?)
Her gaze dropped on an office door which read "Dr. Henrietta Heathrow, Administrator." She knocked, the brass name plate shook, the tin echoing down the hall.
"Just a minute!" cried a voice from inside. She heard the sound of papers, ruffling angrily, followed by the click of thick heels.
"Good morning, can I help you?" a tall dark haired woman asked.
"I am here to do my community service," she replied. "Are you Dr. Heathrow?"
"Guilty," was the doctor's reply. "You're supposed to check in up front, but we'll get that taken care of. Come in. I'll brief you."
She followed the doctor into a snug office, stacks of books and papers took up much of the space. Clipboards hung loosely from a few wall hooks. As Dr. Heathrow walked behind her desk, she noticed that already before 9 am, the poor woman had a long, irritating run up her black stocking.
"So, they gave us you today, huh? Lucky for me, you're the only comm-serv today. I don't have to spend hours briefing a bunch of "I don't give a shits" on my patients nor do I have to sway more folks on the benefits of therapy." She sat down hard, her rolling chair scooting a bit off to the right.
"I'm sorry about this," she acknowledged. "It must be inconvenient."
"Bah. Nevermind that. I don't do apologies or fake sincerity. Out with it. What'd you do?"
She told the doctor her story, editing most things out for brevity and for sense of the occasion.
She closed with, "and now I'm here."
"I see," Dr. Heathrow responded, shuffling a few notepads.
It was then she detected an acrid smell, something filmy and out of the ordinary for a hospital. Smoke?
Noticing the look, Dr. Heathrow smiled. "I'm busted. I've been smoking. Care for one?" She took a cigarette out of her desk, lit it, and breathed calmly.
"Even the big dogs break rules to stay sane," she laughed.
It'd been ages since she'd smoked. So she declined.
The doctor continued, "Your first assignment is James. He's in #204. A bit of an identity crisis, honestly. Nothing too serious. However, he dealt with his bipolarism by drinking a fifth of vodka and then driving his car through the front of Washington Mall. Unfortunately, he ran over a security guard, a toy poodle and a couple ficus trees in the process."
She almost laughed. She couldn't help it.
"How long does he have to stay here?" she asked the doctor.
"Not forever, a few more weeks. Then he serves some time. The treatment is what takes forever in his mind. He's completely anti-therapy. Thinks he's fine. Denial is what makes it worse. You'll see," she responded.
She had to agree with this statement. Dr. Heathrow grabbed a chart, pulled some papers out of it and handed it to her. "You get the basics - a little history, the crime(s), and a few photos. That's it. Just enough to relate and help."
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
"With James? You're gardening in the greenhouse and then you meet with me again."
She tapped her foot, a bit nervous about everything all of sudden.
"What about my afternoon assignment?" she asked.
"You have Andrew," the doctor replied. "We'll discuss it later."
Dr. Heathrow grabbed her own clipboard, the back was tan, but covered with scribbles.
The doctor threw her hair back, stubbed her cigarette, and came back around the desk. "Let's get started," she said.
Later, as she filled out the introductory form, she glanced back at the scribbles on the doc's clipboard. Admist trees, moons, suns, plants, and stars were what looked like song lyrics. She narrowed her gaze to read them...
Safe inside myself
Are all my thoughts of you
All lights turned down, softened
Hiding what only I know is true
Must protect what's left within
Scar tissues only hide my sins
Through this shield,
Through my shade,
Exists all that's left
That is not yet shame.
I wanted you to have
What's left of me
Fear is what paralyzes
Desire to get down to you
Without having to tell just lies
Sense this much and be sure
Because I already taste you in my tears
You've made no departure
And that is all I fear
In my mind it is always winter
Though my body always feels your sun...
Taped to the bottom of the clipboard, beneath the words, was Katherine's business/blog business card...
Her gaze dropped on an office door which read "Dr. Henrietta Heathrow, Administrator." She knocked, the brass name plate shook, the tin echoing down the hall.
"Just a minute!" cried a voice from inside. She heard the sound of papers, ruffling angrily, followed by the click of thick heels.
"Good morning, can I help you?" a tall dark haired woman asked.
"I am here to do my community service," she replied. "Are you Dr. Heathrow?"
"Guilty," was the doctor's reply. "You're supposed to check in up front, but we'll get that taken care of. Come in. I'll brief you."
She followed the doctor into a snug office, stacks of books and papers took up much of the space. Clipboards hung loosely from a few wall hooks. As Dr. Heathrow walked behind her desk, she noticed that already before 9 am, the poor woman had a long, irritating run up her black stocking.
"So, they gave us you today, huh? Lucky for me, you're the only comm-serv today. I don't have to spend hours briefing a bunch of "I don't give a shits" on my patients nor do I have to sway more folks on the benefits of therapy." She sat down hard, her rolling chair scooting a bit off to the right.
"I'm sorry about this," she acknowledged. "It must be inconvenient."
"Bah. Nevermind that. I don't do apologies or fake sincerity. Out with it. What'd you do?"
She told the doctor her story, editing most things out for brevity and for sense of the occasion.
She closed with, "and now I'm here."
"I see," Dr. Heathrow responded, shuffling a few notepads.
It was then she detected an acrid smell, something filmy and out of the ordinary for a hospital. Smoke?
Noticing the look, Dr. Heathrow smiled. "I'm busted. I've been smoking. Care for one?" She took a cigarette out of her desk, lit it, and breathed calmly.
"Even the big dogs break rules to stay sane," she laughed.
It'd been ages since she'd smoked. So she declined.
The doctor continued, "Your first assignment is James. He's in #204. A bit of an identity crisis, honestly. Nothing too serious. However, he dealt with his bipolarism by drinking a fifth of vodka and then driving his car through the front of Washington Mall. Unfortunately, he ran over a security guard, a toy poodle and a couple ficus trees in the process."
She almost laughed. She couldn't help it.
"How long does he have to stay here?" she asked the doctor.
"Not forever, a few more weeks. Then he serves some time. The treatment is what takes forever in his mind. He's completely anti-therapy. Thinks he's fine. Denial is what makes it worse. You'll see," she responded.
She had to agree with this statement. Dr. Heathrow grabbed a chart, pulled some papers out of it and handed it to her. "You get the basics - a little history, the crime(s), and a few photos. That's it. Just enough to relate and help."
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
"With James? You're gardening in the greenhouse and then you meet with me again."
She tapped her foot, a bit nervous about everything all of sudden.
"What about my afternoon assignment?" she asked.
"You have Andrew," the doctor replied. "We'll discuss it later."
Dr. Heathrow grabbed her own clipboard, the back was tan, but covered with scribbles.
The doctor threw her hair back, stubbed her cigarette, and came back around the desk. "Let's get started," she said.
Later, as she filled out the introductory form, she glanced back at the scribbles on the doc's clipboard. Admist trees, moons, suns, plants, and stars were what looked like song lyrics. She narrowed her gaze to read them...
Safe inside myself
Are all my thoughts of you
All lights turned down, softened
Hiding what only I know is true
Must protect what's left within
Scar tissues only hide my sins
Through this shield,
Through my shade,
Exists all that's left
That is not yet shame.
I wanted you to have
What's left of me
Fear is what paralyzes
Desire to get down to you
Without having to tell just lies
Sense this much and be sure
Because I already taste you in my tears
You've made no departure
And that is all I fear
In my mind it is always winter
Though my body always feels your sun...
Taped to the bottom of the clipboard, beneath the words, was Katherine's business/blog business card...
Monday, December 3, 2007
Relatable Quote #3
"I don't drive. I mean, I have a license, but I really shouldn't. I have too much hostility."
Woody Allen in "Annie Hall"
Woody Allen in "Annie Hall"
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Sensation #4 - the Endorphines
One of her favorite feelings was always the adrenaline, the mood-altering kick-to-the-teeth she felt every time she got on the treadmill.
This was her high, her escape from the weight of her own private hell.
As she ran, beads of sweat matted the wispy strands that had defied her ponytail. The salt stung her eyes, made her wish that for once, she'd remember a towel.
And she smiled, knowing it was not ladylike to sweat, show the beastlike baseness that she was born with.
It made her joyful knowing that here she could be the animal she knew she was all the time.
With each hard beat of her shoe, she pumped faster, running to disappear, to escape it, to get where he'd never reach her anymore.
In her mind, she always got there.
The explosion of endorphines always left her feeling stronger, more powerful, more fight-or-flight ready. She never left the gym feeling weaker, more exposed. She departed after a 45 minute run taller, quicker, more ready to take on the next blow.
And though she kept this to herself, she knew deep down, she was stronger and could, if needed, fight and win.
This was her high. This was her warrior.
This was her confidence in the fitness room mirror, an exchange between her mind and her soul only.
A reminder that the beast still existed.
This was her high, her escape from the weight of her own private hell.
As she ran, beads of sweat matted the wispy strands that had defied her ponytail. The salt stung her eyes, made her wish that for once, she'd remember a towel.
And she smiled, knowing it was not ladylike to sweat, show the beastlike baseness that she was born with.
It made her joyful knowing that here she could be the animal she knew she was all the time.
With each hard beat of her shoe, she pumped faster, running to disappear, to escape it, to get where he'd never reach her anymore.
In her mind, she always got there.
The explosion of endorphines always left her feeling stronger, more powerful, more fight-or-flight ready. She never left the gym feeling weaker, more exposed. She departed after a 45 minute run taller, quicker, more ready to take on the next blow.
And though she kept this to herself, she knew deep down, she was stronger and could, if needed, fight and win.
This was her high. This was her warrior.
This was her confidence in the fitness room mirror, an exchange between her mind and her soul only.
A reminder that the beast still existed.
Cold Memory #5 - How she dealt with it
He had only been gone for fifteen or twenty minutes when she found the messages. Having no intention of reading his private mail, for despite all things she had respect for him, she sat down at her computer to check her own email.
For whatever reason, he had left his account up and running. Perhaps he had no idea that she ever used the computer, but she did. She had to use it when he was out or asleep. And as her eyes scanned the screen searching for the "log out" icon, her gaze rolled over a name or two she didn't recognize.
The truth always appears more violent in black and white.
Her moments at the computer that morning seemed an eternity, her eyes unable to pull back, retreat. She watched the lies and the truth spiral before her, overlapping, going up and down like a spring. She wanted to hide - wanted to scream - wanted to reach into the computer and shred the evidence so even she could never view it again.
But the truth has a damning way of staying permanent.
Numbness took her, that in and out sparkling feeling that always reminded her of her own offenses, her own Achille's heal.
In his exposure, she too felt more vulnerable, more open for wounding.
Tipping back in the chair, she allowed but one tear to escape. It seemed appropriate to let it roll all the way. She then got up, got her purse, and headed for her front door. As she reached the parking lot, she took her phone and dialed the one number she hoped he'd recognize.
Yes, it's this bad. Yes, this your one shot to make it okay.
No answer.
Just the ridiculous automated voicemail message. Nothing personal. Nothing his.
She drove off, her scar tissue thickening, knowing she had only but a few soft spots left.
For whatever reason, he had left his account up and running. Perhaps he had no idea that she ever used the computer, but she did. She had to use it when he was out or asleep. And as her eyes scanned the screen searching for the "log out" icon, her gaze rolled over a name or two she didn't recognize.
The truth always appears more violent in black and white.
Her moments at the computer that morning seemed an eternity, her eyes unable to pull back, retreat. She watched the lies and the truth spiral before her, overlapping, going up and down like a spring. She wanted to hide - wanted to scream - wanted to reach into the computer and shred the evidence so even she could never view it again.
But the truth has a damning way of staying permanent.
Numbness took her, that in and out sparkling feeling that always reminded her of her own offenses, her own Achille's heal.
In his exposure, she too felt more vulnerable, more open for wounding.
Tipping back in the chair, she allowed but one tear to escape. It seemed appropriate to let it roll all the way. She then got up, got her purse, and headed for her front door. As she reached the parking lot, she took her phone and dialed the one number she hoped he'd recognize.
Yes, it's this bad. Yes, this your one shot to make it okay.
No answer.
Just the ridiculous automated voicemail message. Nothing personal. Nothing his.
She drove off, her scar tissue thickening, knowing she had only but a few soft spots left.
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