Such terrible joy to possess
this soul, my own,
once more.
To once more feel
my heart pulse
and beat its solemn drum
within this carriage—
fleshly bone
and holy spark
at last
made one.
So, yeah . . . in a nutshell.
And you?
What’s new and exciting in your neck of the woods?
It is, I am realizing, grown deeply quiet in my head, these past few weeks.
There are roomfuls of quiet.
Oceans-wide of quiet.
No one in here, at last, but me.
Me, alone.
* * *
I could grow used to this, I keep thinking, stretching as wide as I can—and even further the quiet space extends…
Because sometimes you just gotta say “fcuk it” to the writing and bake a birthday cake for a horse instead.
And what about you? Tell me something good that’s happening in your world right now.
Or, equally delightful, tell me something absurd…
* * *
[Recipe adapted (only very slightly!) from this original.]
The story of this blog begins, as all good adventures do, with a quest:
In May 2012, a woman stops. Already retreated almost to the beginning of herself, she thinks: “Only death could be more silent.”
It is not the first time the careful construction of her days has collapsed. Her life resembles a too-often-rebuilt bridge still resonating at the frequency of past traumas as yet unacknowledged. Always she forges a new prosthetic self, a new stuttering engine of dreams and hope to propel her mind forward another year (or, if she’s lucky, a few) before her life crumbles once again.
She is tired of masquerades. She decides to find her own self instead.
This blog records her journey back into voice.
Into my voice.
Of course, this is simply the telling of the story of the story-that-became-my-blog. Events were actually far less poetic, and far more jumbled and chaotic, as they transpired. In a nutshell, after a year spent wrestling myself into and out of suicidal ideation, and following three serious attempts in one month that landed me first in a psych ward, then in intensive outpatient therapy four days a week, I decided to start a blog.
As a means of proving to myself how Totally Recovered And Fine I was now, y’see.
That first post—written 3 years, 5 months, 13 days, and 236 essays/ poems/ articles/ observations ago—seems faintly prescient now, what with its humorous threading of gender and cultural issues through the weft of patriarchal family patterns and pain. But my most recent post, written already 7(!) weeks ago now, belies every early assertion I made of quick or easy resolution. On that day, I was working through “yet another well of despair…another unresolved pocket of pain and grief.” The essential thing, I reminded myself, was to focus on every positive, no matter how seemingly small.
Uh, so.
Yeah. That was then.
And now? Wellll…
For any of you who read the last pages of a book first, let me spare you the suspense: neither today’s post nor my recent hiatus signals the end of Coffee and a Blank Page! In fact, once I can get back to a regular writing schedule, you may not even notice much difference (then again, maybe you will). But I am uncertain what its function for me will become, over the next months and year.
I’m barely certain what I’ve just become, myself.
Continue reading “Within Every New Beginning Lies an Ending”
[NOT A TROMP POST. While this is a post-US-election piece of writing about the weird twists and turns of grief, beyond that, any similarities between my comments here and the Orange Cheeto-led sh!tshow that is our current political outlook is purely accidental. And sincerely regretted.]
* * *
One of the stranger symptoms I have discovered—as I claw my way back from the dissociative fog of PTSD that rotted out my brain over 25 years of squatting there like a toad, undiagnosed and untreated—is a limited ability to notice my body’s sensory input. I have to cook with overwhelming flavors, or I don’t taste my food. I must remember what I expect to smell, before I can detect an odor. If someone asks me whether a room’s temperature bothers me, without also specifying if they think it may be “too hot” or “too cold,” I often start to panic, suddenly aware that I have no idea what temperature the room is—and no clues from my companion to guide me.
But I noticed something interesting on my walk home this evening: I noticed my hands felt cold.
Nathan
Apr. 2003-Oct. 23, 2016
[Photo taken in happier times, AKA one week ago.]
His death was sudden and shocking: both very quick and—in the bleak final hours—excruciatingly slow, brutal, and painful. I went from praying that he would live long enough to make it to the euthanasia appointment the vet and I had scheduled for 10:30 this morning (in case the last-ditch home remedies didn’t work overnight) to pleading with the universe to please let just him go.
At 3:12 this morning, convulsing on the bathroom floor where he always loved to laze, his head cupped in my hands, my baby went.
Oh my dearest, darling Nath.
You stupid, dumbass, beloved little shit, who never found a bit of plastic or lint on the floor (or even random flicker of shadow either, let’s be honest!) that you didn’t feel compelled to eat: I have no idea what you found to scarf up over the last few days that turned your tummy into a graveyard, but I am truly sorry I could not save you from yourself. You got into so many mishaps over the years because you found the whole of your world too fascinating to worry over every little detail, like “is this actually edible?” or “will this set me on fire?” Continue reading “My Beautiful Boy”
