Category — critters

It came to me in the night, I guess.  When I opened my eyes, it was there- that heaviness in my heart and my limbs, like moving through oatmeal. The sun was a little too bright. The air was a little too warm.

I fought it all day long. B would have seen it in my eyes and she would have drug it out of me and made me admit it and she would have stroked my hair and held me while I cried. Missing her, missing that unspoken translation of emotional current just made it all that much worse.

The voice starts before I’ve had my coffee, reminding me how lazy I am, how many things have gone undone, how much time and money I waste by simply breathing. My sister brushes past me; my misery is invisible to her, and she doesn’t know that when she goes out into the driveway to talk to my parents that the voice is selling her down the river. Telling me that they’re making fun of you, that they don’t want to talk to you, they don’t love you, they never have.

No one has ever loved you, and no one ever will. You are more trouble than you’re worth.

I argue with the voice, I try to push back. I always do. The fight drowns out everything else, and I’m driving to my hair appointment thinking about all the people in this life that I love so much, who have proven their love for me in nothing short of breathtaking gestures.

My dear friend carefully sections off my hair; drying, straightening and thinning each section in slow, sure movements. I dare to look my reflection in the eye, and the voice whispers:

You’re wasting your money, you ugly fat little girl. You’ll starve for this later because you thought it mattered, but you’re just squandering what little you have left on turning a pig’s ear into a silk purse. You’re making a fool of yourself- an ugly, fat little fool of a girl.

I close my eyes and choke off the bitter laughter rising in my throat.

I know I’m being ridiculous. I know that the voice is wrong, so very wrong, almost comically wrong.

Yet I believe just enough that I cannot bring myself to ask for help, to ask for the love and reassurance that would chase it away and force it into silence. Because the voice has already convinced me that anyone I asked would look at me with pity and not love or compassion. Because the voice has already aroused my suspicion for all living things and the motivation behind their actions.

When I fumble at the front door with my purse and a few groceries, I realize my sister’s dog has locked me out. I curse him as I dig for my keys, and again when he greets me as I open the door. He becomes the verbal target for all of the ugliness I’ve endured all day, and about three quarters of the way through my rant, I see myself. Wild-eyed, angry and snide, yelling at a poor sweet dog whose only crime is being so excited to see me that he jumps up on the door.

I crawl into bed and surrender. Slow, long sobs and huge, hot tears.

The voice slips into this opening.

look at you, a loud-mouthed shrew, an insufferable bitch, screaming at a poor sweet animal. does it make you feel better to dump your pain on someone else? to pass your smallness around and be feared? that’s why no one loves you, why no one ever will. because you are a stupid, fat, ugly shrew. a silly mean cow that thinks she has a place in this world. you have no place in this world. you are nothing.

My cries grow sharper, and my sister’s dog curls up with his head under my chin, nuzzling and licking my jaw.

It makes my heart ache for Adicus. Which is something I’ve refused to admit, that I avoid cuddling with my sister’s dogs because it’s so much salt in that wound.  And so I cry for him too, for having lost him, the cruel end of our story- for not even knowing how he is, for not wanting to endure everything I must to know that he is happy and healthy, and for how fucked up that is. That you love someone so fully, that you create a life together, and the end of that story is that you aren’t even willing to make contact to check on the poor goddamn dog.

As hard as I try, I can’t see hope. I know that tomorrow the voice will just be a whisper, and the next day it will leave me entirely. I understand that the voice is wrong. There is a sense of shame in believing it at all, in succumbing to it.

It’s just that in this moment, all I can do is weep while it screams at me.

I knew this would be a crazy week. I knew there was a lot going on, and I knew that I was not in the best place I could be to handle it.

That doesn’t prevent me from being surprised and scared when I realize I’m getting my ass kicked.

Everything is okay in the larger sense. I know where I’m going, and I know how to get there. This is just the part of the trip that always fucks me up. Like night time construction. The road is all bumpy, the lanes shift, traffic moves too fast for comfort but too slow for my taste. The bright lights that make work safer for the crews blind me, so that I navigate the mess half blind, heart racing, white-knuckled at ten and two, praying for smooth open road up ahead.

My frustration with the uncertainty at work boiled over yesterday. I had a very frank and frantic discussion with a Human Resources executive, and he was kind and concerned and helpful- as he always is- but he doesn’t have the key to my chains. If it is rattling around in his pocket, he still has to pretend that all that clinking is spare change.

I called the doctor’s office and told the PA about Friday’s incident. As I predicted, I got my lecture on skipping meals. In a more unpredictable move, she wrote me a prescription for a blood sugar meter, asked me if I was still living alone, and directed me to give instructions to my friends and coworkers should they find me unconscious. Which reminded me yet again that despite the kindness of strangers, despite my overwhelming number of blessings in the form of loving friends, I am no one’s responsibility. If some how, some way, I should have another episode like Friday’s while I’m home alone, I could die. And just when I was chiding myself for being overly dramatic, the pharmacist who very sweetly took the time to show me how to use the meter, said just that. This is very serious, you need to pay close attention to your body, to your meals, to your test results when you are home alone. Because you could die. Which I still think is awfully melodramatic.

The third person to remind me how much sugar is in alcohol got the defensiveness and fear in the form of anger that the first two helped build. These people are worried about me, they’re worried about me getting sick if I drink. I’m worried about me too, it’s just that I’m more worried about going completely fucking insane if I don’t do something to calm my frayed nerves. Sadly, it is my doctor’s concern that I not rely too heavily on anxiety meds when I’m anxious that leads me down the path of least resistance. Still. I hardly think that a few drinks a few times a week constitutes a lecture or any concern, and as far as the sugar? I’m being very careful to eat at least a little something every four hours, per the PA’s instructions. And if I normally enjoy a few drinks, don’t I need to understand how that affects my blood sugar?

The last straw, the very last straw yesterday was the mail. I stayed late at the bar, both because I was enjoying myself and because I have to be able to drive myself home safely and legally, because I can’t just not go home. Because there isn’t anyone to drive me home. I pulled up to my mailbox in the wee hours of the morning and pulled out a postcard with a picture of a beautiful German Shepherd on the front. Adicus is due for his rabies booster. The dam broke, and I sat at the mailbox,  in the opposing lane of traffic in a small break between switchbacks, laid my head on my steering wheel and let my wracking sobs pierce the cool night air.

In one small part of my life, someone else took the wheel yesterday. I turned over the file, put all the information in their hands, and they decided for me, and I let them. The relief washed over me. All the wondering and pondering and doubting and guessing- gone. In one instant. It isn’t that I’m relieved of owning the decision- you are never relieved of ownership- but the removal of power was better than heroin.

I am okay. I will be okay. I know where I’m going. I know how to get there. I know that if I concentrate, I can navigate this current construction zone.

In the same breath, though, I am beyond exhausted. I’m tired of driving. I passed the sign yesterday that says “no more rest stops for 75 miles”, and my limbs felt like lead and my eyes hurt and I could only put the windows down and turn the radio up loud and trust in my own ability to push ahead.

I wonder if I will ever stop missing that sweet loving dog, who, in his own dog way, protected me and looked out for me, who always came to me at the height of my desperation and laid his chin on my thigh with a deep whiny sigh and let my tears wet his fur while he nuzzled me in an attempt to comfort me. I’m here, I know you hurt, I love you, I see you and I hurt, I want to help.

I wonder if I will ever stop feeling cheated for being on my own. I wonder if I will ever find anyone that I can develop enough mutual trust and love with to let them take over when I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I wonder if I’ll ever again have someone to drive me home.

Who’s gonna tell you when
It’s too late
Who’s gonna tell you things
Aren’t so great
You can’t go on
Thinking nothing’s wrong
Who’s gonna drive you home tonight

You can’t go on
Thinking nothing’s wrong
Who’s gonna drive you home tonight
“drive” – the cars