Talk to Me

Talk to me about work:

About the letters due at the end of the week.

Talk to me about the weather.

“It’s been rainy as of late.”

Talk to me about your dog,

Your new love,

Your car.

Talk to me about anything,

Just…

Don’t ask how I am,

Or how I've been.

Don’t make me say,

“I’m alright. I’m okay.”

I know it's what you expect,
But I just can't answer today.

Everyone's Got Them

Everyone’s got them.

There are days where you just want to curl up and die. Literally. Death just seems like a good idea. This isn't a suicidal cry for help, it’s just the plain truth. Some days it’s hard to just keep breathing. Maybe you pray to be allowed to die. Maybe you think about how cozy the idea of death sounds, how comforting, how quick.

But then, you get a reminder of why you’re still here, still living. I had a few of those reminders yesterday. The depression was especially heavy, and I wasn't getting out of bed. I slept or lay in bed nearly all day. I didn't even really want food. As I was sleeping, my roommate knocked on my door.

I groggily told her to come in. She was carrying a HUGE bouquet of brightly colored flowers.

“Some redheaded guy brought them to the door. He didn't know I wasn't you, so I guess he was just delivering them. Who are they from?” she asked.

I unfolded the card; my eyes still not clear because I had fallen asleep in my contacts. “It’s from my best friend!” I said. Sure enough, she had sent me flowers and a card. And that was when it hit me. There are so many things to live for. Even when you lose one loved one, lose one friend, there are still so many strong relationships, so many people who are still there for you.

Later that evening I was praying for God to send me a sign that he was there, that he was close. I was begging to feel his presence, craving his nearness. I finished praying, and about a minute later, I received a text message from a dear friend. The text said, “God is close.”

I think I got my answer.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m thankful for the people in my life who care, who check on me, who send flowers, bring food (thank you for the Panera soup and the company!!), give a gift, spend time with me when I’m down. Those are things that they don’t have to do, yet they do them anyway.

And I know my situation wasn't that dire, but I think sometimes that those little acts of kindness, those little moments of showing that you care actually are what saves lives, or at least rescue a person from falling deeper into depression.

So, I’m going to remember this, pass it along, and maybe someday, someone will tell me, “Hey, you saved me that one time…I just wanted you to know.”

I'm Crying for Myself

I was so afraid that I wouldn't cry. I didn't cry at first when Carvey died. I think I may have damaged my soul a little when that happened, because deep inside, I could feel it crying.

When he passed, I had no previous experience with death. His was the first. I didn't know how to grieve. But then my beloved teacher and friend passed away, and I cried like a baby. I let out all the grief I had been feeling and everything came out in tears over my birthday weekend.

And now today. Last night I had the biggest fight I think I've ever had with anyone. It was with one of my best friends, and the night ended in silence. And even though we didn't even say goodbye as I got out of the car, I felt like it might be goodbye forever.

I feel like hell, and early this morning, my mom called to tell me that my great grandmother passed away last night.

I can’t stop crying. I didn't think I was going to even be able to grieve, but I think with all the loss that I've experienced in the last two months, maybe I was prepared to grieve for her.

And I know that there really isn't any need to cry for Mom Mom. As the cliché goes, “she’s in a better place.” Honestly, she’s where I want to be. Now I don’t mean that in a morbid, suicide way. But, this world is hard, and it hurts. I want to be where God is, where Mom Mom is.

I have no real reason to cry. My tears aren't because I’m sorry for Mom Mom. She’s no longer confined to her little bedroom, no longer ill. She’s better off. She lived a full, almost 94 years, and now she gets to be with God for a well-deserved rest.

Selfishly, my tears are for myself.

I keep hearing an old John Denver song. It’s a song about separation, not death, but some of the verses keep playing in my head:

It’s cold here in the city. It always seems that way. I've been thinking about you, almost every day. Thinking about the good times. Thinking about the rain. Thinking about how bad it feels alone again.

And the one verse that keeps coming up the most is that one that seems to sum up how I feel:

More than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, for living without you.

 And that’s just it. She’s not here anymore, where she’s been for all of my 25 years. Now I have to live the rest of my life without her. I know that I’m incredibly lucky that I got to spend a quarter of a century with my great grandmother, but that doesn't mean that I don’t still want her.

So, more than anything else, I’m crying for myself, because the only grandmother who I really had a chance to get to know, the only one who was really there for me all the days of my life, is gone. And God, I knows I miss her.

This Old Car

“When are you going to get a new car?”

I hear this just about every time a friend sees my old car. Usually these words are accompanied by a good-natured chuckle.

“Betsy,” my car, is old, about 18 years, in fact. She was a gift from my great grandmother, when I turned 16. I say “gift,” because she was a gift to me, even though I think my parents paid a small sum for her. She was old when I got her, but she was mine.

Betsy is beautiful—white (when I actually wash her), with a blue interior, the most comfortable cloth seats ever, and all the bells and whistles you could possibly buy in 1996. This car does things that newer cars today can’t even do. Despite her age, I’m very proud of her. Every time I've taken her to a mechanic, they've informed me that she’s in impeccable condition, with low mileage, and that I've taken excellent care of her engine and workings.  

I. Love. This. Car.

When I moved to Virginia, she was there with me, taking me safely to my new destination, and bringing me swiftly back when I needed to be home again. I was alone, so I became even more attached to my car here than ever. She’s trust-worthy, stable, reliable, and represented freedom: always my escape route if things got too tough.

But she’s come to represent more than that. Because she used to be owned by my great grandmother, Mom Mom, I feel this tie to her, through this old car. I didn't even really realize how much Betsy had come to sort of represent Mom Mom until the other day when her bumper was hit and cracked. I've owned the car for 9 years, but last week was the first time anything had ever happened to her.

On the same day, I went to visit Mom Mom. Now, all my life, in my eyes, Mom Mom has never aged. She’s always been the same white-haired beauty. But this past weekend, I saw her for the first time in 6 months, also for the first time since her husband had passed away.

She was so old. She looked as if her body and appearance had finally caught up to her 93 years. She was frail and thin, with oxygen tubes attached to her. She was in excellent spirits and talked to me just like always, but it scared me. It was almost as if the crack in Betsy’s bumper represented the sudden change of health that I had seen in my great grandma.

And that’s why I cling to my car so much. It’s something I can have some sort of control over. You see, I can fix that bumper. I can replace it. It’ll cost money, but it’s easily done in a day. Betsy will be as good as new. I can keep replacing parts over and over, buying new engines and transmissions for decades. But Mom Mom is frailer than that. There is nothing I can do to restore her back to former health.

And I don’t like that.

So, you can keep on asking why I keep this poor old car, so out of date and fashion. You can keep telling me she’s unreliable. But at the end of the day, she probably runs better than your 2000-and-something car, and I probably know more about what happens under her engine than you do about your BMW. But more than that, she’s something that I can still put back together, fix her up and keep her in good health. Maybe that’s a stupid reason. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws, trying to control at least one element in my life. And maybe you’d be right. But maybe that’s what I need. 

Dear Anita

Grief is great tonight. 

My soul hangs heavy with sorrow, like a cloud drooping low with rain. 

I wasn't prepared. But who ever really is prepared for death? Were you, in your last hours? A peace deep within me tells me you were. 

But even that peace doesn't nullify the sickness in my soul. They sent me home early from work yesterday because I was crying. It was hours before I even stopped--only to start again. You were taken too soon, too young to go. I don't understand. 

You know, there were times when I didn't really like you. When I was 17 you caught me talking to someone during class. You asked me if I had anything to share. I was humiliated, but deserved it. Sometimes I didn't like class or grades. Sometimes I didn't like your direction. 

And yet, we worked together for years. First as teacher an pupil, later as director and actor. Even later, when I was older, sometimes I'd come to your classes and you'd ask me to teach the new kids how to play the improv games. 

I don't know when it happened, but over time, you slipped your way into my heart. You weren't just a teacher anymore, but a friend. Later, you were more like family, a motherly figure. 

And that's the funny thing about relationships. Often we can't put a finger on the moment they develop or become more important. They just open up slowly, like the bloom of a flower. Before I knew it, you had become one of the most important people in my life. I knew that even when you left for Texas. It broke my heart to see you go.

Now, I'm no good at this grieving thing. I don't get it. I don't know how it's done. But Anita, you've left such a hole in my heart. I don't know how to fill it. When I'm not crying, my soul is. 

I guess the bottom line is this: I don't know what to do without you. And I hope that I said it to you when I had the chance, but, I love you, Anita. 

I Suck at This

My great grandfather passed away two weeks ago.

I’m twenty-five years old and this was the first death that has ever really happened in my life. Sure, I remember the passing of some great aunts and uncles, and as a child, a few acquaintances/friends passed, but they were always people I hadn’t really known, people I wasn’t really close to. So I pretty much have zero experience with death, even when it comes to comforting people who are dealing with loss in their own lives, which in no way actually touches me.

Over the summer, my best friend lost one of his great grandparents. I did the best I could to comfort him, but he was living in another state, and I have to own up to this, I totally blew it at being there for him. He knows it, too.

I don’t know what it is, but death makes me want to shy away, to ignore it, to deny it even has happened. I never thought I’d be that person, but I am. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I kind of pulled out of that situation as much as possible.

I’m ashamed of that. But I’m only human, and this is something I’m failing at right now.

I didn’t go home for Carvey’s (my great grandfather) funeral. I had planned to. I even set aside a bereavement day with work so that I could travel. But when I thought about making the drive, spending 4 hours alone in the car, seeing my weeping relatives, especially my great grandmother, I felt nauseous and cloisterphobic. I thought it was the drive I was afraid of.

I didn’t go. Instead, I decided to have a ceremony of my own, where I would toss flower petals into the ocean at night and say goodbye to him on my own that way. But the evening came, and my head was dizzy and my body felt as if it was going to collapse. So instead, I went home.

Every night, I’d talk to Mom on the phone, like usual. But all she wanted to talk about was Carvey, the funeral, his family, how Mom Mom was doing. And all I wanted to do was talk about anything else. So, I didn’t call every day anymore, and when I did call, I tried to steer the conversation away from Carvey. Mom commented on how she hadn’t heard much from me lately. I told her I was busy.

I never knew my mother’s father. He was a drunk and I met him once. I believe it was on one of the very few sober days of his entire life. And I do remember my father’s parents. I grew up around them until I was 12. After that I didn’t see them again until two weeks ago. In fact, I was reunited with those grandparents on the same day that I lost Carvey. So in a very real sense, Carvey was the only grandfather I’ve ever really known.

And the funny part is: he and I have no blood relation. He and Mom Mom married when I was two. Apparently I was at the wedding, but I don’t remember. Yet, he’s my grandfather. He’s family, even more so to me than some of the blood family. I can’t even tell you how touched I was when I saw my mother call him her grandfather one day. She had never said that before. He didn’t come into her life until she was into her late 20’s, yet, he was still really the only grandfather she ever knew too.

So, I guess I’ve been fine. These past couple of weeks have been relatively normal. And that’s the odd thing. Life just seems to go on, even when a very important cog is now missing. But I’ve been tired, oh so tired. I get off of work and my chest is heavy, and my feet drag, and my head hurts every night. One night, my chest felt especially…different.

Have you ever felt your soul move? Or do something? I don’t think that we think about our souls very much or that they are our actual selves. I remember once feeling my soul pray. My mother was choking on a piece of candy, and without thinking or knowing what I was even doing, I ran over and gave her the Heimlich maneuver. I had never had any training, but it worked. Yet, in those brief seconds when my mind wasn’t even functioning enough to realize what the rest of me was doing, there was only one thing I was aware of. My soul was praying. I felt it. It reached out to God, and prayed.

And last week, I felt my soul cry. I didn’t know souls could cry, but I was walking down the hall at work, and I felt this bitter weeping inside of me. I hadn’t even been able to cry on my own, but my soul could. I had never experienced that before.

And I’ve just been going on. I did eventually cry once, just briefly, after talking on the phone to Mom Mom, but that was it. I hadn’t mourned. I don’t know how. I literally don’t know how.

And then, there was tonight. I went to see a movie with some friends, and it was a tear jerker, but that wasn’t what got to me. The grandfather in the story was perfect and warm and loving, and his relationship with his granddaughter got me right in the “feels.” I cried in the theatre. I cried at the kitchen table after I got home.

I usually try to give my blog posts nice tidy endings, but I don’t have one this time. I’ve reached the part of my life now where I’m going to start losing people, and the scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to face it, and I don’t even know how.

I suck at this.

I'm Sorry, I Left My Denim Jumper at Home...

In a lot of ways, I’m a girl with some old-fashioned values. I treasure my relationship with God, I enjoy my church life, and I was raised in a loving, Christian home. I’m also classically trained in ballet; I love a good cup of tea, cooking, and a marathon of The Golden Girls. This is a part of who I am. I enjoy staying home sometimes on a Friday night and curling up in my pajamas to watch Pride and Prejudice. Lace and frilly things are my delight.

But do you know what else I like? I like skateboarding and denim vests with the sleeves cut out. I take pride in the fact that I have a great job and I’m able to support myself and live on my own, even far away from my family. I take good care of my car, and I have a working knowledge of what goes on under the hood. I go places on my own and I’m not afraid. I’m independent and fully capable of taking care of myself.

When dating, I don’t look for a guy who’s got money, a fancy car, or a nice place, because those aren't priorities to me. I’m not looking to be taken care of. What I do look for in a guy is his spiritual well-being, where he is in his relationship with God, what his values are, whether or not he wears socks with sandals—you know, the important things.

But lately, what I've noticed is that the guys who are into God and their church are the same guys who are not looking for an independent woman.  These guys all seem to be devoting their attention to the Little House on the Prairie, denim-jumper-wearing, Suzy homemaker types.

Now, there is nothing wrong with that at all. If that’s who these women are, then they should be who they want to be. But what I don’t get is why do I seem to find a string of guys who expect me to be that kind of girl? Is it too much to ask to meet a guy who loves the Lord but is also is okay if his girlfriend can take care of herself? Since when did Christian men start feeling like they had to prove their masculinity by dating girls who they could keep under their thumb?

You know, someday I too might be a stay-at-home mom, but that’s not who I am right now. God placed me in the job I’m at, in the city where I currently live. It’s just me and God these days, so of course I look out for myself and I take care of things on my own. But just because I can check my own oil and tire pressure shouldn't mean that I’m completely overlooked by the guys in the church. What happened to all of the men who could date an educated and independent woman without feeling inferior?

Step up the game, guys. We are all equals here.