my broken heart

Packing for a move reveals the things that fall into the cracks and crevices; today it was photographs of the children I used to babysit for. I wept with much bitterness and realized that even though three months have passed, my heart is still broken up over the loss of them from my lives.

Now that the anger I had is gone, I imagine that there might a solution to this ache, that I might be able to see my boo boo and squish once more. There is no reconciling that I can have with her, the mother, so that will be impossible. She cracked through my veneer maliciously and left me ruined. I cannot ever see her or speak nicely to her again.

The photographs from each year of the older child's life and random ones I happened to take were the most difficult to look at. Her year old picture that was sent out to family and friends is one I took of her in the garden pressing a finger to her nose (in response to the question, Where's your nose?), which was deemed by her, the mother, a cute way to show that she'd turned one. As for the squish, there is an ever present ache, for the adoration we shared was quite intense. I do not need photos to show how absolutely adorable she was, how responsive and curious she was, how she clung to me and was relieved to see me most days.

The entire matter of our breech is still a mystery to me, how my behavior was so misinterpreted, how every thing I did was seen as a move against them, despite the fact that I gave up my life for three weeks to be there. Futhermore, the absence of her husband from all of this means that this was entirely her decision that he supported her in and that might be the biggest hurt of it all.

a bitter taste lingers

[Forgive me for turning this blog into a once-a-month-update page. I am also disgusted.]

Six weeks later, the physical wounds from England have healed; a splinter from the parqay floors finally exited the toughened skin on the bottom of my foot and gone are the blisters I accumulated while walking excessively. Slowly the rest of it is healing too, until one day maybe I'll forget that I ever loved someone else's children as if they were my own. There is no tidiness in this breach, it overlaps other friendships, put things into jeopardy, caused me to wonder if I shouldn't be friends with anyone that knew them.

I realize that when I am hurt or wronged or mad at someone I pull out the guillotine and let it fall without thinking. Leafing through a photo album of my previous birthdays revealed the faces of those long dead ghosts, who keep haunting me. I hear of them, people think I want to know things and I languish in that knowledge. It's not that I don't care what they're up to, it's that I care too much.

Today it was Marilyn, who is getting married. Last week it was Laura, who confronted me in person and I ducked away. Recently I learned that Deanna is back in town and done with school.

I don't regret the loss of these friends. I imagine every day is a cleaner, fresher, more stable day because they aren't in it. I know that I am a happier person for their absence. I am absolutely complete with how things ended with each of them and I can't say there's anything to repair or fix or say or apologize for.

And yet, somehow hearing of their lives, both successes and failures, I feel an urge to rekindle what good parts I have allowed to remain in the muck of my memory. I feel like congratulating them, supporting them, but there's something about the decision I made in not being friends with them that is so strong it holds me back from even bothering. It's been over a year since I talked to two of them in person and I only feel this way when I hear about them.

There is something special in having someone around you that knows you for who you really are, somehow who cares for you no matter what you do, it's just too bad that it was not always there from me or them.

As I've survived the emotional fallout from those situations, I find that I am less likely to readily accept the offer of friendship. I used to gobble up any attention anyone gave me. No more. I'm friendly, but not open for business. I have hibernated this winter and come out leaner and feeling better than I have in a long time. Those that I want to know and be on good terms with I've tried to be in touch with to let them know I'm still interested. I've rarely chosen my friends and I'm still revelling in the greatness of it.

I worry that I keep cutting off my older friends and that it's a bad sign if someone doesn't have any friends from childhood or school, but I'm fairly sure if I met Val or Walter ten years ago we'd be close today.

Apparently Laura announced to everyone at the coffee shop that she was disappointed in me because she thought we were "friends for life." I guess all break-ups are hard, even if you treated the person like shit. And what a better life I get to have now!

birthday blues

After years of throwing away countless recyclables in the form of milk cartons, beverage containers, plastic cups and newspapers, I decided I would direct these products out of the cafe to the recycling station recently opened at the Nature Museum. To my current diet of disappointment, I added what was essentially a glorified garbage bin. To call it a station is to call a television with no cable watchable.

To make matters worse, it was accompanied by a wet slap of snow in the face. I spent much of the day with soaked shoes and socks. Had it been a light snow, rather than that heavy mess fueled by winds that propelled the flakes sideways, I might have been delighted to see the snow.

Emotionally, I feel like a jack o'lantern. All that I used to muster up the enthusiasm to carry on idle chatter, emanate concern for the smallest of offenses, and maintain a projection of happiness is gone. I am empty. For now, I feel most comfortable with those whose words are endless to soothe me.

It is no surprise then that the kid leaves me restless. I have no patience for his moping, his quietness, his dullness. Awkward silences plague us while I mentally grapple for something, anything that will coax conversation out of him, but he stubbornly refuses my attempts; he is on spring break so I have to spend all day with him in this state.

And then there is him. Every smiling phrase is an arrow directly in that closing wound, every word spoken from that asterisked list sours our conversations, every thought spirals back toward his attempt at deceit. Some say this is a cycle, one that I won't break. To me, every situation like this one is an isolated devastation that leaves me haunted. I imagine packing my bag and leaving. The part of me that loves him does so with such unconditionality that I cannot follow through. I hate questioning him and by proxy, myself, I long for that time to be over, for that wondering to end.

Why do I keep looking? Simply because I keep finding something to see. Perhaps these are the symptoms of my psyche's patient zero or maybe this is just part of our mutual intolerance. Maybe it is because I am at the threshold of another event, this one another year to add to my age.

Today was the first day in a long time that I imagined finding another city somewhere else to disappear to, where I have no one to answer to for a while, where recycling is not a farce, where I could do something different. For a few blocks it was Paris, for twenty seconds it was Heidelberg, Germany, and in a store it could have been Portland, Oregon.

Then I paid my overdue cell phone bill with my tax refund. That's the punchline.

"Bite me like that...."

Just when I thought I had it under control or somehow tricked myself into believing that my feelings had dissipated, they've taken hold of me again.

It was just as innocent as always, a smile here, a teasing there, an observation made.

Then it was the banter. Heavy, suspicious, secret, it keeps out even the most demanding about us and there is no one but us in those moments.

Then it was one move. It was a yoga move. It was a sudden proof that he could do anything I asked of him. And he planted his palms on the floor and shifted his weight onto his forearms and he turned into a crow.

I retaliated by ignoring him, and turned my attentions away. His teasing searched for me and I was so easily swayed. I began looking forward to spending time with him, I'd abandon everything just to spend a few minutes alone with him. I'd brighten when he arrived and gloom over when he departed.

And now he has found another way to torment me, another layer to add to the mix, another sense to evoke. He has begun to wear a cologne that is the most perfect mix I've ever smelled. It is not too much of any one thing: a musk, a sweet, a bitter, a citrus. It is very subtle and soft, almost like something that would suit an older man.

And there in the smelling of it and him mingling was my near demise, I let my eyes close and my nostrils flared and I swooned a bit and I worry that someone saw. It feels like a matter of time before the shatter happens.