Grief is more than nothing.

You made me so sleepy.
You made my eyelids heavy and my head thick and my face hot.
You made me hungry.
You made me get sick in the bathroom at work.

And then you were gone and I wanted those things back.

I have nothing of you and I never really did.
You didn't have a name.
You were not big enough to change my body so that anyone else could see.
It was only me who felt you move.

The only proof of you I have is that I was never the same after losing you.

And all there is now is the sadness that comes at this time each year and the fear that one day I won't even have that.
I will have nothing of you. I will have nothing of you.

I promised not to get over you. I still promise.

The next post was supposed to be funny...

But I'm giving in. I have been mature and responsible and when I am done with this I will probably go back to being those things but for now I have run out of hot angry tears and all I have left are the words that came with them. And I am choking on them and so I have to put them somewhere.

So FUCK YOU angry girl. (Or would you prefer "grrrrl"? Ya fuck you for that too.)

Has no one told you that the strongest ones don't have to keep TELLING people how strong they are? They just are. And you are embarrassing yourself.
The strong ones are the ones who are smiling at you and saying thank you and being kind and trying to help despite having a story that would wound your soul if you knew it.

The same goes for being smart...one would have thought you might have figured that out WHAT WITH ALL OF THE BLINDING FUCKING BRILLIANCE and all.

Do you know that I used to be like you? You smell like my past and the stench has been making my eyes water while they look right through you.

You are a fucking fraud.

Do you know that activism is not an excuse for hatred?
Do you know that all you are leaving in your wake is a rancid froth of rage and noise and that it will dissolve? For all of your indignant fury, it will just dissolve.

Do you think you are the only one who feels grief in your bones the way others feel a rainstorm? Injustice that closes your throat and makes your eyes ache? Searing pain that stays underneath your skin and in your lungs and the dull pain that is sometimes in your womb?
Do you think you are the only one whose body seems to be a conduit, or are you just the one who thinks that it is a good excuse for being a bitch.

Fuck you angry girl.

Do you think that those of us who smile and try to be gentle and kind and happy were born into these things? Maybe the pleasant, vacant look you despise on the face of the woman at the stop-light is her dressing over the wound that was re-opened last night, when she had turned off all the lights and laid her head down and like smoke under the door THE HURT CAME BACK.

Your righteous judgement belies your ignorance.

I hope you choke on the tender nostalgia that you keep smearing around me.

And now watch this...

This is what I have learned to do from my life so far and it's one of the hardest things but watch this...

I am going to try to like you.

More than anything else...

Today was Mother's Day.


I was asked earlier in the week what I wanted for Mother's Day and I couldn't answer because I had no idea.

Turns out what I wanted was the sweaty head and flushed cheek of a little boy with a tummy-ache, pressed against my neck as I swayed and sang like I used to do all the time, but not so much anymore.

And I wanted dirty superman socks with a little boys feet in them to wiggle in between my knees as I lay on the couch.

And I wanted a scrape on my thumb from rock hunting with a little boy who forgot to watch where he threw the big BIG rocks that he had found, and who still felt very sorry even at bedtime.

And I wanted tired arms from dancing with a little boy and not being able to put him down even for a minute until all the songs we picked were over.

And I wanted wet jeans from a little boy who had just gotten out of the tub and who didn't want to wait until I had wrapped the towel all the way around him before he sat on my lap.

And I wanted two wet and spitty fingers to touch my chin because a little boy who still sucks on them (despite trying really, really hard not to) couldn't see my face in the dark to give me a goodnight kiss.

I got everything I wanted today.

Inhale.

It has been raining all day.

The roads are shiny and so are the roofs of the cars parked on my street.
The grass squeaks when you walk on it.

And I can breathe.

My green rubber boots are standing tall by the door and they promise to keep my feet warm and dry if only I will go for a really long walk.

The rain makes me want to cook properly and not just heat things up...so that my whole house smells like dinner and the kitchen is warmer than anywhere else.

The very best dressed ladies at the mall have to hike up their designer pants and jump over the puddles in the parking lot, and do the same awkward tip-toe and hop that the rest of us have to do to get inside.
And the ones who are wearing the most makeup are trying the hardest not to get ANY rain on their faces because it will make their mascara smear and run.

My hair is curly and unruly despite my efforts to be smooth and polished and sophisticated.

I think that the rain does as good a job at washing away pretense as it does anything else.

And I can breathe.

On a lighter (and fully machine washable) note...

Today I ordered underpants from the Internet.

The Internet has kindly agreed to send me some underpants sometime in May.

Actually I went on the Victoria's Secret website in search of bras and underpants (guess what...they have some), and after looking at dozens of pictures of frilly and lacy and embroidered lingerie with ribbons and bows and tassels and puckers and pleats guess what I ordered...

That's right...plain cotton underpants. I think I am the most reasonable (read: dull as carpeting) girl in the whole world.

Perhaps I was mesmerized by the selection of significantly less reasonable underwear...and when it came time to place my order the only thing that came to mind (through the frilly, gauzy fog) was the same thing I always buy: plain cotton underpants. But I am comfortable with my routines and I doubt I shall be disappointed.

Now I DO realize that since what I bought is available at any number of local underpants retailers, I could have made the same purchase here and received my goods immediately. But since I can wait and I wanted my plain cotton underpants to have an air of sophistication to them, I went ahead.

And I also hesitated for a second when it dawned on me that I would not be able to try them on, but then I realized that I never try on underwear anyway - I just buy a small (because that is what I would like the parts of me WEARING the underpants to be) and if they don't fit they go into the drawer of clothing items that I will be wearing when I wake up one morning with the body of a supermodel. On ME I mean...not dead from a heroin overdose beside me, just so we're clear.

And I wanted to have matching boring bras to go with my parade of boring underpants.

Next week...opaque tights (you all might need seatbelts for that one).

Also, please don't tell my son that I blogged about underpants. I will have no credibility the next time we are at the Olive Garden.

No relief.

I have never kept a diary, but at the times in my life so far when I have hurt the most or been the most afraid or the angriest, I have written down my thoughts and then I have been able to move on to other things.

This is what I am trying to do. I have started this post 4 times so far and I can't let it go yet.

I was watching the news at Easter this year, and in the midst of all of the other stuff the anchor mentioned that it was in the first week of April in 1994 that a genocide started in Rwanda. I couldn't remember what happened or why, and so I looked it up.

And in the first few drafts of this post I gave a little history lesson about what happened, but I have since figured out that what I have been choking back for a week now has very little to do with Rwanda. And that if you found this blog you can find out about it for yourself. And maybe you should.

I was devastated by the details of this slaughter, and I focused on that for a few days because I thought that was what was affecting me so much. But now I think it's something larger and more vague and impossible to fix.

It's the suffering of other people, and I have not done enough about it.

I have done nothing about it.

I have ignored the suffering of hundreds of thousands of people at a time, and I have ignored the people who were put RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME one by one for me to notice them.

I ignored them because I had to be somewhere or because I didn't have enough money or because I was not sure what to say or if I should touch them or because I was distracted by my own pain or because I just didn't notice. It doesn't matter why...to them the result was the same. I did nothing.

And I am afraid of not doing any better next time.

And I am afraid that even if I try I am not enough to make a difference.

There is a lyric from a song by Manic Street Preachers (remixed hauntingly by David Usher with Brilliant Beast) that has been in my head for days:

"...and if you tolerate this
then your children will be next."

I feel hopeless and afraid and sorry.
There is no clever ending or resolution here.

A graceful swan I am not...

Tonight I got dressed up in my FANCY new big brown boots and went to dinner at a VERY posh local restaurant to celebrate my BEAUTIFUL ANGEL FRIEND's birthday. (I have been over-emphasizing ALL night and I CAN"T seem to stop so bear with me as I attempt to exercise some self control...).

At this lovely restaurant they served us steamed and salted edamame, and after attempting to eat the ENTIRE pod (which you are not supposed to do with edamame and if you do you look like you are as cultured as a troll) I then proceeded to enjoy this particular appetizer in the manner I believe it was intended...by placing the pod's end in my mouth and delicately squeezing out one bean, while the other shoots out the side of the pod between my fingers and bounces off the cheek of the dinner guest beside me. And then because I enjoyed the edamame so VERY much I repeated this process about 8 or 15 times...with the same result. Well that's not true...I think I got some in his shirt pocket and I found a couple in my handbag when I got home.

But being that I am clearly not a graceful swan (those who know and care for me have already had to come to terms with this) I was in good company. The dinner guest beside me smacked the dinner guest beside him in the forehead with a knife (BY ACCIDENT as in NOT EVEN MEANING TO!!) and my beautiful angel friend nearly brawled with the table beside us over the birthday pictures that she was taking (lots).

I volunteered to help with the smack-talk but there were no takers.