Tonight was the anniversary of my Danny's, death. In the photo I am tucked safely between him (on the left) and my oldest brother, David. Both are gone now, and I miss that place, tucked safely between my big brothers. Danny died first. December 23. I try to remember to think of him every year on his anniversary. A friend asked me last night—should we pray? I said yes, because what else are we to do. Im an atheist, but this dear man was the first, the only, to suggest that we might, in some way, participate in this hollow. Should we pray? Yes. Who do we pray to? God, I guess. The creator. The vast, cold universe. The past. Is a prayer always to someone? So I did my version of a prayer. I spoke to Danny. I somehow, in spite of my insistent atheism, believed he heard me. Believed he loves me. Funny, how I can summon that love. I no longer hear his voice in my head, or even see his face clearly, but I do have an emotional memory. For a long time I remembered the smell of his old Chevy pick-up. Now all sensory memories have faded. But the emotional memory , I think, is permanent. He knew he was dying, we all did. But he was a scientist. He knew precisely how and why he would die. But I can't say it was no surprise. Death is always a surprise. The smallness of it. The slender slip from this world to no world is incomprehensible. When my mother and I viewed his body before cremation at the funeral home, I remember her saying (and she smiled): I told you it wasn't him. We had both been afraid to go see him, but somehow we had to. We couldn't stay away. I was afraid too. I had never seen the body of anyone I loved up this close. Close enough to touch, which to my amazement, I did. Somehow I had to check the feel of death. Cold. How odd, to see my brother's cold body without him inside. I wondered where his life energy had gone. He had had so much. I was with him when it left his body. In the hospital I had placed my hand on the top of his curly head, just as the heat rose from his crown. My fingers tingled, a tiny electrical shock. Maybe this was what people meant by the soul rising to heaven. Something was leaving. I am certain of this. The body does not die all at once. The heart stops, the breathing, the thoughts. The heat leaves last. Did he know I was there, my hand on his head? I try to take time on this day to remember him. Sometimes I don't and it is unfair, selfish, too sad. I read his journals after he died. He knew far too much, was dealing with ideas far too heavy for such a young man. He wrote: I have accepted my death, but I will not resign myself to it. It scares me how quickly people forget the dead. Unless you’re Michaelangelo. He was too young to have known all this. He didnt want to be forgotten. Or deserve it. Since then, David died, my mother died, and my father's memory died. So I hold the memory of him. Everyone knows Christmas is a sad holiday. It is sadness and grief wrapped in shiny paper. I’m learning to be unafraid to unwrap it. There is a treasure inside, always. Mt father always looks delighted to see me. Sometimes he has confused me with all the women of his past He knows my name, but my relationship to him has been mutable. Daughter, wife, sister, mother. Where is our little Rosie? I am Rosie. He tried to recover, knows he has made a mistake. His confusion seeping out embarrasses him. Yes, I know dear. I mean OUR little Rosie. He can’t pull it off. Last time he seemed thrilled as usual to see me. I hug him. He responds with love and warmth, but often his hugs feel like the wrong kind of hug. As if he isn’t sure whom he is holding. Daughter hug? Sister hug? Mother hug? Wife or lover hug? They are all different. He knows the difference, holds the memory of this distinction in his arms, but he cant remember who I am. He knows my name. Jeesh, you look so good honey. Rosie. He lifts his eyes when he says my name. a check. Did I pass that test? How do you do it Rosie? He looks with-it. I think maybe he is improving. Then, a slip. Rosie, tell me, how are our children? How are the boys? I seethe. Not at his confusion, but at the little girl forgotten always. I feel self-pity. I remind myself he is an old man, altered, and deserving a simple love from me. This irritates me. Always just the two. What do I say to a father who sometimes thinks I am his wife? No, Dad, we had a daughter too. Me. The relationship is blurry, the missing boundaries contagious. And then, the inevitable. Dear, you look so good, he says. Dear, you drive so well. You always know where you’re going. Dear, tell me, if you know. He laughs as if, why would I be expected to know. I am another somehow familiar stranger. What is your name dear? I know we have met. Dear, tell me, did I have any children? Do you know? Im angry, How unfair that he could forget us. Forget me. Im angry because he is demented and it happened too soon. I am too young for this. So was he. I am bitter because he drank his marvelous brain into this. But that was long ago. I am angry because I cant resolve anything with him. The years of lies and drunken abuse are mine. He stole the settling from me. But then, is resolution with another ever possible? Maybe the resolution is mine alone. Accept who he is. He is not that man anymore. He has finally joined the club of the very-old old. I smile at him. It is genuine. Yes, Dad, you had children. He snaps a look at me. A check for a lie. Tell me, dear, If you know. How many children did I have. Three, Dad, You had three. He smiles. Oh, my memory. He taps his forehead and rolls his eyes. How are they? Do you know? They’re fine, dad, wonderful. He looks like he is digging deep for this memory. Dear, Im sorry to bother you, What is your name dear? I know we have met. Im Rosie. Tell me, Rosie. If you know. Was I a good parent. Yes, dad. Yes, you were. His eyes have not aged. My family deserves to be remembered. In my life, Christmas is a day for children but also, a day for remembering the dead and the lost. I don’t mind this. Sometimes I welcome it. Seasonal blues. A gift and curse of nature. The snow keeps falling this year.

Time is a bandit. Time is floats. The past absorbs the present. I walk through rainy streets of my city seeing nothing. Nothing but the past. I sometimes miss people long gone, or recall conversations from another time, and these things stir emotions as if they are happening now. The past greedily robbing the present. Time steals the past as well. Events move forward, people come and go faster than I can absorb them into my heart, or let them go. Some say with ease, let it go, it is over. It isn't as if I dwell in the past. I live today, pay my bills, feed my child, do a day's work, fold my laundry. But as I do these things I remember. Or I think ahead. Would it be better to live in the present? I don't know. My present is a tangled web, a dust bunny, a fast moving sky. Every hurt is pasted like a veil over the present. I can no longer determine what to trust, who to put faith in, how to live with clarity. Sometimes I wish I weren't alone in the world. I wish I could recognize love when I see it. There is nothing wrong with loving too soon, feeling it immediately, as long as you are willing to let it go as quickly. Im tired. That's all. Tired of effort, tired of hurts, tired of lies, deceptions, games. I don't know what this is about. Loneliness? Living in the physical world instead of in my head? Last week I hiked in the Cascades. A steep hill climb with a mountain view. The earth was soft, the air tasted clean, the wild berries were ripe. And for an hour, maybe more, I walked without a thought in my head. My ideas were on pause and I was living in the sensory world. I was refreshed.

i havent written in months. i meant to continue, to keep a document to help me with perspective and also, possibly, to be of some minimal value to others-- the "its nice to know youre not alone" sort of value. but i got lost somewhere near the end of may and am just emerging for oxygen in the end of july. it was a lonely nightmare. i honestly thought i would be better off without medication. i think medication is overprescribed and only a way to screen the horrors of the world. how much bad news can a person absorb? if youre paying attention at all, youre going to be crazy. being crazy is the only way to escape an insane world. so now, although i pursue the wonders and joys of the planet, it seems trivial to do so. do i even have a right to enjoy a quiet walk in the forest or a rocking band blowing my brains out...i dont know....anyway, i decided to go med free, i keep returning to the thought that im not mentally ill. im merely undisciplined. and immoral. if i just work harder and be more generous and mature all will work out. so i stopped cold turkey. it was great for a few weeks. then i started to slide so fast down the dungeon. god, i really wanted to be med free. i had to get super sick to realize i am not well. june was hell. my moods were all over the planet. i think being bipolar is the hardest state. when i need help most--am most out of control and irrational--is when people turn away from me. its a catch-22. mania can be so unappealing and somehow it appears to be the fault of the person. i get irritable, raging, weepy, hyper- sensitive, hyper- flirtatious. even in rmh i think bipolar illness is the least tolerated and least understood. i dont understand it myself and i live with it. how much am i responsible for my behavior and moods? i think i need to understand my illness better. i need to see the warning signs and walk away. ive had raging battles with everyone i care about. i force them to run when i want to be held and protected, but i cant run away because the enemy is in my brain. im starting back to a real job, after nearly three years. im afraid but eager. i hope i can remain stable. every new situation i always promise to not let "me" come out. it is inevitable that once people know me, they will hate me. i dont know...i really dont.... at least ive come off the sofa.

i found a site about the flintstones. i never realized how cool they are. i've never seen the show, but i was impressed with their "stuff". also, i noticed that i bear a striking resemblance to betty rubble. but this isn't what i want to write about. i want to write about mothers' day.

betty rubble would've been a cool mom.

for several days friends here in rmh have been talking about mothers day. asking what my plans are, talking about their own. today the talk continued, as if this day meant something. i hadn't really known this before. maybe i missed it while i was hanging out with barney rubble. which so would not happen. although, he is a good deal nicer than fred flintstone, who resembles the mean father of my best friend growing up, who used to tickle me.

mothers' day. who did my mother think i was? what did she see when she looked at me? i pulled up an old picture of me and my brothers. all the photos of us where taken around the same time. me 3, danny 5, david 7. there arent any others. none of me in elementary school, or high school, or at any special event. now most kids lives are so documented that when they die, they will have more archives to take to their pyramid than king tut.

anyway, i pulled out this photo. you can see how i look like betty rubble, even at age 3. me and betty have the same haircut. i think i was really cute. i like how i am wedged between my big brothers. they were like bookends, body guards. god, i loved them.

i dont see how my mom could've had such a cute chubby little girl like me and not have wanted to hold and squeeze and kiss me a thousand times everyday. who wouldnt like a little girl like this?

my therapist says my mom couldn't really help it. that she did the best she could. that she was psychotically depressed and not treated. that on a scale of zero to ten, ten being a good, healthy mother-daughter relationship, zero being the worst.... i dont even approach the scale. but to me, my mom seemed perfect. what you know is normal to a kid. the other moms who brought milk and cookies and wanted to sit and chat in their shiny kitchens, made me nervous. they seemed phony.

i was afraid not to be a good little girl.

i still try to impress my mother so she will think i am special.

but she is dead, and has been for a long time. when she died, she was cremated, but i didn't know what to do with her ashes. i have asked a few people about this. they say to scatter them some place that was special to her.

but there was no place. she spent most of her life hiding in her kitchen, drinking cold tea, or fleeing to the laundry room, when anyone came to the house.

so i have her ashes in a cardboard box in a wooden chest in my living room. i want to do something about this. i try not to think about them being there, her being there. it is just too scary and sad.

maybe i will get censored again, for inappropriate content.

i can understand. not knowing how to bury the dead is not appropriate. i really should take care of this.

talk about skeletons in the closet!

she would be disappointed in me.

or, she wouldn't notice or care. she had no expectations for herself and she never felt she deserved anything. not even a proper burial.

i wish she had liked me.

i honestly must be the worst daughter in the world. who doesn't know how to bury their own mother? who doesn't even have the energy to figure this out?

i didn't cry when she died. i wanted to miss her. she would be disappointed to not have been missed, not for even a day. but frankly, there was nothing to grieve. she was a ghost.

besides, she should have stood up for me.

people who think i am nice, now you see? what an evil little girl i am!

after many months visiting the chat rooms here, i am convinced that this site (for me at least) has had minimal therapeutic effect and possibly does more harm then good. at least, as far as my mental and emotional health goes. this has nothing to do with the people here, many of whom i consider friends, at least within the virtual universe, which does not resemble the actual universe at all.

initially i arrived here too depressed to make even the simple decisions of life--to brush my teeth, or stay in bed.

this chat site was helpful at this time. i learned it is fine to go to bed, just don't stay too long. but as a site to turn to for support and information about mental health? nah.

this isn't a judgment of the good intentions of the admin, or the dear people who visit. it has more, i think, to do with cyber-communities. i question the health effects, the hypnotic and addictive characteristics of chat rooms. in conversations, the lack of nuance and potential for volatility are unavoidable and, i think, can do a great deal of emotional damage. and, of course, there is pain saturation. the hurt and confusion and daily crisis chatter begins to numb a person. i know it is all real. i know it all matters. every person who comes here matters. so what do i have to contribute? i've been listened to and i have listened. i have offered experience, ideas, suggestions and have heard from others. i have been offered the kindness of strangers. so what?

after a time, talk in this medium is an addiction that draws me from the real world of oxygen and skin and street noise.

the only thing i do believe would help me consistently is music. i think the world needs less talk therapy and more music therapy. go to your p-doc. what if, instead of prescribing some pschycotropic cocktail, she customized a play list? suffering from unreciprocated love? listen to "steal your love" by lucinda williams. IRS on your case? "taxman" by the beatles. and maybe food should be prescribed with the music. ben and jerry's chunky munky when you cant pay your rent. other simple actions that might help? depressed? do a somersault. lonely? salsa. frustrated? hammer some nails. all this eating and hammering and gymnastics would be accompanied by your personalized mental wellness radio station.

everybody loves the kinks.

one rule: avoid relaxation music. listening to orcas in puget sound, or wooden flutes DOES NOT help you in any way. better to ride the elevator up and down all day in the empire state building. do not ever, whatever you do, listen to new-age "soothing" music. you need sound. loud, incessant, demanding sound.

really, this would be a great site. the mental health internet radio station. type in your malady and the site puts together a playlist for you.

hmmm...maybe this is what i will work on next.

meanwhile...i highly recommend the film: across the universe. i didnt know the beatles could be improved upon, in fact, i resented tampering. i was wrong. this movie is more than clever, it is a celebration of language and wit and the importance of context. two thumbs up.

it is also very important that you listen to my new favorite band: gogol bordello. they know what joy sounds like.

poor minnie riperton. she died too young. she is the mother of maya rudolph, of saturday night live. minnie had an 8 octave voice and every note was clean and clear and strong. sadly, minnie didn't make many good recordings, but listen to "lovin you" (is easy cuz youre beautiful.) she is surely an angel visitor.

there really are more good things than not, and even a little taste every day helps. it doesnt have to be a feast.

send me your song suggestions. i know you've got them.

i woke today and two hours passed before i realized i am feeling good.
not hyper, not sentimental, just a simple sense of well being.
hey, i live in earthquake territory, so i have no false sense of safety
i do know this: quakes scare the holy * out of ya.
when they begin, you know something worth noticing is happening, but during the first few seconds of rattles and rocks, you dont know what it is.
a big truck passing,
a seizure,
a plane flying too low,
an auditory hallucination,
desperation being physically mentally emotionally manifested,
i dont know,
afterwards though, you feel happy. wow, you say, i just survived another quake,
hope this isnt offensive, to admit that earthquakes can be fun. yes, yes, yes, i know....some have cost great pain, etc.
have to be so careful what ya say,
or not,
wish i could use profanity occasionally in this site.
manure!
intercourse!
love?
im losing my train of what passes for early morning thought....
but....this morning two hours had passed before i realized i hadnt thought about "how i am feeling" .
i mean physically (this tenacious respiratory flu),
emotionally (the man is mean and unbalanced. but so am i!!!!! unbalanced at least....leave him alone. he will wage his own battles),
mentally (i think i am past the worst of ssri withdrawal),
ok...so what....feeling "good" is nothing to write home about.
the stories lie in conflicts.
but im noting it here anyway.
documentation for the fragile future.
on this day: i feel fine.
not hyper, not "happy",
but ready to be industrious--which can mean anything from simply washing the dishes to actually working (as in my job-type work).
or, it can mean simply noticing, paying attention.
because.....outside my window is a big wide world.
and since i am one of the lucky million who lives in seattle, outside my window means lilacs in bloom, red winged blackbirds singing and all that this implies.
inside my window means: me, a hot shower, food in the larder (love that word), and a haircut appointment.
that is enough for me, now.
i dont want a pickle, i just want a ride on my motorcycle.
well, i dont have one.
wouldnt mind a little vespa, although in this wet hilly city....
my two legs work best.
now all i want is a cup of strong coffee, a little david byrne radio station (oh yes, if you dont know, this is really rocks).
and i'll wear my softest jeans. i remember when each hole appeared.
ciao!
p.s. regarding potentially annoying absence of caps, and proper punctuation (for all you ocd types)--this isn't an affectation. im a lousy and lazy typist.

okay, im still off the zoloft and still feeling extreme withdrawals symptoms. why am i going off meds? i forgot. i thought i wanted to find my baseline, but i suspect there is a small piece of me that wants to be nuts. still, it has been more than i bargained for. extreme ups and downs. weepy crashes at night, irritability. ive been fighting with most everyone. and the most humiliating, my dearest friend couldnt take me anymore. he said i've been great until the past couple days and the way i've behaved has made him want nothing to do with me. so what do i do? well, okay, i know this is humiliating, and i knew then it would have the opposite effect from what i desired (love, nurturing, reassurance, affection). but okay, here's what i did....i did the phoning thing. yes, big time. i truly felt i couldn't stop. i knew it would make things worse, but i had to hear his voice and try to convince him i am worthy of love and all that garbage. well, he didn't bite. haha. i called all last night, all this morning and again this evening. 10, 30, 75 times. i felt desperate, like i had to hear his voice or i would kill myself. i really felt this, all the while knowing that this sort of obnoxious stalky-type behavior does not earn love. i called and called and finally we spoke. it was not a satisfying discussion in any way. i tried so hard to explain and ask forgiveness. i promised not to violate boundaries again. but...why did i call over and over? did i truly have no impulse control? did i just give up? i truly don't know. but heres the punch-line---hearing his voice, as cold and unforgiving and, yes, mean, as he was, i felt soothed. i HAD to hear him, make contact. the conTENT became irrelevant. when i began my quest for a drug free me, i thought it wouldn't be difficult. and i truly do not know if the meanness, irritability and obsessive behavior is just my weakness and nasty personality, or if it is drug related. i do not want to make excuses. i don't know. i am thoroughly ashamed now. i deleted his name from phone, chat, etc. i fully intend to respect his boundaries and also to retain a modicum of self respect. is this me, just a bad personality woman? i don't have any idea. i've alienated more than one friend this month. i can handle the druggy feelings. but i want the hurt to end. if it doesn't, i know i will have to make an exit plan. i hurt. i really hurt. mental illness is the loneliest number. well, time to quit here. got to call my friend. (joking). oh god, i wish i didn't have a week of pain to look forward to.

im off meds. still struggling over the hump. ive been on various ssris and ssri cocktails (boosters, stabilizers) for five years or so and with marginal ameliorative results, but plenty of side effects. finally i chose the ssri with the least unbearable side effects. this seems a crazy way to choose a medication. what will make me feel the least miserable? what can i tolerate? ive been all over the emotional landscape with these drugs and my intractable depression. so long now, ive forgotten who i am. recently, i stopped taking them. not complete cold turkey, but almost. ive been sick with worst flu of my life, so i thought this would be a good time to go off drugs since im miserable anyway. plus, i was too weak to get water or food. for a few days i felt terrific. my head was clear and ideas for things to make and write and do were racing. then i hit the middle, misery, meltdowns, confusion, fear, auditory hallucinations, anger, chills. it was hard and everyone in rmh and real world urged me to stay on drugs, thinking the withdrawal symptoms proved the "real me" and not such a great me, was returning. but i am determined to get through this time. there is a wild week of misery and miracles when youre withdrawing. i think im past the circus days and now im sliding into home. but it isnt a happy home. this is the hardest thing ive ever tried to do. i had no idea withdrawal would be so difficult and take so long. its been over three weeks now. i just want to find my baseline, see who i am without chemicals. i still think this is right for me. not for everyone. but drugs did not help me. my life was numbed. after a while i couldnt tell what was me and what was illness and what was drugs. i found it hard to take responsibility for things while on drugs. and when i misbehaved, i never knew--is that me? drugs? illness? am i to blame? do i have free will? what is the relationship between free will and illness? i was feeling better today. but the smallest things throw me. this time, my best friend and closest mate dumped me. ended our friendship. i saw it coming and this made me needy. the needier i got, the more he pulled away, thats how it works. finally though, he got mean. tonight i was torn apart by him, he said things that humiliated me and make me feel pathetic. and ashamed for needing love and connection. he spoke words that hurt and i will not forget. ive never had anyone say such mean things to me. and all the while im loopy and fragile from cold turkey. it hurts too much to have someone you believe you know and can trust, turn on you. suddenly its as if he was a different person, talking to me as if i were a stranger. oddly, i am. but in a good way, i think, once i get my strength back. i am changed. i didnt know anyone could turn cold so quickly though. i dont trust anyone now. they lie. they are mean. they change. they leave you. how awful, to be loved one day and yelled at the next. im trying to sort out how much had to do with me coming off drugs and being sick for several weeks. did i get too needy? it proved what i have known anyway. if you are not strong, if you let yourself be vulnerable, if you let down your guard and reveal yourself, all sides of yourself, you are in extreme danger. i had let him see me, the real me. and so i feel what i always suspected--that if anyone gets to know me, they will learn to hate me for sure. best to hide. im too complicated to love. too lonely. too wanting. he accused me of wanting attention. like--yeah--people do tend to want attention. i dont know if i can hurt this much right now. i can handle a lot, but this rejection of "me"--this i cant tolerate. i want to be off meds, but now this is part of the challenge. people already are saying move on, get over it, he isnt worth it. the thing is, he was. i loved this friend. like a soulmate. we "got" each other. how will i get through tomorrow? what about the next day? i liked most having someone to talk to. we talked about everything. i will miss that. in the end he began to ridicule me though, as if i werent as smart as he. i felt it coming for a long time. how will i get through tonight? will i return to drugs? numb myself with drink? do more? who will ever love me and know me? who will share a world view? that is worth everything. we spoke a similar language. we even invented a country. am i unlovable unless im medicated? my mother always told me that if anyone got to know what i was really like, they wouldnt be my friend. who can care for a person who lives on the sofa. but we were friends. i know we were. a great friendship. how can he let that go? wont he miss me? he asked me how he could be free of me without hurting me. i said you cant. there is no way out of this without hurting. he said i was threatening him. i couldnt even squash a mouse sided spider on the wall above my head. remember? will he miss me? he said mean things to me. the things you say to punish. we understood each other, ya know? he used to call me sweet, he said i was an angel. how will i make it through friday? what about next week?

today is my dads birthday. i will go see him and bring him a new notebook and new bic pen. he has no short term memory and all he asks about are those who have died. he writes these questions again and again in his notebooks and underlines for emphasis. where is dave, where is dan, where is mom, where is eileen. no amount of answering or writing the details of birth dates and death dates can satisfy his questioning. he has a 5 minute memory, so time together is the same. to him i am "every woman"-mother, sister, wife, daughter. i try to be understanding, but this angers me. i want him to know i am his daughter. where is david, where is dan, are you sure, over and over. i tire of reviewing names of my dead family, yes, i'm sure. i wouldn't forget the dates of my brothers' deaths. but you forgot dad, you were drunk. i try to be kind, be the daughter i would want in my old age. but.... my patience wears thin and i have been known to say--dad, they are all dead, okay? you only ask about the dead, so don't ask anymore. anyone you are going to think of is dead. in truth, i don't know if i have ever said that aloud. but i am capable of that kind of cruelty. more likely, i take his arm and we walk a crooked mile. people get a certain smile when they see us together--a smile that says--oh, how sweet, an old man with his young daughter. why do i hate that smile? when i get home after time with my dad, i sleep, as if drugged to my eyeballs. i did love him once. i still do. he was the man who built telescopes and taught me how to use them, built ham radios, taught me morse code (who uses that anymore?). he carried me to bed when i was little, threw me over his shoulder like a bag of laundry. in the mornings, it was he, not mom, who woke us: hit the deck, ya lily livered swabs, he would yell up the stairs. a navy man. there is only one thing i give him for a gift now--notebooks. in them he writes the same questions over and over and underlines them and then fills the next book with the same. where is david? where is danny? (my brothers). where is my mother? (my grandma). where is eileen? (his wife). i miss him though. and i miss the old man he might have been. the man who entertained and charmed his physics students around a warm fire, smoking pipes and questioning where we came from, how we got here, what's the purpose of existence and what will happen when we die. while he held court, my mother hid in the laundry room, but i sat nearby, listening, shy and proud. my father knew everything. when his students left, my mother would emerge from her hiding place. why do your friends have to plague us all the time, tom? i don't bother them at their houses. sometimes this built into a rant, but i had the power to turn invisible. my father loved her madly, though, and would calm her with tea and kisses. all i feel is mean, when i think of my father. am i?

yesterday i ventured out for the first time in fourteen days. i've had the flu, or something like it, that made me sleep for days and days. there were several days when i was too weak to crawl to the kitchen for juice or water. i woke and slept off and on then for maybe 48 hours. mostly i kept the shades drawn because my eyes were so sensitive to light, but once i opened them and saw snow drifting down onto my new lilac blooms. all this in april. then i went back to sleep, i don't know for how long. but when i finally woke all the way--as in no fever, no confusion-- i was soaked--as if i had taken a shower in my clothes. i felt wobbly but had to go out for supplies--food, books, and maybe some videos until i was all the way strong again. also, my computer had crashed, so i wanted to deliver it to the genius bar for repairs. when i called, they told me not to worry, seattle's apple store's "genius bar" is the best in the country, they said. really good, they added. outside was a surprise. while i had been gone--two days, five, a month?????- spring had arrived. my car started right up and i had half a tank of gas. at a red light, i noticed a little boy just rippin' down the sidewalk. he looked about nine or ten. his arms were flapping like a bird. he was twirling around and around, then he grabbed a post and spun round it, then he zigzagged down the street and back. his dad followed a few feet behind, now and then catching up and touching the boy gently on the shoulder, guiding him south. the kid showed no concern for a straight path or a destination. he had a little helmet buckled under his chin--the kind some children wear to protect themselves from harm. the kid was like a drunken dancer, round and round, kicking and leaping. his dad looked perfectly patient and fully attentive. finally the kid noticed pigeons on the grass (alas) and charged them--his arms cycling, his fingers spread--as if he stretched them wide enough, he might catch a bird. the birds flew a short way, landed, and resumed pecking the grass. the kid chased them again, yelling now, and his smile was the brightest thing i've ever seen. the birds flew into the street and the kid ran after them, right between the cars (fortunately stopped at a red light), grinning still, hollering, with no concern for safety, no impulse control, just eager to catch a bird or at least swipe a feather. his dad held up a calm hand to the cars-halt-caught his son and ever so gently guided him back to the sidewalk. i think they were going home. the dad was carrying a brown paper bag, maybe food. the kid didn't protest, didn't try to chase the birds again, didn't cry, didn't protest, just smiled and smiled and looked hopeful, ready for the next wondrous distraction. his father didn't look worried, or impatient or tired. i watched them like this, making their way down the street, until they rounded the corner. the kid would never catch a bird, but he wasn't disappointed either. no matter what came next, he was thrilled, living this day in his life, walking with his dad. eventually the boy and his father would get to where ever they were going. the father would empty the brown paper bag and they would share whatever fruits they had bought. later i heard a scientist talking on the radio-this was the man who had discovered that pluto is not really a planet. he was credited for having pluto kicked from the solar system. he sounded ecstatic and amused that for all these years no one had realized that pluto didn't belong! so i took in my computer and the guys at the "genius bar" said they could save everything in my hard drive. they assured me i didn't have to worry about losing any of my fiction or poetry or art, but they said there was no way to recover my bob dylan cd, blonde on blonde, stuck in the disc slot. imagine.

this morning threatened to be another pretty day. i could hear the chatter of neighbors, coming out of their houses for the first time this year and discussing wisteria vines, pruning techniques and chain saws. i heard a bird singing. i knew this was a robin. i peeked out my curtains and there they were-their white skinny legs exposed to the first 70 degree day. im still in bed, way past noon, and if i were a better person i would go outside and pull dandelions. i would even call to my neighbors--so, hey will, howzit goin?but i cant. for one thing, i can tell by the way they offer a guarded hello, that they resent that i do not trim my hedges. spring is beautiful in seattle, though, and i decide to walk, where i experience a few moments of well being and appreciation. these glimpses of wonder sustain me briefly. the song of the red winged blackbird, a pussy willow tree, the scent of mock orange. now it is night again and again i dread tomorrow morning. i am ashamed. i wont be able to achieve anything. i just want to hide within my thick shadow. im not sad, that isnt what this is. but.... i dont aspire to be happy. i dont know what that means. i do want to experience the full range of emotions and i do want to engage in the world. and i do want someone to care what i feel. and i do want someone to witness my life. but how can i be happy, have peace of mind and heart, if i am even paying the slightest attention to the world around me. how can anyone? honestly, i aim low....if i could just stand in line at the grocer's and not feel afraid, that would be a step forward. i fear i have not selected the best bargains and the cashier is laughing at me secretly. i fear i have unloaded my groceries too soon onto the conveyor and the person in front of my thinks im acting too entitled and aggressive. i worry the woman with the furious hollering two year old will say--whatchoo lookin at--if i smile at her tired angry toddler. i try to look at my groceries and nowhere else. if only they didnt ask me: paper or plastic. if only they would choose. then i wouldnt worry. i believe they would make the right decision.

lingering residue from growing up in an alcoholic family…
you never know the difference between truth and lies.
what is true, even when there is solid evidence, is lied about and denied.
and there is no follow through on things.
things promised may or may not occur.
you come to expect nothing and to be surprised when there is something.
it took me years and many mistakes to learn that this is not normal, not what i want or what i want to be.
i had to struggle to follow through on the promises i made, because i didn’t even know this was expected in the world.
in an alcoholic family, everything is secondary to getting to alcohol.
this becomes the whole family’s enterprise.
there is no shame, there is no allegiance or integrity, no grace or love or loyalty or safety.
growing up in an alcoholic family, you can't tell the difference between straight and sober, or stoned.
the lines blur, observations are denied, and you feel crazy because you don't trust yourself or anyone else.
honest people seem disingenuous and frightening.
and sober people defend the addicts.
you don’t know who anyone is.
it is crazy making.
eventually, it becomes impossible to recognize truth.
addicts will hurt anyone and do anything to feed their habit.
if you question any of this, you are told that you are the problem.
and you believe this about yourself.
and you gravitate toward people who support this notion of self.
but.... somewhere, deeper, lies your own moral code, the truth within.
and throughout your lifetime, you struggle to believe and trust what you know.

oh my sun

i dreamed about my father
singing in the shower
and how my mother
would say
oh tom
i dont know why your mother always
bragged about your voice
how you were so talented
how you should have had voice lessons
how you were this how you were that
but you cant sing
your voice is no good
we never sang at my house
except my father in the shower
he sang in italian
o sole mio
i have always loved that song
sometimes i whispered it in my bedroom
o sole mio
does it mean:
oh my soul
or oh lonely me?
i have never understood

i posted a picture of me and my big brothers, danny and david. i seem to be looking up at something. i look eager, as if i want to charge toward whatever has caught my attention. danny's hand is on my shoulder, holding me back. david has my other hand clasped in his. there we are, 3 scruffy little kids, in hand me down clothes. how vividly the photo reveals our personalities: me, eager and curious, but always being restrained, overzealous, 100 mph; danny, sweet and agreeable, his troubles are water off a duck's back; david, wary and conscientious. somewhere in me that little girl still resides. i long for the protection of standing between my two big brothers. all these years later, every day still feels as if something is missing, as if danny and david simply walked away and forgot all about me, leaving me standing alone at the fair. losing people you love does not get easier with time. it is not like giving up candy or smoking. you dont come to feel better without them. it is more like giving up water. the longer you are without it, the thirstier you become. this feeling does not go away. sometimes, though, i think of my brothers to make me feel strong, not lonely. this picture reminds me that once, long ago, i was a perfectly happy, safe, unguarded little soul in the world. that little girl is still part of me too, i think. i was loved and i know what it feels like. i know it when i see it.