Balance.

Dreams.
Realistic dreams can be the best feeling when you wake up, or the worst.  Lately, my realistic dreams have been difficult to wake up to.

Last night I dreamed that my brother committed suicide to be with my mom. I'm not convinced that he didn't represent me and how I feel.  Sometimes it feels like getting out of bed is too difficult. Probably sounds like I am just a whiny little girl, and I know whatever I feel, my dad feels ten times more.  I would never cause my family anymore pain than they have suffered - at this point, it's a daydream. An escape. To be with her. To see her smile.  People say that suicides don't go to heaven. I don't think that's necessarily true. And everyone says she's okay, and in a better place, but I'm not.  I'm not in a better place at all.

When I get in the car, there's a small hope that I get in an accident. When I lay in bed, there's an inkling of an idea of a home invasion gone wrong. When I walk into work on the bad side of town - will there be bullets today?

I don't want to die. I would, however, welcome it.  Does that sound weird? Or conflicted?


Welcome to my brain.

The monsters are buried down deep inside, you never know when they're satisfied.

Haiku.

I am on the brink.
Of screaming at my loved ones.
For walking on me.

therapy.

My shrink told me to write poetry, to help ease the pain from my mom's death.

So, here goes.

"Knowing is Half the Battle"

I can never know
Who you really were
You never let me see
All of you.

I just saw glimpses of pain
A past, a cross, a burden
Too great to bear.

I know your scent
Like I know myself
Coffee, cigarettes, cheap
Laundry detergent.

I know your voice
What each octave meant
Anger, happiness, excitement
I miss it, I miss you.

I know the names
You had for me
Mar, Mary Beth, Mary Elizabeth!
And I know yours, too.
Mom, mama, mommy.

I still can't believe
That I will never see you
That I will never hug you
That I will never hear you
Again.

I want to know you
I want you here, now, flesh and blood
Even if I learn more about you
Knowing, is only half the battle
The other part, my heart
This hole, can never be filled
Again.

The kind of song that ignites the airways.

Coordinate brain and mouth, then ask me what it's like to have myself so figured out...

Wish I knew.

Best Friends.

I get extremely overprotective when someone decides to cause unneeded drama with my bestie.

It's a good thing you're thousands of miles away, or I would drop kick your meddling ass into Juarez so the drug cartel could do with you what they'd like. I'm sure your carcass would make a great drug mule.

My Father's House.

I hate going to my father's house. I love my dad. I love seeing him. I love his jokes and his goofy sense of humor. But I'm angry.

I hate his house. I hate the emptiness.

She was so uncomfortable in the last month. The searing pain enveloped her. She couldn't move; she would just hold herself. I remember her shower. And how she and I had a secret, that she would shower alone - and that my dad wouldn't know! He was so overbearing, so overprotective.

So I let her shower alone. I let her have her private time, away from the baby monitors. I didn't want her to be uncomfortable anymore. I wanted her to have privacy and to know I trusted her. That the disease hadn't taken over.

But... she screamed for me. She couldn't finish the shower. She couldn't lift her arms over her head to wash her hair. It hurt too much. The cancer in her bones... it kills me, knowing that it's still there. Six feet and a cement block stopping the cancer from escaping.

I hugged her with a towel; I got her more pain medication. What was the use, though? The medication never worked anyway.

I took her to her room. It was always dark and stuffy. Medications and tissue boxes. That's all I see now, when I see that room.

I hate the living room. It reminds me of how she was defiant. She shuffled, with her oxygen cord, every day to sit in the chair. She loved the freedom it gave her, the independence. She told me, she just wanted to be independent. Why wasn't her defiance enough? She didn't want the cancer there - why didn't it just get the fuck out of her body?

I hate the dining room. The time she sat in front of me and told me it was okay to be mad at her. I hate that anger at her nibbles at me from time to time.

I hate the kitchen, and how it's missing her presence by the coffee pot, the sink, the counter.

I hate the den, where I would hide from everyone so they wouldn't see my tears.

I even hate the driveway. Where she spent the good days taking walks, getting stronger. Why couldn't she stay strong?

I never thought it would be possible to hate the place I grew up, but I do. I hate everything about it. I don't want those memories. I want the good ones. Where did the good memories go? Why can I only remember the things that hurt?

I miss my mom. I miss her so much that it feels like my insides are tiny little knots.

I hate that I hate these things. I hate that I'm angry. I can't stop being angry. I can't.

Unsatisfied.

I wonder if we'll ever finish this story that we started;
Or if it will continue to be unfinished and unanswered.
Like the pages of crossword puzzles I can never quite fill up.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.

One of my favorite memories of my mother never happened; at least, not in this dimension. The grief and heartbreak I feel constantly during the waking hours are dampened only by the dreams of her in her old red and black flannel shirt, smiling with her crooked and stained teeth. I always thought her teeth had character. She’s wearing her old plastic box-frame glasses – she hadn’t worn those in at least a decade. Color is in her cheeks, her eyes are bright. She looks so… healthy. I stare at her, trying to memorize this face and remove the ones that haunt me.



We are sitting on old lawn chairs – the kind that are cheap and made of tubes of gummy, interwoven plastic. We are on a deck; I can see blue sky all around me and clouds beneath that, but the scene is overtaken by the vibrant woman in front of me. She laughs; her quiet demeanor is outshone by her happiness. She hugs me; she tells me she loves me. We talk about everything; it is like we are old friends, just having a visit. I watch her smile begin to fade into sadness, and a furrow in her brow forms. I start to feel the pain throb deep within my chest.

“Oh, Mar,” she says, “I don’t want it to come back, I am so scared.”
I look into her eyes, and I see the one thing that this woman never showed her children, her husband, and her friends – fear.

“Mom, it’s not coming back. You were healed. By His stripes, you were healed!” I smile at her, scared myself, as I feel the familiar burning in the back of my throat. My eyelashes are wet, and I try to hold back the tears. I don’t want her to feel like she has a reason to be afraid. Her face breaks my heart; I want so badly to take away her pain.

“The cancer – it has come back before. We know it’s only a matter of time…” she lets her words trail off, avoiding the inevitable ending to the phrase.

“No, mama. No… I need you. I need you here. I need my mama, I’m just a baby.”

I beg her, I need her to stay. I have my life ahead of me! I am only twenty-four. I still need my mommy. I need someone to call when I have no answers; I need her soft comfort and touch when I’m sick, it’s better than any chicken noodle soup, any home remedy.

I watch her start to fade. Tears are in her eyes and she gives me one last long hug. I breathe in her scent. The smell of cigarette smoke and bar soap fills my lungs in a familiar way – but this time, it has a strange aftertaste. Metallic, almost like I am tasting loss.

“I miss you, Mar. I love you so much.”

All good things must end. I wake up, shaking. Sadness fills my whole body. I can feel it from my numb and shaky legs to the gaping hole in my chest, threatening to burst open. I have to hold my arms over myself to make sure that it doesn’t happen. That this brokenness doesn’t spill all over the bed.

I think about my mother – what an amazing force of a woman she was. We didn’t always get along, and we didn’t always see eye-to-eye on everything. We weren’t best friends, but we were close. She was the person I called when I screwed up. She was the only “favorite” saved in my phone. She was the only one who would love me, no matter what I did.

My mom never talked about dying or about the cancer. She was constantly optimistic – up until her last day. My dad told me two weeks ago that she was the bravest woman he ever knew, and I know this is true. She knew her God would heal her, and He did. Just not in this world. Perhaps my struggle for closure comes from the constant dreams –the memories of the dreams are more vibrant and easier to handle than the ones that actually happened. This dream in particular, she said the things I wanted to hear before she passed – but I knew she could not. It’s only been 12 weeks. I know the clichés, that the pain doesn’t ease, just gets less frequent. For now, I will look forward to these nights that I get to spend time with her. Regardless of the tears that soak my face and pillow when I wake up, the pain is worth it to feel her and see her – if only for a moment.

When something isn't worth it... just keep going.

What you don't know...

What you don't know, won't hurt me. But your words may. You don't know my life story. What formed me into this person. You don't know that I have been raped, molested and beaten. But that won't stop you from calling me names; names like "slut", "whore", or "cheater." You don't know that I never truly felt my father's love. So when I am quick to anger, or lash out inadvertently... you still presume you know me enough to gossip. You don't know that in the eighth grade, I was called fat for being a size 5 when my friends were 3. Or that I took birth control at age 14 for cramps, not sex. Or that my mother died of a cancer through which she suffered greatly. That she died only 3 months ago, and the hurt is very fresh. That I've had 7 friends commit suicide. And not "friends" like the people you pretend to know to get attention... genuine, caring friends who left a hole in my heart.

Instead of getting the facts, you enjoy your lies. You like the way gossip makes you feel. Like you are in control. But I don't know you, so I can't presume that's the reason. Perhaps you just gossip because you're a shallow, self-centered, ego-maniacal bitch... but what do I know?

Bandwagon!

Everyone's doing it... so I should, too!

And yes, if everyone jumped off a bridge, I probably would as well. Seeing as how the only reason I can think of for everyone to jump off of a bridge would be that we were being chased by rabid, man eating caterpillars or something similar.