1993: I sat across from my psychiatrist. She never wore the same shoes twice. She asked me a lot of questions about my childhood. She asked me if I’d ever thought of harming my son in any way. I was horrified by the thought of hurting my baby boy. It had never occurred to me. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Tammy, what you need to realize is that your life will never be as bad as it was when you were a child.” I nodded, but I didn’t believe her. She was my psychiatrist for years. She was the only one I ever told about the times my dad tried to kill us.

1985: He was trying to kill my mom and us kids. My mom took us and fled. My brother refused to leave. We hid in a trailer. Dad killed himself in the basement of our house. When we drove up the driveway to the house that morning I already knew. I’d tossed and turned all night having dreams where I was choking to death. The threat to my life was over, but I kept seeing him around town. There he was walking down the sidewalks, there’s his face on a bus going by, oh shit and he’s that man in the store. He was everywhere. I started to feel him behind me when I was loading clothes into the washing machine. I would close my eyes and run. My mom came home from work and scolded me for leaving the lid up and the washer half full of clothes. The water was cold by then. I told her that I had to run from the basement and that I was sorry. She hugged me. She bought a new house. I wanted to ask the other five who had survived with me if they saw him but I didn’t.

2009 Mother’s Day: I am sick in bed, shaking with fear, unable to go to work. I can’t get my valium refill. The doctor says he faxed it in and the pharmacy says they never received it. Alex holds me and wishes me a happy mother’s day. “Probably your best yet, huh?” I couldn’t laugh at his joke then but he tries to remain lighthearted when I am in extreme distress. He recommends that I have a shot of Jack Daniels to calm me down. I refuse. I am afraid that it will trigger an alcohol binge.

The following Wednesday, I am sitting in front of a new psychiatrist. He asks me what happened the weekend prior. I try to explain about the panic attack I can’t stop. He bumps Effexor to 300mg and Valium to 30 mg. He adds Trazadone. He spends an hour with me and tells me I have post traumatic stress disorder, panic disorder, and severe depression that is medication resistant. He snaps my file shut, ready to go, but before he stands he looks at me and says, “If you ever find yourself out of valium again and going into withdrawals, drink some alcohol. It acts on the same part of the brain that valium does. Don’t you go telling anyone your doctor told you to get wasted.” We shake hands. I make a mental note to tell Alex he was right.

I spent some time in the lock down facility. I am panicked the whole time I am on that floor because there is no escape. Only the employees carry key cards. The doctor who gives me a physical tries to make jokes. I can’t laugh. I am trying to behave in a way that will get me out of the lock down floor. For whatever reason, the severe psychiatric patients are locked down with the drug addicts going through their withdrawals.  They are so sick: some pacing and shaking, others vomiting into garbage bins, there is crying and face picking and wails I will never forget. I can’t drink water without supervision and I am watched as I piss. I wonder if I could break through a window and jump out. I want to be outside in the freeway polluted air, smoking a Camel filter. I pretend I am doing research for a novel. I sit still and observe. I want my cell phone back. I want to go home. Dr. Joke asks me how I am doing and I tell him it’s not like I thought it would be. I joke that I am looking around for the table with Jack Nicholson and Danny DeVito playing cards. He says those days are long gone. He asks me if I have ever thought of hurting myself or anyone else. I lie when I say no. I have to sign a contract that if they let me move to outpatient I won’t hurt myself or anyone else. I don’t tell him that I imagine jumping in front of every fast moving vehicle I see. When I am finally set free they put me in outpatient loony bin. I am escorted out by card carrying scrub wearing men.

I am assigned a therapist. They take me to him. He is nice. He already has my file. He asks me if I’ve ever been raped or molested. I ask him if I can go home early. He sighs and says it’s time for lunch. I get into the line and wait. Sugar and caffeine are forbidden. People nibble candy from their purses and pockets; fill water bottles with coke or coffee. It’s finally my turn. I take my cucumber sandwich and sit at a large table. They have little packets of mustard and mayo, but plastic knives and forks are forbidden. I find that amusing. The groups of people sitting around me are talking about work as I choke down my sandwich with warm water. They are comparing notes on patients and discussing how to care for the nonverbal ones. I realize I have sat down at the employee table and try to eat faster. I have 15 minutes until I have to be back from lunch. Smoking is prohibited. I throw away my paper plate .I walk through the door right in front of the woman at the front desk and exit. I walk until I am standing over the freeway overpass and smoke as much as I can. It would be a perfect place to jump. I imagine my body down there, splat.

When I return to the building, room 2, I sit at the table ready for the class to begin. Some of the people I had eaten lunch next to come in and take their seats. They are not employees after all, they are patients like me. There are other patients in the chairs surrounding me. Some have their mouths wide open and the saliva runs down their chins and onto their shirts. Some patients are so drugged their heads fall over and smack the table, startling me. The therapists try to talk to us in calm tones, asking the ones who keep nodding off to please try to stay awake.
There is a woman in the corner reading Twilight with her headphones on full blast. The therapists try to remove them and bring her out of the corner and into the group. It’s a no go. She needs the music to drown out the voices in her head. She said they are telling her to do bad things. I close my eyes and thank the sky that I am not that sick. There is an elderly woman who sits at the front of the class surrounded by bags. I find out over the course of weeks that she believes the feds are watching her and that they will come into her apartment and steal all of her belongings while she’s gone. That is why she must bag them up and bring them with her. Her diaper leaks sometimes. No one says anything about it. Psychiatric facilities involve a lot more body fluid than I’d imagined. I carry hand sanitizer.

When I do my one on one time with my therapist I ask him about all of the patients who are nurses, CNAs, LMTs etc. He says that those in the care giving industry are statistically number one on the list of people who seek help there, followed by teachers, and then insurance salesmen. I laughed, just about the insurance salesmen part. I ask him where and how the doctors go for treatment. He pauses for awhile before telling me that they go to hospitals outside of the one that they work for, and that they don’t identify themselves as doctors during the group sessions.
As the days go on I start to like the structure there. I start to worry about some of the patients when they don’t show up for a day or two. There is a woman with trickatilamania who sits across from me. Once, when I was speaking during group, she announced that my voice is a trigger for her. She asks them to stop me from speaking. I hate her suddenly; her head a pattern of long curly hair and softball sized bald spots. I over think why my voice would be a trigger. She cries a lot and lets the snot run free. There are tissues everywhere in the room. I don’t know where I fit in.

I encourage a few others I feel comfortable with to come out and smoke with me on the lunch break. After a few weeks more and more patients are there now. There is a tiny little 20 years old girl with two babies at home. She likes to spread out on the grass and close her eyes to the sun. She came to the treatment center from the hospital where she was treated for a suicide attempt. She wears the tiniest outfits, little halter tops and shorts, overall shorts with no top underneath. Her arms and legs are covered in scars; fresh bloody cuts over old purple skin where she had started to heal. She tells me that they have taken all of her meds away now that she had tried to OD. I want to hug her but I don’t. I have never seen someone with that many cuts on their body in my life. I talk to her about ways to take care of herself while taking care of her babies. I bring her a recipe for edible play dough she can make with her kids. She offers me a hook up on the opium poppy seeds she’s been buying. I just laugh.

There are a few patients who swap their pills with others, the smell of marijuana hangs in the air and that guy named Josh under the tree there is smoking heroin. I can’t imagine that a group of us who have decided to have our lunch outside goes unnoticed but it’s never mentioned inside the hospital. I crave coffee but since it’s forbidden inside the building I sometimes walk around to the little corner shop and buy a cup. It’s nasty but I chug it hot, just trying to get something into me to make it through the rest of the day. I wonder if I’ll ever be OK and what OK is.

There is a pregnant woman in the program. She dresses up each day in patterned thrift store dresses, stockings and heels. She makes no attempt to hide the track marks on her arms. She smokes Marlboro Reds and talks in the group about wanting to get sober before her baby comes. She is six months pregnant. She’s always asking people for things: a piece of paper, a pen, an Advil. She deals drugs to some of the other patients. I recognize it immediately because I used to be part of that world and I’d recognize the drug/money pass off anywhere.
I am standing alone during lunch on a sunny day, not far from where Josh sits with his rolled up tinfoil smoking heroin, when she approaches me. “Do you have a tampon?” she asks. I immediately dig into my purse and pull one out for her, but as I do I can’t help but look at her swollen stomach. “Are you bleeding? You should call your OB/GYN.”I say.  “Nah”, she answers, “This is my ninth pregnancy. I’ve had eight miscarriages already so I’m sure everything is fine.” She staggers away on her high heels, the backs of her feet covered in Band-Aids. I remind myself once again that I am not the doctor here. I am a patient. I try not to judge her, but I do.

With my insurance running out I begin to feel more pressure to be better. In a private one on one with my therapist he asks me if I am starting to feel the effect of the doctor doubling my Effexor. “I am beginning to think”, I spit out, “that this quest for happiness is bullshit.” He looks taken aback and he comments that I seem irritable. I look at him sitting there calmly and I tell him the conclusion I’ve come to, “I think that life is just a series of hrumph moments, sometimes punctuated by joy, or sadness, in varying degrees.”
He looks at me for awhile before smiling. “Tammy, you just described life.” It hadn’t occurred to me before that this could be true. I had imagined that most people were happy most of the time, with a few ho hums bits and grief only on occasion. “So how do I get there?” I wanted to go from the constant sadness to the ho hum. He didn’t really have an answer. When I left that day I didn’t know it would be for the last time. I made the decision the following morning that I had learned all that I could there. The medical bills piled up.

December 23, 2009: I sit in front of my psychiatrist. He asks me how I have been feeling and I try to explain that going through the physical therapy has brought up a lot of old memories and emotions. Taking the huge step of wearing a bathing suit and getting into the pool at the hospital every week was hard, but I did it. I tell him that I joined a book group and that I am now attending family functions instead of hiding at home. I think that this is all good news, but he wants to know what I have been doing about getting enrolled in college. “You’re not twenty anymore, but you’re not sixty either. You still have time.” I can’t explain to him that I want someone to take me there and stay by my side as I go through the process of enrollment. I can admit to him that I am scared that I am going to fail. “You’re not going to fail.” His response surprises me. I wonder where it comes from. Is it because he makes $300 per hour to talk to me? Is it because he been seeing me for over a year and he really believes that I can do it?

I know that our time is running short so I ask him the question that has been weighing heavily on my mind for most of my life. “Do I have to go through life feeling so incredibly sad all of the time?” He responds that it is not normal for someone to feel sad most of the time, as I do. He suggests adding another medication to my list, a tricyclic antidepressant, checking back with me in a month, and if I’m still feeling so sad adding a drug called Abilify. I want to ask him if he could prescribe something with a weight loss side effect as well as a daytime boost of energy, but the timing seems wrong. I thank him and leave.

I see my dad riding with me in the elevator down to the first floor. He’s not stuck at 57 this time. This is what I imagine he might have looked like had he lived. He has shrunk in size and has difficulty walking. I think about that and feel no rage against him. He would be approaching his 82 birthday. In my mind I want to believe in God and in a place where people who die go and spend eternity in peace. I don’t believe it. I want to believe that maybe my dad is now my guardian angel. Before I take the two hour bus ride home I go to the chapel in the hospital and sit in silence for awhile. I feel empty but calm. I feel stronger.
I imagined that 2009 would be the date on my death certificate. Now it feels like more of a rebirth. I have no idea what’s ahead but I feel ready.

Last week I found out that one of my former coworkers had committed suicide.  I went through this whole range of emotions. He was only 25. I had been planning on calling him to wish him a Happy Birthday as it’s just days away, but that day will pass and 25 he shall remain forever.

I went over the many nights we worked together in my head, looking for signs I must have missed, finding nothing but more questions. I had this feeling that I needed to do something, but I couldn’t imagine what that might be.  I’m not foolish enough to believe that I could have saved him, but I would have tried.

My thoughts kept returning to his Mom on the East coast, and to his little sister, and the  times we had sat together drinking pints of beer after work. He had planned on returning for a visit home. He felt guilty that the years were slipping by. He wondered aloud if the letters and little gifts he was sending to his much younger sister meant anything at all. I assured him that his sister was undoubtedly thrilled to have any contact with him whether it be phone, email or letters and encouraged him to keep the lines of communication open with his mom even if it was hard at times.

He has returned home now, his body anyway, where he can be buried close by his family. Last night I finally sat down and wrote his family a letter and slipped it in a card. I can only hope that my words can one day offer even the slightest bit of comfort to them.

In honor of his love of music, and Sam Cooke in particular, I wanted to post the following song.

Hold On

I’m certainly not the only one who danced with her siblings on the coffee table day after day, inspired by the Jackson Five, practicing my singing and my dance moves wearing just my stocking feet.  I’m not, right? My brother dropped out of our band after the first rehearsal, my eldest sister was soon to follow. Maria and I remained side by side; I got more ambitious with my dance moves now that there was extra room on the coffee table. I slipped off several times, but I got back up. It was so important to practice. I knew deep down inside that this was going to be my ticket out of the hell of my home. It never occurred to us to practice on the floor. We had to be up as high as possible and get in every second of rehearsal we could before my Dad came home. He couldn’t know of our plan, but one day he would see me on TV and be so sorry.

Thriller was the first album I ever owned but it was a painfully long wait. I had a cassette of “Off The Wall” that my cousin made from her copy. I could tell the whole tale of how bad I wanted that record, but I knew that my Mom couldn’t afford it, so I said nothing. I could go into detail about how all of my classmates had it, and I hated them for it, but I consoled myself, knowing that one day they would say they knew me when. The details don’t matter much.

The part that I remember was after the months of longing to own that album, or even just a tape of someone else’s copy, my birthday rolled around. My Dad never bought us gifts, but my Mom would always figure out a way to come up with a little something for us on our birthdays and Christmas. When she handed me that square wrapped in tin foil after dinner I reached out for it, hands shaking, certain that it couldn’t be Thriller. It was a brand new copy, still sealed in plastic.

That’s what I thought about today as I worked in my garden, thinking of Michael Jackson’s death. I have been ignoring the media coverage for the most part, although it’s almost impossible. I just wanted to quietly reflect on the role his music had in my life, and on the hours of joy his songs gave me in what was for the most part a pretty rotten childhood.

Now that I am in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy I am being taught about thinking errors, among other things. One of the examples the therapist used for a thinking error was the thought that life owes you something. I’ve been thinking that for 30 odd years.  I still think my plan would have worked. After I saw The Partridge Family I begged my Mom to buy a bus and drive us around so we could make it big.

I have been feeling really shitty this past week, and also incredibly irritable, so I’ve been trying not to talk or write much for fear of lashing out. Anger. I feel so much anger and I have always buried it, equating it with violence and fear. I am frustrated, stressed and afraid. A lifetime to get to this very point and my insurance is telling me my time at the hospital treatment is almost up. Having lived for many years without medical insurance I know full well to be grateful for the opportunity I’ve had. I just haven’t a clue what the next step should be.

If you’re not a long time reader you can start here, or not.

After my abysmal fishing performance at the GI Joe fishing school my dad set his mind to spending the weekends taking me to various liquid spots to practice. We went to rivers, lakes, and even to the ocean, where I quickly learned to run out when the tide went out, cast out my line, and then stand there as the water came back in. I exclaimed at the strange sensation of the force of sand meets water under my feet that led me to believe that I was moving, although I was fairly certain I was standing still. “Shh”, I was told. “You will scare the fish.” I envisioned their slippery rainbow bodies, their heads turning at the sound of my voice, ears I couldn’t recall seeing listening to the sound of my chatter.

I always looked forward to these weekends alone with my father. We would head out painfully early; a morning person I never was, but my dad would take me to cheap breakfast joints before the little road trip, anything with a breakfast special of $1.99 or less. He never let me order for myself, and although I tried the tactic of staring longingly at the carbohydrate rich stacks of pancakes with the mysteriously soft whipped butter atop the pile, or the art of the waffle bigger than my head on a plate covered with juicy berry compote and a whipped cream perimeter, passing me by in the arms of the waitresses with the special swing to their hips they all seemed to have as they danced in between tables, he was sensible with my order: eggs, pork of some fashion, hash browns or toast. I couldn’t abide by the runny yolks I tried to choke down with the warm free water. I tried not to watch as he slid his buttered toast across his plate each time, sopping up the bright goo. Once, after hearing him order his eggs sunny side up, I blurted out to the waitress that I wanted my eggs sunny side down. This brought laughter from her, and he placed his hand over mine and whispered, “Over easy.” I was afraid for a moment, but then I saw that unnamed sign is his pale grey blue eyes that signified amusement.

Not once did I catch a fish. I was secretly glad, because although I wanted to please him, looking at the fish he caught made me so sad. I used to whisper apologies to them in my head.

My mom told me years later that at night when she and my dad would climb under the covers and whisper together about what their four children would be like when we were grown he used to say, “That Tammy, she’s going to be a vegetarian.” Hearing that, I was surprised that he had figured that out so many years before I first gave up eating meat for good. I had thought that I was hiding that side of myself from him, but he saw it.

Years later, an adult now as well as a parent, I found myself curious about the restaurants he would frequent in the wee hours of the weekend mornings while the rest of us slept in. Later he would rave to me about the eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, and the choice of pancakes or toast. He explained to me that given the fact that he attended church everyday, sometimes several times a day, the first being in the wee hours of the morning; the last being the evening mass and the recital of the rosary, this extreme devotion to the lord earned him the right to eat a nice breakfast at a restaurant.

I started to take my children to the very restaurants he had told me about. Nathan and Polly were always pleased by this. I, unlike my father before me, let them order pancakes every time, figuring I’d fill whatever nutritional deficit later in the day. I ordered all of the foods he had told me about and found that when you pay $1.99 for a breakfast special you really do get what you pay for. The eggs were often cold, never soft and fluffy in their scrambled state, but rather rubbery. The hash browns arrived either in a puddle of oil or dry and burnt crisp. I never ate the meat; I just pushed it to the side of my plate, but it was grey in appearance and suspicious in its origin.

My kids loved these trips with me to various breakfast joints and so I continued on, herding them on and off busses until we had hit every last one of them. Sitting at the counter next to Nathan and Polly, who were once again sliding the whipped butter over their stacks while eagerly eying the syrup, I looked down at the fruit salad I had ordered with such high hopes. In front of me rested a plate with a scoop of cottage cheese and a pile of un-drained canned fruit cocktail swimming together.

There was no other explanation for this; the quality of these restaurants had to have declined in the years since his passing. My father was an extremely frugal man, but he took himself and the whole family out to eat frequently. He was a man who truly loved a great meal. His whole face would light up when he described to me one that was particularly memorable. No detail left unnoticed, the bread, the roast beef cooked to perfection and smothered in gravy that was neither salty nor lumpy.

I glanced around again at this place he had raved about so many times. I saw the aging booths, their yellow now looking dirty and worn instead of the bright sunny hue I imagined they once were. As my eyes scanned the tables they came to a rest on a well dressed man in a large corner booth. His suit was impeccable; his jacket carefully resting beside him. The booth was large, so large he looked comical sitting in the middle of a table that would have held eight comfortably.

He looked relaxed, comfortably reading his paper. I looked once again at my fruit salad; it was getting less palatable by the second. What the hell was booth man eating? Looking back at his table I saw a few empty glasses before him, the ice in varying stages of meltdown. There were no plates on his table. At that moment a lovely pony tailed waitress appeared before him with a fresh drink.  She cleared the other dishes away, apologizing for the delay in a thick Russian accent.

Inside my stomach a lump formed, a lump of sadness, of self reproach for not having caught onto this whole thing sooner. I wiped my children’s sticky hands and faces, helped them slide down from the counter stools, and shook my head no to my waitress’s offer of a to go box for my untouched meal.

Later, while visiting with my mom, I waited for the right moment, or for one that at least felt less wrong, before I blurted out, “Remember all of those mornings when dad would come home all animated and speak of what we had all missed out on by not going to mass with him at 6 am?”
Her jaw has been off center since my dad shattered it in a drunken rage and it never healed correctly. It clicks in and out and I know that it pains her, but we don’t speak of it.

“All of those places serve cocktails”, I say, stupidly now.

“You didn’t know that?”

“No, I thought…” but I don’t know what I had thought. Perhaps I had just been looking for a piece to the puzzle as to why the man I had hardly known had taken his own life. I knew that I mustn’t have been worth living for.

My mom reaches for the kettle for all of life’s moments, the joyous, the saddest, and everything in between. We waited together for the boil, silent, our bodies close, but not touching. She pulled out the fine china teacups and saucers and began to set the table.

I came around the corner fast, a woman with a purpose, looking up long enough to see him approaching me. I backtracked and hid beside the closed antique shop, my heart in my stomach, jerking wildly about in the same fashion of that one time I got the Thai food funk from the sizzling sautéed tofu and green bean platter at my favorite restaurant. His swaggered approach caused this effect every time.

The deepest longing inside me to rush to him and get a long deep hug of a benefit less friendship was at odds with the reason I was traveling with such a frantic purpose. I had just procured a bottle of Percocet and I didn’t want to share them with anyone, even James.

My heart won the battle with my opiate addicted mind. I rushed forward; it had been too long. His eyes lit up when they met mine, blue eyes sparkling, every inch of him the hot Italian bad boy.

His trench coat flapped against mine in the wind as we embraced. Trench coats are the hottest attire; we could have fucked right there as people walked past us in either direction. To the casual observer it might have appeared as if we couldn’t stop hugging.

Decades had passed since I had first met him, the best friend of my then boyfriend; I had secretly been harboring a deep rooted longing to make out with him for hours, allowing him to drink from my mouth until he’d filled himself to overflowing. Instead we had fallen into a brother sister friendship of a depth that defied the stretches of absence that occasionally punctuated our lives.

Clutching hands now, I slipped him a smoke as we walked and he ignored my lighter, instead tapping his tip against my lit cherry. In the window of the antique shop I saw a pair of women’s shoes circa 1800 sometime, tiny and white, delicate. Next to them were a comb, mirror, and brush set, their backs ornately carved. Everything was carefully arranged next to a pitcher and wash basin with little pink flowers on the sides.

He stood silently beside me, allowing me to gaze at the pretty things as long as I wanted to. “Do you want those?” he whispered next to my ear,” we will come back tomorrow and I’ll buy them for you.” I smiled, remembering the night we’d gone out to dinner together. Through the late night rain we had hurried to slip into a restaurant before they closed. After we’d eaten he asked me if I wanted anything else. Our server wanted to go home, wiping down already clean tables near us, shooting us occasional dirty looks.

Empowered by his easy manner I ordered a cup of coffee. The server set it down, lukewarm in a Styrofoam cup, a to-go hint. I reached for the cup, rising up from my chair, as he raised his arm slowly and called out for a proper cup of hot coffee, served in a mug, the way coffee should be served. So brazen. We sat there silently as I sipped from the white mug, smiling my stupid silly grin, hands warm around hot porcelain, candlelight glowing at only our table.

Looking into the antique store window I smiled that same stupid grin; I know I did. He was homeless again; I had smelled it deep in his skin as we’d embraced, allowed myself to inhale his body odor: the stale tobacco and sweat, cheap beer, whiskey, dirt, and that touch of sperm he’d always worn like cologne. He had a freshly fucked smell, always.

My mind went from all those pretty things in the window back to the Percocet in my pocket. I had planned on chewing four of them right away and then swallowing two whole later. I flashed them at James. “I have a place around the corner,” he pulled my surprised arm.

As we walked he told his tale of bungee jumping into rock bottom, no quest for pity, just stating facts. I examined his profile and noticed the toll the years had taken. His skin was pockmarked, but I never remember acne. A love for food didn’t show in his gaunt face, hollows around his eyes suggesting a plethora of hungers. “God, he looks rough”, I thought. Our spent youth seemed to be there too: Levi 501s, fringed leather jackets, canned beer, Dark Side of the Moon, sex before AIDS, Atari, cruising too fast down slick roads after smoking pot, Aqua Net, wondering what the hell we were going to do with our lives after high school, Sunday mornings in church with our families and private hangovers, wine cooler bottles scattered across lawns behind houses we didn’t hold keys to, The Wall, knowing our fathers were disappointed and our mothers heartbroken, but most of all the laughter, somehow.

As we arrived at an apartment complex with a door opening right up onto the sidewalk it occurred to me that he might have been thinking similar things about my appearance. His hand turned the knob knowing it to be unlocked. I stepped into the narrow studio apartment. The one and only room contained three twin beds around the walls with a couch, coffee table and TV in the middle.

James headed to the toilet; “You have to shit sitting sideways”, he called over his shoulder. The little beds made me think of the seven dwarfs, except the three in this abode were Junkie, Al Coholy, and Porny, judging by the garbage scattered across the floor. I found what I knew to be James’ unmade bed and sat without trepidation. A battered wood box turned on its side served as a nightstand.  A well worn copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost sat waiting for eager thumbs.

When he returned we got straight to the business of getting high. He had a kit and liked the needle. I like the needle just fine if someone else does the work; plus I tend to lose things, so carrying a kit is just another umbrella forgotten on the bus.  When we were finished we moved to the couch and he popped porn in the VCR. I have no idea how long we sat there slumped side by side on the couch; I was in the middle of the meltdown that still makes my mouth water to recollect. I turned to him and pointed at the TV, “Hey, I know how this one ends. He pulls out and comes on her back.” We laughed. I felt so warm.

Hint taken, he hit stop and we got up and stretched. I walked back over to Paradise Lost and picked it up. He was eager now to explain to me the experience of only owning one book and reading it over and over again. I really wish I could tell you now all that he said but what remains is the way that I felt watching his eyes animate.

I reached for him and told him how horribly long I had wanted to kiss him.

I have his obituary saved on my computer. At first I read it several times a day but now that the seasons have passed I only look at it from time to time, as well as the accompanying newspaper stories regarding his death. The words tell me a lot of things I wouldn’t have known and inside of me I hold the things that remain just for me: sneaking out of my bed to watch him passed out on my couch, the way he never teased me for sucking at basketball, playing cards for hours, cooking dinners only he showed up at my door to share with me, watching him hold my babies when they were tiny, (but then reprimanding me for never putting them down), the times he comforted me over heartbreaks with cases of beer and strolls to Starbucks to pick up coffee to sip while we browsed in Powell’s, and that one night he told me that I was never going to be a woman who would get over a past lover, but that life goes on anyway.

I wanted to start this by answering some of the comments I didn’t have a chance to respond to.

Susan, I can think of no higher compliment than you taking your time to read through my archives. Thank you.

Kristen, the fact that you left a comment, “Haunting, beautifully so. ” is amazing, especially considering that’s how I feel about your writing.

K, you have been reading from the almost beginning, and I am lucky we found each other. I will hold my father’s letter close to my heart.

Bokker, I am happy to hear that you found me, especially through Thursday.  I appreciate your comment , “Thanks for writing- I know how hard it is to articulate loss, but I think it helps people.” A lot of people have questioned me for speaking out through my writing, but the world is a lonely enough place without thinking there’s no one out there who can relate. Do stop back in if you wish. I’ll put the kettle on.

Josh, I don’t know why woman have a thing for gnarly looking men. I like men to look like they’ve lived. If that involves a bad case of acne and alcoholism, so be it. I’m thinking of Charles Bukowski here. Very handsome man. As for penises, I hate to think men wouldn’t take the extra seconds to wash if they’re not circumcised, but I know better. So I am not going to think about it. Lalalallalalala. Has anyone heard any good songs lately???

***

One more statement about why I choose to write about my father’s suicide and the effects it has had on me: I have seen this from both sides now. I have been that 12 year old child who lost her father and I have been a depressed mother thinking about suicide. My point is this: The pain for the survivors never goes away. The guilt, the feelings that you should have saved the person, loved them better, all still there. For me it has lessened, but it’s in there, and sometimes I feel that sharp pain in my heart, that feeling of not being able to breathe, and it comes back. My Dad gave me life with my mother, and then over and over again in showing me the consequences to families when someone takes their life. I credit my mom for holding us together in the only way she knew how.

***

I have been working the day shift and the night shift. On the day shift they have a meeting every single morning before the restaurant opens. I realize that it is a good time for the kitchen staff and the servers to get together so the specials of the day can be described. The one part that gets more than a bit old is when the managers talk about the wines and beers. The good point of this is we get to sit down for a minute and they offer samples of different drinks so we can try them. The down side is the descriptions of the wines and the beers are so lengthy, including an at depth discussion of food pairings , that I find myself wanting to get back to the kitchen so I can get finished and go home. I would like to offer my services for this part of the morning meeting, even though I do not fit the wine connoisseur label. I would be straight to the point, “This is a Pinot Blanc from California. It is a very dry white wine. Too dry, in fact. (sips water) It is being offered at $9.50 per glass, and they don’t even fill that thing the whole way, can you believe that? You should know what to pair it with, you’ve been working here for months. Otherwise, just let the customer pick, because they’re paying after all.”

Anyway, work is good, even though I am getting bored. I need to make something new. I never want to see another hoagie or hamburger bun for as long as I live. The only thing that looks promising is that I can create artisan bread every week, the flavor is my choice, as long as we have a white and a wheat or rye variety because it looks better on the plates, and the promising thing is it’s pumpkin time. I saw that the cans of pumpkin were in and I hope I will be allowed to create some dessert specials for Fall.  I also have some sweet potato recipes that would work well.

I had my 90 day review, two months late, and got a raise and a lot of kudos. I was also told what I need to improve on. This is the first company I have worked for who has had the official reviews where I have to fill out paperwork listing my strengths and weaknesses. This was way harder than I imagined it would be. I fretted over that stupid paper and even asked my boss if I could punch out, have a beer or two, and then fill out the papers. I was that nervous. Apparently they pay you to fill this shit out so I sat down with a smoke and a coffee and just did it.

This entry isn’t getting any longer, despite my having started it days ago, so I am going to post it and try again soon.

Currently listening to: Joni Mitchell.

For whatever reason, I wish for this to be mostly a stand alone entry. I would say to those of you who haven’t been longtime readers, or those who weren’t willing to pick through the archives (and I can’t say I blame you. I tried to do it once and almost decided to delete 99% of it) that it might help to read this entry first.

Anyway, I’ve been off work for a few days so I have been trying to tackle a portion of the paper that exists in my life. I started with the cleaning of the side of the desk that I share with Alex ,to the drawer I have in the file cabinet. I use this drawer frequently, mostly by opening it, shoving papers inside, and shutting the door. I did this the year my mom decided to give each of her children a copy of her new, updated will for Christmas. I glanced at the front page and then shoved it into the drawer.

Deep down in the archives of my years I came across a folded piece of paper. It gave me pause immediately. It appeared yellow with age and perhaps a slight bit stained by water. I have no idea how it came into my possession, no recollection of ever having read it before. It was written by my Dad.

“Tammy is eight years old. I am her dad home from work and very tired. She tells me of her day at school. How Sister, her teacher, has some prayers for her to learn. I hold her list as she recites. She reads from her book and I learn how Africans spend their day. I look on as she does her Math. We talk of our fishing trips and of her thrill at using my pole. I hope that next time she will catch a fish. We play a card game called Fish. I try to make sure she ends up with more books than me. She snuggles next to me nearly asleep. I feel good and not tired at all. Now it is time for her to go to bed. I watch her slowly slowly fall asleep. How beautiful she is to me and how great it is to be a Dad.

.4 (152/16 + 2 100) = .4 (9.5+1.32) =.4 (10.8) = 4.32

5 long sentences”

You see, Pammy Sue, it’s not always sad. But it’s always there inside me, somewhere.

Currently listening to: Beck “Nobody’s Fault But My Own”

Friday I had a doctor’s appointment that I had planned on canceling but had forgotten. I got dressed and went even though I didn’t want to talk about my back, or my depression and anxiety, or my should I keep it? uterus. When they called my name I walked in and after passing through the doors I was immediately asked to step onto their large digital scale. I took my coat off as it was my heavy winter one still soaked with rain from the last downpour I walked through umbrella-less and I hung it and my purse on the hook. As I was slipping off my shoes I remembered what my Mom always says before she’s weighed; the joke about needing to take off her 100 lb. shoes. She did it every week when we were in Weight Watchers together and she’s done it at every doctor’s appointment and ER trip I have accompanied her on. My Mom has maybe a dozen lines like that which she laces into her conversations. Decades old and worse for the wear, they are the jokes I used to roll my eyes at and groan with embarrassment over, now I smile just because they are a part of her and she refuses to give them up, even though everyone has heard them all before.

The CMA led me back to the room and after I had sat down on the paper covered exam table she took my vitals. I apologized for wearing a long sleeve shirt, but the young girl said it was okay, she could put the blood pressure cuff over it because it was so thin. I studied the girl’s face as she carefully recorded the numbers. She looked to be about twelve, her hair in a ponytail, her face a mixture of perfectly tiny features that made up her sweet little face. I imagined that I could be old enough to be her Mom, if I’d given birth to her in high school. As she was checking my pulse the sleeve of the long sleeve shirt she wore under her pink scrubs slid up and I saw that her arms were covered with scars from cutting herself. I imagined that she had to wear long sleeves on even the hottest days, and I thought about her cutting into herself, wearing her pain on the outside too. She told me that I had to get undressed and that I couldn’t even leave my socks on. “When I go to the doctor, I always want to leave my socks on because it makes me feel more secure.” she said to me. I nodded in understanding and wanted to hug her but she was out the door, gone, not my girl to save.

My doctor had large dark puffy circles under her eyes. I had never seen them there before, but although she sees me naked, inside and out, we are not allowed to break through the doctor patient relationship and talk about her. She scolded me gently for not having done the two things she had told me to do, go to physical therapy, and get blood work done at the lab. I told her that I knew I should have, but when the woman had called bright and early from the physical therapy department I had listened to her chipper over enthusiastic voice and deleted the message without writing down the number. The doctor laughed at that. I have always been suspicious of people who are genuinely cheerful, especially so early in the morning, because I feel like I am in a Twilight Zone episode enough as it is without surrounding myself with constant happy banter.

The doctor gave me three new prescriptions and I showed her the zit that had sprung up on my chin. It was one of those that lingers, red and throbbing, but there is nothing you can do about it because it refuses to break through to the surface. I told her that it was my worry about going back to work zit and mentioned that I had read in a trash magazine that celebrities have cortisone injections to eliminate their pimples. She said that she had never done a pimple injection before and she wanted me to hold a warm compress on it three times a day.

She flipped through my charts after we had talked for awhile about my back and my crazy brain and exclaimed that I had lost fifteen pounds in a month. She asked me how I had done it and I, having not been aware of the weight loss, said that I had been drinking lots of water and walking my dog. I didn’t mention that I was trying to flush narcotics out of my system. She warned me again about the ramifications of taking any job that required lifting and I nodded solemnly as I thought about telling ChefHisName that I could lift up to one hundred pounds, no problem. She told me she wanted me to find another psychiatrist because she felt like what she was doing, the drugs she was prescribing me, the medication monitoring, she felt it wasn’t working. I knew she was right but I felt weary at the thought of trying therapy again. I told her I’d look for a doctor who was accepting new patients, and inwardly felt nauseated at the thought of sitting in another office with the stranger taking notes and the tissue box pushed closer to my seat as I was told to tell the story of my childhood. Again. Over and over again, just for me, just for them, until one day something in the wiring of my brain reprograms itself perhaps? Until I can retell the morning of March 27^th 1985, walking into a house to find my father had chosen to die, was I supposed to tell that story until I could tell it with dry eyes?

I went downstairs to fill my prescriptions and the café next to the pharmacy was packed with lunch eaters. After comparing prices between the café and the vending machines I bought water from the vending machine, letting that be an opportunity to use up all of the nickels in my purse. I sat staring at the numbers on the pharmacy screen. It currently read 71; the piece of paper in my hand read 85. There was a woman in a wheelchair telling everyone and no one that she had lost her husband of thirty years to cancer. People moved tables to avoid her, and she maneuvered her motorized scooter, carefully zipping up rows in between the groups of patients and employees trying to eat their lunches. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact, not wanting to get caught up in someone else’s grief, and I looked directly at her, committing her face to memory, noticing the long thick grey whiskers growing from her chin. She didn’t come near me. She forced her pain on the other people, the people in the circle that I actively tried to sit outside of.

Finally, unable to stand sitting a moment longer, I made my way outside to the one bench that has been designated as a smoking section at the hospital. Rushed employees trying to hurry and inhale as quickly as possible linger there, as do patients who come outside to smoke, some with their IV poles still attached to their arms, some with oxygen tanks hooked to their faces that I imagine to be flammable.

As I lit my smoke I remembered my cell phone, which I had turned off due to hospital regulations. I turned it on, wondering if ChefHisName had called with the appointment time for my UA. I pressed the 1 on my speed dial and his voice was there, different than before.

“Hi, sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. Uhhhhhhh…….After giving it, uh, further thought, I uh, have decided to uh, um, go with someone less experienced, so ah, um, the position has been, uh, filled with someone else. I, um, uh, will, however, keep your resume on file, and it will, uh, be the first one I pull if I am looking for a Chef or a Baker.”

I hit the 4 button on my phone and listened to the message again. I felt a pang of disappointment, then a rush of anger. He had told me the last time we spoke that the job was mine; I just needed to take the test. Pride came to my mind and joined regret and anger in the party and my ego said, “ChefFucker, you just made a huge mistake not hiring me.”

As I stood there and studied the sky, the people taking advantage of the free valet parking, the old people bringing their even older looking parents into the hospital, (at least they were parent child in my imagination), and the most amazing thing happened.

Usually I am prone to fretting and fussing, over thinking every scenario until it’s beaten to death, bloody and limping, feeling and feeling some more. This time? This time I just let it go. I let it all go, and I actually felt the weight of it leave me. I wondered if that was the secret of the chipper people I so try to avoid, the ones whom I feel so irritated around, the ones who can put on the face and pull out the happy voice.

I walked back inside and the number board read 84. I was next.

I have been asked, countless times now, to describe my depression. I was never able to articulate it. Today I was thinking about it as I loaded yet another load of soiled clothes into the washer and I remembered that line from John Irving’s amazing book “The World According To Garp” “Beware of the Undertoad”. It sums things up quite nicely. I feel as if I am being pulled under water. Sometimes I fight and fight when I feel this horrific sadness, this horrible weight wash over me, and still other times I just submit. There is comfort here anyway, in this sadness, in this fatigue.

I appreciate everyone who took the time to comment on my last entry. The one part that I left out was that the cousin I mentioned was this one, the one I had been so incredibly close to. I emailed him and he hasn’t answered back, although he wrote my mom to thank her for her hospitality. I think that if I was being completely honest with myself I would say that as much as I have missed him, I don’t want him to see me, not like this.

For those of you who can commiserate about the tendency to hide I am sorry. I wouldn’t wish this on another person. For those of you who thought that I wouldn’t be obviously mentally ill in person I guess it would depend on the day. I go up and down.

Jane asked about whether or not I was reluctant to work on my phobias and the only answer I could give is I am tired of working on it. I have had three doctor’s appointments in the last week alone. I am on a few more prescriptions so now I have an even longer list and I am starting to forget the names of the pills. I just make a little pile in the morning. I quit going to my psychiatrist awhile back. He was a nice man, but he spent most of the sessions telling me stories about his life and his mental illness. I was appreciative that he was open and honest about his life but he soon started to tell the same stories over and over and I would sit on the couch listening. My insurance pays for 20 visits in a 24 month period and I am afraid that I wasted them telling a man that I understood why he freaked out that one time and whipped his dog. I really didn’t understand but I didn’t know what to say to that one. I need to go through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy again. I did it in the 90s and I need to do it again, never mind how much I hated it, it helped in the end.

Spring break is over today and I dread waking the kids in the morning. I think they had fun. Nathan spent the majority of his time hanging out with his girlfriend, asleep, or on the phone. Polly went to a variety of sleepovers, as well as having a few girls stay the night here. That involved meeting some moms I hadn’t met before, and although I dreaded and fretted I made it through those meetings and they let their girls stay the night in my home so I must not have done too badly. I’ve noticed that I don’t know what to do with my hands when I am talking. I need to remember to wear something with pockets because sometimes my hands shake and seeing them shake makes me even more nervous.

We had Maggie spayed this week. She is recovering nicely. Except for her shaved belly and the strip of fur missing from her arm where they put the IV in you wouldn’t know it to look at her. The first day she was sore and very sleepy and now she is back to chasing cats and birds around with glee.

The 23^rd anniversary of my dad’s death passed on the 27^th. Unlike last year I didn’t write about my feelings. I did talk with him in my mind, but I do that everyday. I used to be so angry at him for leaving me. Now that I understand more how sick he was I will ask him how he made it to the age of 57, ‘cause I am 35 here and I don’t know how to keep going. I think though that I am selfish and egocentric. I want to create at least one masterpiece before I go. Just one.

For the past several days Alex has been on vacation. It was easy to feel as if I was on vacation too, except for the pesky things like dishes still piling up and the kids calling out that we were out of clean towels, again. I could really get used to having a second pair of hands around here. It was so nice to have the “what’s for dinner?” query of every night answered when I got home by Alex cooking away. I went several times to do the dishes, only to find that he had already done them, and wiped down the counters. When the kids were hitting me up with question number 2409 for the day I could say, “Go ask your father.” Trying to be a parent, a really hands on parent, is very difficult while working graveyard shift and sleeping during the day. I know; I tried to do it for years. It is easy to feel as if you are part of a different world as a day sleeper. Alex and I also were able to spend lots of time together, which was nice. We cuddled up and watched movies; made love, talked and just spent time snuggling. There are usually only a few times per month that we even share the same bed. We spent last week going to bed together, which was wonderful. It has been very cold here lately and I felt totally at ease stealing body heat. We did have a few nights where Alex would steal all of the covers from me and a resulting tug-o-war would ensue. He claimed total ignorance in the mornings. He isn’t used to sharing the blankets anyone. Now we are both saddened by the fact that he has to return to work tonight and we are back to the hustle and bustle and the separate schedules and the days when we have no time to talk .

Also, last week, as I was reveling in the goodness of a man who awoke earlier than I and made my coffee perfectly with a beautiful head of frothed milk on the top and delivered it to me one minute before my alarm was set to go off so I could relax and sip myself awake instead of being jolted awake by a horrible buzzing sound; we heard the news from Australia that my grandmother, my nanny, as I call her, was going downhill quickly. My mother quickly tried to get a ticket to NSW. Last minute tickets were in the $4000 range and my mom was so determined to go and sit by her bedside and so frazzled by the idea that she might not make it that she couldn’t even think straight. She went round and round over the planning until I reminded her of a travel agent friend she hadn’t spoken to in some time. My mom was hesitant, but she called her, and the lovely lady who also happens to be a transplanted Aussie like my mother was able to find my mom a ticket that was significantly cheaper. My mom booked it and started packing. Saturday morning her brother called to let her know that their mom had died.

My mom drove over to my house and we sat together. We talked and cried and remembered. We shared stories of this beautiful, strong woman who made it to the age of 96. We laughed as we both recalled that nanny always had more done before 7 am than we could ever accomplish in one day. It wasn’t that everyone wasn’t expecting this death, it was the fact that being so many thousands of miles away, we were all hoping for more time, and just one more opportunity to see her.

My grandparents came to visit us here in Portland in 1980. Neither of them had been on an airplane before. I remember Mt. St. Helens erupted soon after their arrival and my grandfather commented on the welcome party. My grandfather died in 1991. A lot of people thought my nanny would follow quickly, but she continued on, keeping busy with her art and enjoying her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I had a photo of her that I wanted to share here of my nanny, but Alex’s computer died last night and most of our things were on there with no backup. Yes, we know how foolish that was.

My mom decided to cancel her flight after being notified that she wouldn’t even make the funeral in time. We are going to get together here and have a celebration honoring her life and a mass held in her honor at the grotto, which was one of her favorite places here in Portland. My mom is still dealing with the fact that she was unable to be by her side when she passed. I want to believe that she knew we were all with her in her heart, and that she knew how much she was loved. The day she died would have been her 77^th wedding anniversary. I can see why people turn to faith during times like these, as it is so tempting to believe that she and my grandfather and their son who died before both of them are all together now, sipping a cup of tea.