Entry III.12 (1994)

Once I started noticing things in the world around me, it became a flood. There were dazzling images in the world. I had a multitude of feelings about all of them. I had to be cautious with the overwhelmedness of it because that was when I started having really serious headaches. Reminiscent of migraines, these headaches demanded a total halt to all physical activity nor were they impressed by emotional activity. Once again, I had to learn to STOP and just quietly be a non-sentient being for a few minutes or hours whichever the case may be.

* * * * * * * 

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO BE A ROCK IN A PILE OF GRAVEL?  “Not hardly, it doesn’t ascetically please me.”  YOU SHOULD TRY IT SOMETIME. IT'S NOT AS EASY AS IT LOOKS.

* * * * * * * 

I was learning to take the time to observe the physical world without judgement but only recognition. At this point, my employment became very taxing and occasionally required me to attend meetings in downtown Seattle. I had a hell of a time pacing myself so I did not become dysfunctional due to sensory over stimulation. I marveled at my need to just sit after walking a couple— ("Do you actually mean two?" YES. REALLY JUST TWO! SHE'S SUCH A WIMP.)—blocks in the city, noticing what I could notice, and slow down the stream of input. This made me feel slightly inferior to other people I knew. But feeling less than others didn't really matter because it was becoming clearer and clearer to me that I didn't have a choice. And of course after the Great Wheelchair Scare II, I never quit being simply grateful I was walking regardless of the speed. I was beginning to notice I was alive and that was a lot of stimulation in itself.

* * * * * * *

Forty-eight hours later… Can you tell I've been gone? No, of course not. For you, it was just reading from one section to the next. For me, I have lived lifetimes between these two entries. I wrote the above then went to a movie. Was it a special movie? I don't know. I didn't think so. But perhaps I was wrong. It was Philadelphia. No big deal. A lawyer dying of AIDS gets fired allegedly for having AIDS and sues in court with a homophobic attorney. So what? I don't know…so what?

I think it is the first movie about gays I've ever seen made for straight folks. Therefore, I am not a very good judge of it. I became aware early on that it was written for straight folks. I also became aware early on that it was filmed in what I'm sure will become a terribly 90’s tradition of hand held cameras and roving around the room pictures. I’m certain this is a play to our home video age. Nevertheless, it made me instantly motion sick. In fact, to my dismay, the entire movie was filmed that way. Within twenty minutes, I was so sick that I couldn't watch the film. My head hurt so bad I took a muscle relaxant and thought I would have to leave the theatre. Just closing my eyes wasn't enough (I could still see the flickering lights) when I happened upon putting my hat in front of my face with my eyes closed and watched the movie by just listening.

So far, all this was, as you might expect, irritating but tolerable. Occasionally, I got to see a fixed frame shot or two. But visually, something about the Kaposi Sarcoma lesions on the man sent an internal somebody or several somebodies off the deep end. At the time, I, myself, was unaware of it. All I was aware of was crying, emotional pain, and an unclear understanding as to just why the movie was making me hurt so bad. (Just because everyone else cries at a movie does not necessarily make me think I’m crying over the same thing or am even required to cry.) 

Oh well, it turns out between Rahne and I there was a great deal of crying and more crying. I could be okay with that. Then, there was the issue of dinner. We had to get something to go. I noticed that, although surely somewhere in there I was hungry, the idea of food made me want to throw up. This, too, I attributed to some emotional discomfort but nothing requiring serious notice. So, we got take out food for Rahne and went home.

I was okay with that too. We got home. She started to eat. We watched the last twenty minutes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. You with me so far? All of this is fairly normal and not something to raise eyebrows.

After Star Trek, I went to the bathroom to wash up before I rewound the VCR tape and watched the rest of Star Trek and maybe Deep Six Nine (my name for it). I hadn’t decided for sure yet in which order I would watch them.

I went to the bathroom. I did the most common things there that most people do. I washed my face. I combed my hair. I idly...(I cannot emphasize this enough, IDLY, not planned with intent, not deliberately, not forcefully.) I idly pondered the issue of lesions. Before I was through with my IDLE PONDERING, I noticed I could not move.

Now let’s talk about this: "I noticed I could not move.” Just what does that mean? I noticed that my hands were both outstretched to open the medicine cabinet to take a stomach pill. I simultaneously debated about the state of my headache and additional pills for that when I noticed that I had stopped moving. I was fortunately facing the mirror so I was able to clearly observe that I was not moving. At least, I was able to observe that by my peripheral vision because my eyes had locked onto a point somewhere towards the bottom left corner of the mirror and did not seem to be moving either.

For a moment, I stood there, like I had a choice, and took note of this process and wondered about its possible duration assuming as I did that the process would end fairly quickly. I noticed my arms were not moving; my hands were not moving; nor my eyes, head, torso, nor any other part of me. I wondered why. I tried to move. Nothing responded. I noticed I was taking regular breaths. I thought this was a good thing. I pondered the possibility of talking. My mouth did not move. Again, I wondered exactly how long this might take.

It took a long time. I figured there was not much else to do but sit around, figuratively speaking, and wait. I waited. I wondered if this was catatonia. I waited some more. At last, I noticed that my right leg was getting tired. I wondered what that meant.

I noticed that my right leg started giving out. I now knew this meant that things were likely to change fairly soon. I wondered in what way. I fell against the left wall. This was different. I simultaneously tried to turn to my right as if I were going to walk out of the bathroom. As I collapsed, everything got very blurry. I suspected this was from the handheld camera moving too fast. I closed my eyes. I was on the floor with my eyes closed unable to speak or move. Now, of course, that my eyes were closed I couldn’t reopen them.

The floor was very cool. It was ceramic tile. Rahne and I had picked it out. Some deep forest green color. Although I couldn’t see that right now. Once again, I was reassured by my steady, even breathing. I wondered, because I didn’t think I was gonna get up and move anytime soon, how long it would be before Rahne took a pause in her television watching to come and find out what had happened to me.

I was not terribly concerned about how long this would take, because I had nothing better to do than lay there anyway, and there was always the possibility that I would start moving before she came in and found me.

I was wrong. While I was wondering, I thought about whether she would call 911 and what they would do and if that would be helpful. Sometime in there, she did come in and was dismayed to find me laid out as such.

Because she is a thoughtful person, she talked to me while she pondered her approach. She noted right away I was breathing. Clearly, this was just generally reassuring to anyone who came in the room. Hopefully, she was going to assume that I had not had a stroke or heart attack. In my own mind, I was thinking that regardless of the circumstances, she was going to need help dealing with this.

Again, I was wrong. She pulled and tugged and gently laid me on a foam pad that Adrian liked to play with and put a pillow under my head and started that long process of reinitiating contact. (I'll bet you're curious as to just how that's done.)

She talked to me and touched my fingers and face looking for a response. My job, of course, was trying to find some way to respond. "Can you squeeze your eyelids together?" No response. "Okay. It's going to be all right.”

I vainly tried to make my eyelids do something. In the course of that, I swallowed. "Can you swallow when you want to? Once for yes.” I busily tried to swallow and not dwell on the fact that “no” was going to be much harder to indicate. (Note: Always suggest one for no and two for yes because it’s much more important to be able to say no then yes.)

"Ahhh,” she sighed. I knew this meant she thought she’d established contact and things could progress from there. "Okay. Do you want me to touch your fingers? One swallow for yes.” I tried a couple piggy back swallows for no. The best place to start, really, in this kind of circumstances is with my eyes.

"No, okay. Do you want me to touch your face? Once for yes." I swallow. “Your mouth?” I attempted two swallows which felt more like choking. "That wasn't very clear to me. Your eyes?" Gratefully, I swallowed once. And then, baby, when you get those eyes to stay open and blink on command and then focus, you are halfway home to deliberate movement. Give that woman a cigar!

Unfortunately, shortly after deliberate movement came very bad what I call “shaking” which is some form of convulsions. But, hell, that's another story.

* * * * * * *

I just want to add here that any discussion about what the the issues were surrounding contemplating the lesions themselves tends to cause me or all of my parts to want to self-harm. Therefore, I’m taking a break from that.

Entry III.11 (1994)

("Are you in pain?" WELL, THAT DEPENDS. DEFINE PAIN.)

* * * * * * *

Barbara: "So, how much pain are you really in?"

Me:  "Good question. I haven't a clue.”

* * * * * * *

My body hurts. I am absolutely almost certain I'm in a lot of pain. Though I'm not sure why. I am having trouble walking. I am having trouble vocalizing. I am having trouble coordinating movements. Although right now, I am still a good typist if I don't try to talk at the same time.

I assume something is hurting me. I assume it is not limited to physically. In fact, I assume that the physical response I'm feeling is undoubtedly related to something hurting inside. I do not know what it is. Of course, I can think of lots of things it could be. But that doesn't lead me any closer to what it is. Is it work? Is it Adrian? Is it a bad dream? Is it a memory? Is it the accumulation of stress? Is it my mom?

I don't know. It is not a conscious issue. It is unconscious. My body knows and is responding to it. Is my body itself the issue?

Do I require rest? Entertainment? Focus? Labor? Sleep? Meditation?  A massage? A movie? To be held?

All I have is wandering around inside my body wondering. All I can really do about the way that my body feels is FEEL it and know it will pass.

* * * * * * *

I'm not sure where to go. I feel the wind in my face. Standing on a precipice, knowing I will not jump. Looking at the view. Trying to soak in the awesomeness of it. I have worked so hard to get here. No one can make me leave. I have earned every step I take.

Unfortunately at the moment, my legs hurt. They are somewhat stubborn about that. They feel slightly numb and cold. The pain is mostly from the knees down or just slightly above the knees. I stand. I walk. I try stretching this way or that. I take a painkiller. I wonder what secret they hold for me. I wonder about the origins of this pain.

I suppose it is close enough to the heart pain or the soul pain I used to feel so much to be the same in a different form. I heave a big sigh. But I am not certain. I remember. I remember. I repeat to myself as a mantra. 

I remember how to walk. I remember what I've forgotten. I remember that my legs are remembering another time when they were being hurt. When I was being hurt. No one is hurting me now. I am just remembering.

* * * * * * *

(LISTEN, THERE IS NO WAY I'M GONNA WRITE THIS FUCKIN' THING IN FIRST PERSON.  "Why not?"  WELL, IT'S JUST FINE TO FEEL GOOD ABOUT BEING ALIVE, BUT I DON'T WANT TO ADMIT IT. IT CANNOT BE ME. "Why not?" BECAUSE I HAVE CREATED A WHOLE LIFETIME, MAYBE SEVERAL OF THEM, BEING SOMETHING OTHER THAN I. "So?" IT WILL CONFUSE THINGS. THINGS WILL NOT BE CUT AND DRIED. "I thought that was the point.”  WHAT DO YOU KNOW? NOTHING.)

* * * * * * *

I have that neurological disease again. Why? When I ask the troups and try to feel what the problem is, I get swept up in this feeling and images of self-harm. Why?

The feelings attached to the images are: "act now;” "emergency;” "something is terribly wrong;” "hurt it, it's the only way.”

* * * * * * *

A couple more days have passed. My legs had stopped hurting, but now they are back at it. What I feel most is the desire stretch and challenge my physical self. I don't want to hurt myself. I just want to feel myself and all my power physically. I want to run like I did as a kid and feel that pumping motion without fear.

But my feelings are locked away inside my body, stifled by a nameless pain tonight from the knees down. I don't know why. I only know I want to be in all my living forms simultaneously and feel them safely.

Entry III.10 (1994)

Sometimes, I felt this tremendous pressure about Leslie and Adrian as if I was going to blow up. Right now, I thought, Adrian is struggling with contradictions that on the one the hand, she gets everything she wants when she's with Leslie, but she doesn't get her needs met. On the other hand, she gets her needs met when she's with Rahne and I, but she doesn't get everything she wants.

I found the same contradiction everywhere in my life. On the one hand, I had enormous pain about sharing a child with Leslie. But on the other hand, I would never give up having Adrian just to not have to deal with Leslie. On the other hand (how many do we have here?), I would never have had a kid with anyone but Leslie, and the only reason I knew that was because of the tremendous emotional work I’d done. But I wouldn't have done the emotional work without having a kid, and I couldn't choose a better coparent until I'd done the emotional work. I knew thoughts ran around like that with no end short of a firm, "Enough!"

"Is anybody listening out there? How can this make sense?"

It was something I noticed about life a lot lately. It was this incessant need for contradictions. Apparently contradictions and contrasts were actually the very fabric of life. It was clear to me now why people who liked things cut and dried tend to be crazy. Mental health was not cut and dried. I figured that was one of the things that made it so damn hard to pin down.

* * * * * * *

I called my brother.  I’d been dreading it. I had just a small matter of a bill that needed to be paid.  He was ok with that but then decided to ask me a question. "Remember I signed a piece of paper awhile back about an adoption?"

"Yes," I answered cautiously.

"Well, I woke up the other morning wondering if it went through.”

"Yes, it went through quite a while ago. I have the new birth certificate.”

"Well," he continued, "I thought I should find out because it would be bad if I had left her without a parent.” 

[Please, everyone in the audience roll your eyes for me.]

"It went through, no problem, and besides they wouldn't have removed you as the parent unless they replaced you with me.” I added, “It’s all taken care of.” 

I rang off and marveled. It was probably a year to the day that he signed the adoption consent papers. In another year or so, he might ask when it became effective…or not.

* * * * * * *

On a completely nearly unrelated front, Barbara called me to share that the powers that be (I think we're mostly talking China here) have extended the separation of her and her infant child for another two to three months. Making an additional year of the time her daughter had to live in an orphanage before she got to be with a mother who wanted her. I wished I could say this had never happened before. I wished I could say it would never happen again. I wished I could say it’s over now for everyone. But I knew that just wasn’t the way the world worked. 

(Oh, I suppose I'll run out of things to say here now. But stay tuned, I'll be back.)

Entry III.9 (1994)

It is a large animal.  It walks on all fours.  It is walking on a path through the jungle forest.  Not much of the animal can be seen through the dusky light.  Its body moves like a shadow.  In the twilight, all that can be seen is the black movement.

As it walks, it moves its head from side to side emitting a low growl.  The creature waits impatiently for an animal to cross its path so the growl can rise to a roar as it first terrifies then devours its prey.

I feel myself as the creature walking through the jungle forest tensely poised to lash out at whatever crosses my path.  But nothing crosses. Nothing stirs.  I am angry at a foe that does not show its face.  I am aware that the foe may no longer even exist.  But that does not abate my restless searching, straining to find the one who hurt me in the past.

In frustration, I let out a growl louder than I intended.  I do not want to scare my enemy away.  But the disappointment of not finding them is almost more than I can bear.  I resolve to growl more softly as I return to pacing the circular path.

Sometimes, a rabbit leaps out.  My anger peaks as I lunge, giving my rage full force as I pounce—only to discover it was just a bunny.  I don’t want to eat a bunny.  I want to destroy my enemy.

Later, I come to a fork in the path.  To the left, I see a claw mark indicating which direction I followed the last time I came this way.  I claw a new mark as I move to the right.

Quite far down the path, I come to a sign. “Tahunda,” it says, “you’ve been this way before.  Your enemy is dead but you keep forgetting.”  I shake my head and shaggy mane in barely controlled frustration.  I remember that the sign is right, but I am too angry to keep remembering.

I growl and pace on still looking for my enemy.  I have already forgotten the words on the sign as I am too busy watching for movement.

Entry III.8 (1993)

After a long time of not purposefully cutting, scratching, biting, or bruising myself, I began to take notice of my body. Or rather, my lack of noticing my body. It appeared that only major harm or major injury caught my attention. Little harms never mattered.

During the summer of The Great Migraine, I made a conscious effort to NOTICE my body and respond to its input. It was a dismal exercise but had its moments of pleasure. What is that feeling in my body, I asked? Why do my legs hurt now? What are they telling me?

After the Terrifying Wheelchair Scare II, I learned to notice the hurting in my legs as them remembering some other time during the abuse when they were hurting. Or I learned to notice they were merely tired.

Later, I began to notice strings of other ways I hurt myself by making nearly unconscious decisions. I slowly realized I made decisions based on expediency rather than safety. "The pot's hot. Where's the potholder? Oh, hell, I'll just move it by hand. It's quicker.” This kind of faulty prioritization was what was making me get "accidentally” hurt without any consciousness that I was taking a risk.

I was excited by the new awareness but as usual had to take it slow. It seemed that every time I was able to take a closer look at how I conducted my life there was another plateau to traverse.

* * * * * *

OH, HELL. ANOTHER JOYOUS EXPERIENCE SHOT TO HELL. (What do you mean?) I MEAN WITH ALL THIS SAFETY CRAP THE FEW CHANCES AT BLOODY INJURY WE GET ARE GETTING FURTHER AND FURTHER AWAY. (I' m shocked. I never knew you felt that way.) RIGHT. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL THIS TIME ANOTHER PLANET? WE HAVE TO TAKE OUR PLEASURES WHERE WE CAN. (Speak for yourself.) AS ALWAYS.

* * * * * * *

It also explained why I, who had a certain grace, was forever making lapses in judgement which caused me to miscue a move and get hurt. Still, I was shocked by the picture of not including personal risk in my criteria for movement decisions. I suppose to the rest of you this wasn't news. To me, I found the depth to which it ran astonishing.

I started noticing I got hurt a lot simply because I didn't care enough about not getting hurt to figure out a way to do what I wanted and simultaneously assure my safety. Consequently, I could do almost anything and would rush in where angels feared to tread just because I didn't care about getting hurt. Often, I would even briefly have flicker of, “Oh, this bad thing could happen,” but it didn't cause enough of a stir most of the time to even register in my awareness.

This caused me to be competent in many areas. I thought surely there was a way to be competent and safe at the same time. In order to figure out those ways, I had to first pay attention to why I didn't care.

Entry III.7 (1993)

It was obviously Really Big Anger.  I just wasn’t sure what the Really Big Anger was about.  “Calling all cars.  Be on the lookout for a Really Big Anger.  Last seen in legs, neck, shoulders, and head.  Please report any sightings or descriptions immediately to the command post.  Over.”

I paused for a moment hoping for a landslide of call-in reports.  Nothing.  I shrugged and went to eat breakfast.

* * * * * * *

What could it be?  What could it be?  I thought.  “I’m listening, you all.  I don’t hear anything.  You know I’m interested.  No point in keeping secrets.”  Of course, the troups never responded unless they sensed either grave sincerity or a big opening for a slam dunk.

* * * * * * *

My legs hurt.  My head hurt.  My stomach hurt.  Why?  I wondered.  I woke up in the morning from a dream.  I thought it was about Adrian…at least in part.  I couldn’t move my body at first.  What was the dream about?  What?

Deep inside, I felt anger.  Anger roiling around inside me, wanting to express itself in action.  My visions were of big hurt.  Getting hurt.  But, what was I angry at?

There was one inside that growled and shook its head from side to side.  It was a four legged creature, a night creature that stalked inside of me.  It was angry but misdirected.  I was angry without direction.  Was it work?  Was it Adrian?  Was it Leslie or one of my parents?  Was it my brother?  What?  “I’m listening, and I’m interested.  I know it may hurt.  I will try to listen,” I said to those inside.  But no words came yet.

* * * * * * *

Adrian called me and Rahne at Vashon on the day after Christmas.  She was nearing seven years old.  She talked about her presents and what she and Leslie had done with the Sister, Leslie’s sister.  Then, she added almost as an after thought that she and Leslie would be at the Sister’s during the day but at a hotel the next night.

“How come?” I asked.

“Well, they’re not used to having kids around.”

“What do you think of that?”

“It’s not normal, but it’s okay.”

“Will there be a swimming pool?”

“Yeah, but indoors, not outside.”

“Well, that’s good.”  I said, knowing Adrian was in Minnesota.  “It wouldn’t do to have it outside there.”

Later while talking to Rahne, Adrian added that she gets “kind of grumpy with Leslie.  You know, how I get kind of grumpy with Leslie?  I guess they’re not used to yelling and screaming.”  Rahne repeated, “yelling and screaming?”  Adrian affirmed.

Rahne got off the phone.  “She actually said, ‘You know how I get grumpy with Leslie.’  

“Of course, we know how she gets grumpy with Leslie.  We’re all angry at Leslie.  But, how can she know that at six and a half?” I lamented.

Rahne added, “And she knows Leslie’s not a very good parent.”

“And she’s grumpy with her.  Shit, they’re not going to wait for teenagehood or even adolescence.  And yelling and screaming.  Who’s doing what?”

“I don’t know.”

“I take it, it’s not Dick and Jane [the Sister].”

“Apparently not.”

* * * * * * *

(Do you suppose that’s what you’re angry about?)  OF COURSE, I’M ANGRY ABOUT IT.  I’M ALWAYS ANGRY ABOUT IT.  BUT, I HAVE BEEN ANGRY SINCE THIS MORNING.  REMEMBER, SINCE THIS MORNING.  (Okay, okay, good point.)

* * * * * * *

“Remember I told you I didn’t believe in just being grumpy?  A long time ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this proves my point.  Adrian isn’t just grumpy with Leslie.  The deal is that she has stuff with Leslie that never gets addressed.  So, they just give it this cute name: grumpy.”  I ranted a little more to Rahne.

* * * * * * *

(My head still hurts.)  I KNOW THAT.  THE QUESTION IS WHY.  (I don’t know yet.  It just hurts.)

Entry III.6 (1993)

Andrew saw her laying down there.  He was repulsed.  His instinct to assist was contradicted by his inner revulsion.  She is alone, he thought, and naked.  The pit is very deep.  She cannot get out by herself.

But at the same time, he thought, I hate her.  She is small and weak and helpless.  I have no sympathy, no compassion, no time for the small and weak and helpless.  She would be better off dead.  She is sleeping now.  No one would notice if her sleep just extended itself to death.

He had felt this way with others before.  Why do I have to decide again each time?  Why can’t I just act without thinking?  Am I a compassionate man or a narrow man acting only on what I’ve been taught?

He wondered if he cared.  She or others like her have landed themselves in positions like this before.  It will continue.  Why should he interfere?

He wished she was his mother or his ex-lover.  Someone worth getting rid of.  But, she was not.  She is me, he thought.  Someone who is essential to my being regardless of my personal distaste for her limitations.

Consequently, he took steps to collect her, to carry her to safety, and to heal her from this bout.  Even though, he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

* * * * * * *

Andrew’s heart ached.  It wasn’t a pure ache.  It didn’t stem alone from grieving loss but purifying hate as well.

“I shall not listen to you,” I said.

He laughed.  “You haven’t even the slightest, most remote chance of not listening.  I am all yours.”

I played the music louder trying to drown him out.  But his voice kept booming in my head.  “Piece of garbage, dirt, you are all mine.  I own you now and forever ‘til death do us part.”

“I could arrange that,” I thought.

“I dare you.  I double dare you.  You haven’t the guts to kill us,” he taunted.  “You’re just a babe.  A poor innocent babe that can’t do shit.”

Entry III.5 (1992)

“We have not spoken words to each other in some time.  I know you are lonely.  A loneliness that has no comfort or reassurance anywhere in its grasp.  I, too, am lonely and at times I think our loneliness could be shared to comfort one another.

“Don’t answer now in haste.  This is not an order just a proposal.  My heart aches as does yours.  I only propose a building block on which to start a foundation.”  I wrote to the troups when I felt my own loneliness after weeks of only feeling theirs.

* * * * * * *

“Mama.  Mama.  I want my Mama.  I can’t find her.  Mama.  Mama.  Where are you?  I don’t want to do anything until my Mama comes back.”

* * * * * * *

I realized that, although I was still quite capable of doing physical injury to myself, I was virtually assured that I could no longer desensitize enough to kill myself.  The fantasy was irretrievably destroyed by the image of Adrian crying inconsolably over the loss of her own mother—with no possibility of reconnection.  It was simply too fresh and real to me to imagine imposing it on one more child in the world.

* * * * * * *

A PERFECTLY GOOD FANTASY SHOT TO HELL.  (Where is your compassion?)  IT WENT OUT WITH CHICKEN SOUP.  (I like chicken soup.)  UH-HUH.

* * * * * * *

A couple days ago, I was driving along I-5.  That relatively short but tedious route northbound between Olympia and Seattle.  Just as I crested the gradual climb between Fife and Federal Way, I remembered something.  Out of the blue, I remembered that there was a place between Federal Way and Des Moines I’d always really liked but had forgotten to look at for a very long time—a very long time.

It was a little place, a slight dip in the road, where there was a small lake and two houses with a boat dock looking very quiet and serene.  I remembered looking at it on foggy mornings and wondering what it was like to visit there.

“Yeah,” a part of me woke up, “I remember, I loved that place.”  I came to in the car, could feel the movement of the freeway, and craned my neck to look at the small dip in the freeway.  “Lots of trees.  Where did all those trees come from—with leaves.  But over there above the trees appears to be a break.  Could that be a lake?”

I could remember it so clearly.  “How had I forgotten?  The trees blocked my view.  That’s pretty darn rotten.”

* * * * * * *

(Now cut that out!)  WHAT?  (No rhyming for god’s sake.  We’re writing the great American novel here.)  OH, RIGHT.  SORRY.

* * * * * * *

I tried to figure out how long I’d forgotten to look for the lake.  “Jesus, five, ten, fifteen, twenty years?”  Those trees looked, well, quite fixed in place.

All those damn leaves, could it just be the season?  It vanished in summer.  That could be the reason.

* * * * * * *

(You’re really pushing it here.)  YOU NEVER ENJOY THE FUN PART.  YOU TAKE EVERYTHING SO SERIOUSLY.

* * * * * * *

It took me a couple more trips on the freeway.  Finally from the southbound lanes which were just a bit higher, I saw at one place through the trees the two houses and the lake.  Obviously, the place had changed.  There were more houses there.  But there were fine trees there now between the freeway and the lake.  For how many years had I forgotten to look?

* * * * * * *

Mommy.  Mommy.  Mommy.

“Mom,” I said in my near sleeping state.  It was my voice, but I knew it was an alter.  I was holding Rahne where my mother used to lay with me in bed before sleeping.  “Mom, I have something to tell you.  You won’t like it…I’m angry.”

Suddenly, I remembered what it was like to live with Jeannette in those years before Western.  In a moment, I had the undiluted truth of what my relationship with my mother had been like.  All of the worst moments with my succession of lovers had been that emotionally barricaded, self restrained, intellectually violent way lovers can be with each other.  I had done it all first with my mother and had gone on to do the play repeatedly alternating which role I played.

“Mom, I’m upset.”  No matter how I would follow up that statement, my mom would end up crying or screaming that I didn’t care about her; just wanted to leave her like my father; and was selfish and insensitive.

For a few moments, I remembered what it was like to live with someone so desperate and emotionally distraught that she could not for a second contemplate me as anything other than an absolute extension of her own experience.  Imagining going to family therapy with Jeannette would be like being locked in that battle again trying to disengage.

It was as if Jeannette said, “Everything you do, everything you think is about me, relates to me, or is because of me.”  It was a tough hook for a 12 year old to break.

“I feel because of you.  I think because of you.  I act because of you.  My whole life’s ambition is to be with you, to see you, to touch you.  That is all I ever want.”

Or the flip side, “Why do you hurt me so?  You know I love you more than anything.  It kills me to think of you being in so much pain.”

Or, flip again.  “I guess I’m just a terrible mother.  I don’t know how you can stand me or why you put up with me…” etc., etc., ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

“I’m tired.  I’m old.  I just don’t want to go anymore rounds with you, Mom.”  I thought, “I admit it.  You are better at what you do than I am at not participating.  Except for this one painful, boring, dull, drab way of not participating anymore at all.”  Thus, I left the phone undialed, the letters unsent, and the pain unshared—at least with Jeannette.

* * * * * * *

(Do you suppose those memories were locked up with the special place on the freeway?)  LIKE WHAT, NOW SUDDENLY YOU’RE INTERESTED IN MY OPINION?  (A little introspective discourse.  Is that so bad?)  STUFF IT, SHITHEAD!

Entry III.4 (1992)

Of course, just managing the anger around memories was not the hardest thing I had to learn how to handle.  It was even trickier to figure out how to actually pay attention to the memories and still be safe. I was creative.

“Barbara, I got a new memory, but I don’t know how to actually say it and not have to kill myself right away.”

“What have you used before?”

“Well, I could use sign language.  But, of course, you don’t actually know sign language.”

“I could get an interpreter.”

“Oh right, that’d be funny.  ‘Because Joceile couldn’t actually tell her counselor stories, they had to hire a sign language interpreter.’  Or, I could video tape myself at home, and you could just show it to somebody to interpret so I didn’t see or hear those words being said to you.”

“Well, we could do that.”

“Sure, we could go to the moon too, but it wouldn’t justify the effort for me to say just a few simple words…Ok, then, here.  I’ll just sign it to you so I can just get to say it.”

Thus ensued a lot of my finger spelling because my signing had never caught up with my finger spelling.  Barbara watched very earnestly.

“How was that for you to do?”

“It was ok, it still felt like a big thing to sign, next time maybe I can tell you.”

“Whenever, you’re ready.”

* * * * * * *

Other times, I could write down the memories with Barbara as long as I could find a method that both expressed them and kept them as far away from my conscious mind as possible.  Two competing needs vying for attention.  Separate but equal.

          deniahc saw taht no ralloc god a htiw dekan saw taht lrig elttil a saw erehT”

           .emit gnol yrev a rof ereht tpek dna elop a ot deniahc saw ehS  .kcen reh ot

kaeps reh edam dna doof god reh def yehT  .reh depar dna reh truh dna emac neM

                                                                    .yas dluow yeht,”hctib god a ekil karB”…

  t’nac I tuB .oot ssip dna tihs tuoba ffutS  .lrig elttil eht rof epacse on saw erehT”

                                                                          .rehtruf yromem that otni og ot dnats

t’nac I 

“So, I have a very angry alter that growls the loudest I’ve ever heard and is enraged, but doesn’t hurt me.  I hold very still.

“.god a ekil depar yehT”

Entry III.3 (1992)

There was someone new.  This didn’t even remotely please me.  I knew his name.  Though we hadn’t had conversations so far. I watched his anger—its ebb and flow.  Because at that moment he couldn’t be in charge of safety, I had to be.  I monitored his anger to know when I had to take a pill to help me restrain his desire to be abusive, self-abusive, in response to his rage.

I knew that this particular set of circumstances was anything but static. I longed for the day when I discovered that there would not be another to follow him.

* * * * * * *

L’Chaim.

* * * * * * *

“That bitch wrote an entire book about us.”

“Ah, what does it mean?  What does it mean?”

“It means it’s been very unpleasant inside here most of the day.”

* * * * * * *

“There appears to be a distinct amount of dissatisfaction in the air tonight,” I said to myself thoughtfully.  “I wonder what it’s about.”

It could certainly have been related to my inability to take a dump the entire day.  But I doubted it.  The sight of those little nickel sized turds floating in the toilet bowl, one per sitting, were distinctly disturbing.  In fact, I would have preferred not to mention them at all except that they, one at a time, were such a concrete example of a disturbance.

I hated rummaging around in my mind looking for the trouble.  This was nothing new.  It was like sorting through dirty laundry before it’s washed. Definitely, the down side of the process.

* * * * * * *

At some point, I stated feeling the anger process overtake me.  So, I went to take a pill that would rob my body of excess energy in 45 minutes.  While I waited from the relative safety of assistance on the way, I probed those angry feelings.

Quickly, I began having visions of what hurtful, angry things could be done with my body.  It was tiring but nothing new.  Various kinds of hurts from knives to ropes to guns to irons to scratches to razor blades. I stopped feeling and realized that the process of thinking of violence was in itself anesthetizing.  Suddenly, the actual thinking process made sense to me in a new way.  Memories would begin to surface, and the troups would use violent fantasies as both a way not to feel or remember but still act out of the memory.

* * * * * * *

OH STOP.  IT’S GETTING ENTIRELY TOO DEEP FOR ME.  (Can’t you appreciate a little personal insight?)  HARDLY.