I feel as though my feet won't touch the ground...

....but not in a good way.

I realized something today, a possible way to describe my current state of...stateness. 

It came to me when I was thinking about how I can no longer smoke pot. I was thinking, wondering more like, why I have these massive panic attacks, all of a sudden, at 33 years of age when I do something I've done since I was 14. And I thought "well it's because everything is in such disarray". And then I thought, "but it isn't." 

Things aren't, I am.

I feel like when I asked for so much change, and it was delivered, it was almost as if I'd been taken out of it. I'd been picked up, pulled up, way up, and left dangling while all the while below me things moved, and changed. Shifted, changed positions, got thrown out, given away. And when it all settled so that dust could find it's home, I was forgotten up there and so have been left to watch from above.

After this realization I found myself at the grocery store, for what, I'd forgotten. It was as though I couldn't see. I grabbed a buggy and worked my way around not seeing anything, not thinking anything, feeling cold and hot and blurry. 

On the way home I thought it so strange that in the past, when my life had been so out of control, so insane and frazzled, I felt so much more in control. Perhaps not on the outside, when I would turn to this blog and express loneliness, despair, stupidity, but inside I understood it. I got it. I could handle it, I was used to it, it was me. And now things are where anyone would want them to be and I feel completely helpless. I feel like I'm not even participating in it.

I can not get my feet on the ground. It is like I am hanging, not too far up because I can still participate in enough things that no one notices, but I am floating. There are strings holding me, protecting me perhaps, but there is nothing really secure. There is no comfort, no safety, I push my toes as hard as I can, swing my legs, stretch my feet but no matter what I just can not touch. It's like at moments I feel safe with the strings that keep me suspended and so I do not fight, and maybe when I smoke the pot the panic comes from realizing I am up there all alone hanging only by strings. My soul in the clouds and my feet can't touch the ground.

I think some times, evil people come in to your life so you can create a character out of them, and turn such astounding behavior, into what it should actually be, fiction. 

---

Anna came down the stairs, full of the fury, and found Cora taking Thomas' mother's hat and coat off the tall, gaunt, woman. "What's happening?" 

Genevieve twitched, as she so often did, years of tells embedded into her nervous system, "What ever do you mean, my Anna?"

"You weren't to come for hours still?"

"Oh, well Thomas knew, I told Thomas I'd be here now." She shook her arm out of the sleeve, almost violently, and managed to hide her smirk, or so she thought, while Cora stumbled a bit from the jerk. 

"I just spoke to Thomas and he confirmed the time of your arrival, I just spoke with him." Anna shook her head, once again unable to believe the crass way in which her mother in law could spew forth so easily lie after lie, after lie.

"Oh," not skipping a beat "I spoke to Anne, I told Anne." 

"Anne is not here."

"Daniel knew, I told Daniel." And instead of sheepishly looking away, as most would do when telling such bold faced lies, the old hag stares straight through Anna. She holds her ground, defiant, and strangely enough makes it so uncomfortable and impossible to confront. There is nothing more like banging ones head against a wall than dealing with this woman. What was the point, after all, of pointing out ones untruths when one would go through every possible, or impossible scenario to cover them up. Anna could have said "Daniel's been out of the country for three years", but for what? Genevieve would have named off every person she knew, every person she didn't, every horse, every character from any book ever written before finally settling on Jesus him very self, just to cover up the simplest, silliest deceit.

As the years passed Anna would go times of fighting this woman, battling it out, confronting everything until the whole thing would consume her completely, and she'd find herself fighting battles that were not even there. And then she would go through phases where she had it not in her to bother. Genevieve always won, because in the end everyone gave up. 

"Anna, is Thomas not staying on top of the household affairs?" She says as she brushes her finger across the side table by the front entrance, looking for dust, finding none. 

"No, he's not."

Perplexed, the old lady looks to her, wrinkles her nose and gives a shrug.

"No he is not because I stay on top of the household affairs."

"Hmm."

Just then Jacklyn enters from the library, looking up she stops, partially stunned, as all the children seemed to be when first seeing their grandmother. Torn between the love one usually feels for a grandmother, and the disdain they feel, even at such young ages, for this woman they so easily despise. 

"OH my little Jackie!" Genevieve shrills as she so often does when playing a part. The part she plays when posturing to be a normal person, usually around the children or other well to do people. "Come help your Grandmother find a suitable place to rest." She smiled, passing Anna, grabbing Jacklyn by the shoulder and leading her, not the other way around, through the maze of the castle. 

Cora said nothing, only raised her eyebrows and sent a sympathetic look over at Anna. "Should I get the duster?" she said glancing back at the side table.

"No. Never dust that table again...wait, actually, tell the others to take the weekend off. And tell James to hire another gardener. And tell him I'm tired of those roses." This time raising her own eyebrows. 

Cora let out a small gasp, "Are you quite sure that's such a good idea?" 

"Which?"

"Either. You won't want to be stuck here all weekend with her on your own, and the roses, well, you know..."

"Oh, I know. And I won't be here all weekend. We are leaving to see my sister first thing tomorrow morning." And with her very own smirk, Anna turns back up the stairs.

What am I doing?

This place is sucking the life out of me. Sucking me dry of soul, originality, personality. Of me. What am I doing here?

I made a bad decision, one that's found me in a place where I'm told I must take seven steps to the left when I know I could take one to the right and end up in the same spot. And it is not as it is in life, where the journey is key, where the path is desirable and full of lessons and laughs. It is a job where speed and accuracy are all that matter. I am drowning in despair and have lost myself so completely. Worst of all, it is all my fault. I made the choice.

And as it rains and remains grey outside, so it does inside my heart. I pick myself up and get myself back there, where I die a little more each day.

write write write

how does one do it when one doesn't even want to, how does one not even want to?

it's funny, this time last year when I was trying to actually do the writing every day, things really did come more easily. not every day, not every time, but mostly. the more i wrote the more i had to write. i guess i need to oil my rigs or cogs or wheels, that's it, that's the word, wheel. i need to oil it then spin it.

i need to write to write. 

what a difference a year makes. i can not know with any certainty what i was doing at this exact moment a  year ago. it would have been a wednesday, we would probably have had a family dinner and i wouldn't have been working. actually i may have been doing this exact thing only in a completely different place, literally. then i would have been sat high on an island, facing the kitchen, the sink and window, my mom might have been behind me on the couch watching craig ferguson. i may have had ear plugs in and might have been listening to bon iver, if i'd discovered them yet. my life in front of me, a whole year ahead, what i knew then to what i know now...no matter how hard i spin that wheel, there are no words. 

now i lay in my bed, surrounded by a serene green, sheltered from the busy street by long, cream canvas curtains. the lady with elephants on her feet upstairs is getting ready for bed and her stomps i now find soothing. my boy lies snoring and sweaty beside me, my left foot tucked under his knee.

there is a lot still to come and i can not say i am prepared, ready or able for it, but as with everything else, there is no choice. 

i am happy where i am and so there is one battle won. for now. 

i must write and write and write.

Today...

...today is cleanup day, our house is perhaps the most disgusting it's ever been. And even though I was awake at 9, with my alarm, I have yet to do anything other than drink tea. But here we go. I am also going to make some Zero Point soup and maybe give my Bread Maker another go. 

Also just received this diddy via UPS...we'll see if I work it into my day. 

Blog Overhaul

Alright I am trying to spruce things up.

Here we are, again, January and me attempting to bring this baby back to life. If you are here, if anyone is here reading this, bare with me for the umpteenth time, my internet brain is super passe and completely uncool and I have zero idea of what I'm doing as far as layout, template and linking goes. I can't even figure out how to add more links or who to even link to, does anyone still blog?

I must now get back to life on the other side of this screen, having taken a look around and seeing I only have an hour before I must get ready for work, and knowing if Drew came home to find the place in the same condition it was after I cleaned out the fridge last night, I'd be in an awful lot of trouble, and worse over, would never be able to play the "I do everything around here" card again.

If there is anyone out there, still blogging, still reading, please add me to your page and I can do the same...well maybe if I can figure it out!

xo

 

p.s. check out my new pages . . .

I have resorted to wearing my boyfriends pants. Like, out of the house. Granted they are sweatpants, and it was only to my mothers, but, either way, I have resorted to the only pair of pants that fit me comfortably. My boyfriends sweatpants.

Great.

Great way to start the year. I am of course speaking sarcastically, this is not a great way to start a year. This time last year I was dramatically slimmer, though this time last year I was also single and had no boyfriend whose sweatpants I could wear.

Six of one or so it goes.

On another note pertaining to this time's, and years, my Writer's Book of Days, 365 plan for writing every day did not pan out so well. I started with good intentions, with motivation, and a plan, a plan of change. 2011 was going to be my year, something big was going to happen for me in  my life and 2011 was the time, I was going to take the reigns and make it be. My eye so firmly on the prize, my sights blind to anything else, my obsession the very air I breathed, I got hit with a left handed uppercut I never saw coming and hit the floor a dead weight. There would be change, oh how there would be change. There would be shock and awe and tears, so very many tears, anger, regret, desolation, and love. And so my Writer's Book of Days got lost in the debris, in the losing of my home, my job, my family, the continually darkening and all encompassing depression that follows me from sleep to wake, to work and back to home. It just did, it got lost, and I let it, I had to. In the whirlwind that was my life there were things I just could not hold on to.

When I foolishly asked 2011 for something, anything, when I sold my soul to it for something, anything, I got what I'd asked for. A year that seemed to seamlessly roll through me with tornado like effects. A year that went right on without me, carelessly stopping for moments to shake me, to bring me back to consciousness, to scream in my face with wind and fury "IS THIS WHAT YOU MEANT...is this what you wanted?" And I in such shock, acting as a coward, shook my head and buried my crying eyes into the arms of what may perhaps be the big thing to happen to me in my life. Things fit in spaces that were not there before.

But here we are, a year later, new home, new job, new man, new life...new plan? While I've hoped this year will bring redemption and reason, even reward for the things last year took from me, I fear I will continue to struggle with regret and longing. So from you, 2012, I ask for closure, acceptance of the things I lost, the things I threw away, and maybe help to find the things I've only misplaced. I know now the only way to go is forward, the path behind is washed away. And so even after all 2011 took from me I must thank it, for it did leave me with something, with someone, and maybe that was the plan, maybe it needed to strip me of everything so I could finally find something.

Night - March 8, 2011

She sat, uninspired, desolate even, her mind an empty canyon where once rushing rapids ran wild. Pen and paper in front of her, splayed on the desk below, open to a blank page. Cashmere throw, tossed around her shoulders, one side having slipped revealing a bare shoulder. Night came so quickly now, even though summer approached, and with it the inability to get even the simplest of chores done. Oh it will be night soon, she thought, there is no time left now to change the world, there is supper to make. And so a day would pass, and then another, until it was suddenly June, half a year, with what to show? 

Usually the nights were not as bad as this but tonight she found herself alone, no distractions, no hugs or laughter, or easily maneuvered task. So at her desk she sat, blank page in front of her, unused pen staring straight through her, challenging her to put it to great use. Occasionally she would throw a glare it's way, what did a pen know anyway, it had one job and one job only and she, it's boss, having no use of it, threw it violently into the drawer, along with her notebook and slamming it shut stormed off to find a dark corner to sleep in.

"O.k. we can't talk about hockey anymore," my mom says, suddenly serious, "we have to talk to you." And for the second time in my life I feel a real fear, the type of fear you can only feel when your healthy mother, at the age of sixty, says the words "we need to talk." 

I was quickly reassured by her mannerisms that it was not about her health. And in those split seconds before the words came out, I was able to process the fact that it couldn't be about anyone else's. She would never be the one to tell me if it were.

"We've looked at an apartment." And right away my whole world, walls and roof, fall down. 

I'd completely forgotten about last year when I'd heard the Realtor's message on the answering machine. Or the time they snuck out to do "some business" one Tuesday before our girls night. I'd forgotten how my sister and our girlfriends all sat around outside, on our deck, and analyzed, concluded, that there was no way they would sell this house. As time passed, nothing happened, and we forgot.

I already knew this would be the year I finally left here for good, actually set off on my own, not to follow a boy, not to follow adventure, but to begin my own life in my own place. I decided after my birthday this past December, after, yet, another heartbreak, it was time to start my life. I had finally accepted that perhaps someone wasn't going to come in and sweep me off my feet, carry me down the easy road, and so, I had to carry myself. I knew that at the end of December 2011 I would not be in the same place physically, mentally, emotionally as I was in December of 2010. It would be my year's mission. I began actively pursuing apartments in the area, setting my heart on an old building, a classic heritage building only three blocks from where I currently live. I was scared, but knew I'd survive because there is never any other option.

So when my mother and step father proceed to tell me of their plan, it is not the helplessness of homelessness that brings tears to my eyes, but the complete desolation of losing this house.

Twenty two years, two marriages, three newborns, new sisters, countless move outs, and even more moves back, love, life, laughter and death. This house, these walls, this magical place, empty of us. Us empty without it. I knew it was my time to move on, but I always assumed I could come back. I had dreamed of this house one day becoming mine, I had called it, and believed it, the best house in the world, and most of those who have walked through it's doors, felt it's love, have agreed. 

Yesterday I spent crying, today I've tried to see the good side, mostly I've tried not to think. Yesterday memories flashed through my mind non stop. Yesterday I decided to count the times I walked out the door from now until the last, today I couldn't bare it. Devastation does not begin to describe the emotion that has taken me over and will, I'm scared to admit, hold me in its grips for as long as I am capable of thought. For all my life to come, no matter what home I make mine, and what way my life may go, this home will be where everything that ever happened to me to this point, happened. This home saved my life, this home made my life, made me me. It is not walls and mortar, gyprok, and hardwood floors, this house is magic and love, and life itself. It is not simply the house I grew up in, I grew up many places. It is not simply a family home, it was magic before we got here and from there it grew, we grew, the memories and the people that fill this place, breathe life into the very walls. The stories on the deck, the tears cried into the carpet, the laughter barreling down the halls, always an open door, always scratches on the floor, wine in the wine rack, tea in the tea pot. It's been everyone's home, sheltered everyone's despair, blow after blow.

And I do not know how to breathe, knowing one day it will be empty, and then holding someone new.