Spiritual Vomit
Hard to remember who I was when I started this. Hard to remember the despair of last summer. Trying to remember it, to tap back into that strength. The flexible tree lives. The solid oak sees change and dies, hard as it is to admit that. He's at the Nord Center tonight, under supervision, treatment for the panic attacks that bring seizure, for the inability to express rage, for the thinking that these two weeks are the end of everything.
Pissed that the vultures would root out my dad's good name. Pissed that AF would send me to the verge of collapse. That I lost my job because I did it well. That Anne lost her job because she cared about the clients more than she cared about her sanity. He has no place to put all of that rage. Pissed that Portage County still doesn't have his address fixed. Pissed that $187 and so many phone calls later he's sorted out the warrant but who knows if it will ever be fixed? A thousand dollar trip to Georgia eight years ago didn't sort out that one. The system be damned, the human race is mad and we're all on the verge of collapse. Isn't it true? I need a hug and compassion and Rugby follows me out onto the roof to smoke, to stand sentinel. We're losing the race, says I.
And I remember last winter sitting in Mom and Dad's den, telling them that I could walk away if I wanted to, that I wouldn't get attached, and here I am, and I'm attached. I'm sorry that I'm weak. I'm sorry that I feel this, that this has developed, that maybe I'm the only one on the planet who has faith in him. This purpose I have now, those headshots, the photos that show you how I see the world -- they wouldn't exist without his encouragement, without his faith in me. When I couldn't live there anymore and the world was alien, when I had to start over again, he showed me that there is infinite possibility. And now it's my turn. And I feel like I don't have any allies. The thought of what could be rails against the idea of what will most likely come to fruition, and it absolutely saps my spirit. He's a fuck up on the surface, an alcoholic former drug addict with a reputation that begs not to be trusted. I've no idea how to convey the look in his eye when he gives someone a finished piece of art. I've no idea how to elucidate the faith I have that he's not the same man that he was then. Just know that I wouldn't say it if it wasn't so. Maybe I'm naive and idealistic, but I have to believe that I only open my life to those who are worth it. But isn't that the nature of faith? That on the surface it's illogical? We all live with regret and mistakes and sin and ugliness that we've rendered, and God willing, we've been given another chance. And another and another and I pray that it all works out for the best, and I pray that if it doesn't, that the poem I read so many times growing up is real. And in my spirit I know that even now it is. When you were too weak to walk, that's when I carried you. My family. In every incarnation. The something greater, however you choose to define that.
Rugby is chewing his sock and I'm trying to imagine this night alone multiplied exponentially, for all of eternity. Of course, life goes on, because the flexible tree bends. Time has proven that I'm that flexible, that the knowing will always outweight the not knowing. I will be a different woman, but I will go on. Not a shell. Just... a lobo. I weep and pray for the person you were then, the idiot so lost that he'd make those fool choices. I weep and pray for the deputy that laughed at you, for the warden who saw you lying in your vomit and was unmoved, for the woman who would give my mom the cold shoulder for a letter, the man who would think my dad illogical for making his real thoughts and feelings known. Take it away, take it away. We never had it anyway, we're far too idealistic. Life will go on and we will adapt. We will die and be reborn a thousand times before it's over. Each tear is a testament. This is the way that I knew it could be, and of course it can't last. Can it? Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.
Pissed that the vultures would root out my dad's good name. Pissed that AF would send me to the verge of collapse. That I lost my job because I did it well. That Anne lost her job because she cared about the clients more than she cared about her sanity. He has no place to put all of that rage. Pissed that Portage County still doesn't have his address fixed. Pissed that $187 and so many phone calls later he's sorted out the warrant but who knows if it will ever be fixed? A thousand dollar trip to Georgia eight years ago didn't sort out that one. The system be damned, the human race is mad and we're all on the verge of collapse. Isn't it true? I need a hug and compassion and Rugby follows me out onto the roof to smoke, to stand sentinel. We're losing the race, says I.
And I remember last winter sitting in Mom and Dad's den, telling them that I could walk away if I wanted to, that I wouldn't get attached, and here I am, and I'm attached. I'm sorry that I'm weak. I'm sorry that I feel this, that this has developed, that maybe I'm the only one on the planet who has faith in him. This purpose I have now, those headshots, the photos that show you how I see the world -- they wouldn't exist without his encouragement, without his faith in me. When I couldn't live there anymore and the world was alien, when I had to start over again, he showed me that there is infinite possibility. And now it's my turn. And I feel like I don't have any allies. The thought of what could be rails against the idea of what will most likely come to fruition, and it absolutely saps my spirit. He's a fuck up on the surface, an alcoholic former drug addict with a reputation that begs not to be trusted. I've no idea how to convey the look in his eye when he gives someone a finished piece of art. I've no idea how to elucidate the faith I have that he's not the same man that he was then. Just know that I wouldn't say it if it wasn't so. Maybe I'm naive and idealistic, but I have to believe that I only open my life to those who are worth it. But isn't that the nature of faith? That on the surface it's illogical? We all live with regret and mistakes and sin and ugliness that we've rendered, and God willing, we've been given another chance. And another and another and I pray that it all works out for the best, and I pray that if it doesn't, that the poem I read so many times growing up is real. And in my spirit I know that even now it is. When you were too weak to walk, that's when I carried you. My family. In every incarnation. The something greater, however you choose to define that.
Rugby is chewing his sock and I'm trying to imagine this night alone multiplied exponentially, for all of eternity. Of course, life goes on, because the flexible tree bends. Time has proven that I'm that flexible, that the knowing will always outweight the not knowing. I will be a different woman, but I will go on. Not a shell. Just... a lobo. I weep and pray for the person you were then, the idiot so lost that he'd make those fool choices. I weep and pray for the deputy that laughed at you, for the warden who saw you lying in your vomit and was unmoved, for the woman who would give my mom the cold shoulder for a letter, the man who would think my dad illogical for making his real thoughts and feelings known. Take it away, take it away. We never had it anyway, we're far too idealistic. Life will go on and we will adapt. We will die and be reborn a thousand times before it's over. Each tear is a testament. This is the way that I knew it could be, and of course it can't last. Can it? Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.
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