Here’s the trouble with self induced amnesia: when you want to remember you are not even sure you can. Maybe you no longer have the permission. The knowing is lost for always.
When I try to remember the you I wanted to forget I am cursed with the insecurity of believing I’m no longer allowed. I am the one who said Done with You, my unfriend. Off with your head I cried! But. But! But, the curse upon hearing my words, instead decided upon your mind.
Every time I think of you the corners of my mind are crowded with uninvited ghosts. The self destruction. The frantic come-now-go behavior. The confusion and the breaking of hearts. I walked away to save my selfish self but in doing so I lost the right to ask you about you. Does that mean I lost the right to care?
I am now reduced to friends of friends texting. The sly begging for slivers of information. The trepidation of being shut out. The potential to be shunned because I’m the one who shut down. Or, was that you? Chronologically, you did it first. You’ll do it last, thanks to the danger that curls around your curls.
Do I deserve to ask? Do I deserve to know? No. I know I can’t know. I stumbled and staggered away because you pushed. Now I miss you without having the right to say the words outloud. I’m so nobody that there is no one who will think to think of me. Maybe Seriously should know is not a decision anyone deems significant enough to decide.
Confessional: I tapped a friend on the shoulder and whispered Should I know? behind your back. I think I only want permission to stay gone without guilt. If granted I shall sink back into the primordial unknowing and pretend I never heard. This girl can go back to faking amnesia with a callous air of disregard.
“…wishing she had never spoken your name; had never known your name.”
You aren’t going to believe this. I called it. Plantar fasciitis. In a nutshell. Strange because all the things to treat PF I already do. All the things to prevent PF I have been doing. Oh well. Silver lining: Just the fact that I have been given the all clear to run (with ice) is enough for me. Immediately after the verdict I raced home to New Guinea and ran 3.5
Moving forward here is what is on my plate for the rest of 2016: finish the 1000k challenge. I would have been in great shape had I ran at all last week or the week before or even finished the half I so wanted. But, I can’t waste breath bitching about the past. What’s done is done. Nothing left to do but salvage the rest of the challenge. For those of you keeping score, I am currently at 733k. I have 62 days left. Are you doing the math? It’s a little under three miles a day in order to complete the challenge. That sounds like nothing but we all know what happens when I run too many consecutive days so I’ll need to map this one out carefully. My off-the-cuff goal is five miles four times a week. You heard it here.
I started my physical therapy journey in the hopes of running right, running straight, running period. Little by little, layer by layer I am peeling back the years of abuse to find the core of what’s right. It’s been a tough mental battle, but I won’t back down. Every day I that I spend lying on that PT table and Mr. Muscles is kneading my leg to screaming I think about what got me there. I’ve confronted the sights, sounds, touch and taste of That Night but this is the first time I am staring down the aftermath. For real.
I never wanted to really think about why my hip could pop on command. I never wanted to admit that the sharp, shooting pain in my groin was somehow related to That Night. I never counted on the pain inflicted 23 years ago to be able to hurt me now. It is taking everything I have to face the anger of what was taken from me. Still. But I can’t back down.
I ran last night and, for the first time, found I was afraid of me and myself. My heart felt like it could lurch right out of my chest and, according to my monitor, its rate was out of control. 186bpm. Normal resting rate is 61-64 and run rate is 165-172. I had to slow down and really listen to what was going on. I ran with with wild thoughts – was it the murmur? High blood pressure? High cholesterol? Could I have a heart attack right here and now? I was being completely fatalistic but realistic. Something wasn’t right. After 35 minutes I called it quits. 3.26 miles.
Tonight is 45 minutes of walking and core work followed by an hour of yoga. I’m thinking during core I will have plenty of time to assess the situations. All of them. Yoga will allow to to clear my head of those assessments and wipe the slate clean. One thing remains. The courage to go on. I refuse to back down.
A few weeks ago my office got a steam bath. I was able to turn a difficult situation into a positive by thinking about how clean my office would be now that all the super soaked books and papers and things had been removed. I tried not to think about the Atticus handprint or the Silas squiggle I had to discard. I tried not to care about books warped and ruined before I had a chance to read them. I moved on.
This week I experienced a different kind of soaking. First, it started in the bathroom. Kisa and I had just gotten home from a whirlwind trip to Maine. Visiting the dying is never a fun gig but that’s a whole ‘nother story. The point is, we were tired. Cranky. Glad to be home. Relieved to be back. I was in the bathroom, having a little relief of my own, when the first drip of cold water hit me square in the eye. An icy and startling drop of water. I looked up in time to have another drop land on my cheek. Then another and another. It was raining in the bathroom. Kisa determined it was the dryer vent, heating up the ice on the roof, and having nowhere to go, getting into the window casing. We stocked the window full of towels and prayed for warmer weather.
A day later I was walking laps around my dining room table (don’t ask if you don’t have cats) when I heard a tapping noise coming from the media closet. The sounds was steady like a drum. Inwardly I groaned. It could only be one thing: more water. Sure enough, the media closet was soaked. Cds, books, all the stereo equipment, drenched. Hand printed set lists ran with sharpie ink. Liner notes from tape cassettes (yes, I still have them) were warped and ruined. Whose bright idea was this? A discman sat in a puddle. I could only stare at the destruction in disbelief. Could this really be happening? How? I looked up to see a giant bubble in the ceiling, like a balloon filled with water, ready to burst. It made me laugh for some absurd reason. Was I thinking of Harrison Avenue? Another bubble from another time?
Home owners insurance will cover the window casing in the bathroom, the ceiling in the media closet, and the roof soffit. What it won’t cover is my frustration with this weather. Hilltop wasn’t designed for ice – at least while I want to do laundry!
I’m in the middle-end of Zel by Donna Jo Napoli. I have written a full review on LunaSea, and SeriousGrace has a stunted review, but I wanted to write about Zel in a different way on JustCause. It’s bugging the crap out of me that Donna Jo is messing with my head.
Okay. Here’s the deal. Zel is 12. T W E L V E. She is a poor mountain girl carefully guarded by an overprotective witch mother. She has a chance encounter with a 15 year boy, Konrad, with royalty running through his veins. He’s wealthy and carefully guarded by parents who plan to marry him off to someone “suitable.” These ill-matched children spend mere minutes together but in that short time become obsessed with one another. So, you can see where this is going. They aren’t meant to be together. The odds are against them. In the book I’m at the point where Konrad has been searching for Zel for two years and she has been locked in a hidden tower all this time. Konrad has just waved the white flag, given up, given in and accepted a prearranged marriage to someone else. My instinct is to cry out, “noooooooo!” and fervently wish for the spell to be broken. Konrad, keep up the fight! Find the girl in the tower and save her!!! Why is that? Why do I care so much about this kid-couple getting together?
Take Zel’s predicament. You are supposed to be angry that mom locked Zel in a tower. You are supposed to be outraged that mom is brainwashing Zel into thinking the tower is a good move by telling her she has enemies who want nothing more than to see her dead. You don’t stop for a minute and curse Zel for being stupid enough to believe her mom or to not be rationale enough to wonder, “who are these enemies and how did I make them?” And. And! Maybe being a witch isn’t a bad gig. All mom wants is a companion to be witchy with. Maybe Zel would be happy with magical powers instead of being a housewife?
Then there’s Konrad. You’re supposed to be indignant that he is giving up free love for a prearranged, sight unseen marriage to a stranger. You are supposed to be upset with mom and dad for wanting him to marry within his social status. You don’t stop for a minute to think of what you know about Konrad up to this point. He was unknowingly rude to Zel’s mother, he has a prejudice against the commoners and (gasp) he drinks a lot of wine. Maybe this wife mom and dad have found for Konrad is a killer cook and knows her way around a bedroom? Who’s to say Zel wouldn’t suck in the sack? She’s 14 at this point. F O U R T E E N!
Anyway. Despite all this I still want Konrad to rescue Zel from the tower she doesn’t know she needs rescuing from. I still want that happily ever after ending. Hey Konrad, hurry it up already!