Category: Mourning

Feeling In A New Era

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Photo Apr 27, 3 47 56 PM

I wait for the blow. — But I’m older now. — It takes its time.

I keep thinking about my old roommate. We’d blast Tori Amos and fucking emote. We’d lay all our shit out there. 20-Somethings with nothing to prove. Back in NYC, we’d suck down fat joints and take swigs out of cheap bottles of red wine in our Alphabet City apartment. We fucking felt it. I’d play my guitar and she’d play her keyboard and we sang in a language we both understood. We’d look at each other and we just knew: It was all out there. — We made something.

My emotion hasn’t made anything in years. I’ve poured all my pain into cleaning kitchens — scrubbing out sinks. In my apartment of 3 1/2  years, I have nothing on the walls, save for the dried roses that hang from a smoke alarm, given to me by an ex on Valentine’s Day, years ago. — And, yes, I know. — Bad Feng Shui.

While I’m sure no one wants to hear it from a spry, 31-year-old — I feel fucking old. And, even though I’ve been diffusing citrus oils in my apartment to keep myself from having a psychotic break, I still expect the living room to stink like moth balls and old soup. If I didn’t work until 6PM, I’m certain I’d be eating dinner at 4:45PM every night.

Monday, I sat on my stoop crying. I dyed my hair red and, in the sun, it looks like my head is on fire. It feels that way too. I planted some seeds. I don’t care if they live through the summer or not. I just need something to set down roots. I need something that’s alive to break the surface. I’m tired of waiting for things to grow. And now, I have all this dirt on my hands.

I got an unexpected call from someone struggling with their sobriety. For a minute, I felt like a fraud. Hours before, I was thinking about picking up a bottle of bourbon, and, suddenly, I found myself describing all the things I do to keep myself sober — to someone else — like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. I’m convincing. I told him — it’s worth it. That, I’m better for it. And, for a minute, I am. Better.

When I hang up the phone, the evening sun’s crept in through the window like my stalker. I’m still sitting in the same place. I haven’t run from the hurt yet. But, my mascara has, and I look like the poster for American Horror Story: Asylum. Sure enough, it’s 4:45PM, but, I won’t be hungry for dinner tonight. — The break-up diet is the world’s best kept secret. — You heard it here first.

I decide to snuggle up to the cat and play Tori Amos through the speaker. I channel a younger version of myself. I mourn her and all the feelings that, once, came to her so easily. I emote — sans my friend and the fat joint and the wine. I try to feel. And, this time, I don’t do it over a sink. But, I end up just talking myself in circles, trying to convince myself of something that isn’t true. I have never been a good liar.

So, to keep myself straight, I re-read my checklist:

  1. Drop off the key to his place.
  2. Drive directly home.
  3. Get on your knees.
  4. Pray for Jackie’s Strength.

 

 

 

 

The Conditions of Desire

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Photo Jan 14, 6 47 43 AM

For a time, I misplaced the meaning of desire.

At my worst, drinking and desire became inextricably linked. Back then, I was certain that being wasted was a sure-fire, all-access pass to the things I most longed for in my life — Love. Acceptance. Meaning. But, it didn’t take very long to discover — I was wrong. And, when everything collapsed, I struggled to begin again. Even with a clear head, I had trouble deciphering what it was I really wanted.

Long after getting sober, I found myself wondering why things continued to fall apart. All my desires, even my most deliberate and cognizant ones, lead me astray. And, later, I would learn that — I had completely missed the point.

Gratitude.

Gratitude is the point. Perhaps the most notable of all my epic lessons is that — no matter where I stand in life — there must be gratitude there. It is the cornerstone. Because if we cannot love, at least in part, what we already have — there is no point desiring more. It’s a lesson that took years to learn. I denied it. I fought it. But, I never outran it. In my ungrateful state, I continued to meet disappointment, regret, and tragedy again and again. — Without gratitude, we become bitter and selfish.

The only way to tap into gratitude’s thick, gooey center is — Love. The unconditional kind. — But to know love unconditionally, you first have to tolerate things that are conditional — and it’s painful. But, every Yin will find its Yang.

Once, at the end of a relationship, I was told that we hadn’t made it because I hadn’t loved unconditionally. At the time, I believed I had given everything. Because, in some way, I had — I had given all I had to give. But, the condition of having given enough won’t save a relationship — or anything else for that matter. If love is truly unconditional, there is always more. There must be reciprocity, because — true love returns to itself. Unconditional love is without breaks or cracks. It’s cyclical. In the end, conditions will only breed resentment. And, where resentment grows — gratitude cannot.

Releasing my own conditions, giving of my heart as it beats today, and allowing that exchange to be enough — was a game changer. It made space where I once had none. I learned to adapt. In rewiring my heart for gratitude, I found joy in what little remained. At my rock bottom — it was meager — but it was a start.

There’s a line from an Elliott Smith song that has stuck with me from the moment I first heard it years ago: “You’ll take advantage ’til you think you’re being used. ‘Cause without an enemy, our anger gets confused.” That line continues to define my inner addict. I have to remember, daily, that nothing has been done to me. We do things and we allow things to happen. And, if we listen to our desires — truly listen — we can walk toward or away from anything with ease. Even the booze.

A grateful heart will treasure the scraps it finds in the soot and ashes. Inside my own guarded heart, love picks all my locks. And, when the latches release — it’s me who pushes the doors wide open.

On the other side, I find my desire again. In gratitude, I am shown the good of all my things — my people. Cyclical. Reciprocal. Gratitude is unconditional.

Today, I throw my love to the wind — without its old conditions. And, love sent out with gratitude returns like a boomerang.

So, throw open the doors to your heart. And when your desire returns — let it love you back.

Unconditionally.

The Ghosts Of Christmas Past

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Photo Dec 16, 7 29 02 PM

“Spirit!” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.”

“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “That they are what they are, do not blame me!”

December 20, 2011 — My phone rang, waking me with a start. It was my mother, which I found odd because she knew to never to call me before noon. And, in that off moment of sleepy confusion — I knew — she had bad news. At the end of the line, a coast away, my mother choked out the words: My cousin had been killed the night before in a tragic accident. She had bought me a plane ticket home. I was going back East.

I had been drunk, almost constantly, for several months prior to his death. And, in the truly sobering moments that followed my mother’s phone call, I struggled to locate my emotion. I had rendered myself dull and numb. Tears dammed up behind my eyes. Words got caught in my larynx. Nothing in the room moved — except my arm — which swung out to my right side, off the bed, and grabbed for the open bottle of gin sitting on my bedside table. 7:43AM. I remember. I took a swig.

At work, my gracious coworkers had rallied for me. The skeleton crew that remained for the Christmas holiday had all divvied up my waitressing shifts without complaint. The bartender slipped me shots of whiskey during dinner service. It was the first time I ever drank on the job. After my shift, I sat at the pub around the corner from my apartment and I drank more. Bourbon. I left at last call and I only slept for a few hours before waking up and tossing my clothing into a suitcase haphazardly between swigs from my bottle of bedroom gin.

I arrived at the airport early and I sat at the bar while I waited to board my flight. As I slurped up the last, red sip of my 4th Bloody Mary through a long black straw, the man next to me asked me if he could buy me another. “I’m guessing you’re not having such a Merry Christmas,” he said. The bartender put my 5th drink down in front of me as the man got up. “Happy Holidays,” he said, wheeling his bag toward the gate. When I asked the bartender for my tab, she told me that the man had taken care of my entire bill.

I have never been so drunk on a plane. I ordered two 2 vodkas — the flight attendant handed me the 4 little minis like a vendor at a sporting event. I didn’t bother to mix them with my club soda. I remember holding each blue bottle up to my lips — one, then another, then another. I woke up from a blackout as we hit the runway at JFK International Airport. My head felt like it had been slammed between two bricks. My cousin met me at the baggage claim, where we collapsed into each other’s arms and cried. As we walked to the car she said, “Jesus Christ, Sarah. You reek of vodka.”

It has never been necessary to hide my drinking from my family. This behavior was routine — my routine — our routine. And, given the circumstance of my return, I wasn’t the only one taking nips on the sly. We shuttled from my childhood home, to my aunt and uncle’s house in New Jersey, and back again. We all wept and drank. We sat perfectly still between embraces, and we were silent between sobs. The Christmas decorations only noted the season. We’d all forgotten what day is was — the clocks had stopped and the calendar was just a piece of paper on the wall.

Christmas Day, just days after the funeral, I flew home to Portland. I drank more vodka on the plane. And, when we landed, I had my cabbie drive me directly to the pub. I didn’t bother to stop at home and drop off my bags. For last call, the bartender turned off the juke box and played Elvis’ Blue Christmas and I got up to vomit in the women’s room.

*           *           *

This will be my third sober Christmas. And, when I arrive at PDX to fly East, I will sit and wait for my plane at the gate — not the bar. I will sip my complimentary cranberry cocktail and I will page through a fashion magazine and listen to Frank Sinatra’s Christmas albums on my headphones. I will lay my head on the folding tray and try to sleep until the captain illuminates the “Fasten Seat Belt Sign” and announces our descent.

At JFK, I will walk past the baggage carousel and see the same spot where my cousin and I fell into each other’s arms before she drove me home, stinking of vodka. And, while I wait in the taxi line, the dam will break and I will cry again for my cousin who is gone.

I will pull my bags out of the back seat of a yellow cab and I will hug my mother on the stoop of our house in Brooklyn. When I walk in our front door, I will smell the perfume of the Douglas Fir. And when I see that Christmas tree, lit, in the corner of our living room — nostalgia will stop my heart for a just a few beats. My father will come down the squeaky steps and fold me in his arms before he kisses my forehead and says, “It’s good to have you home Monkeybird.” And, in my eyes, he’ll see — It’s good to be home.

It’s also good to be sober. So, I won’t think about drinking until I open the cabinet to the left of the microwave. I always find my old bottle of Jim Beam while I’m looking for something else in my mother’s kitchen. I poured my cousin a secret drink from that same bottle on Thanksgiving Day, 2011, just a month before his death. It seems fitting that the bottle should remain unfinished. And so, I honor his memory with every drink I do not take.

These were shadows of things that have been. — That they are what they are, do not blame me.

So, I leave my bottle on the shelf for ghosts. Because, my parents never cared for bourbon.

Which is crazy. — I know.

 

 

[Italicized Prose Excerpt: Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol; Artwork (before edits): Sol Eytinge, Jr.]