Sorry folks.
Last night I stopped at Charlie’s on the way home and bought a bag of cracklins and a block of butter*. Charlie told me again how much he’d miss me, and gave me my cracklins for free (- it’s his way of bribing me out of a couple of pieces of cornbread, he says, though I know it’s just because he wants to be sweet. He knows I’ll bring him bread for nothing.) I made it home with only having to pull over twice for crying and realized that I’ve been crying on and off, every few hours, for two days straight.
I got to the house, paid a little focused attention to the beasts, and set to clearing out some space in the kitchen, both for decency’s sake and room to cook. I made a dirty martini (my newest trick) and laid out the things for my “mamaw comfort dinner”, and let my mind waffle in between NOT thinking about what’s hurting me so much, and trying to figure it out, in between small tasks and bouts of tears. I kept hearing the voices of my girlies saying “Pick up the phone!” and “Call me if you ever need to talk!” and “Damnit Sam, nobody can help you if they don’t know what’s wrong!” I am learning to be able to tell when I really need to talk to someone and when talking to someone is just another distraction, so when my mind kept returning to Andi, I finally picked up the phone. I won’t go into details, though you can read them for yourself at her blog where she talks very openly about her own struggles and triumphs with life, growing up, daughterhood, motherhood, etc. Her perspective, because of things she has experienced and things she has done, makes her the one friend I have who might understand my own struggle better than any other. My intuition was right, and she not only listened to me, but she HEARD me. I was able to make something clear to her that I’ve never been able to make clear to anyone else, and I felt like there was a glimmer – for the first time in a long time, or maybe even ever – of someone being able to see the real me. The only person I know who has any possibility of understanding the whole of my struggle is my oldest brother. But there’s something about having been in the war together that makes it especially hard to talk about the war. My best friend of many years, someone I speak to all too rarely these days, had a special understanding of the deepest, most dangerous side of me, but I think his was a sense, more than an actual understanding, and as time passed and things between us changed drastically, I think that sense became clouded by the reality of the passing of time. I am not saddened by that loss anymore, only grateful for the time, love understanding that he gave me.
I’ve ached for it all my life, without even knowing what it was really. It’s a need to be seen as all that I am. I am so grateful to be seen as strong and creative, clever and helpful, brave and loving – all the good things that people say they see in me. But I sometimes think that people are unable to see past that and realize that though there is a golden shimmer on the surface of the mill pond, and the mill wheel is always turning, the water there is very dark and deep and full of dangerous things. I know that everyone sees that I hurt, that I have my bad days, and they know why. But I have never felt that anyone truly realized what a weight I carry, what a struggle it is for me to keep that weight up, and that sometimes – and this is VERY hard to say – I want someone to help me carry that weight. I’ve always been so strong that no one – even my own mother – has ever seen the need to baby me. I’ve always been so tough – for myself and others – that no one has ever seen the need to defend me. I’ve always been so brave that no one has ever worried about leaving me alone in the dark, and over the years, I’ve come to understand that this has shaped me into someone who cannot even inspire those things in the people around me.
The other day, Chris and I were discussing our love of the original Pooh series. We started talking about whom we most identified with, and when I put Piglet near the top of my list, he reacted with shock. “Piglet? But he’s always so scared and uncertain!” I replied with “It’s hard to be brave when you’re a very small animal.” And once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was a very small animal, one who was very, very afraid, and because of the fact that I had no choice but to pretend to be brave and strong, and all the things that I eventually became, that small animal got left behind, completely forgotten, and stuck in a small, secret place inside me. She never left, she never changed, and she still cries whenever I get hurt, despite the fact that I, big strong Sam, can handle anything that comes along. Where do people think all that hurt goes to?
In talking to Andi, so much of that came out. I was able to explain to her what was hurting me so badly yesterday, what inspired that sad rant. It all came down to: If you can’t be certain of your mother’s love, then how can you ever be certain of anyone else’s? No one else owes you love, owes you a life, owes you protection and devotion. Even fathers leave, but mothers are the first to hold you, the first to make any promises to you, even the promise of life. The sadness that comes from knowing that your mother never loved you, never wanted you is inescapable. I think even adopted children must suffer that hollowness, but hopefully some of that is replaced by the devotion of a new mother, who truly wanted you, wanted you more than any other child. To have a mother who didn’t want you and then spent the rest of her life reminding you of that, in some cases extremely, obscenely painfully, is devastating. It shapes and colors everything from the moment of your birth on. You spend the rest of your life seeking something to fill that horrible gap, and maybe, finally come to the realization that nothing will ever be able to, that everyone else will either let you down, or you’ll let them down because you don’t have it in you to love anyone else the way you should if you’d been taught how to love from day one.
No one can fix that. It can never be fixed, and I see that now. When I poured all of this out to Andi, I heard her make connections about what she knows of me and about the true depth of my grief that she, and maybe no one else but Lynda, my beloved therapist, has ever seemed to be able to see. When the tears had wound down she said “Sam, I don’t know what to say…” I said “Andi, when you said ‘Ohhhh…’ and I realized that you suddenly had a better understanding of me, THAT’S what I needed. No solutions – there are none. No explanations – no one understands the situation better than me. What I needed was to be seen as more than just “brilliant” and “broken”. I need to know that when someone is offering me love and comfort, they know exactly who they are offering it to, and exactly why. It may be stupid and selfish, but I also think it’s simple, and if that’s all I’m asking, why shouldn’t I have it? I believe with all my heart that I try to give the same thing in return, to everyone I meet.

So, with Andi’s love (and the makings for a pot of greens and cornbread and a big vat o’ salsa) surrounding me, I let her get on to her shopping spree - just as Stewart called to say he was pulling into the driveway with a delivery of Ben&Jerry’s and PECAN CHEESECAKE (that’s a good therapy tack too, fyi. If you can’t provide insight, bring chocolate. It really is the second-best comfort in any case…) We talked while I made my dinner and he hung about long enough to take home a tub o’ salsa. I went to bed early and for the first night since Sunday, didn’t cry myself to sleep.

Then when I checked my e’s at lunch today, I found these:

Dear Sam,
I wanted to write you and say that I don't know many things about your Mother, but from the way it seems I'm sure this day has a pang for you. I just wanted you to know that you are in my thoughts and I do hope that you are able to be with people who love and care for you today. I also wanted to say, that for a solitary child like you, there is me. I see you. I love you.
I LOVE you. No Sam, I can't understand, but I can care. You are remembered.
-Hannah Bright

- and -

Sam,
I came here tonight to welcome you back to the blogosphere. I enjoyed the rant from last night and was not really expecting to see another one so soon. I'm sorry to know you feel so bad. How can I help? You don't have to kill yourself to make people love you unconditionally. You just deserve it. You, Sam. YOU just deserve it. I knew your Dad was gone and I knew about Robbie. I know how you felt about them both. I know how it is with your Mom. I didn't know they all came together with Mothers Day. How hard it must be for you right now. I'm so, so sorry.
There have been many times in my life when I felt just what you described here. I don't know what to tell you about how to handle it. If I did, I would tell you and neither of us would have to be afflicted by this kind of torture anymore. I stopped crying, except a few short sobs now and then, long ago. I don't know if it's because so many years have passed, that I'm much older and worn out, or if I have just become battle hardened and accustomed to the hurt. But I know I will always cry when I talk about my Daddy, I will always cry when I talk about my baby brother Billy, I will always miss my Mama and I will likely be angry with my late husband until I die. I am angry at myself too. For the way I let it go on so long and other regrets.
I haven't been writing as much lately because I've been having a problem with my blood pressure and have had a headache for more than a week to go with it. Anyway, maybe I will be back to something near normal (for me) in a day or two. I wish I knew what to say. It seems like when you really need the answer nobody knows the answer. All I can say is:
1-Don't knock yourself out to make people love you. I think you do too much. AND I think you get too little return. Bodies are not designed to do all that you've been doing.2-Know inside yourself that you deserve to be loved no matter what any asshole may tell you otherwise, or do to you. You deserve to be loved just because you are you.
3-Don't be hurting like that and not tell me.
4-I will take up for you.
5-Friends are for sharing...even sharing pain.
I hope you feel better soon. It's after 11:00 p.m. now and I'm about to wake you up. I hope I get you. If I don't I'll call again tomorrow.
Love, Carol

- and I realized that if I can TELL people what I need, to be SEEN, to be REMEMBERED, to be CARED FOR, to be STOOD UP FOR, to know that I really am NOT ALONE, there are people out there who will do that for me – because I am who I am, and because I’ve done it for them, and because no matter how bad I feel, I’ll keep doing it for others. And though I can wish them the very best, I don’t have to keep giving my best to the people who don’t care enough about me to see past the shimmering surface. For those of you who are patient and brave enough to look into the deep dark, thank you. I love you. You can always say “I saved Sam.”**

Much love, and less grief, ***
-Sam

*Yes, there are still places where you can buy hand-churned butter by the block – for about HALF the price of store-bought butter – even the store brand.
**I’m WAY more practical than Green Stamps or Marlboro Miles! :)*** and happiest of birthdays to Seamus

This is a very sad, hurt, introspective post, and I couldn’t take criticism about what I have to say here, so please don’t read on if you don’t want anything weighty to consider, to read that I have uncharitable, selfish thoughts and feelings sometimes, or feel that I might need to be taken to task for what I have to express here. Please.

I Am Made of Grey

Have you ever cried so hard, so loud, for so long that your howls seem to turn into hollow, ringing echoes? As if all the selves you ever were, or might have ever been are keening in harmony and empathy? In the depths and damps of such chasms of pain, do you wonder if the world is the cavernous space into which you pour your screams, or is it your own arid, empty heart?

My own memories are shipwrecked on a desolate airless moon, where the seasons speed by in days’ time, flickering like time-lapse, either the purest blinding white light, or the blackest, coldest deepest night. There is no grey there but the shadows of scars caused by meteoric blows - vast craters the size of other planets’ living continents, visible even to the single-lensed eyes of the inhabitants of those green lands, light years distant - and the silvery grey substance of the moon itself.

When I howl into that vacuum, I tell myself that the echoes are the sounds of millions of voices joining mine, so that I won’t feel so lost. But when the tears run dry and I have no choice but to tune into the hungry silence, all I hear is my own ragged breathing, and the beat of my castaway heart.

*************************************

This Sunday was mother’s day. It was also the tenth year anniversary of my father’s death. Next Saturday will be 10 years since Robbie died as well. I can’t expect sympathy from people who aren’t near me, or who don’t know how hard this time is for me, but to be abandoned and placed second (third, fourth, fifth) by those who know, who live with me, or see and talk to me every day, is harder than I could have imagined. Left alone with my grief and all the memories, more work than I could handle at the best of times, a wreck of a house, money worries, work worries, the responsibility of a whole household and then some, I am hurt, angry, and feeling like I’ve felt since I can remember: a nuisance, a burden, a used-up convenience. If I’m not being useful or helpful in some active way, then I am invisible – or should be. Who, of those who know me well, hasn’t wondered why I feel this way over and over again? And I honestly can’t blame another soul. No one but myself has been responsible for me – beyond the very basics – since I was born, and not for anything else since I was able to handle the basics. There must be something in me, about me, that makes me so easy to abandon. I wish someone, anyone, even the people that I am most afraid to talk to, the people who are at the heart of who I am – the people who taught me to be able to walk away - could tell me why I can’t be loved completely, the way other people are. I can take the truth, however hard it might be, because it might help me change into someone who can be loved unconditionally. People say I am good, that I do good things, that I am a good person, and that I make the world a better place, why would they lie about that? And if that is true, why don’t I deserve the kind of unshakable, selfless love and devotion that others give to one another? What is it about me?
There are mothers who would give their lives, their souls, every thing and every last penny for their children; there are husbands and wives who would walk through fire for their loved ones; what is it about me that doesn’t inspire this kind of devotion? Why don’t people stand up for me? Why wouldn’t someone close to me put my pain before their own pleasure or safety? I can’t expect everyone to – other mothers have their own children, other lovers have their own spouses, and I have nothing but respect for those who put their own first – but what about my own? Or maybe that’s just it… maybe I truly have no one of my own. Maybe that’s my true birthmark, and I am meant to walk the world alone like Caine. But for what sin? And could I ever atone? It seems that my choices are to continue to try to be as useful and deserving as possible to earn the kindnesses I do receive, and/or accept the truth that I can only ever expect so much love from anyone, even my so-called own, and know that when the chips are really down, and the darkness is deepest, that I can truly depend on no one but myself – no matter how much that hurts.
I suppose I’ll never know how hard one has to work, how good one has to be to earn the true, total devotion of another human being, but I know I would die of grief if I quit trying to find out.

Honestly, sorrowfully, and apologetically,
-sam