I've been pushing my pain around since Monday's session, since longer probably, trying to trip the switch to release these tears. I've been frustrated and scared, sad and sometimes desperate, and now they've finally come from an entirely different direction, on an entirely different car, from a separate train.
It picked me. This life. I get to be a part of this miracle, and the miracle isn't even extraordinary; the miracle is everyday. Every day, every contribution of life and to life, all of it a miracle, and someone, someforce looked at this particular sub-branch of miracle and picked me. Picked me. Someforce decided I would live, and I would live this one, this one amazing life. It gave me every friend I've had, it gave me home, it gave me fall weather and summer bikerides, and twilight, and all those years when school made my life worth it, and all those years when music and writing and relationships did. It gave me Rogers and myself. It gave me a fucking illness to hate and despise and learn from and understand, to work at losing so I could recognize myself. Recognizant. Who do I thank? My love? I'm not sugarcoating; I'm agoraphobic and it's too cold for walks, and I don't get out of the house, and I know no one in the city, but I can't even jokingly complain about the lack of blessings here. I'm not even trying to be grateful; I don't know how it's here. It just all of a sudden occurred to me that, outside of who-gets-to-survive-her-or-me, outside of I-don't-deserve-this, outside of all of that somebody chose me. Somebody picked me. Someone saw my eyes and made me their favorite. Someone saw my spirit and they picked this life for me. This life! This one that's so difficult and so full for harvesting, this one with all the best people in the world to know. This one where I'm this me; someone okayed that. Someone was proud of that. I'm not an accident of egg and sperm; I'm preapproved. Somebody put all this pain in my life, knowing also how all the love would come in, and I don't even believe in predestination, damnit, so what am I saying? What am I crying here? I just wanted my whole life to be someone's favorite, someone's number one, and I realize I come first in my life. With a runner-up so distant she doesn't even exist. Someone gave all this to me. Entrusted me with all of it, and the pain is not opposite the love; they're more connected. And everything was not meant to be, everything did not happen for a reason, but that's not the point - that's not even important... It's not as important how things played out and where they didn't quite work, and where we fucked up, well-intentioned, otherwise. Somebody gave me all these places and all these people and all this love and struggle. Relationships and love and struggles that someone else could have had. Relationships and love and struggles that could have never been. But they're mine. I'm doing them. I'm making my life. I'm working at it all the time; I'm the only one living it, and I'm doing a really good job. I'm doing a really good job.
Someone gave me this! Someone went through the big store (that would scare the fuck out of me), paged through the catalog, and chose out these presents, these beautiful presents, which are called moments, which string together into memories and histories and stories and ideas and dreams. Some of the presents are scarier than the Pumpkin King's Christmas gifts, but it's all so good in the end. Some things are wrong and they're never made better; some things weren't supposed to happen, but look at how I can *feel* this and *live* this and *share* this with other people. Look how I'm not separate, how I'm on the same plane as everyone else. How someday I'll go through death and be on the same plane as everyone else there, too. How I'm not alone. Silly beautiful, wonderful, extraordinary girl! I'm not alone. How could I be? I was given the same thing everyone's given, an entirely unique life. I was somehow chosen to live. I might have stayed a blueprint, a rough sketch, a cartoon. I might have been scripted and never staged. Ridiculous blindness, beautiful fallible human being! I've spent all these months knowing and re-knowing that people are an art form outside any person's capacity, that we're art impossible to make ourselves. I can't draw Tracy alive, or write my grandma back into her chair in the kitchen, praying the rosary beads. And me, too! Me, too! Still here, me, I'm art, too. It's impossible for anyone to make me. I have reflections and portraits and expressions, but only that. There's one genuine article, one me. Picked above everyone else, crafted, and given a crafted life, and loved so fully. All the good books and holidays and parties and nights alone and affirmations and two a.m. talks and words and field trips and hotels and houses and people...given to me. Given to me.
Of course I'm not separate. Of course I'm not alone. Look at my life, my heart. It's filled up with connections to the miracle that never goes away, the in-your-face taken-for-granted miracle. I'm stitched into you, to all of this. Somebody wanted me here. Wanted here. Wanted me. I don't need to be adopted anymore. I already have a family. I'm someone's Mary. So many someones. I'm someone whom even the greatest name ever can't keep in a hold. Look at me; I'm tied into the miracle. Look at me; all life is Rogers, all life is the realization that you've been given your own best thing... All life is standing looking at what's infiltrated everything so much it's hard to see. Each of us, inside ourselves, saying, I'm the favorite, given my best life, given the best people and places, given the most amazing spirit to tackle and embrace the particular plot-twists of the story no keyboard and no pen can write.
I'm the best and someone picked me. I like this life best of all of them, and someone made it mine. Made me alive like all of you, with all of you, stitched in. Never, ever meant to be alone.
It's really true. My heart, it's really true. I'm really meant to be here, really wanted. I'm really better than I've ever known, and I really do deserve this life so wonderful it makes me cry. Who but me could have all these tears ready for release at just the right time?
It really loves me. Me. It's really real.
~m