Not one thing went the way it should have gone, and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, but you've asked me not to apologize, so now I'm quiet, too. And so many things went wrong, I can't even point fingers, I no longer have the strength for anger because I know if I take it back far enough, if I look at every factor, I won't be able to pin down the blame. And I'm sorry, I'm exhausted, I'm everything but ok. You asked me to take care of myself, to focus on my own work, the work I have to do, the work I said to the doctor just yesterday is not being compromised by holding onto you... I don't know that I can do that; maybe I just can't do that yet. I feel like you and I are a Venn diagram, and last night I stepped out of the me-space into the us-space and don't quite know how to cross the line back into me. I can see my own life shouting and struggling, singing and pleading at the edge of my space, but I don't know how to get back to it. I dove in head-first, knowing I can't swim, and now I'm here, but I'm not here, and will it really be ok when I make up for lost sleep...when a few more days have gone by? Can I really put one foot back in my life, put my focus back on me? Can I do that quickly enough or will I wait here, and watch your circle fall out from under me? Will I wait here until I lose you, if I'm going to lose you?
We arrived at hell again, but I know all the best hotels...
There's so much to say. There's so much to say! I want to say it; I want to talk/ write about it... I want to get it out of me. I want to write the entries I had bubbling up inside me before yesterday, the one about intellectulism as identity and how it's proved by verbs, the one about my birthday at my dad's, the trouble I'm having with my brother, the trouble I'm having with my mom, and the fact that my parents' divorce should finalize in the next month. And my mom wasn't even going to tell me. She said I probably wouldn't notice any difference. I had to tell her that I wanted to know when it happened, that I would feel awful if two months down the line I asked how soon it was happening and heard it already had. I guess she thinks it became real to me the day she announced it. But no. I've been waiting for them to fix it, to put it back together. Whether or not I really believe they will or that it's best, I've been waiting for them to do so... doing everything not to face this, too. And now it's happening; we're going to hit the crunch time any day now, crunch and crush, and the one being flattened is me.
I feel like I fell off the roof of a tall, tall building, hit the street and got run over. This is hell, and I want to get it out of me, but I don't know if I have the strength. I'm not sure I won't just kiel over in the middle of it, fall asleep face-first on the keys. I don't want to carry it around, like the anger and blame, the silence is a painful weight cutting into my skin. I am angry and I am infuriated at certain people; I do blame them or want to blame them or... but I can't. Last night, for the first time I can remember since living in D!@#$%^, I wanted to go, fast, pack a bag and run. Last night, I could have. I could have gone to John's or my dad's. I could have gone to stay with my dad for a few days; it would thrill him, and even though it would hurt my mom, at least I might hurt a little less. But now, it's morning and I'm here, and I don't feel any better hating my mom for her part in it. I don't feel any better cutting myself off from the one woman in my life who can nonchalantly show up at my bedroom door. I don't want to need her, now especially, but now especially, I do...
She's the only person who can show up at my bedroom door. I expected that to change last night. After I spoke with you, I speed-cleaned my entire room, basically meaning that everything which was in the middle of my floor is now in my closet, and the place looks presentable. It looks comfortable; I wanted you to see a comfortable space. The pictures on the wall of Rogers, of people you know, and don't need to ask me to name. The poster with the signed hands, which won't stay up due to some faulty sticky-tak, which maybe you could sign... not last night of course; last night was crazy, crisis, it wasn't the time for those sorts of things. But later, maybe. I was going to bring you Grahams, the bear you gave me when you discharge, a friend to hold onto for the drive back to my place (if you needed a friend other than me.) I was going to verbally force everyone who hurt you against walls, to the floor; I was going to take you in my arms and talk about how you'd be safe now, talk to you like a caress because you deserve that, then turn the ends of my sentences into hooks with which to pierce them. I was going to say loudly as we left, "Do you have everything? Need any paper-towel balls?" because no one else would know what it meant, proving there is a world where you speak and are heard, proving there is another world with the very philosophy and language they wouldn't let you use. I was going to sit in the back of the car with you, hold your hand, hold you for the first time in two years and then some...I was going to see you move, the way your pictures never do. You called it a hassle; I felt like I'd been given the golden opportunity, like angels had descended from the heavens and handed me one warm blanket, and two boxing gloves. For once, someone was hurting you, and I could stop them. For once, you were in danger, and I could come to your aid. Not through a phone line, not through a package, not in-spirit, but truly there, truly with you. That's the way I wanted it to be, the way I promised it would be Tuesday when you first told me how bad things were. Call, and in 40 minutes I'll be there. My mom loves you; she'll do for you what she would do for me. Of course she'll pick you up. We'll pick you up. Give me forty minutes; I'll take you away, somewhere safe... Somewhere safe...
Mom had gone to work in D!@#$%^, and I was just waking up from a session-induced nap when you called. Outside, sirens were wailing by and setting off car alarms, which alternated with the phone, ringing with maybe five different calls. I laughed at the play of noise. I curled around in my bed, grateful that I didn't feel like a slave to the phone, grateful that I could go and see who'd called at my own pace.
Sara, when it turned out to be you...when some of those calls were you... everything changed. A switch flipped, and I entered active-mode. I hung up on your recording, called my mom, asked how quickly we could be there, hating that it would be hours, after she finished work, so much longer than forty minutes. Hating to stretch my promise even that far. Then calling you and talking with you, hearing you cry, and telling you over and over again the things I know are true. That you can get well, that you're not trying to sabotage yourself, that you want this, that this place really is the problem, that they're hurting you, that it's healthy to leave a toxic situation, that I love you, that you're worth it. It was easy for me then. Not to hear you doubt those things, but to feel certain myself - to share that certainty with you. Now, I've been beaten into mental fogginess as well, beaten into questioning everything. I was so sure what we did was right. What we planned to do. I was so sure that you needed to leave, and I would get you. I knew which of your safe foods we had in our refrigerator; I was ready to say, "I know this is hard sixty different ways, but do you need something to eat?" I didn't doubt for a second, until after it fell apart. When it fell apart, and everything became so much more drastic, so much less safe ... when it fell apart, and all I could do was cry and apologize and hate myself for the minuscule trace of relief I felt - because after you called, I called the doc's exchange, hoping he could help me change the plan we'd made so that I'd be ok and he had never called... because I didn't quite know what I was doing, and it was so hard, and your mom on the phone, beating the details of your physical instability into me, pounding at me with the frailty I already knew about - but couldn't know about, not in her eyes, couldn't understand because I'm a teenager, because I'm sick, too, because I'm so physically stable I don't understand, because you're just so convincing and I got sucked in... Your mom telling me how close you are to dying, telling my mom that until my mom wouldn't go and get you. Your mom was rambling on and on, and I was in my very articulate but very fierce voice, and I said, "Are you saying not to pick her up?" and Mom said, "No, we're not picking her up," and your mom said, "I can't make that decision for you," and I said, "Yes you can!" Then my mom said, no, we're not picking her up, and I felt myself breaking. I went into the kitchen where she was on the phone and I gave her the finger twice, with the most contorted expression on my face. I was trying not to lose it on the phone; I was trying to fight, but I didn't know how to fight. Otherwise, I would have screamed at her. Otherwise, I would have screaed, "Fuck you! Fuck you! What are you doing? You're wrong! You don't know what's going on! I know what's going on. You can't listen to her mom; she's part of the problem...and she's too much of a coward to say no, we can't get her daughter, so why are *you* saying no? I'm telling you Sara's not safe! Why don't you believe me? I'm telling you she's being beaten up instead of treated, that she can't stay there even two more weeks, that she doesn't want to get out, she just wants to get somewhere else, that she knows she's physically unsafe, and that she's trying. I'm telling you this isn't about her pulling the wool over my eyes; I'm telling you she's not the stereotype - she's trustworthy, even when she's at her sickest...the way I was. And Mom, you didn't believe me either, remember? Remember the day you said you trusted me, but you didn't trust 'this disease'? You always call it that, even now, you always call it 'this disease.' I'm telling you I know what she needs; I'm telling you I trust my friend, and I need you to trust me. Why aren't you doing that? Why are you having this it's-so-hard-as-the-mother moment with this woman when it's Sara we need to support? I care about her mom, I do! But I'm mad at her mom, too; I hate the lack of support she's giving her daughter. The lack of support she's given her daughter for the entire time I've known her. Someone isn't supportive just because you can talk to them; you have to listen to what they're saying before you make that call. You have to hear the way she treats her like a little child, the way she struggles for power, the way she approaches this whole thing as if it's an algebra problem she's out of ways to solve. Sara needs me, she needs me, she needs someone and I'm here...and I promised her...I have the directions written down, we were on our way out the door, I called her mom as a technicality - because I said I would - and now you're telling me, that I won't be there just after nine, as promised? That I'm not leaving, at all? That I'm not coming to get her, that she has to stay there, that I'm breaking my promise because you refuse to go against what her mom won't flat-out say she wants, and even though I could go against you, too, (oh, Godd, I don't want to) and call John, and ask him to take me...his truck only has two seats, and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." Your mom, my mom, and I hang up, without resolving anything; there is the worst air between your mom and I, I've ever felt, and for the first time in recent memory, I want to get out of my own house. I can't stand my own mom, who would do such a thing as this. Who wouldn't just trust me, to know I could trust you... Who would leave you there, alone. I turn the phone off, turn it on, and call you... In tears. Saying, "my mom and your mom talked, and now my mom won't come. She won't come, and get you! and I don't know what to do, and I'm so sorry - Sara, I'm so sorry - I want to be there. I want to help you. I want to get you out of there. I had the directions written down and I was about to put on my shoes. I'm so sorry..."
And at first you didn't seem to understand, and then I could hear the shift. The shift that said you understood that no one was going to help you, that you had to do yourself. The shift where your voice got too calm and mine got too desperate. Where you said, "It's ok. It's ok. Just let me...think...about this." And I said, "I'm so sorry" you said, "It's ok," and I said, "It's not ok. Please don't say that. You scare me when you say that it's ok." You said you could walk to my house. No, honey you can't. You said you could call a cab. I didn't think you meant it. I didn't think you meant it. It was hours later, when I remembered the time you tried to leave Rogers, and the way Dave threatened to call the police if you did, the way he forced you to stay, and started to wonder if I was wrong. Was I wrong? Were you really sick, and was I, in trying to help you, making everything worse? Was your mom right or just that good at making me feel wrong, the way she makes you feel wrong, the way my parents used to make me feel wrong, all the time? I didn't know you were serious, but when you said you'd call me back in a little while, I sat without moving, with the phone in my hand. I was exhausted, I was falling asleep. I wanted to go to sleep, where the nightmares weren't real. You called, and there weren't any voices behind you, yelling back and forth. You called and I could hear the sound of air rushing past you. You were in a cab on your way to the airport. You had a flight at 6:10 this morning. I was floored. I didn't know what to do, what to say. The questions in my head didn't cooperate with my mouth. I wanted to say, Where are you? but of course you wouldn't know. I wanted to say, come here, but I didn't know if I could. Or if I was supposed to. If it was right. I didn't know anything anymore. I said, "I don't know what to do" and you said, "You don't need to do anything; you've done so much already...it's ok. I did it on my own; I need to learn how to do things on my own."
"But not alone," I said.
"Hopefully."
"You've got at least one person on your side," I said. "Always." You know that, right?
"I'm sorry; it's kind of hard to hear you in the car...what did you say?" Only that I'm always here for you. Only that you aren't alone. Only please take care of yourself. Please hold on. Please have hope. Only, I love you, and I'm always going to love you, and understand that I mean it when I say I'll be there whenever you need me...even though I wasn't. Understand that my promises are gold even though I broke one. I didn't want to break it. Your mom chose not to help you, and my mom chose not to help you, but I was just trapped here; I didn't get to choose. The thought of you alone at the airport made me feel split open; I did not want you to be there, alone. I wanted to say, come here instead, but I didn't know how to talk to my mom. I wanted to say, ok, I'll be there; no, I do have to come... but I was exhausted, and I wanted to sleep. You said you could do it yourself, and I was tired, so I let you. I let you. I hung up, I shut my mom out, I took my meds, I went to bed. And I did fall asleep eventually, asleep in my bed, where you were supposed to be - you were supposed to be there, or on the world's most comfortable couch, or the spare mattress still ready on the floor of my mom's room. You were supposed to be here.
After the call, I guess my mom tried to talk to me three, maybe four times. The first, she asked if she could come in, I said no, she asked if we could talk, I said it probably wasn't the best idea. She started talking anyway, and I went with her until we'd both gotten about two sentences out, and then I realized I could not hear her defense without clawing her eyes out. I told it really wasn't the best time for this, and she went quiet. It took her awhile to get up, though, to walk away. It took me awhile to know how much I was losing in shutting her out, even if she was party to Those To Blame. The second she asked for the phone. I said, "Can't you use the one in the kitchen?" She said, "Then I have to stay in the kitchen." I said, "I'm waiting for a call." She said, "From Dr. R?" I said, "From a few people." She let me keep the phone.
In the kitchen when I took my meds, she came in. I was measuring out the anti-tongue-plague med. She tried to talk to me, and I tried - a very little, again - to talk to her. I told her in the same terse, certain voice I'd used on Sara's mom, that she didn't know what she had done, that she made an uninformed and extremely bad decision, and that now Sara wasn't even at Castlewood. "Where is she?" of course... I was starting to break down. I could feel it. "She's on her way to the airport," I said, trying to hide my fear, my hurt of having let her down, my fear that she'd do something so seemingly "impulsive" and "irrational" - something that made it look like I'd been wrong, even though, healthy people leave toxic situations... "She wasn't going to stay there," I said. Mom started to talk to me again; I told her I was done, and took the med, which I have to leave in my mouth for a few minutes - a good way out of a conversation. Mom continued to ask questions; I shook my head. "I'm done." I went to bed. Later, she came in. She looked around in amazement when she saw the clean floor. Yes, I'd done the unthinkable and "cleaned" my room for her. Yes, I'd done everything, everything, everything possible to prepare for my sister who'd had such a hard time, so she would be comfortable, for my sister whom I hadn't seen or held in over two years...
Mom said she knew I was angry with her, and that was ok. She said she loved me, and she was sorry, and she hated this illness. (And yes, I hate it, too, but the illness didn't say, "no, I won't give you a ride." That was my mom. The illness didn't degrade and dehumanize my sister. That was her mom. So, don't say "I hate the illness" as if you played no hand.) I stayed cold, and she got to the door, but I couldn't help crying. And crying out. "She's could be here! She's alone at the airport when she could be right here! At least then, I'd know if she was breathing." Mom turned around and came back to the bed. She tried to hold me; she said again how much she hated this. I cried and she held onto me, and I knew I couldn't bear to hate her. I need her too much, and I hate the clogging, toxic feeling of hate inside of me. But eventually, I sent her away. I was scared; irrationally, I was convinced that Sara would die in the night...while no one was with her, while I wasn't there. I wanted to light a candle, but didn't have a lighter or a safe place to let one burn. So I took two pictures of her and put them up against some of my most precious posessions. I set her up with two angels, the ring that says "live", the picture of the fountain at Rogers, the first Tracy pup, and a little church my grandma gave me several Easters back. I felt better, having put her in the safest place I know. And eventually exhaustion beat out concern (how, how, how, did I sleep at all last night? how could I do that?) and I slept. I woke up at twenty to four, and thought about her plane, just after six. I subtracted a little time to reach an estimated boarding time, and decided I would call her at quarter to six to wish her a safe flight. In the meantime, I sat up and read, watched the clock change. I saw five-o'clock come, was impressed to see all three numbers change. I went to the phone at quarter til and called her. I said, "I wanted to wish you a safe flight," and she said, "Thanks..." like she couldn't believe someone still cared. I wanted to cry again, but I was grateful, grateful that it had been right to call. In bed, I worried that it was wrong, that I was crazy and doing all the wrong things, that I wasn't helping her at all, I was hurting her, and she would die, I would lose her, and both would be my fault.
I asked if everything was ok. There had been ice earlier in the morning; I wanted to make sure her plan was leaving, which it was. She told me she'd spent the night "sleeping" on the bathroom floor at the airport. I didn't have enough apologies for that. Why hadn't I told her to come here, when she called from the cab? Surely, my mom would not have refused to let her in, when she'd already discharged, when it was just a matter of where she spent the night. Why hadn't I gone to see her off...of course, I wouldn't have been allowed to the gate. And I'd assumed last night that she was sleeping past security, past where I could get without a ticket, but when I thought about it more, I wondered. Wondered enough to be sorry and guilty and sad.
She was about to board a plane out of my city, and we hadn't even seen each other. She'd gone through hell, my attempt to help her hadn't worked at all, and we didn't even have one hug, one look eyes-to-eyes. She said there'd been trouble with her bags; they wouldn't take them, they wouldn't keep them, there were too many. She'd called her mom, and her mom had refused to help her out in any way. I struggled not to cry. Fuck the stupid power struggle, ok? She's alone in an unfamiliar city at an airport, desperately trying to get away from a place she thinks is dangerous...can't you just suspend your "position" on the matter long enough to support your daughter, to show her that you do care? I wanted to ask if she knew that I hadn't done that, hadn't chosen not to help, that I'd been trapped into it...but I didn't know if that was true. It felt true. I wanted to do everything I could for her, didn't I? Hadn't I tried? Had I tried with everything, really?...Had I loved her as well as she deserved?
She said, "If my plane crashes...you can have my cat." No, no, no Sara. ...I didn't even know you had a cat.
"No. No, no. It's not going to crash."
She broke down a little. "I think that might be best right now." She tried laughing. "I think that might solve things."
"No," I said. "No. Your plane cannot crash because we still didn't get to see each other, and we still didn't get to hug, so you have to get there safely, so I can come see you, and we can do those things."
Ok, too quietly. It's going to be ok, when I have no idea if it is. I love you, but I don't know if I've lived up to that. And she's apologizing for dragging me into this mess. No, no. I walked into this mess willingly. No. I want to be here; I want to be *there*...I want to support you. Remember what I told you last night, right after I said, "Ok, see you soon. I'm going to see you soon!" Right before I made that phone call which ruined everything? You said thank you, not just for this, but for how I'd been the whole time, how I'd listened and trusted you, and how I've been your friend. And I said, "It's no problem. It's one of my favorite things to be - your friend. And sister." I was telling the truth. And you, my sister, said, "Listen, don't let this mess you up... You have a lot to do; take care of yourself. Ok?"
"I... I'll take care of myself. I promise." Does that mean something? That last word? Do you still know how high I raise the stakes with those two syllables?
I love you. I love you. Take care, take care. We're going to get through this. We're going to live. I have to go; they're boarding. Have a safe flight, get some sleep, call me later. Hang on. Please don't give up hope.
Back to sleep which isn't restful. Back to bed, with too many thoughts to feel safe there. Thinking about Chris (Kris?) at the doctor's exchange last night, the second time I called it. The time she wasn't coming. The time I was crying and didn't know my mom had just called. Chris, who couldn't have been much older than me, and talked like a person, a sweet, simple person, who just wanted me to feel better. Who felt bad because he'd been trying to get the doctor all night but hadn't succeeded. Who didn't take the out when I said, "It's ok; sometimes he's hard to catch." Chris, who said, "Are you ok?" which was enough to make my face pucker, and my eyes tear up again. "Yeah," I said. "I'm ok."
"You sound sad."
"I am," I said, nodding even though he couldn't see me, crying even though I'd practically made a moat with tears.
"What's going on?" he asked, like a high school boy, like a sweet, simple, caring, high school boy.
And with no clue why I was telling him, a stranger, when I couldn't talk about it at all, couldn't even think about it in my own head: "I have a friend who's in a hospital nearby, and she's having a really bad experience. I was supposed to pick her up tonight, but now they're not letting us, and I have to leave my friend in this place where they're hurting her." (Which she'll get out of, which still exchange for the airport, for trying to sleep on the bathroom floor.)
"I understand," he said, when of course he didn't. But it didn't bother me one bit, that he said he understood. It didn't bother me when he said that he was sorry, and that he'd pray for me. I was grateful. I was grateful when he said that God loved me, and he would pray, and I could pray, too, and sometimes we just need to cry out for our friends." It was in no form the speech someone who knows me would write for that moment. God and prayers and ... it was everything. "God loves you," he says. "I love you!" and I smiled because it was the kindest thing I'd heard all day - because for the first time I was talking to someone who wasn't in pain of their own, who could care about mine and took the time to do so. "I don't even know you and I love you!" and it didn't seem fake; I understood. He didn't love me the way I love Sara, if you got down to details, but he was living out of love, and I know how that is, and he was loving me, he was sending me love, and that was prayers and God...and all any of it meant was, "I care; I want to be here for you. I'm sorry that you're sad." I thanked him, and he took Sara's name to pray for her as well. I asked him his name and he told me Chris. I've been wondering if there's a way to thank these people or to call their supervisors or bosses or whatever they have and give them some sort of commendation. No one at that place has ever taken the time to talk to me, no matter how sad I sounded...
So, she's not here anymore. I didn't get to be scared about going out with her; I didn't get to go out with her at all. Or stay in. Or see her. I didn't get to help her the one time in three years, when I really could help her. She went back to Wisconsin alone. And who can support her there? She'll go back into treatment right away, of course; she has to, or she won't be safe. And if she doesn't go so far away, maybe my dad or my brother will be up for a drive, and I can go visit her, to see her, to do what we keep saying must be done, to change the fact that we haven't seen each other since she discharged. To give myself some time with her, so that, no matter what happens... Right. We have that time.
I believe she's going to make it. I believe she's going to make it before she dies. I have to. And when I think about it, I don't think I'll ever be sorry I trusted her. I think, if something happens, sometime, I'll feel better knowing that I never doubted her word, even if maybe if I'd acted differently, things would have gone another way. I don't really think one decision, one talk, one person can make that difference anymore. It's out of my hands. I'm out of my head. She's in my heart, which beats no matter how little energy I have. That's the safest place I can keep her, and she's there.
Let it get better. Let her be safe. Let me love her for a long, long time, yet. Let me focus on myself and still have her. Let us heal.
~me