thought #1: when did spam start looking like bad magnetic poetry? thought #1.1: why am I opening spam messages? viruses, Mary, viruses! thought #2: [forgotten.] thought #3: oh, I remember! thought #4: is the recovered thought #2 now thought #5?
nonsequential thought: this is getting seriously annoying. it is not my intention to annoy anyone. it is especially not my intention to annoy myself. at the moment, I am restless, anxious, scatterbrained. so I will jump from thought to thought, most likely. but I'll stop numbering them ridiculously. I'm really not so fond of suffering as its rampant presence in my life might suggest.
so I am a blankbookaholic. it used to be a fairly minor addiction. I know everyone says this, but I really thought, "I can quit anytime." I mean I was constantly quitting without even trying. the main factor (I realize in hindsight) making sure my addiction was contained was that the blank books remained relatively blank books. and then I got an "idea." I went all animated-lightbulb, "eureka!" speech balloon. I started thinking about how blank nothingness "should" not be considered cleaner, prettier, or more enticing than sloppy, empassioned handwriting. I bent the theory into a project: Operation Fill-in-the-Blank. I started scribbling in all sorts of books that had been reserved for Brilliant Ideas I'd someday have or Incredible Literature which would somehow bypass rough drafts. These masterpieces were to be written with the world's most beautiful ink, from the world's most amazing pen, and nothing crossed out or covered in liquid paper. No mistakes, obviously, as I was dealing with masterpieces. Just this past Christmas, I got the most gorgeous blank book: large, square, handmade textury cover with pressed flowers, wood binding, and rice paper. I immediately planned to never write a word in it. And then, I had this Idea, and I took a pen and started scribbling. What is that? So, I'm scribbling along in this book - making mistakes and scratching things out like some impudent imperfectionist - when what do you know, I turn 19, and receive another blank book, this time standard size and themed with dragonflies. I proceed to start writing in this book. The entries don't even follow a sequence. Oh, sure, they start out being about the books I'm reading, but then, bam! they end up being about entirely different things. The most recent entry is two lines, ending with, "And this is how quickly I switched to typing." Am I even aware of the damage I'm doing anymore? To be honest, no. To be honest, I'm enjoying the hell out of it. Today I took a pink gel pen (pink, damnit!) and wrote big sloppy letters in a Hogwarts journal while crying some big sloppy tears. The big sloppy letters were a definite accomplishment for me; I started out in all caps, and let it fade into my traditional cursive-print-combo, but with the unhampered size few people live to see. I like writing - the actual act of moving a pen over paper to form letters, and so usually, I'm very controlled about it, and my handwriting is (no longer quite so) invisible to the naked eye. Sloppy letters show emotional release. Or complete madness - I'm not sure which. But anyway, they were an accomplishment, and they pushed out the tears that were making me sick inside. (Perhaps literally; I no longer have a fever, although I continue to sound delirious.) I'd gone looking for two addresses, one of which I (correctly) thought I'd find in a box designated for cards/ letters I received only while at Rogers. Somehow, I managed not to realize beforehand that digging through this box right now would put me near tears. I've rifled through it many a time without even having the desire to read anything. But today, despite finding the necessary address (and bonus! a note from my mom written on hotel stationery, thus accomplishing my task of finding a hotel for my dad to phone) I was shaken and stirred. I was a teensy bit emotional, the way a tsunami is a teensy bit wet. And I'm trying to joke, but really, it was gnawing at me. My mom discovered me crying and held me for awhile; she asked if I wanted to talk, but I didn't expect to - I never do.
And then I actually talked to her...which is far more of a breakthrough (even) than writing letters of a normal size. I talked to my mom about Rogers. I don't think I've ever done that, in a trusting, comfort-me-please, way. And no, I didn't say, "I've wanted to go back so many times" or "I love them" but I did say, "I can't believe I'm going back" and (this is the point where the studio audience would coo "awww") my voice breaking on every half-syllable, "I just want to know they still love me, and I can't." I'm ready to cry typing it. The "still" is a difficult word; I wonder if they ever did. I don't really wonder; I suppose Aunt Sue does. And I know the truth. I know I was given love there; I know that miracles are not performed by professional acts. I know that, despite the rarity of being told "I love you" and ever being hugged (two things that were ironically present in my family-of-origin, where I didn't get the support I needed) I was supported and loved. I know that, but it still hurts to never have heard it. For such stupid reasons. It's not even that we were a cautious, stoic bunch; it's fucking protocol. It's professional boundaries. And Dave's wrong to think I'm trying to contact him as a therapist, but he's right to guess I don't care much about professional boundaries/ rules/ guidelines. Not with people I'm no longer working with. Not in instances where they're ridiculously illogical. (I like the presence of boundaries while someone is on my treatment team, so there. And what's more I respected these stupid boundaries even though I think them stupid. And what's even more than that, Dave doesn't follow rules either.)
Anyway, lots of tears. I can't prepare myself for this. I can't know who's going to be there. I can't know at what point I'll be a total wreck. I can't figure out how to prepare my dad for the fact that I'm going to have several (if not one ongoing) breakdowns. (not in a bad sense, but seriously...looking at the things I have from Rogers, knowing that I'm going back, makes me weak inside and has me crying. do we really expect I'll go through seeing Rogers, going into the building, seeing Sara for the first time in so long, being at a candlelight vigil for ed awareness having just lost my first roommate, a few years after losing my second, without being a mess? I plan to bring lots of blank books so I can write sloppy messages in them if needed. (As if I'll spend any time away from Sara that I don't use attempting to sleep or getting food.) I am scared, though. I know that, no matter how much I tell myself, it's not the same, and I can't stay, part of me thinks this is really my wish-come-true after two and a half years of begging. I know that I won't be allowed on the unit where I lived for three months- won't be allowed to see the dayroom, my bedroom, the room at the end of the hall, the staff office...but part of me keeps imagining they'll suspend that rule just this one time, and I'll get to pace those floors again. I know that I know very few staff members at this point, and not all that I know will be working, but I still expect everyone to be there. I still expect magic, and it's not that it can't be magic without going to that extreme, but I'm scared of having my hopes so high. I can't help it, though. I keep trying to pull them down, and I can't do it. I keep trying to tell myself this is a wonderful thing, but it is not That wonderful thing; it is not going home as it was and to stay. But I know part of me isn't listening. The same part that won't hear, "I might not get to talk to Dave, even though he'll be there. And if I do get to talk to him, he might stand by the decision he made earlier." I can't make myself hear it. I asked the other day to be able to visualize a future, to imagine a life again, and voila!, I can't do anything else. But it's a homecoming. It's not the life I'm going to have, and I know that. It's still comforting to imagine. Now. But when I'm there? And when I'm returning? I keep thinking of these dreams I had the weeks after I was discharged. I dreamed I'd sneaked back into Rogers and was hiding out on a different floor or in a back room. Sometimes I was trying to find a certain person because I knew they would understand and let me back. Sometimes I was trying to just not get caught. In one dream, I actually went to Dave and said that as much as I loved this place, I needed to leave now. I knew when it happened that it was a good sign. But I cry typing it. It was a dream after all, a night dream I didn't map out, and my daydreams have a different theory. I keep thinking of those dreams like they're possible, like I really will sneak in under the eye of the system, be the exception everyone overlooks. Isn't there always a broken rule no one talks about? Isn't there always one small thing that slips through the system and is allowed to stay there? I want to be it. I want to be the one small thing that slips through the protocol and is allowed to stay there forever and ever. I want to be the exception, who is hugged and greeted with verbal affection. I want them to show me that I'm not a freak. I know I need to know that on my own, believe it no matter what they think...but I want this to be an exception to knowing it on my own. I want, on top of my knowing it, to have them stop me and say, it's ok. I remember Sarah coming up to me the day before I was leaving. I was standing one foot in the hallway by the staff office, one foot on the wood floor by the snack cabinets, and I was crying. She came up and asked me what the matter was, and hugged me, and I told her I didn't want to leave, and she said, "That's ok." She said it was ok, and she told me I'd still be here. It was really true; I didn't know that then. But I need to be told it again now. I need someone to say, "No matter what anyone else says, this is the truth. We love you. We don't judge you or hate you at all. We love that you hold onto us. Oh, Mary. Of course you're our girl. I'll tell you over and over if you need me to, but it's never even in question. Of course we love you. Of course we want to hold onto you. How else could it be?"
I keep imagining that, begging it to come true somehow, for someone to reassure me that this is ok, I am ok, and that I'm not hanging onto nothing, that I'm not gripping a hand that's let go. Today, I hear Ruth from YPI saying to my mom, "How could you not love this girl?" and I redirect it to them. I imagine they can hear her and agree that it's impossible. I hear them saying, "And you only knew her a week. You should feel who she is to us."
Please, please, please, please, please; I will do whatever is asked of me if this can come true. I can do whatever is asked of me. I know that now. I have that strength, and if they give me this to hold onto, oh!...I will be able to continue, doubtlessly. I'll continue either way; we know that. But please. To have and to hold and to shove in the face of my doubts. That knowledge. That obvious, obvious love.
Remind me to a degree I can't forget. Love, please.
~me