this is really scary. this is really hard.
it's not that the trip wasn't wonderful. "wonderfully imperfect," as I told Sara late Saturday night, when she jokingly asked if we'd managed perfection. it was the most amazing thing. it is the most amazing thing. this morning, I sent Stacy an e-mail, and I was talking about how wonderful it was to be with her, to sit with her, see her, talk to her, and as I was writing - feeling like a week, at least, had passed - I realized it was less than forty-eight hours. Less than forty-eight hours since I'd seen her coming up the hill she takes for granted, (so she said when I confessed to having taken a picture of it - the hill we had to climb to make it to the ropes course, the hill we scaled in Big Red at the beginning of every outing or belongings run) dressed in sky-powder-blue, smiling, lit by the impossible sun. (70 degrees in Wisconsin, in April? 85 degrees?) I ran to her. I tried to stay still, sitting on the asphalt with Sara, snacking, tried to stay still when she walked into visibility. I tried to turn only my head and smile and wait. And then she said, or Sara said, or some voice from the forest said, "Look who it is!" and another voice echoed it, and I was up and jogging toward her; I was hugging her as if I hadn't only hugged her once before. I felt empowered to the point of looking fearless. When you haven't hugged the girl in two years, you don't waste time worrying, obsessing over what is or isn't right. You hug the girl. And it's fabulous.
it's fabulously, wonderfully, movingly right. to be there. to be there with them.
we drove onto the property at 8:29, pulled into a parking space at exactly 8:30. a dry run the night before helped, although we managed to get seriously confused in the country and the night. that's how I first saw my baby, my home... in the dark, as if I were coming back from a pass. as if the trip to D!@#%^ that lasted for week after week after month after year had finally ended and now we were pulling into the drive, and there was the sign ...Rogers Hospital... and I was covering my mouth, whispering, "oh my freaking God" - am on the verge of tears just typing it. I can't explain. On the highway, we saw the sign that said, "Oconomowoc 4. Delafield 9. Milwaukee who cares." I started grinning. Grinning! The green side marking the miles. Four miles from Oconomowoc. Beautiful, minuscule, unheard of Oconomowoc. So easily accustomed to, with all its o's - enough to make it a joke on the language. If it weren't missing the long a's. Its siblings Delafield and Brookfield, so closely tied. And the sign says four miles, and I grinned. The time before, the first time, it was a blue sign that read, "Hospital next right," that caught my eye. I remember thinking, "Please let that be true. Please let this be the right thing." I expected to burst into tears, and I didn't. My dad asked me how I felt, and I felt wonderful. I felt marvelous. We drove into Delafield, and everything looked so much the same. The red lights of strip mall signs, the restaurants, the hotels. We ate dinner at the Waterstreet Brewery; I had the same meal I had two and a half years ago when my parents took me there on pass. (There aren't a lot of vegetarian options in the state. Yes, they're we're very big on cheese, but we've a tendency to get confused and combine it with the actual cow. Not cool.) And it wasn't so horrible as I remember. Not so loud, not so overwhelming, not so terrifying. We were across the room from where we'd sat then, and I realized - I still remembered exactly where we'd sat, and who'd had which chair, in this restaurant on that pass. I ordered my food, and through the window, at the very end of the strip, so that my dad had to turn his head almost entirely around to see - the red letters spelled Waukesha. Waukesha. I kept looking up, to see it again, to take it again, to reach it and grab on and be there. Waukesha means I am where I'm supposed to be. Waukesha means Wisconsin, and better than Wisconsin - Delafield, Brookfield, and Oconomowoc. Waukesha means home and I are in the same place again; I don't know how I didn't cry. I'm crying now. The doctor says this trip is the emotional equivalent of an extremely loud concert, my feelings now are like the buzzing of the ears. My dad proposed on the way ...away... that it had been a rollercoaster, to which I replied, "More like one of those spinning teacups." I've never been to Disneyworld. Silly tourists. Why go to Disneyworld when you can go to Rogers, to Wisconsin? Why take a trip away, when you can take one home?
I bought a magnet and a keychain and a bell and a souveneir spoon. All on the way away. We stopped at the Pine Cone, a restaurant/ shop/ gas station, that my dad was a little obsessed with back in The Day. And which he pronounces as if it were one word. Nothing was even screaming out at me; nothing was even how I wanted it, really, but it didn't matter. I still bought enough souveneirs that the cashier (who prompted my dad to say, "People in Wisconsin are really nice. I know they say that about people in the Mortal City, but I think it's even more true here) thought I was probably buying them as gifts. She was confused, I think, by how close we live (considering I was moved to buy souveneirs)... but she was really amiable; she told us about her happy obsession with turtle-things. A little red turtle figure, a turtle pen she'd already bought from the store; I noticed her necklace was a little brown turtle charm. I said they were a good creature to be into, and now I realize, I could have explained the souveneirs (which didn't need an explanation) with, "I totally get it. You have turtles, your brother has deer, your sister-in-law has dolphins... I have Wisconsin." Watching television just now, trying to maintain a cover of numbness, I saw a few actors pegged as the "cheese experts." Green Bay colors, affected speech. I let it finish before I curled around to face my mom. "Fakers," I said. Like a girl who knows the real voice. Like a girl who doesn't spend her time trying to adopt more of that speech herself. ("So, can you hear all of our Wisconsin accents?" Stacy asked. I said yes, and that I loved them. I talked about the o's, and she talked about the a's, and then she said, "You just have to get really nasally." I added this to my mental workbook for future lessons.)
It's not faking if you were meant to come from there. It's not lying if you're just trying to make things how they're supposed to be. ...Those four items were all I bought during the trip - the only money I would have spent - (after all my worrying, oh, and not counting the camera and film processing) which I didn't even spend because my dad wanted me to "think of him when I thought of Wisconsin." I wasn't sure I didn't want to think of myself, so I really did push to pay, but not so hard as one would call insistence. He bought them for me, and the only dime I spent was for the two toll fees on the way back. I need to heal my relationship with money. It sucks. I hate it. I told my mom that, and she said she was sorry to be torturing me with a weekly allowance (a little extra sting as finances are so tight right now.) I told her I hate not having it, too, and she told me she understood. Money is something neither of my parents handle well, either, although my mom is good at making budgets and making things work. This is a tangent that could take up about twelve entries (in keeping with anything I mention about the trip) - but my parents' discord often flared up in arguments about money. And although we were never poor, we were at times barely getting by. And we were barely getting by in a middle-class white world where that felt like poverty.
(there's more to it. same issues I have with everything. don't deserve any, can't possibly have enough. scarcity, deprivation, not starving is gluttony, and so forth. I've talked about it before, and will again. I suppose tangents feel a bit like blankets right now. a bit of padding to ease the "process" of the pain. the pain of processing.)
we drove in the night before to make sure we knew the way; it made me really nervous for awhile... I haven't liked driving on country roads lit only by headlights since that infamous night I ran off one of them with a guy who scared me out of my wits. (and of course, most guys did, but normally, I wasn't alone with them.) we drove down Sawyer Rd and turned on Valley. there it was, right there, just after the turn. my dad drove up the wrong way; he always does, seeing as it's only the wrong way if the way the Rogers-people do it automatically equals the right way. Up to the main hospital, the spooky red brick building that so terrified me when we First arrived - the one that looked so different from the picture, that *couldn't* be where I was really going. (And wasn't. It's the main psychiatric unit, the one with 24-hour nursing care, the hospital-hospital, and it's supposedly really good, too. For a psych hospital. It's not home.) We drove around then and curved down; I didn't trust myself to say, "Turn here!" and we ended up dead-ending on a lane we've been tricked by before. My dad did an amazing job of backing out. I did an amazing job of realizing that in reality, my tension did not contribute to helping the car out of its spot but only to my tension, taking a breath, and feeling entirely relieved. On the way back up, I pointed out the turn I hadn't been sure of, and we rode around the side of the building to the front parking lot. I stared at it. The lights keeping it safe and soft in the dark, the red of the wood. The sign, "Eating Disorder Center" that certainly couldn't have been there when I was there, when it was still RED, but which didn't take it away entirely. Dad asked if I wanted to go in, and I told him no, that it was getting late, that I didn't want to surprise Sara into anxiety, and that I'd prefer to go back to the hotel. I stared at the trees and buildings as we moved away. Dad kept saying, "Are you ok?" and I kept saying yes, and he kept saying I didn't have to be. I felt ok. I felt unreal and more real than I'd been in ages. I felt like we'd driven through a time portal along with Illinois - that somehow it was two years ago again, the way I've always wanted it to be. And I wasn't even frightened because I could feel the difference in myself. I was a strong enough contrast to feel centered even in a past world. I was different enough not to be scared by the memories, that poured in, that reminded me of what had been. With my whole heart, all I wanted was just to sit down on that property a minute, with people close enough to call, and feel it. Cry it. Remember it. Live it. See, I did go home again. I did go home again. And there's something that happens to a faithful spirit, when a belief carried through so much pain and doubt, turns true. There's something that happens when you've believed so hard, believed against the wind, and somehow it's confirmed. It's a wave of relief, of gratitude, of grief. Finally letting out all those tears for all the nights you didn't know, (even if you cried on those nights, too.) Letting it out. You mean, it's really real? You mean, I didn't just believe it because it felt so much better that way?
Or as I scribbled in the little square green alligator (or possibly crocodile; I can't tell the difference) journal, which I brought along thinking it was empty, but actually has (of all things) - the food logs from my pass to D!@#$%^, the weekend before I discharged - and was therefore exactly the blank I needed to fill in...
The exit to downtown Delafield is 285. [That's my birthday- February '85.] It's between the exit for Rogers (283) and that for the hotel (287.) And no one has ever felt happier at the rundown of signs: Wisconsin, Madison, Milwaukee, Oconomowoc - 4. Delafield - 9. (I think I squealed.) Rogers hospital. Yes, I was there. My hand went to my mouth. Oh, my god. This is the turn, in the dark, like we're coming back from an outing. This is Main, where we first pulled up that first-first day, so much colder than the gentle "EDC." ...This is the road you aren't supposed to take that we always do. And my god, my god - that's Rogers, so big, so perfect, so comfortable. [heart] I didn't want to go in. I didn't want to take that on top of everything, exhausted tonight, and I didn't to surprise Sara into anxiety. Plus, just to have some time - me and Sawyer Road. Me and Valley. The sign, Main, the wrong road, RED... In the light of lamps... I could cry. I'm sure I will. The anxiety is mostly anticipation. It was awful last night, worse this morning, temporary on the drive up and almost gone tonight. When I saw the red lifghts of Delafield stores, all I could feel was happy. The rest of the emotional spectrum hasn't disappeared, of course... Seeing Rogers felt like seeing heaven, like a miracle come true. It is rather similar, of course. It is similar to recovery and spirituality - the way you hang on and keep going even when you don't believe, keep going as if you do. I don't remember the last time I felt that good, although I know it's happened before. it's just... you can believe something because it's essential; you can have faith out of necesity, and I'm so used to *believing* I still had it, they still love(d) me, I could still go back... that the idea of doing so became fantastic. To have it real again. In Wisconsin. Eating at that goddamn Waterstreet Brewery - which actually isn't so bad. Seeing Rogers, seeing RED, being home. When we pulled back onto Sawyer, I was already craving. "It was not going to be long enough." And then (rather quickly) - "it would never be long enough."
I decided: maybe that's what I'll start believing now. Not only can I have this, but it can last. It can be enough. And I will be back, of course. I promised Dwight, and you don't lie to Dwight. I don't lie.
So much the same, but it isn't so unbearably triggering. Remarkably, to me only I'd bet - I've changed enough to seal the time that's passed.
I'll move with the doctor. Let's live here now! [heart]
*
I'm serious about believing it will last. If I held onto this and it came true, came like a wish, true like a breath - why not believe it will last? I'll be a hell of a lot happier, and it might come true as well... I decided on another new belief-to-develop later in the trip, along the lines of, "things are not getting worse." But that's not the next part.
The next part is Dwight, which actually happened before. The conversation we had. When he called me. On the telephone. To say he was proud of me. To say he so wished he could see me. To say all the things he said that made me wonder how going back could possibly surpass the welcome in response to my plans. I have an attempted transcript of his words to me... Let's see...
Found it. His words. My words in parentheses. My thoughts italicised. My thoughts now in brackets. All roughly, of course. But just see:
you probably don't know who this is. (actually, I do. my mom told me. and I recognize your voice.)
you did some good work while you were here. some powerful work.
you did some good work, and you just keep doing that, and you'll have rough times, you know, you'll blow a knee or something here and there, but you just get up again and keep going. [he's had a few surgeries over the past few years; most recently on his knee. I was worried, but he shook it off, said he's still standing, still walking. talked like the trials are gifts.]
I thought about you the other day and the sage. That was so wonderful. it goes both ways you know; it was so wonderful for me to have someone as receptive to that as you were. it's cleansing, you know, it's cleansing. and I think it's helped a few people since. so thank you for that.
[thank you? thank you? thank *me?*]
[after I said I was scared to come up, excited but scared] it means you're taking a risk, and you know, it's scary to take those risks, but you just keep taking them.
and you're going to come back and give a talk, right? (that's what they keep telling me.) it's a risky thing. my sponsor told me I had to give a talk at a meeting; he failed to mention it would be to two-hundred people. (oh my gosh!) yeah. but it went really well. I took a risk, and it did a lot.
I wanted to call you because I'm so proud of you, and you need to know that. you did some hard work while you were here, and I'm really sorry I'm not going to be around Saturday - I promised my mom I'd do some work on her roof - but you did some amazing things while you were here, and you need to know that.
(I'll just have to come back.) yeah!
so do you have any plans around school or anything? (um...not really. I graduated last June, and I just - wasn't ready to go then-) GOOD FOR YOU! I graduated early to run off to college, and I spent ten years there. (and he's laughing... Ten years is a long time, Dwight.) well, I was a mess. I think the Higher Power had a few things to teach me. but you just keep doing what's right for you. if you need some time, you take it.
[I love you, Dwight.]
(I'll be back. don't worry. I'm no good at moving on.) well, you just do what you need to do. [And I remember thinking, as I typed this - I need to say it differently when I'm there. I need to say I'm good at staying close; neurolinguistic reprogramming or as I like to call it: talking myself up so as not to feel like shit...]
what elements did you get up on? (oh, wow. um, the swinging long. and the zip line.) the zip line! (yeah. that's the first thing I did.) wow. (and the last, except for the climb...the one inside, where the four people hold it up as you climb.) the inside swinging log! (yeah.)
[no. I remember the inside swinging log now, and that was different. what I did he called a pamper climb. and I was the first person in the edc to do it.] <--I wrote that bracket just after he called.
and next time you come, make sure and let me know in advance, so I'll be there. (I will definitely do that. I will definitely be around and I'll keep in touch.) so, ok.
stand still and listen. your heart will tell you what you need to know.
and keep being dangerous!
(I will.)
I don't want to keep you too long (Dwight, you can talk forever; do you know how good it is to hear from you?) but I wanted to call you. and I am just so proud of you.
(thank you so much. wow. thank you so much. take care, and I'll be in touch.)
he said I had his number now. I do. his extension. I can leave him messages; I can write him letters. I started thinking after that talk that if Dave shot me down again, if we didn't manage to resolve things, and/ or he didn't give me his address, I might take to writing Dwight instead. it seems odd because relationships can never be replaced, and if I were trying to replace Dave, Dwight would be a hilarious and entirely inaccurate choice... but needs can be fulfilled and roles can be fulfilled by different people than they once were. and I guess I felt like Dwight could meet the need and fill the space.
preview of one speck of the Everything I have yet to tell you: I'm going to be writing Dwight, but I have no need for a fill-in. Dave did give me his address. we have a verbal no-stalking agreement, and I have a purple program with new streets and numbers quickly thrown down. ("Do you have a pen?" "Of course. It's me. I have, like, three pens. I have paper, too; do you need paper?")
putting down the in-this-case metaphoric pen and paper now. if I try and tell it all in any sort of order, over any sort of schedule, I'll simply end up not telling it. maybe someday, I'll have a beautiful commemoration of the visit, as the doctor suggested today. but right now it's all scattered thoughts, memories, musings, possibilities. it's riding the ripples of emotion, telling myself I only have to observe, not interfere. (another of the doctor's metaphors.) feel it, note it, and don't let Aunt Sue judge a single bit. if she starts, send her back to Neverland.
he touched my shoulder when said hello, and called me Miss Mary. I love when he does that. I had visions of running in and hugging him, with the same uninhibited affection I'd displayed at Rogers. I managed to look at him once - which isn't the same, but it's something. I looked at him through my glasses, and what do you know, he's real. and last night, on the phone, when I called him feeling awful, sick from the spinning teacup, sick on all the tears, he said, "And you just have to know, I'm so proud of you." Like Dwight said before. Like so many people said during. And when I heard him say it, I felt myself grab onto a breath like a handhold. Someone here speaks their language. Someone here knows how they love. Someone here can speak like they speak, even without the dialect.
("C'mere once." Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!)
to be explained, or not-
~me