Monster on a Half-Shell

(from an email to an Ex)

.....whew, okay. let me see if I can tackle this one....

My intent in contacting you was simple: I knew we would eventually cross paths and I didn't want to dredge up the past. I am in a space where I want my life to move forward. I have learned a lot about myself, and about the dark rooms I wandered in for so many years. I cannot begin to tell you how many lights have been switched on. I didn't like what I saw. As long as it was shrouded in darkness, I could deny its power over me, and the fear and repulsion it engendered in others. I have come to understand in the last few years that I have been ill-equipped to deal with a lot of things. I have my demons, like anyone else. But in knowing about those demons, I cannot pretend they do not exist, simply because I don't want them to.

I am loathe to wallow in past mistakes, and loathe to reopen those wounds, but for the sake of clarity, I will say that I know I was a difficult person to be around. I was pathetic and depressed and unbalanced. I was eaten alive by fear and pain and confusion and insecurity. The dynamic of you and I together was created by both of us. I simply will not shoulder all the responsibility or the sequence of events, but I will take on the portions that belong to me. I should never have started a relationship with you, simply because I was still so broken hearted and lonely and wounded from my breakup with T. I was an injured child. It was unfair to you to lead you down that path with me. But as I said, I was not equipped to see that at the time. I only knew that there was someone who thought I was somehow special, and she came along when I felt like a useless monster on a half-shell. By the time the fog lifted, I was ensconced in a relationship and then allowed myself to feel obligated to continue, for fear that you would be another person on the list who thought badly of me. The result, as you know, was that those fears were ironically realized by that decision.

You represent 3 years of a profound learning experience, so yes--you are important to me. And yes, I have thought of you; initially with bitterness and pain and frustration, then with more understanding and compassion. Any residual betrayal or anger I felt toward you has long since vanished. That's part of the growth process--for those who are open to it. But that did not mean I excused myself from the equation. After forgiving you, I had to then forgive myself. I'm not entirely certain I have done that completely. But we are all human, and we have human shortcomings and it would be inaccurate to say that we were not both responsible for what happened. Our last days together were profoundly upsetting. I received information secondhand about things you said I did or said, that I know I did not. I had no idea where you were in your head--we had gone too horribly far to communicate in a healthy way. You knew where all my own triggers were, and you used them against me. I realize now that it was partly a defense mechanism on your part. You used the only weapons you had, because you felt cornered. I have been guilty of the same on many occasions. The chasm between us was built by many differences in our experience, our psyches and our individual demons.

But no matter what you may think of me now, I recognize that you are a person of value and quality, and you have a good heart and a potential for greatness. And I don't want to use my new strength to carry more burdens. I was constantly frustrated by the continual siege upon my psyche, brought by my battle with the VA, with a family who abandoned me, and an overwhelming feeling that I was blindly feeling my way through my life. I had great expectations for starting fresh, but all I managed to do was take the chaos with me. For as you know...the most formidable chaos is the one we carry within. And I could not run far enough to release myself from its grip. I was lucky enough to meet someone who was equipped to show me those things with a firm and loving hand, and am eternally grateful to her. We remain the closest and dearest of friends and I love no one more deeply than I love her. But I know that until I reach a space where I am at peace with my life, I cannot inflict myself on a partner on a daily basis. I would be bringing half a person to the relationship.

I have many things to build right now. Many roads to travel, and many ghosts to face. I am finally prepared to do that, and that's one reason I knew that I had to come back here. I had to make this place a place of possibility, rather than of doom; a refuge rather than a battlefield. I had to face these things head on, and be able to hold my head up and know that with all the mistakes I've made, others made mistakes as well, and I remain a person with something to offer. I just have to offer it in a way that does not suck the life out of those around me.

I am more content than I have ever been, and I do feel very much like this is the first chapter of a new book--the series that is my life. I can put an entirely different story on these pages. I can do nothing to change what was already committed to print in previous "books." It's a journey, and I am on it, now, without the old constraints. I can only hope the path will be more smooth than the last time.

I want to start LIVING my life for once. I want to be social, have fun, experience the pleasure of creation in art and writing and music, and I want to avoid those dark rooms that serve only to keep me bound within my own sickness.

I hope that answers at least some of your questions.

Peace.

Monster on a Half-Shell

Space Invader

It started out with me on my way to the grocery store, having awakened with no coffee in the house-a tragedy all on its own. I thought of that little coffeeshop down the street and thought maybe I'd stop in to check it out, so I brought what i lovingly refer to as my Tippi Tap Typer just in case.

Roscoe's Music and Espresso Café was a tiny establishment, but intriguing. It was time I tried to get out of the house a little and use my new toy in a different environment. I ordered a White Chocolate cappuccino and chatted with the owner for a few minutes, and then a young woman walked in. The first thing I noticed was that she immediately invaded my space. We exchanged pleasantries. The tiny coffeeshop was no bigger than most people's kitchens, and I tried to move aside, but she hemmed me right in, ordering his house blend.

The proprietor, Roscoe, informed her that he was just now making a new pot. She asked how long it would take, and he said just long enough for the water to run through.

"Could you give me some sort of idea, then?"

"Two point 3 minutes."

"Jolly Good," she exclaimed.

Jolly good? That's when it dawned on me that she had a British accent.

Roscoe started the brew and the Space Invader waited, turning a bit to examine a painting on the wall. She then would not let me get past her to sit down out of the way, so I just turned back around and stayed where I was. I don't think it was intentional. I noticed the Bible she was holding behind her, clutching it almost fiercely, standing erect, as if a recruit at attention. My first reaction was Oh great, a religious zealot. I was afraid she'd try to witness to me. Faith is a wonderful thing, but those who wander around with little else other than a Bible, are bound to launch into some religious tirade or hackneyed effort to save my soul. I had already noticed that my communication skills were suffering from caffeine withdrawals, so I didn't feel up to the challenge.

Then she did the inevitable witnessing. Thankfully, to Roscoe. "Have you ever read the Bible?

I understood him to say yes, but heard him counter with another book he had read, asking her if she had read it. She said no, there was much too much in her head right now… But she had realized that the Bible had everything in it she needed, about life and love and so on, and that we should read it, because it answers so many questions… I asked her if she had read The Seat of the soul for the same reasons. She said no, as he poured her cup and handed it to her. She carried her House Blend out to the patio and sat, lighting a Camel filter right next to the sign that read Thank you For Not Smoking.

Roscoe gave me a knowing look, and whispered, "She comes in here a lot…she's been in and out of institutions…she's staying at the halfway house up here…doing pretty well now…except that today, she seems to be British." I was surprised and intrigued. It was clear what the implication was, now. HE motioned me to follow and pointed out the front window. "See that tower, right over there between that building and the water tower is a halfway house for people who are…"

"Halfway?" I offered.

He smiled.

Three people come in, and I comment, "oh look out, you're getting a rush."

He laughs. The people order, one of them a lady who says she misses her coffee, as she is from "Coffee country." I engage her…ask if it's Seattle…she says another town in Washington, above Seattle and I tell her I'm thinking of moving to that area in May. She says what she doesn't miss is the dismal weather and I confess I love weather like that.

I put a five dollar bill on the counter, so that I won't forget to pay.

The Space Invader Zealot returns asking for a refill, saying, "I should think that this much coffee cannot possibly be good for the stomach." She takes her refill back out.

I carried my coffee and Typer out to the deck for a little fresh air and maybe morbid curiosity, so that I could be within earshot and eyeshot of her. She comments on what a lovely day it is, and I agree. Shortly, I hear her chuckle. I look up and she is smoking, smiling, and whispering a few words to some unseen table companion. I know then, she really is certifiable. She sucks on her camel filters, and makes properly British faces, laughing, obviously enjoying the repartee of the voices in her head.

I am intrigued enough to want to talk to her, but intimidated enough not to. How does one talk to a crazy person without sufficient psychological experience? What if I say something that screws up this reality she has created for herself? What if that little swim in the cerebral fluid garners me a proper British drowning? I move to the smoking section, situated at a picnic table behind her, lighting a cigarette of my own, and bend back to my writing.

A moment later, I notice Birkenstock knockoffs a few feet from my table and look up.

"Excuse me, " she says. "I am out of smokes…can I give you 50 cents for one, or something?"

"Oh, no, here," I give her two. "It's awful to run out when you're addicted."

"Isn't it though?" She returns to her table and lights up.

A young man approaches, asking about my typing gadget and I give him the sales pitch and he seems interested, then wanders back into the café. I wondered why he came outside just to ask me about my Typer. After he leaves, Space Invader turns around and says, "These are delicious cigarettes."

Delicious? "I'm glad you like them. Most people don't because they're menthol and lighter."

"Oh no, there's just enough menthol, and it doesn't last long, and there's this fruity aftertaste…"

"Yes," I say, while thinking, funny she would say Fruity.

Later, I go inside the café for a refill and while I wait, admire a portrait of a man who is playing harmonica. I comment on how good the painting is. Roscoe tells me it's by a local artist, and he knows the guy in the painting, played music with him for years. I see an old photo of Roscoe on the wall, jeans, no gray beard, but still a mustache, wearing one of those poofy down slicker vests, and a newsboy cap. "This is you, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a long time ago."

"I can see it's you. You have the Jack Kerouac look to you in this…you have this face that seems familiar…were you famous at one point?" I smile. "--maybe in a movie you might not claim?"

"No..." He laughs. "-- but I was in the movie they made here recently..."

"Oh, Billy Bob Thornton's movie?"

"Yeah, I got to play banjo a little."

Space Invader comes in and announces she is finished with coffee, and wanders back toward the halfway house. I finish my third cup, and settle the rest of my tab and tip him two dollars. He dubs me Customer of the Day.

Outside, I hear the now familiar laughter of the Space Invader. She is nearby, toward the road, probably standing there waiting to cross, and having a pleasant conversation with no one.

Space Invader

Passerby

(Published in the Arkansas Women's Journal)

I had begun the trek to my Expository Writing class that January afternoon, taking the high walkway in front of the campus bookstore, when my eyes flickered to the woman coming toward me. She was a frosted blond, middle aged, dressed professionally, and carried a soft side attaché. She held an ugly green umbrella over her head to stave off the light drizzle; the edge of the umbrella tilted just enough so that I couldn't see her face clearly.

These details swept into my brain along with a numbing suggestion that she was not a stranger, but someone I have known all my life. I looked away so quickly, caught up in my practiced apathy, that I was unable to get another look at her face, for fear she would notice me and that eye contact would result in a dreaded confrontation. My brain whirled away in a fantasy that she would see me and rush over to me, pulling at my sleeve, and tell me how very proud she was of my success at school, and of my courage in going back for a degree, and how sorry she was for the awful letter she had written when she excused herself from my life. And the fantasy evaporated abruptly when she passed by, and my heart thumped back into operation, and the veins in my neck seemed to swell, forcing the blood into my head.

I tried to catch my breath before I turned around to examine her as she moved away from me without pause across the red brick square below. Like a traumatized child, I stood there in the mist, trying to focus on her form before it moved too far away. It had to be her. But the green umbrella-- she would not carry a green umbrella. And the walk she never hobbled like that unless something happened. Unless she's had an accident of some sort since--I continued to watch her move under the canopy at the entrance of the student union, and beyond toward the parking lot, analyzing the reasons why it could not be her. She might have looked at me, but it was not for very long. I know, even though I was busy looking away. Maybe she didn't recognize me after two years. Have I changed that much? Maybe she didn't look at me at all, and that's why she kept walking. That's why she didn't react.

I stood there in my long, dark raincoat, the mist caressing my face, and wondered why it mattered at all. I wondered why I would risk being late for class for someone like her, who could not give me the time of day, nor acknowledge me as a valuable human being. How can a mother ignore her only daughter?

I checked my watch, and turned toward my destination again, refusing to take that additional glance my heart ached for. She's no longer part of my life.

If it was her.

Which I'm sure it wasn't.

Passerby