Category: Confessional

Critter

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I love this picture. It looks like the lobster is taking a bow. A final gesture before meeting his demise. His action is grand despite his impending doom. It’s as if to say “farewell, cruel world!” before gallantly swan-diving into the boil. I wish we could all face the inevitable that way. It would be so wonderful to be so brave, so grandiose, so c’est la vie!
But this isn’t about Final Destination, or lobsters, or even posturing before pooping out. Believe it or not, my mind is on perception, misconception and everything in between. Here’s what I hope isn’t being perceived of me: I hope that the people who love me don’t think I have fallen into a depth of a despair from which I cannot recover. That’s hardly the case. I’m dealing with an anger so white-hot, so molten that I hardly know myself in the actions and reactions I take (or don’t because I know myself that well). The anger in itself has me chaosed and confused. I’m not used to dealing with a hate this hurtful. Forgive me while I take all the time in the world to wash it away. For it will wash away. It will.
The other misconception I want to address before it becomes a false reality is the notion that I am not okay with every minuscule molecule that makes up my being. I love who I am and how I got this way. Every circumstance in my life has shaped my personality, my ways of seeing the world, and even my ways of dealing with it. I have been called crazy, emotional, funny, and even fragile. I have my reasons for every one of those traits. I can be all those things and more. I am all those things. I will not apologize for any of it. It’s simply who I am and who I will always be. I wasn’t always so forgiving of myself but, now I am more than fine with my life’s history, it’s present and even the future (as I want it to be).
Just know this. Please. The critter in this picture might be scared sh!tless about what is about to happen to him. But. But, my perception is that he is okay with it. I’d have to ask him to know otherwise (and speak Crustacean). Perception is reality until you have the guts to ask.

(photo by Heather Wasklewicz)

On the Doorstep

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I am on the doorstep of getting back to good.
When Kisa and I were first dating …no. Let me rephrase. When Kisa and I were in the throes of seriousness and living together full tilt I would randomly blurt out “don’t leave me.” I don’t know where this utterance came from or why I sounded so desperate. But, it was my darkest fear. He would sometimes joke his response, “where would I go?” but more often he would sense the seriousness and whisper “I’m not going anywhere.” In those days I was petrified he would decide I was too damaged, too whacked out for his sensibilities. The last time I seriously feared this was when I was standing in a wedding gown, feet encased in ice. I was more than 30 minutes late to my own ceremony because I was convinced I wasn’t good enough. Kisa was already at the alter so I couldn’t tell him Don’t Leave. Kisa knew all my secrets but that didn’t change my Turn Back attitude.
These days he is my rock. I don’t ask him not to leave as much. It still slips out from time to time but it has become more of a private joke than anything else. I still feel like I’m a crystal vase with a hidden crack, a perfect rose with an aphid problem, a masterpiece with peeling paint. But, as Jackson Browne said “Do not confront me with my failures. I have not forgotten them.”
I am on the doorstep of healing.

Beyond Me but Beside Me

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Lately, I can’t breathe. Lately, it feels like everything is beyond me. Beyond my control. My mind races no matter where I am. Work. Work is insane. I’m in over my head. The Fray have it perfectly said. I love that song right now. It’s so me. This is so friggin hard. Right now. I’m trying to look like I know what I’m doing but it feels like one big puppet show. I fight tied up in strings.
My home life. I’m drowning. If it weren’t for kisa I would be hanging from heartache. No, hate. I’ll admit it. Hanging from hate. There is someone caught in the middle of this and I feel so damned sorry for her. She didn’t ask for this. Well, neither did I. Neither did I. Excuse me if I don’t rush to thank you or act grateful or pretend to think you saved me. If anything I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I’m in over my head.
Kisa leaves me in three days. He said something interesting last night. “All this” he said, waving his hand around to signify all of life, “will seem like nothing next year. You will look back on this time and know you are stronger than all that.” I believe it. I look at what I was worried about two years ago today and I have to laugh. It’s amusing how I was so wrapped up in trivial things.
In the meantime I take sharp breaths, fighting to breathe. Head above water. Kisa pats me leg everytime I gasp. He’s getting used to me. It’s like I’ve been crying so hard I hyperventilate. Kisa makes the bed everyday and laughs at the twisted sheets. “Harsh night?” He’ll ask while pulling the fitted sheet back over the mattress and untangling the mess of blankets. To me, it’s as bad as wetting the bed. It’s embarrassing how much I kick, toss and turn when I finally fall asleep. It’s all beyond me but I can make it through this because Kisa is beside me.

Cult of (multiple) Personality

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Someone really liked a picture of me that my brother-in-law took. He said “that’s so you” when he saw it. What do you mean? I was puzzled and didn’t get it. When it comes to me, myself and moi, I rarely get it. “You are awkward. Silent and awkward, waiting for the photographer to go away so you can go back to where you are comfortable.” Where is that I want to know. I cocked my head, trying to remember the moment for myself. “Behind the lens, on the fringe, out of view” my friend replied. Ah, yes. That’s me. Completely. Now I remembered my goaway attitude. Yet, when I went to add the pic to a disc for my mother “spaceball” was the title of the pic. Spaceball. One man’s idea of spaceball is another woman’s fear of you. Two personalities on one face.

The latest issue of Real Simple came with research on how to find your “right” scent. I love these quizzes that tell you what type of person you’re supposed to be based on how you prefer to socialize, spend your holidays, or how many times you let the phone ring. This time I let kisa answer everything. Kind of a HowWellDoYouKnowYourWife? stunt. I’m shameless. To my utter delight he answered every question “right”… even the ones where the answer is, “well, it depends. Is September considered Autumn? Well, then I think B” or “that’s a tough one…is it that time of the month?”
By the time we were finished I was across the board screwed when it came to picking a scent. It was a tie between woodsy, clean, and oriental. Floral came in dead last. Weird. The most popular scent was my least favorite…according to what drink I would order out with the girls, what piece of furniture I’d most likely own, and whether I prefer the smell of books over baking bread or the ocean. There wasn’t one scent that won out so I told my husband I guess that means I’ll buy a bottle of each!

Ask me how I like my eggs and true to Runaway Bride style I wouldn’t be able to answer you the same way twice. I want to be Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn and Ani DiFranco all at once. I’ll tell you I’m an orphan after you meet my Black Crow family.  I don’t think I’m the same person twice in one day.

RedSox Rudeness

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Mind games. I hate mind games. But, I’ll get to that later.
The Cleveland Indians used to be my favorite team. I know, I know. Don’t say it. I lived in Jersey at the time. I was a wayward soul. Lost without a baseball clue. Maybe it was the drum. I’ve always had that thing for drummers. I can’t explain it. Anyway, I’ve since left the dark side and pledged my undying love for the Boston Red Sox. Being from Maine and living in Massachusetts it’s the right thing to do…right? It’s hard not to love a team that call themselves idiots and piss in the Green Monster while still on the field. Calling myself a fan is definitely the right thing to do.
The wrong thing to do is fly your opposing pitcher’s ex-girlfriend out to sing the National Anthem. Hello? It should be all about the game. Since when did teams have to start thinking about psychological bullsh!t in order to secure a win? Like I said, I hate mind games. I know, I know it happens all the time. It’s the name of the game, so to speak. Next thing you know someone will posting big pictures of king cobras on the JumboTron because the center fielder has a problem with reptiles. Play the game, boys. Just play the game.

My Beautiful You

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Disclaimer: I am writing this for several people. Hopefully you will recognize yourself in the lines…or maybe in between.

Dear You,
I chose you first because we are strangers, yet I like you. I do not like you for reading me, but what I read of you. When your writing is silent I worry. Yes, I worry. I do not know you, but you read right. I care. I may not know how you take your coffee or cook your steak, but I know you are human – of flesh and feelings – and that alone, my friend, makes me care.
Dear You,
I got your call the other day. I am sorry I missed it, sorry I didn’t return it. I don’t dial the digits because I’m afraid of sounding dumb. I’m a broken record. I miss you. Last night I dreamt of red, red apples cut in half and lime green thongs on a sleeping girl. Art as art does. Know that I prefer your now to then.
Dear You,
Thanks for being you. I don’t say it enough. You. Thank You. You. I reread a diary entry. We stood outside a closed ice cream shop. It was late, late, late yet you weren’t going home. I walked you to his apartment above a sweet store. You broke into a perfect British accent – so perfect I had to write it down. I don’t remember why you were imitating a Brit but I told my diary you made me laugh so hard I cried. To this day I can picture that night perfectly. Standing on a sidewalk, chatting as if we had just bumped into one another, you saying something to make me laugh… some things never change.
Dear You,
I’ve been meaning to ask you…been meaning to tell you…yet I don’t have the words. I step on toes to say I love you. I don’t know what that means to anyone but me.
Dear You,
You confuse me. I’ve backed down from friendship because nothing seems related to me. At least not where you are concerned. I don’t know where I fit in so I edge myself out. I wasn’t important enough to have the forwarding address or the latest news and I have accepted that. I’ve moved into a different space of being. At least with you. We’ve talked about this before so nothing’s new. Don’t mind me if my mind is not on you.
Dearest You,
You alone have all of me.
Love,
Me

Big Sun Smiling

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BigSun

What happens to a person when she has reached the point of laughing for no reason at all? Giggling because there’s no turning back? Stirring stirfry on the stove I answered the phone as if I never left work. My husband giggled on his end and brought me back home. Woops. I mean…hello? Too late. He continued to laugh at me. There was no taking back the slip, nothing left to do but laugh along. The ingredients for Pad Thai were in front of me but I was miles away from my kitchen. Hopeless and pitiful. Yes, I admited, I was still thinking about work. Obviously. I could hear kisa’s eyeroll over the phone coupled with his gentle sigh. He knows where I’m coming from even if he’s not from there. Cutting limes and chopping peanuts I was thinking about a mouse.
There is a mouse in my office. He (?) has broken into my packets of hot cereal and crackers, strewn crumbs across my desk. The sad thing is I knew this before I moved in, even before I ever dreamed the office would be mine. I simply moved in without memory of the mouse. Now, I’m reminded and all I can do is sigh. It’s just one more thing.
Last night I dreamed of a cruise ship. My family on a cruise and me waving goodbye from the wharf. According to my new dream book that means my family is either going to die or I want them to go away. Well, since they are nowhere near me I have given myself worry. I resisted the urge to call them all day. What would I have said? How to explain my latest neurotic dreamscape? I have to laugh at myself for how ridiculous it all seems.

  

Donuts in Heaven

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Grief is not confined to a date, or an anniversary marked on the calendar pages, and yet I am safer handling the details & confronting the stories after September. Funny how that works out. The birdman confronted me with a story: Your father, he shook his head…Your father was clinically dead at the wharf. Did you know that? I knew that. I’d heard it before from somewhere. Still, hearing it said outloud n o w, standing before me, made the words sound so much more serious. They echoed in my head. Clinically clinically dead dead dead. Birdman continued. They revived him. He waited for your family to get there. He waited. Waited. I pondered that statement, that detail. Waited. Wait! I was the last to get there. Does that mean he waited for me? Does that imply he held onto life for me? No. I don’t think so. I don’t think he held onto life for anyone but himself. He kept death at bay for himself and his life.

Mom relived The Day from her point of view – even though I didn’t ask her to. “I was making donuts for Mary. Your father said SaveMeOne. He’d have it when he got back. He worried about not having a cage on the boat. It was still dark. He was concerned about not being able to see the buoys. He mentioned it more than once, no cage. I listened on the radio because I never went back to bed.” She never went back to bed. I handled details and let the words wash over me. I washed them down with wine. While the sentences the words formed were not new to me I wasn’t used to hearing them from someone else’s mouth. We never talk about this. Clinically dead. She never went back to bed.

Later we looked at pictures. My grandmother, done up in ribbons and smiles, before life got hard. Too hard. Before she died. Did she wait for someone? Did she hang onto life and kept death at bay for the sake of someone else? I don’t think so. Much like my father, I think her life meant something to her and her alone. Her smile tells me so. I hope they get donuts in heaven.

Minimal

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Kisa took this picture of serenity while I wrestled with chaos. I was thinking about something my sister said and was arguing with her (vehemently) in my head. She wasn’t there but I could hear her voice. She has tried to direct my direction before. In the past I’ve come close to giving in, letting her guide me where she thinks I should be going. This time it’s a directive as simple as “you should say something” but the fear in my heart gives it complexity and chaos. So, while a sailboat sails silently over the seas I wrestled this stupid struggle to the ground. I felt as though I was winning… but before I could pin it and really claim victory the triumph was lost in self doubt. More confusion. Maybe she is right. That thought alone keeps me questioning. You should say something. So I do. Later, I do.

Here’s the thing: Confessions are like closets. You never know what’s behind their doors or how deep they’ll go. To say something is to open that door and wait for whatever comes out. Or what wants to enter in. I made a start by admitting to something small, miniscule. I opened a tiny confessional window instead of that big ugly door. Untrusting, I was testing the temperature of acceptance, if you will. I had a right to be worried. The reception was chilly. Borderline bitter cold. I offered up an open window and it was slammed shut with “oh…that’s not what happened!” An exclamation of denial in a condescending tone to something in my life, lived by me, myself & moi. You’re telling me my confession is clueless. You’re telling me my memory is all wrong despite my living it. You can’t get much colder than that. If I could raise the dead and make them speak I would prop her up and make her tell you how it happened. Someone to back me up. Someone to say that’s how it happened. I need a witness.

In the end I wrestled chaos and confusion. I went to the depths of anger and came back resigned. As a result of the window I will never open the door. I will never share the secrets. It’s bad enough I know.

Recognition

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I walked through town wearing a bright red Camp Kawanhee t-shirt. “Camp Kawanhee?! Now there’s a shirt I wouldn’t expect to see here!” A woman’s shrill voice called out to me. Turning around, she was impossible to ignore. L.L. Bean hiking boots, jeans tucked into socks practically up to her knees, a down puffy vest over a sweatshirt emblazoned with a chickadee, a huge pair of binoculars slung around her bandana’ed neck. With a smirk on her face she nodded toward my shirt. “I live in Farmington.” As if that explained everything. I wanted to tell her her point of reference and recognition was off. Way off. If she visited Monhegan more often she would have known ‘Kawanhee’ is just as common as the word lobster or artist. She wouldn’t have been so surprised.

Later, it was my face that was a source of reference and recognition. We were watching the bonfire, staring at the burn and hypnotized by the flames when a woman asked me if I am my mother’s daughter. Yes, I am. It’s in my eyes, the shape of my face. I am a walking testimony to my heritage and proud of it. The compliments flowed and I answered with “a force to be reckoned with…” Nods of agreement. Yes, indeed. A force to be reckoned with.

It’s a strange state of affairs. I go home to be ignored. I like walking by someone I’ve known all my life and barely acknowledge each other with a passing hello, or the smallest of greetings – a nod. We acknowledge one another with an understanding that goes deeper than small talk and chit chat. We don’t want time for either. That’s just the way we are. So, when perfect strangers recognized something in me and wanted to talk about it, it threw me off guard. Yes, I could tell you of my connection to Camp Kawanhee. I could go on and on about the tents, the boys, the dinners at the Yew. I tell you of my connection to my mother that goes beyond my face. I could tell you stories of how proud I am of her, how amazed I am by her, how she frustrates me to the point of fury, how much I love her. I could. I really could. Instead, I would like to stand before the fire and see you through the flames; I would see you and recognize you. If you saw me I would acknowledge you through the smoke with just a nod. That’s just the way I am.

Imposters

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I will be glad to leave this world for a little while. Just for a short time, just enough to catch my breath. I am no better than these drummers disguised as chefs. Cooking up all the wrong things. Stirring up mayhem and madness. This weekend I’ll be glad to sit back and be only wife and daughter for a few days. A long weekend. Shed the illusion of Head Mucky-Muck for the time being. I don’t want to wear nice clothes. I don’t want someone to knock on my door and ask “can I interrupt?” No. I want to be eat-from-the-earth girl. Apples, leftover blackberries. Eye-behind-the-lens girl capturing everything that catches my heart. The must-have-lobsters-and whoopie-pies girl. Chocolate crumbs on my chin, white frosting on my fingertips. Face-in-a-book-and-wine-glass-on-knee girl. Oohh…books. Wine. I’m starting to drool. Maybe my book, it will be a girly-girl book. A dirty book. A fantastic book. Something that goes with Merlot. Something too delicious for Miss Mucky Muck.

HomeHomeHomeHome

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What was I thinking? Not go home? Am I crazy? I always go home. Always in Autumn. I fall in love with the island’s air and light this time of year. Every single time. So, why would I think I wouldn’t go this year? Who cares that life is crazy right now? That’s all the more reason to run away.

It’s the same as it ever was. We’ll pack the truck, grocery list clenched between my teeth. Dog food, non-dairy creamer, the usual. I’ll be stressed and knotted until we’re actually on the boat and ready to roll on the waves. I won’t sleep well until we’re on the Southern End under a night of pitch black pine trees.

So, in the meantime I need to figure out what meals I’m going to cook. I need to pick and chose the books to read. Maybe I’ll bring knitting. Maybe I’ll bring running shoes. I need to find my favorite sweatshirt. You can bet I’m bringing the camera. End of story. I’m going home.

Leaving It All Behind

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I got the email today. All who attended were on the list which translated into all those who were there. As we were. There. I went because someone asked me to. That someone was me. I went because I asked myself. Please be social. Please do something outside the zone of all things comfortable. Be nice. Be forgetful of what was then. See yourself and others for this is now. Have a laugh. Have a beer. Raise a glass to better days ahead. Make promises you intend to keep…with joy.In a handshake I promised I would be back. In a word I gave my word. Promise came out of my mouth and happiness was in my vow. Be there with hope wide open and you shall receive a new beginning. I hope 25 years is just as easy as 20. I hope Frank’s Run is just as Fun (and that I actually do it). I hope to see everyone there again.

Who cares if we are not ourselves as we used to be? Who cares if we are newly improved forms of what we used to think was perfect? Time does more than heal. It advices us to smarten up, fly straight, too. I will not look back with regret, but forward with I Hope.

School Spirit

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Look at the smile on this woman’s face. I absolutely love this picture. That’s the way I want to be thirty years from now, wearing red tights and sporting a fantastic attitude. She looks like she’s having a blast. Her smile is all about school spirit…either that or she’s very hungry. The parade ended at the dining hall and we were so close!

Finger sandwiches of turkey and roast beef. Tangy cold apple cider. Crunchy cookies on the table. Standing in the doorway of the dining room, looking out over a sea of faces staring back at me  I had one of those panic moments – where can I sit? Who isn’t going to get up as soon as I sit down? Didn’t I say I’d sit with 72 & 82? Kisa and my confidence momentarily floated away. Different dining room, same dilemma. Luckily, we had assigned seating and all I had to do was make it to our table without dropping my tray.

After lunch was another first. A class picture. Five of us made it there. Hopefully, it will make it into the newsletter. Won’t mom be proud?

To be continued…