The every day-ness of every day

Working in the developmental and behavioral pediatrics unit in a children’s hospital, you meet all sorts of people on a daily basis. Yes, I am talking about the clients I see, including the girl who thinks she’s a dog and the one who licks clocks. Yes, I’m talking about the parents I see, who are sometimes more “out there” than their kids, but I’m also talking about the other people. The woman in the café who calls me “sweetie.” The gruff security guard who almost smiles as he warns me daily, “don’t you go making any trouble today, young lady.” The kid in the elevator who informed me that his brother has autism. The young man with Down Syndrome who held the door to the clinic for me. The random child who runs up and hugs me, drooling all over my shirt, face filled with joy that he is seeing someone new, and he needs to hug and feel and smell so he can get to know this new human being walking by. That child’s grandfather, a wrinkled, tired man who lets his grandson hug me, and makes no attempt to help me untangle myself from the boy's strong, 12 year old grasp.

Today, there are two stories.

1.) I pass the woman who cleans the bathroom and floors several times a day. I start out my day on floor 1 for a few hours, then go to 6, then down to 3, then sometimes up to 5, then back to 6. Sometimes, I feel like I am following her around. She is serious, hard-working, and slow-moving. She always seems tired. She pushes a big cart around, up and down the elevators, around all the floors, and works around clinicians, doctors, therapists, clients, and parents. As much as we see inside the clinic rooms, I am sure she sees as much if not more outside of them. Walking down the hall today, I saw her for around the 18th time. I smiled, as I usually do, and met her eyes. “Hello again,” I said.

“Hey,” she said, stopping me. “Why you always smilin’? I always see you and you always smilin’.” She chuckled. “You must be pretty happy to be smilin’ that much.”

I paused, blushed, and giggled nervously. “Oh I dunno…frowning takes more energy, I hear,” I said.

“Yeah, but you smile ALL the time,” she insisted. “Even when I see you with those little tiny screamin’ kids you smile at ‘em all gentle like while they cryin’. I always think ‘there that smilin’ girl again,’” she shook her head, as if she was completely baffled.

I laughed. “Sometimes,” I said truthfully, “the only thing I can think to do is smile.”

“Alright then,” she said, moving her cart forward. “You have a good day.”

“You too,” I answered. “Thank you for everything you do.” She went her way and I went mine.

2.) Waiting for the elevator on one of my 500 trips up and down it today, I found myself waiting with a hospital employee who uses a wheelchair. I have seen him before, although where he works or what he does, I couldn’t tell you. He sighed heavily, twice, as we waited for the elevator. The elevator arrived and I held the door as he got on, asked him what floor, and pressed 5 for him and 6 for myself. He sighed again as the doors closed.

“Some days,” he said, not looking at me, but staring straight ahead, “the only success you have is getting out of bed in the morning.”

“I hear you,” I said. “Some days, I think that has to be enough. Some days, just getting out of bed is success enough.”

He paused, thinking, then laughed and looked at me, smiling. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that’s right.” He paused, again, seeming to mull over this concept. The elevator stopped, and he looked at me again, grinning. “Have a good one,” he added lightly, still chuckling, as he wheeled out of the elevator.

These stories are mere moments in my day. Why do I bother telling them?

I guess they are moments of connection. Moments in which I was surprised by the simple, beautiful, honest humanity in perfect strangers who reached out and made the connection. Moments in which I was able to reciprocate that connection and come away feeling…something. I’m not quite sure what.

The past two weeks have taken me back to a very difficult time, and I have been faced with some decisions and situations that have brought up a lot of “stuff.” I have not felt like smiling. Most days, I wake having slept only a handful of hours, if that, and I don’t want to get out of bed. It takes work to smile. It takes work to get out of bed. But I do.

And then, it all got the better of me and I messed up. I realize I am my own harshest critic, but I wasn’t going to let up with this one. I had failed. Now everyone will know how _________ (fill in any negative descriptor here) I really am. Now I will prove to everyone who already believes those things that they are right.

I have been trying to figure out for myself what “courage” is. What “bravery” is. What “strength” is. I tell myself I need to be these things: that if I was just braver, stronger, smarter, better…things would be different. Then I would be okay.

Then, I learn for a moment how other people see me. I am “that girl with the screaming kids who is always smiling.” I am the woman in the elevator who made someone smile. I realize then that, maybe, in others’ eyes, I am okay. Maybe, just smiling and getting out of bed in the morning is enough. Maybe that is even a measure of success. Maybe.

I know that, if a client or a friend were in my shoes, I would tell them “yes. There is no doubt. You are brave. You are strong. You are beautiful and amazing, and your actions reflect what is brave and strong and beautiful and amazing in you.” But this is me we’re talking about, and I’m different. I’m good at making every situation seem like a double-bind: damned if I do, damned if I don’t, so I never win. I change the rules of the game as I play so that what I do is never enough. No matter which path I choose, I am making a choice that proves in some way that I am indeed not strong. Not brave. Not beautiful, and certainly not amazing.

But then I come up against these little stories, and I can’t figure out where they fit. It makes it feel like, perhaps, it is the little stories just as much as the big ones that should inform our lives. Perhaps the little stories, the quiet moments that slip by, the smiles we give, mean just as much as the stories that shake us and change the very root of who we are. In a world where it feels to me so very few people are to be trusted, perhaps it is the moments we share with utter strangers that mean more: the people who are not invested in our smiling, our getting out of bed, the self we share with the world. What a bind it is to not trust the world and to live in it. To not trust people, but to need to rely on them, as we all do. To love people, and to try to shut them out of your heart. It’s impossible. These little stories with strangers let me know this.

The other evening, I took my dog out one last time before bed. It was around 10:30 PM, and my neighbor was outside smoking, with her 4 year old granddaughter running around. It was one of the few warm days we had, and the warmth was lingering into the evening. She was dancing around in the grass in her little pink jacket, jeans with pink hearts, and pink light-up sneakers. I talked to my neighbor, who introduced me to her granddaughter. I crouched down to talk to her while she pet Marshall, and she told me about how she was waiting for her daddy to come get her, because daddy is getting a new house with the new lady that she just met that lives with them. She hugged Marshall around the neck, giggling, while he licked her face. Suddenly, she left Marshall’s side and came over in front of me, looking right in my eyes. She reached out to touch my arm and, as though it were the most common thing in the world, she stated, “you are so beautiful!” She skipped off, twirling under the moonlight.

Perhaps it is the quiet moments with strangers that should move us. Perhaps these small moments should inform us of who we are in the world. Maybe bravery is hearing the small stories, and courage is taking the time to smile. Maybe trust is in the talking, the smiling, the telling, and in the willingness to hear the answer. What if beautiful is not something in us, but is in the small moments of our lives and the way we share those moments with our world? What if amazing is not something we are, but is something we live that manifests in the lives that touch us?

What if the bigger stories, the more important characters in my life, are wrong and the answer is in the 4-year old, the guy in the elevator, the woman who cleans the floors? What then?

Some days, it seems that, maybe, the every day-ness of every day is enough.

Surviving the Telling Unfinished

Surviving the Telling Unfinished

Listen:
this is how I want to tell you.
Gentle
like the softest moments of morning
just listen
to how I tell you because
stories aren’t meant to be told they’re
not meant to be heard
stories
are meant to be felt and you
need to feel my story so listen
to how I try to tell you.

Smiling.
I want to be smiling because smiles
smooth the jagged edges of a burning story and
I want you to hear the story but
angry.
I want to be angry because I want
you to hear the me that says
“can you believe he said that” and
“how dare he touch me there” and
“he left bruises where…” and
I will be angry because he
broke me open
left me only
sleepless nights, so
when I tell you
hear me angry.

Hear me angry and watch
me smile because I
am so fucking strong I can smile while I’m breaking.
I want you to know I’m strong, but
sad. I want to cry so you will hold me and say
“you don’t have to carry this alone” because
being strong leaves me so alone and
I won’t cry to you but
I want to know that you want me to because
you want to cry with me but
be willing to be strong for me because
you don’t even know the half of it and I
have been so strong for everyone else and sad
is almost harder than angry so say
that it wasn’t my fault.
Know I don’t believe it but
dare to love me anyway because one day
I won’t swallow his lies as truth and
some day
it won’t hurt so bad
but today
it’s been a year
since the night he left me broken
since the night she cracked me open and
it hasn’t healed yet but
listen:

I don’t want you to know this story because then
it’s one more person who knows that I’m hiding.
One more person
whose trust I’m buying
with hopeful eyes and not much more.
We’re all only human but I
have nothing left to give
cause I spent the rest just trying to survive
to make it through the nightmares alive, so I
tell nothing. Not the way
I remember shaking
knees pulled to my chest and the way
I refused to sleep because sleep
means trust
and nothing
was meant to be trusted and thoughts
are like armies
holding me hostage in my brain, while he
lives on without shame, and she
tells lies that dissolve me in others’ eyes
so listen:

I just want to know you hear the story
that you see I survived
cause tonight
it’s been a year.
I don’t know where the year has gone cause now
I wake shaking
knees to my chest
breaking
forgetting anything I ever knew
so if you hear me
remind me
that anger
is beautiful and
intellect
is loveable
and sometimes
no takes more confidence than yes
but the world
doesn’t know it.

I forget to remember
that no always means no
loveable isn't a privilege you earn
and hate can’t touch beautiful
so I need you to hear me
when I say
(are you listening?)
this
is my story
these words
house my fears
I don't know where we go from here
you, holding the story,
me, surviving the telling
even as the telling's unfinished
cause I don't know the ending
the mending may never come, but
listen:

if anger is beautiful
and intellect is loveable
if no means no and
no takes more confidence than yes
if loveable isn't something you earn
and hate can't touch beautiful
then I
am...
waiting.

The Boy in the Balloon

I wrote this a year or two ago but edited it recently. Since I am not writing much of anything worthwhile right now, I figured I would post this. I originally wrote it for a "journal" for my Humanistic/Existential Psych class. It's kinda weird. I think my teacher thought I was weird. I think his comment was "This is interesting...."

Whatever. I'm used to people not "getting" me at this point anyway! (BTW, if you haven't read "The Man Who Was Put in a Cage," I recommend it. I recommend any Rollo May, actually. But I'm weird, so I guess I would!)

Preface:
I just finished reading “Psychology and the Human Dilemma,” and was inspired by the chapter, “The Man Who Was Put in a Cage.” How neat to try and convey the same stories through a parable, fable, myth, or semi-fictionalized story! I was inspired to try and write a parable or story, and this is the result.

I love working with children with autism, and I’m discovering that I also enjoy working with their families. I want to find some way of conveying to parents what I see in their children, and help them to strengthen the bond of their relationships based on the strengths they see and love in their child. It breaks my heart how many mothers I talk to who cannot name one thing their child does well, or one strength their child possesses. So many parents talk about their children being “taken” from them by autism, and I watch them fight so hard to “reclaim” the child they imagined they had that they never see their child in front of them. Yet, it is also apparent that they love their child in a way they can’t describe and have a bond and a relationship indescribable to the world outside. I can teach children appropriate social skills, how to engage in the world more appropriately, and try to pull them out of their “autism balloons,” and this is important simply because they need to live in that world. I think it is equally important, however, to show their parents it is okay, and perhaps even necessary, to rise to the child’s plane and meet them there. If we can’t meet them halfway, why would they be willing to meet us?

The Boy in the Balloon

Once upon a time, a child was born. The mother held the boy in her arms, amazed at his soft skin, his beautiful face, his round arms, his tiny toes. She watched him watch his world and she found him perfect. She protected him with her heart and soul, and there was no doubt in the child’s being that he was loved. She and her husband made plans for the child going to school, playing Little League, and becoming a doctor or a lawyer or an architect. They were certain he would be successful. They looked at their son and were amazed they were able to create something so perfect and beautiful together. Together, they named the child Brandon.

When the boy turned two, the mother noticed that he was quiet and preferred to play by himself. He played with one toy, alone, for hours. “It is because he is figuring out how it works!” said the husband, and they believed the son was a genius. The boy began to line up his toys on the carpet, making line after line after perfectly straight line, and they called him a hard-worker and a perfectionist.

He preferred to do things on his own, rarely seeking out his parents comfort or attention. He never brought them things he found on the ground or pointed to things he saw. “He’s independent,” said his mother, and she and her husband smiled at their independent child.
The child fell and bumped his head and his knees and he never cried. “He’s strong like his dad,” said his father, puffing his chest in pride.

Then, when he was three, the boy went to daycare and the teacher said “he is walking on his toes, and rocking back and forth,” and she was concerned. “He’s not like other children,” she said, “there is something wrong with your son.” Then his mother noticed that his words were further and further apart. He spent his time alone, spinning puzzle pieces, or finding pieces of string on the carpet and dangling them before his eyes, fascinated. He stared for hours at the ceiling fan, giggling, and examining it from all angles. The mother expressed the concern to her husband, and he told her to shut off the ceiling fan and vacuum the carpet to get rid of the strings. So she turned off the ceiling fan, and the boy screamed and hit his mother and kicked his father. She turned on the vacuum and the boy cried, covering his ears and running into the walls.

The father pulled out a toy with lights and sounds and took the boy to his bedroom. He sat on the floor with the boy and pressed the buttons, making the toy beep and whirr and light up blue and red and green. The boy sobbed and threw the toy and hit his head on the floor. The mother came in to soothe her son, but when she touched him, he shrieked and ran to lie under the cushions of the couch and the mother cried.

After she cried, she pulled out a book on children and parenting and she read it, cover to cover, only to find that her child was no longer the perfect child described. She found another book, and her child was not in that book either. She looked at her husband and knew his dream of Little League was disintegrating before their eyes and she was sad. The mother was confused as to what could have happened to her son, but she loved him all the same and used words like “unique” to describe him to herself and others. “He just needs time,” the mother thought. “Boys develop slower than girls. Even Einstein was slow to learn. He is smart and creative and independent. It will all settle down with time.”

Every morning, the mother woke early and went into her son’s room where he was sleeping. In these moments, she could see him as he was and could marvel at his perfection. One morning, she quietly entered the room and found her son enveloped in a big transparent balloon. The mother was confused as to why her son was in a balloon, but she loved her son and was not about to believe he was anything but perfect. She tied a string around her son’s balloon and she took him everywhere she went, but as she walked, she found other mothers with their sons in strollers looking at her strangely and she wished her son would sit in a stroller as well. She noticed people staring and knew how strange it looked, but felt that others must just not see the brilliance of her son. As time wore on, however, she became tired of the looks and the stares and the comments about her son’s behavior and his balloon. So she went to her husband and said, “I think there is something wrong with our son,” and this time, he agreed.

The mother took him to the pediatrician and told him the story: “This is my son and he is brilliant, but he is in a balloon and I can’t find him in the books anymore. He is independent and hard-working and full of energy and emotion and life. He gets angry because we don’t understand him, and he’s frustrated that he’s in a balloon. I need you to rescue my son.”

The pediatrician looked, and he felt and he poked and prodded, and tried to pop the balloon, but it wouldn’t pop. “This might be a problem, tell me about his history,” he said. The mother told him everything she knew about how he loved to play by himself for hours, learning to take his toys apart and put them back together. She told him about how he had such a long attention span he would sit and look at picture books by himself at school. She told him about how he lined up his toys in perfectly straight lines, and how her husband thought he might grow up to be an architect. She told him of the morning she found her son in the balloon, but how she loved him all the same. The pediatrician said: “your son is reclusive and has limited social interaction skills. He has obsessive and compulsive behaviors, appears ritualistic, and he is stuck in a balloon. This might be a problem. Give him this pill and see if it will make the balloon pop.”

So the mother gave him the pill and the boy became tired and lethargic, and his joy in bouncing around in his balloon was gone. The mother knew this was wrong, so she threw the pills away and called the pediatrician who said, “This is a problem. Call this specialist and she will help you get him out of the balloon.”

So the mother called and was put on a waiting list for weeks. When the appointment time came, she went to the specialist who said, “He is in a balloon, and this is a problem. Tell me about his history.”

the mother told her about his bizarre behaviors. “He lines things up and looks at toys like a crazy child,” she said, never remembering that he had once been hardworking and brilliant. “He never comes to me and is reclusive; he doesn’t seem to care if I am around,” she told the specialist, forgetting that her son had once been independent and creative.
“I see” said the doctor. And she felt and poked and prodded, and tried to pop the balloon, but it wouldn’t pop. “This is a problem,” she said again, and she named the balloon Autism.

The mother heard the name of the balloon and she cried as she told her husband the name of their son. She turned again to books to try to find her son, and she found him in the books about other children named Autism. Soon, she was lost in a world of Early Intervention, Individualized Education Plans, and Applied Behavior Analysis. She talked to the doctors, and they said, “he is still in a balloon, and this is a problem." She talked to other parents and she took everything artificial and all wheat and dairy out of his diet. When the boy was four years old, the doctors said, “He will never come out of the balloon. You must learn to just accept that your son is in a balloon named Autism.” At this, the mother knew that they thought her son was lost.

But the mother loved her son, and she was sad, and tired, and angry, so she took her son to a psychologist. On her first visit, she said, “I am the mother of this balloon named Autism.”

The psychologist looked at the mother and smiled. Then she looked at the balloon and said, “Hi there, Brandon.” The mother was startled, and realized she had not heard a professional speak her son’s true name.

The mother asked the psychologist, “Can you bring him out of the balloon? He is ritualistic and impulsive and hyperactive and has stereotypic behaviors.”

The psychologist shook her head and said, “I can help you to meet him on the boundary of the balloon. I can take you to the balloon so you can understand, I can help you to love the balloon, and I can help you let the balloon disappear sometimes from your sight.”

The mother did not know what to say, so she said, “I am angry.”

“Yes,” said the psychologist. “Your son was lost and then renamed, and your dreams were left for dead. You have had to create a new life. Of course you are angry.”

The mother said, “I am sad.”

“Yes,” said the psychologist. “You feel your son was stolen from you. You have been told to just accept your new son, when no one ever checked to see if Brandon was still here. Of course you are sad.”

The mother said, “I am tired.”

“Yes,” said the psychologist. “You have been fighting to find your son, and you are realizing now he has been before you all along. Of course you are tired.”

The mother said, “I want to be hopeful.”

The psychologist smiled. “Then I will teach you to enter the balloon,” she said.
Together they sat, and the psychologist spoke of Brandon, and the mother felt a warmth flow through her. As she connected to her son, the mother was amazed at how she had known her son all along. The psychologist slipped in and out of Brandon’s balloon, and showed his mother it was possible. The mother was skeptical, so she asked the psychologist, “But why does he scream?”

The psychologist took her inside Brandon’s balloon. Inside the balloon, the mother saw that the world was cloudy and the sounds were loud and muffled, and it was sticky and hot. She saw the toy with lights and sounds, and when it flashed red and blue and green, she could feel the colors racing through her body, and the whirrs and beeps made the world look like an overexposed picture and made her ear drums reverberate. She felt as though the world was spinning by so quickly she couldn’t keep up, and everything was off balance and heavy. The mother felt tired and sticky and overwhelmed, and could not find the words to say it, so she screamed.

So she asked the psychologist, “why does he stare at ceiling fans and walk on his toes?”
The psychologist took her inside Brandon’s balloon and as the mother stared with him at the ceiling fan, the world became clear. As she focused on the fan going round and round, the rest of her world reached a calm center, and everything else faded away into a blissful quiet. The mother was so relieved at the calmness, she began laughing, and lifted onto her toes at the lightness of her body.

As time went on, Brandon’s balloon got smaller and smaller until his mother could barely see it at all and she was amazed by son’s brilliance and his love and deep way of being. Brandon was still impulsive and hyperactive and ritualistic and had stereotypic behaviors, and the mother still felt sad and angry and tired, but she also saw her son and was amazed that she and her husband could have created something so perfect and beautiful. One day, she asked the psychologist, “how did you know Brandon was there? How did you know how to find him in his balloon?"

“I didn’t,” said the psychologist. “I simply showed the part of him that was reaching for you, to the part of you that was reaching for him, and I created the space for you to meet.”

The mother looked at Brandon and smiled. Then together, they floated out of the office.

Exhale

So I know a poem needs to be edited when I become fixated on it. I was fixated on this one for days. I fixed it. And now I'm updating this post to erase the old, crappy version. Hopefully now I can put these words to rest.

Exhale

Breathe in.
After 5 hours of staring
the blank page she once saw as
unmapped potential becomes part of her
hollow emptiness. The
jagged breathing from the
screaming curses of her heart
keeps time with the blinking cursor
but the words don’t come.
Breathe out.
His words settled like iron snowflakes on her tongue
charmed their way into her mouth like love letters
dropped like falling bombs and
entered her bloodstream before she had a chance to scream.
Breathe in
the million stars she believed in
the daisies that grew where her words were laid
the ideas like light bulbs that lit her heart
burned out.

Breathe in.
People who care ask where
her smile is.
A bad day, she tells them
just a bad day
she doesn’t dare say
her story tells itself again
with each rising breath.
Breathe out
the story begins
sure as she rides one breath to the next
the next line hits
wordless
till she’s full of memories
like the dumpster that bore witness in the frozen alley
she knows she must wait
to be emptied.

Breathe in.
She can’t fit herself into pretty skirts
polished nails
pretty tales of fairy princesses, no this
is evil
living in her skin.
Breathe out
the burning simmers in her chest till
she’s certain she must house Medusa but
she’s not angry she’s
sad, she’s not sad, she’s
glad what happened wasn’t bad because
her friend says
nothing happened,
it wasn’t bad,
she sleeps
feeling him on her skin, the wind
is the only thing that takes his scent away
but she’s scared to go outside.
The story grows
it ebbs and flows,
her body aches
with the hatred she breathes into her every pore.
Her mother wants to know what it was she wore
how many drinks she had
the daughter locks the hurt inside with lies of
it’s fine, I’m fine
wanting someone to remind her it’s not
wanting someone to be her Medusa
and fill the angry spot
gratitude and forgiveness try to fill.
“Pretend it didn’t happen,
please dear god don’t tell your sister
like Medusa this pain is a myth
how dare you scare me
get to the point
I don’t need to know what he did
just as long as you’re fine
the rest will heal
with forgiveness
and time.”

Breathe in.
Her mother’s tears
bring the hope of anger till
“at least,” her mother says
“at least you weren’t...”
the final word never leaves her lips
too terrible to be spoken, but this
wasn’t that,
this
wasn’t bad, it’s sad but she’s fine
smiling
she’ll soon forget
just as long as she’s not
angry.
Breathe out.
Her daddy
doesn’t meet her eyes for two days
says no words of comfort or blame just
silence, so it becomes
shame.
The secrets mount.
She swallows them
like fish hooks, hoping they’ll catch
the truth in her bloodstream, hoping
the barbed hooks
will give her reason to scream.
Breathe in
the story should be fading by the day,
they say
time heals all wounds and
forgiveness will set you free
so she’s not angry because
it wasn’t bad
it wasn’t bad
it wasn’t what it could have been
it was just an “almost,”
and almost
never counts.

Breathe in
the aspirated hatred in her lungs becomes
the need for perfection
self-doubt
unattainable SuperWoman schemes
anything to fill
the place anger tries to live
anything to hide
the moments when she cries
breathe in
hold the breath
keep going
don’t stop
smile
who knows how long she can wait
to exhale.

On the complexities of meeting dogs

I love my dog. There is no other way to put it: my dog is the best possible thing that could have happened to me right now. Knowing that I have him to come home to, being able to cuddle with him, walk with him, talk to him makes all the difference in my life. He is, truly, my best friend.

One of the aspects of dog ownership I didn’t entirely think about was the fact that having a dog helps you to meet people. Walking with a dog seems to invite people to come up and talk to you, whereas walking alone barely warrants a nod or a hello. I have a hard time knowing what to say to people sometimes, particularly people I don’t know, so having a dog has allowed me to meet many of my neighbors—particularly neighbors with dogs.

There is a certain etiquette to meeting dogs that Marshall and I seem to struggle with. I’m not entirely sure if it’s me or my neighbors that make it awkward, but I have learned this: meeting dogs is complex business.

First, the dogs have to check each other out. We all know what this means, and really, as a dog owner, who doesn’t think it’s awkward to stand next to someone you don’t know while your dogs smell each others’ butts? Then, there is the matter of dominance, and it comes down to this: my dog is the wussy dog. Always. He is the dog that sees a dog, smells his butt, and rolls over on the ground, showing his belly and looking up at you with the whites of his eyes showing. He grew up with 5 Chihuahuas and, even though he was bigger by far, I think it gave him some sort of “complex” in addition to his sensitive and gentle temperament.

There is also the issue of meeting people. Marshall would rather meet people than other dogs—I think he might think he’s part human and, in all honesty, who am I to say he’s not? The submissiveness carries over a bit to meeting people in that Marshall is also “that dog” that I swore I would never have. He is…another Buster.

When I was a kid, my sisters and I would go over to my neighbor’s house to play. We had a driveway that was about half a mile long, and these neighbors lived down the street and up the hill, so it was quite a hike to get there. Upon arriving at their home, we would ring the doorbell, take off our shoes on the porch, and be invited inside, where we would say hello to our neighbors, their parents, and Buster. Buster, a golden retriever, was always VERY excited to see us. So excited, in fact, that he always—and I mean always—peed on our socks. My neighbors would yell to their mother: “Moooooooooooooooom! Buster christened Laura’s socks!” Every single time, they would act surprised and so apologetic, and insist that I go upstairs to the bathroom and wash my feet in the bathtub. We always went home with our socks in a bag. It was a long , cold walk home in the winter when you were carrying your socks.

Marshall is smaller, so he doesn’t QUITE get people’s socks, but he is still a Buster. I like to think he just gets SO EXCITED he can’t contain himself…but when little kids look at me with disgust because he peed on their hopscotch board, I don’t quite know what to say.

Then there is the breed issue. Plain and simple, Marshall is a mutt. A gorgeous, lovable, smart and sensitive mutt. He’s been mistaken for many things: a poodle, a lahsa apso, a yorkie and, most recently, a shih-tzu.

“Ohhhhh!” said the man who lives next to me as he walked down the stairs. He is a very sweet man, but he’s pretty awkward, and one of those people you kind of hope you don’t run into in the morning, as you know he’ll make you late for work. “It’s a little shih-tzu!” Except, he didn’t say shih-tzu. He used that really awkward pronunciation of shih-tzu which places entirely too much emphasis on the “shit” part, before reaching the “zoo.” “I used to have a little shit zoo! I loved my little shit zoo.” He scratched Marshall’s ears as Marshall squatted and peed on the pavement. Luckily, my neighbor didn’t notice. “I had my little shit zoo for 17 years! Awww, I loved my little shit zoo SO much. They’re such good little dogs…I miss my shit zoo more than I miss my wife, that’s how good he was.” He doesn’t laugh. I don’t either. “Where’d you get your little shit zoo from?”

I pause. Do I tell him Marshall is not a shih-tzu? Doesn’t even look like a shih-tzu? I decide not to, and just glide over it. “I got him from a friend who had to get rid of him,” I say, smiling.

“Oh, well I just love little shit zoo’s.” He thumped Marshall’s head, which made him roll over and expose his belly. “What a good little shit zoo,” he says, smiling. I smile. Now, every time I see him, he asks me how my little shit-zoo is doing. I always smile and say, “he’s just fine, Mr. Edwards. How are you doing, today?”

There is also the issue of gender and names. There is no good way to avoid the pronoun issue when asking the dog’s name. You’ve got a 50/50 shot and, while that seems like good odds, it really isn’t. At least not for me. Marshall and I were walking past the retirement community down the street a few weeks ago, and saw one of the residents walking down the street with her dog. A little brown thing with a pushed in nose and curly fur, half the size of Marshall, the dog had blue bows in the fur above its ears. Bows = girl, I figured. The dog yipped and yipped and yipped at Marshall, while Marshall smelled her butt and then rolled on the ground.

“What’s her name?” I asked the woman.

“Huh?” she asked, unable to hear me over the yipping.

“What’s her name?” I asked, louder.

“Heh?” she said, again, distracted by the butt smelling going on in front of us.

“What’s her name?” I asked, very loudly.

The woman looked at me, indignant. “HIS name is Prince!” she said, huffily.

“Oh,” I say. “What a nice name. He’s a cute little guy!”

She looked at my dog, lying on the pavement, gave Prince’s leash a tug, and walked away without saying goodbye. “Take care,” I said, calling after her.

There is also the fact that Marshall has a purple collar. Now, I know our society is deeply entrenched in the pink-is-for-girls/blue-is-for-boys concept, but didn’t fully realize that this extends to dogs. (Says she who assumed that just because the dog had bows he was female….but still). I like purple and, honestly, I just didn’t think that long about it when I bought the collar. My dad consistently called Marshall “she,” until he finally said “your poor dog has a purple collar. He’s a man! He needs a manly color to build up his confidence. No wonder he’s a wussy dog.”

“I wanted to raise a dog who is free to explore his gender identity,” I said, not skipping a beat. “I didn’t want him to feel trapped into the gender binaries of pink and blue. Besides,” I said, “you wear purple.”

“Woah,” he said. “You thought about that a little too much.” I’m pretty sure he wondered what I will be like when I have children.

Names are just awkward in general, apparently. A few months ago, Marshall and I met a woman who lives in the complex somewhere. Her dog ran up to us, but was clearly more interested in me than Marshall. “Well hi there,” I said, scratching his ears. I looked up at the owner and said hello. She said nothing. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” I said, returning to the dog as the owner was unresponsive. “Yeah, I can tell you’re a lover, aren’t you, buddy.” I looked back up at Owner, to ask the dreaded name question, but she was looking at me, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

“How did you know his name was Buddy?” she asked, as if she was almost scared to know the answer. I stared at her for a moment, thoroughly confused.

“Oh,” I said, “his name is Buddy? I didn’t know, I…”

“But you called him Buddy,” she said, eyes squinted

“I…well…I think I just call dogs buddy…I think it’s something I just say.” I pretended to be distracted by Marshall. “Okay, Marshall, we’re going,” I said. “Bye Buddy!” I sang, probably too cheerily. “Have a good day,” I said to her.

What was really embarrassing was when I saw them two months later, didn’t recognize them as Buddy and Owner, and asked his name again. She looked at me like I must surely have some sort of problem as she said, “his name is Buddy.” Oops.

Finally, there is the issue of weird dog owners. There are lots of weird dog owners. I might be one of them. However, there is one woman in my neighborhood who is a snotty weird dog owner, and they seem to be the worst. She has two identical looking dogs that are some special rare breed I have never heard of, and a miserable looking kid. I am of the opinion that the kid is miserable because mom spends all her time with the dogs, but this is just a guess. This woman clearly is of the “my dog is better than your dog” mentality. Plus, her dogs get a sick pleasure out of growling and lunging at Marshall and making him run and hide behind me, or lay down in the ultimate submissive position WHILE peeing on the pavement. It’s awful. I don’t like her or her dogs (although her miserable kid might be okay).

Her dogs are fat. Very fat. And, since October, they have been wearing sweaters. I’m not fundamentally opposed to dogs wearing sweaters, but I am opposed to HER dogs wearing sweaters. The sweaters are so tight, they look like they must have been knitted around the dogs. I have no idea how else she could possibly get the dogs into them. Her dogs are not friendly, but she acts like they are, and like they are “so excited” to see “their friend” (i.e. Marshall). The second time we ran into them, the dogs lunged and barked and growled at Marshall, who rolled over and wouldn’t get up. When we were done talking, I pulled his leash to try to get him to stand, and Marshall looked at me and flattened himself to the pavement.

The woman looked at me, with something that might have been pity in her eyes. “What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.

I looked at my dog, rolling on the pavement, and then at her fat, sweatered dogs breathing heavily from the effort of scaring Marshall.

“I think,” I said, looking back up at her and trying not to laugh, “he might just be jealous of their sweaters.”

She looked at me with a sort of confused amusement, and then looked back at the dogs. “Yes,” she said, with finality. “I think that must be it.”

Okay…so yes, I might be one of the weird dog owners. Regardless, I thank whatever higher power is above for sending this dog into my life and hope that, one day, Marshall and I will both master the art of meeting other dogs.

Write a poem that scares you?

I think I read somewhere that you should try to write a poem that scares you. Well, I did something more frightening than that. I sat down to write one poem and ended up writing a poem that scares the you-know-what out of me. If you know why...just let me know, k?

The Assault on Divinity

If I had died yesterday
I would have died a nobody.
A 20-something with
too much education and
a head full of words that don’t matter:
500 ways of naming crazy,
labeling broken,
fixing it all back to a normal that was never loved,
but my heart
was made for loving.
Filled to the breaking point
my heart loves the silent places that speak
and the monologues that don’t,
the feet that tiptoe
and the boots that stomp,
the small, crayon-filled hands coloring rainbows
and the big, dirty ones wielding guns,
my heart
was made for loving
but love
is never enough.

If I had died today
I would still have been no one.
A 20-something with
too much education
a voice that was made for speaking words no one will hear
reading phrases in a language my own
I have always been
at a loss for words.
I let passion slip through my fingers,
seep into the world
like the butterfly no human ever saw
born in the country where only god lives
she lived 72 hours
flapped her wings sixteen billion times
making hurricanes and perhaps
pollinating flowers, till
she fell to the ground, so unknown
she couldn’t even be
forgotten.

If I died tomorrow
I would leave dissonance in the wake of my life.
The vague discord of a soul that never fit
a triangular or octagonal soul in a round world
people would walk through me in
a quantum leap of time and space
a surge of intensity
a pause where doubt is suspended in
an elixir of cotton candy dreams, bubble bath,
baby laughs
more beautiful than I ever was—
but remember,
love
is never enough.
We all carry bruised hearts and
too many stories of hope turned sour
refusing to release them because hope
is our only connection to god
and regardless of faith
we refuse to discard
divinity.

The other day I saw a boy
knocking on the door of a little play house
like his god might live inside.
The door was painted on, without a knob,
the windows were tacked on pieces of plywood but
he knocked as if hope alone
might make his god come out and play,
as if persistence was all he needed
for his make-believe life
to come true.
I stopped and watched, thinking for a moment that maybe
he was right
I peered to see
if god would answer.
No one came,
but I knew god must just be out because
when the boy smiled
I saw my sisters in his eyes
my grandmother in his laugh
the faces of strangers in his smile
people who had hurt me in his hands.
I knew I had to rewind because
we all carry bruised hearts
too many stories of hope turned sour
we refuse to release them: hope
is our only connection to god
and yet,
hearts only bruise
when our divinity
is trashed.

For now, I keep living
listening
for the bullets that fall
naming the ways we bruise one another
feeling the blows in my magnetized heart
watching the bullets slide, pooling
in the deepest point where they hide,
wounds,
masquerading as smiles and belief
in a bright day dawning, nothing
but hope
urges me forward
reminds me to connect to my god in the belief
that today
we will be restored to divinity,
I am knocking on the doors of righteousness
peering into tacked on windows
face frozen in a smile I can’t own
wondering how justice can be won
when everyone fights
alone.

A rant.

You know, people joke a lot about eating disorders.  People laugh about the girl they knew in high school who ate only ketchup and water for lunch.  They laugh about how skinny the celebrities are on TV, and how they look, like, anorexic or something.  When I talk about my sister having an eating disorder, people will often crack jokes.  Jokes about how they could be anorexic too if they didn't eat so much.  Or how I should send my sister to live with them, because they eat all the time.  Or how they'll just force-feed her and solve the problem.  Want to be let in on the real joke about eating disorders?  Want to have a laugh?

I have spent the past 6 years? 7 years? 8 years?... (how long has it been now?)...worried about my sister, and it's not what you think. It's not that they "just don't eat." It's not about food. It's not that they "just want to be skinny." It's not about wanting to be the next great cheerleader or teen idol or model. It's not even about wanting to get the latest cool size 0 jeans from the latest coolest store.

For me, anorexia has meant watching my 16 year old sister, who is taller than I am, wear children's clothing in a size 10 or size 12. It means hearing how frustrating it is to find clothes without a Disney character on the front--about arm sleeves and pant legs being too short, when everything else fits. It means general frustration over clothes not fitting, analyzing costumes for plays and singing performances, and never hearing the end about how "ugly" she looks in any particular outfit.
Anorexia has meant having my sister have things taken away from her--like dancing--that she loved, because she wasn't at a safe weight to continue the exercise once a week. It has meant her giving that up completely because she wasn't willing to gain the 4 pounds that would have made it safe.

Anorexia means screaming matches. It means having food thrown at me. It means watching my father have food thrown at him. It means watching my father carry my 14 year old sister to her room because she was completely out of control. It means having my sister inpatient for weeks and weeks, and my father restraining her to keep her inside the hospital. It means leaving her in a locked ward and only being able to see her when she eats. It means not being able to see her.

It means seeing women who are at home in the locked ward. Women who look like skeletons. Women with nasogastric tubes so they can be force-fed. Anorexia means seeing a skeleton of a teenager sobbing that she doesn't want to die. It means knowing that young woman disappeared from the inpatient unit, going to the hospital, and knowing that she did not return. It means hearing that someone on the ward has told my sister that she is going to die. It means being 19 years old and sitting and holding your 13 year old sister who is terrified of dying. It means holding her, and being in so much pain, you don't even realize you are crying.

Anorexia means osteopenia at age 14 and osteoporosis at 16. It means weight checks and blood tests and bone scans. It means being 18 and not having your period. It means having no hips and a flat chest. Anorexia means urine tests--proof that she is burning muscle because she has no fat in her body to burn. It means a broken ankle that shouldn't have broken if her bones were strong. It means dehydration. It means looking at her hip bones and her spine. It means no butt or thighs.

Anorexia is dropping my sister off at the door of the supermarket because we don't want her burning the calories to walk across the parking lot. It means telling her to stop shaking her leg, to stop bouncing, to stop trying to burn more calories.

It means medications: anti-anxiety, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. It means failed medication treatments because she didn't weigh enough for them to work. It means non-compliance with medication treatments.
Anorexia means watching her eat the same foods every day for years. It means watching those foods dwindle further and further until they include only a few items, eaten only from a paper towel and a select small bowl. It means watching foods picked apart, mashed, pushed, stirred, swirled, tossed, flipped, ripped, and chopped. It means disaster if we don't have the right type of bread in the house. It means she won't eat anything she hasn't made. It means never eating out. It means watching my sister refuse invitations to birthday parties and get-togethers with her friends. It means having her refuse to invite people over. Anorexia means never eating at holidays. It means watching her cry before holiday meals because she doesn't even want to get a plate to pretend to eat.

Anorexia is relatives and friends saying "but she looks good!" because skinny is good. It means needing to stop myself from yelling at them, explaining that it's not about how she looks. It’s being 18 and turning my back on relatives, walking away, because I know if I open my mouth I will either cry or yell. It means needing to find the words to explain that burning muscle isn't healthy. It's listening to the same relatives and friends tell her she looks good anyway. It's feeling physically ill as you watch her face glow at that compliment.

It means control. Anorexia controls my entire family.

Anorexia means watching her face light up every time she loses another ounce.

Anorexia means being 18 years old and looking into my sister's bedroom before I go to bed, just to make sure she is still breathing.

Anorexia is knowing that the mortality rate is 5-10%.

Anorexia is knowing that she will likely be hospitalized again.

Anorexia is knowing that she will struggle with this for most, if not all, of her life.

Anorexia is not being able to do anything about it. It means watching someone you love hurt themselves. It means standing by helplessly, knowing she is the only one who can do anything to change it. It means knowing that she is the only one who doesn't want to change.

Being a sister to someone with anorexia means no one caring about your college graduation, because they're too busy running from the graduation to the inpatient unit to see her. It means feeling your stomach clench in fear every time your friend says "these jeans make me look fat..." because you're terrified you'll have to watch someone else you love fade into near nothingness. It means talking for hours to parents about what choices to make, offering perspective, telling them they are doing the best they can, and assuring your mother that she IS a good mother. It's holding your other sister in the fear that both of you share, and needing to comfort her anyway. It's missing final exams because your mother is having a "break down" and needs someone to talk to, needs someone to go with her to buy a toothbrush for your newly hospitalized sister. It means never being able to fully explain just how much it hurts to hold your baby sister as she sobs, uncontrollably, and has no words to tell you why.

Anorexia is praying for a light at the end of the tunnel. Praying for a way out. Praying that one day, this will all make sense to her and she will be able to help herself. It means praying that she will take her medications. It means praying that the medications will help. It means praying that today, she will eat. It means praying that she will have enough energy to make it through the day. It means praying that she won't throw another can of tuna fish or gallon of milk or apple or box of cereal at someone. Anorexia is praying for a cure, and knowing there isn't one.

Anorexia is an enormous battle I witness but cannot fight.

Anyone want to laugh now?