This is My Body, This is My Blood

The Kind of September

I've been counseling my online friend, J, through a relationship addiction for the past several months as she makes failed pleas for interaction with her ex. Actually, counseling is a pretty strong word. Mostly I bite my tongue as she creates one after another shameless excuse to contact him in hopes of pumping blood through the lifeless vein that connects them. What she refuses to see is that there is no return of oxygen to her heart because the "connection" flows in only one direction: from her to him.

Now, I'm not so arrogant and self-assured to think I know her enough to understand the subtle nuances of what they shared. I do, however, know myself and every time I reach out to her--whether to hold her through the unspeakable pain of rejection or to bitch slap her with reality when she fails to recognize self-defeating behaviors--it's as if I'm extending an arm around the bend, only to feel the warmth of my own hand in the center of my back. In other words, she has, in ways she can't possibly know, been a part of my own healing process.

Every time I encourage J to let go, a little piece of my own neurosis breaks off, leaving fresh pink skin in its wake. Every time I remind her that love doesn't have an agenda, we do, I feel my own heart make room for more truth and less attachment to my tired, old stories. Witnessing her codependence has been like looking into a mirror and seeing all my secrets plastered across my own forehead.

Last Monday would have been the eighth anniversary of my marriage to B. Every year the date on the calendar has pulsed on the page, reminding me of those precious promises we tearfully exchanged as I stood looking into the eyes of the man who'd unearthed the last remaining breath of my waning romantic optimism. I believed in our destiny just as surely as I believed we'd one day gum our gruel together. Fours years later, when the walls of our marital house began to crumble, I clung furiously to my belief, refusing to acknowledge the widening chasm in our values, broken promises lying in a heap of betrayal at my feet.

They say time is the greatest healer, a trite cliche', and yet here I am, three years and five days later realizing the magic date has passed without notice. This is the first time since we parted ways, I haven't called or emailed B to reminisce about the day we surrendered to that silly little thing called Love. September 20, 2004 was just another day, a Monday, the day before the fall equinox. I planted grass, gave a massage, ran errands, and fell asleep without a single thought of what "might have been." B and I went for a walk on the beach three days later. We talked about a lot of things, but our anniversary wasn't one of them.

It wasn't until Saturday when M and I were at Home Depot and he mentioned the equinox that I remembered. For a moment I was reminded of the first time the anniversary of my mother's death passed without tugging at an invisible cord and how I'd felt guilty for forgetting the awful day I lost her. It took me a while to reconcile that guilt with the fact that forgetting probably meant I no longer felt her absence so much as I felt her everlasting presence in my life. And that only when I stop grieving what is dead can I begin to celebrate what lives.

So, J, if you're reading this, take heart. Time really does heal. Now go look in the mirror. There's your soul mate, baby.

A Kneaded Touch

My name is Ellie and I am a massage whore. 

1. I admit I am powerless over my addiction to therapeutic touch  and my inner skin slut has become unmanageable. 

2. I have come to believe that a power greater than myself could possibly, maybe, restore my life to sanity. It's called a Bio Pulser 3000 and, thanks to one of my favorite massage therapists, LS, I have felt the twelve-pulse-per-second kisses of God from my tensor fascia lata to my sternocleidomastoid. Blessed Be.

3. I have turned my life over to my Higher Power (see number two, above) which, as I understand it, comes with a money-back guarantee. I do not promise, however, to exchange the exquisite bliss of human touch completely for a machine. I mean, come on.

4. I have made a fearless and searching inventory of myself, especially my feet, which apparently have the most nerve endings.

5. I have admitted the exact nature of my wrongs, which is to say, I have been massaging around for years in search of "perfect" hands. 

6. I am entirely willing to have the defects in my neck and shoulder muscles removed, thereby alleviating my dependence on the hands of various men and women who promise me an hour of blissful escape from pain and stiffness associated with laptopping in bed.

7. I humbly ask my Greater Power to remove my shortcomings, such as putting my feet in strangers' laps and claiming it was an accident.

8. I have made a list of all people I have harmed and am willing to make amends, or in lieu of that, offer a massage trade.

9. I have made amends with anyone named in Number Eight, except for the "therapist' who burned my back with hot stones because I think we're even for my comment about his incompetence, given the crop circles he left along my spine.

10. I continue to take personal inventory and promptly admit when I fuck up, like telling that woman who wanted me to focus on "negative energy" while she held her thumbs on my forehead that I'd rather not. When she insisted, I focused on my negativity toward her for attempting to "release" past hurts instead of the ones in my shoulder, which is what I asked for. I think she was disappointed when I didn't cry, but shit,  I thought I did pretty good not laughing. Not out loud, anyway.

11. I seek to improve my conscious contact with my Higher Power, hereafter called BP3000,  and submit to its will and the power to carry it out.  in fact, I will buy LS an extension cord in order to assure that contact.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, I will carry the message of BP3000 to other massage whores, skin sluts, and epidermic addicts, while practicing the above principles in all my affairs.

Boy do I feel better. In fact, I think I'll reward myself with a massage.

And Sew it Goes

If my lack of posts is any indication of how things are going with the roommate, you might have already guessed that having a new person in the household has become a common distraction. Not just from writing; I’m not getting anything done. Not the thorough cleaning I promised to undertake as soon as J was back in school, not the reestablishment of a rigid  walking schedule, not even my regular outdoor baths. Can I blame this lack of routine on my new roomie?  Of course I can.  And I will.

Right now S is tidying her room before cleaning up for an interview at the local ice cream shop. She’s singing along with her radio, gliding up and down the hall in flannel jammies, bed-head hair sticking out in a dozen adorable directions. Every time she passes my room, she stops in the doorway to chat about things, like, her boyfriend’s roommate’s girlfriend, who is like, such a bitch, and totally coming onto her bf, and dude, she is totally going to get up in her face if she doesn’t like, stop, like calling, or, whatever.

Halfway through my response she wanders away, singing off key. She turns on the TV to watch her favorite soap opera, during which she makes little noises, sometimes whimpering in sympathy for the girl-whose-baby-was-stolen-by-the-ex-girlfriend-of-the-guy-who-was-lost-on-an-island-but-thankfully-rescued-
when-he-was-about-to-take-his-last-breath, and sometimes screaming at the new-guy-who-isn’t-nearly-as-cute-as-the-last-actor-who-had-no-chest-hair-and-buff-muscles.

The thing is I’m completely fascinated by S, from her youthful dramas to her obvious ADhD to her dreadful childhood to the way she ran into my room last night, all excited about her interview, stood next to my bed chattering on and on dressed only in a t-shirt and a thong. As much as I wanted to hate her perfect round buns as they disappeared down the hall, I couldn’t. And I’ll tell you why.

This is a girl whose drug-addicted mother abandoned her at age two. She spent eight years in foster care, the last four of which her foster father molested her until she finally reported his sexual abuse. Although he was convicted and sent to prison, she became isolated from friends who were either uncomfortable with her suffering, or didn’t believe her story--including the foster mother who had two daughters with this man. At sixteen, S slit her wrists. She survived, but with no family and no job experience, chose a slower death. Out on her own, she took a “dancing” gig to pay the bills. However, the only way she could manage stripping for strange men was to keep herself inebriated. Before long, the job was no longer about supporting herself, but supporting her expensive drug habit.

Every single benchmark in S’s life pointed toward a path that would undoubtedly take her to the very bottom of human existence. And yet despite incredible odds in favor of self-destruction, the same strength I imagine helped a sixth grader with chronic acid reflux problems to spill her guts about what was happening at home, made her stop and take inventory of where her life was headed. S recognized the pattern, saw how she had abandoned herself, just like her mother had fourteen years earlier. That realization was just the motivation S needed to transform her life rather than become a victim of her past.

S isn’t proud of where she’s been, but she is proud of  turning her life around. She talks freely with me about her stripping days, how even when men offered hundreds of dollars for sex, she’d tell them that just because she used her body to entertain didn’t mean she didn’t respect it. She says they often gave her the money anyway. Maybe that was part of what made her sit up and pay attention.  Maybe when others respected her for respecting herself, she saw a way out of that life. A year after taking the job, S quit stripping and began putting her life together. She may not be able to have her childhood back, but for the first time in years, she has her life back in her own hands.

A few minutes ago S interrupted this writing to ask for a safety pin to hold her blouse together where a button had popped off.

“Why not just use the one under the collar?” I asked.

“Um, I probably don’t have time.”

“When do you have to leave?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“That’s plenty of time." I reached into my grandmother's sewing box."  Here’s some thread.”

Fidgeting. Toe studying. “Um…”

“Here, let me. Go finish painting your toenails.”

“Thanks, Ellie.”

Now, as she slips freckled arms back through the sleeves of her pink blouse, she smiles happily.  If only it were that easy to sew up the dangling threads of her past, put shiny buttons on her scarred wrists, smooth out the wrinkles in her young forehead when she scribbles in her journal. 

“You think I’ll get the job?” she asks, straightening her khaki slacks.

“Honey, with your brains and personality, there’s no question.  Plus, with that gorgeous body—not that you need to use—“

She grabs my arm, stops me as I stumble on my words, embarrassed, backpedaling.  “Don’t worry, Ellie, this isn’t my first interview.” She puffs out her ample chest and winks. “How do you think I lost the button in the first place?”

Mother Goose

I can still see my mother's back as she stood at the sink, running water over the breakfast dishes. She made it look as if she were gazing out the window but I knew she was staring into a world I couldn't see. Probably wouldn't want to because if I had, I'd have seen it didn't include me. What mother of seven wouldn't have occasionally allowed her mind to wander into the realm of what if? What if I hadn't dropped out of college, married so young? What if I my house was flooded with classical music instead of rattling with wailing babies and brawling teenagers? What if the rooms smelled like poetry instead and diapers and deodorant?

Eventually my father would walk into the room in his loopy undershirt with polyester pants buckled tight below his paunch and grab at my mother's bottom as he passed by her. She'd slap at him, miss, shake her head as he chuckled his way to refrigerator where freckled arms disappeared into white. I watched them from the kitchen table, skinny legs tucked under my chin as I nibbled on cold toast, one bare toe worrying a tear in the red vinyl. I felt so small against their world, like the flimsy fabric of a my mother's nightie, now wedged between the crack of her ass, awkward and uncomfortable against the beautiful lines of her body.

Quietly, I'd creep up behnd her with my crumb-speckled dish. I rested my head against her soft hip, leaned into her with my jelly-smeared cheek. "All done," I'd say, breaking the silence of her quiet thoughts. I wanted to bury myself in her world, get inside her, know what it was like to forget your body, lose your place in a room full of people.

Without turning, she'd take it the plate her wet hand, leaving soap bubbles sliding down my pale arm.

Hungry for more, I tugged at her elbow. "I need to tell you a secret.".

When she bent down I inhaled her coffee-and-sleep smell into my lungs, planted it there in hopes that she would ride on my breath all day long. "I love you," I whispered.

"I love you, too, Peanut," she whispered back before sending me off to dress for school.

This morning I wandered into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, and sipped lazily as I stared out the window. I watched the dog chase her tail in the yard, thought about how empty this house is when J goes off to school for the winter. Taking another gulp, I wiped the sleep from my eyes to study my reflection on the window pane. Smiling back at her, I tugged my nightie out of the crack of my ass.

A Room of One's Own

Since the very beginning, when my parents rolled my crib between two beds to make room for their fifth daughter (and eventually filled that crib twice more) I have always lived in a house shared with other beings. Married at 16, first child at 18, then divorced and remarried--adding a couple more children over the next decade before I divorced-married-divorced again. Now I'm left with my youngest child moving next week to boarding school for his second year. Last winter I managed those long, lonely months with bi-monthly visits to J's school, near-weekly visits from a long distance lover, and hourly visits with my 4-legged companion, Bella. This year the kid's taking the dog to school with him and the lover has become a dear friend who still loves me enough to drive 2 1/2 hours to visit when he's able. That means I'll be alone in my house, truly alone, for the first time since, well, since forever.

Except that I won't. I've gotten so used to J's laughter bouncing off these walls, the light of his smile and the heaviness of his steps as he grows into a bigger body, it seems unbearable to wander these rooms alone. On a whim, I placed an ad on roommates.com, offering J's room for rent by the week. I didn't really think I'd get any takers because my potential roomie would have to find alternative living arrangements during the 6 assorted weeks of the school year J will be home on break. As it turns out, I got a lot of takers. I live in a college town and housing--especially $400 per month furnished rooms with Wi-Fi--don't abound. 

It didn't take long to filter out the guys as there's no way in hell I'm sharing morning hair and a tiny bathroom with some twenty-something dude with calves of steel from riding his bike to the University. I would have considered gay males, but none applied.  I did, however, sort through several interested female applicants and one stood apart from the rest. S wrote that she was more interested in me than in my room. She' doesn't want to live with a house full of kids and nightly parties. She's been on her own since 14 and works two jobs to save for the education many of the above-mentioned students have had handed to them along with keys to their new Jettas.

I haven't met S, but already I like her. She shares many of my interests while exuding the qualities I don't have, which means I can live those adventures vicariously through her.She likes to cook and specializes in healthy salads.  She listens to Oldies when she cleans. When she was little she wanted to be a firefighter. As an adult, she wants to make a difference in the world, push for change in the foster care system, become an advocate for sexually abused children. One of her favorite outdoors activities is climbing freehand down cliffs to find hidden caves, beaches, and tide pools.

Already I long to hear her stories. Something tells me they will be infected with lingering pain still evident in the way she holds her hands between her knees as her friend captures a photograph to send to her future roommate. However, from what I can tell through her words, she has not allowed those experiences to sour her spirit. Based on our week of email exchanges, she seems to embody a great level of wisdom, richness and depth given her short life so far. I can't help but wonder how I am to become a part of that life. I can't help but wonder what I get to learn from this young woman as she bounces the light of her sad smile off these hungry walls.

Nap Sacked

Sometimes, when the first half of a day has lived itself into a week, I long to slip through the gentle membrane of a soporific Sunday siesta and escape my noisy mind. Unfortunately, midday sleep has always eluded me. Unlike you lucky people who tune out the world and all its worries with a mere flip of the eyelid switch, naps--for me-- are the quintessential forbidden fruit: plump, juicy pockets of sweet slumber just beyond the reach of my consciousness. I can't touch them, though I can almost taste them on the cherubic lips of sleeping babies, in the sweet breath of snoring puppies, and on the dangling chins of snoozing seniors.

In the small Midwestern town where I grew up, Sunday was the ultimate day of rest among families who toiled all week on farms and in orchards or at the canning factory, packing the fruits of their neighbors' labors. As soon as the last amen was released, my sisters and I would run for home, kick off our patent leather shoes, and exchange our dresses for aprons tied over cotton slips. Bibles stuffed with wrinkled bulletins and Sunday School artwork were deposited on the secretary, mucilage-backed Jesus' and robed disciples already sliding off paper donkeys on their way to spread the gospel.

When every last bit of pot roast and potatoes had been cut into Monday's casserole and all nine place settings were washed and put away, the race was on for the best napping places. Dad headed straight for his bed while Mom preferred the sofa to his snoring. My oldest two sisters escaped to their room where they listened to muffled songs on transistor radios, a single plug feeding them taboo top 40 under the guise of hymns. N snuggled up with our baby brother, singing a litany of made-up songs into his curled ear while my youngest sister, V, slept lengthwise at their feet. Splaying herself on the living room floor with the funny papers under her elbows, M giggled herself into a yawn before pulling an afghan over her pale legs and turning her arm into a pillow.

Me, I wandered from room to room, commanding my sisters with my mind to awaken so we could make fudge or climb the tree in our back yard. Failing this (and usually managing to get scolded for disturbing the Sacred Sunday Siesta) I'd work a puzzle, make a pot holder, teeter up and down the driveway on home made stilts--anything to pass the time while my family slept away the afternoon. Eventually I'd find myself on the floor in front of the sofa watching my mother sleep. Holding my breath, I'd trace the paisley pattern imbedded in her soft cheek with my finger, not quite touching, wishing I could follow the lines to that place where she dreamed.

As I write this, I am propped upon piles of pillows on my sun-drenched bed. From time to time, a breeze kisses my face on its way from the shaded window to dance with dust bunnies in the corner of the room. A few moments ago, J wandered in and flopped his lanky fifteen year-old body across the foot of the bed, waiting impatiently for a ride to the Dollar Store lest the crumpled bills in his pocket burn right through his thighs. When I continued typing, he took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and inched his head just far enough up for me to reach with one absent minded hand as I finished up this post. His breath has slowed and his face is now buried in the comforter against my knee. Sunday has cast her spell over his body, once again skipping over me to the neighbors in their hammocks and on their porches and in front of the white noise of a box fan.

Easing myself out of the bed, I cover J with a sheet then steal a kiss from the teenage cheek that will no longer bear the weight of a mother's greedy love. I stand for a moment and stare at this boy-on-the-brink before quietly slipping out the door. I've considered making a batch a fudge, but it's not as much fun without fighting your sisters for the spoon. I wonder if anyone would take notice of a forty-five year old woman on wooden stilts, chasing dreams down the driveway?