Relapse

The worst is not the pain or the bloodstains on my favorite sweater. The worst is not the breach of promise, the success undermined by weakness in the face of the usual suspects. It's--god help me--the sense of homecoming. Yes. This is what I do.

I am going to be okay. I am stronger than this. I am better. I believe that now. But with that comes the knowledge the things I need in order to continue to heal cannot be found here.

Humans are not made to be bridges. I need to get out of this house. It does things to me.

How to Tell Stories to Children

After the question, linger a little too long.

You know that if this was a blank page, you would sit here for an hour. Write one sentence. Delete it. Bury your face in your hands. Check fucking Facebook. But there’s nothing blank about the expectant face in front of you, eyes bright in the glow of the nightlight.

Ask, “Anything in particular you’d like it to be about?”
“Make it up!”

Breathe. You will need the oxygen. Breathe again. “Once upon a time…”

There’s no going back now. Whatever the next words are, you have to see this through to the bitter end.

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived deep in the forest with her mother and father.”

“What about their cat and their dog?”
“…and her cat and her dog.”

And you’re off—the two of you. Away from the burned wreckage of the cottage down the road to the fairy ring, with the bells on the grumpy gnome’s tall hat going chink chink chink, or up the mountain to the dragon’s lair with nothing in your hands but a wooden sword, or to the old house on the hill where nobody goes but sometimes, when the moon is full, people hear music.

“…and the door was so small, Elsa had to get down on her hands and knees and poke just her head in to see inside, but the gnome—whose name I don’t know, because he never told Elsa—marched right in (he had to take his hat off first) and said…”

There’s no knowing where it’s going to end up now. All you can do is try not to create too many threads that you’ll then have to tie off.

“But Old Grandmother Gnome turned right around and said, ’You shut your mouth, young man! I remember when you were in diapers!’ And he was so embarrassed that he—”

“Diapers? Diapers?”

“Yup. Diapers. Anyway, he—“

“She said diapers!”

“You better believe she did.”

You can keep any number of balls in the air once you get the rhythm to it. Of course it helps to have a travelling companion, but yours is too busy laughing hysterically. Wasn’t she supposed to be going to sleep? Take her hand. Lead her home.

“…and they all lived quite happily in the tree house—well, the cat and dog took a little while to adjust to it, but eventually they did just fine. And the gnome—he ended up not being such a bad neighbor after all, though he was never exactly the kind of person you want to invite over for dinner.”

You’ll find your way eventually, both of you. Maybe a little footsore, but hopefully smiling, you’ll find your way to The End. If you’ve done it right, it will look a great deal like the beginning. If you haven’t, you will be forgiven. Say “thank you.” She won’t know why, and you won’t be able to tell her.

Say, “For being such a good listener.” What you mean is, “For making me remember what I am.”

The blank page and the bright eyes are so different. One will wait, one will not. One certainly doesn’t care whether you succeed or fail or begin at all. That makes it harder, but it doesn’t change the world. You know this. What do you do, being what you are? In the dark under expectant eyes, with empty hands and no idea where this will go or how it ends, what can you do?

You tell stories.

This is what I'm learning: being alive is not always the brief exhilaration than comes with the right kind of remembrance or the real kind of letting go. Something other than that is not a substitute.

Sometimes it's sitting here with cold hands and an empty stomach because there is no food in this drafty house. Still, you can live and know that that is not your fault.

Sometimes it's finding a journal of yours from when you were seven years old and thinking, "this child was in agony" and wondering how it was that no one saw it, and wishing you could hold her and tell her it's okay, it's okay, it's not her fault, she won't always be this alone, don't listen to the people who keep telling you you're not brave, honey, because you are, I swear you are. Still, you can live and be proud that you made it.

Sometimes it's breaking down after reading a letter to the suicidal because you may forget about it sometimes, but there's still been a part of you that wants to die for as long as you can remember and when something touches that, it breaks you. It breaks you every time. Still, you can live and believe that whether or not you kill yourself is your decision, that you can always choose not to.

Sometimes it's everything you do coming out wrong and nothing being the way you expected it to be, and knowing that you're weak, and knowing that you can be cruel even when you want to be kind. Still, you can live and you can do things anyway.

I'm alive, and it hurts. That's okay. Pain is only a precursor, just like joy is only a precursor and there will always be other things I'm not ready for. I'm never ready for how wonderful things can be, but still it comes. For years, I've been counting days since one--
"If I had done it then, I would have missed this."
"If I had done it then, I would have..."
I know that I will say that every day for the rest of my life. I know that I am never alone anymore. I don't ask for anything else.