no more when

As a kid, we would sit at the dinner table as a family. Every night. Our dad would get up for something from the fridge, and my sister and I would whine, “Could you bring over the milk please?”

“What, are your legs broke?” Dad would reply.

“Yes.” Neither of us ever broke a bone growing up (save my arm, but I was so little it doesn’t count). It must have been the milk.

Sounds like tough love, but he always brought it over. He’d hold the bulging gallon over our glasses, “Say when.” “That’s enough!” we’d screech, but he’d keep pouring until we said, “When!!! When!”

The childhood memories are sweet, but I’m done saying “when.” I’ve spent too many of my twenty-two years saying when.

I walk around acting like I’m much older than I am, sweeping into routines, settling into Seattle like it’s where I’ll live out my days. You know what? I have shit that I want to do in my life, and if I’m going to act old, I better get the experience to back it up.

This is what I decided while washing the dishes. I was cleaning up after having people over last night, ladies from church. While I enjoy their company; in groups, I don’t feel close to anyone, making me mostly feel awkward, even as a host. Then why do I do it? Why do I insist on having groups over instead of inviting individuals? There’s a popular list going around on those silly “feed” sites that says “30 things you should stop doing to yourself” or something like that. I perused through it during my morning browse of Facebook while my eyes adjusted to being awake (disgusting, I know). Anyway, one of the items really stood out to me, and it was “stop spending time with the wrong people”. I realized that I do that a lot. I put myself into situations where I am uncomfortable and then consequently whine about it.

I’ve been in such a whirl lately. You know, the usual—who am I, what am I doing here, what does my life mean—kind of thoughts. I’ve finally settled in. I know I keep saying it, but I mean it this time. I feel totally settled into my “new” apartment now that my lease is 1/6 of the way over. I’m so content with my surroundings—I love my place, my furniture, my dog, my city. My my my. I know that life is more than things, but it seems like what we do as careers all drive for the success of things, so what can we do but embrace them?

I’m taking part in this project sort deal. It’s called 100 Happy Days. Every day, I take a photo of something that makes me happy that day, with the goal of slowing down and appreciating life. It didn’t take long for me to notice that many of my images were things—flowers, a new table, the like. So I decided to move my focus away from things. Just this afternoon, I realized that now my photos are essentially just my dog. I love my dog. Very much. But there are more relationships in this world to be had than just with my four-legged furball.

Also while washing the dishes (they’re still waiting to be finished; I just had to stop and write), I was planning all of these words in my head, really getting myself going on this big encouraging shpeal about how I was going to move to Paris with my dog, and everything would be great. No more whens.

I began listing out the whens that I’ve held onto so far:

·      when I pay off my student loans…

·      when I have a car again…

·      when I have more work experience..

·      when I get my Master’s degree…

·      when I get poems published….

·      when I meet a man…

The list keeps going. I started thinking about how I would phrase my France dream without the ‘when’s. I have a pair of friends currently in France for their two-week honeymoon—isn’t that a romantic idea? But it’s not enough for me. I tell myself that I shouldn’t plan out my “live in France for a year” dream because there are so many “if”s: what if I love my career too much? what if I can’t save enough for it? what if I get into grad school? (and the big if…) what if I meet a man? I’ve decided that were I to let a man get in the way of my dreams, I would be cheating myself—this is why I am in Seattle after all—I’m living my own life; I’m not getting caught up in relationships in my new life (not to say I don’t want a boyfriend, I do, but I’m not ready to get married, which to me is pretty much the point of dating, therefore, I don’t—this opinion changes on a daily basis).

Sure dreams change, but you can’t wait for change. I know that I need to try things. I’ve always been one to set my mind on things, make them happen, and I’ve (painfully) learned that if I don’t like it, I can move on to new dreams. Who says you can’t have it all? Seriously. What are those people hoping for? I just want a simple life—simply adventurous, simply joyous, simply free.

Now that I’ve said all that, got my self-pep talk back on, I can confidently tell you, that while washing the dishes, building up my dreams, I suddenly gasped and the exhale was instant tears and that embarrassing loud sob that only comes out when we know we are really alone (aside from the dog who tilts her head and looks on with concern wondering what beast has taken over her friend). But that alone sob—that’s why I was sobbing—I am alone. Alone. No one holds my hand or kisses me goodnight. How did I reach this in my pep talk? (I do prefer to travel alone.) I reached the ultimate “when” of my past: when Derek _________.

Take your pick:

·      when Derek gets better

·      when Derek can walk

·      when Derek graduates college

·      when Derek isn’t doing as well

·      when Derek can’t going out any more

·      when Derek dies

None of my five-year plans included the last one until the summer I was in Italy, and he was so sick, and he died a month after I got home. Of course I hadn’t expected it so soon—five-year plan here. It took me a while to come to terms with that—I had planned a part of my life to start after he was gone. That sounds sick, jaded, disturbed, but I’ve always believed myself to be realist. However, in my realism, I didn’t account for the fact that Derek’s death would entirely shake me to hollow bones and redirect the entire course of any plan I thought I had. I guess that’s the karma there—you think you have plans? No, no, dear.

So this is how I got to be a twenty-two year old single woman sobbing in the kitchen with a plate in my hand. I was beginning to plan out the next ‘when’, and it finally hit me that you can’t base life around the unexpected, like death. Isn’t the whole point to keep going until you stop? If I wait around for everyone else’s lives to stop, I will realize that I never let mine begin. People I love will go away many times in my life, that is certain, but that doesn’t change dreams, only temporary plans.

I love my family. I love my friends. I love all of the people in my life (just maybe not in groups). I know this; they know this (I hope). But I don’t think they know that me wanting to go do my thing does not mean that I don’t want to spend time with them. Maybe this is just my “coming of age” realization (a little delayed), but somehow I’m getting older, and pieces are coming together (and then apart again, or sometimes shuffled) of really, what is happiness to me?

So no more ‘when’s. No more ‘if’s. I’m just going to do it. I have a dream in my mind, and I’m going to aspire toward it until it happens. I know that the plans won’t be the same from day one, but the end goal is until I try it.

“What, are your legs broke?” No, and even if they were, couldn’t stop me; Derek couldn’t walk, and he pushed full-force ahead. Carpe fucking diem. Besides, my desires are now bigger than a glass of milk.

'love is blindness'

They say some situations are like “the blind leading the blind” as if that were a bad thing. I think we’re all blind and scrambling the world hand-in-hand with each other.

There is a man who is always outside of my building helping people park. He’ll point to the “No Parking” sign and read the fine print that reveals that the spot is valid for that time, “Here’s your proof of the truth” he says.

Today, he was walking the same way as Pickle & me. “Hey babycakes,” he says to Pickle. He always greets her like that. He also always tells me that I’m doing a good job raising my puppy and that she’s such a sweet dog. When we go out for our late-night walks, he says, “Honey, what are you doing out so late? You be careful.” I don’t even know his name, but he cares for us.

“Love ‘em” he said today, “If you show love to people, they’ll love you back. I love everyone in this city.”

“You know everyone in this city!” I said as he greeted the row of usual homeless folks on First.

“This is true, and I love them. These people here,” he pointed to the men and women sitting dirty against the buildings, “are the most protective people in Seattle; they look out for each other.”

I didn’t believe him, but on the walk back, I felt like I had my ‘in’. They all greeted Pickle and said she was a sweet dog. They didn’t ask for a penny or make rude comments or gestures. Just hello. For one of the first times since moving downtown, I felt a sense that this was how the world was supposed to be.

I’m not neglecting the fact that these people were homeless. That may sound crude, but hear me out.

At the dog park, a man with a dog named “Legacy” told me about his love for his dog and his life—a life without a home. “I chose this life. Some people pity me, but that’s fine for them.  I don’t care what they think. I love my dog, and I’m not going to do anything that puts him in jeopardy. We come to the dog park everyday, and some people don’t like me because of the way I live, but you know what? I chose this. I’ll help people—watch their dogs, brush out their dogs undercoat—and they’ll give me a few bucks; sometimes they’re really generous, giving me prepaid VISAs or buying me a meal. I don’t need to own anything. I just need my best friend.”

Don’t think me naïve. I know there are people out there who instead of helping you park, will steal your dollars, and there are people who are homeless just to haggle you, and there is a man who always stands at 4^th and Pine with a sign that says “I need me a fat bitch.” They’re out there, and they’re scary, and they’re sneaky, but I think it’s important to find the people in this city who do care for others and aren’t trying to cheat you and will protect you.

One morning, Pickle I were down at the waterfront park watching the yellows deepen the city into morning with a blissful calm. Suddenly, shattered glass and spray—a man had slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels in the sidewalk only a foot from me and my dog. Pickle started and ran to my feet. I stood in shock and bent to check her paws for glass. The man stood cussing at the air. A different man walked by and asked if we were okay. We were fine. We were more than fine because even in the unreasonable chaos of the city, a stranger bothered to make sure we were alright.

This is the city: people come and go, but you mostly see the same faces all over town. Even though I know only a few people, these friendly strangers make me feel like I belong here.

I haven’t been writing lately. I’ve been caught in the busyness of transition—living downtown, settling in, a new job in the works. Most of the time in my newly found adult life, I feel like I have no idea what I am doing. Looking around, I think a lot of others are just like me: doing whatever it takes to get by and find happiness.

Twice now, I have seen two different couples guiding each other through the bus tunnels: blind. Each pair did the same thing—held each other arm in arm and felt ahead with the safety poles. Somehow, I have a feeling they all made it where they were aiming to go.

So here we are—we’re all working our way through, arms outstretched before us seeking joy, but when we show love by just taking one of those arms into the arm of another, we really are just the blind leading the blind, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being alone.

triggers

I think a lot about triggers.

This morning, I blew my nose in the bathroom at work, and the toilet paper smelled of Derek’s hospital room. Instead of exhaling the junk within me, I found myself sniffing at the thin sheets with closed eyes and imagining that he was next to me under the whirring lights of the bathroom.

At the printer, I caught a whiff of his cologne, and spun full-circle into a confused panic of not knowing where I was.

On the sidewalk, I saw a motorized wheelchair in the distance; the person’s back was towards me, and I was tempted to call out and see if it was him.

As I lit the evening’s cigarette, I thought about the first time I smoked in front of my family—it was the day that he died, and it was as if he hadn’t because despite the utter heartbreak of the morning, the main thought was, “who is this girl?” and “don’t let grandpap find out” and “when did this even start?”

At an antique shop down the street, I found an old street sign for “Olive Way” and thought of the movie we watched together and how “Olive Juice” was the only way to say “I love you”.

A friend was leaving my apartment and saw the picture of us in the entryway. “That’s a cute picture of your cousin,” he said, and that was enough. Enough to make me catch my breath, enough to make me close my eyes and think of the photo, taken on his fifteenth birthday, the seventh to last, and we didn’t even know; enough to make the deep within me sink only into him; enough for the friend to ask, “What’s wrong”; enough for me to say, “I just wish you wouldn’t have said that.”

Because the truth is, we have such a damned good time, but when I realize he is out of reach, I cannot remember how I thought that any time was good but then. I cannot remember how I got to feeling happy again. I cannot remember if I was happier then.

And the guilt sinks into me, saying, “You let this happen” and “You should have done more” and “How dare you even try, try to move forward, try to feel joy, try to forget”.

But I can’t forget because even in the quietest of days, I can hear the windchimes. I can hear his voice saying “Nat” saying “olive juice” saying “don’t leave me tonight” saying “lie next to me” saying “hold my hand” but never once saying “I’m scared”.