The Phone Call

She held the phone to her chest in utter disbelief – all this time; he had been carrying her around like a weight upon his shoulders. He had thrown all she was—all they were—into the deep dark bag of failure with all the other things and people that he had given up on. She was horrified to find that she had become part of that darkness, part of that heavy burden---part of what he couldn’t face within himself. She didn’t want him to remember her that way. 

 She suspected from the very beginning of the end of their relationship that she might end up in that bag of demons but she thought that it was only temporary. She believed that it would only last until the heartache was over, or until he found what he threw her into the fire to find. 

She could feel her hands tightening around the phone. Two years of not understanding had unexpectedly come to an end in one hour, in one conversation, in one phone call. She stood there in the darkening office, the sound of chirping printers and muted desk phones fading from her awareness as she replayed the confusion she had felt over him during the time leading up to their phone call today.  

Despite their personal split from each other, they shared the same employer so complete avoidance was next to impossible and staff meetings were a must for both of them. He would always sit at a distance and pretend--not so successfully--to be unaware of her presence, as if eight years of loving her could be hidden underneath the conference room table. He appeared anxious and she couldn’t make sense of why, when two people had meant as much to each other as they had, he found it so awkward to be near her. How could he just pretend her away? Why did he feel like he had to? 

The emotional energy between them was something she recognized but his behavior was another thing altogether and she didn’t know how to reconcile the two. Her logical, believe-what-I-see mind battled her not so logical, believe-what-I-profoundly-feel heart and both challenged her intuition—she hadn’t known what to believe. Now as she stood there, two years later in the quiet office, she finally understood what had been going on all this time. She hadn’t known that he had been avoiding her because she was a source of “real-time” pain for him. Time had allowed her the grace of healing but apparently hadn’t been as generous to him. 

The phone conversation started innocently enough, she needed his opinion on something and because of their history together, knew that she could trust him with the sensitive subject matter. She pushed the memories of their failed relationship aside easily enough, her current need for advice taking precedence over any doubts she had about seeking his council. She picked up the phone and dialed the three numbers of his extension that unbeknownst to her, would not only link her to him, but would finally cast light on the confusion of the last two years.

They ended up talking for an hour, the topics ever expanding and the original reason for the call becoming lost in the conversation between two people that understood each other so well. She glanced down at the computer and noted the time and length of their conversation. The office had long since cleared out and here they both still sat at their desks talking to each other. She could feel so much more conversation yet to come and the enlightenment she felt as a result, turned to motivation. Never one to hide her feelings or be scared of reaching out, she suggested that maybe next time, they should talk over coffee; that maybe, it was time. 

The following silence hit like a mute bomb, severing the easy conversation that flowed between two once-best friends reconnecting. For a second, she wanted to reach out and snatch back the runaway words, rip the hopefulness from their joyful stride and rein them back into her mind but it was too late. 

His awkwardness came flooding back in an attempt to drown the friendly conversation but she wouldn’t let it happen. She took advantage of the break in conversation to dispel his obvious conclusion, that just because the conversation was taking place in the “protected” environment of their after-hours office, that it didn’t mean that either of them was safe from the feelings that could result—good, bad or indifferent or that the conversation didn’t “count”. She pointed out that she was OK, that he seemed OK and that it was clear, due to the length of time that they had been on the phone that they missed talking to each other. The conversation might as well have happened in a coffee shop—the “safety” that she sensed he perceived, wasn’t really there.

The tension eased as he absorbed what she said and there was a moment more of silence between them before she opened her mouth in an attempt to resume the friendly conversation but he surprised her by interrupting, “It’s hard for me to be near you because when I look at you, I see all the pain that I put you through. It reminds me that I failed at us.”

She was rendered speechless at the emotion in his tone, the cracking voice of a man who didn’t understand that she wasn’t hurting anymore; a man who clearly couldn’t see the friendship resurfacing for the hold that the ghost of his own past actions had over him. Her heart ached at the thought that he looked upon her with darkness and failure and that she had become something that he did wrong. Time hadn’t moved on for him, the image of the broken person she was the day his behavior drove her from their home for the last time was how he still saw her. The love and good times they shared weren’t sitting amongst the warm and comfortable memories of his past; instead they had become a reminder of his grandest failure---love. 

She wasn’t having it. Yes, he had hurt her terribly, pushed her around, and let her walk out of his life with barely a thought of the eight years they had put in together but her belief in love had prevailed, rising steadily over the two years since the split, to hold the hurt—and him—warmly, comfortably. She reached inside to tap her light—the only weapon strong enough to be used against his darkness. She was not going back into that bag without a fight. 

She stood up abruptly, phone still pressed to her ear, passion burning wildly inside, “We both failed.” She whispered aggressively into the receiver.

She told him how she remembered him with fondness and that she still held tightly to a lot of the things he had taught her; black coffee and dessert, the smell of sandalwood and gardenias and his love of U2 and The Cure--- all things that remained a part of her, ingrained by having learned them through him. He quieted and she could feel her words penetrating, getting through to help to free him from his self-imposed prison of failure and also secure her place outside the bag as something good that happened that had come to an end, not as something that should have never happened to begin with. 

“Don’t remember me like that.” she ordered passionately, as she blinked back tears. “The love is still there, it just went through one hell of a transformation. We’re both doing OK—right?”

She took a steadying breath and he laughed a little and quietly said, “You’re very different than you were back then”. It was a sign that he was seeing her as she was now and not as the broken woman she had been when their relationship ended. He continued, “You’re funnier, too—in the weekly meetings, you make people laugh.” 

“I’m more zen nowadays.” she joked. The conversation was still solemn but becoming lighter again.

The positive energy between them was palpable as the conversation wound down into a sweet silence. She smiled into the phone and she realized at that very moment, that she had been waiting two years to have this conversation and hadn’t even known it. This was the beginning of a new chapter for her, for him---for them.

They said a quick and quiet goodbye, both of them understanding the profoundness of the phone call but neither wanting to speak more on it, knowing that it was new and fragile and that there was no reason to rush what time had already started—forgiveness.

The distant hum of a dial tone brought her back to the moment at hand and she looked down at the phone pressed into her chest. She slowly released her grip on it as she eased herself down into her desk chair, eyes fixed on the gray cubicle wall in front of her. 

Compassion for what they both had overcome on their painful two year journey seemed to culminate in this very moment and she could feel it begin to overwhelm her. The phone call had accomplished so much---it confirmed her belief that if you cultivate love, the hurt will eventually wither away and it also offered him freedom from the notion that she was his failure. She offered him a trade, swap out the bag of darkness for the chance at being friends again—she thought it was a good offer. 

She logged off her computer and gathered her things as tears rolled down her cheeks, eager to join the smile on her lips. She stood and made her way to the office door, glancing once more over her shoulder at the phone sitting on her desk as she remembered his last words to her a mere thirty minutes earlier.

“Maybe next time we should do this over coffee.” 

She laughed out loud as she flipped the light switch to “off” and closed the office door behind her.

November 2011

The Other Side of the Door

I stood there staring at the closed door, my foot tapping impatiently as I watched his shadow creep around on the threshold. I could tell that he had adjusted himself, now favoring the left foot instead of the right and I could feel my annoyance at his persistence grow more towards amusement. The floor was littered with torn pieces of paper and the tapping of my impatient foot caused them to dance slightly, almost as if they were alive. The paper, the remnants of a letter he had written me full of beautiful words formed into beautiful reasons as to why he was kind-of a jerk. He had slid the letter under the door and in my defiance, I ripped it to pieces and tossed it in the air but yet he still remained planted just outside my door. 

I could hear him singing silly songs to pass the time and my defiance was beginning to wane. I sighed loudly and ventured closer to the closed door. I peeked with one eye through the crack, just below the hinge as his lyrics faded into a faint humming and he nodded his head along to the tune.  I could see his profile clearly and noticed that the silly tune had not reached his eyes – they remained forlorn. He was patiently waiting for me to open the door again but I could tell he wasn’t sure if I would. My stance softened slightly as my eyes read the sadness clearly etched in his features that betrayed the silliness dancing in his voice. I could feel myself giving in just a bit and my hand reached out and rested on the door knob. It had always been so hard for me to stay mad at him.

As if sensing I had moved closer, he quieted, turned abruptly on his heel and then leaned his head against the other side of the door. I could see him squinting in an attempt to peek through the crack and the absurdness of it invaded my mind. There we were, two unsure fools peeking at each other through the tiny crack of a closed door. It seemed utterly silly and I could feel my features softening into a smile.This was how we always ended up – neither of us wanting to let the other in but neither of us wanting the other to go away either. He knew exactly where to find the straw to break the camel's back and I watched through the tiny crack as he cocked his head back and called me by that funny pet name.Victory was his as I felt the last of my resolve melt away. I yanked open the door and the resounding swoosh sent strands of my hair flying. 

Not wasting a second, he grabbed me up into his arms and begun planting kisses all over my face. He held me tight against him and I could feel his fingers tangling in my long brown hair. Still a bit unsure in my spontaneous decision to open the door, I didn’t return the affection but didn’t push him away either. The scent of him surprised me as it assaulted my senses. I hadn’t known that it would seem so familiar or comforting to me and I dwelled on it, noticing that I couldn’t describe it. It was uniquely him just like all the other quirks that he had that I hadn’t realized, until now, that I found attractive. 

His embrace on me loosened and his feet begun to move as a quiet hum made its way through his slightly parted lips. He took me with him and we danced, our bodies’ close, our foreheads pressed against each other. It felt sweet and comfortable but not overwhelmingly intoxicating as love would normally be. We rocked back and forth and slowly turned in circles. 

The dance begun to wind down and I could feel the warmth receding as he pulled back more and more. He spun me around slowly one last time and I realized that somehow I had landed back on my side of the door.

I looked up at him as he stood just on the other side of the threshold and I could see conflict arising to overtake the warm smile that had been there just moments before. I gestured him in but he just stood there and silently blew me kisses. A feeling of doubt crept into my belly and I the let the kisses drop to the floor, joining the shreds of paper, full of beautiful words and reminding that he was kind-of a jerk. 

My mind begun to turn and I wondered why… the letter…the pet name….the silly dance. Realization dawned on me as tears gathered in my eyes. He only wanted to know that I was still on the other side of the door, like an option, or an alternative route. He wanted me, but he wanted me less than everything that was already on his side--the other side--of the door. I hung my head slightly as my spontaneous decision to open the door turned definitively into the heavy feeling of regret.  

One glance at his face confirmed my theory, as he looked at me with an expression resembling a child who had just wet his pants by accident. Anger arose in me and I could feel my hands ball into fists at my side. He took a brave step towards me and planted his foot in the doorjamb. I grabbed the door forcefully and shoved it closed with all my might but this time, it didn’t close, it just popped open again and smacked me hard. 

He looked down at his foot, jammed tightly in place as I retreated behind the door so he couldn’t see my wounded face. He didn’t seem to notice me as he very casually inspected his shoe for damage. I leaned against the back of the door smarting from the blow and silently wondered if I had hurt him at all.

I leaned my head against the wood and slumped down to the cold hard floor—I didn’t know how I was going to get him out again. I stared down at his foot, still holding ground, jammed tightly and intentionally in the doorframe and selfishly, I hoped that I had at least left a mark. 

*Originally written August 2011

Reborn

I was reborn.

No longer trying to erase you

I allow you to take your place

In the past

Inside a chest of lost dreams

And outdated beliefs

I no longer feel the need

To wrestle you into non-existence

You lived your purpose

For my life

What more is there?

No such thing as happy endings

Not for us

Anyway

One moment I was talking to you

Grasping at our old life

Not realizing that it was already a ghost

Banging my head against the wall of defeat

We tried so hard to love each other

Together we shouted and wept

Together we lost it all

We summoned all our strength

To resurrect it from the ashes

Only to set it on fire again

To make sure it was really dead

The beast of heartache was hammering away

Pieces of me crumbling to the floor

I threw the phone down

As the beast finally broke through

It came so fast

You were there screeching

Like a freight train

A rage of fire

Total destruction

As we released each other

One last time

Our cosmic connection

Broken

Willed away

By the need to be free

Then all was dark

And quiet

I arose to see

The corpse of me

Laying on the floor

You were nowhere to be seen

No longer a part of my awareness

This was the end?

But it wasn’t

It was just the end

Of her

The heartbroken girl

I study the look upon her face

Tormented, swollen eyes

Sticky tears painting her cheeks

I didn’t know she was dying

Until the banshee carried her away

And in an instant

It all evaporated

She became me again

Emerging out of the darkness

Reborn

After months of haunting me

You suddenly went screaming down the hallway

Of my mind

And straight into a memory

*Originally written August 2010

The Indigo Bird

Out of the darkness came a little girl. She was huddled against the corner of a wall in what appeared to be a darkened alleyway and her pink dress stood in bright contrast against the deep red colored brick. She was crying and I looked around for her mother but she was absolutely alone---except for me. 

She buried her head in her tiny hands, her chocolate brown hair falling forward like a curtain. Her little body shook fiercely and I was alarmed at the intensity as a wave of sadness touched me. I didn’t know what to and stood there looking around for a sign. I wanted someone else to appear and tell me what to do but there was no one. I was completely alone with this sad little girl. 

I took a deep breath and was surprised by how constricted it felt. I felt my brow furrow as I put my palm to my chest. Instead of the steady in and out breathing, I could feel more of a bouncing--air moving in and out unevenly. My awareness suddenly sharpened and I could feel every thread of my black t-shirt breathing against my palm as it stretched over my chest. My eyes begun to feel heavy and sticky and my lashes were tangled together. I became keenly aware of the taste of salt on my lips and a deep fatigue in my abdomen. The sensation was familiar—it felt like I had been crying for a lifetime. I slowly reached a fingertip to my eyes to confirm that I too, like the little girl, was also sobbing. I was startled and looked around again as if the explanation lay somewhere outside of me but there was nothing and no one and I was left with myself and the inward feeling that everything was dissolving into the fear and sadness hidden away in my gut. 

I turned my eyes back to the corner--my vision now blurry from my own tears--but the little girl was gone. Alarm shot through my body and I frantically turned around wondering how she managed to get past me. Had I lost her? I heard the pitter-patter of little feet and I turned immediately back to the corner and was met with a new sight. The dark alleyway was replaced with what appeared to be a deep forest. I was confused and scared but inexplicably drawn to the trees that stood before me—there was a path and I somehow understood that it was the only option despite the darkness and fear it seemed to shelter.  This is where the little girl had gone and I knew I had no choice but to follow her. 

I took a few tentative steps forward and caught a glimpse of an indigo blue glow that flashed further down the path. Despite my fear, I was drawn to it. It was the only light in the dark and so I quickened my step as I tried to reach the place where I had seen it. As I rounded a bend, I was stopped short by the sight of a beautiful pale blue bird sitting on the ground just off the path. It had been the indigo blue I had seen a few minutes earlier. I studied it, it was large, larger than any bird I had every seen. It moved slightly at the sound of my approach but didn’t seem to be scared of me. An odd sense of déjà vu overtook me—I felt like the bird had a name and that if I just thought hard enough, I could remember it. It seemed that this bird was perched somewhere on the edge of my memory, hanging on to a limb in my sub-consciousness. I gazed into its very human, very familiar, hazel eyes—I knew this bird.

 

It suddenly let out a strangled painful call that pierced my core as deeply as if the pain were my own. I looked around for what could have possibly caused it to cry out so suddenly and that’s when I noticed that the bird was in a cage. I stepped back and took in the view; the cage was massive, so massive that I hadn’t been capable of seeing it because I had been so focused on the beauty of the bird. I drew closer again and reached my hand out to slide it down the cool metal of one of the bars. It was rusted and the metal flaked off as I ran my palm down the length of it. The cage had obviously been there for some time. My gaze slowly turned towards to the floor of the cage, it held a crude bed seemingly made of feathers shed by the bird itself. I felt an eruption of compassion burst forth like a gust of wind reaching out to encourage the wings of the bird to lift.The bird seemed to feel this and turned in my direction, its feathers ruffling in response. 

As the bird shifted, the cage creaked loudly and that’s when I noticed for the first time that there perched above it, appeared to be a tree-house. The little girl from the alleyway peaked out from the tree-house window, no doubt to investigate the source of the sound. She saw me and smiled and her little head disappeared back into the tree-house. I made my way over to the crude ladder leading up the tree and climbed up. She didn’t seem to notice me as I knelt down and took a seat next to the window. She was playing with a doll, and I was startled to realize that it was one that I knew. I sat there perplexed as I stared ay my childhood baby doll sitting in this little girl’s arms. I had given the baby doll the name of Melinda Manning and when I was scared, I used to go and sit in my closet with her. I looked around the tree-house and saw my one-eared stuffed bunny rabbit and my diary lying nearby.  My gaze took in the walls of the tree-house; they were decorated with the first poems I had written when I was eight and with family photos of me and my siblings on Christmas at our grandparent’s house.

The little girl’s hand shot out suddenly and turned on a radio that was sitting in the back corner. Emanating from it, I could hear my mother’s angry words – a result of the fear at having to care for four children all alone; I could hear the slamming door--from the last time that my father walked out---echoing faintly in the background; I could hear the bickering of four children confined to a one bedroom duplex and finally I could hear the shaking of the pill bottle that I had reached for as a young girl to silence it all and rid myself of the pain of life forever. 

I stood up quickly, backed out of the tree-house and hastily made my way down the ladder almost falling as I went. Once on the ground I turned to run but the underbrush and darkness didn’t seem to allow for any escape. The path that had led me here was no longer visible. It seemed as if I had somehow been contained in this forest circle and forced to confront the ghosts of the past. 

I stood there with nowhere else to go, so I closed my eyes and tried to disappear. I felt a tugging on my leg and opened my eyes to see the little girl holding tightly and fearfully to my leg. As I gazed down at her, I finally understood---I was being held tightly by the suffering of my past. The fear in my gut softened and compassion for myself--and the little girl--rose to replace it. She gently smiled up at me, released my leg and climbed back up into her tree-house. 

Acceptance for where I was took hold and I sat down on the soft moist earth. I looked around at the scene before me. I noticed the bark on the trees, the veins running through the leaves and the twisted formation that some trees made as they reached for the light. I realized that I was no different than one of these trees. I was starting to reach up out of the dark forest toward the light, creating my own unique path upward as life forced me on. I looked down at my feet and noted the leaves covering the ground, they were dried and brown. The old must be cleared away to make space for the new—death and birth—the continuation of life unbounded by my fanciful ideas or by the ingenuity of human hands. 

As I continued to look around, I realized how limited my view of the future had become, and why I didn’t recognize the little girl as me or see the cage when I came upon the bird. I had spent so much time fearing my life that I managed to construct a cage that confined my future as dictated by the suffering in my past.The past becomes the present and the present points towards the future – this is the way of life. 

The cage offered safety and protected the bird but in exchange, the bird was grounded and unable to fly. I gazed at the quiet solemn bird before me and the last bit of fear melted away. I jumped to my feet and as I rushed toward the cage, I caught a glimpse of the little girl coming down the tree-house ladder hurriedly, a look of excitement taking over her formerly sad expression.

I reached out and grasped the door of the cage and was shocked to realize that there was no lock.The door fell easily open and the bird called out. I felt the wind wash over me and the batting of great wings as the bird took flight. I turned to look over at the little girl, her eyes dancing with joy, as she rushed into my open arms and disappeared. 

I awoke to the sensation of sunlight against my closed eyelids. I lay there for a second, unmoving allowing the warmth to seep into my sleep-stiffened body. I could hear the birds calling out excitedly and I smiled to myself, borrowing from their anticipation of what the day could bring. 

I opened my eyes slowly and took in the view of a massive tree right outside my window. As I stared at it, I was overtaken with a feeling of profound peace and a sense of compassion for my life and for the world. I sat up, looked around and noticed how everything seemed to take on a new hue--a depth that wasn’t there before.   

I reached my arms up in a long stretch and it was then that I noticed that my left hand was clutching something. I slowly opened my hand and there lying in my palm was an indigo blue feather. 

*Originally written July 2011

Living In the Moment

 "We must let go of the life that we have planned so as to accept the one waiting for us" - Joseph Campbell

I ask, what happens when the past lacks any clarity (who said, "hindsight is twenty-twenty", again?) and the future has absolutely no clear definable path as it relates to the interaction between two people? Ah-ha, the answer is: There is just the present, no future or past, just the moment at hand and the only place that life truly lives.

Living “in the moment” as it relates to interactions and personal relationships in life, is an interesting approach to attempt—it requires a lot of effort and faith and less practicality and thinking. Learning to just be with what is and allow the stories manifesting in your life to unfold without trying to redirect them is something that is hard to do and takes reinforcement and practice. You have to learn to go against the urge to slap a label on a particular interaction and place it on a shelf with all the other “like” things, situations and people that you have encountered or collected along the way. 

Take for instance, the story of an interaction with a man that has been weaving itself over and under, in a contradicting fashion, throughout the last year of my life. I, for one, would have written this story in a predictable way; with a clearly defined path and a predetermined outcome but that isn’t how living in the moment works (Dang it!)—you don’t get to write the story and you certainly don’t get to assign strict roles. In fact, I have learned that attempting to redirect or script the natural flow of our lives and relationships not only seems to backfire, but is a guaranteed recipe for misery. Though, in order for me to fully comprehend this, I had to try it and repeatedly fail.  

He is a hippie-Christian raised by evangelical missionaries, I am a Buddha-natured “spiritual-but-not-religious” pursuer of love and champion of compassion that refuses to corner my faith or call it by something other than a feeling that can’t be named or spoken. Yes, it seems we were in disagreement from the beginning but that didn’t seem to deter either of us from a collision course with the other. After all, we are both in agreement that love is the center of life and if we are truly acting in that love, we couldn’t deny the fondness that quickly developed between us—even if it didn’t seem to make any sense.

He doesn’t care about how he looks and gathers clothes from whatever least costly source open to him at the time. I am a woman who enjoys looking her best and wearing high-heels. He hates my shoes and although he seemingly accepts me, he can’t quite accept my three-inch heels. Humph, I’m out, but I’m also in—he likes me, he likes me not. You must be thinking, Wait, that doesn’t make any sense….and you’re right, it doesn’t unless you live in the moment and stop picturing some imagined future full of strife and arguments over shoes and mismatch clothes. 

He loves his modest home, his craft, and his own personal world full of words and art that he created using his own two hands. He also dearly values his isolation and his personal little creative world gives him all the love he really needs. I love my little apartment near center-city with easy access to health and book stores, parks and coffee shops. I, like him, am not overly social but will always deeply yearn for an “other” to hike and cook with—someone to compliment my life in their own unique way.  

Despite our obvious differences, every once in a while we allow ourselves to overlap a little. He reminds me of the calm quietness that lives beyond the city-limits (and cell phones) and I remind him that getting out of the house for a hike every now and then can truly feed the creative soul. These interactions between us seem effortless if you center your mind in the actual moment but it becomes hard if you catch yourself subscribing to the stories that your monkey-mind wants to tell about tomorrow, or next year, or after the break-up or the wedding. (See?) 

During our outings together, we seem to fall easily into the role of a boy and a girl with romantic potential, despite our failed efforts to redirect to friendship-only. For almost a year we struggled with our conflicting desire to be lovers or friends, date or just “hang out”. After growing tired of the back and forth, we said what we meant as a final “Goodbye” on a few occasions but somehow we still grew towards each other in some misunderstood way and the “Goodbye” never stuck. We didn’t know what to do but we knew we needed to do it together. 

We tried going at it as strictly only-friends (with rules) or just casual dating and even for brief period, exclusively dating. We determined that none of these felt completely right when we thought into the future and then it finally dawned on us that predicting the future seemed to be causing the problem. Solution: Live in the moment.

 

We eventually learned to stop trying to not be and allow the mixed-up, non-sense making thing that is us to just be what it is. We stopped trying to picture what could or could-not or would or would-not happen with us. Ironically, we found footing together in the acceptance that there is no ground for us to stand on. We began to embrace and acknowledge the love and companionship that was being offered up without telling it what role to play. 

The subject of strictly defining what we are comes up between us every now and again. Sometimes it seems as if one of us is checking to see if the vow to “live in the moment” still rings true for the other or it may be that, we are trying to make sure that hurt or resentment isn’t sprouting. Either way, we never fully know what to say about ourselves when the conversation turns in this direction, or when a kiss between us comes as natural as a dew drop to a flower, quieting our differences. We just try to leave it open-ended with some variation of, “We’re funny, aren’t we?” or “We just don’t make any sense, do we?” 

Even though our clashing natures (and his self-centered story-telling mind) can drive me to tears or laughter at any given moment, I cannot deny his zany-charm. And although, he doesn’t like my taste in shoes, he certainly doesn’t seem to mind my company either.  

Sometimes we both feel the air of conflict as he reaches out to gather me into an intimate hug but it melts away when our gazes meet and we remember that we are not trying to exist in the future—we just enjoy the hug and allow it to remind us to live in the moment.

* Originally written Sept 2011

Silence

Like a breath of air I hold inside

Pretend that everything’s OK

There’s nothing to hide

If I keep believing the lie, someday it may be true

Keeping running around in circles that’s all I seem to do

Smile to the world—play it like I don’t really care

Again, denying the truth—was it ever really there?

I flash another fake smile

But turn away with a tear

Voices screaming inside, secrets you’ll never hear

Turning into darkness, pretending its light

Celebrate the victory

When I really lost the fight

Had everything tied up in the palm of my hand

But it slipped away before I could ever understand

Held hostage by my fear, I gently let it go

Mourning the feelings I could never really show

Now the silence haunts me…things I never said

Words twisting around like ghosts in my head

I was teetering on the edge

Trying not to fall

Sometimes SILENCE is the hardest thing of all.

-Gigi Ochs 2000

Different is OK

He reached out for me and I allowed it. I rested my chin upon his shoulder and leaned in as his arms wrapped snugly around me. My own arms found their way around his waist and I closed my eyes, giving myself over to his warmth. All at once I felt a rush of feelings ranging from sorrow to joy as I allowed myself the freedom to surrender into his embrace. A sudden realization was also taking root—this felt different. It was like a knot inside me began to slowly loosen and for once I wasn’t fighting it.

 

‘Different’ has never been easy for me to accept and his hug was different than the one that I craved in the moments where the world didn’t make sense to me. His hug was not the perfectly choreographed embrace burned into my memory by the man that loved me before. And although he had hugged me many times, this was the first time that I ever truly let him hold me. Something in me seemed to be giving way during this embrace and I wondered if he noticed.

 

 I surrendered a little more as I inhaled the scent of him and his hand gently found its way into my hair. I savored the moment a bit longer as I continued to reach around his waist, my fingers interlocking where they met. I suddenly heard the soft echo of the man that loved me before, his voice reaching up from the depths of my memory to whisper “‘Different’ is OK”, and those words hit me like a tidal wave.

 

 I blinked back tears as the embrace came to a close and we gently pulled away, untangling our arms. He laid me back down on the couch in his little makeshift office as I fought back the tears threatening to overtake me. I knew this observant man would immediately notice the watering of my eyes so I spoke softly as I blinked my tears away, “He once said to me that, ‘different’ was OK “

 

 He looked at me a bit puzzled as I continued on with my vague explanation, “He said we could never replace each other but that ‘different’ was ok too” His eyes lingered on mine for a second before he looked back to his computer screen—he had obviously decided not to push for further explanation. He knew who the ‘he’ I was referring to was.

 

 I gazed up at him as he sat perched on the edge of the couch working on the computer that sat an arms reach away on the desk. He allowed me ample room—both emotionally and physically--to stretch out behind him and ponder the realization, that different could indeed, be OK. But still I struggled with the idea as I heard the words echo from my memory—it was still just so hard for me to let old things go.

 

I held onto the idea that the man that loved me before was the only one that knew how to hold me. I had allowed others the physical embrace but kept a part of me out of the exchange because this wasn’t what I knew. I was finally realizing that I had been holding myself hostage from those that wanted just to hold me. It seemed that I was waiting for something that was never going to come again – I was waiting for the old hug, the one that defined what it felt like when a man truly loved a woman but that hug was gone, along with the man that created it. Everything was different now.

 

He glanced down at me again and I could tell that he was wondering what I was thinking but he didn’t ask. I laid the back of my hand down on his thigh and he responded by gently placing his hand in mine, reminding me that he was there but still giving me the silence to figure out what was happening to me.

 

 I rested my head back against the couch and thought of the last three weeks. It had been a rollercoaster of bad news, more bad news and even worse news. I was speeding towards different in every area of my life; family, work, relationships and now my home, where I felt safe and secure, was at risk of being pulled out from under me. It was all changing as I stood there watching, helpless, and unable to hold onto the familiar world I had created.

 

I had always known that the world I had built over the last two years was temporary; it was the cocoon that I had created after a devastating eight year relationship break-up. I knew on some level that life would force me out back into the world and that it wouldn’t allow me to hold on to the familiar heartache that I had come to know. Time is the great healer and my healing time was coming to a close but still, I was resistant to allow transformation. Everything in my life was becoming different and I was scared to death.

 

 I shifted slightly on the couch trying to take a deep breath without drawing attention. I tried my best to refocus myself and looked for something in the room to concentrate on. My eyes slid past a half completed sketch of a kangaroo and finally landed on a painting done by the man sitting next to me – it was a person curled up in the center of some undefined place, hiding their face from darkened arms as they reached out to get him. As I took in and identified with the painting, I could feel the familiar burn of tears stinging my eyes and I again, took a deep breath.  I was a guest in someone’s home and although we were alone, I couldn’t breakdown here. But I was so exhausted; exhausted from staying up too late arguing with a friend the night before; exhausted from trying to convince my landlord that the rent increase was too much and finally, I realized—with the help of an embrace from this man next to me--that I was utterly exhausted from fighting different. I started to collapse internally and fought to hold myself together.

 

 No! I am stronger than this! I tried to convince myself and I stood up suddenly to get a glass of water. He must have sensed my impending collapse because he followed close behind me wrapping his arms around my waist as we walked to the fridge. He let go long enough to pour me a glass of water and place it in my palm--all the while eyeing me with concern. I said nothing as I closed my eyes, gulped back the water and tried fiercely to contain the storm of tears that was raging behind my closed lids--but he didn’t buy it. He took the glass from my hands and put it down on the table. I hung my head in one last final attempt to hide my confusion and sadness but he reached for me anyway.

 

 “Let it out” he whispered and pulled me closer.

 

 A small sob escaped my throat as my forehead pressed against his chest. He was embracing me again and again I could feel myself surrendering. He whispered something soothing in my ear, wrapped his arms tighter around me and lead me to his bedroom.

 

 My eyelids felt heavy from exhaustion and my attempts to see were useless against the onslaught of tears but I could hear the muted click of the ceiling fan as it spun lazily in the quiet room and the sound of cicada’s right outside the window. I noticed the walls were painted royal blue--adding to the dark feel of the room and my mood--as I allowed him to lead me where he pleased.

 

 His bed was unusually high and I stopped when I felt it press into my lower-back. Without a moment of hesitance, he lifted me onto his bed, hopped up behind me, and tucked me safely away in his arms. I felt his lips gently kissing my hairline and his hand stroking my hair.

 

 As I lay there in his arms, it wasn’t just the feeling of ‘different’ that I noticed. There was also the growing feeling of contentment as I allowed the last of the knot of fear to uncoil with his gentle encouragement. I rested there in that darkened room with him for some time settling into the realization that this was very different but that it was more than ok, it was good.

 

 Again, I heard the voice of my old love echo in my mind but this time it was met with a thought of my own, yes, today I had learned that different was ok but more importantly, I learned that different meant that life is moving forward once again.

 

The Wall

She still lingers there on your wall

Hanging in a discreet corner of the room

A door you leave open only for her

You hold your own heart captive

But you like to believe

That she still holds it

She is never far from your mind

A thought continually interrupting your life

The wall blocking your path

She is sorry that she hurt you

But that doesn’t matter

Because you are stuck in the hurt

Sinking in the memory of a love

That she wouldn’t allow you to build

A grand ‘happily ever after’

Stolen, unrealized, vanished

Your hands pressed roughly against the wall

Your head bowed in defeat

I sit upon that wall and stare at her picture

Embraced by a brown frame, collecting dust

I wonder how I came to be here

Watching you, watching her

What use am I to a haunted man?

You suddenly look up to see me

As if some invisible force intervened

Surprise highlights your eyes

I smile down at you, penetrating

Loosening the sadness that you hold tight to

You call out with an unsure voice

A strange mixture of sorrow and hope

I reach out my arms to give you comfort

To offer you a peek over the wall

You place your hands in mine

I recognize the roughened wounds

As they press tightly into my own

Slowly turning to scars, sealing the past hurt away

I rubbed them for you and you smiled

The Book

All that was left of her—left of them—was a book

He sat on the edge of his bed with the book resting on his knees. He stared at the cover, an image of mountains reaching out of the fog. He had memorized the cover art long ago but he still saw only her when he looked at it.

It might as well be a picture of her. He thought as he rubbed his eyes.

 He opened the book as he had done many times over the last five years and then he closed it again. This is how it always happened. Here she comes, like a stray breeze making its way in through a window that someone forgot to close.

 He first saw her when he was thirty. Her buoyant energy reached out from behind the front desk of the place where they both worked and pulled the ground right out from under him. She was a force and when their energy collided neither of them understood what had happened. There was an undeniable pull between them and a feeling like they had both just come home after a long journey away—home to each other. 

 He fell head over heels in love with the girl from the front desk. He knew it and she knew it. He put up a fight. She watched him struggle but she already knew he would lose. He finally gave in and she walked gracefully, knowingly right into his arms. The full embrace, the giving over to that which is larger than self was like nothing he had ever felt. She loved him and his demons and he held her closer than he had ever held anyone or anything before.

 And she held him too. She held him even when it hurt; she held him through his strained fearful states; she held him through his anger and worry and she kept on holding him even when he set himself on fire. He burned him, he burned her and she held tightly anyway. She would look up at him with tearful eyes but she would be smiling. The burn was worth it to her.

He dropped his head as a tear formed in his eye and landed on the cover of the book. He quickly wiped it away not wanting it to leave a mark. He didn’t want to mess up her book. He had messed up a lot of things and one day when he placed the book back into her hands, he wanted it to be perfect, unmarred.

 He wasn’t always kind to her. He rejected her goodness because it forced him to recognize the good in himself and that was something that he couldn’t do. He was worthless to himself so why wasn’t he worthless to her?

He suspects the book could help him answer that question.

 He had his own answers; answers that were never productive or thoughtful but the drinking made the questions easier to tolerate. The bottom of the bottle never held any answers, only showed him his reflection—mockingly. The drink always lied to him, “Salvation is only one more drink away” but the buzz could only last for so long.

And then came the anger.

 He would shove her; throw her out of his arms. He would cross them over his chest and watch as she would force her way back through his tightly clenched biceps. She refused to allow him to shut her out. He would soften as he smelled the top of her head and give in again to that which was larger than either of them—love.

 He lifted the book to his nose and inhaled. He easily detected her faint smell. He wondered how such a delicate smell could linger on for so long. He reasoned that it was a gift from God because it meant that there was something left, that he didn’t totally destroy her.

 But he tried.

 He pushed her away—harder than before. The drinking gave him more power. He would watch as she frantically clawed away at his hands, fighting to maintain her place in his arms. She looked like a fairy but fought like a tigress. She wasn’t fighting for herself, she was fighting for him and that enraged him all the more.

She wouldn’t let him self-destruct.

 He flipped through the pages of the book, catching a word here and there. He felt almost like he was peeking at something he shouldn’t see, almost like he was cheating and the words lost their life—never fully absorbed. He noticed the tearstains on some of the pages – he reasoned that those were the most important pages. She cried when she read the words that she thought could help him, the drops landing on the pages that she wished would save his life. She cried for him even after all that he did to her. He longed to go back and sit with her in the moments that she read those pages. He longed to look up into her eyes and see the hope dancing there but he hadn’t been there because he was across town, drinking.

She came to him and placed the book in his hands, “I believe in you” she had said and silently walked out of his life. 

And he had promised her that he would read the book.

Time creeps in to remind him that he made that promise long ago. He hugs the book to his chest and wonders where she is now and if she is happy. He chooses to remember her instead of know her now as the person she has become in the time that they have been apart. He squeezes the book; the book that is so important to him that he cannot bring himself to read even one page of it. The book is the only physical thing that holds them together--the suspended period to their story, hovering just above the last page of them.

He can’t face her faith in him because that would give him proof that he was worth believing in and so he closes the book over and over.   

It is his fear of salvation, his fear of failure, his fear of losing that last element of her that holds the book hostage. 

 What if he reads the book and her belief in him was in vain? What if he reads the book and nothing changes? Will she know? Of course she will--she always does. Time and distance never seemed to matter where she was concerned. Is the act of reading the book worth possibly killing the faith that lingers there still between them?

He won’t risk hurting her again.

The book is like a wish she had for him, all her love and compassion folded so neatly between the covers and her tears engraved in the pages forever. He is scared to read the book so he holds it close instead like the memory of a woman who walked gracefully into the arms of the devil and dared to love him.

He closes his eyes and inhales the book once more before placing it back on his nightstand next to his whiskey glass.

 Gigi Ochs

Please Don't Date Me

There he was in my inbox and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. I clicked through and was greeted with a warm and intelligent dating profile that although extremely well written, seemed to be whispering “Like me, but don’t date me”. He was focused on his art but wanted to make female friends. Hmmm… I found this quite suspicious surely as any female on a dating site would.  I heard the plea, “Please don’t date me” loud and clear but instead of heeding the sound of this warning, I listened harder---I am obviously not your typical female. He was one big contradiction and I found that more interesting than half the other men that emailed me.

His email said that he had stopped by my profile a few times because he was trying to figure out who I reminded him of and on this last fateful visit he had finally figured it out. I looked like a French actress he knew of and he just wanted to tell me that (and assure me that he wasn’t some online-stalker-creep). I clicked “reply”. His profile yelled again, “Please don’t date me”. Undeterred, I begun an email to this wordsmith-artist man. I laughed to myself as I composed a message thanking him for the compliment, granting him permission to stop by my profile whenever he wished and last but not least, assuring him that I wasn’t going to try and date him. “Send”.

I sat there and shook my head as his words came to mind in some imagined male voice,” I am focused on my creative pursuits”, “I only want to make female friends. ” . I wondered why this seemingly intelligent artist man was torturing himself. Besides, couldn’t he make female friends on Facebook?

This man, who seemed to be contradicting himself--by posting his well-constructed-wall-of-fear (made solely of words) on a dating website--, lingered in my mind despite the fact that I didn’t expect a response to my reply.  After all, I tied up my email into a nice little “Thank you and good luck” bow with nothing to respond to and deposited it into his inbox because I wasn’t on a dating site to meet friends (or scare this man); I was here to date and to find someone who also wanted to date. I took one last look at his profile, clicked the ‘X’ at the corner of the screen and sent him back into the black-hole of cyberspace.

And then he responded.

What?! Wait, a second, I gave him an “out” and despite the whimper of fear from his profile, he didn’t take it? Realization dawned on me – he was trying. He was fighting against the side of him that wanted protection, fighting to live life and silence the whimper forever. Part of him seemed willing to embrace the possibility of making a connection or—gasp—finding love (or perhaps just a psycho-woman) on the internet.  I saw clearly the two sides fighting for control and I had an idea. What if I could be his friend?  I could give him what he was asking for; a female friend.

I wasn’t scared by the train-wreck mentality that was seeping through his please-don’t-date-me dating profile. You see, I have a natural gift for sensing the emotional undercurrent of other’s struggles and where they seem to stem from. I thought, I can help him, I should help him. Yes.

This should be easy, I thought to myself. I am a pro when it comes to male and female friendship. I am that girl who is just as comfortable—if not more so—in a gaggle of guys as she is in a gaggle of (fighting, sassy and drama-filled) ladies.  I thought over my list of male-friend characters and quickly found an opening for an intelligent artist wordsmith—he was in.

Of course, it occurred to me that he might not want to be “in” but he did respond to my email, he untied that bow and now there were loose ends. We quickly developed a meaningful  email exchange and told each other our heartbreak stories, our fears, and our beliefs.  After some intense emails, holidays and visits to other countries, we made a “non-date” date or a “druther” as he liked to call it.

I had plans to meet some friends in center city at the ice skating rink. I decided to invite him along—knowing that he would be more apt to agree since it was a group and not a one-on-one meeting. The plan was made and the “non-date” date was set.

My friends and I decided to go for a beer before heading to the ice skating rink. I wanted to find a bit more courage to face this man and demand that he allow me to be the female friend he was seeking ( it is a well known fact that guinness is good for the spirit). As I sat at the pub and stared at my beer, I realized that the probability of me busting my butt on the ice was rising with every sip. Courage be damned—I’d rather not be embarrassed so I pushed my beer aside.  A little anxiety began to creep in and for a split second, I was thinking about canceling but then my phone rang. My overly curious friends looked on as I listened to the unfamiliar voice on the phone tell me that he was canceling because his friend had backed out—it was “the nasty weather”, he said. My mind quickly wondered if his friend was really the reason or if the part of him that whispered “Please don’t date me” just slammed the door on what was to be my offer of friendship.

Right as I was about to spew my disappointment/mild relief to my buddies, he called back to say that he was, in fact, coming and that his friend had changed his mind—it was back on. I looked at my friends with what was surely a puzzled expression as I hung up the phone the second time and said a quick prayer that I wouldn’t bust my ass too hard on the ice in front of a handsome stranger.

After a freezing cold four block walk in the misty rain, we arrived to a packed skating rink. I quickly glanced around but wasn’t able to locate the artist man in a crowd of overly bundled-up strangers whirling round and round in circles on the tiny rink. He is going to have to find me, I thought to myself as I laced up my too-big skates. I stood up and faced the rink, wishing that I had the rest of that guinness because my courage was waning.  My friends stood ahead looking back at me with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.  I stumbled a bit as I entered the rink and was met with a giggle from the tall red-head in my group. I shot her a warning look and pointed out that she was the one wearing a monkey as a hat. She closed her mouth and skated away, leaving me vulnerable and open for anybody—namely the artist guy—to find me. I turned to my left and found myself looking right into his eyes.

He smiled shyly as the rest of my friends high-tailed it out of sight. As we skated alone around the rink (our friends kept a safe distance), we made somewhat shy conversation and tried our best to embrace our awkward situation. It was freezing cold, drizzling, and both of us were trying our best not to fall down. As we skated, I wondered how we were the same two people that had spilled our very-personal guts to each other over email. This “stranger” standing in front of me knows more about me than some of my friends that I had had for years—yet he was a stranger.

I was impressed with his efforts towards me, after all, this was the same man who said that he had never really had female friends but to my surprise, he didn’t seem awkward around me--a female. We made quick work of the meeting since he was recently back from an international trip and was jet lagged and the weather was also deteriorating quickly. It was obvious that there didn’t seem to be much chemistry on the friendship front (or any other front for that matter) so we said a quiet and quick goodbye and I thought to myself that I would probably never see him again.

I was wrong.

He called to tell me how tired he was that night and that his legs were really bothering him. He joked about how the fear of falling on the ice kept us both more concentrated on our feet than on each other. We continued our email exchanges with some phone calls sprinkled in. To my surprise, we went right back to communicating just like the meeting hadn’t happened. I had gained a friend.

With both of us being fairly good in the kitchen, it wasn’t to be long before he ended up coming over for dinner. I hopped about the kitchen holding a glass of red wine while stirring pasta and listened as the artist man told me zany stories of his character-like friends. I noticed a theme early on—the artist man was always the one in the background, following the braver, manlier, tough guys around. He wasn’t the one that got the girl—ever. My heart constricted a little for this gentle artist man who is more at home with a paint brush or a pen than with hanging with the guys or playing football.

 I was beginning to like this man even more.

And apparently, he liked me too and this became evident when he surprised me by asking so honestly and kindly for a kiss—from me. He had just finished telling me of a missed opportunity with a seductress that he was too nice to oblige. I thought over all the things that he had told me and there wasn’t any way in hell that I was going to tell him “No”. I smiled kindly and said “You can kiss me” and he did.

There were no major fireworks and the world didn’t stop spinning—it was a kiss, that’s all. We were both honest with each other. He didn’t know how he felt about me and I had guessed early on that he wasn’t over the breaking apart of his marriage but even so I never wavered from my purpose or promise to be this man’s friend. I wasn’t trying to get him to love me or rush him into being ready for romance. I realized that he was testing his wings, trying to get one foot out of the past and see what was out there for him and there I was, offering to help him--nothing more, nothing less.

We planned a hiking trip to a nearby mountain. We felt easy with each other and enjoyed lounging on the bank of a bubbling creek talking and feeling the moment. The atmosphere around us seemed to light up with chemistry and a change could be felt by us both. He stood and gently helped me to my feet. We embraced for a few minutes, enjoying a rare warm and sunny February day. He told me that when he was ready for her that he hoped that she was a lot like me and I called out after him that I felt the same way about him. We stared at each other for a moment but didn’t speak.

And that’s when things got complicated.

I came to the realization that this had now become some weird mix of friendship intertwined with sudden bolts of chemistry and I was becoming confused. I was his friend, I reminded myself. I felt like I was no longer helping him, all I was managing to do was confuse myself. This was not going as I had planned.

I thought that by making the promise to be his friend that I understood exactly what that meant. I was going to show him how easy it was to be a part of a male/female friendship but it was him who showed me that relationships are unique to the participants. Relationships flow and you mess everything up when you try to direct them. 

After arriving home from the somewhat magical day on the mountain, we both acknowledged our confusion about what our interaction had become and saw only one way out--we decided to say “Goodbye”.

I cried when he walked out the door. I cried because there was a part of me that wanted to seek out more of those tender not-just-friends moments. I cried because I remembered what it was like for someone to care for me the way a man was supposed to care for a woman –with the gentleness that this artist man had shown me. I cried for him because I knew well the long road to healing and forgiveness that he was walking because I was there not too long ago myself.  And finally, I cried because I had actually failed in becoming his friend.

And, although his dating profile had long since been forgotten, I swear I could hear the tiny sigh of relief from his “Please don’t date me” profile.

-Gigi Ochs

The Shadow

She sat in the smallest, darkest room she could find—her closet. She likened the darkness to numbness and that was preferable to the turmoil that she was always trying to outrun.

She wasn’t always this way because she was—if only for a brief time—a child, a little creature full of wonder, excitement and imagination. She was the ringleader in the neighborhood. She was the one that made the creek a whole new world where vampires, fairies and unicorns lived and she gave each kid and roll and they all played together in the world her mind created.  Her imagination was powerful but not powerful enough to hide the circumstances of her childhood for very long.

The gift of her imagination came from her mother, a woman who loved to write stories and spin tales of fantasy. She kept these half written stories in various notebooks lying in corners around the house. A collection of grand adventures that never came to fruition—all stuck on the page, stopping abruptly when real life would not be ignored any longer.

This woman she called mother never finished anything she wrote but that didn’t stop the fantasy from creeping into reality as she would tell her children, “Some day I will publish a book and we will be able to get a car so we won’t have to walk everywhere.” Hearing her mother say this gave her and her siblings hope and their eyes would light up at the thought of not having to carry groceries back every week from the store.  Over time this line would change and vary with her mother’s thunderous moods, “If your father hadn’t left, things wouldn’t be this way“, “Your grandparents have money but they won’t get us a car because if I write a book, they know I’ll leave this shit-hole of a city“, and finally the one that would sting her—a child who believed her mother—the most, “If you kids would leave me alone, I could write this book. It’s your fault I don’t have time to do this. I’m too busy taking care of you all.”

Looking for a place to hide from her mother’s rant, she sat in her dark closet for the first time and allowed the tears to spring forth, running uncontrollably down her rounded ten year old cheeks. She buried her face in the clothes and felt her gut clenching and releasing with waves of sobs. She didn’t understand it. Why was her mother always so angry? This was just one of the reoccurring thoughts in her mind as a young girl struggling with a harsh reality that she wasn’t yet old enough to understand. A deep sadness was growing within her and starting to eat away at her.

She sensed something was terribly wrong but couldn’t identify it. She felt it building, a turmoil overtaking her gut. This feeling begins to follow her around like a shadow. It’s hidden in the corner when she’s playing with her friends and lays beside her paralyzing her in the moments before she rises from bed to go to school. She closes her eyes tight and tries to will it away but it always creeps back.

The shadow would whisper to her that life wasn’t worth it and that no one loved her. She would fight this shadow with barbies and baby-dolls and books. She would attempt to lose herself in her childhood world, a world that she belonged in but was constantly being pulled out of.

This shadow lived in the most inconspicuous places and seemingly innocent chores like checking the mailbox became a terrifying thing. She would lace up her skates and glide down to the apartment mailbox and the shadow would leap out from the business sized envelope with the yellow slip inside that said “Final Notice”. She would skate back, terrified and place the mail on the counter. Rushing up to her bedroom she would attempt to hold the shadow at bay by losing herself in a daydream but when it was time for dinner the shadow would stare back at her from her own mother’s eyes; eyes that had seen the mail but chose to ignore it.

She would stare at the envelope and its urgent message—an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. What would happen now? She would ask her mother, who would answer, “I don’t have the money so I guess we won’t have power unless they can wait until I get paid.” Her mother never opened the mail and she reasoned that maybe her mother knew the shadow too.

Her mother began to fly into fits and rages and would tell her children that she didn’t have the money to pay the bills and that she didn’t know how she was going to buy food or keep a roof over everyone’s head. She painted pictures of a home on the streets and threatened her children with them. Her mother’s rages seemed to feed the shadow and it was growing in response.

The shadow was strongest in the early morning before school. It would tell her that she shouldn’t go and her gut would clench in terror. It told her that school wasn’t safe and that everyone would know that she didn’t have a car or money for chocolate milk in the cafeteria line. The shadow told her that everyone would stare at her and know that her family was different. The shadow would win most days and she would hide, trying to find a way out of going to school.

Worry became her constant companion and after recognizing that her mother wasn’t prepared to do deal with life or even the mail, her belief in her mother dwindled and soon vanished. She had no protection. Life became empty and very dark but she was practical in her pain and understood that if she ran away that the shadow would follow her – it seemed to live within that clenching feeling in her gut. She loved her mother and would miss her if she ran away so she tried to cope with the growing darkness.

When she couldn’t handle it, she retreated in to the numbness of the dark closet. She couldn’t see anything or hear anything and tried her best to absorb this nothingness. She would sob until she fell asleep. She awoke one day and realized that for a tiny instant that the pain wasn’t there—she had had a wonderful dream and for a second forgot about her waking life. That dream had given her relief. She no longer wished to be happy, she just didn’t want to feel and that’s when the shadow pointed to the bottle of sleeping pills on her mother’s bedside table. This was the first time that she realized that she wanted to die.

She sat trembling on her bed, bottle in hand and prayed for the will to take the pills but also prayed at the same time for something or someone to stop her from taking them. It was an odd moment because she could hear the world going on all around her, the sounds of kids playing outside and a ball being kicked back and forth just a mere fifty feet from the dark drama that was unfolding in her bedroom.  She turned up the bottle but only four pills landed in her palm, she swallowed them down and buried herself in the blankets to wait for the freeing darkness to come and warm her. A few short minutes later, her mother burst into the room and eyed the empty bottle on the floor.

“There wasn’t enough in the bottle to do what you’re trying to do.” Her mother glared at her smugly.

She stared at her mother as her eyes filled with tears, “I think I need help. I don’t want to be awake anymore.”

“There is nothing wrong with you. You can live here but you’re not my daughter anymore.” and with that her mother walked out and closed the door behind her.

She was on her own.

She fought the shadow off for years to come, finding little bits of hope hidden in books, writing and music. Her family life only grew more difficult with the financial demands of four growing children but it became somewhat easier to deal with as she got older and understood that her mother was ill and that she and her siblings were not to blame.

She stared at her mother’s notebooks, grand stories scrawled out across the pages and felt sorry for such a talented writer whose life was being stolen away by mental illness. She felt incredible compassion for her mother who wasn’t capable of realizing her dreams and who crushed her children’s dreams in retaliation. The blame that her mother placed on her children suddenly became easier to bear when it was viewed through the face of compassion.

And then one day brought with it a moment of awakening as she sat in her room painting her nails. She was thirteen and her family had just moved to a really rough neighborhood, running from her old apartments where they had been evicted for not being able to pay the rent. She felt a tingling and looked up as her room seemed to fill with light. Everything took on a different hue and seemed much more vivid and alive. She spotted her shadow hiding in the corner, trying to find safety from the light. She stared it right in the eye and realized that when she looked at it, it lost its power to scare her. She was hit with the silent knowing that everything was going to be alright.

Over time she learned that this shadow was depression brought on by an environment that she had no control over. She found freedom in knowing that she didn’t do anything wrong and that she was just a child caught in a bad situation.

That one moment of grace was enough to plant a seed of faith that would be able to sustain her for the rest of her life and her closet soon became just that—a closet.

Gigi Ochs