Tag Archives: alone

Tears

The sky is crying and so am I.  It’s that kind of a day.  Cold, rainy, gloomy, depressing.  The hint of spring we were beginning to catch glimpses of last week has been swept away, now hidden beneath freezing fog, pellets of “snow cone” snow and branches encased in clear thick layers of ice.  Agonizing frigid air lashes out aggressively, stabbing relentlessly.  Movement is treacherous across slippery surfaces.  Even the hardiest don their heaviest winter coats, scarves and boots in a futile attempt to generate an artificial warmth so as to stave off involuntary shivering.  The sky drips disapproval.  Tears.  Frozen tears.

I’m so ready for spring…but spring is not yet ready to come.

I discover in the darkness of this day, in the unrelenting freezing rain, thick, impenetrable flurries of snow, in the bone-chilling wet and piercing, raw cold, I am struggling to summon enough will to propel myself from bed.  To dress.  Even to eat or brush my teeth.  The iciness has sapped all my strength.  My voice is gone.  I cannot articulate my pain.  I feel broken, cracked like shattered ice.  And utterly empty.

My teardrops join those glacial raindrops the clouds cry, spit and sling upon the earth.  Words are often inadequate vessels and today they leave me especially bitter and alone.  I seek hope in the gloom, a flower where there is none.  A green blade of grass where only dry, lifeless remnants of foliage lay buried beneath the ever-deepening ice and snow.  In this wintry, lonely place, I am swallowed by the emptiness, without voice or expression.  In the absence of words, my teardrops speak, even as they freeze upon my cheek.

Winters are grueling.  Exhausting.  Punishing.  They make survival so much harder.

Life is harsh, biting and lonely, even in the best of times.  During the prevailing darkness, when every inch of the terrain is carpeted beneath too many inches of endless white, trying to stand is hazardous.  Trying to move, to make headway, to walk a path or cautiously creep toward a destination, is foolish and ill-advised.  And pointless.  It is best to hunker down.  To burrow beneath layers of denial.  To wait for the sun…praying it will come to provide much needed thawing and relief.

I cry with the sky as I lift my eyes in search of a reprieve.  Then hunker into my shell.  Hunting in vain for warmth where there is none to be found.

 

Profound Silence

I live in a world of silence.  Silence so profound, it beats upon my eardrums and screams at me until I fear for what is left of my sanity.  It is all I can hear.  It is the voice of my nightmares.

It is a silence nearly complete.  Almost unbroken.  It consumes everything in its path.

Within my world, an overpowering silence reigns.  My dogs occasionally bark.  My phone infrequently rings or a text announces its arrival. Rarely, I play music or turn on the TV to try to drown out the droning voice of the persistent emptiness that envelops me.  I have been captured and am held a prisoner in this intensely silent world.  This place of nothingness.

There is no one to talk to other than my dogs and they don’t have much to say in response.   There are no conversations, dangling or otherwise.  No laughter.  No chatter.  No friends who want to get together.  Nothing to break the stillness or to challenge the powerful quietness.

I occupy myself by reading books, playing with my two dogs, poking around on my laptop.  I post on Facebook and long for responses so I can convince myself I have friends.  Connections.  I write my blog.  You can hear the tapping of the keyboard as I type, the distant traffic noises and children playing in the street outside the window providing minimal relief from the deafening, endless, pulsing silence.  In spite of these brief intrusions, there is a prevailing quietness to my existence that presses down on me, forcing the air out of the room.  Leaving me gasping and longing for a reassuring word or touch.  Suddenly, I see clearly, painfully aware of how utterly alone I am.

A small dose of silence can be good for the soul, providing time to reflect, to examine new thoughts and ideas, to consider alternate perspectives.  I can take a fairly hefty dose of it.  But it can become unbearably oppressive when it is a near constant companion.  It crushes.  Tears one apart with sharp teeth and razor claws.  In excessive quantities, it is excruciating. Even deadly.

Essentially, silence is exceedingly noisy.  It never stops.  Never shuts up.  Never relents.  It weighs on you, pressing your breath from panting lungs.  Destroying hope.  Revealing a reality that is intolerable.  It beats you up until you are frightfully bloody and broken beyond repair.  And it takes everything from you, creating a vacuum that is agonizing, dark, terrible, excruciating.

You’ve heard the term “deafening roar?”  Silence is like this.  It roars.  ROARS!  And the roar is so horribly loud, it causes even the bravest to cover their ears and run.  That deafening roar is overwhelming and oppressive.  The sound of it tears the soul into tiny fragments, leaving nothing behind but dust.  It generates immeasurable terror and eternal desolation.  There is no escaping the overwhelming soundless emptiness.

Whoever said silence is golden likely didn’t have it as a near constant companion.  Didn’t live with it day in and day out.  Didn’t have to come home to it, dine with it, sleep with it, drive with it, bathe in it.

When profound silence and a suffocating emptiness is all you have to look forward to, all you have to live for, you find, essentially, you don’t have anything for which to live after all.

Heartbeat

I do not feel.  Not now.  Not for a long time.  I numbed myself years ago.  To survive the volcanic pain I held in the depths of my heart.  The raging torrent that threatened to overwhelm and drown me.  I intentionally twisted the massive valve inside my soul until the flow of caustic emotions stopped.  Until only a trickle escaped.  Until I was no longer being ripped apart by its sharp talons.  Until the agony no longer crushed me with its unbearable weight.

Once closed, that valve is impossible to reopen.  I did not know this when I shut it tight.  Had I understood, I would have chosen to let the pain take me down and rip out my throat.

I have lived my life in this state of suspension, neither dead or alive.  I have talked about all the things that will never matter and none of those that did.  Or do.  I’ve worn my poker face carefully, as if my existence depended on it.   Said what was proper in each situation.  Laughed when it was appropriate.  Cried only in secret, if at all.  Told everyone I was “fine” and “great” while turning the spotlight away from myself because I feared what it would revel if anyone looked too closely.  I performed.  Kept walking.  Went through the motions.  Amazed by the lack of a heartbeat as I took one step and then another.   And another.

I absorbed each shockwave, each loss and trauma, without reacting.  Took the next step.  Feeling nothing.  Kept moving because that was what I was supposed to do.  What I had to do.  Because it’s what “normal” people do.

No heartbeat.

Empty.  Broken.  Shattered.  My only choice was to keep going somehow.  Or die trying.

But when I am alone, when the darkness of night swaddles me tightly, pinning me in its cocoon, when the silence screams in my ears until I fear I will go deaf or insane or both, when I have nothing to hang on to and hope is a distant planet, I write.  I search for words to tell my story because I have no voice with which to speak.  Nor do I have anyone waiting by my side who will listen.  I search for the perfect words to express all the things I would feel, if only I could turn that massive handle backward, reopening the rusted valve I closed so long ago.  I vent my emotions through vowels and consonants.  I use my pen to exorcize the decaying,  pent up, blunted, deadened feelings.  The words on the page are the only way I know I am still alive.  They speak.  Quietly and falteringly.  They attempt to make sense of the repulsive tale.  They are my tapestry.

I inject all of my buried emotion into those words.  Into each one of them…each word and phrase.  I don’t feel, so much as I write it out, then read what I should or would be feeling if only I could.  I write about what I might be experiencing somewhere deep beneath the surface of my frozen soul.   I pack the sentences and paragraphs full of descriptors, hoping to attain a reaction upon impact.   I long for a response from my destroyed soul.  Any response at all.  But no matter how well I capture the moment or paint the picture or weave the tapestry, my words do not cause so much as a tiny ripple in my heart.

And so, I continue to write.  Trying in vain to uncover even a microscopic sign of life.

I long for seismic activity.  For the volcano to spew forth the hot lava that burns my insides and eats me from within.  But there is no activity to detect.  Nor even so much as a bit of steam escaping from the throat of the volcano.   The fissure does not vomit out its contents.   There is no relief.  Only enduring silence.

I search for words I cannot find.  Attempting finally to release the noxious toxic gasses into the atmosphere.  But the crater is cold, sealed by too many thick layers and far too many years.

No heartbeat.  The valve can’t be reopened.  Time can’t be unspent.  There is no going back to do it differently.  All the paths not taken will never be traveled because I did not choose to walk them.  I did not take the risks I should have taken, nor did I dare to explore uncharted territory.

There is a crater where once was housed a soul.  There is a stone where I once nurtured a heart.  There is numbness and death where once there was breath and life.  And there are now only inadequate, insufficient, unmoving words scattered across the page where once there was a heartbeat.

My heartbeat.  Silent forevermore.

The Beating of My Heart

My heart is heavy.  It is so incredibly heavy, I’m not sure how much longer I can continue to carry it around within me.  It weighs a million pounds.  A billion.  The pain of it is unbearable.  Unbearable.  The immensity of the damage.  I can’t tolerate the agony, the excruciating pain of its weight.

I can’t start again.  I can’t tell myself it will be better tomorrow as a means of tricking myself into going on.  I’ve used that ploy too many times.  I’ve lost the ability to deceive myself in this way.  I know the lie.  I know it in my bones.

I’ve carried this mangled heart for years.  Lugging it.  Pulling it behind me.  Hoisting it up.  Negotiating with it.  The endless pep talks.  Telling myself I could do it.  Stand. Take another step.  Just one more.  I’ve duped it.  Told my ruined heart it could keep beating.  It could.  One. More. Beat.  And then another. I believed my words could repair my thoughts, sooth my soul and bring healing.  And when nothing changed, I told myself I simply needed to try harder.

But I’m so tired.  So tired now.  After years of picking myself back up, willing myself to breathe another breath of air, forcing my ravaged heart to pump another bit of life-giving blood, willing my muscles to move, to take another step, I am just too weary to march forward for another second of another day.  I’m done.

A new year stretches before me.  Blank pages and unbroken snow.  New possibilities, perhaps. Yet it isn’t enough to cause me to rally.  I’ve rallied too many times to no avail.  With no reward.  With no relief.  Finding no reason or meaning.  The beating of my heart is ripping me apart.  Every thud shreds me to pieces.  I can’t endure it.  I no longer care how the story ends.  I only care that it will.  Finally end.  Soon.

Let it all go on without me.  It no longer matters.  It is too late.

Year after year, I have pulled through.  Found enough conviction to muster.  I’ve launched out with hope beating in my heart.  Bought the lie.  I have told myself the story as if it was the gospel truth. As if believing would make it reality.  I’ve held it close to me.  Thought positive thoughts. Done the right things.  Said the right words.  Whispered lie after lie into my own ear.  Believing release was right around the next corner.  Hidden in the next minute.

No more.

It is too painful to continue to deceive myself.  It is too heartbreaking to believe.

This new year will be as the one before and the one that came before that one.  It will be comprised of 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes 31,536,000 seconds, and each will hold a single one of my heartbeats.  A fragment of my being.  Of those increments of time, each will bring nothing more than the last one brought.  Nothing inspiring, nothing life-changing, nothing life-giving.  Nothing.  What is and was is all that will ever be.  And each one of those seconds, each fragment, is filled with pain, suffering, heartache, terror and unspeakable longing.  A longing for wholeness, purpose, connection and healing.

A longing for what will never occur.

If I can force myself to take the steps and walk through each of those seconds, a year from now, I fear I will still be standing in this same place.  At this very moment. Filled to overflowing with emptiness and disappointment. And regret.  I will stand on the same ground.  At the same point.  Just as I have been standing in this very instant each and every year that has come before.

Alone.  Broken.  Empty. Unfulfilled.  Without.

Hope has slipped away.

A hamster caught, running in the wheel.  Round and round and round.  Until it can’t.

The beating of my heart. The turning of the wheel. The only indication I am alive.

I Will Not Be Remembered

There will come a time when no one will care that a shy tow-headed little girl grew up in a small Missouri town.  They won’t remember the way she was afraid of the adults around her.  They won’t know how hard she toiled, trying to make sense of chaos, trying to find her footing amid the deadly earthquakes and terrifying explosions experienced daily in her unstable world.  It will not matter that she was physically, emotionally and verbally abused by her mother…her mother who looked the other way as she was sexually, physically, emotionally and verbally abused by her father.  No one will remember how beaten down and torn apart she was when she ventured out into the world at 17 years of age.  As she struggled to figure out how to live like a normal person with so many of her pieces missing or crushed.

They won’t recall her at all, nor will it matter.  That young girl who kept trying.  Who daydreamed and believed.  Her, trudging along with a heart that was shattered.  A soul that was torn and decimated.  No one will remember or care about her struggles, failures, disappointments or unrealized dreams.  She will not be remembered at all.  Her life was and is insignificant.  She never managed to accomplish anything great nor contributed anything approaching wonderful.  Her biggest victory was to survive.  For she survived in spite of the odds.  But surviving, in this case, means only that she has continued to breathe while putting one foot in front of the other year after year.  It is no great thing.

Her footsteps in the dust are even now being blown away and covered by the sands of time.

It is a harsh wake-up call.  A startling realization.  To be staring at the end of your life and to know you’ve done nothing, become nothing, are nothing, and that nothing you’ve gone through, none of the experiences or events of your life will be remembered.  By anyone. Because nothing done or achieved is in any way worth remembering.  None of it.

The realization is painful.  Everything I went through, all the things I learned the hard way, all the hopes that I had of finding love and healing, touching the world, making a difference…all of this, the essence of who I am and what I have felt…it will die with me when I take my final breath.  And it will not matter.  Not in the least.  I will not leave anyone behind who will care.  Or remember.   Or even know I once was.

Maybe that is simply the way it is.  We are all destined to be forgotten.

I wanted the pain to count for something.  I wanted the nightmares I lived through and the abuse I experienced to have a reason.  I wanted to leave something behind that would help others find their way through the darkness.  I wanted to leave a mark. I wanted to accomplish something worth noting.  I wanted to do something worth doing.  I wanted to be worth remembering.

But I will not be remembered.  I haven’t found answers or knowledge to share with those who are coming after me.  I haven’t accumulated great wisdom that can be passed down.  I’ve done nothing spectacular, significant or news-worthy.

I live in isolation.  My life is hollow, void of meaning, purpose, joy.  I am nothing and I have nothing to give.  I am not worth remembering.  My heart still beats.  My lungs still inhale and exhale.  But I am not truly alive.

I started my life broken, but believing.  Believing I could overcome.  Believing I would find my way and have an impact.  I near its end still broken, but out of hope.  Without dreams.  Without spirit.  This is not at all what I expected or where I expected to be at this stage in my life.  I expected to come to the end with something in my hands worth leaving behind.  But as I open them and bare my palms, my hands are empty.

I am already all but forgotten.  For I have lived an utterly forgettable life.

 

Childless

I don’t have  children.  It was a choice…one I often regret at this stage in my life.  It was a painful choice.  It is more painful now, looking back.  Now that I understand with more clarity why I did what I did.  Life is like that.  It’s often easier to see the truth when looking in the rear-view mirror.  It is easier to see paths you should have taken instead of the ones you did.

I made the decision to remain childless when I was 16 years old while sitting in American History Class one afternoon.  I hated history.  My mind often wandered to more profound topics.  Which is what happened on this particular day.  The memory is extremely clear.  I was daydreaming, writing out a list of names I liked, potential names for the daughter I hoped to have someday.  Madison, Zoe, Heather, Hannah, Michaela, Addison, Maddie, Mackenzie…I had a long list.  I was imagining what she would be like, this child I vowed to love with all of my heart.  Would she adore words the way I did?  Would she have any of my features?  Would she have the same kind of intuition and insight I often had; a maturity beyond her years?  Would she love the water?  Love to run?  Enjoy learning?  Love dogs?

As I wrote, some nasty persistent thoughts kept interrupting my pleasant musings. And I couldn’t quite banish them to the back of my mind.

I began to think about something I had recently read, a story about how abused children often grew up to be abusers themselves.  Finally, the thought captured my full attention.  I stopped writing.  Contemplated the implications of the research.  Looked over the names I had written.  Thought some more, as everything began to come together.  It was an important moment, one that is indelibly etched in my mind.  Frozen in time, sharp and clear.  It was one of those moments when reality is revealed and something very deep and significant results.  A shift takes place.  In an instant, the course of one’s life forever altered.

I knew in my heart I wouldn’t abuse a child.  I could never hurt anyone the way I had been hurt.  But in that moment, I became acutely aware of the big holes in my soul.  And I feared what I lacked and the ways I had been damaged might prevent me from being able to give a child all the things they would need to grow into a happy, healthy, normal adult.

Sydney, Whitney, Madison, Holly, Lexie, Jillian, Sadie…

The more I thought about the risk, the sadder and emptier I felt.

Marne, Haley, Willow, Quinn, Jordan, Quincy…

I stared at the list, rereading each name until the sadness was overwhelming.  And I began to grieve.

I remember feeling hollowed out.  I pushed my pen aside.   Finally resigned, I quietly but firmly folded up the paper that contained my list of special names.  I placed it between the pages of my notebook.  Tucking it away.  And I knew, with an understanding that defied logic, I would never use any of those names because I would never have a child.  I couldn’t take the chance.  I couldn’t risk it.

And just like that, the decision was made.

I never really looked back.  There was a time in my early 30’s when I gave God permission to change my mind.  I didn’t think I had made a mistake, but I wanted to make sure I had been thinking clearly when I originally made my choice as a daydreaming 16-year-old girl in American History class.  He was silent. My heart did not condemn me.  I took that as agreement.

But sometimes it really hurts.

I have never been pregnant.  Never felt a child move inside of me.  Never held my baby in my arms.  Never been able to pour myself out for another being I loved more than life itself.  Never had the chance to protect a little one, to guide them, to help them learn and grow.  And nothing of myself will be left upon this earth when I am gone.  No one will remember me.  Or care that I once was.

I never got to go through the ups and downs, rediscovering the beauty of life, enjoying their innocence, their puzzlement, seeing them experience the world.  Never got to observe those first steps, their first love, their first kiss, graduation, marriage, jobs.  Never held them when they cried.  Never bandaged scraped knees.  Watched the stars and the moon with them.  Taught them to drive.  Helped them to be strong and confident and secure.

I never received a Mother’s Day card.

I never got to see their face or look into their eyes.

I will never know the joy of having a grandchild.

It hurts because that child who might have been will never be.  The first time I was on the maternity ward of the hospital, it was to recover after having a hysterectomy.  I did not experience giving birth to a new life.  I let that opportunity slip through my fingers because I was afraid I would not be the kind of parent I needed to be.

When I die, no one will cherish my belongings, holding some worthless trinket tenderly in their hand as they remember me.  No one will want the poems and songs I have written or care about the struggles of my life; my victories and defeats.  No one will miss me.  My passing will not impact a single soul.

To the child of my heart, the child of my dreams and imagination, I can only say this:  I loved you enough not to have you.  I was afraid, I admit it.  Afraid I couldn’t be a good enough mother to give you all that you would need to grow strong and whole.  There were so many things I didn’t have that I needed.  So many things I experienced that damaged me.  I didn’t know if I could overcome the damage and still equip you to be a resilient and confident individual.  I was afraid my lack would cause me to fail you.  I was fearful of deeply hurting you.  Injuring you.  So even though I dreamed about you, longed for you and wrote out lists of names that I thought would express how special you were, I realized I needed to think of you first.  It wasn’t about me and what I wanted.  It was about your heart, your life, your wholeness, your soul.

When it came down to it, it was all about not taking the chance of hurting you irreparably.  It meant not having a baby, a child for my satisfaction and fulfillment.  It meant thinking about you, your needs, what I could give you, what I might not be able to give you, and making a decision that was best for you.

I would have rather died than hurt you.  And I was terrified I would severely wound you the way I had been wounded.

Oh, I felt certain I wouldn’t do the things to you that had been done to me.  But did I have what you would need?  Could I give you a stable, healthy, loving foundation?  I was afraid I would fail you too many times and in too many important ways.  Destroy you unintentionally.  Shatter you.  Break your spirit.  So, I gave you up.  I gave up the hope of having a little girl.  I tucked my dreams away in my notebook along with the list of special names I had written.  And I never looked at either of them again.

I suppose in the end I failed you, regardless of the choice I made.  But I did what I did because I felt it was the right thing.  For you.  I was trying to be unselfish.  Even though it hurt.  I wasn’t confident I could give you strong wings that would carry you high and far and allow you to soar, especially considering I had never flown myself.

It seems we both paid the price of the childhood abuse I suffered…abuse that resulted in my shattered soul and broken wings.  Because of this, we both lost our life.  And neither one of us will ever fly.

 

Thanksgiving Day at Golden Corral

Here we go again.

Let the holidays begin.  Thanksgiving.  Family gatherings.  The annual celebration of abundance.  More food than anyone can possibly consume.  Stressing over the perfect turkey.  Meticulous meal preparation, timed to the minute.  Football.  Laughter…forced and genuine.  A time of setting aside differences. And of eating together.

Then, people hang lights that sparkle on trees, both real and artificial, with smiles that are wide and hearts that are happy.  They camp out in the cold and dark waiting for stores to open their doors at midnight so they can shop deals as fake as the plastic pine tree sitting in their living room.  They wrap packages in fancy paper, tying them up with ribbons and bows.  Attend parties large and small with friends, family, coworkers.  Some, they want to hang out with.  Some they don’t.  They get extra time off work to celebrate, which almost makes up for the extended hours of darkness and the frigid weather.  The presents that were so carefully wrapped are picked up, shaken, weighed by excited children and hopeful adults.  Everywhere you look, lights twinkle in the night, chasing away the emptiness, burning electricity with great abandon from where they have been artfully strung across rooftops, around windows and along shrubbery and sidewalks.

Everything appears warm and welcoming. Shiny.  Happy.  At least on the surface.  And perhaps that is all we can ask of the season.

It’s a time of abundance and joy; at least this is what we have been told.  Or sold.  The season of relationships.  Gatherings, recognizing and recounting all you have to be thankful for, of expressions of love and appreciation.  A time of laughter, consuming, overeating, extravagant spending and connecting with those who matter the most to you.

Connecting.  Celebrating.  Counting your blessings.  Light.  Laughter.  Family.  Bonding.  Attachment.

Unless you have no family.  No meaningful connections.

When you are alone, the glare of the twinkling lights only serves to expose the void in which you exist.  There are no get-togethers.  No festivities.  Instead, it is deafeningly quiet.  Empty.

Thanksgiving is just another day off work.

Food can’t fill you.  Decorations can’t make the world you live in a pretty, appealing, palatable place.  And there is no one to connect with…or cook for…or camp out with on unforgiving concrete sidewalks while waiting for merchant’s doors to open so you can buy those you cherish the one thing they want more than anything in the world (this year) at a price that has been marked up twice and marked down only once.

If this is you, it’s likely you will find yourself standing in line, as did I, at Golden Corral at noon on Thanksgiving Day.  Waiting for the 200+ people who arrived before you to eat with their families and head home, finally opening up a table for you.  You inch forward, listening to the chatter and lighthearted exchanges.  The giggles and groans.  You are assaulted by a wall of sound.  All around you.  Produced by people.  People who have people.

You can’t help but wonder: What are they all doing at Golden Corral on Thanksgiving Day, standing in this ridiculously long line of people waiting to eat?

They are not alone.  They are linked.  Kids, parents, grandparents. Cousins, friends, siblings. The line waiting to get in the restaurant isn’t the only line in which they stand.  They represent generations, the culmination of those who have come before.  Little pieces of their ancestors within their cells.  The line will continue.  The kids will grow up, having kids who will have kids who will have kids.  Lines.  Connections.  Continuity.

Unlike you, they do not represent the end of the line.  The last generation.  They have reason.  Purpose.  Meaning.

They wait in a line that forms all around me.  In front of me.  Behind me.  Little ones restless, playing together, running in circles.  Parents content to let them be.  Keeping their eye on them, but loosely.  This is a day to set aside worry and fear.  This is the season of light in the darkness.  A time of believing and being grateful.  A lull before a new year begins and the lights are extinguished.

Sound.  Laughter.  Conversations.  Some serious.  Some silly.  Motion.  Hugs.  Linked hands.  Arms entwined.  Moving slowly forward.  Together.

I observe as they swirl around me.  I see, but do not belong.  I watch, but do not participate.  I am alone, frozen, dead in the middle of the living.  I watch.  But I am not a part of them, even though I stand in the middle of it all.

When I am finally seated, I eat in silence. By myself.  And then I leave.  Unnoticed.

I walk away from it.  Full.  Empty.  I walk away, a solitary figure, lonely and isolated.

There is still a line when I leave.  People are yet waiting, but they wait together.  Thanksgiving Day at the Golden Corral.  The beginning of the season of connectedness.  And I am adrift.

I watch them as I go, then turn away.  Enveloped by emptiness.

I see.  But I cannot touch.  And I remain untouched.  Though I am surrounded by a crowd of laughing, happy people, no one in the crowd belongs to me, nor do I belong to them.  I stand and sit and wait and walk alone.  Disconnected.  For no one in the orbit of my life deeply touches me.  My heart is not entangled with theirs.  Nor is anyone saddened to see me quietly walk away.  Assuming they see me at all.

 

Geese

I heard the geese this morning.  Flying high overhead, honking their way through the inky darkness.  Unseen.  They were traveling south to avoid the approaching winter.  Running ahead of the cold.

I heard the geese.  They spoke to me in many voices.  Spoke of things to come.  Of frigid winds and icy roads.  Of frozen ponds and gray, unforgiving skies.  Of hardship and struggle.  They jabbered about the beauty and warmth of the places where they would soon be living.  They were leaving me behind to fend for myself in impending gloom and bitter, merciless cold.    They were abandoning me to a land that was harsh and exacting.

They conversed easily, chatting among themselves excitedly.  Their destination offered them a warm and welcoming embrace.  A sanctuary.  They were journeying together.  Connected.  Caring for each other.  Sharing the burdens of a long, difficult flight.

I watched them wistfully.  Wishing I too had wings.  Wishing I could fly away with them.

I listened to them honk.  Searched the night sky in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of them.  But they were high above the earth.  The night was in full bloom.  Clouds cast a gray shadow.  All too soon, their voices were lost to me.  No matter how I strained, they quickly left me behind in silence.

I live in an ever-present silence.  People come and go.  They have their plans, their dreams, their families. Destinations.  Connections.  I listen as they fly by, far out of reach.  Wishing I could join them.  Find sanctuary.  And warmth.

My life is a vast black sky.  A massive void.  Empty of all that matters.  Unwelcoming.  No one notices me.  I journey alone.  Going nowhere.

I heard the geese.  I heard them honking.  But they did not hear or see me.

 

Sleeping With Dogs

I have two of them. Two dogs.  Miniature Schnauzers, both.  Salt and pepper.  They came from the same breeder, though from different lines and they are the reason I get up every morning.  Really, really early.  Every single morning.

I am connected to them in ways I cannot explain; in ways I cannot connect with human beings.  They have a very special place deep within my heart.  One of them actually sleeps over my heart with her head resting on my neck, her nose tucked behind my ear.  The other sleeps nestled tightly to my side, her head laying on my stomach.  I love them so much, it hurts.

They adore me.  They furiously wiggle their butts and cropped little tails, jumping with unconstrained excitement when I come home from work.  They are a bright light in my dark and lonely world.  My reason for being. Their pint-sized hearts pump pure love into my life.  They make me laugh.  They give me a reason to smile.

Yet, it baffles me, this connection I have with them, these furry, four-legged, wonderful little creatures.  I am baffled by this meaningful bond that I can’t seem to forge with even one person who populates this planet.  It comes so naturally with them.  Why with dogs, but not people?  It baffles me mightily.

The oldest just turned 11.  The younger will be 6 in January.  Every second I have with them is becoming more and more precious.  I am aware time is running out.  That there will come a day when they no longer greet me at the door, wiggling furiously with joy.  And when their light goes out, my world will be far darker and fearfully empty.  My eyes will be filled with tears when my sweet girls no longer fill my heart with laughter.

I hold their warm bodies, count their soft breaths, feel their hearts  as they steadily beat next to mine.  It amazes me that they are autonomous, perfectly formed beings who carry within them the breath of life.  Their brains think independently.  They have their own unique personalities.  Their distinct likes, dislikes, quirks, needs and funny little ways of doing things.  I am overwhelmed by the miracle of them.  I am amazed at their innocence and vulnerability.  They are all in.  They are all mine.  And I am theirs.

I sleep with dogs.  Every night.  I hold them gently in my arms and in my heart.  I would rather die than hurt them.  I would do anything to protect them.

I would like to have a deep and strong connection with a human being.  A connection at least as deep and meaningful as the one I have with my four-legged children.  Not instead of the connection I have with my furry girls.  But along with, as well as, in addition to.  I want the other side of the bed to be used.  I want to listen to a person breathe as they lay beside me.  Feel their heart beat next to mine.  Marvel at their distinct personality and the miracle that makes them who they are.  Feel their breath on my cheek.  Sleep cuddled in their arms.  I want to belong by their side.  In their soul.

I long for someone to be delighted to see me when I come home.  And to be sorry to see me go.

I haven’t many more years with my oldest.  It terrifies me…the thought of her leaving.  There isn’t a thing I can do to avoid what is coming.  Dogs don’t live that long.  We are forced to let them go far too soon.  Even the younger one will be gone in the blink of an eye.

But when the eldest leaves me behind, I will have loved her well and hard and fully.  I will have known her, every odd little quirk.  All the contours of her soft, sturdy body.  I will have held her, physically and with every fiber of my mind and being, enjoyed her, cared for her, been bound to her.  She will always be a part of me.  She has given me a treasure that I will hold tight and never let go, no matter how many years pass after she is no longer lying faithfully beside me each night.  She will break my heart, even as she fills it.  I will never stop loving her.

I listen to them both snore softly as they rest upon me.  They trust me.  They know I will watch over them.  They know we are connected.  They are peaceful, without fear, because they are safe in my embrace.  We are content together.  We can plunge into deep slumber without distress or worry when we are snuggled together as one.

I sleep with dogs.  I bond with them.  I connect with them though I can’t connect with humans.  I am a stranger among my own species.  With those who are my kind.  But here, with my dogs, with their soft bodies cuddling mine, I am home.  And though I ache for want of more, I am eternally grateful to be the one who gets to hold their soft little paws in my hand as they warm me during the long, solitary nights.

 

Dominoes

Time.  It takes so much time.  To lay them out.  The intricate design.  The perfect spacing.  Tedious work, to accomplish the plan.  To achieve the desired outcome.

One tile at a time, placed with purpose.  Adjusted.  Adjusted again.  A slight nudge to the right.  Move them closer together here and there.  There is a goal.  A dream.  A whisper of a hope that it will all be worth it in the end.  And that things will work out.

Placing dominoes.  Measuring carefully.  To make it happen.  My plan.

By the time I am 30, I will have done…  I will have been…

In my next job, I will be…  I will make…

By the time I’m 45, I will have…  I will know…

I placed my dominoes precisely.  I believed.  I believed in carefully laid plans.  Dominoes that would fall the way they should.  All lined up, ready, in perfect rows that formed a precise, exquisite pattern.  I believed the preparation and hard work would bring about desired results.  And the future would be different, very different, from the past.

When I hit 30, I still hadn’t done.  I still hadn’t been.

My next job wasn’t.  I still don’t know.  I never have made.  And I don’t have.

The first domino fell.  The next two dropped as planned.  I survived.  I escaped.

But the fourth one…it didn’t go so well.  Healing from the devastating abuse of my childhood didn’t happen.  Which meant the fifth didn’t work out as planned either.  It fell in the wrong direction altogether.  Finding love?  Not in the dominoes.

By then, all the frantic adjustments in the world couldn’t save me.  Couldn’t turn things around.  Dominoes falling all over the place.  The design forever ruined.  The plan in shambles.

Once the first domino fell, the second, the third, once they missed the next planned target, failing to knock down critical tiles, skipping key turns, it was over.  Before it began.  Everything fell apart.  No order.  Doomed before the first tile tipped and dropped, in spite of how meticulously they had been laid out.

I tried to change the pattern that was set in motion when I was born into a family led by parents who were mentally ill, narcissistic and abusive.  I tried.  But the pattern couldn’t be broken.  It couldn’t be altered.  The dominoes fell and collapsed and crashed in chaotic frenzy.

Dominoes.  Scattered everywhere.  Strewn across the floor.  The pattern ruined.  Wrecked.  Nothing to do but start over.  And it’s too late to start over.

Dreams.  Lost and shattered.  In shambles, laying at my feet.  Destroyed.

Out of options.

The thing about life…you only get one chance.  If you crash and burn, if the dominoes don’t fall the way you expected, the way you need them to fall, there are no do-overs.  What’s done is done.

I stand, defeated, and view the ruins.  There is nothing left to do.  This mess is all that remains of my labor.  Of my hopes.  Random dominoes without meaning.  Life without meaning.  What was set in motion at birth could not be changed.  Chaos prevailed.    As tends to happen when something goes awry the moment the first domino tilts, wobbles and erratically falls.