it'd pass.

hope for

One day
you are in your car
listening to the same song twelve or twenty times in a row
startled by the flashes in the distance
and you can't stop crying
or wishing for an accident
and it occurs to you that you aren't special enough to be hit by lightning.

You hope a visit to the library will distract you for a bit
but you don't wish to be around people so you quickly
check out a book entitled
the sweet relief of missing children
because it's the most depressing little thing you could find.

And you go home and lie down
you can't be fucked to change your clothes
or even take a sleeping pill to get you through another night.

It's that day
you realize
with a thousand shallow, disheartening, sickening breaths
that you've become everything you've never wanted to be.

Let that wash over you for a second.
Let out a desperate little whimper, why don't you,
more pathetic than a back alley cat.

Sure it will pass.

But for an unbearable time
all of life is wrapped up in this one oozing, malignant heart of a wound
and the most you can hope for is to stop shivering at the storm.

you'd watch.

This is our latest obsession. Enjoy!

there'd be more friends like her.

I got a job today. Shortly afterward, I got this.

(Thank you, Kim C.!)

February 19.

Dec 1994
Fuck. I'm pregnant. Fuck.

Jan 1995
Made the appointment. Borrowed $285 from my older brother. Arranged a ride from my older sister to drive me across the state line. My parents didn't need to know.

Feb 18 1995
Fuck. Got grounded for 'acting up.' Tomorrow is my appointment. Fuck.
"dad...i can't be grounded."
"You'd better believe--"
"ihavetogetanabortiontomorrow"
"--"
"dad?"
"Do you have a ride?"
Awkward hug.
"yes."

Feb 19 1995
A peaceful drive. Picketers outside. Protective sister. Children holding signs. Inside was safe. One last test. One last chance to have been mistaken. (No. Yes. No.) Counseling session. Explanation. Instructions. "She's young, give her the shot." Swirls. Fast. Recovery room. Pretzels. Salt. Ugly. Ugly.

Feb 20 1995 - ?
My mother held it against me. Not because of politics. Maybe because we didn't get along. Or maybe she couldn't understand, because she'd lost two babies, and not by choice. Maybe it ripped open her wounds.

She told whomever would listen. A friend's parents let me stay over for a few nights. They saved my life by letting me be: a girl who'd tried to fix a terrible mistake.

? - Feb 19 2012
I don't regret it. I don't dream of it. I am no longer angry with my mother. But today, like every year, I think on it. I know how lucky I am. I know I chose correctly. This time, I'm sharing it with whomever will listen.

To the girls: you are not alone. If it feels that way, come and find me.

you'd know her.

Warning: this post is full of braggery.

I got a wonderful book in the mail yesterday.
Let me back up--I got a rock as a going away present.
Wait, wait. I'll start here: Do you know Jennifer Bethel?

If you don't, I'm sorry for you. She is the friendiest person I know (not friendliest--she's slow to trust). She's the friendiest. The most friend you'll ever find. She'll take your heart right out of your chest, fill it up with thought and wonder, and shove it back in, in one written letter, one gesture, one moment. She's quiet and deadly. My friendiest person.

Jennifer gave me a very personal, very private letter at my going away get together along with a small gift. I read her letter the next morning, standing up in my kitchen. It was long but I didn't blink once. I ate it up for breakfast that morning, readoured it, mesmerized at her clean and unique prose and ideology, and I slop-cried big ole tears and smeared its ink.

In two pages, she taught me about friendship and grief and longing and love. She called me unrestrained and living and going. She gave me what is perhaps the greatest compliment of my life: "You want what is true to be available to whoever wants to see it and know it and keep it."

After marveling at the letter, a magical gift in itself, I opened the gift she had given me. This rock:

It came with a special story. It does not suffice to say that it meant a lot (a lot lot) to her, but it's just too much to share out loud here. Not because I want it all for myself, but maybe that is a part of it.

Then yesterday, my first package was delivered to my new apartment in my new corner of the world. No note, no fancy gift wrap, just this children's picture book:

Have you ever seen it? The book is from 1974 and has stark black, white and gold illustrations. It poignantly tells ten rules on how to find the perfect rock to love and care for. A rock that is so special, if somebody says, "What's so special about that rock?" you won't feel inclined to explain it.

I want to look back at this time again and again. So yes. For the sake of my poor memory, for the sake of storytelling, this is me bragging about my rock. About my friendiest friend. About how much I'm loved.