I have this one cousin who's a bit older than me (late 40s maybe?) and I've always considered her kind of my "weird" cousin, and though we know each other we haven't been together in person for many years because she lives in (you guessed it) Florida.
Her son, whom I've never met (aside from, possibly, as babies) just dropped dead the other day. He complained of severe pain in his upper back and neck, enough to warrant a trip to the ER, but the doctors didn't see anything immediately wrong. They said it looked like he'd torn a muscle in his back, prescribed ibuprofen, and sent him home.
Hours later, he complained of dizziness, lost consciousness, and died shortly thereafter. He would be 24 on the 18th of this month.
There is a bit of a scary condition lurking around in my genetic background-- a predisposition for acute aortic dissection. In short, the largest blood vessel in your body bulges and suddenly bursts, and you bleed to death before you make it out the door. His mother, my cousin, has had two surgeries already relating to this condition (and our common grandfather was revealed unexpectedly to have a bulging vessel, also surgically treated), but it was not known that her son was affected until it was much too late.
I feel like this winter season has just been studded with reminder after reminder that we are intensely, frighteningly fragile specimens of life.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
to grieve with another, for another
So Baltazar died.
He killed himself.
We weren't close friends. We were more like friendly acquaintances, if I'm honest-- he was close friends with my close friends. But, we knew each other.
I don't know why he did it. I'm not sure anyone does; I'm not sure anyone ever will. He had everything; he had youth and love and a future he was continually building with his beloved fiance. What darkness compelled him to end it all, I can't fathom.
So I weep for him-- what tragedy that his mind called it all off in spite of the great washes of happiness surrounding him. But so much more, I weep for his fiance, his young widow; I weep for his friend-- my friend-- I weep for the great devastation he has left behind.
---
I'm really messed up about the whole thing.
More than I think I should be.
More than I think I have the right to be.
I didn't lose a fiance, a companion, a best friend, a son, a brother... I barely lost anything at all. Yet, what a terrible vacuum in the space he once occupied in the minds and hearts of everyone he touched.
If there is one glaring, fatal flaw in my design, it is that my heat loves wholly, and bleeds dark for those around me. As stoic and unfeeling as I pretend to be, my empathy is profound beyond my control.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused.
I am overwhelmed and struck.
I keep crying. I keep choking. I can't breathe, the grief is so thick in my lungs.
His fiance, his widow, the first words she said to us at the chapel were, "You guys were supposed to be at my wedding, not his funeral." That statement will haunt me for some time.
Now alone, she's tasked with not only the immense loss, but to adjust to a new life on her own. It is confusing, and difficult. I am reminded, of all things, of a line written in Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, wherein Will's grandmother (a widow) comments regarding her late husband: "The remembering is easy... it's those days when I forget he's gone that I can't stand."
---
The service was lovely, but different. Unfamiliar.
Most of the (few) funerals I have attended have been for elderly relatives. There is a great sadness, to be sure, but it is underscored with soft sighs of relief. "It's time, it's over, now to rest."
Baltazar was, I believe, the youngest body I have ever seen, and the only one to die of his own volition. I looked upon his carefully preserved and recreated body lying stiffly in the casket, decorated in his familiar leather jacket, wire-rimmed glasses and carefully combed-back hair. It is a strange experience. The mortician applies heavy layers of makeup and delicately conceals the seams holding everything in place, and ultimately this husk, this shell, resembles your memory of the person you've now lost. I look upon the body, and as always, it is simply not that person anymore. They are gone.
The pastor opened by explaining that he and Baltazar shared a common ancestor, and so were family. He had baptized him as a baby, and now spoke at his wake.
Immediately following this introduction, he reminded all of us, repeatedly: Do not blame yourselves, do not feel compelled by guilt, it's not your fault, it's not anyone's fault. I've never heard that said to such a large group of people before. It gave me chills.
When people got up to speak, to share their stories, these are the parts of a service that hit my viscera. I never-fail lose it when I hear a grown man's voice crack as he begins to cry mid-sentence. Someone tells a story with a funny little punchline, and everyone laughs briefly, and in that space immediately afterward the immense sadness is suddenly compounded, and I lose my shit again.
There was an incredible quantity of photographs, but a tragic lack of variety: he did not get to live a whole life. There was so much potentially ahead of him, but there will never be new photos now.
---
What if something happened to Scott?
What if something happened to Jessica?
What if either of them abandoned ship of their own accord?
How would I cope? Would I ever recover? Would I go about the rest of my days all broken and gray?
I think about these things all the time-- probably much more than I should-- but never before have I been so confronted with these worries.
It was always impossible, because we have all always been invincible.
But we're not.
We're frail.
---
I have not truly suffered a loss myself, here, but I am close enough to it that the repercussion has hit me hard. So hard, that the impact itself is bewildering and difficult for me to comprehend. Part of me is scrambling to find what evidence of him is left online. His facebook pages were taken down immediately, but there are other traces of him still. I found my own photographs of him, taken at parties years ago. I pore over them, and keep asking them for an explanation. Anything to try and make sense of this mess. Anything to help tame down these emotions that, for the time being, have such a stranglehold on my sensibilities.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused. I am at a loss. I am heartsick.
I am sorry. And I am reminded to remind everyone who should know, that I love them with all my heart.
He killed himself.
We weren't close friends. We were more like friendly acquaintances, if I'm honest-- he was close friends with my close friends. But, we knew each other.
I don't know why he did it. I'm not sure anyone does; I'm not sure anyone ever will. He had everything; he had youth and love and a future he was continually building with his beloved fiance. What darkness compelled him to end it all, I can't fathom.
So I weep for him-- what tragedy that his mind called it all off in spite of the great washes of happiness surrounding him. But so much more, I weep for his fiance, his young widow; I weep for his friend-- my friend-- I weep for the great devastation he has left behind.
---
I'm really messed up about the whole thing.
More than I think I should be.
More than I think I have the right to be.
I didn't lose a fiance, a companion, a best friend, a son, a brother... I barely lost anything at all. Yet, what a terrible vacuum in the space he once occupied in the minds and hearts of everyone he touched.
If there is one glaring, fatal flaw in my design, it is that my heat loves wholly, and bleeds dark for those around me. As stoic and unfeeling as I pretend to be, my empathy is profound beyond my control.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused.
I am overwhelmed and struck.
I keep crying. I keep choking. I can't breathe, the grief is so thick in my lungs.
His fiance, his widow, the first words she said to us at the chapel were, "You guys were supposed to be at my wedding, not his funeral." That statement will haunt me for some time.
Now alone, she's tasked with not only the immense loss, but to adjust to a new life on her own. It is confusing, and difficult. I am reminded, of all things, of a line written in Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, wherein Will's grandmother (a widow) comments regarding her late husband: "The remembering is easy... it's those days when I forget he's gone that I can't stand."
---
The service was lovely, but different. Unfamiliar.
Most of the (few) funerals I have attended have been for elderly relatives. There is a great sadness, to be sure, but it is underscored with soft sighs of relief. "It's time, it's over, now to rest."
Baltazar was, I believe, the youngest body I have ever seen, and the only one to die of his own volition. I looked upon his carefully preserved and recreated body lying stiffly in the casket, decorated in his familiar leather jacket, wire-rimmed glasses and carefully combed-back hair. It is a strange experience. The mortician applies heavy layers of makeup and delicately conceals the seams holding everything in place, and ultimately this husk, this shell, resembles your memory of the person you've now lost. I look upon the body, and as always, it is simply not that person anymore. They are gone.
The pastor opened by explaining that he and Baltazar shared a common ancestor, and so were family. He had baptized him as a baby, and now spoke at his wake.
Immediately following this introduction, he reminded all of us, repeatedly: Do not blame yourselves, do not feel compelled by guilt, it's not your fault, it's not anyone's fault. I've never heard that said to such a large group of people before. It gave me chills.
When people got up to speak, to share their stories, these are the parts of a service that hit my viscera. I never-fail lose it when I hear a grown man's voice crack as he begins to cry mid-sentence. Someone tells a story with a funny little punchline, and everyone laughs briefly, and in that space immediately afterward the immense sadness is suddenly compounded, and I lose my shit again.
There was an incredible quantity of photographs, but a tragic lack of variety: he did not get to live a whole life. There was so much potentially ahead of him, but there will never be new photos now.
---
What if something happened to Scott?
What if something happened to Jessica?
What if either of them abandoned ship of their own accord?
How would I cope? Would I ever recover? Would I go about the rest of my days all broken and gray?
I think about these things all the time-- probably much more than I should-- but never before have I been so confronted with these worries.
It was always impossible, because we have all always been invincible.
But we're not.
We're frail.
---
I have not truly suffered a loss myself, here, but I am close enough to it that the repercussion has hit me hard. So hard, that the impact itself is bewildering and difficult for me to comprehend. Part of me is scrambling to find what evidence of him is left online. His facebook pages were taken down immediately, but there are other traces of him still. I found my own photographs of him, taken at parties years ago. I pore over them, and keep asking them for an explanation. Anything to try and make sense of this mess. Anything to help tame down these emotions that, for the time being, have such a stranglehold on my sensibilities.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused. I am at a loss. I am heartsick.
I am sorry. And I am reminded to remind everyone who should know, that I love them with all my heart.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
how the heat is killing me
The heatwave is having disastrous effects on my psyche. There are some other things going on, internally and externally, contributing to my general malaise and discontent, but there is one symptom in particular that worries me:
Binge-eating spells are creeping back on.
They're not at the level that they have been in the past. I would classify these more as "regrettable eating choices" more than proper, full-on binges, but they worry me all the same. The quantities are not as alarming as they could be, but the feeling is there. The hunger. The rage.
I eat continuously throughout the day. I am endlessly hungry. Then, for brief periods, I eat without hunger, without taste, until I am so full that I feel painfully sick. I cram it down quickly, forcefully, one thing after another, hand over fist, until I manage to regain a semblance of control and stop.
It fucks my digestive system up, and the guilt is only surpassed by the physical pain in my belly. From outside, with my hands, I can feel the distension of my stomach on my left side under my ribs. It swells to a hard mass. I never did get the hang of purging.
The feeling reminds me of when I was cutting-- there is this intense feeling of control as I literally force things down my throat, yet I feel utterly powerless to stop. Control, out of control.
I suppose I have this tiny hope that speaking up on this ugly matter will somehow help me regain balance before it has a chance to get really, irreparably bad. The heat is a trigger, but I can't let triggers rule over my behavior. I am better than this; I am more whole than this; I'm just cracking at the moment, and have to recover again.
But I really need it to cool the fuck down before I lose it.
Binge-eating spells are creeping back on.
They're not at the level that they have been in the past. I would classify these more as "regrettable eating choices" more than proper, full-on binges, but they worry me all the same. The quantities are not as alarming as they could be, but the feeling is there. The hunger. The rage.
I eat continuously throughout the day. I am endlessly hungry. Then, for brief periods, I eat without hunger, without taste, until I am so full that I feel painfully sick. I cram it down quickly, forcefully, one thing after another, hand over fist, until I manage to regain a semblance of control and stop.
It fucks my digestive system up, and the guilt is only surpassed by the physical pain in my belly. From outside, with my hands, I can feel the distension of my stomach on my left side under my ribs. It swells to a hard mass. I never did get the hang of purging.
The feeling reminds me of when I was cutting-- there is this intense feeling of control as I literally force things down my throat, yet I feel utterly powerless to stop. Control, out of control.
I suppose I have this tiny hope that speaking up on this ugly matter will somehow help me regain balance before it has a chance to get really, irreparably bad. The heat is a trigger, but I can't let triggers rule over my behavior. I am better than this; I am more whole than this; I'm just cracking at the moment, and have to recover again.
But I really need it to cool the fuck down before I lose it.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
People. They're everywhere.
So I've been around [the local fetish community] a while now. I've learned a lot.
Lately, I've been thinking, less and less is surprising, or "shocking." What began for me as a notion of the "open relationship" was replaced with an understanding of the endless variations on polyamory. The idea that people are either men or women (or maybe trans) was replaced with the notion that people exist all over a spectrum of gender-- and that it can evolve and change over time. The idea that people are either straight, gay, or bi replaced with the understanding that sexuality, too, exists on a spectrum.
Pretty much, I've learned that people are people, and people are each individual, complex beings. I am so used to you now, and more used to myself.
Some of my coworkers I am quite comfortable talking to in regards to my participation in kink activities, and the lives of the fascinating people I've come to know, and I am comfortable talking to them because they are generally open-minded and simply eager to learn about the lives of other people. Yet... every now and then, apparently, I shock them, too.
When I was a teenager, fancied myself as bisexual. However, such a label never quite seemed to fit, because as it turns out, by my personal definition, I'm not. I like ladies, but I have a strong preference for men, so I list myself here as 'heteroflexible.' And that's fine!
But I mentioned to someone that I may be looking at entering the dating scene (sort of) for the first time, with women. That was shocking to him. Shocking to someone who has known for some time that my relationship with my husband is non-monogamous, and that I have played sexually with other women. "So are you, like, part-time lesbian?" "No, I don't think so." "Are you bisexual?" "Not exactly, no." "Well what the hell are you then?"
As stated, I have a general preference for men, romantically, sexually, and personally. However, I am attracted to people more than genitalia. I don't get to control what my heart desires; it's like [my friend,] Troll; it does what it wants. So, what the hell am I?
I'm Laura.
Lately, I've been thinking, less and less is surprising, or "shocking." What began for me as a notion of the "open relationship" was replaced with an understanding of the endless variations on polyamory. The idea that people are either men or women (or maybe trans) was replaced with the notion that people exist all over a spectrum of gender-- and that it can evolve and change over time. The idea that people are either straight, gay, or bi replaced with the understanding that sexuality, too, exists on a spectrum.
Pretty much, I've learned that people are people, and people are each individual, complex beings. I am so used to you now, and more used to myself.
Some of my coworkers I am quite comfortable talking to in regards to my participation in kink activities, and the lives of the fascinating people I've come to know, and I am comfortable talking to them because they are generally open-minded and simply eager to learn about the lives of other people. Yet... every now and then, apparently, I shock them, too.
When I was a teenager, fancied myself as bisexual. However, such a label never quite seemed to fit, because as it turns out, by my personal definition, I'm not. I like ladies, but I have a strong preference for men, so I list myself here as 'heteroflexible.' And that's fine!
But I mentioned to someone that I may be looking at entering the dating scene (sort of) for the first time, with women. That was shocking to him. Shocking to someone who has known for some time that my relationship with my husband is non-monogamous, and that I have played sexually with other women. "So are you, like, part-time lesbian?" "No, I don't think so." "Are you bisexual?" "Not exactly, no." "Well what the hell are you then?"
As stated, I have a general preference for men, romantically, sexually, and personally. However, I am attracted to people more than genitalia. I don't get to control what my heart desires; it's like [my friend,] Troll; it does what it wants. So, what the hell am I?
I'm Laura.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
I am easily intimidated.
It's true; I am.
I am quite short of stature and am host to an endless list of insecurities. I have generally low self-esteem and even worse self-image. I am constantly in the company of people whom I admire for a variety of reasons, and who therefore intimidate me-- be it for their height, wit, looks, or drive to better themselves. I love to be around them, but feel painfully awkward beside.
I have been told by three different people, all good friends of mine who have never met one another, TODAY, that I am an inspiration to them.
I am bewildered, and I am humbled.
I am quite short of stature and am host to an endless list of insecurities. I have generally low self-esteem and even worse self-image. I am constantly in the company of people whom I admire for a variety of reasons, and who therefore intimidate me-- be it for their height, wit, looks, or drive to better themselves. I love to be around them, but feel painfully awkward beside.
I have been told by three different people, all good friends of mine who have never met one another, TODAY, that I am an inspiration to them.
I am bewildered, and I am humbled.
A night with anxiety (written last November or so)
Anxious. Jaw clenched, abdominal wall contracted, neck stiff, brow furrowed. Jimmies rustled. I just want to go to sleep.
My heartbeat is muffled through swollen eustachian tubes but deafening against distressed tympanic membranes. I just want to go to sleep.
The soles of my feet are burning hot but my blood feels cold, deep in my chest. I can taste a ghost of dinner in my throat. My forehead is slightly damp with sweat, but there is a shiver and a bone-deep ache in my arms.
Just go to sleep already. There's work in the morning. There's nothing to worry about that can't wait. Life isn't really that hard. It can wait. Go to sleep.
What are you even worried about? Do you even know?
The thoughts run so fast there's no telling one from the next-- just a constant, drowning feeling. Water pressure builds exponentially as you sink deeper and deeper and it becomes proportionately difficult to keep your lungs from collapsing, to keep your ribs from breaking, to resist the urge to breathe in the water. It will hurt like hell, but only for a minute.
I just want to go to sleep. I'll admit I'm not very much interested in waking up later, but first things first, here.
My heartbeat, it pounds in dull thuds against the fatty padding of my brain. The constant, rhythmic change in pressure blurs my vision with its offense. I hurt. I'm tired.
I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm irritated because I have to get up for work at some point and really need some goddamn sleep and it is such a simple and basic thing to need, something anyone, anything can do, but I can't. I can't.
I know my heart pounding is just the anxiety. I've wasted enough medical professionals' time to reasonably prove there is nothing wrong with my heart-- it's just my brain trying to kill me. But the cruel part is, my brain is all I have, the only way I can experience myself and the world, my literal eyes and ears. How am I to contradict it? How do I become separate from myself? When did I become multiple beings working in conflict?
Goddammit
I just want to go to sleep.
My heartbeat is muffled through swollen eustachian tubes but deafening against distressed tympanic membranes. I just want to go to sleep.
The soles of my feet are burning hot but my blood feels cold, deep in my chest. I can taste a ghost of dinner in my throat. My forehead is slightly damp with sweat, but there is a shiver and a bone-deep ache in my arms.
Just go to sleep already. There's work in the morning. There's nothing to worry about that can't wait. Life isn't really that hard. It can wait. Go to sleep.
What are you even worried about? Do you even know?
The thoughts run so fast there's no telling one from the next-- just a constant, drowning feeling. Water pressure builds exponentially as you sink deeper and deeper and it becomes proportionately difficult to keep your lungs from collapsing, to keep your ribs from breaking, to resist the urge to breathe in the water. It will hurt like hell, but only for a minute.
I just want to go to sleep. I'll admit I'm not very much interested in waking up later, but first things first, here.
My heartbeat, it pounds in dull thuds against the fatty padding of my brain. The constant, rhythmic change in pressure blurs my vision with its offense. I hurt. I'm tired.
I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm irritated because I have to get up for work at some point and really need some goddamn sleep and it is such a simple and basic thing to need, something anyone, anything can do, but I can't. I can't.
I know my heart pounding is just the anxiety. I've wasted enough medical professionals' time to reasonably prove there is nothing wrong with my heart-- it's just my brain trying to kill me. But the cruel part is, my brain is all I have, the only way I can experience myself and the world, my literal eyes and ears. How am I to contradict it? How do I become separate from myself? When did I become multiple beings working in conflict?
Goddammit
I just want to go to sleep.
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