brightlotusmoon: (Asha)

Good things.
The personal therapy protocol is juuust starting to work. Slowly and softly. The doctors said slipping off is natural. But my slips are fewer. I think the new drug is working much faster than expected. No terrible side effects after all between dry mouth and that tingly sensation that the world is shiny shiny shiny. But I can already feel those most compulsive thoughts starting to be quiet.

Now, if I could just not be badgered by acquaintances who want me to be better now now now. Yes, this has had me in its psychiatric grip for over four years. It takes tiiime to get the ideal treatment. Yaaaaugh, leave me alone. You don't know. You are not inside my neurology.
Repeat. Rinse.
Those of you who get it, you get it.

So much meditation. It is in my dreams. I am ready to work myself through and beyond. Shut up about it taking all these years. Damaged braining is hard.

I make it hard for people to love me well enough to help. Which is why I need to do this on my own.

/venting ranty ramble

brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch Light)
My modified Disablility Compensated Qi Gong exercises always help, mentally and spiritually and psychologically and physiologically. Like yoga, except Fake Yoga Cripple Style that is not actually yoga. (FYCS. FIX. Ha ha ha...) (Or hey, Fake Yoga Cripple Style Modified Exercise. FYCSME = FIX ME. Ha ha. Wow. Dude.)

But it isn't helping today. I'm too Hollow, which is my term for deep major depression. I'm too Postictal, after that unexpectedly awful seizure yesterday and its aftershock which were tiny seizures for hours. Emotional responses are foreign and results of emotion are mere symptoms, like crying and laughing. I will meditate again, do more qigong work, and breathe and much as possible.
FYI. I am having an episode of pure major Depression plus major Anxiety. This is accompanied by mild memory loss of the past two days. Everything is foggy. I know I should be upset about something, but I cannot feel upset. What is upset, anyway? I think I hurt myself emotionally yesterday. I wish I remembered what it was. I believe it started out with false happiness. Remember that weird assumption of some sort of hypomania? I think I was outside of my rational mind.

Back to special exercises.
People keep suggesting and recommending breathing exercises. I know all of that. I know people just want to share their personal remedies. I love it. Please don't think I am rejecting you. I love hearing your stories. Even the stories about yoga. I wish I could explain why just seeing or hearing the word yoga evokes a sad, upset reaction. It isn't that I am unable to do yoga. It is just that yoga extremists do not listen nor care about my need for compensation. My body was born crooked. I cannot form a proper straight line even if I held on to something. No amount of cajoling, insisting, or pushing different forms will change that. Please don't do that. Please just accept that I have to perform qi gong differently, and that qi gong included poses that are similar to yoga, and that yoga is not the greatest panacea of healing holistic practices. This is part of why I don't want to visit California, which makes absolutely no sense and makes me look prejudiced.

So. Please, please do talk about how much yoga is healing you, because that is beautiful and I am genuinely, honestly joyfully happy. But if you wish to suggest a yoga pose that can be modified for someone with a shaky, spastic, crippled body, please suggest an alternate form. That is all I ask. There is no such thing as a real panacea, even in the botanical world, even in the plant and herb world, and certainly not in the exercise world. It is entirely possible that I will find a set of yoga exercises that will really, truly help me, and I will join the ranks of yoga enthusiasts. Anything is possible. Nothing is off limits. Except evangelism. If I wanted something pushed down my throat, I will drink water mixed with special fruit and plant powders, like sea buckthorn and moringa.
This is coming from my years as a holistic enthusiast and pusher. I was bad. I was essentially an asshole. And then I learned that it was just wrong. I never want to do that again. Just because something works perfectly for me does not mean it will work at all for someone else.

Any form of good physical-spiritual combination exercise, be it yoga, qigong, taichi, strength training, cardio, dead lift weight, isometrics, plyometrics, dance, hardcore dance, etc, is wonderful and beautiful and strengthening, and will help everyone in some personal powerful way. That is the point of exercise.
I love you all. If you really want to help me, don't push me. Just guide me.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Light Pale)
Why is it that, in most dreams where I am in physical danger, I am unable to scream or move quickly?
My last dream involved a bad fall and crash at the top of the stairs, while a large group of people were downstairs having a small quiet party. Something supernatural was with me, something insidious. I grabbed the stair ledge and pulled myself up to a kneeling position. I yelled my husband's name, but it was only a whisper. I couldn't call for help, not with the shadowy creature surrounding me. I was moving so slowly. It felt as though nobody was in the house but me, me and the cats.
And abruptly, I realized that nobody was in the house. Adam was at work. There was no party. The cats were all downstairs. It was only me and the shadow entity. I struggled to call on my internal resources, my spirit guardians, but even my psychic voice was muffled. I was not afraid. I was determined. I was badly injured, and I only had myself, and my powers to create weapons and defenses were drained. I stopped trying to stand. I knelt there and mouthed words, calling on the water in the bathroom, the air circulating around the house, the earth under the house, the fire downstairs used to light the gas stove. I pulled in all into me, and with a desperate burst, I unleashed it. The shadow creature shrieked and vanished.
Without any warning at all, the house filled with presence again. There was that quiet downstairs party. I whispered my husband's name again, struggling to turn it into a cry. Someone must have heard. Adam came up the stairs and found me, sagging against the door of the bathroom, my nose bleeding. He spoke to me. He half-carried me to the bedroom and helped me lie down. He brought damp towels and tissues and water with electrolytes. I managed, somehow, to tell him that a negative spirit had entered the house and stole my strength, and I pulled all the elemental power I could to drive it away. He was very proud but also puzzled, since the house was supposed to be powerfully shielded and guarded. I was crying but I didn't mean to cry. It was just a reaction without intention. He stroked my hair and curled up with me, and me took my hand and fed me energy and power and strength, and he said, "Go to sleep, my darling. I'll be monitoring you through our psychic bond and everything will be okay. I will strengthen the wards." He needed to check on our friends. He would back be up soon.
The dream ended there.

It has been something of a recurring thing: My slowness in dreams. My exquisite agony in dreams. My whispering words in dreams. Sometimes I can barely walk for the pain in my hips and knees. Sometimes I can only speak with thoughts instead of physical words. Sometimes my body is wrapped in a floating translucent shell and it is the only way I can move. In my dreams, the pain is so much worse than in reality. But I have access to weapons of all kind and I feel safe, even if something horrible grabs me.

When I was a child, I had flying dreams every night. Even astral projection. Like my father and cousins in their younger years. And if a harmful person appeared, I just waved my right hand fiercely, shouting "Shoo! Shoo!" to make then disappear.

When I was a child, I dreamed of dragons, of ancient tortoises, of unicorns mixed with white tigers, of phoenix birds with feathers of every color. Dragons have never been dangerous to me. Even if some were, there were always other dragons who were benevolent.

It is why I always bristle when I read an article comparing chronic pain to dragons. The only way I can see such battles happening is dragon against dragon. And I am a human amalgam of dragon, phoenix, tortoise, unicorn, white tiger, and fae, wrapped in the skin of a moonlight witch.

Then, why do my dreams cripple me? The only reason I can think of is to teach me to use the insides, the powers coming from my spirit and not my body. My body is very important and vital to me. But perhaps not so much in my dreams.

And I think this piece of art, beyond anything, is one of the greatest ways I can understand myself. Every time I look at it, I weep. I even have that same cane. I know Shinga and I barely know each other, but she knows chronic pain. She knows what being a warrior means. She was in the US Army and was badly injured and treated so poorly during therapy that she has severe PTSD. She is disabled badly. She knows battles. And I want to hold her and hold her and tell her what this means to me.
(Note: Please please refer to Shinga before borrowing or using this image. Please use the Deviant Art link. This is her work. Copyright Shinga. The only reason I displayed the actual image was in case someone can't click on the link.)
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Dragon Witch)
Something that really, seriously disturbs the hell out of me:
So many of my childhood memories are not real. I've been patching them together, filling holes with other holes. Like my mother's first marriage, how my parents actually met, when I first dyed my hair, how we got my first kitten. I swear to my mother that she told me these things and she denies them vehemently with her amazing memory... which means I am taking memories of all sorts of things and smashing them together to create new, fictional memories. Part of me is absolutely terrified that I have become my own unreliable narrator. I have told all my friends these stories, and now they are no longer true.
My father did yell at my mother, but only because she backed into a painting, in his studio, after being awestruck, because someone introduced them. My mother's first husband started a truck company to shuffle around 1970s rock bands, they never went to Woodstock, and as soon as they divorced Mom and Dad moved in together and married seven years later. The story of my technically miscarried brother Jesse is still true. My mother never dyed my hair red. My mother was the one who chose Muffin because she was the only calico in a litter of white. I did scribble the names of all the Ninja Turtles on my bedroom wall in permanent marker. My mother and I really did have a telepathic moment when naming a porcelain doll when I read her mind.
I don't think I can trust myself anymore.
brightlotusmoon: (Pixie Model 2)

Since I am in that sort of cheery mood, I am going to list my current favorite lip balms and moisturizing glosses.*Improved!*/Detail.bok**/Detail.bok

I imagine you already know that I've never bought all these at once, and that I've used these products over many years,
Also, this list is to help me remember stuff I love, because I need to keep making lists. Also, if I don't have any sort of balm or butter nearby, I wind up chewing my lips and it gets annoying.

brightlotusmoon: (Pixie Model 1)
I forgot to take the morning Ultram and Soma before we went to Adam's doctor check up appointment and it was raining and my rhinitis was flaring and my knees were aching stabbily and blah blah blah everything was horrible. But we got our flu shots and there was a CVS Extra Bucks coupon for 18.50 when I scanned my card, so we got a bunch of stuff and saved a bunch.
And when we got home, I went upstairs and prepared to sit on my couch and turn on my laptop, which meant I rapidly got a Luna in my lap kissing me and purring, as usual, which happens every time I sit down at my laptop on my couch; it's almost Pavlovian. OMG, Mama is going to the couch! Run run run! Jump on the lap! Get hugs! Yay!
Cats are fun.
Every time I marathon 'Futurama' I feel better. I'm not sure why. Actually I am sure why, but you don't need to know, because I'm always watching that damn show and you don't need to hear about it.
I have so, so, so many books to finish reading. I shall begin that forthwith. The painkillers have been actively and nicely painkilling since four this afternoon.
Also, I have weird pains in my right abdominal area near the bladder and surrounding muscles, so I am on a UTI watch and taking cranberry juice and extra extra ascorbic acid. So far, so good. But things happen. It is most likely just fibromyalgia being a bitch, plus gas bubbles, since I've been belching all day and the pain feels slightly better after each belch, but the spot is still tender and annoyingly stabby.

I have no idea why, but I love the shit out of this Wikipedia explanation.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
So, that was either a very weird complex partial seizure or a rare psychic experience. Or both. Regardless, I'm off to take some medicine and rest my brain. I think I used too many spears.

I do not remember much. What little I can recall involved synesthesia turned up to eleven when I closed my eyes, hyperactive shapes and sounds rushing into my brain, and a deep sense of expansion far beyond anything I could describe - like being in a craft flying toward outer space itself; a sense of G-forces pressing me down until I spiraled into darkness and then saw nothing but brilliant dots of light and sensed nothing but trillions of unexplainable entities, everywhere, all at once. There was so much heat and cold simultaneously, blackness and ice and fire without air, crushing me into a bare essence of a sentient being. It was as though I were coming apart atom by atom. I was screaming without sound. When it stopped, I couldn't hear, see, feel, or speak for a minute or two. When I managed to open my eyes, I was lying twisted against the back of the couch, gasping heavily, sweat pouring down my face. I truly do not know what happened. I am struggling to hold on to even a tiny bit of that memory, but it is fading even as I write this. I'm sorry.

The transcript for the Futurama episode "Godfellas."
Bender's conversation with the God Galaxy is the main reason why this is one of my favorite episodes. It is also part of why, ten years ago, I declared myself a pantheistic polytheistic polyagnostic eclectic pagan witch who observes humanistic paganism and spiritual humanism. It is also part of why I am convinced that magic and physics go together like limes and coconuts.

FYI, this particular postictal state (after seizure state) has me somewhat energetic and verbose as well as mildly hypergraphic, despite the migraine and burning muscles and spastic limbs and aching nerves. I am going to try and direct that energy into writing chapters and stories now. Questions are welcome.

I also wanted to add a photo. I have gotten into a habit of photographing my face after certain seizures, to document the physical aftereffects even if I am the only one who sees them. I have a few friends in the medical industry who might understand why I do this. One such friend mentioned that in this picture, my usual spastic imbalance due to cerebral palsy is not there, meaning that the seizure wore me out so badly that my facial muscles went fully lax and exhausted, with no spastic hemiplegia on the left side. My normal is gone right now, turned into everyone else's normal. It does make me sad, because now I don't look like myself; I look alien. My face doesn't look imbalanced or shifted or compensated. That seizure obviously took it out of me, because I am also fatigued and lethargic beyond description.
But this is very good to know, so I can keep an eye out for future seizure effects.

brightlotusmoon: (Default)
When I was growing up, in 1980s Brooklyn, NY, there wasn't a whole lot of entertainment outside of my imagination. Our apartment was tiny, and luckily we had a huge backyard with trees and gardens, and my father was the superintendent of all three connected apartment buildings (Quentin Road on Kings Highway), and I was the only child in all three buildings, so I got to come and go in that yard as I pleased. All the neighbors knew my parents as artists who painted murals on local buildings, and they all babysat me at one point or another. My television watching was limited to Saturday mornings and movies I watched with my parents. I had books. I had lots of books. My parents read to me every single night, sitting on my bed surrounded by stuffed animals (I refused to sleep without every single stuffed animal with me; my bed was against a wall and that wall was lined with toys). When I got old enough to read with them -- at age three -- it became a game. Dad or Mom would read one chapter, I'd read the next (We had a lot of fun with Dragonworld, which was nearly 600 pages of epic fantasy, and I was six years old). We played lots of games. One of those games was modified by my cousin Luciano, son of my oldest uncle Luciano. I was still the baby of the family. Cousin Luciano would visit or we'd visit him and his wife, Wendy, a famous entertainer. While Wendy made me hats and costumes out of paper plates, we'd all sit around telling "And Then..." stories. Someone would start out with a story, and after a certain point, would turn to the next person and say, "And then..." and the new storyteller would pick up with "and then..." and continue the story. Cousin Luciano and Wendy started the idea of interjecting into every story the line "And then... it started to rain. And it rained, and it rained, and it rained." No matter what the story was about (and it was usually fantasy, because I was obsessed with unicorns and dragons and faeries), at one point or another, someone would start with the rain. It always rained.
I didn't need television, really, because of the "And Then..." stories. I miss that.

Last night, storm clouds piled on top of one another, trying to blot out the sun.
And then... it started to rain.
And it rained, and it rained, and it rained.
I was alone in the house, with the cats. Lightning makes me nervous and paranoid, although rationally I know I shouldn't panic so much during rainstorms, because the rain would put out any fires. But I'm paranoid about fire. Thankfully, Adam shares this paranoia, which is why there is a long, thick rope tied to our bedroom window, and why Adam eventually wants to build a sort of fire escape. Meanwhile, all I think about is how to get the cats out that window safely.
As thunder crashed and lightning flashed and rain lashed, I sat up in bed unable to sleep. Jupiter hopped up onto the bed, with a plastic bottle cap in his mouth, asking to play fetch. I played with him for a bit, until he settled down by my feet and curled up. A few minutes later, Luna came into the room, jumped onto the bed, walked onto my chest, nuzzled my face, and settled down next to Jupiter, curling up against him. I finally managed to fall asleep just before midnight.
And it rained, and it rained, and it rained.
Still raining.

It's raining in Brooklyn too. I wonder how Luciano and Wendy are doing.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
A question asked by [ profile] chiyo_no_saru:
Who were you in high school? How's that different from who you are now?

I was Shy Girl. I was Quiet Girl. I was Tiny Girl. I was Geek Girl. I was Book Girl. I was Writer Girl. I was the girl who worked the hardest but wasn't popular, except when it came to my writing powers. I was the shortest, skinniest girl in my class of forty-seven kids, in a school of maybe six hundred -- and that included the middle school. My hair was wild and down to my waist. I hated jeans, and wore slacks or leggings. I hid behind long baggy tee shirts of dark, earthy colors, and my hair. I wore flat boots because I was scared of wearing heels; I wore lifts and orthotics, and walked with a noticable limp. I didn't have acne. I kept my head down. I always carried around a paperback fiction book.
I was constantly teased, mocked, ridiculed -- unless it was about my writing. Everyone loved my writing. I submitted stories and poems to the school magazine every year. I was the spelling bee champion for my class, despite the fact that my class never won first place because I always choked on that last word. I was the best in the school in language, grammar, vocabulary, spelling, reading, writing. My math grades were atrocious; I had severe dyscalculia, and they passed me out of pity and the realization that my language, writing and reading skills were so genius and extraordinary that they couldn't hold me back.
In gym class, I couldn't play sports and the teachers understood my cerebral palsy, so every gym class I went down to the weight room, unless it was something I could play, like badminton or floor exercises. My only health concerns were cerebral palsy and sciatica. Physical therapy every week. I was the only disabled student in the school.
I was a loner. I didn't trust the popular kids not to make fun of me. My only real friend in school was the class misfit, Cindy, who had a violent temper. She and I had almost nothing in common except for our love of making up stories. We loved TMNT and X-Men and Mighty Ducks, and we wrote fanfiction before it was called fanfiction. She was very religious, first Catholic then born-again Christian, while I was agnostic bordering on pagan. I think we became friends because she made me laugh and I helped her be more creative.
Throughout it all, I had my true best friend, David Damar Diamond, who went to a different school. From the ages of 13 to 17, we where there for each other. We were each other's first tentative almost-lovers. When I had nobody else, I had Damar. He's been dead for eight years now, but I still have him, you know?
Eventually, in senior year, I opened up more. I did become friends with some of the other girls. Particularly Erin, who was friendly with everyone. But then graduation came, and we all went our separate ways. I still miss the guidance counselor, Art Cleveland. He died recently. He was wonderful and hysterical.
I went on to SUNY Purchase -- and it was like stepping out into sunlight after a lifetime in a cave. It was so overwhelming and amazing. The first boy I made friends with, Stuart, became my boyfriend for a month or two, then back to my friend. The first girl I became friends with, Corinne, stayed my friend until graduation. And through her I met all those other friends.
And through one of those friends, I met the man who would be my husband.
It took me so many years to break down all those walls, those glass walls, to tell myself it was okay to let people in, to let people love me. The withdrawn, insecure child blossoming into the woman she needed to be who almost wasn't.

And even now, ten years after I first stepped onto that college campus, I think, "Oh my gods, all these friends. All these people want to be my friends. All these people -- they love me. Love me. They don't care that I'm weird. They're even weirder. They understand. They know me."
All you people, all you friends, my gods, you are extraordinary, you have no idea what you mean to me. I've never known anyone weirder, more wonderful, more beautiful, more brilliant. I love you, my friends.

Hush baby

Jan. 23rd, 2008 09:16 am
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
Last night -- probably because of the media coverage of Heath Ledger's death -- I dreamed about the one and only time I accidentally took one too many pills. It was during the anorexia years. I wasn't doing well, mentally. They were... energy pills. Okay, okay. Weight loss pills. I took them because I was dropping from fatigue and didn't know what to do. And I panicked. I told the ambulance workers I didn't want to go to a hospital, and they gave me oxygen and made sure my heart was fine and let me go, after making me swear I was okay and making me swear I'd talk to a psychologist, which I did. I didn't tell anyone else, besides Adam. I don't like to think about that day.
They say Ledger's OD was accidental, and I believe it. They say his mental state wasn't great, and I believe it. They say he probably hadn't quite realized how many pills he'd taken, and I believe it.
Today, while waiting for the Metro, I heard a woman say, "Why is Heath Ledger dead and Britney Spears still alive?" and I winced. No. Just, no.
Bad dreams can be like deep bruises revived. I remind myself to take deeper breaths.

I'm going to think about something happier.
Luna sleeping snuggled against me all night: I woke up before the alarm to find her casually propped up on my torso, grooming my hand and then my face. Settled in as if she owned me. Well, she does own me. And I love it.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
Flare in the shape of Fire. I expected this.
The fatigue is like the most violent of storms, and I can barely function without coffee, spirulina, CoQ10 and ashwagandha to fuel the adrenal glands. My body desires collapse. My mind is completely fogged.
I suppose catharsis and a two-hour emotional release will do that. I won't think about it now, I'm done for now. I'm happy and relieved and I can focus on making myself whole and improved.
It is Friday. I have a long three day weekend ahead. I can rest.

Silly girl, I say, you are not a stupid girl. It's okay. These things happen. But you shouldn't have shut it all away, shouldn't have made yourself forget. Just because it wasn't a horrible trauma like the traumas of half your friends back then didn't mean it was pointless and stupid and forgettable. You were innocent and naive and fresh-faced and childlike, and they loved you for that, and just because you hadn't lived the trauma and pain they had didn't mean you didn't have your own. So it wasn't terrible. It was still extremely upsetting and traumatizing. You should have told someone. They could have kicked his ass. They loved you. They protected you. You were the face of their lost innocence. And all those years, you could have been someone more. You could have been open. You didn't have to hide. You didn't have to feel ashamed and undeserving and afraid. You could have let yourself live.
So live now. They're waiting for you. Your love is waiting. Your love is here and he wants you.
Be everything.

(There are times when I don't think I should post any catharsis to LJ, but then I say fuck it all, if people want to read and speculate, let them. This is what journals are for, and it is my choice to make them public. It's not like I am giving details, nor will I be giving details. This is just for my own record, to look back on and learn from.)

Cats really are the best at soothing the mind. They jump onto the bed and curl up behind your knees or against your shin or thigh and they lick you and purr, and everything is all right. Because you have a kitty.

Kitty. Hee.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)

Strange how you know inside me
I measure the time and I stand amazed
Strange how I know inside you
My hand is outstretched toward the damp of the haze

And of course I forgive
I've seen how you live
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes
You pick up the pieces
And the ghosts in the attic
They never quite leave
And of course I forgive
You've seen how I live
I've got darkness and fears to appease
My voices and analogies
Ambitions like ribbons
Worn bright on my sleeve

Strange how we know each other

Strange how I fit into you
There's a distance erased with the greatest of ease
Strange how you fit into me
A gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs

And with each passing day
The stories we say
Draw us tighter into our addiction
Confirm our conviction
That some kind of miracle
Passed on our heads
And how I am sure
Like never before
Of my reasons for defying reason
Embracing the seasons
We dance through the colors
Both followed and led

Strange how we fit each other

Strange how certain the journey
Time unfolds the petals
For our eyes to see
Strange how this journey's hurting
In ways we accept as part of fate's decree

So we just hold on fast
Acknowledge the past
As lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted
To carve ourselves instruments
That play the music of life
For we don't realize
Our faith in the prize
Unless it's been somehow elusive
How swiftly we choose it
The sacred simplicity
Of you at my side


Something inside me has completely changed, and right now it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.
Last night you did something that I didn't believe anyone could do, over thousands of miles, with only your words and your voice.
Just like it was in the beginning.
And on that day, when I met you at the airport gate and kissed you, I too would have been as much in love if we hadn't kissed at all.

Ten years of walls and shields are shattered.
Ten years of unconscious fear, pain, and guilt burning away.
His face and his hands and his voice and his mouth burning to ashes, and I am not afraid anymore.
And when the memory comes back I will fight and keep fighting, because it deserves to be fought.
I deserve this, I should not be afraid of this, and no one has the right to take it away from me. He has no power over me. I will not let him anymore. No more fear. I am forever stronger than him.
I am strong.
I have power.

I love you.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I just got an email from my first college boyfriend.
Big surprised smile.

Stuart and I dated for a few weeks, and then gradually settled back into friendship. We met on pretty much the first day of school. I was in the Humanities building, at a vending machine, somewhat despairing over the fact that my dollar bill was too old and wrinkled and the machine refused to take it. I heard a guy's voice, and looked up to my right to see him grinning. Slender frame, around five-nine, pale gray eyes, shoulder-length black hair. He helped me get my iced tea, we started talking, and before I knew it I had made my first friend at SUNY Purchase. Gradually, an attraction built up and we started dating. We dated like a couple of eighteen-year-olds fresh into the college life and still uncertain of everything, but it was a good, good time. He was hysterically funny. He made me laugh all the time. And he was a fantastic kisser.
After we decided to cool things off, we remained friends, and then gradually went our separate ways. More friends, more experiences, more memories, and then graduation (with James Earl Jones, thank you very much); and now it's ten years later and I still remember that day in front of the vending machine, and that first kiss in front of one of the buildings, and the lunch dates in the local mall, and discussing science fiction books and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Weird Al Yankovic.

So, Stu, if you read this, hi. I hope your life continues to be good and happy, and I want to be updated when you and your girl get engaged. And I want photos.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I am the son
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
of nothing in particular

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does

I am the son
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
of nothing in particular

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does

There's a club if you'd like to go
you could meet somebody who really loves you
so you go, and you stand on your own
and you leave on your own
and you go home, and you cry
and you want to die

When you say it's gonna happen "now"
well, when exactly do you mean?
see I've already waited too long
and all my hope is gone

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does

And you know what's funny about this song? )
It used to be a song that defined me.
Not anymore. Never again.
I love you.
Who? you ask.
Because I am open, and the walls are down, and you helped.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
Remember the episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, "Becoming, Part Two" where Buffy is forced to kill Angel? The song that plays throughout it is "Close Your Eyes" by Christophe Beck, written as the Buffy/Angel love theme. Sarah McLachlan's "Full Of Grace" played afterwards.
When I woke up from the dream last night, my heart was heavy, and those two songs were playing in my head, intertwined like ribbons. Swelling. Swollen.
Damar and I had been sitting on his couch, in each other's arms, watching that episode, which had not even been conceived of back then, we'd never even heard of Joss Whedon. I was trying not to cry. Damar thought I was cute and sweet for being so emotional. I tilted my head up and kissed him, and he grabbed me and we kissed like that very first kiss, and I could smell him. I said, "I missed you. It's been a long, long time." He said, "One day we'll go ghost-hunting like we said we would." I started to lay down against him again, and suddenly the world pulled away, like a train moving too fast, speeding, pulling me backwards, and I lost contact, I couldn't feel him. The world was chilly. I screamed his name. I fell backwards. I woke up.
I thought, Oh, I have to call Damar and tell him about it. He'd find it amusing. And I almost got out of bed and almost reached for the phone. And then my brain came alive, and whispered to me, and spilled ice down my psychic spine. Oh. Yeah. Right. He's not going to answer the phone. He never will. He hasn't answered the phone for seven years.
Damar is dead.
I thought, Oh gods I really want to talk to Damar right now. I want to see him so badly. It's ripping me down the middle.
Damar is dead.
I touched my heart. It was pounding.
I lay back down and breathed hard and swallowed, and I rolled over and found Adam's bare back toward me. I touched him between his shoulder blades and he sighed that happy little sigh that said, That is my wife's hand touching me. I love my wife. Keep doing that, please, my wife. And I stroked his warm back for a few minutes, and I fell back asleep.
Damar, I'm sorry.
I never said goodbye.
I never even knew.
But at least you were happy.
I love you, you know. I never stopped. I can't stop.
I wish you were here.

(This is for everyone who has lost a love. Which is, basically, everyone.
Come share with me.)

a memory

Oct. 6th, 2006 08:56 am
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
When I was 13, I had my first boyfriend. His name was David Damar Baldwin Jr. His family, and my family, called him Damar. His friends called him Dave. His parents were divorced and his mother had remarried a white man named Bob. She called her son Damar, to distance herself from his father. Damar was over six feet tall and very skinny. He was soft-spoken, quiet, sweet, honest, gentle, compassionate, and loyal. He was eight months younger than me.
We first met when we were 11. His mother, Mary, and my mother were artists in the same gallery show. Damar and I saw each other from opposite sides of a statue garden in the back of the gallery.
Two years later, Mary, Damar, and Bob came to our house for Thanksgiving. I was wearing makeup, and a velvet green dress, and my hair was loose and shining over my shoulders. When I came downstairs everyone was in the living room. Damar looked at me with wide eyes, and he reached out and touched my hair letting strands run through his fingers. He said my hair was beautiful. Later, he said he smiled as he watched me eat and I got red lipstick on my fork.
We were in the basement apartment of my house, which had not yet been rented out to a tenant. We were sitting on the house, nervous, giving each other nervous pecks on the lips. He asked me to be his girlfriend.
Much later, we sat in the basement room of his house, on the bed in the back spare room. In the background, a tape was playing Sarah McLachlan's "Possession". That album had just come out. Damar and I reached for each other and kissed, long and hard, full tongue, powerfully. His lips were very full and very soft. Our hearts were pounding.
Over the months and years, we progressed to heavy petting, touching. He watched my breasts fill out and grow. We would wrestle on the couches in his basement. We never actuallally "dated," just hung out at his house a lot and fooled around. We were best friends. He cherished me. He said he saw my face everywhere. Even as we got older and became more like friends, we still held that bond. We were almost telepathic. We talked about ghosts and the paranormal. We believed in things. Damar had precognitive dreams. We decided that if we hadn't had sex with anyone else by the time we were 20, we'd have it with each other. If we were not married by the time we were 25, we'd marry each other.
We went to college -- I stayed in New York and went to Purchase, he went to Tennessee and played the saxophone. We saw each other during the summers, and we still kissed like that very first time; I always played "Possession" in my mind.
I talked with Damar on the phone just before Christmas of 1999. Damar had a girlfriend. Her name was Anna, he said, she looked like a blonde version of me. I had a boyfriend, who was almost as tall as Damar, named Adam. We were 20 years old. We were no longer virgins. Damar told me he was taking medication for severe headaches. He missed me. He loved life.
In January of 2000, I got a call from my mother, in my college dorm room. She was sobbing.
Damar was dead.
He died of a brain aneurysm.
We were 20 years old.
The shock, horror, rage, and disbelief were too overwhelming. For days, I imagined I saw him. I cried rivers. I didn't know what to do. He had died in his dorm room, asleep. His roommates had been away, for two days. The entire school held a huge memorial service. His nickname had been Sexual Chocolate. He had been so beloved by everyone.
I went to the memorial held at his house, that summer. His college friends were all there. I felt left out and alone. He was gone, what was I doing at his house.
We never told each other we loved each other. But we did.
It hurts.
When I saw the episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer called "The Body," I cried for Damar, and for a while I was strangely afraid of getting a brain aneurysm.
A few years later, Mary and Bob divorced. Things changed. Eventually, I married Adam. My life is amazing now.
But every time I hear anything by Sarah McLachlan, I remember those kisses.

(I dreamed about him last night. Memory never dies.)


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