my Zen

"Are you doing anything today?"

I recoil in the afghan draped around my shoulders, "I am..."

His face softens, "I didn't mean it that way.  I know it's a snow day... I just wondered if you were going out or... I guess you'll have a phone again today.  You can text me."

The tension in my shoulders releases.  The defensive button clicks off again, "I am doing... stuff."

"I know," he smiles reassuringly.

"I have to go grab my new phone... email said UPS delivered it.  I'm sure just activating it and making sure things transfer will take some time,"  I think aloud.  "Then I have to call the bank..."  I am embarrassed to discuss the laundry list of items I must discuss with my bank... May have to spend time comparing new banks to switch to-

"I'm not leaving right this second.  You can call the bank from my-"  he begins.

"It's okay,"  I smile.  I will really need to concentrate on staying calm while I am on the phone with any customer service representatives.  It takes more time and patience than I can handle with an audience- especially one that will need to leave momentarily with the phone.

He sits next to me and puts his arm around me, leans his head against mine.  I take a deep breath...

The last week has felt like walking under water.  Hormones.  Conversations.  Games.  Music.  Work.  In between travel, food, cleaning, and sleep.

I have been more present.  I have remained in the moment more of the time than off in my lala-land of worry and withdraw.  I trick myself with my practices.  I read spiritual and psychological books.  I rewrite passages into each new journal I buy... I seem to fill a medium sized Moleskine each month- with these reminders, song lyrics, project ideas, to do lists, and endless letters to myself and everyone I know.  Sometimes the journals turn into fact checking sources for my blog entries- to keep the timelines straight, the keep myself honest.  Sometimes I want to turn them into kindling.

...Victor starts talking about something else, and I am suddenly reminded of a blog draft, "Did I ever read you... I was writing..."  I stop myself and start going through my Blogger- as he wanders the apartment, getting dressed.  Of course you heard me talk about this topic before.  I've been working on writing it for nearly three months.  What did you say that even reminded me of it?  I probably just turned the entire conversation around to be about me for no reason- again.  I need to just finish something so there is a product for you to read.  The concepts are worthless to keep droning about... But that is where the process has been up until now.

Sifting through my blog drafts, I am left dreading the prospect of revisiting any of these ideas or memories.  "I do have stuff to do," I start listing the things I have been postponing, "I have to see about meeting that guy in Harlem about music lessons for kids in the city- Are we going to NY this week?  I have to resume conversations about a Community Wellness Day for the spring- So many people to talk to..."  -and I don't want to say it aloud yet, but I need to get out of this job.  It is a wonderful job, and I feel ungrateful saying it... But I need to figure out what I should be doing instead.  

"I haven't heard back about NY," he glances down at his phone.

His phone... The omnipresence of the world at his fingertips.  How is it that I have lived without it for two weeks?

My screen broke...  I dropped it the evening I got home from my last trip to NY- while Victor was away on tour.  It functioned properly for another few weeks before dying... It was a Sunday morning.

Victor and I had argued the night before.  In the morning, I felt like perhaps he would want space, but he had already invited me to accompany him to his gig in Bethlehem.  Even when I insisted upon trying to have the last word before we got out of bed, he did not rescind the offer.  We were simply not our usual affectionate selves.  We were walking on eggshells as we got ready.

When I came out of the bathroom, I found myself alone for moment.  Victor was outside loading equipment into the car.  I thought about being in the car with him for over an hour.  I thought about how I did not want to make him miserable and uncomfortable to have me with him.  Then without much consideration, I picked up my bowl and inhaled some smoke.  Will he smell it?  Will he disapprove?  I know he won't join me- in the morning, before this gig.

He forced a pleasant face on as he walked back into the apartment, "Ready to go?"

"You still want me to go?"  I heard my sheepish little girl speak.

"If you wanna come."

"You want me to go come?"  I was standing very close now.  He kissed my forehead and told me yes, and we walked out the door together.

The moment the fresh air hit my face, I began to feel something or someone offer to take a burden off of my back.  But I made him so uncomfortable last night.  He really hates fighting, and it made us both upset all night... and I should really feel guilty... Then I heard an answer, "Yeah, but there were things that needed to be out on the table- eventually.  If you did not bring them up now, you would have later.  Better to not let the wounds fester.  Be honest, but don't be cruel.  You want to make him happy- So, let it go now.  Your being happy makes him happy.  So be happy."

It felt too soon, too easy, too fast... But as we sat in the warming car, I truly let myself feel relieved.  I watched Victor as he put on his cheap sunglasses- that always seem slightly large for his face to me... and told my judgmental mind to quiet down.  I thought of how grateful I am that he is not materialistic and concerned with having an excessive collection of expensive eye ware.  He started to enter the address into his phone GPS, but it was not working properly.

"We can use mine,"  I pull it out and grimace at the sight of the crack across the screen.   My GPS was working.  As he pulled away from the parking space, I felt my foolish cares fall away, left behind.  I smiled at him.

He looked back at me quizzically.  He turned on the radio... Fiona Apple singing "Criminal" filled the car.  I began to sing along...

 "I've been a bad bad girl.  I've been careless with a delicate man.  And it's a sad sad world- when a girl will break a boy just because she can... Don't you tell me to deny it.  I've done wrong, and I want to suffer for my sins..."  I laughed aloud, "This is perfect."

I saw him slip a genuine, unintentional smile.

"Thank you,"  I touched his hand to my face and confessed,  "I smoked."

"Okay."

"Is that okay?"

"Why not?"

"Yeah... Just seems like an irresponsible thing to do first thing in the morning... But we were going to be in the car so long-"

"-and you don't have anything else to do or think about today.  Just go along for the ride."

"Yeah,"  It melted away my guilt to know he understood.  "I like being your passenger sometimes... And something happened between you going out to load the car and us leaving the apartment- It occurred to me that we could go on with our day.  I could let it all go, and you would let me move on... That made me really happy."

He looked at me with a special kind of seriousness, "I'm glad you're feeling better... It just takes me a little longer to recover."

"I know... But-"  and now I was feeling excited, "It just doesn't seem to ever go in this direction for me!  Usually I get upset at the flip of a coin and can't get back to happy... But when we got into the car, I just knew I could feel better and- then suddenly, I did!"

"Yeah, you switch both ways..."  he assured me.

I sat puzzling at this new awareness, "When I was little, my brothers would do that to me all the time!  They would tease me and make me so upset... Then a few minutes later, they'd want to laugh about something else with me and completely forget about what just happened.  I hated it!"

He squeezed my hand in his.  I smiled and sat quietly... Listening to all the thoughts that I would usually be letting fall out of my mouth, letting them disperse into the atmosphere... Then one worth sharing arose, "I started working on a new hook I like."

"Yeah?"

I took out my journal, so he would see it was not simply something bouncing around in my head.  "I wanna let you have the last word every night... I like the alliteration."

"Oh, you do, do you?" He gave me an aren't you cute-look.  "I have to stop for gas."

At the gas station, I plugged my phone into the charger and suddenly the screen was black.  Turned it off and on, nothing.  Took the battery out, put it back in... nothing.

"I think my phone is broken... fucking expensive paperweight!"

...Victor's GPS was working and got us to his gig on time.   A cute Christmas time village of crafts people and food vendors surrounded a stage and eating area.  As I felt my high begin to descend, I was greeted by a sea of smiling faces, gaggles of grandparents shopping for their families; personalized ornaments, handmade jewelry, gourmet delicacies... a place foreign to my holiday memories.  Somewhere I saw in movies, read about in books- a place where I knew Victor would find a few Christmas presents for his family.

After he played, we wandered and window shopped.  We shared a pretzel stuffed with cheese and vegetables- a meat free selection that he made in consideration of me, no doubt.

Victor and I were especially mindful to not loose one another- since he would not be able to call me.  This state of mind followed us home and over the next two weeks... I could not afford to pay the insurance deductible until I got my paycheck.

Yesterday I made a deposit, called the company... the phone is sitting at my new residence, waiting for me... and Victor has been gone for hours... and here I have been sitting, typing, processing... feeling lucky and happy and grateful... reading Facebook a little bit for the first time in a long time, letting myself rejoin the human race.  It can all get kind of overwhelming.

Sometimes I think about deleting my digital self... cyber-suicide.  There are so many more sites that I need to check out and learn to use- How time consuming... While I also maintain a day job.  While I also write music and learn to play guitar and schedule band rehearsals and correspond with an amazing network of women and let my mind wander long enough to finish a fucking blog post!  ...and that cat box has got to get new litter today... "Your to-do list will outlive you."

So... aren't I lucky?  That God, the universe, mother nature, fate... decided today I got a snow day?

Mindfulness

The trick to living in the present moment... is not getting lost in the past or the future.  And sometimes, the past mingles with the future, in the present- and I realize again... why I wrote another song.  For months I thought it was not finished simply because I could not learn how to play it.
____________________________________________
Rely on Yourself

I always remember- My momma read to me
tales about princes, she read me- all those stories
She told me, baby- Don't you ever wait on him
You've got your own life- You've got your own kin

So don't always look- For what you want life to be
Sight is misleading- showing you what you want to see
First trust in yourself- Not even in me, nobody else
Before you can let 'em in- trust in yourself

(CHORUS)
'Cause you don't need no one- no, nobody else
You've got your own heart, take care of your health
'Cause you don't need no one- no, nobody else
You've got your own mind, earn your own wealth
'Cause you don't need no one- no, nobody else
Before you can let 'em in, rely on yourself

Daddy always called me- apple of his eye
Said I'll always love you- more than any other guy
No matter what you do- I know you'll go far
Knew since the day your were born- It's just who you are

(Repeat CHORUS)
_______________________________________________

I can not even remember when I began writing this song.  It was a rather long time ago... It poured out, and I felt ashamed to play it.  I sat on it for months, not wanting to bother the guys to learn it.  Really, I think I only played it for Victor once?  ...and it was not nearly finished in my mind, even though all the words had been written down.

I had to go back, several times, rearranging the words... like a puzzle.  They were all there, just not in the write order... the right order.  Often my life feels like that... out of order- I was not in a state of mind to understand what this song means to me now, then.

Life is strange.  I could say... "I never imagined-"  But I DID imagine I would be crazy.  I really thought for a long time that sooner or later, I would find myself inside a padded room... Or slowly falling asleep and never waking up, nauseous and full of pills.

It happened once.

When I was two days shy of 22.  I had just moved to New York, to live with a man I met in an America Online chatroom... We had met when I was 16, and he was 25.

Within weeks, it was obvious what a mistake I had made... But I could not go back to York, PA.  I could not figure out a way to go anywhere else.  For months I stewed in my misery... Until New Years Eve, I got drunk and blacked out... I instigated an argument.  I am sure it was my fault.  I can not recall... But I do remember waking up, face down, on the sidewalk, outside our apartment, shivering.  That was his fault.

I had my key.  I let myself in... I fell asleep.  In the morning his glasses were broken.  He said I had done it.  In the morning, I had a bruise on my face... I went back to bed.  When I woke up again, and he was still playing computer games, I quietly slipped into bathroom and swallowed a large handful of painkillers.  I read somewhere that it is a mistake to take too many... Just enough to not vomit before they can work- I hoped.

I laid on my back and went back to sleep.  I heard if you throw up in your sleep, laying on your back, you may choke to death on your own wretch.

I dozed in and out... Each time I drifted into dreams, I said goodbye to the world, and pain, and suffering, and worry.  I finally stopped worrying how upset anyone would be with me.  Surely, I would be given oblivion for my self-sacrifice... an end of being- Release from knowing, feeling... or could it be the punishment for my disregard?

Each time I drifted back in, I awoke to a nightmare... I soothed myself with the knowledge that must be over soon.

But then the vomit... the bile... the projectile spewing failure.  I laid in the tub, with the water pouring down over me... as I wept.

There was no one... No one in the world that I wanted to call, wanted to reach... wanted to save me.

As night rolled on, and my heaving became dry... and my organs ached... I surrendered.  I told Mr. AOL that I needed to go to the hospital.  He ignored me initially, assuming this was the result of a very bad hang over.  I had to confess...

In the emergency room, he stayed with me until I was admitted.  Then annoyed, he went home.  As I drank the charcoal concoction that sucked the poison out of my system, I cried... Not in pain, not in distress... I cried because I was afraid that he would call my parents to come get me.  I cried because I was ashamed and did not want anyone to know.

...In his shame, he did not call anyone.  No one knew.  I did not tell anyone for years...

Now I do not hesitate to share my story.  It was not a plea for help.  It was an immature effort to avoid accepting a failure, to avoid facing consequences and moving on.  I stayed with Mr. AOL for another two years, in denial.  I was afraid to take responsibility for myself...

I am not afraid anymore.  I have a good career- albeit one I am in the effort of replacing, slowly but surely.  I can always take care of myself.  I cook.  I clean.  I work... I am healthy.  I just get very absorbed in other people... I can get lost in other people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...and now here again, I meet myself... on the page.  Hello.
Hey.  How you been?
How's it goin'?

I really do enjoy capturing the way that people speak.  I can't do it justice.  One's own voice is the hardest to hear.  I am so busy listening to everyone else.

My mind is a compass, and my life is a map.

I just keep getting lost.

I fall, deeper and deeper.

My memory's always lost in my past

and I can not find a way

to let go of the rest and let go at last

I'm always on my way

Always on my way

Cause when I finally let go-

This is better.

This is better.

This is better... You will leave this place.

I am a singer-songwriter.

I didn't understand what this meant... So I couldn't figure out how to do it well.  I mean, I knew that musicians had to learn to play instruments and sing- well, but I am barely a musician at all... I mean, I didn't put in the training, and my body and mind simply can not process all that practice and a day job... Nope.  I am a singer-songwriter... Who is simply a very slow learner as a musician.  I am too busy processing everything that happens in every day life.  It is so heavy... the weight.  The wait... of life.

Just letting it pour... instead of spilling.
Just take it in slow... when it's moving fast.

Just remember... I'm only learning.

How to let go... and learn in every moment, take in every little last detail, slowly... as if it is for the very first time.  As if you never grew up.  As though you've never had your heart broken.

Oh, the things you will find and you will see.

Waiting... Room

Friends Hospital was not the closest place to go, but... I was talking to my brother on the phone, and he was saying, "I called the hotline and asked them, if it was your kid, where would you send them?  They said a place called Friends..."

As he spoke, my call waiting went off.  It was Elaine, the mother of one of my clients... a woman who had told me she was recently interviewing for a position at Friends Hospital.

"Okay, thanks.  I gotta go, call you back- call waiting," I switched lines, "Elaine?"

"Hey Echo.  I had a missed call from you-"

"Yeah, Elaine... are you working at Friends?"

"Yeah, I'm actually starting today."

I interrupted her, "Can I come there?"

"Sure... Are you okay?"  She paused, "Echo... are you suicidal?"

"Yes."

She put me on hold briefly, then returned with instructions.  I agreed to call a taxi.  She told me to bring clothes.  I asked if I could bring my guitar.  "Probably not, for now.  Maybe someone can bring it to you later."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I called Victor during the taxi ride.  "So, I don't know how long I will be there... They are going to ask me for an emergency contact.  If you don't want to be that person for me anymore- If you want out, you should probably let me know now... So, I can work on processing that information while I'm there, getting help."

"No, it's okay."

"Will you feed Patsy?"

"Of course."

"I love you, Victor."

"I love you too.  I'm proud of you, Echo.  Be good."

I did not know it then, but that would be the last I heard his voice for another two months.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A security guard greeted me at the door, asking me to sit on the window sill until he had discharged another patient.  I watched the middle-aged man empty a large plastic bag into his pockets.  The doors opened, and two paramedics rolled in a stretcher, carrying a blonde girl with a baby-face.  An aide peered out from the waiting room door, "She's a direct admit," she informed the security guard.  

Part of me felt a twinge of jealousy for the baby-faced girl bypassing the waiting room.  Part of me said, She must have really tried something.  She must be coming from the real hospital.  Aren't you glad you're not her! 

Before they let me into the waiting room, I had to check all of my belongings.  I was told I was not supposed to wear the large hoodie sweatshirt that Victor had given me, but I insisted upon keeping it, as I knew the waiting area would be cold.  The security guard gave up the debate about hospital policies with me quickly.  He cut the strings out of the hoodie and let me keep it.  

I was grateful.  The waiting room was freezing.  There were two other women, several men, and one aide, sitting at a desk.  Periodically the aide would come around to take temperatures and blood pressures.  I chose to sit near an attractive young girl with a big bosom, bearing her children's names tattooed across her arms.  Next to her, I was invisible.  She looked me over with her large eyes, framed by thick black eyeliner.  "When did you get here?"

"I don't know.  Maybe thirty, forty-five minutes ago."

"You okay?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"  I scoffed, adding, "I've never been in a place like this."

"Oh, it's good here.  I just need to get a week... a break."  The young lady explained to me that she had two small children at home, staying with her mother, a boyfriend who was in and out of the picture, and she needed the respite to "get clean" before she started a new job.  This was her third time inpatient... or was it forth?  She lost track.  They would not always admit her.

"What is wrong with that guy over there?"  She pointed with her eyes, "He keeps staring and licking his lips at me."

Look at your cleavage.  I can barely avoid looking at it, and I'm not even attracted to women... Don't judge.  She probably doesn't even know how attractive she is...

I looked over to see a tall Hispanic man with lazily half open, light-colored eyes and eyebrows with multiple thin vertical lines shaved into them.  He was anxiously cycling; fidgeting in his chair, making laps around the room, then sitting again.

"Yeah, he's not right."  I recommended we move behind a pillar, but the big bosomed girl was not interested in escaping his attention.  Instead, she was making a sport of watching him stare and complaining.  Eventually another man sat on the other side of her and took her attention.

I read a book I had brought with me for a while.  The sound of gunshots on the news disrupted my peace of mind.  There was a dangerous tornado happening in Oklahoma.  I pulled the hoodie over my head, curled my body into a ball and willed myself into a shallow sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Echo.  Echo,"  a strange voice was waking me.  I opened my eyes to see a nurse.  "Your sister is on the phone."

"I don't have a sister,"  I mumbled.

"Well, there's someone on the phone asking for you."

I wandered to the pay phone hanging on the wall, its chord, less than a foot long.  "Hello?"

"Echo!  You got there?"  It was my eldest brother.

"I'm here.  I'm in the waiting room..."

"You're okay?"

I was growing tired of this question already.  "I'm waiting.  Victor's taking care of Patsy.  I don't know how long I'm going to be here.  It's cold."

The nurse interrupted me, "I just need to take your picture for admission."

"Hold on, they have to take my picture."  I put the phone away from my face for the picture.  "Hello?  I'm going to try to sleep more.  I'll talk to you later."

When I returned to my chair, I realized there were several more restless souls fidgeting in the waiting room now, mostly men, including the eyebrow man.  My second attempt to sleep was impeded by an aide, telling me that he needed to take my sweatshirt.  

"I've had it this entire time... It's cold."

"I'll give you blankets."

"No."

He asked me to step aside.  I braced myself for a debate, but then he surprised me, "Look, I have to take the sweatshirt.  I don't know how you got it in here, but somebody could loose their job.  I will give you blankets and let you sit over here, in this other room, by yourself, and pick the channel on this other TV."

I had no argument.  Instead I curled up alone, away from the other crazy people, watching a "Sandford and Son" rerun.  A nurse did an initial medical intake.  An alcoholic joined me in the private room for a while; telling me her story, telling me I would be okay- how pretty I was.  She just knew it; I would be okay.  She forced a hug on me.  

A psychiatrist and the student shadowing her took me into an interview room for another intake.  Dr. L was from Long Island.  I could tell from her accent.  Her flat-ironed blonde hair hung past her shoulders.  She looked more her age with her reading glasses on.  "Did you bring this book with you?"

"Yes... figured I'd be sitting in a waiting room most of the day."

"What is it?"

"The Intellectual Devotional (http://www.amazon.com/The-Intellectual-Devotional-Education-Confidently/dp/1594865132),"  I showed flipped through the pages to show her, "Each page is a different item, like a sort of mini-encyclopedia about art, music, philosophy..."

"That's a really interesting book.  Let me write it down..."

"Yeah, it keeps me from getting bored."

"So, what brings you here?"

Having already been through a psychological intake before, I knew better than to get boggled down by the details that I would have to repeat several times- to other doctors, nurses, and aides... "I kicked in my boyfriend's door and had a suicidal episode."

"Did you have a fight?  Did you break up?"

"No, I just- He said he needed a night alone... the night after I told him I had pre-cancer... and I have been depressed for months, but I hadn't realized it... and I took a morning after pill a few months ago, and my hormones are out of whack.  I had to take it before- it happened then too... I kicked in another door then.  De-ja-vu."

"How long have you been depressed?"

"On and off since puberty."

"How long have you been having suicidal thoughts?"

"Same."

"Have you ever been medicated?"

"Never... I studied psychology... I went out of my way to never become labelled, never be on pills," I admitted.  Strange to hear it aloud.  I thought about the recent mass shootings, of politicians fighting over how to better track the psychologically disordered.  This is it.  No turning back now.  They caught you.  Now you'll be on file.  Your permanent record.

"Have you ever thought of harming anyone other than yourself?"

"Never.  I don't even like to kill bugs.  Just myself."

"Do you cut or self-mutilate?"

"Never.  I don't like pain and suffering.  I am suicidal because I want to escape pain.  Oblivion sounds comforting."

"So, you're here.  Are you willing to take medication?"

"Well, I would rather not-"

"But if you had an infection, you would take medication."

"I have heard this argument before... I'm not infected,"  I stopped myself.  Every bone in my body wanted to argue for the sake of not validating her rationale... But I did not have the will or strength.  "I'm here.  I want to get better.  If medication is the fastest way to do that, I will consider it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before I came to the hospital I had admitted this to myself.

I was on the phone with Eugene... He is often so depressed that he does not return phone calls or text messages for weeks or months.  By some miracle, he called me before I went the hospital, "Oh, Zhenechka- I would never take pills.  Booze and God's plant is good enough for me..."

"Eugene, I stopped drinking and smoking.  I will do whatever it takes to get better... If it helps me get back on track... back to Victor, I will take pills every day for the rest of my life... if it is what I need... I will do whatever it takes.  Whatever it takes."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day after my big breakdown... after I kicked in Victor's door, 5 days before I checked myself in... He bought us coffee and took me to the park.  His eyes were welling with tears that he was refusing to shed.  Before the words started coming out of his month, I panicked, "You're brought me here to break up with me... You brought me out in public..."

"No, Echo.  I don't feel comfortable in the apartment right now.  It just makes me think about what happened."

"You don't want me anymore."

He paused, "Echo, I love you... You need to get help."

"You will help me?"

"I am trying," he squeezed my hands in his.  "I want you to know I talked to some people about this, and they gave me some phone numbers.  I talked to the suicide hotline.  I didn't know what to do- I have never been in this situation before."

I was shaking.

"They said it is normal that you feel like you scared.  There are things you can do- You don't have to take medication.  There are things similar to meditation that you can do-  You need to see a therapist."

"Will you take me?"

He paused, "We'll see."

"-Because I need you to be there.  I don't think I can tell them everything without you there... I'm not sure I even know what happened.  I need someone with an outside perspective to be there, to help explain."

"We'll see," he was pushing the tears away from his cheeks now.  "Echo, it is normal for you to be afraid that you will loose your creativity, what makes you special... But you won't.  It's okay."

"You... you won't forgive me though."

"I already forgive you.  I just want you to get help."

"But your friends... your family... they won't.  They won't forgive me, and they won't want me around you- and you won't be able to come back to me..."

"Echo... Shh... Let's worry about that later."

"No, Victor, are you leaving me?"

His tears were beyond rolling down his cheeks now, "Echo, please."

...He put me into the passenger's seat of my car.  He gathered most of my belongings from his apartment and put them in the backseat.  Then he drove me back to my loft and took the train home.

I laid in bed, devastated.  I called my Reiki master, my mom, my brother... I called the suicide hotline.  I couldn't believe they put me on hold multiple times.  Eventually they connected me to a facility, where I thought I could go see an outpatient therapist.  Then I heard the receptionist say, "Okay, we have a bed for you... Do you need us to send a taxi?"

"A bed?"  I was shocked.  "I don't think I need a bed."

"You're feeling suicidal?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then you should come in.  I will hold the bed for you tonight."

"...okay, but- I might not come."

"Okay, but if you're feeling like you might harm yourself, you should.  We will hold a bed." ...How I wish I had accepted that first bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next few days, I hung out with friends.  A couple chums took me to the movies, "Star Trek: Into the Darkness".  I went to see some bands play... I went to my girlfriend, Regina- She was friends with Victor long before I came along.

"What's wrong?"  She asked.  Panic was written all over my face.

"He's leaving me..."

"What?  Why?"  ...She listened to what had happened.  She asked me a series of questions about my sleeping habits, appetite, and moods.  "You're depressed.  You need to find a good doctor... It's okay."

"...But-"

"No buts- it will be fine.  You'll get help, and you'll be fine."

"But Victor-"

"Victor is not going to leave you for being depressed.  He's a really good guy... and if he can't handle it, then fuck him."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day 5, after the door-break-down... Victor and I played our scheduled gig at the Italian Market Festival.  Another band's drummer offered to sit in with us.  It was great... until he said he had to leave- He had another gig, then he was going to see some of our friends play a show.

"Can I come?"

"Let me think about it."

"That means no."

...Later that night I was on the phone, asking him to come stay with me.  I had not slept more than a couple hours in days.  He was telling me he had to do what was right and not what he wanted to do.

I was on and off the phone, running around my apartment... trying to secure a sheet high enough and figure out how people hang themselves this way.  I carried the kitchen knife around with me, speculating about whether it was long enough to reach my heart if I plunged it up under my ribs... I remembered reading about a model who had done it this way successfully.

Surges of adrenaline would peak and dissipate.  I was cry and curl up into the fetal position and try to think of someone I wanted to see, wanted to call... There was no one else.

It ended with several attempts to suffocate myself.  Layers of plastic bags... I had seen this in a movie.  It seemed simple enough... But of course, this is why people have to handcuff themselves.  It is scary- feeling plastic begin to seal closer and closer to one's face.  It is not at all peaceful.  I could not do it.  Whatever part of me that was broken- that wanted to end this life- could not override my survival instincts.

I called the suicide hotline.  "Can I keep my phone at the hospital?"

He said yes, but I knew better... They sent a car to pick me up.

During the ride to the Center City hospital, Victor stayed on the phone with me, "I'm so proud of you, Echo.  I'm glad you're going."

"I love you, Victor.  I want to be better..."  I was crying, aching, "Victor, tell me a story..."

"A story?  ...about us?"

"Yes.  Us."  I cried sweet-bitter tears, hearing him tell me the story of us that I had wanted to hear, just as I had hoped he would, proving the deep bond I felt was not single-sided.  "I am here, Victor.  I have to go now."

The moment I walked in the door, I knew it was mistake.  I saw a stern security guard, demanding all of my things.  I stopped in my tracks, "The man on the hotline said you wouldn't take my phone.  He said I could keep it."

"No one here told you that."

"I can't stay here without my phone."

He made no attempt to argue with me, "Do you need a token for the bus?"

...I walked most of the way, calling a very disappointed Victor who convinced me to get into a taxi.

Many months later, he would tell me that he was sitting in his car, stopping himself from coming to me.  By the next morning, I would be at Friends Hospital instead.

Many months later, everything would be different... I would weep to him- how I wished that I had never taken the morning after pill, "We just got serious.  We were just starting our life and our band... I didn't want to ruin everything.  I didn't want you to be with me because you knocked me up.  I didn't want anyone else to think you got stuck with me..."

"...I can't control what anyone else thinks,"  He told me firmly.  "I love you.  No one else decides who I love and want to be with- You have to trust me."

-and for the first time, I began to realize what that meant.

Red Tent Talk

My body wants a baby.

There I said it.  I am thirty years old.  My body is fully developed.  I have no illusions about where I am in my life process... The brain begins to decline in one's late twenties.  The metabolism slows.  The bloom begins to leave the rose, and suddenly living is work.  My body is finished growing.  As far as it is concerned, the mission is now to insure that its genes are propagated to the next generation...

This is absurd, but it is also true.

The other day, Victor admitted that he is watching his hairline recede.  He was having a self-conscious moment.  It does not bother me.  I reminded him that his father's hair is thin on top, and he is still a good looking gent.

I do not know how to respond to these observations... Maybe I should not have said anything.

Instead, I raised my bangs, "Look at how huge my forehead is!  My mother used to tie my ponytails back so tight!  I always feel like I have to hide it with bangs..."

...Whenever I start dating any man, my mind reviews the list of compromises it may have to live with.  As I fell initially fell in love with Victor, I quickly romanticized the notion of watching him grow old with me.  His changing hairline and waistline did not phase me, as they have may phased a younger more naive version of myself.

MY skin is beginning to show signs of wrinkles, begging for an increase in my facial lotion budget.  Every time Victor makes me smile so big that I feel the crows feet form in the corners of my eyes, my body whispers, "Are you sure?  Don't give away all of your magic before you're sure.  You only have so many smooth skinned smiles left to spend..."

I am more practical than I am superficial.  I lean away from men who are overweight, not because they are fat, but because I come from a family of heavy people with obesity related health concerns.  I try to avoid cigarette smokers because I have worked with cancer survivors who have lost their voice boxes or had parts of their tongue replaced with pieces of their thigh-tissue.  I prefer frugal men rather than materialistic men who need to spend most of their income on keeping up appearances... I am a practical woman.

A practical woman who understands what a financial and emotional commitment being a mother is... My new roommate has a two year old daughter.  Each day I hear them bargaining to put on clothes, eat meals, use the potty... and I think, Wow, I'm so glad that I am not responsible for anyone's bowel movements but my own!  

My body does not care that I have plans.  It does not care that I am not married.  It also does not care that I am treating it well; exercising, choosing healthy foods, drinking in moderation to preserve its optimal state.  This body knows it is already dying, no matter what I do, eventually- and it is determined to create another vessel for propagation.

.....So when my menstrual cycle started with unbearable body aches, all I could think was,  I hear you, body.  You are angry- I know what you want... and I can't help you.  No babies, not yet.

But it did not stop at the physical symptoms.  It also began making wild demands for attention and affection.  This is psychological warfare.  You and I both know that Victor is busy.  He has rehearsals and gigs, and there is no reason to bother him... Whenever I feel an urge to call/text him at an inappropriate moment, my common sense reminds me, Why are you trying to push him out of your life today?  Are you really in such a rush to loose him? ...and after some thought, I realize- THE BODY.  It is trying to replace him... as it replaced all the boyfriends before him, who failed to impregnate me.  It gets impatient.  It releases overdoses of hormones that throw me into jealous, insecure, demanding rages.

I have been learning to channel this nervous energy into my music, my artwork... It is upsetting to put into words, to admit in such literal terms- Because what man wants to hear his girlfriend admit that she can hear her biological clock ticking so loudly that it wakes her up in the middle of the night sometimes?

Self-awareness is an amazing tool.  It allows me to acknowledge- this is what my body, my vessel is experiencing.  I am not its slave.  I certainly do not treat it as well as I could, but I try to balance its care with my satisfaction.  It is unsatisfied with waiting to procreate... But I do not want to spend the rest of my life, resenting my body and my child for forcing me into motherhood before my mind and partner were ready.  I want to be a good and present mother- I am still learning to be mindful and present in my own life!  So for now... the body can wait.  Babies can wait.

Work in Progress... Almost Found

New projects constantly beginning... None of which comply to be completed.

Damnit, why?!  Are you really so lazy?  Don't you know you have to expend energy to create energy? 

Maybe this is all I have right now.  Maybe I am working at full capacity, and this is how much I can accomplish at the moment.

That sounds like a perfect excuse to fail... 

I am not failing.  I am in the process of succeeding.  It is taking longer than I would like, but it is happening.  Rushing, pushing, and worrying will only slow me down.  If I acknowledge when I am tired and rest, then when I am refreshed, I will resume working actively with better momentum.

Lazy.

Sometimes I wonder how I ever forced myself out of bed... into the shower, into the classroom, into the office.  How did I push aside my heavy thoughts and feelings to function as a productive member of society?

...I dissociated, largely.  My teachers, friends, and colleagues never knew... But most of the time I was only half present- the physical half.  The intangible half of me was writing songs and books, painting pictures... daydreaming.

My family tells me that I had imaginary friends. I was alone a lot as a kid, and I did not have many toys or TV channels from which to choose.  I was always creating various scenarios to make my days more interesting.  I was a princess hidden away in a small village, a slave girl from the Bible... An alien sent to Earth to experience human life and collect data... When I went to school, it became worse.  I squandered most of my attention, studying the interactions between my classmates and the staff members. I imagined what each one was thinking and feeling, what their home lives were like... Sometimes, I traveled far away in my head, believing that I genuinely did not belong there and would no doubt be found and extricated.  At some point, I became more absorbed in my own mind's world than the 'real world'... I ceased perceiving reality as the norm, only a place I occasionally visited...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dissociation is a term in psychology describing a wide array of experiences from mild detachment from immediate surroundings to more severe detachment from physical and emotional experience. It is commonly displayed on a continuum. The major characteristic of all dissociative phenomena involves a detachment from reality – rather than a loss of reality as in psychosis. In mild cases, dissociation can be regarded as a coping mechanism or defense mechanisms in seeking to master, minimize or tolerate stress – including boredom or conflict. At the nonpathological end of the continuum, dissociation describes common events such as daydreaming while driving a vehicle. Further along the continuum are non-pathological altered states of consciousness." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stubborn. That is what I heard adults call me. "You're smart, but you don't live up to your potential," was the phrase I heard, again and again. Potential? What is that? And how do they know what mine is? 

I told myself they were wrong. I knew some very smart people, and clearly I was not one. Smart people did their homework. Smart people got good grades. Smart people did not ask silly questions. Smart people certainly did not sleep with their mothers until they were nearly nine years old or cling to deteriorating stuffed animals into their teens.

I was waiting to be rescued.  Surely I would be taken to Hollywood to sing and dance like Shirley Temple.  I would grow up to be a hybrid of Elizabeth Taylor and Aretha Franklin.  Surely it was only a matter of time... In reality, I was quite shy.  My skin would burn with embarrassment if everyone's attention was focused on me.  I knew so little about the world, and I knew it... I was afraid of letting others see my ignorance.   

...When one spends a great deal of time in their own imagination, it eventually becomes easy to loose sight of reality.  Did I say that out loud?  ...Or one hears/sees something that coincides with one's fantasies so serendipitously that it validates one's detachment from reality.  Is that "Daydream Believer" on the radio suddenly?  Oh, Universe, you and your funny sense of humor!  

.....Just yesterday I came home to my new shared home, with music stirring inside of me, just waiting to be poured... I quickly grabbed my laptop and ran to the common space, where a piano is stored... As I opened the door, there it was, suddenly center of the room with a spotlight shining down on it from above.  So poetic, so literary.  Picture perfect.

I took a seat and began tinkering out chord structures that I have never learned- but which approximate the music streaming in my mind's ear... Lyrics escaped my mouth with melodies to suit the key... Then I would hit a wall.  I began struggling with the chords I was hearing aloud over what I was hearing in my head... I would stop the recording, play it back- hear my errors in the audio file, hear what I intended in my mind... silently, listen in my mind for a few minutes... wander around the house, humming, getting a snack... Then before I could finish spreading the jelly on my toast, I was back at the piano, slamming out as much as I could capture.

It is like transcribing what a speaker saying in a foreign language... Like trying to decipher the "baby talk" I hear during some speech therapy sessions... I do not know what is really being said, but I try to make marks on paper that will help me imitate it later.  I have to be careful to not project my current moods or jump to conclusions.  I can not assume to know what a song is about- just because it is coming out of me.  I never truly know until I hear it.  This is a process that can last weeks, months... One song took me over a year to decipher.  Given how briefly I have been writing, there are no doubt gems hiding in my piles of loose letters that will reveal themselves in years to come... if I learn to stop fighting them.

...When I really let go- stop assuming, stop worrying, stop trying- When I really listen... I hear that frightened voice in my mind melt.  Its insecurities are revealed... Someone will judge me.  Someone won't like me.  Maybe I'm not good enough.  Maybe something is wrong with me.  I don't want anyone to see me... 

                               ...and I embrace myself.  I am not lazy.  I process information in a way that makes me different.  It makes my day to day activity look unusual compared to what has been portrayed by most of the role models I had growing up, different from the characters I see on television, different from most of the individuals that I meet... But when I try to act like someone other than myself; I struggle, I doubt myself, I become depressed.  When I take risks; invest time in networking with a wide variety of people, take unconventional classes about communication and holistic health, volunteer... and just let myself write; at home, in cafes, in bars, at parties- whenever, wherever I want... and listen to my mind when it says, It's time to pick up a guitar.  Don't forget to record... Something amazing is about to pour out of you so quickly that you will barely be able to remember... I am able to manifest music that many people study for years to experience- A fact that I forget when I surround myself with other talented musicians.

The muse uses me as a channel.  It demands an audience.  It demands me to sing higher and lower notes than my vocal range feels it can reach.  It demands I hold a confident posture and wear certain costumes.  It demands I play instruments that I do not know how to play...

Lucky for me, I have a wonderful teacher... Lucky for me, Victor can interpret the rudimentary manner in which I capture what the muse gives me into music.  He has the years of study to polish it into something spectacular.

He patiently reminds me that my skills are in dire need of more practice.  He gives me lessons on whatever instrument that is currently tickling my fancy, pushing me to become the musician I will be- with more discipline, with more time...

Then I watch as he magically molds the melodies and harmonies into a perform-able piece.  It becomes more than it was; more than the muse, more than mine, more than ours... his elaborations alter and improve the way I sing to it, inspire more lyrics... that is how the music of Echo Victory is conceived~

...original music, composed with a man who makes me smile and tingle and blush... These are the dreams I used to have only in the day, while I was supposed to be memorizing the periodic table and solving quadratic equations.  No longer only daydreams-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...man is asleep.  Even while he thinks he is awake, he is not.  You sleep in the night, you sleep in the day- from birth to death you go on changing your patterns of sleep, but you never really awaken.  Just by opening the eyes don't befool yourself that you are awake.  Unless the inner eyes open -unless your inside becomes full of light, unless you can see yourself, who you are -don't think that you are awake.  That is the great illusion that man lives in.  And once you accept that you are already awake, then there is no question of making any effort to be awake... The first thing to do is sink deep into your heart that you are asleep, utterly asleep."  -Osho (Awareness http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/awareness-osho/1100336936?ean=9780312275631)

.................It took a long time, over twenty years, to realize that no one was coming to discover me and whisk me away.  It is a work in progress.  I had to begin finding myself, seeing myself, loving myself; a process that I anticipate will continue throughout the rest of my life.  Now I do not want to be anyone but me.  Every day I meet myself, fall for and seduce myself... Every day, I am almost found.

Coffee Carafe

I believe that artists are crazy because we... a certain subsection of us are...

~*~*~*~

The idea: self-help book from the future.

~*~*~*~

Four missed calls, each spaced less than a minute apart.  It would be bad... Or with any luck, maybe Echo was finally calling to ask me to come over.  Maybe I should start packing a bag, while I redial... I could pick up groceries on the way, cook a stew, feed her a healthy healing meal.  Maybe I could just hold her, like I did when she was a baby.  Maybe if I did everything just right this time, she could wake up with a smile on her face again, ready to take on the world once more.

When I heard her voice, I knew better than to offer to come over, but it was the first question that escaped my lips.

"No, Mom.  Don't come!"

I had heard this frantic phone call too many times.  "Okay, okay, Echo.  I won't.  I won't.  Just talk to me.  It's okay."

~*~*~*~

It was 4:32 AM when we hung up.  She sounded like she was falling asleep, crying.  How I wish I could have wiped away her tears.  This dull ache... God, is this her pain?  Please, let me take it away from her.

I toss and turn in bed for twenty minutes before getting up and taking the Bible to the kitchen table.  I might as well start the coffee now.  Dad will be up to go to work in an hour or so.  I can cut him fresh home fries with this much time on my hands.

I throw the Bible open to a random page and put my finger down on a random verse.  "So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, 'How long will you keep us in suspense?  If you are the Christ, tell us plainly.' -John 10:24."  Alright, Lord.  You do speak "in mysterious ways".

The coffee is ready.  I start to pour a cup.

Echo is thirty.  She was born when I was thirty.  The third child, the youngest child.  Maybe I waited too long to have her.  Maybe I was selfish wanting one more child, a daughter.  Maybe we would have been able to help her brothers more through college if we hadn't been paying for her lessons and sending her to Korea.  I just... wanted to give her opportunities.  She was so open to the world.  She could handle anything.  What happened?  What did I do wrong?

My hand slips and touches the heat of the carafe.  In shock, my fingers go limp and the glass vessel falls to the floor, shattering.  Brown water splatters on the white floral tiles.  So different from glass hitting that old linoleum floor, no bounce whatsoever.  I take a moment to inventory the situation.  Don't move, I tell myself, broken glass.  Leaving my feet flat on the ground, I reach for the light switches to illuminate where the shards may have landed.  I grab a rag from the sink and begin the tedious process of cleaning my mess.

A memory flashes.  ---Echo is about her niece, Rose's age, about thirteen.  Echo's brother, Rose's father was driving me to the store on an icy winter evening.  I am trying my best to not berate him for tuning the radio while he is driving.  But I can feel the wheels sliding on the wet road.  I wish he would just turn the damn thing off altogether.  "Pay attention-"

I heard the words slip out before I could realize I was saying them...  Now he is exploding.  I hit his defensive button.  They are all his defensive button.  There will be no way to calm him down.  Don't yell back.  A deep exhale.  I am using the calmest tone I can muster, "I just want you to keep your hands on the wheel.  It's icy..."

Then we both feel it.  There is no control of the steering to catch, two hands or none.  A sharp icy patch throws the car into a tree.

We assess the damage.  I hear myself yelling at him, but I can't catch all the words.  I am calculating whether the mad money savings account stowed away in my bookcase will cover the dent to his father's vehicle.  If only there was some way to repair it without telling Dad.  No, I will have to have this argument again... and again... and his older brother will add this to his list of belittling statements when the two of them argue now.

Another few years and Echo will be driving.  What?  Wait... my baby.

The arguing continues into the front door of the house.  Forget going anywhere tonight.  Can I just send him to his room?  Does that still work?  He can't go anywhere at this hour, unless one of his friends picks him up.  Is the phone working?  Maybe some lines fell with the weather.  It isn't unusual.

Echo is sitting on the staircase, in the dark.  She is watching us.  Don't want her to see... There is a look on her face.  Her eyes are full of tears.  Damnit.  Another fire to put out?

She walks up slowly to me and caresses her arms around my shoulders.  She is so tall.  I am glad.  I hope she will be tall and strong and confident.  I feel my body collapsing into hers.  Is she upset for me?  Don't ask me to be calm.  Who is the mother here?

"Mommy.  I got my period."  She whimpers quietly into my ear, as if ashamed.

I feel something divine touch me.  My pain is extinguished and ignites into strength.  I am still her pillar.  I am holding her, although I am in her arms.  I hold her.  We ransack the house for feminine products to no avail.  She has been bleeding for several months in silence, taking what she needed from my supplies.  Now they are depleted.  She had no choice but to tell me.  Why wouldn't she tell me?

I try to tell her there is nothing shameful about menstration... I try---

The kitchen is clean.  I am more tired but restless.  My thirst for coffee is worse now.  Somewhere in the cellar my mother in law had a spare carafe.  I saw it sometime...

Fumbling through boxes of candlesticks and ceramic figurines, I question why I am holding onto so many things... her grandchildren say they want these things, but they never come to claim them.  Maybe taking them home is admitting she is gone.  No one has room.  I guess we still have room.  Would they really notice if I gave it all to Goodwill?  What could I do with this space?  What if I made it a proper gym for Dad to work out in?  He is trying so hard to stay in shape... If only he would eat the healthier dishes I would like to share with him... What will life as a widow be like?

Something scurries.  A mouse?  A bug?  My imagination?  I swear I saw it crawl into the space between the wall and the hutch.  Is there an opening?  I kneel down and put my hand into the space to feel for a breeze, some indication of hole to the outside.  My hand touches something.  I fight the urge to recoil.  It isn't alive.  It isn't animate.  It's soft, unexpected.  I hook its texture between two fingers and pull... pages... It's a book.

Weathered and dog-eared, it bears dried brown water stains.  It has lost its cover and the side title has worn away.  Attempting to adjust my eyes in the dim cellar light, my gaze moves from near to distance without the ability to focus.  I need my glasses.  That is when I see the carafe, sitting atop a box of other kitchen conveniences.  I grab it and head upstairs.

Wash the replacement carafe, brew a fresh pot of coffee, pour a cup and take the book out onto the porch... The sun will rise soon.  I can see the horizon turning pink.

9. Transient, stress-related feelings of unreality or paranoia.

"You and your beloved are walking a path never walked in exactly the same way by anyone else who has ever lived.  You do not take a breath, think a thought, have a wisp of feeling that existed before, and the intimacy you build together will never be known again.  Countless paths exist -as many as there are people in the world... It starts with you and someone you love, learning to be together without resistance or fear" -Deepak Chopra (The Path to Love)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For most people, death is one of their worst fears.  For the suicidal, death seems... well, I shouldn't generalize.  For this suicidal individual, death is not frightening.  It is relief, release- freedom from the fear of living.  I know when I am beginning to care about someone because that is when I begin to fear death.  My death, his death... the idea suddenly becomes frightening rather than comforting- a foreign concept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere in time and space I am laying in a hospital bed.  I am unconscious.  You are sitting at my side as often as possible.  You tell me that everything will be alright.  You beg me to come back to you.  You hold my hand.  You tell me stories about us; how we met, our first date... memories.

...This is something I wrote while I was recovering from my breakdown.  It is a reoccurring daydream that would visit me.  It still is... in a way.

I have always had a very overactive imagination.  My daydreams have a continuous and symbolic "Ally McBeal" quality.  The more input (books, movies, TV) I give my brain, the more often I notice these "sign"-like moments... It is called priming.  There is nothing magical or mystical about it really... It is my brain making associations with recently accessed information-

...When Victor and I started dating, I had a weird story visit me... In it, he was a white knight, questing to save me, as a princess in a tower, guarded by a dragon.  Many knights had tried, but somehow where they had failed, he was succeeding... He did not save the princess by slaying the dragon.  He soothed the dragon to sleep, and when it found peace, it melted away into the princess.

(I dreamed this story before Victor drew this picture in my notebook...                                    

        ...and I did not tell him about the story I imagined until afterwards.)

I wanted the dragon to be gone... But it is always just below the surface, temperamental and breathing smoke, ready to strike.  (8. Frequent and inappropriate displays of anger)  It is careless.  It destroys what I cherish most... It wants me to be alone.

Although no one has ever really left me, it is what I fear most... as a result, I have pushed away and run away from everyone I cared about at some point or another.  (1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...When I got home from the hospital, I was not ready to re-enter my life.  In fact, my life had gone on without me.  All the plans I had made with Victor were still happening, but I was no longer invited.  I sat in my apartment and moped a lot, barely willing to leave bed many days, aimlessly walking around the city others.  My mother stayed with me for a long time, forcing me to eat at least once a day.  I had no appetite, took no pleasure in eating or drinking anything except coconut water.  My clothing hung off of my frame like drapes.  I finally had the rail thinness that I had always envied.

I slept more than anything.  I slept and wrote and watched movies on the internet.

One of the stranger flicks I saw was a Dutch dark comedy called "Ober" ("Waiter" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiter_(film)).  The title character portrays a waiter who knows he is the main character of an author's novel.  It is a much more somber and unmistakably European take on one of my favorite American movies "Stranger Than Fiction" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stranger_than_Fiction_(2006_film)).  However, in this film, the waiter knows his author from the start and frequently calls and visits him to complain about his circumstances... Like a direct line to God.  The author makes many excuses about preserving his creative integrity, and in fact, giving into the waiter's pleas often only leads to more disappointing consequences.

...I experienced a similar writing conflict, trying to write many novellas, as a child.  I never finished any of them, largely because my characters also refused to comply with my plans.  I would start with fantastic a plot in mind, an intended destiny... a destination, an ending.  But as I would begin to describe my characters, meet them and get to know them, I would realize that they would make other decisions.  They would derail my trains of thought, sabotage my story-lines.  They had other desires.  They were flawed, impulsive, rebellious; and I could not force them to submit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can not explain how it happened, why it happened.  One day...dream, I awoke from my coma.  In the hospital, you were there waiting for me... But as time passed quickly in my dream, and I began to recover, I saw myself in a mirror- I was not me.  I was not Echo.  You were not Victor.  Different faces.  Different lives.  So confusing...

I watched as she re-entered her life with my memories, bewildered.  I watched as she was taken to a psychiatrist.  Then I knew- You are confusing her.  Leave her be to heal.  Heal yourself.  If you keep pursuing this ghost, she will be stuck in a hospital, away from the man she loves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I missed Victor so much.  I could not attend a summer's worth of his bands' gigs that we had planned to go to together.  Gigs that we were going to play together were cancelled.  My band seemed to be dissolving... Even if I replaced him, I could not get out of bed.

I would nap and sleep as often as possible to escape the pain... the memories- good and bad.  It hurt to remember how happy we were.  It hurt to remember how I lost control.  Falling asleep was a relief, a brief reprieve from the truth... and each time I awoke, after a few seconds of blissful ignorance, I would realize he was not laying next to me.  All the memories would flood back into my mind, drowning any sense of contentment that lingered.

It was during these weeks that I would learn my diagnosis was more than Major Depressive Disorder, as they had told me at Friends Hospital.  I Googled the therapy treatment that Victor, my nurse, psychiatrist, psychologist and other therapists had recommended: dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT).  Wikipedia informed me, "a form of psychotherapy that was originally developed by Marsha M. Linehan, a psychology researcher at University of Washington, to treat people with borderline personality disorder (BPD)."  Borderline?  Like the Madonna song?

I started reading as many books about BPD as I could find; Loving Someone with Borderline Personality Disorder (http://www.amazon.com/Someone-Borderline-Personality-Disorder-Control/dp/1593856075), I Hate You, Don't Leave Me (http://www.amazon.com/Hate-You-Dont-Leave-Understanding/dp/0380713055), Girl, Interrupted (http://www.amazon.com/Girl-Interrupted-Susanna-Kaysen/dp/0679746048), Mindfulness for Borderline Personality Disorder (http://www.amazon.com/Mindfulness-Borderline-Personality-Disorder-Dialectical/dp/1608825655), Stop Walking on Eggshells (http://www.amazon.com/Stop-Walking-Eggshells-Borderline-Personality/dp/1572246901), The Buddha and the Borderline (http://www.amazon.com/The-Buddha-Borderline-Personality-Dialectical/dp/157224710X), Get Me Out of Here (http://www.amazon.com/Get-Out-Here-Borderline-Personality/dp/1592850995/ref=pd_sim_b_2).  I was astounded to read book after book about people like me, struggling like me.  Suddenly, I was not completely alone.  Suddenly, I was not a conniving prima donna, constantly demanding her way.  There were others like me.  My compulsive pushing and testing were more than a series of bad habits and thoughtless choices.  It was part of something bigger, something that had a prescribed treatment... something from which people recovered.

...I hit a wall.  I had given Victor all my patience.  I ran to him in the middle of the night... Something so stupid had been the last straw; his Facebook page said he was singing in his apartment "hope the neighbors don't mind -with" some girl's name.  I was crushed.  If he was moving on and announcing it so publicly, I deserved to know.  I could not contain myself.  I was a moth to a flame.  I was shaking when I knocked on his door.  It took several excruciating minutes before he answered, "Who is it?"

"It's me," I managed.  Am I interrupting something?  Are you going to open the door- or tell me to leave?

When he opened the door, I could not stop the tears, "I'm sorry.  I know I'm not supposed to-"

"It's okay,"  Victor pulled me into his arms and held me tight, "It's okay."

I continued to apologize and cry, despite the comfort of being his arms once more, "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."  For everything, everything.  I'm sorry I'm me.  I'm sorry I'm here.  I'm sorry I love you.  I'm sorry I'm broken.  So very sorry...

He put my face in his hands to look into my eyes, "Anytime before now, I don't think I could have handled this... But it's okay.  I promise."  He pulled me close again.  "Let's go sit down."

After an hour or so of Victor consoling me, I could not be dishonest with him and avoid telling him about the jealousy that had instigated my visit.  I confessed, "I thought someone might be here with you."

He laughed at me, "That's my neighbor's name.  It was a joke... You know she can hear through the walls."  ...Nevertheless, my admission had done its damage; my green dragon had shown itself again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next week, I would daydream of the woman again, out of her coma.  I would not recognize who she was at first... But this time when I saw her, I saw the Wheel of Fortune, like a cog in a clock.  I would ask for the process to progress... Then slowly... so much started happening in my life... I hit another wall- one that threatened the end of everything with Victor  ...I quit everything and poured myself entirely into this blog.  It became my life.  I finally admitted, I may be writing a book. 

http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/ceremony.html
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/cocoon.html
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/crickets.html

I spent a lot of time with friends; playing music, planning, volunteering, coordinating... events, recording time, photo shoots... Job interviews!  I found the confidence to offer Victor a month away from me... a month with no ties or contact.  A month for him to be free of my influence and make a decision about whether to continue our relationship or say goodbye.  He postponed the decision to the last possible day...

...a few days before our deadline, the first open mic I used to go to, out in the burbs- where all this started- was suddenly cancelled.  I went to its grand finale.  It was bittersweet.  I performed for the last time on its stage, alone, borrowing Andy's guitar.

This weird theme visited me repeatedly throughout the evening... Meta. "A term, especially in art, used to characterize something that is characteristically self-referential." They were selling t-shirts, featuring the original host of the open mic... He was there wearing one.  There were many more examples- Why don't you write these things down?

(Insert example of meta in artwork)

I knew everyone would carry the party on late... or early rather, into the morning hours, but I slipped out at last call.  I texted Victor, "Can I drive by and have you bring out my key?"  He obliged.

Just take the key and say goodbye.  Don't even park your car.  Give him distance.  Give him space and time.

He walked out to my car in shorts and flip-flops.  I thanked him.  "Echo, if you go away in September... You're not coming back, are you?"

I looked down, "I've been thinking about that... Honestly, I'm not sure.  I might not be.  I don't know."

He talked me into parking and chatting for a while, "Should we stay outside?"  He asked.

"I would, but I have to pee... three beers," I danced up the stairs and into the bathroom.  I could have cried, staring at where my toothbrush used to rest next to his.

We talked... I told him I was sorry, "We were so good before we fell in love.  Then we fell into the trap of trying to play house, like everyone we know... I'm no good at that, never have been.  If I wanted that life, I could have had it several times now."

"I don't want to live that way."

"Me either.  We don't have to- We can figure out how to live the life we want- together.  One step at a time... Like you said, baby steps."

It was getting late, and I wandered to the door, but when he held me like he did not want to let go- I offered to stay... I had not slept in his bed in months.  "You could see how you feel about everything in the morning."

He agreed, and we fell asleep in each other's arms.

...There was no way to rewind the past.  We could only learn from it...  I can never be that person again.  Although I will always be myself, I am going to change everyday...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My family relationships have been strained.  Our contact has been limited.  They barely answer my calls, when they do, they barely speak... except my dad.  The one person I struggle most to turn to... my one supporter... the only one not afraid of what I am exposing.

I have had to accept that they are not prepared to handle this-  I could choose to crawl back into my shell, if I wanted to live the normal life they would prefer... if I let their fears and hesitations influence me, but I can't.  I can't.  Only through this clear channel of communication have I felt free to live again... have I found a life worth living again!

...my only fear is that I could say something now to ruin all my progress- What if my new employer reads the blog?  What if... What if... What if...  I am finally beginning to finally feel as though I have something to loose again- a blessing and a burden.  How to continue trusting my gut, even when it jeopardizes my immediate happiness and stability?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The woman... the coma woman... Sometimes I talk to her when I am frustrated.  I see her, in her daily routine.  One time she was getting ready for a dinner date.  She was in the bathroom, looking in the medicine cabinet.  Her husband entered and saw her looking perplexed.

"You okay?"

"Yes,"  She replied automatically, "No,"  She corrected herself.  "We need to put these razors away for a while... She's here again."

He began collecting the sharps, "Do you need your medication?"

"No, I'm fine.  We just need to take precautions... to be safe."

"What does she want?"

"...I don't know... What do you want?"  She's asking me a question.  What do I want?

Later I saw her writing.  I recognized her... my narrator.  She is writing my story?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nearly a year after Victor and I left the Tin Angel together, I went there to see him play a show with another band... He knew I was coming.  We discussed it.  He was happy to see me, happier than I expected.  While I got caught up in conversation with the venue promoter, I heard him order me a beer, "This and whatever she's having... Actually, she'll want this.  Pour me another?"  He put his glass in my hand with a smile and a kiss.

All night he touched me.  All night I was finally ready to be his... to let everyone see how affectionate we are behind closed doors... to let everyone see what I had been running away from for months- A wonderful, darling man that I loved so much, it broke my heart.

To long for someone is an incredible sensation... standing on the precipice of acquisition.  It fills me with hope and wonder.  But when I am with someone, life is full of fear and doubt... the possibility of loss looms.  I suddenly fear death.

...It has not been a smooth transition.  It is an effort for us to let go of the past, when we gave ourselves to each other so willingly but made so many mistakes.  Now even good routines, like sharing household chores, can trigger bad memories- codependency.

Loving after the falling part and the falling apart is work... and many people choose to go on falling again and again with different partners.  I do not want to perpetuate that cycle.  I do have faith that there is something very real worth saving between Victor and I...

One morning he caught me using his toothbrush, "Use your own."  He handed me my purple toothbrush.

I felt my eyes nearly fall out of my head, "You didn't throw it away?"

"No, I put it away in my travel bag," he smiled.

I kissed him.  A diamond could not have meant more to me in that moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...don't feel the urge to manipulate, canjole, seduce, demand, beg, or insist.  You simply allow, and in that you make an open space for love to flow."  -Deepak Chopra (The Path to Love)