 |
| Riot.Jane |
I'm just not very good at processing that level of hatred.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish: Osama bin Laden
I'm just not very good at processing that level of hatred.
Respecting the Memory of "Us"
When I was younger, the nights were worse than the days. When I tried to quiet my roiling brain, thoughts of the missing man I loved would poke their snouts into the swirling river of thought commanding my brain. Every bit of hard-fought calm met an equal measure of pain.
Long into the night, I would lie on my side in my bed, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around my knees, unable to breathe except in gasps, tears sliding down my face occasionally, sometimes so late into the night that I would have to call into work sick the next day.
Now it's the mornings that kill me. Not even coherent yet, the presence of his absence rings in my mind afresh. Another small death, another tolling of the bells. The throbbing of the bells, the sobbing of the bells in unhappy Runic rhyme. The rolling of the bells, the tolling of the bells keeping shrieking time for my broken heart.
I can't help but know throughought my being that I need not ask for whom these bells toll . . . They toll in respect for our memory.
~Riot.Jane
(apologies to John Donne and Edgar Allen Poe)
Long into the night, I would lie on my side in my bed, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around my knees, unable to breathe except in gasps, tears sliding down my face occasionally, sometimes so late into the night that I would have to call into work sick the next day. Now it's the mornings that kill me. Not even coherent yet, the presence of his absence rings in my mind afresh. Another small death, another tolling of the bells. The throbbing of the bells, the sobbing of the bells in unhappy Runic rhyme. The rolling of the bells, the tolling of the bells keeping shrieking time for my broken heart.
I can't help but know throughought my being that I need not ask for whom these bells toll . . . They toll in respect for our memory.
~Riot.Jane
(apologies to John Donne and Edgar Allen Poe)
Girl Dies by Suicide After Rape-Allegation-Related Terror
A fourteen-year-old Michigan girl died by suicide November 8 after schoolmates bullied her due to a rape allegation involving her and an 18-year-old schoolmate.
The only things that are truly clear at this point are:
Tarnopolski says he feels "a little bit" bad about Kelly's suicide but that her parents are responsible, not him. Justice says that she encouraged her daughter to speak to the police about the incident to prevent emotional suffering caused by bottling up a rape.
Tarnopolski says that he's not the one who disregarded a confidentiality agreement he and Kelly were going to sign that would kept the event quiet, protecting them both. I can't find a reference to Justice acknowleding a confidentiality agreemnet was arranged.
Justice does say she and her daughter approached the media because Kelly was being terrorized by neighbors and classmates and they couldn't get help anywhere else. Tarnopolski said he was unaware of any maltreatment until after the news broadcast, but that even afterwards neither he nor his friends terrorized Kelly.
Justice's reaction to the Wayne County Prosecutor's Office dropping the case against Tarnopolski, from a local news broadcast:
Another report from a local news outlet, this one includes a brief interview with Tarnopolski:
A local news outlet's longer interview with Tarnopolski and his attorney:
Even though I've had a first-hand taste of the battle Kelly was fighting (topic for another post) . . . After reading the articles linked at the end of this post and after watching the videos above -- especially the interview with Tarnopolski and his attorney -- I was almost, almost, just this close to giving Tarnopolski the benefit of the doubt, extremely poor judgement and suicide girl notwithstanding.
Then I found out that another, similar, criminal complaint involving another underaged girl was filed against Tarnopolski two days after Justice and Kelly were interviewed by a local news station about the harrassment.
Think about that for a minute: Two days after a victim publizes the unimaginable level of harrassment that would soon drive her to suicide, another underaged girl comes forward to say something to the effect of "I, too, was raped by Joseph Tarnopolski"?
Local police have referred the second case to the Wayne County Prosecutor's Office which isn't releasing any information except they're processing it. Tarnopolski has since withdrawn from school due to threatening e-mails that have left his family afraid to leave their home.
To think I was ready to give this speaking filth the benefit of the doubt! This piece of gangrenous humanity is only 18, and it's already clear that he's a victimizer, a predator.
Here's where I'm reduced to a lesser person than I aspire to be most days, but so be it . . . I am glad that his tormentors have caused him to leave school. I am fucking overjoyed that his family is afraid to leave their home. Honestly, I hope that, after he is imprisoned, they have to move a thousand miles away and change their family name to escape what he's done. Justice has a dead daughter, so the Tarnopolski's would still be better off.
I desperately hope the other girl can find the strength within herself to stand proud, and to say it loud, that "I, too, was raped by Joseph Tarnopolski!"
A memorial to Kelly, created by a friend:
Additional sources used as background for this post:
The only things that are truly clear at this point are:
- Samantha Kelly, 14, had sex with Joseph Tarnopolski, 18, at his home on September 26.
- June Justice, Kelly's mother, filed a criminal complaint with the local police department.
- Local police interviewed both Kelly and Tarnopolski.
- Kelly's statements changed over time - at one point she said she was a willing participant, at another she said she was coerced.
- The police arrested Tarnopolski for third-degree criminal sexual conduct (regardless of Kelly's mindset, she was too young to legally consent), then released him on bail.
- Tarnopolski then Tweeted to his classmates that "All girls are, are liars and backstabbers! I hate you all. Way to ruin my life. Seriously, now this will be on my record for life!"
- Neighbors and students divided themselves along pro-Kelly and pro-Tarnopolski lines and the latter faction terrorized Kelly.
- Justice and Kelly approached the media to protest/publicise Kelly's maltreatment by schoolmates and neighbors. During this interview, Kelly's face was obscured but Justice's was not.
- Kelly's maltreatment intensified.
- Kelly scrawled a note on her bedroom wall, the date of the of the sexual event, then hung herself in her family's mobile home on November 8.
Tarnopolski says he feels "a little bit" bad about Kelly's suicide but that her parents are responsible, not him. Justice says that she encouraged her daughter to speak to the police about the incident to prevent emotional suffering caused by bottling up a rape.
Tarnopolski says that he's not the one who disregarded a confidentiality agreement he and Kelly were going to sign that would kept the event quiet, protecting them both. I can't find a reference to Justice acknowleding a confidentiality agreemnet was arranged.
Justice does say she and her daughter approached the media because Kelly was being terrorized by neighbors and classmates and they couldn't get help anywhere else. Tarnopolski said he was unaware of any maltreatment until after the news broadcast, but that even afterwards neither he nor his friends terrorized Kelly.
Justice's reaction to the Wayne County Prosecutor's Office dropping the case against Tarnopolski, from a local news broadcast:
Another report from a local news outlet, this one includes a brief interview with Tarnopolski:
A local news outlet's longer interview with Tarnopolski and his attorney:
Even though I've had a first-hand taste of the battle Kelly was fighting (topic for another post) . . . After reading the articles linked at the end of this post and after watching the videos above -- especially the interview with Tarnopolski and his attorney -- I was almost, almost, just this close to giving Tarnopolski the benefit of the doubt, extremely poor judgement and suicide girl notwithstanding.
Then I found out that another, similar, criminal complaint involving another underaged girl was filed against Tarnopolski two days after Justice and Kelly were interviewed by a local news station about the harrassment.
Think about that for a minute: Two days after a victim publizes the unimaginable level of harrassment that would soon drive her to suicide, another underaged girl comes forward to say something to the effect of "I, too, was raped by Joseph Tarnopolski"?
Local police have referred the second case to the Wayne County Prosecutor's Office which isn't releasing any information except they're processing it. Tarnopolski has since withdrawn from school due to threatening e-mails that have left his family afraid to leave their home.
To think I was ready to give this speaking filth the benefit of the doubt! This piece of gangrenous humanity is only 18, and it's already clear that he's a victimizer, a predator.
Here's where I'm reduced to a lesser person than I aspire to be most days, but so be it . . . I am glad that his tormentors have caused him to leave school. I am fucking overjoyed that his family is afraid to leave their home. Honestly, I hope that, after he is imprisoned, they have to move a thousand miles away and change their family name to escape what he's done. Justice has a dead daughter, so the Tarnopolski's would still be better off.
I desperately hope the other girl can find the strength within herself to stand proud, and to say it loud, that "I, too, was raped by Joseph Tarnopolski!"
A memorial to Kelly, created by a friend:
Additional sources used as background for this post:
- Rape Case Dropped Following Samantha Kelly's Suicide
- Joe Tarnopolski Talks with FOX 2's Taryn Asher
- Alleged Rape Victim, 14, Taunted, Kills Self
- Rape Charge Against Huron High School Teen Dropped After Classmate's Suicide
~Riot.Jane
A Letter to an Old Friend
Writing this is difficult for me . . . Please forgive me if my style is not up to its usual standard. I am having difficulty catching hold of the pieces of plastic lawn furniture blowing around within the squall line crossing my mental landscape, the pieces of a mostly-forgotten past that have taken flight during the storm. The storm that was unintentionally birthed by an e-mail from an old friend.
How, oh how, do I respond?
The longer I wait, the more severe the storm becomes. The longer I wait, the higher the bar over which I must jump. The longer I wait, the better the response much be, as she's wondering WTF. The longer I wait, the more dishonor I do her, a dishonor she in no way deserves.
How, oh how, can I respond when all I can do is shelter in place?
We spent our high school years in neighboring fishing villages turned white-trash meccas on an oceanic bay in the American South. Kindred spirits in adolescent angst, we partnered against the world to the best of our immature ability. We were a duo too intelligent for our own good, far more maladjusted than we could understand, and creatively self-destructive in our desperate search for the cosmopolitan we knew must lay outside our redneck environs.
So many years later, I now know what fueled our different but compatible brands of insanity, but at the time we propped each other up in sisterly affirmation that everyone else was the problem. She was the first woman with whom I fell in love, and finding out that I was the same for her would not surprise me.
She went away to college and broke my heart. My road trips there and hers home only strung out the heartache. Even though I was in the bridal party, I don't remember if she married before or after graduation. I just know that the last time I saw her was at my mother's wake 13 years ago. I knew at the wake that I was leaving my youth behind. That was another heartbreak - Saying goodbye to my mother and to my dear friend at the same time.
She has since divorced and "come out", I've been diagnosed with a handful of sleep disorders. So many things explained, a world of wisdom opened to me.
I tell you these things so that she can see us both in these words. So that there is no possible mistake . . . So that she knows to whom I'm really speaking.
So long ago that I can't remember when, I made contact with a mutual friend of ours. "What the hell ever happened to you, anyway?" she innocently asked, "We all thought you were going to be the next Great American Writer."
The plain speech that made me love her so when we were young was now an innocently-shot arrow through my sense of self. I've not been able to bring myself to speak to her again . . . And this is a large part of why I can't speak to the one I need to now.
There are reasons I haven't achieved the success we thought I would. I could describe them, but they taste like excuses that my pride forbids me to offer. I feel like a failure because I didn't turn into the person that I envisioned, and the most difficult part of this is offering that knowledge to a person whose opinion matters, dear God, more than it should all these years later.
I think her judgment still matters so much because we dreamed those dreams together, because she was so much a part of why I aspired to who I aspired to be. Failing just myself is bad, but realizing that I haven't lived up to the expectations one who was so much a part of me opens a new dimension of horror and shame.
Her letter recently arrived. I waited as long as I could, then wrote a few noncommittal words in return. And then nothing. For weeks. She deserves better.
All I can offer is this post in way of explanation, in way of apology. Forgive me.
~Riot.Jane
How, oh how, do I respond?
The longer I wait, the more severe the storm becomes. The longer I wait, the higher the bar over which I must jump. The longer I wait, the better the response much be, as she's wondering WTF. The longer I wait, the more dishonor I do her, a dishonor she in no way deserves.
How, oh how, can I respond when all I can do is shelter in place?
We spent our high school years in neighboring fishing villages turned white-trash meccas on an oceanic bay in the American South. Kindred spirits in adolescent angst, we partnered against the world to the best of our immature ability. We were a duo too intelligent for our own good, far more maladjusted than we could understand, and creatively self-destructive in our desperate search for the cosmopolitan we knew must lay outside our redneck environs.
So many years later, I now know what fueled our different but compatible brands of insanity, but at the time we propped each other up in sisterly affirmation that everyone else was the problem. She was the first woman with whom I fell in love, and finding out that I was the same for her would not surprise me.
She went away to college and broke my heart. My road trips there and hers home only strung out the heartache. Even though I was in the bridal party, I don't remember if she married before or after graduation. I just know that the last time I saw her was at my mother's wake 13 years ago. I knew at the wake that I was leaving my youth behind. That was another heartbreak - Saying goodbye to my mother and to my dear friend at the same time.
She has since divorced and "come out", I've been diagnosed with a handful of sleep disorders. So many things explained, a world of wisdom opened to me.
I tell you these things so that she can see us both in these words. So that there is no possible mistake . . . So that she knows to whom I'm really speaking.
So long ago that I can't remember when, I made contact with a mutual friend of ours. "What the hell ever happened to you, anyway?" she innocently asked, "We all thought you were going to be the next Great American Writer."
The plain speech that made me love her so when we were young was now an innocently-shot arrow through my sense of self. I've not been able to bring myself to speak to her again . . . And this is a large part of why I can't speak to the one I need to now.
There are reasons I haven't achieved the success we thought I would. I could describe them, but they taste like excuses that my pride forbids me to offer. I feel like a failure because I didn't turn into the person that I envisioned, and the most difficult part of this is offering that knowledge to a person whose opinion matters, dear God, more than it should all these years later.
I think her judgment still matters so much because we dreamed those dreams together, because she was so much a part of why I aspired to who I aspired to be. Failing just myself is bad, but realizing that I haven't lived up to the expectations one who was so much a part of me opens a new dimension of horror and shame.
Her letter recently arrived. I waited as long as I could, then wrote a few noncommittal words in return. And then nothing. For weeks. She deserves better.
All I can offer is this post in way of explanation, in way of apology. Forgive me.
~Riot.Jane
Mummified Babies Could be Linked to "Peter Pan" Author
On August 17, two women cleaning a storage area in a once-grand 1920s-era Los Angeles apartment building made a surprising discovery: two leather satchels that each contained the mumified remains of a human baby.
The remains were wrapped in 1933 and 1935 newspapers and then placed in the the leather satchels (of the type that physicians once carried). The leather satchels were found in an unclaimed wooden trunk bearing the monogram "JMB" that had been stored in the building for decades.
To the discoverers, one appeared to be premature, and the other appeared to be a normal newborn. The assistant coroner referred to the remains as fetuses.
Also in the trunk were personal effects relating to a woman named Jean M. Barrie, including a ticket stub from the 1932 Olympics (held in LA), a copy of "Peter Pan," and a membership certificate for the Peter Pan Woodland Club, an upscale woodland resort destination.
The "Peter Pan" references are intriguing because a close female relative of Scottish novelist and playwright James M. Barrie, author of "Peter Pan," bore the name Jean M. Barrie. This female Barrie is known to have lived on the East Coast and in the Midwest, but her presence on the West Coast is currently unknown.
Alternately, local LA records indicate that two nurses, Jean M. Barrie and Janet M. Barrie, lived local to the apartment building (where the trunk was discovered) in the 1930s. Whether or not these two Barries were the same woman is unclear.
Forensic work will determine the age, gender, cause of death, and genetic profile of each baby/fetus, and the LA Police intend to investigate fully.
Facts pulled and more available from: Newser, NY Daily News, LA Times, and MSNBC
Maybe it's just the part of me that insists upon trying to think the best of people, but I have this picture in my mind of a woman who miscarried but couldn't bring herself to part with the remains. In such a case, with "Peter Pan" being so popular, of course such a woman would be interested in keeping the place where children live forever close to her mind and close to her babies. Whether or not she's related to the author isn't actually important to my mental picture.
Unless, of course, a definitive connection to James M. Barrie is made, because that would place a literary classic into a whole new light.
~Riot.Jane
The remains were wrapped in 1933 and 1935 newspapers and then placed in the the leather satchels (of the type that physicians once carried). The leather satchels were found in an unclaimed wooden trunk bearing the monogram "JMB" that had been stored in the building for decades.
To the discoverers, one appeared to be premature, and the other appeared to be a normal newborn. The assistant coroner referred to the remains as fetuses.
Also in the trunk were personal effects relating to a woman named Jean M. Barrie, including a ticket stub from the 1932 Olympics (held in LA), a copy of "Peter Pan," and a membership certificate for the Peter Pan Woodland Club, an upscale woodland resort destination.
The "Peter Pan" references are intriguing because a close female relative of Scottish novelist and playwright James M. Barrie, author of "Peter Pan," bore the name Jean M. Barrie. This female Barrie is known to have lived on the East Coast and in the Midwest, but her presence on the West Coast is currently unknown.
Alternately, local LA records indicate that two nurses, Jean M. Barrie and Janet M. Barrie, lived local to the apartment building (where the trunk was discovered) in the 1930s. Whether or not these two Barries were the same woman is unclear.
Forensic work will determine the age, gender, cause of death, and genetic profile of each baby/fetus, and the LA Police intend to investigate fully.
Facts pulled and more available from: Newser, NY Daily News, LA Times, and MSNBC
Maybe it's just the part of me that insists upon trying to think the best of people, but I have this picture in my mind of a woman who miscarried but couldn't bring herself to part with the remains. In such a case, with "Peter Pan" being so popular, of course such a woman would be interested in keeping the place where children live forever close to her mind and close to her babies. Whether or not she's related to the author isn't actually important to my mental picture.
Unless, of course, a definitive connection to James M. Barrie is made, because that would place a literary classic into a whole new light.
~Riot.Jane
Jaycee Dugard >shudder< Horror Film?
I was horrified to discover that a low-rent actor/writer/editor/producer by the name of Shane Ryan is planning to make a film about the capture and imprisonment of Jaycee Dugard.
That's right, Ladies, the wonder-boy of such low-class cinematography as:
That's right, Ladies, the wonder-boy of such low-class cinematography as:
- Sex Kids Party (a/k/a The More, the Better)
- Amateur Porn Star Killer 1, 2, & 3
- Big Boobs, Blonde Babes, Bad Blood
- So, We Killed Our Parents
-and- - Caged Lesbos A-Go-Go
Is hoping to release Abducted Girl: An American Sex Slave through Alter Ego Films, in Spring 2010, according to Sacramento television station CBS13. Even though Ryan's above-noted movies have been described by viewers as:
- "[W]hat a homemade snuff film might look like with a bit of what the director thinks is artistic" [1]
- "[B]ad blood feature that is sheer in-your-face violence with a comedic ingredient inserted for your perverse viewing" [2]
- "The girl is supposed to be 13 years old, who (in their right mind) would find the gratuitous kidnapping, rape and eventual beating of a 13 year old girl entertaining?" [3]
He's "trying to figure out a way to do that so it's not exploitative," he told a reporter from CBS13 in a telephone interview. He also told the reporter, "We want to capture how sad this story is, but also how interesting."
On the film's website, Ryan writes that "this film is not about Jaycee Dugard," that it was in pre-production prior to authorities rescuing Dugard, and he continues with "Instead of doing a movie about human trafficking they instead decided [because of the Dugard case] to focus on just one victim and her captor and explore the idea of what it would be like for an 11 year old to be kidnapped and live in captivity for the next 18 years." He clearly states, "This is a fictitious film we were planning on making with a few friends in hope to make an interesting story," and he also says that this is nothing but the media "cashing in on another Jaycee story."
So, to recap, According to Ryan:
- This film is not about Dugard (even if a pre-production movie was re-drafted as the direct result of Dugard's recovery)
- Alter Ego Films is not a porn company (regardless of what they create and sell)
-and- - The "reporters" are the Dugard exploiters, not his film (while he's gabbing about the film's lack of exploitativeness with the CBS13 reporter and thereby co-opting as much publicity as possible).
If the reporters are the vultures, I hereby call you out for catching a ride on the vulture's wing simply to save the time and effort of walking over to feast on the carcass yourself.
I have to say that I agree with the Dugard family's spokesperson Nancy Seltzer's statement that this project is "breathtakingly unkind."[4]
You, Sir, are a Very.Bad.Man.
~Riot.Jane
About the Murder of Steve McNair . . .
Quite a while back, an upper-middle-age black gentleman (I'd put him close to 60) and I were chatting at the office about the Michael Vick case, shortly after that story first broke. At one point during the conversation, he stopped, looked around, lowered his voice, leaned toward me, and said in earnest,
"When you get out of the ghetto, you've GOT to leave the ghetto behind."
The statement rocked me, but not for a race-relations reason. I thought his statement profound because the idea behind it is universal.
Regardless of what one tries to bail, one must actually bail if he wants it truly and forever changed. Whether it's an abusive relationship, a drug addiction, being poor, co-dependency, alcohol, or even just a toxic group of friends, one can't dabble in the past and still get out.
I couldn't help but recall this conversation, and the getting out means leaving it behind concept, when I read about the murder of Steve McNair. I'm not trying to equate the horror of actively participating in a dog fighting ring to being the victim of murder. I'm trying to say that when someone "makes good," once he's achieved the fame and the money, he has to be even more vigilant in his personal dealings than before the good fortune (or just rewards for hard work) arrived because fame and money often cause things to spin completely out of control.
Michael Vick lost his empathy and his freedom. Steve McNair lost his marriage vow and his life.
~Riot.Jane
"When you get out of the ghetto, you've GOT to leave the ghetto behind."
The statement rocked me, but not for a race-relations reason. I thought his statement profound because the idea behind it is universal.
Regardless of what one tries to bail, one must actually bail if he wants it truly and forever changed. Whether it's an abusive relationship, a drug addiction, being poor, co-dependency, alcohol, or even just a toxic group of friends, one can't dabble in the past and still get out.
I couldn't help but recall this conversation, and the getting out means leaving it behind concept, when I read about the murder of Steve McNair. I'm not trying to equate the horror of actively participating in a dog fighting ring to being the victim of murder. I'm trying to say that when someone "makes good," once he's achieved the fame and the money, he has to be even more vigilant in his personal dealings than before the good fortune (or just rewards for hard work) arrived because fame and money often cause things to spin completely out of control.
Michael Vick lost his empathy and his freedom. Steve McNair lost his marriage vow and his life.
~Riot.Jane
Now I can Say Nothing
First, they came for the "child molesters," but I was not a child molester. So I said nothing.
Then, they came for the "terrorists," but I was not a terrorist. So I said nothing.
Next, they came for the "conservatives," but I was not a conservative. So I said nothing.
Finally, they came for the "middle class," and I found that I am middle class. Now I can say nothing.
~Riot.Jane
Then, they came for the "terrorists," but I was not a terrorist. So I said nothing.
Next, they came for the "conservatives," but I was not a conservative. So I said nothing.
Finally, they came for the "middle class," and I found that I am middle class. Now I can say nothing.
~Riot.Jane
The Storm
My Storm
By: Megan DaGata
The last time the hint of the storm brewed, I buried my heart in the clouds,
My mind in the waters, and my soul in the thunderous noise.
I became one with the storm and one with the madness.
My mind ceases to hear any thought and closes to all emotion.
Like a late season hurricane it builds and builds, and lasts for months.
Building from the hint of suggestion and follows the ebb and flow of my emotions.
By: Megan DaGata
The last time the hint of the storm brewed, I buried my heart in the clouds,
My mind in the waters, and my soul in the thunderous noise.
I became one with the storm and one with the madness.
My mind ceases to hear any thought and closes to all emotion.
Like a late season hurricane it builds and builds, and lasts for months.
Building from the hint of suggestion and follows the ebb and flow of my emotions.
The heat of my rage builds level upon level of insanity
Until one day without warning - the grief, pain, and fury crash upon me
As if it were a cat 5 hurricane meeting the shore.
The pain of losing those we love is not something that we consider,
Our parents are young and our friends are healthy,
We don't think of the storm that could be building.
Friday night I received a phone call that made time stand still for the next three days...
Until one day without warning - the grief, pain, and fury crash upon me
As if it were a cat 5 hurricane meeting the shore.
The pain of losing those we love is not something that we consider,
Our parents are young and our friends are healthy,
We don't think of the storm that could be building.
Friday night I received a phone call that made time stand still for the next three days...
I am not sure if the clock has started up yet.
But I felt my hurricane start to build.
In the ten minutes between ordering my first drink at the club and before it was consumed
I received a call from my brother- in- law,
He informed me that my father was in a car accident and that he had not regained consciousness.
Crash - Bang - Thunder and lightening...
The cacophony of noise that echoed in my ears was deafening.
I heard nothing else.
I picked up the phone with shaking hands and called my mother.
"What happened? I will be there in three hours."
I just know I need to get there. Hurry...drive as carefully as possible, but hurry."
"I will be there in three hours...”
The storm was building as I walked out the doors and down the steps.
The fury and rage were instantaneous. Who would do this?
How could they do it?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why is God sending the men I love to such tragedy?!
Time literally seemed to speed up.
We were at my apartment minutes later.
I grabbed my things and threw them into my car.
I didn't know what I would need, this storm would last for days, but what do you bring?!
As fast as I could… don't remember a turn or stop light.
We drove from Houston to Austin in just under 3 hours,
Arriving at the hospital at 2 am.
As we drove up, we saw my dad's best friend, Mike.
He explained to us what the doctors had said to the family..…
That my father had never regained brain function.
I felt like I was in the eye of the storm, pulling and tugging in every direction.
I looked in the window at my sister, she hadn't heard it all, but she had heard enough.
She was bracing herself for what she was about to have to endure.
The walk down the long corridor to the ICU, was the longest walk of my life.
I saw an old woman walking down the hall.
Her shoulders were hunched forward, her gray hair limp on her down-turned head.
She walked so slowly, that I not in a million years would I have seen her as my mother.
When she turned to us,
I knew there was nothing that could be done.
But how could I make next 30 feet?
My mom reached for my dad's hand, and said,
"Sweetie, the girls are here.
They have come to see you, so you have to wake up.”
My heart broke, my body broke,
My skin pulled itself from my body and left me bleeding.
The hurricane had reached cat 5 strength but it was still a thousand miles away.
We all stood in silence as we heard the machines beep and the respirator breath for our father.
He had at least twenty different IV bags hanging, trying to rouse him back to life.
One was to raise his blood pressure and another to keep it low.
Bags of blood - to replenish his dwindling supply.
I stood speechless for a few minutes, staring into his vacant eyes.
The eyes of the kindest man I had known since my grandfather's death.
His eyes were now empty.
Those empty eyes still haunt me.
We sat and waited.
We talked a little, but mostly we cried.
I laid down on the floor,
My head on the bag, which contained his torn clothes.
I wept.
The storm of my soul was crashing onto the shore.
Seeing him lying there and then seeing my mother so fragile.
The next 40 hours passed in a storm of fury.
Being thrown to and fro, hoping for the activity to return to his brain,
By the time the papers were signed for the organ donation,
The whole family was present, and we were trying to figure out how to get home.
The eye of my storm hit.
I have been calm ever since.
I haven't cried,
I haven't felt.
My skin is still dangling removed from my body.
The storm is still looming over head.
The rage is still following the ebb and the flow.
Someday the eye of the storm will pass and I will feel again.
I will be able to cry with the remorse I feel in my soul.
I will be able to reach out and hug the ones I love again.
Until then, I will sit and I will write, and I will pray to God,
That the storm which still looms, will soon pass.
But I felt my hurricane start to build.
In the ten minutes between ordering my first drink at the club and before it was consumed
I received a call from my brother- in- law,
He informed me that my father was in a car accident and that he had not regained consciousness.
Crash - Bang - Thunder and lightening...
The cacophony of noise that echoed in my ears was deafening.
I heard nothing else.
I picked up the phone with shaking hands and called my mother.
"What happened? I will be there in three hours."
I just know I need to get there. Hurry...drive as carefully as possible, but hurry."
"I will be there in three hours...”
The storm was building as I walked out the doors and down the steps.
The fury and rage were instantaneous. Who would do this?
How could they do it?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why is God sending the men I love to such tragedy?!
Time literally seemed to speed up.
We were at my apartment minutes later.
I grabbed my things and threw them into my car.
I didn't know what I would need, this storm would last for days, but what do you bring?!
As fast as I could… don't remember a turn or stop light.
We drove from Houston to Austin in just under 3 hours,
Arriving at the hospital at 2 am.
As we drove up, we saw my dad's best friend, Mike.
He explained to us what the doctors had said to the family..…
That my father had never regained brain function.
I felt like I was in the eye of the storm, pulling and tugging in every direction.
I looked in the window at my sister, she hadn't heard it all, but she had heard enough.
She was bracing herself for what she was about to have to endure.
The walk down the long corridor to the ICU, was the longest walk of my life.
I saw an old woman walking down the hall.
Her shoulders were hunched forward, her gray hair limp on her down-turned head.
She walked so slowly, that I not in a million years would I have seen her as my mother.
When she turned to us,
I knew there was nothing that could be done.
But how could I make next 30 feet?
My mom reached for my dad's hand, and said,
"Sweetie, the girls are here.
They have come to see you, so you have to wake up.”
My heart broke, my body broke,
My skin pulled itself from my body and left me bleeding.
The hurricane had reached cat 5 strength but it was still a thousand miles away.
We all stood in silence as we heard the machines beep and the respirator breath for our father.
He had at least twenty different IV bags hanging, trying to rouse him back to life.
One was to raise his blood pressure and another to keep it low.
Bags of blood - to replenish his dwindling supply.
I stood speechless for a few minutes, staring into his vacant eyes.
The eyes of the kindest man I had known since my grandfather's death.
His eyes were now empty.
Those empty eyes still haunt me.
We sat and waited.
We talked a little, but mostly we cried.
I laid down on the floor,
My head on the bag, which contained his torn clothes.
I wept.
The storm of my soul was crashing onto the shore.
Seeing him lying there and then seeing my mother so fragile.
The next 40 hours passed in a storm of fury.
Being thrown to and fro, hoping for the activity to return to his brain,
By the time the papers were signed for the organ donation,
The whole family was present, and we were trying to figure out how to get home.
The eye of my storm hit.
I have been calm ever since.
I haven't cried,
I haven't felt.
My skin is still dangling removed from my body.
The storm is still looming over head.
The rage is still following the ebb and the flow.
Someday the eye of the storm will pass and I will feel again.
I will be able to cry with the remorse I feel in my soul.
I will be able to reach out and hug the ones I love again.
Until then, I will sit and I will write, and I will pray to God,
That the storm which still looms, will soon pass.
My Mom's Birthday
Today is my mom's birthday. My mom died in 1998 when I was 26, the same age she was when she gave birth to me.
As my mother lay dying, she begged me not to have any children because she couldn't bear the thought of one day my laying somewhere, dying of the rare cancer that has taken several generations of women in her line before the age of 60, looking into my own daughter's face, seeing the pain there. While she was dying, in an inconceivable amount of pain, she was more concerned about my being in the same situation some day than she was about her own quickly-approaching death.
That's a level of love that I cannot conceive of having.
I promised her that I wouldn't bear my own children unless and until we get to choose gender beforehand. I knew what I was promising, and I knew that I would keep it because, well, you don't turn down the dying wish of a family member if it's remotely possible to keep it.
So I've lived through the procreative years of my life not bearing children. I've never married. I've aborted. I've lived with roommates in order to avoid having an empty home and thrown myself into my career with a ferocity that masquerades as workaholism. I have a television on in my home 24x7 to have the sound of human voices around me. I've promised myself that I can always adopt, and I've also promised myself I won't marry a man for whom that's not an option.
I've told every close friend or boyfriend I've had since my mom's death that I won't bear my own children because of my mother's dying wish, my promise to her, and my own fear of the rare (almost undiagnosable) cancer that kills women in my line early. The thing is, that's only half the reason.
The other half of the reason, and the one I've never told anyone before, is that I can't conceive of being the kind of person, the kind of mother, who would or could lay dying, in incomprehensible pain, and be more concerned about my daughter experiencing the same thing than I am about my own impending death.
I can't live up to that. I can't even see the bar my mom set, much less reach it. That's the other half of the reason I never bore my own children and won't unless and until gender selection becomes a viable option.
~Riot.Jane
As my mother lay dying, she begged me not to have any children because she couldn't bear the thought of one day my laying somewhere, dying of the rare cancer that has taken several generations of women in her line before the age of 60, looking into my own daughter's face, seeing the pain there. While she was dying, in an inconceivable amount of pain, she was more concerned about my being in the same situation some day than she was about her own quickly-approaching death.
That's a level of love that I cannot conceive of having.
I promised her that I wouldn't bear my own children unless and until we get to choose gender beforehand. I knew what I was promising, and I knew that I would keep it because, well, you don't turn down the dying wish of a family member if it's remotely possible to keep it.
So I've lived through the procreative years of my life not bearing children. I've never married. I've aborted. I've lived with roommates in order to avoid having an empty home and thrown myself into my career with a ferocity that masquerades as workaholism. I have a television on in my home 24x7 to have the sound of human voices around me. I've promised myself that I can always adopt, and I've also promised myself I won't marry a man for whom that's not an option.
I've told every close friend or boyfriend I've had since my mom's death that I won't bear my own children because of my mother's dying wish, my promise to her, and my own fear of the rare (almost undiagnosable) cancer that kills women in my line early. The thing is, that's only half the reason.
The other half of the reason, and the one I've never told anyone before, is that I can't conceive of being the kind of person, the kind of mother, who would or could lay dying, in incomprehensible pain, and be more concerned about my daughter experiencing the same thing than I am about my own impending death.
I can't live up to that. I can't even see the bar my mom set, much less reach it. That's the other half of the reason I never bore my own children and won't unless and until gender selection becomes a viable option.
~Riot.Jane
In 1972...
In 1972 I gave birth to a baby girl. I don’t know her name, I never gave her one. Instead, I gave her to waiting nurses and signed forms that told an adoption agency that they could have her. You may think that my reason for doing this were noble. You would be wrong.
When I hear of mothers giving their children up for adoption I always feel this stabbing in my gut. Most of these women hand over their tiny bundles to complete strangers because they are too young, too poor, too damaged to raise a child and they know it. What they’re doing is a gift to their child. It their final gift to the little life they brought into world. I envy them and the knowledge that they carry with them deep in their hearts. I gave you up because I love you so much.
In 1972 I had a daughter and when her screaming little form came bursting into this world all I could think was how glad I was it was over. All I wanted to do was sign those forms and get out of that hospital and meet my friends to go out on the town. You see, I was 24 years old and I lived to party. I wasn’t an addict, just very selfish. The thought of raising a child as an unmarried woman even in those days didn’t give me pause but the crimp in my lifestyle did. I thought I was a very smart and forward thinking woman. I thought I was ahead of my time. So, I took one fleeting glance at my bawling baby girl and signed those papers.
When I left the hospital I went home to my chic apartment and slept. I slept for days, then more days, more days still. I couldn’t seem to get out of bed. Instead of partying I just…slept. Visions of that scrunched up little face, my face, went around and around in my head.
Here’s the part where I would love to say I called the agency and demanded my daughter back. I would like to tell you we were reunited and I gave her a name, the name I’ve been carrying around in my heart all these years. I cannot. I did not.
I went back to my life. I worked and partied. I was a modern woman and I told myself I would live without regrets…Regrets are funny things. They want you even if you don’t want them and oh, how I regret. If I could turn back the clock and do it over, well, you know the story now don’t you?
I never had any other children. I couldn’t bring myself to look at another little face, my face, and know that somewhere out there was the sweet little girl who should have been mine. I often wonder if she’s tried to contact me. As much as I would love to see her and smell and hold her for the first time in our lives I dread it. What could I possibly say to her? How could I explain why I did what I did? I can’t, there is no explanation.
In 1972 I gave birth to a baby girl. I don’t know her name, I never gave her a name. When I think of her, I call her Elaine, my mother’s name.
Elaine,
I’m so sorry.
When I hear of mothers giving their children up for adoption I always feel this stabbing in my gut. Most of these women hand over their tiny bundles to complete strangers because they are too young, too poor, too damaged to raise a child and they know it. What they’re doing is a gift to their child. It their final gift to the little life they brought into world. I envy them and the knowledge that they carry with them deep in their hearts. I gave you up because I love you so much.
In 1972 I had a daughter and when her screaming little form came bursting into this world all I could think was how glad I was it was over. All I wanted to do was sign those forms and get out of that hospital and meet my friends to go out on the town. You see, I was 24 years old and I lived to party. I wasn’t an addict, just very selfish. The thought of raising a child as an unmarried woman even in those days didn’t give me pause but the crimp in my lifestyle did. I thought I was a very smart and forward thinking woman. I thought I was ahead of my time. So, I took one fleeting glance at my bawling baby girl and signed those papers.
When I left the hospital I went home to my chic apartment and slept. I slept for days, then more days, more days still. I couldn’t seem to get out of bed. Instead of partying I just…slept. Visions of that scrunched up little face, my face, went around and around in my head.
Here’s the part where I would love to say I called the agency and demanded my daughter back. I would like to tell you we were reunited and I gave her a name, the name I’ve been carrying around in my heart all these years. I cannot. I did not.
I went back to my life. I worked and partied. I was a modern woman and I told myself I would live without regrets…Regrets are funny things. They want you even if you don’t want them and oh, how I regret. If I could turn back the clock and do it over, well, you know the story now don’t you?
I never had any other children. I couldn’t bring myself to look at another little face, my face, and know that somewhere out there was the sweet little girl who should have been mine. I often wonder if she’s tried to contact me. As much as I would love to see her and smell and hold her for the first time in our lives I dread it. What could I possibly say to her? How could I explain why I did what I did? I can’t, there is no explanation.
In 1972 I gave birth to a baby girl. I don’t know her name, I never gave her a name. When I think of her, I call her Elaine, my mother’s name.
Elaine,
I’m so sorry.
Letter Too Late
Fellow Janes,
Do you ever feel like there are a million things you would love to say to someone you’re in relationship with but never do? Then by the time the love is over you’re so disgusted (or still in love!) or have moved on, and those things never get said? A really funny and wise and woman approached me about a letter that she had written to her ex of 12 years.
Linda is cynical, funny and pretty heartbreaking in this letter and I enjoyed reading it so much!
She says:
“Eric and I were high school sweethearts. Our breakup was a defining moment in my life and I was left with a lot of baggage to carry around. All those little (and big) things I never said felt like a weight chained around my neck. So I wrote a letter. Just in case you’re wondering . . . Yes, I sent it to him.
I sent the letter in its entirety and Mellissa has edited it to filter out some really personal parts that I am unwilling to share and made a few changes to the text with my consent. I hope you enjoy it and find in it the courage to do what I never did. To speak your mind.”
Dear Eric,
Remember the time we went to the Jane’s Addiction concert and, against my wishes, you snuck in that ridiculous hip flask you loved to drag around filled with cheap whiskey? Remember when you got so sick from drinking it combined with the heat all those bodies and the humidity and the burning Texas sun that you ended up throwing up all over the lawn in front of you? I told you it was okay, that I wasn’t embarrassed and that I was totally okay with leaving the show early so you could go home and lay down.
I lied.
Eric, sometimes when you did something to piss me off, like got drunk with your buddies, passed out at their place and missed work because of a hangover, I would do things to get back at you in my own way, like giving you food on dirty dishes or scrubbing the house down with bleach before you came home, hung over, because I knew it gave you a headache.
When you got in that fight with that little person at our favorite bar back in ‘99 and got your ass beat and I told you it didn’t make you a pussy.
I lied.
Once when your parents came over to have dinner to have dinner at our first apartment, I excused myself to get a drink from the kitchen. Well, your father came in behind me and made a pass at me. So remember when I said how great your Dad was?
I lied.
Eric, I know you kissed the neighbor by the Dumpsters all those years ago. I know our cat, Bunsen, died when you told me he ran away (he had Feline Leukemia, I just didn’t think you could handle the truth), I know you watched “Life Goes On” marathons when I was at work and cried like a baby because the character Jessie, who had AIDS, reminded you of your brother. I know you peed on the toilet seat to spite me. I know you told my friends I wasn’t home so you could keep me all to yourself. I that know you stared at me while I slept.
Eric, remember when I told you I was better off without you and all those years we spent together were a waste?
I maybe. . . Just might have, lied.
Do you ever feel like there are a million things you would love to say to someone you’re in relationship with but never do? Then by the time the love is over you’re so disgusted (or still in love!) or have moved on, and those things never get said? A really funny and wise and woman approached me about a letter that she had written to her ex of 12 years.
Linda is cynical, funny and pretty heartbreaking in this letter and I enjoyed reading it so much!
She says:
“Eric and I were high school sweethearts. Our breakup was a defining moment in my life and I was left with a lot of baggage to carry around. All those little (and big) things I never said felt like a weight chained around my neck. So I wrote a letter. Just in case you’re wondering . . . Yes, I sent it to him.
I sent the letter in its entirety and Mellissa has edited it to filter out some really personal parts that I am unwilling to share and made a few changes to the text with my consent. I hope you enjoy it and find in it the courage to do what I never did. To speak your mind.”
Dear Eric,
Remember the time we went to the Jane’s Addiction concert and, against my wishes, you snuck in that ridiculous hip flask you loved to drag around filled with cheap whiskey? Remember when you got so sick from drinking it combined with the heat all those bodies and the humidity and the burning Texas sun that you ended up throwing up all over the lawn in front of you? I told you it was okay, that I wasn’t embarrassed and that I was totally okay with leaving the show early so you could go home and lay down.
I lied.
Eric, sometimes when you did something to piss me off, like got drunk with your buddies, passed out at their place and missed work because of a hangover, I would do things to get back at you in my own way, like giving you food on dirty dishes or scrubbing the house down with bleach before you came home, hung over, because I knew it gave you a headache.
When you got in that fight with that little person at our favorite bar back in ‘99 and got your ass beat and I told you it didn’t make you a pussy.
I lied.
Once when your parents came over to have dinner to have dinner at our first apartment, I excused myself to get a drink from the kitchen. Well, your father came in behind me and made a pass at me. So remember when I said how great your Dad was?
I lied.
Eric, I know you kissed the neighbor by the Dumpsters all those years ago. I know our cat, Bunsen, died when you told me he ran away (he had Feline Leukemia, I just didn’t think you could handle the truth), I know you watched “Life Goes On” marathons when I was at work and cried like a baby because the character Jessie, who had AIDS, reminded you of your brother. I know you peed on the toilet seat to spite me. I know you told my friends I wasn’t home so you could keep me all to yourself. I that know you stared at me while I slept.
Eric, remember when I told you I was better off without you and all those years we spent together were a waste?
I maybe. . . Just might have, lied.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)