Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
don't ask me to move i just want to sit here for a while
I deposited my dear friend Emily safely at the airport, and I didn't even cry like I thought I might. Saying goodbye (even temporarily) to one loved one is hard enough for me, but two in the same span of time is even harder. If Krystal goes anywhere I might have a meltdown.
I have emotions, like leftovers from childhood, about travelling, vacation, leaving, being left, etc. That's why vacation is never just vacation, it's remembering all the trips to New Mexico and back for summers with my dad, it's recalling the difference between vacations with each parent, it's muscle memories of crying on airplanes on the way back from my dad's, crying on the way to my dad's, crying at my dad's. Crying all over the place. Crying because not enough time is too much, and knowing a shorter stay is better, but wishing things were different.
It's about Kansas City. It's about being torn between two homes, crying alone in my car no matter which direction I am going. It's about coming to one home so exhausted and just wanting to rest but having to go around and see everyone who wants to see me. It's about missing my family, missing my friends, missing everything. It is about learning and growing and creating but living with a hole in my heart where the ones I love most should be.
It's all that and more. And that is why I hate vacation, and goodbyes and travelling and why I always feel robbed of time with people I love. Goes back to love starvation, which, I think, is the root of everything, for me, anyway.
No crying today, though. Just a slight tinge of sadness because I want Andrea to be home. She will be soon enough.
I have emotions, like leftovers from childhood, about travelling, vacation, leaving, being left, etc. That's why vacation is never just vacation, it's remembering all the trips to New Mexico and back for summers with my dad, it's recalling the difference between vacations with each parent, it's muscle memories of crying on airplanes on the way back from my dad's, crying on the way to my dad's, crying at my dad's. Crying all over the place. Crying because not enough time is too much, and knowing a shorter stay is better, but wishing things were different.
It's about Kansas City. It's about being torn between two homes, crying alone in my car no matter which direction I am going. It's about coming to one home so exhausted and just wanting to rest but having to go around and see everyone who wants to see me. It's about missing my family, missing my friends, missing everything. It is about learning and growing and creating but living with a hole in my heart where the ones I love most should be.
It's all that and more. And that is why I hate vacation, and goodbyes and travelling and why I always feel robbed of time with people I love. Goes back to love starvation, which, I think, is the root of everything, for me, anyway.
No crying today, though. Just a slight tinge of sadness because I want Andrea to be home. She will be soon enough.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
this morning
If anorexia (or something else) kills my sister, I may be inconsolable. And by that I mean you may have to sit on me so I don't try to jump off a building or do something else equally stupid. This came into my head this morning because Andrea has been gone 12 hours and I already miss her terribly.
Our relationship is very interesting. I don't quite fully understand it except that we both share the aftermath of interacting with my father, who is a robot. But there is something in both of us that needs the other, almost desperately. It's weird. Like we are two sides of the same coin and together we make sense but apart we don't.
Also, I know anorexia could kill her, and I'm worried she won't eat enough at Bonnaroo and she'll faint. They have medics there, though. And Dave will make her eat. I told him to protect her. So did Mom. It's hard to be away from her because when I am in the room with her I know she is ok.
Sometimes (not often) I wonder if she will leave Dave and I brokenhearted and empty. That is why I leave her room the same as it was when she was in high school: in case she leaves me I will have something left of her.
I don't think about this stuff all the time. But she is gone today. So maybe I feel a tiny fraction of what it would be like if she were really gone. And maybe I want to know what that feels like so that I can steel myself for when she is really gone.
I hate these thoughts. I hate them so much. I don't want her to be sick, or dying, or vanishing before my eyes. But the thoughts come up, and I write them out. And she will be back on Sunday, and I will feel better.
And maybe she'll live a very long time. Maybe she will get better. I know I can't love her well, but maybe she will love herself well. One can always hope.
Our relationship is very interesting. I don't quite fully understand it except that we both share the aftermath of interacting with my father, who is a robot. But there is something in both of us that needs the other, almost desperately. It's weird. Like we are two sides of the same coin and together we make sense but apart we don't.
Also, I know anorexia could kill her, and I'm worried she won't eat enough at Bonnaroo and she'll faint. They have medics there, though. And Dave will make her eat. I told him to protect her. So did Mom. It's hard to be away from her because when I am in the room with her I know she is ok.
Sometimes (not often) I wonder if she will leave Dave and I brokenhearted and empty. That is why I leave her room the same as it was when she was in high school: in case she leaves me I will have something left of her.
I don't think about this stuff all the time. But she is gone today. So maybe I feel a tiny fraction of what it would be like if she were really gone. And maybe I want to know what that feels like so that I can steel myself for when she is really gone.
I hate these thoughts. I hate them so much. I don't want her to be sick, or dying, or vanishing before my eyes. But the thoughts come up, and I write them out. And she will be back on Sunday, and I will feel better.
And maybe she'll live a very long time. Maybe she will get better. I know I can't love her well, but maybe she will love herself well. One can always hope.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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