Trisha’s posterous

I miss you like the labourer misses the blood diamond.

I miss the ambiance of that candlelit room with no tables or chairs, only Merlot red Bordello couches and throw cushions with gold thread woven through them, and in so passing by, that glimpse of naked lovers entwined, and in particular a woman with long auburn hair and pale white flesh who seemed to understand herself perfectly.

I miss you.

I miss abandon.

I miss the life I was supposed to live.

I miss your mouth on the soft small of my back, your weight upon me.

I miss the life you almost are brave enough to live, like me, almost brave enough too.

I miss what might be or was perhaps already in another life if you believe in that kind of thing.

I miss feeling happiness.

I miss myself.

I miss myself prematurely, the long since dead me who had so much potential but couldn''t bear the pain, just couldn't bear it,

I want to lie down in a quiet room with you upon which sunlit halfway enters, each on our sides but close to each other, our lips almost touching but not quite.

I miss levity and laughter.

I want us to kiss.  Then kiss some more, and more.

It will be the best kissing ever leading to anywhere we want it to go.

I have been loyal and faithful too long in my life, and fucked over for it none the less.

I am not a victim.

I miss the dusty path and heat and the chirping of crickets out there somewhere.

I miss that.

And everything.  I miss everything.

In the movie Gia starring Angelina Jolie, Gia says, "Where is everyone going?  Where the fuck does everyone go when they have to go?"

I have conscientiously made my 'social' network small, always have, and yet the sensation of emptiness never leaves me, that I need to hold on to someone, and that he or she is forever destined to leave me.  I cannot control this feeling nor its intensity.  I am simply terrified all the time.  And when I do 'have' someone (I suppose I'm speaking largely of men, boyfriends, husband....incidentally, I will never get married again), then I spend most of my time worrying he will leave and the rest of the time pushing him away to test my theory, to see if in fact he does want to leave.

This is a classic syndrome of some sort.  Don't know the name of it.

I am at the moment, since the pretty big fight with Leigh last night been in the basement, the 'bunny room.'  Leigh and the boys are upstairs, can hear them moving around.  Leigh knows I'm down here because every time he goes down the stairs and out to the car, or to the 'woorkshop' area (the bunny room is sort of cordoned off, can't see in), he stomps his feet louder than usual and slams the door at the top of the stairs.

It just doesn't feel like it can be saved, the marriage I mean.  On the one hand, if I let my mind go there, there are so many acts of kindness, so much love, whatever love is, but at the same time I just feel like I can't stand being around him.

I feel cast out, or 'down' as it were (even though I''ve  put myself here). 

I feel like a kind of refuge in my own home.

I couldn't help it, I put my head down and cried at the coffee shop this afternoon.

I'm pretty sure I'm devastated but have pressed it down.  This is what we all do in my family.  You act happy and pleasant, and make sure you 'react' appropriately to any and ever perilous and dramatic happening (and there are many, like all the time, every day).  Most of this compulsory reaction is in relation to my mom.  You must always monitor her body language, her sounds, things she says. everything, for signs of pain and hardship, then you must express concern about this.  In a one weekend visit home, there will be a hundred or so instances of saving or at least nurturing my mother.

The one time I didn;t as she limped past me (she does have arthritis, and is in pain), but you'd have to know the context, the years of history.  My mother has always been wounded.

But this one time I didn't comment, "Mom, oh god, are you okay?"  And my step dad was nearby, heading downstairs, and he said, "She doesn't even fucking care/"  He didn't know I could hear him.

I said, "Excuse me?  What did you say?"

And he looked stunned...I'd never spoken to him that way before.  He said, "Oh, nothing," and went downstairs...,my step-dad, who I've known since I was like five, the man with whom I barely exchanged a sentence until I'd moved away for University.

I thought, 'How dare you, you fucking bastard...while you were trying to get into my mom's pants all those years ago, it was me, my brother and sisters who were keeping mom safe at night by sliding butcher knives between her mattress and boxspring.

Don't tell me I don't care about my mother.  You could write epics on the lengths that my brother and sisters and I have gone to in order to safeguard our mother, our sweet mother, our delicate mother, our beautiful mother, our mother who I love more than anything in this world but who has needed more attention and care than anyone I know.

So ya...

Where is everyone.

I am searching for, longing for that which cannot be found, because it's gone, because it was never given, because children who are never 'safe' grow up to be women like me who just aimlessly search and search and search for that invisible safety net.

You must try to understand the unbearable dimensions of it, of all of this.

Here is treacherous territory, dangerous terrain, when you are in the midst of great suffering (simply because you need someone to affirm hers or his presence), when you feel like you have been exiled to the basement in your own home cuz if I go up there I know it will be awful, because I am financially screwed, because where am I going in life, except down hill.

Because I have fucked up everything.  However I might rationalize it, however I might draw upon a kind of fucked up childhood, the reason I am here is "me."

I take full responsibility.