Sandpaper days
Everything is desolate and barren and forsaken.
I feel lost and confused like when I was little, driving in the car with my dad, and we’d drive past a sign that said “SLOW CHILDREN.” He’d tell me to look around and try to find some. I’m like that David After Dentist kid, worried and incoherent. “Is this real life? Why is this happening to me?”
I am calling on every deity I can think of. I want to be blessed by a stooped and dusty rabbi. I want to feel the coarse fibers of a prayer rug beneath my knees as I cry out to Allah. Hail Mary full of grace.
Things are not going well.
Life is hurting me, and I have that tight, short-of-breath feeling in my chest, as if my heart were being forced through a garlic press. On a gentler day, I would wax philosophic on the benefits of trials and suffering. It is necessary to suffer to be beautiful, I would say. Broken hearts are exquisite: they let you know you’re truly living. But today is not a gentle day and I have been alternating between the urge to burrow deep within the earth with scoopy little mole feet and the mighty desire to overturn the refrigerator. I don’t know how to be a person with feelings, which is unfortunate since I seem to have been born as a human being. “Feelings” is kind of our forte.
I want a salve, something to spread on my chest like a mustard plaster to relieve all this pressure and hurt. Something to soothe me, something to heal me. Something something something that would make this all go away. I’m having Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fantasies. Tell me, what do you do when you’re sad? What is it that gets you through the wicked, sandpaper days of a heart freshly crushed before time takes over and helps you forget?
Oh Karli. I am sorry. I read and love and miss you. I just do the fresh flowers, hot bath, sweet treats, clean air, good book and crying to a good friend routine. They are all just bandaids, though, I know. I’m so sorry. I seem to remember someone sending me a stunning bouquet once for my birthday, though, that was much more than bandaidy. I still feel loved from them! You are so beautiful. xo
Comment by Misha — April 22, 2009 @ April 22, 2009 at 12:36 pm
I call a friend. Call if you need to, friend.
Comment by redheadmomma — April 22, 2009 @ April 22, 2009 at 2:41 pm
I’m with Misha…. except that I indulge in a trashy magazine as opposed to it’s literally superior cousin - the novel. My heart goes out to you Karli. You have shown so much strength and courage over the past few years. Dig deep my friend. I saw two beautiful full arc rainbows yesterday - evidence that even dark clouds pass in time.
Comment by Bronwen — April 22, 2009 @ April 22, 2009 at 9:48 pm
Hi Karli - I’m so sorry you are having a hard time. When I am feeling like this, I do find that losing myself in a book helps (but you are probably already reading). Sometimes I like to indulge in a bunch of episodes of some trashy TV series on DVD. I try to remember that I won’t feel this way forever. Take care of yourself and go easy on yourself.
Comment by Amy — April 23, 2009 @ April 23, 2009 at 8:32 am
What happened? You know you can email or call me anytime, kiddo… And if you ever want to come do some ritual with me, hell, you’re always invited.
What helps me get through the days may not be too useful to other people, I may just be some kinda freak - but if I’m crushed or heartbroken, or staring what I see as the absolute futility of life blankly in the face, it’s just gritty will that makes me deny that futility. It’s so easy to look at life, at all of the seemingly god-forsaken things that happen all around, then at the shitty things which happen on a personal level, and to just say “Fuck it. There’s no way this can matter enough for me to keep going through this with a sane mind and an open heart. I’m done. No more feelings for me.” It’s tempting to listen to that.
But. Temptation wouldn’t be so dangerous if it wasn’t so alluringly easy to slip into. I remind myself every time: I don’t know what the future will bring. This sorrow I feel, I will embrace it fully and feel every part of it, because I need it. It makes me human. As a human, I am vulnerable to all kinds of mad things - I am changeable. I also have immense strength. I believe that there are evil things in this world, like a car accident happening in the blink of an eye, and that I must remain human in order to help fight those evil things. I need to have my emotions, but not let any of them rule me, because when that accident happens, I must have a clear mind so that I can respond to the scene and help put pieces back together, both moving quickly with my hands to clean and heal the wounds, and moving openly with my heart to treat the victim compassionately and warmly.
Sounds odd, I guess, but it’s the inspiration for me. The thought that I may be the one to make a difference in someone’s life, the difference between life or death, is what I see as civic duty. I’m a patriot. Always have been. That means something to me. That’s enough for me. I want to help people. I can’t do that if I’ve shut myself off, hoping to protect myself. So… heartache or fear, despair or weariness, I hang on. Maybe I should adopt a method, like a book or a bath or whatever, but those don’t work for me. They feel like actions that are taught and are meant to carry meaning, but are in and of themselves meaningless. Not to knock the people who that works for, like I said, this is just me here. It’s about choosing to hang on to the sandpaper-covered wire above a giant crevasse, even with just one hand… and in a way, being thankful for the sandpaper. Without it, everything gets too smooth, and you can fall before you realize it.
Comment by Rorschach — April 23, 2009 @ April 23, 2009 at 9:20 am