The previous story “I’m too fucked up” had been repeated in my head for years. I realized it came up because that is my brain’s default. Then I realized something was different; for the first time in my life I didn’t believe it.
She did graduate, begrudgingly. She did move onto college, begrudgingly. Anna is wise, very wise, and knows the realities of endings. She spent her senior year growing up, analyzing relationships, and figuring out how to hold on as tightly as possible to everything and everyone she loved until it was time to let go.
My head fogs up. I can’t remember simple things. I have to think about where I was living when things happened, then figure out what grade I was in, or how old my kids were, and then guess my age, and do the math from 1971 until then. It all starts with 1971.
And when these times come - when the pressure is too much - I often find myself lying prostrate, arms out, weak from holding back and gazing up at all the things in my orbit. In that position, with nothing left to cover me, I know in my every broken and healed bone that what separates me from everything else, is nothing.
I saw most of the staff and was surprised when the one person I'd been trying to contact for the past year to catch up with walked through the door. I shrieked and pounced. I couldn't wait to tell her all about everything she's missed, to update her on what my life looks like outside those walls.
I don’t want to waste time regretting or not being grateful or missing perfect moments because my head was up my ass. I have a friend named Howard who says that if you walk around with your head in your ass you'll have smelly hair.
