You're Not You When You're On Drugs

In my last post, I told you about the darkest day of my life and the weeks immediately surrounding it. 

It was the time I was so worn down by my abuser that I wished for life itself to end. I needed an escape. A series of events took place (insert montage including clips of my wonderful roommates listening to my chaotic verbal processing, long walks alone in the early Autumn beauty of Georgia, a view of my own knees as I sobbed in the student health clinic) that together culminated in the quiet strength I needed to SNAP. I left my abuser, who for nearly seven years had maintained his powerful grip on my mind and life. I thought it was over, finally. I had escaped, right?

Wrong.

While I was free of the immediate Hell I had been trapped in physically, I was entering into a new kind of Hell – a psychological Hell.

mind was tossed into a new world, a hyper-world of memories, fears, emotions, nightmares, and allllll the wonderful symptoms of PTSD that I didn’t YET know how to identify. Hormonal surges racked my body as my stress response flew out of control. Cortisol, Serotonin, Estrogen, Adrenaline, Norepinephrine. My body was a raging test tube of chemicals as I tried to rebalance. My mind was tormented, my body was exhausted, my heart was broken.

My first night home – merely a few hours after I had called the police to my apartment to protect me from the raving lunatic outside in the rain – I felt a strange raw energy pulse through my veins. Something that kept me very outwardly calm. I detailed to my parents the chain of events that comprised my abuse (news to them!) and was amazed at the fact I could not cry. I was cold, with this heavy energy that kept me focused on the facts. That night, if I cried, I don’t remember it. Most likely is that I laid in my bed and thought how strange it was that I could not slip into any form of emotion at all, other than a loud, numbingly cold silence. And yet, I could not close my eyes to sleep, either.

It would be weeks, really even months, before the full extent of tears would come to me. But for the meantime, I had a very dangerous ropes course in front of me.

Leaving an abuser is, unfortunately, like withdrawing from a drug. The highs and lows of being abused create a chemical cocktail in the human body that you’ll choose to choke down again and again. One minute, you’re filled with happiness because your abuser approves of you. Maybe they’ve showered you with affection, with praise, with encouragement. The next moment, there is sheer terror as you are pushed into a corner – the wind knocked out of you – and assaulted with shame, disgust. You are suddenly repulsive, disgusting. Your body wants nothing more than to get back to that first state of happiness, and so you do whatever it takes until you’ve achieved serenity in the relationship again.

And maybe you’re proud of yourself, because you think you call the shots and that you won him over, at last.

Maybe you learn to dissociate from the abuse – compartmentalize the good and the bad times – so you can ignore the pain.

Maybe the trauma has so solidly bonded you to your abuser that you don’t care about the pain, it’s just the price you pay for the drug you have to have.

Some women never reach a breaking point, I’m lucky that I did. I’m lucky that I chose to quit cold turkey. I’m lucky there was help available to me – a home I could return to while I got back on my feet, friends who supported me, even medication to help get me through those first few days and weeks.

Ah, those early days. Let’s talk about them.

Several weeks passed of which I don’t remember much. In fact, the other day a startling realization hit me that I don’t remember many moments I thought I would. I don’t remember driving to North Carolina from Atlanta – did I listen to music? An audio book? Did I sob? Did I stop for gas, or make any phone calls? I don’t remember knocking on the door – or was it already unlocked? I don’t remember embracing my parents. I don’t remember crying, or talking, or really anything. I have a vague, foggy vision of my mom and dad sitting together on the couch and staring at me with shock. I remember laying in a deafening silence that night. And that is all.

I don’t remember getting up the next day, or the day after, or the day after. I remember that I was taking an antidepressant my school clinic had prescribed me on the darkest day of my life. I remember not knowing whether it was the medication that made me feel so numb, or if that was just me.

A few weeks later and I had hardly slept – I would be exhausted, lagging all day, and then I would lie down and my eyes would pierce through the ceiling above me for hours, unblinking, unsleeping. 

The days pulped together in a sticky mass of time and pain.

 “Sarah?” Someone would say my name and I would snap out of my reverie. I would drift into waking nightmares, trapped in a tunnel of thought until something strong enough pulled me out.

I was lost to everything around me.

I would go to his Facebook page constantly. It was the only thing that seemed real. Him. I wanted to know what was going on there, in that world, the one I had left physically but not yet emotionally. That was my reality. That was the world I lived in.

He was the world I lived in.

The words sound sickening, disgusting to me now. I longed nothing more than to be the vibrant, enthusiastic, joyful girl I had been before all this. I hated that I was now so little of myself and so much of him.

He had made me, and it was only now, cut off from my cruel creator, that I realized this. I looked in the mirror and realized that the clothes I wore, my hair, my makeup, the way I smiled, the words I used, the books and movies and shows and friends and philosophies and beliefs and dreams that I loved -

I didn't love. [at all.]

None of it was me.

I didn't know who I was.

But I knew who I wasn't and I wanted that girl, that false facade of myself, to die.

My mother helped me cut off the black bracelet he had tied to my wrist one night. 

"This is to remind you who you belong to." He tied it so tight it rubbed my skin raw. When my mother cut it off, it was like she cut it off my lungs, and I breathed out deeper than I had in months.

Slowly, painfully, I survived. I made it through the winter.

I became less and less of a ghost, and he became more and more of one.

I got a job at Target, where I frequently had panic attacks (although, I didn't know what those were at the time).

Then, I got a job holding babies. And, maybe it was being around all that crying, but I slowly realized that I too could cry. And bit by bit, nightmare by nightmare, flashback by flashback, I unraveled myself. I unraveled him out of me. [I am still unraveling him out of me.]

In that process, I slowly room to pull myself back together. 

I had so much room!

I realized, one night, looking out the window at the night sky, that it had been YEARS since I had taken time to realize, to truly realize (to feel with the fibers of my mind and to hold in the cavities of my heart) how beautiful the moon is.

and in that moment I felt a glimmer of myself again.

And then there he was, haunting me out of the deep black existential night.

and there I was again, in the shooting star that ripped across the universe.

And there he was in the dark wing of the owl that hooted out of nowhere in the woods.

and there I was in the pine tree swaying gently in the strained moonlight.

And back and forth I went like this, from him to me to him to me to him to me to him to me to everybody to nobody.

Some days, a lot of days actually, I was nobody. I was merely a spectator of this awful battle of souls. I was watching the horrible dream of from outside it all. 

                                                                                                                                                   

Some                                                                                                                                             Sarah.

     days                                        [and of course, in all this time,                                               was

             I                                           there are gaps missing.]                                                  I

                 was                                             Memory is strange.                                         realized

                       nobody.                                                                                                I

                               and I was                                                                        eventually

                                         lower                                                            eventually

                                                 than I ever                                    eventually

                                                           thought possible           eventually

                                                                       BUT eventually

I was Sarah. 

                I am Sarah.                                                                            [and it is ok to change

                                                                                                                it is ok to change

                                I always was Sarah.                                                IT IS OK TO CHANGE]

                                                          I always will be Sarah.

                                                                             Sarah is Sarah is Sarah is Sarah.

It took months, years, even, to feel comfortable taking off the facade and slipping into my own skin again. I had to ache and bleed and sob and sweat and scream. And I still sometimes do.

BUT I know I am myself, and that I am more 

magical

wonderful

beautiful

than any girl The Man could EVER have created or imagined.

THE END

(for now)

(I am so tired of writing, but I will not stop.)

The Darkest Day of My Life

I'd like to tell you about the darkest day of my life. 

I call it the darkest day of my life, but ironically it was the day the light started to come in. Perhaps this is how it always works. 

It was just a few weeks after I moved into Agnes Scott College in Atlanta. I'd chosen THIS school, out of all the schools in the world, to transfer to for my Sophomore year. This was my new life, the life I'd wanted, the life I loved... right? 

Wrong. 

Nobody would guess from my upbeat Facebook posts that I was actually quivering inside myself, terrified for what was to come. And as my dad snapped a photo of me perched on the edge of my bed in my new apartment, I felt anxiety overwhelm me. I watched my father stand outside my first apartment and shake hands with The Man who would make the next several months of my life a living hell. My father shook his hand and said, "We're glad Sarah has someone looking out for her."

The Man said, "Oh don't worry sir, I'll take GREAT care of your daughter."

With those words I felt dread quicken in my blood. 

As soon as my father was down the street The Man turned to me. "Get your things. You're not staying here." We drove in his car to The Apartment, which reeked of cat urine and god knows what else. "Take off your shoes," The Man said. And as I took them off I thought about how hard it would be to run away without them.

You see, I couldn't run away... I was just now becoming his captive in body, but I had been his prisoner in my mind for a very long time. The Man had reached into my life from a thousand miles away. I spent my last two years of high school and my freshman year of college glued to the emotional games he dragged me through. 

You see, being abused is like a drug. I didn't know it then, but the shouting, the hitting, the shoving, the threatening, the crying, the begging, the promising, the apologizing - they were all part of a carefully manipulated cycle that kept me utterly fixated and dependent on this human. And miserable - with him or without him. My life's purpose became to keep him appeased. And this was impossible. Even as I stood there that first night taking off my shoes, I knew that if I so much as placed them even an inch too far off the rug by the door, I would pay dearly for my crime. And as I gingerly placed my sandals down, I rose up again to face The Man. "Now come here."

Flash forward to the darkest day of my life. I trekked down the sidewalk to class. It was mid September, still warm in Atlanta, but a breeze blew leaves across the concrete in front of me. Despite the lingering warmth I was numb, cold, emotionless inside. In just six weeks, I'd spiraled deeper than I thought possible. I had no interest in my classes. The Man had seen to it quickly that I had no friends. As for my family, I ached and yearned for them to figure out what was happening. I called my mother from a Walmart parking lot sobbing after a particularly terrible fight. She tried to soothe me over the phone. "Sarah, what's going on?"

"I'm just homesick..." I whispered. "I'm just very very homesick."

As I walked to class on The Darkest Day of My Life, I had decided, and my choice weighed deeply in my chest like a stone dagger, crushing me and cutting me at the same time. 

The night before I'd laid motionless next to The Man with tears streaming down my face. 

"God, what's the matter now?" The Man barked after a few minutes.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," I whispered, unable to hold it back any longer. "I'm sorry, I'm--"

But before I could finish he'd flown into a rage. He yanked the blankets off the bed. "You BITCH," he screamed, his voice reverberating. I knew the neighbors would listen and do nothing. They never did anything. They watched me go in and out of The Apartment like a wounded cat they didn't want to be bothered with. 

"I'm sorry!" I tried to soothe him, but it was too late. He stood towering over me. He yanked the sheet from under me, sending me sliding from the bed to the floor. 

"GET UP!" He screamed. 

I scrambled, looking for my phone in the dim light of the TV. 

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, you bitch..." The Man's last words were a whisper, and this terrified me even more. "I don't want to be with someone who is so INCAPABLE OF LOVE!"

I tried to get out of the bedroom door but as I grabbed the handle he yelled again, "What the HELL do you think you're doing!"

"Leaving," I said calmly. "You asked me to--"

"All I ever asked you for was for you to treat me well," The Man bellowed. "You're a poor excuse for a girlfriend - and there's no way in HELL you're leaving this house like that." He took a step towards me.

My heart raced. I jumped away from him.

"DON'T FLINCH," The Man snarled. "Jesus, what did I ever do to make you so terrified. You're pathetic."

"I need to call my mom," I cried, getting hysterical. "Let me call my mom."

My phone was on the ground between us.

"You are not calling anyone," He said calmly, stepping towards my phone. 

"Yes I am!" I yelled, feeling a fire boil in my veins. "I'm calling my mom!"

He grabbed my phone and flung it across the room. It hit a wall and slid down to land with a smack on the floor. 

You're next.

He didn't say it with his voice, but with his eyes.

I scrambled frantically behind me into the bathroom and closed the door. "I'm not coming out until you let me call my mother!" I sobbed, crumpling onto the floor in the fetal position.

"Is that what you really want?" 

I was silent.

"Sarah, answer me."

I felt the sobs overtake me. Mom, mom, mom. All I could picture was her face. 

"Bitch," The Man muttered. "You'll call your mother, and you'll tell her what? That you're in over your head? That you ended up here by your own stupid choice and now you want out?"

Mom, mom, mom.

"You can stay in there until we both rot," The Man hissed holding the door closed until I was too tired to fight.

When he finally let me out, he held his arms open. "Now, come here," The Man said. "That wasn't so fun, was it? You have got to stop making me so mad, Sarah. You push me to the brink of madness. One of these days someone is going to get hurt." The Man stroked my hair, kissed my forehead. "And none of us want that."

I sobbed against his chest and I don't remember anything else from that night. 

And so, the next day, I had decided. My life was over. As I walked to class, I thought about what I needed to do. I had no earthly belongings of any value. The only things I cared about were my journals... they were all at The Man's house. I didn't want him having them. I didn't want my family having them. I would need to figure out what to do with those.

As I walked, I looked up. The sky was blue as it usually is. God, are you there? I asked. I knew the answer. Yes, he was. And he was very disappointed in me. I had caused all this... I ended up here by my own stupid choice and now I wanted out. I knew the only way out. 

Please, if you want to... I said to the sky, with very little feeling left in me. Help me. Please. if you want to, HELP ME. Or... I'm going to have to.

Have to what? The Sky asked back. Kill yourself?

I nodded.

But Sarah, The Sky said, YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD.

Time stopped, and I looked down at my exhausted body, I felt my pulpy brain pulsing in my sore skull. It was true. I was already dead... already dead... already -

A bird sang loudly, startling me out of my deep train of thought. I looked to my right. There, behind some drooping vines hanging from huge mossy trees, was a small building. 

A clinic.

The student health clinic. Not the heroic chariot of angels you would expect, but... my feet compelled me into it as the words rattled about in my head. Already dead, already dead. These new words were a tidal wave and I was propelled forward by something. Fear? Chaos? I don't know. All I know is that my feet beat across the concrete despite the resistance in my brain and I flung my backpack down in the foyer of the clinic and rushed up to the desk.

"Hey - " I hissed through the glass window of the receptionist's desk. "I REALLY need to talk to someone." 

A few minutes - hours - lifetimes it seemed passed as I poured my jumbled mind out to first a counselor, then a psychiatrist, a chaplain, and who knows who else.

It would appear that depression, anxiety, and many of the other symptoms I was experiencing (think: sleeplessness, hives all over my body, frequent migraines, nausea, panic episodes, hair loss, etc.) are actually common indicators that a woman is going through abuse.

Abuse.

abuse.

AbUsE.

I held the word in my mouth but could never speak it because the one time I had even so much as started to say it to The Man he had flown into an unprecedented rage. So I didn't say it, but I thought it. and that seed of thought fell into my heart and grew into a tree of courage, and all the therapists at the clinic watered it daily. I was in crisis mode, though I didn't yet know it.

A few days later, I woke up sick. He let me leave his apartment for the first time since I'd moved to Atlanta as he didn't want to contract my illness. I fell into my own bed for the night exhausted and relieved. When I stayed with The Man I couldn't speak, roll over, look at my phone, or even adjust my pillow without dire consequences. Finally, thanks to some freaky kind of flu, I was alone. I sighed in relief and curled up among my blankets. I slept, long and deep.

The next day, I skipped class. I was drained. I turned off my phone and ignored the man. I was terrified of the repercussions of ignoring him but I was simply too exhausted to keep it up. I sobbed on the couch in the living room of the apartment I had barely known. My roommate ran me a bath and spread rose petals on the edge of the tub, dropped essential oils in and helped me settle into the hot water. And I decided, while soaking there in blissfully peaceful porcelain arms, that it was over. I would never answer him again.

* * * * *

There is much more to the story of my escape. It was only a few hours later The Man appeared at my apartment, brandishing his dark metal rage, and it was then I called first the police, then my best friend Kara, and finally my parents. Within six hours I was 300 miles away, on the doorstep of my parents' home in North Carolina. It was, you could say, the end, although for me it was the beginning of a brutal few months of recovery, which turned into a brutal few years of trying to regain some sense of normalcy, which leads right up to where I am today. 

I am frequently tossed back into the brutal and terrifying memories of that time. I awake to nightmares of The Man. I imagine his face peering through my windows as I work hard at my desk. I hear his cruel voice taunt me when I look in the mirror. When current boyfriends make an innocent slip and say something thoughtless, I feel The Man laughing behind their words.

And so, when things get especially hard, I retreat, into the depths of hot water, where I watch the steam rising off my reddening thighs, and behind the locked door of my bathroom, I feel alone, and safe, and I can at least say that the darkest day of my life is over.

A Snippet of My Summer

This summer has been exhausting. This summer has been OVERWHELMING. This summer has been a mountain I never thought I could summit. Yet, here I am, nearly at the top, looking down at a view that gives me mixed emotions.

I see the dense terrain that left me bruised and scraped. I see dark clouds swirling in the distance that pelted me with storm after storm. I see the miry mudslides that threatened to drag me off the trail. There is icy, soul-numbing snow. There is whimpering heat that reddens my flesh. And at last I see down in the distance the very beginning of the trail – a dense, lush forest promising peace – carefully concealing all these harsh elements behind a curtain of inviting green.

Who can know what is ahead? I didn’t. I naively packed my bags and set off for this summit expecting a lazy, meandering trail. I brought a hammock when what I really needed was a machete. My journey this summer was an unexpected one. Did I take a wrong turn? Did I miss the trail I was meant to take? By all accounts I could say yes – that this was all a giant mistake – that it was something sinister that dragged me from the scenic path and onto the harsh, exposed terrain that would test me so brutally.

However, on this path – this cursed, mean, cruel path – I see on the edges of the trails all the great and mighty climbers who have pushed me forward. Friends. Strangers. Family. I see the kind eyes of my parents in the distance, not really sure what storms I’m embedded in but nevertheless watching over me. I see the gentle hands of good-hearted strangers dressing my wounds. There are friends that draw near when I am cold, who let me stand in their shade when the sun beats down, whose voices that speak over the deafening silence of the night, and who have pulled me close to their side when the howling wilderness threatens to disorient me.

If I had not walked this path I would not have been able to receive such strong and fervent friendship, such good will. 

This path has been thorny, holy, Hellish, divine, harrowing, haunting, quiet, deafening.

And as the thorns dig into my feet with every step I see my blood flow purely, beautifully... and my soles pound hell up the mountain, and my heart races, and I am almost

there.

Books I've Read This Summer

My Friends! It has been so very very long since I've written on here. Many things in my life have changed - for those of you who were a part of my small but loyal band of readers, I apologize for my unannounced absence! There were a few things I needed to do this spring in order to recalibrate myself, and taking a break from publicly writing was one of the things that helped push me deeper within my own spiral bound notebooks, the place where my true, nitty-gritty writing self comes clean.

I have been hiding myself away in the Rocky Mountains of Northern Colorado for the past two months, and it has been one of the best choices I've ever made - despite the fact that not all the consequences of this decision have been easy or expected. There are days so hard I feel like my eyes are the charred windows of a house on fire and I can barely open them - it feels like pain has sealed them shut and like I will burn to the ground alone inside myself. 

A lot has happened. 

I won't go into details, but I will say that along with the pain, there are moments of such intense beauty that flowers bloom in my heart and the clouds in my brain dissipate. I look around and see the amazing scenery of the mountains during a fiery sunset, or the contagious smile of my vibrant, kindhearted roommate, or even the strong flexing of my own legs beneath me as they carry this worn body up boulders, and I am grateful, so grateful, to be here. 

But, I did not come here to tell you all this - although, I think it needed to be said - I came to share with you all the BOOKS I'VE READ THIS SUMMER!

So far this summer, I have read NINE BOOKS. Pretty impressive considering this number might beat my track record for the entire past YEAR. I've always been a reader, but since starting college, working five days a week, and throwing myself into my OWN writing, I haven't read as much as I would like. However, the limited wifi of the Rocky Mountains has really inspired me to throw myself into some delicious pages, and I'm going to share with you the wonderful friends I've made out here - yes, I just referred to books as my friends - because Lord knows I haven't made too many friends in the flesh lately! 

*coughs nervously*

 Wild Mind  by Natalie Goldberg - This book explores the psychology of our human brains and perhaps of our SOULS as well, and then connects this knowledge with the writer's task of storytelling. Natalie is a favorite of mine. Ever since I discovered her book Thunder and Lightning this past winter, I haven't been able to spend a week without reading at least a few pages by her!

Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott - Wow. Did this book get me through some hard times or WHAT. It accompanied me on a spur of the moment four day trip to New Mexico, half of which I spent trying to drown myself in my hotel room bathtub and the other half, crying on the side of the road by the Rio Grande. Yeah, tough week. But Anne's amazing capacity for soul-soothing language was a comfort and a guide to me. Her advice stretches FAR beyond writing, and Bird by Bird is a mercy of a book that will make you laugh, sigh, and maybe even deter you from jumping into the Rio Grande - yeah, it's that good!

The Great Failure by Natalie Goldberg - There she is again! This is a memoir about a betrayal from a trusted authority figure. It hit very close to home. Tears were shed over this book, and while it left me feeling sort of dry and tired at the end, it felt good to share somebody else's sorrow - that can almost help heal you of some of your own. 

The Spy by Paulo Coelho - my dear friend Garrison gifted me a copy of this book before my pilgrimage out west. It's sort of historical fiction meets biography, and if you enjoy World War I history, the City of Paris, and women who are FIERCE, then you'll like this one a lot. I did. 

Weetzie Bat by Francesca Lia Block - Dang, this was a strange little book! I read the whole thing over the course of my lunch and dinner breaks one day. It's a mystical, whimsical, fantastical little novella set in Los Angelos. It was the first truly "fiction" book I've read in a while, and it jump-started me back into the genre after spending far too long reading books about "how to write". How to dream, imagine, have fun, and be delighted are also important things. 

Wasteland by Francesca Lia Block - This book kept me in suspense. It's written in a psychotic manner and I was never quite sure who was speaking and how reliable the narrator was, nevertheless, the story was told, and I stayed awake LATE into the night to get to the (shocking) end of this little manic episode. 

The Hanged Man by Francesca Lia Block - Simply HAUNTING. Another tiny, bite-sized read that left me cringing and gasping. I'm not sure I could ever broach the uncomfortable topics Block does, but it sure is fascinating to take a peek into her strange and hazy world. 

The True Secret of Writing by Natalie Goldberg - This book really is less about how to write and more about Natalie's own journey as an author. It was touching. There were so many beautiful and heartwarming descriptions of the people she's met and the places she's been. It took me a while to get into the calm and laid back way she wrote this book, but I eased into it, and by the end I had laughed, cried, and said out loud, "YES, Natalie, YES!"

The Dive From Clausen's Pier by Ann Packer - This is a fictional work, and a  much meatier one than the tiny Block novels I've been gobbling up. It's sad, frustrating, and very realistic. I found myself relating to the main character (the narrator) who is a 23-year-old female who at times is simply AWFUL in the book. At the same time, her broken heart shines through the story, and when I finally closed the book at the end, I felt a sense of relief flood my own life. Really, it's going to be okay, and all the colorful heroines I've read about have proven that, despite their flaws, they are strong and so am I.

Artist Fever

HELLO OLD FRIENDS!

It has been a hot minute since I blogged, y'all.

The creative juices were utterly DRY for a while. The depths of a dry, lackluster winter sucked the life out of me, and I spent a solid eight weeks going from school to work to miserable social events to bed and REPEAT. Sounds like a solidly healthy way of life, and yes - compared to the torrent of emotion that swept me through last semester, this season hasn't been THAT bad. My grades are impeccable, I have overcome my workplace challenges with grace and dignity (kind of LOLZ don't date people you work with) and my personal sanity has been at an all time high!

But... I've been so BORED. Not in a healthy way. Not in an "I'm being productive and pushing through the grind in order to make my life better" kind of way.

NOPE, I've been bored in a "what's the point of getting up every day, the world sucks, I suck, all y'all suck" kind of way. And then, one day, while perusing the shelves of a used bookstore with a darling pal home on spring break (and one of the few friends I can say I have anymore), I found a dusty copy of a book called Thunder and Lightning: Cracking Open the Writer's Craft.

I used to write, and I mean WRITE. Not just blog a few times a month in this journal-style manner, I used to POUR into pages my ideas and stories and poems and streams of words that came to me from on high. I couldn't help it! I filled notebooks on notebooks in middle and high school. It was an irresistible call. Not because it helped me in any way, in fact... sometimes it seemed to only highlight the confusing, chaotic aspects of life. Art for me has not always been a source of relief, and lately, I've given up on it altogether.

Anyway, back to the bookstore scene. I flipped through the pages, glancing for the typical criteria I use to evaluate prospective purchases. Chapter structure is good, the font isn't hideous, lots of italics (important!) and bits and pieces of poetry (yes!) scattered throughout. Another plus!

This book captured me with the opening line: "I have not seen writing lead to happiness in my friends' lives."

BAM. Thank you, Natalie Goldberg. Thank you.

Something about the way she bluntly phrased realities about writing hooked me.

I bought the book, and I began to read, and then about thirty pages in I felt that old familiar call...

I MUST WRITE!

And I began a new notebook and I didn't look back. I wrote a hundred pages in three days. I rushed back to the bookstore to buy whatever other books this author had. With her as my guide, I have plunged back into this chaotic artist's world, and it IS beautiful here.

Fittingly, spring has started to peek around the corner at us here in Asheville, and it is a delight to be able to drive up to a pretty spot on the parkway with pillows, blankets, water bottles, and my sheath of paper. A few weeks ago, I complained of the ever-heated baby fever that has plagued me for years. But I can safely say that fire has dimmed, and I now have something else - book fever? Creation fever? Word fever?

Whatever it is, it compels me, and I'm happy to say I have found a cure for the boredom that has taunted me for weeks. I may not blog on here as often as I did last year (when it was my one and only New Year's Resolution) but rest assured - somewhere, somehow, I am writing.

P O E T R Y

     Lately I've been in a horrid drought when it comes to inspiration. I've been doodling, journaling, and of course - talking about my feelings. But I haven't taken much time to process my thoughts and turn them into something worthy of my blog.

     I have however been completely obsessed with poetry the past few weeks! I carry about my little purple notebook and scribble down whatever lines come into my head. Since I'm trying to revive my little blog, I thought I would share a few of my little darlings on here!

A Poem for the Boys I Went to School With

I think it's funny that the boys I went to school with

Who teased and taunted me relentlessly 

Who called me names 

Who smirked as they walked away 

Now message me from their dark corners of the Internet 

Calling me "baby"!

They want to take me out, now 

They want to tell me I'm pretty, now

They want me, now.

But when I say "no thank you"

They turn right back to jerks and cowards

Calling names

Little terrors once again, tapping at me from behind their screens

Behind their ever-growing egos

The tadpoles have turned into toads

They haven't really changed 

But I have.

I am still quiet under their torrent of foolish, empty words

But I walk away, now

I'm the one smirking, now.

___

The Big Joke

People are funny things

At least they seem to be.

Maybe I'm easily amused

OR MAYBE like my mother

     always says,

     "This isn't a joke!"

But it could be,

it should be,

because jokes make you laugh

     they surprise you

     they can teach you

     they can be cruel

     and so can people.

___

     Pain

     Pain is the worst roommate

        you will ever have.

     Pain will keep you up at night

        and yet will always be awake before you

        burning something miserable for your breakfast.

___

The Southern Man

is a beautiful collection of

hymns and curse words

lanky, 

     leaning, 

        whistling,

             driving me home

eyes darting from all the 

     gasoline stars 

on the

     meteor shower freeway

to my face

     which you will soon kiss goodnight.

Being 21 is the Literal Worst

I hate everything.

I understand nothing.

"It comes with the territory," a few people have told me now. "Those are the dues you pay when you're 21."

It's a hot and vibrant stage of living, the age I'm at now. Imagination, ambition, intention: all fiery and blazing. On the other hand, we are struggling and resisting as our inner children fade away with each "lesson learned". The fight going on between the pretty world in my head and the actual world around me is draining. Discouraging.

Being 21 is the literal worst. At least right now. Maybe 22 will turn out to be the literal worst, or 30, or 50. I guess it could always go downhill from here, and maybe that should be my logic for happiness - "cheer up, things are only going to get worse!"

But 21 feels so sucky.

We are expected to launch ourselves into a bright and beautiful future. We have goals, opportunities, and open doors. I have the security of knowing I'm a healthy, intelligent, capable woman who can go wherever she pleases. I have these intangible "reasons" that are supposed to sustain me through this turbulent time - faith. love. hope. ethics. passion. perseverance.

Why then, at the end of every day, do I hate everything and understand nothing?

Why am I so weary?

Having a great wide-open world is overwhelming.

Every day we trudge through our "open doors" with our backpacks full of plans and schemes to get ahead. We launch into careers, relationships, mindsets... and it's never what we think it will be. That world in our heads explodes into a mushroom cloud of disappointment and disillusionment and we are left reeling - hating everything, understanding nothing.

IT'S THE LITERAL WORST

But it's where so many great stories start - in the places we don't want to be. Maybe it's your school. Your home. Maybe it's waking up next to the wrong person - again. Maybe it's a soul-numbing job. Or just the intangible need within you for something else. 

But, alas, to be 21 is to suck (sometimes). We have to hate everything (sometimes). We have to feel that piercing angst, the wistfulness, the red-hot irritation of being an idiot despite your best attempts otherwise. The dust of our shattered expectations eventually settles and reveals an unexpected setting for the next turn in the tale, I suppose.

So, yes, being 21 is the literal worst.

But the literal worst is okay. You are okay. Let some things blow up in your face. It's the dues you pay when you're 21.

Kara Kara, Quite Contreras

Well, today marks ONE WEEK since my dearest friend Kathryn and I gathered our wilting bouquets, our aching feet, and a menagerie of tokens from suitors (two phone numbers. we got two phone numbers.) and left our best friend Kara's wedding reception venue and headed for the hills.

By the hills, I mean the dorm we were staying in. We were exhausted!

Fun is exhausting. It was a fantastic weekend, full of flowers and tacos and crying. Some of my favorite things!

It's hard to believe our own dear Kara is MARRIED - married to a man she met and fell for in a divine whirlwind. Six months ago, we didn't know this man existed, and now... he's going to be around for a while* and it's crazy and exciting.

*forever. HE'S GONNA BE HERE FOREVER!

This was my first wedding as a bridesmaid. Hopefully, they get less emotional with the more of them you're a part of, because while I managed to not shed a single tear during the ceremony, I must admit a multitude of them were cried later that night as I lay in a strange bed feeling overwhelmed with sentiment, nostalgia, dreams, and fears.

(Anyway, back to the wedding.)

The rehearsal seemed to fly by, with Kathryn and I arriving like a hurricane after an eight hour drive just a mere forty minutes before our practice run was scheduled. We dumped our bags in a small room in the back of the missionary housing, Kathryn curled my hair, we smacked up our faces with some makeup and threw on our heels and the chaos began!

It was a blur of new faces, with a few familiar ones. Kara's two sisters, who are as stunning and smart as she is, filled the evening with their laughter and personality. It was the first time I've seen all three of them in the same room since Anna (the oldest of the three girls) got married nearly EIGHT YEARS AGO!

Talk about SENTIMENTAL!

So, the rehearsal flew by, the dinner flew by - in a frenzied exchange of English and Spanish, and after the meal Kathryn and I were whisked away by new friends (who were still strangers, really) for a night of dancing and drinks in a nightclub tucked away in the basement of an old inn.

By the time we arrived back at our lodging at nearly two, we were both exhausted, and we didn't sleep but a wink before the sun rose on the day of the ceremony.

Boyce College (where we stayed) is a beautiful campus with a sense of seriousness and peace resting on it in the mornings like dew. A February wedding meant the air was crisp, cold, but BRIGHT. It was not the dead of winter. Promises of spring were visible. But it was still butt-cold. The bridesmaids flapped about steaming gowns and curling hair - painting our eyes and lips and chattering about the day to come, and like the night before, it flew by...

Until it was time to join the bride, and then, at risk of sounding cliche, time truly slowed to a near halt as we saw her prepared to walk down the aisle.

Kara looked stunning in a long, lace gown and veil. There's something TRULY magical about a wedding dress. The word is truly "transformative". Kara is a naturally gorgeous girl, with those freckles that incite smiles in any crowd, sweet green-blue eyes that crinkle alongside her chiming laughter. She's a TOTAL BABE. And in that wedding gown, it was impossible to tear your eyes from her!

It was a dreamlike moment when we all clipped down the hallway in our swirling dresses and fancy shoes, to the foot of the staircase that she was at the top of - smiling and swaying with a blue bouquet clasped in her hands. Sunlight poured down on her from a two-story window.

It was magic!

I looked over at Kathryn, who NEVER (I repeat! NEVER!) cries, to see tears welling up in her sweet eyes.

It was hard. It was sweet, it was lovely, it was exciting, but it was hard.

"We can't curl up in bed with her at sleepovers, or call her at all hours, or have surprised visits anymore..." Kathryn and I had said the night before in the car. "It's going to be so different."

This is a special, sweet time. This time where we remain with one foot firmly planted in singleness - still somewhat in girlhood. Yet the other foot is tentatively dipped into a pool of possibilities. Every man who lays eyes on us could be the one to soon "whisk us away" to our own wedding day. We sway back and forth between which foot we want to be the one to step forward with.

Do we want singleness? Youth? Freedom of choice? 

...OR do we want LOVE! Romance! Responsibility. Commitment!

Do we want the role we have now or the one that Kara has so quickly stepped into? The answer is: we want both! And both are scary.

These are the thoughts that plagued me as I walked down the aisle, a nervous smile plastered to my face.

And then, those doors opened, and she stepped through. On her father's arm. Beaming. Her dress streaming across the red carpet behind her as she stepped forward to take the arm of the man who will, in sickness and in health, stand by her.

My girl is married.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And so, the ceremony eventually ended after teary eyes and goosebumps all around, and we danced our hearts out at the reception, and then we got to the point where we began this blog post: sore feet, wilting bouquets.

Kathryn and I changed out of our dresses and went to get Japanese food by ourselves in a quiet little place off-campus.

Fun is exhausting.

Love is exhausting.

We slept like babies that night, and in fact, I've slept like a baby every night since!

Congratulations to the beautiful and lovely Mr. and Mrs. Contreras. Love is a many-splendored thing.

The Split-Apart Story

     Once upon a time, says Plato, things were different.

We each walked around as dual-beings, the components of two human bodies crafted seamlessly into one. In this form, we possessed strength and wholeness. We were quick. Strong. Smart. We were complete, and thus, we were ambitious in our quests. As intact, independent beings we felt few needs here on earth and so turned our eyes to the heavens.

And it was for this very reason the gods on Mount Olympus sliced us all in two - to diminish the threat that we would scale the cliffs up to their dwelling. The gods fiercely attacked and severed us each in two. In a chaos of panic we were all scattered, lost and lonely without our other half. And so, with each human-being separated and scrambled, humanity was distracted from the pursuit of the gods and condemned to a life of searching for their "other".

Wandering.

Seeking.

Needing.

Plato's symposium offers one explanation for something that seems to have plagued humanity since the beginning of time.

The need for love. The need for intimacy. The need for somebody else.

Why do we have a need for another human being to understand us and accept us to our very core?

While modern humans as a whole seem to outwardly strive for autonomy and independence and a strong "sense of self", I see people every day who simply don't WANT to be utterly independent or autonomous or self-reliant. . .

Myself included.

We all remember Catherine Earnshaw's heart-wrenching cry: "I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. . . he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same."

To be who you are on your own is entirely different (and much harder) than to be who you are with someone - for someone - and because of someone.

Love, in this context, seems more like a torment than a delight, yet we all want it. . .

ADMIT IT!!! YOU WANT IT TOO!!!

And we are all willing to deal with the side effects of being drugged in love. We deal with the jealousy, the need, the grief, the heartache.

We know that the odds are low we've found someone to scale the heavens with forever. Even the greatest of lovers who seemed to find their "missing half" eventually end up in heartbroken shambles. Romeo and Juliet. Heathcliff and Catherine. Blah blah, blah blah, and blah blah.

Yet . . . we look. We can't help it.

You all go on and on about being "content" and "comfortable with yourselves" and "enjoying life alone". . .

And maybe you are. But maybe, secretly, you're a sucker like I am.

A Love Story in Three Letters

Today, as I sat down at my piano to practice, an old song I used to know came to mind. It was in a worn out packet of sheet music that I had misplaced. I was desperate to find it, so I pried open the lid of the piano bench I was sitting on for the first time in years (the lid is broken and it takes a lot of effort to move the hinges), and instead of finding my sheet music, I found a stack of letters.

I sifted through them... they were the few remaining survivors of an ongoing correspondence with a high school sweetheart who joined the army.

"Babe, whatcha thinkin bout these days? Anything good? Me, I just think about what's meant to be and what's to come. The story of my life I guess. I think about it every day. How's the weather down there in North Carolina? Real pretty I bet. Someday I wish you could show me that creek your always at and always talkin bout! I'm dying to see it because if I'm seeing it, must mean I'm with you. You make those mountains sound like heaven on earth. You make me jealous, babe, with all that country. I would die to live in the country. Truth is, I'm a country boy at heart."

These letters, those days of my life, are all a blur. I wonder whatever I did or said to make this boy fall for me. I was, in those days, a quiet girl, very much turned inward, so much so that even when I was turned outward, I was still seeing myself. I was struggling to find meaning in the world. I was anxious for friendship and love, and this boy was my friend. And I reckon he did love me.

"I wish there was some way besides writing we could talk. I ain't complaining, I'm happy we can talk this way. But could you fly down to Dallas so we can go dancing and have a good time? I can send money for the ticket. Anyways babe I look forward to your letter. I can't wait to read it. Sweety, your beautiful. Every day when I run the mile I think bout you in that shimmery dress you showed me. You looked like an angel. And it ain't your dress that made you that way because that's just you babe!"

I read these letters, at ages 15 and 16, and took for granted the affection and the honesty that in a few years would become nearly impossible to find in men.

Of course, as high school romances often do, this one slowly trickled to an end. Voices around me criticized. I felt guilty, I felt confused, but most of all, I felt young. Suddenly, so young. And at 16, I sent him my last letter, and received in turn, a last one from him.

"Oh Sarah. I'm sad. I guess your telling me this ain't gonna work out. But can I still call you my friend? Not in a bad way but you seem like you could use a friend. I guess God thought different if this is how it is to be now. What gets me thinkin is why did he have us meet and then rip us apart? I reckon he didn't want us together, but I wanted it. Real bad. It confuses me how bad, cause that never happened to me before. I think God should permit everyone just one question in their life, and I'd ask... 'how can I make her happy, lord.' This sucks babe... and I'm sorry you aren't happy."

The pain in that letter made tears come to my eyes today - six years later - because I know I caused him deep grief. Unwittingly or otherwise.

Years have passed, the young man who was the first to ever call me babe is now married! Still in the army. Off living a life. And I'm here, in my own life, looking back. And I'm so glad I get to look back, because those words were once real and raw, they were present - living - TRUE.

And while they're no longer true, they are still real, and they still touch my heart. They give me comfort and happiness. Maybe love is real. Whether it lasts or not.

A year ago, I received contact from this young man. He messaged me online. I had just returned home from my foray out into the world - from my real and horrible heartbreak. I poured out my troubles to him once again, and he replied, in true fashion, with a bit of wisdom.

"Love does weird things to people.... whether it be real or false...."

I guess that's the bottom line of all of it.

The question "is love real?" doesn't matter one bit.

Love does weird things to people, whether it be real or false.

Did a person change you? Did you change a person? Did you laugh? Did you cry? Did you rejoice, and ache, and yearn, and grow?

Those are the things that matter. Those are the things you'll remember.

"well babe, I reckon this letter is long enough. Consider this letter my kiss on your forehead! I know you haven't had your first kiss yet and if it's me or not doesn't matter, because all the lovin is here, babe, whether this amounts to something or nothin. Goodnight babe."

A Special Guest: My Old Self!

Today I wanted to share something special.

Nearly 3 years ago, when I was barely 18, I wrote this. It was published on a wonderful blog by a sweet lady who at the time, I had never even met. I wrote it at a time of wrestling.

Tonight, I was lying in my bed. Wrestling.

"Is there a God?"

"Who am I?"

"Why?"

And on and on.

Lately, I've been lost in an abyss of wondering. Seeking. Searching. Hoping, praying, THINKING.

Just trying to figure it all out, you know?

But the main thing I've come to discover is that, in fact, I DO think there's a God. Whether or not he's the same one I was raised to believe in is up for debate. 

But perhaps it's the artist in me who just can't help but believe... I believe in a maker. A creator. I believe all this beauty and pain came from somewhere. I believe that 18-year-old Sarah was not alone when she typed this in the back of a dusty ceramics studio.

How could she have been? 

And how could I be now?

The artist in me believes 21-year-old Sarah can't possibly be alone... because something, someone - has to be the artist behind it all. In it all. In me.

So, without further ado, please enjoy this piece that I wrote, back when I didn't worry about my vocabulary or being funny or being RIGHT or being understandable - back before I cautiously manufactured - back when I just created.

Exploring My Grief and Joy Through Clay

Sarah Kane is one of Keith Pruitt's high school English students. She reached out to Healing Knots to share her broken heart about losing a mentor, role model and friend.

contact Sarah:
828-674-9749
shebrew7@gmail.com

I've always had issues with seasons—the idea of being in one place yet suspended in wait for another—the idea of a shifting and changing present moment, a foreign and barely peripheral past, and the future, massive and unknown.

Having an issue with seasons is a problem, since seasons are the stuff of life. Everything comes in seasons—growth, rest, healing, grief. 

The literal seasons manifest this concept for me, and winters are horrendous. Last winter was by far the worst I have known—the long, dark days defined by an absence of warmth, compounded by the overwhelming presence of loss in my life. Loss of a dear friend, loss of innocence, loss of peace (and any good substitute for it)—I found myself treading terrifying emotions and sliding into mindless pain rituals as a way to cope with my sorrow (and perhaps confirm it). The feeling that my sorrow was invalid and stupid kept me locked inside guilt and misery, deepening the aching abscess of grief. That winter followed me into spring, into summer, and stayed dense and cloudy in my mind as life carried on into new seasons, new semesters.

By the time I was handed a lump of cold, heavy clay on the first day of school, I was ragged inside.

Clay was an unexpected challenge. I became my own unexpected challenge. This new medium was so different from my normal one of words and stories. Where words fell flat and stories started wearing thin, clay was dark and dense and required such a literal strength in dealing with it. I felt the ache in my whole body when I wrestled it on the wheel, realizing my weakness. The intricacy and delicate touch required to draw up thin, watery walls made me confront the fact that I am neither gentle nor patient. 

Nor did I have any understanding of what clay needs to go through to become art.

People are like clay. We are kneaded, shaped, scratched, smoothed, drenched in water, color, and heat.

The process of making a ceramic piece is more in-depth than I ever imagined. The initial steps are hard enough—taking your cold lump of clay, you toss it onto the wheel and begin the nearly brutal process of centering it. It will rebel—spinning off center, jerking your hands back at you and pulsing like an unruly heartbeat. It will bend your thumbs and invade your fingernails. But, by drenching it in water, and continuing to press and press and press—eventually your clay submits into some form of symmetry.

Once symmetrical, you will lift the clay up and press it down and raise it again—and eventually, dip your hand into the heart of it, stretching it open, shaping walls, creating depth, ridges, and dips. 

My first wobbly bowl, dented in fingerprints, was wired off the wheel and left to dry. I considered it complete. 

But something I never knew about ceramics is that once bowls are made and dried, they return to the wheel.

Upside down, your bowl is placed back onto the wheel-head, and that painstaking process of centering begins for the second time. Using a sharp tool, you spin your bowl and trim off long curls of clay, taking off weight, taking off excess, revealing more deliberately the shape you intended for that initial lump. This is a nerve-wracking process for any potter, and even the most well-thrown bowls are at risk of completely being destroyed while trusting a sharp tool and a human hand. 

Often, I find my pieces become nicked and jagged during this process. It takes a truly patient pair of hands to ease the bowl into symmetry again, and it takes a deliberate mind to remove layers with confidence. If the clay is left too thick, it risks disaster under high temperature. The trimming process creates a thin, healthy piece that can withstand the heat of the kiln. 

I feel for clay during this process. I don’t think I would like being trimmed. 

I do not like being reduced, or scraped, or brought down. I do not like loss. 

I do not like trusting a sharp blade not to pierce right through me, ort hands to keep me from sliding off center and being sliced.

Once your bowl is trimmed, you deliver it into the fires of the kiln for the first time—but, like you returned it to the wheel for more trimming, you will bring it back to the kiln a second time, at an even higher temperature, once you have glazed it with color.

In the kiln, clay remembers. It becomes molten and loose. The glaze, which was as dry as dust when your piece entered the kiln, turns to liquid and clings to the clay, which shifts and squirms in the heat. Your piece is now at its most fragile—limp and helplessly detached from your guiding hands. 

Anything that may have happened to your bowl before firing has the potential to affect it—past injuries rise from within your piece and threaten balance. Any deep hurts become surface flaws. The way your piece was touched before the kiln matters more than ever now.

Many of my bowls were pushed and dented while they were still soft. Though I painstakingly covered over the mistakes, re-shaping the clay, smoothing and tweaking, I was horrified when many of my bowls came out disfigured. It’s called warping, and from what I've gathered about clay, it’s impossible to fix—only prevent.

I wonder where that leaves me. I don’t know if I have yet been through the heat of a kiln—perhaps I have hardly even become centered on the wheel yet. I wrestle with the idea that I may be pierced by loss and sliced by trauma, that I might crack if I become dry—that I will always beat wildly off-center. But the worst of all is the thought that I will repair over my hurts, that I will be deep, beautiful, and smooth when I enter the heat of the kiln—but that every dent will reappear, I will bend and flux and fall—that because of my pain, I will be rendered misshapen and useless and warped. 

In conclusion, having exhaustively researched the subject, I think the only way to prevent warping is to crawl into the kiln with my pieces and hold them while they melt. Hold them while they are under intense pressure and danger—hold them in my hands, the hands that made them, and the hands that surely know how to preserve them. 

With all my pieces, there is a point I have to let them go. I make them, but I cannot save them.

In light of all these troubling thoughts, I was recently given a word. From where, I do not know, but it is this:

You are not making yourself. 

Whoever IS making me often seems cruel—many days I feel pushed and sliced and off-center. Sometimes I feel dry and dusty, sometimes molten. Sometimes pressed still and silent, and sometimes whirling wildly out of control. 

But if the one making me is strong enough to set a world spinning into perfectly centered motion—strong enough to send it flying around the sun—strong enough to keep a baby suspended in his mother’s watery womb for nine months, strong enough to keep oceans contained by strips of sand and to make stars sing in an atmosphere that would crush lungs—to make birds fly with fragile, hollow bones and people sacrifice their lives for something so ambiguous as “love”—

Then why wouldn't he hold his preciously shaped pieces in the greatest fire they will ever know?

With that idea flickering in my mind, I survive seasons.