This is me screaming---Clear to Japan--Blood Essay

Kylie asked why I’m screaming. I'm answering her on a different blog.
Kylie, you sweet innocent, I’m screaming because I've tried to catch up on the WC blog, I wrote replies, tried to patch up hurt fingers, change subjects, track down "Anonymous" (which I misspelled twice, but will never do so again), told WC assistants, in the most subtle way possible, that I'm glad everyone is homesick when they go home because home is behind us and ahead of us, NOT down here in this hell-hole of a life, but Julie said it better, so no one even talked to me but you, and Britt, Katie, Crystal, and Julie, Jami, Travis, Anona, Chan, and Matt (who said over e-mail at midnight, “Why don’t you just take a vacation from the blog and go write another book?")--which is, I guess, quite a lot of people talking to me, but it doesn’t feel like anyone because ... I, myself, am whining too much to feel the Spirit, which IS the only real comfort and peace we have. And no matter what anyone says to you, or promises you, or whatever they DON’T say to you, that is the absolute truth, because the Lord is the only One who can fill up emptiness.

But, here’s the kicker: He can’t give us peace when there’s no room at the Inn—when we’re too filled up already with resentment, or anger, or fear, or pain—and your incessant whining brought me face-to-face with my own pain, and I just want it all to go away, just like you do.

I want to crawl into a closet and sit, hugging my knees with my head down, until it melts away or thrashes itself to death against my bedroom window. I remember Chan saying "[when the memories hit too hard], use the Atonement," but I can’t right now, because my children are in pain—real pain, which I can’t even talk about. And because it snowed again--heavy.

So, I'm adding to the deep, sick, crap-sorrow-—claustrophobia, because now I can’t drive down my lane to help my 90-yr-old parents hang lights on their tree--because they’re sitting there too tired after dragging the tree in from the garage--even though I’ve driven round and round my driveway to pack down the snow, and Jacob and J. shoveled out my truck, so I could get down my lane, IT SNOWED AGAIN—-GET IT? DO YOU GET THAT because it’s important to me that you understand--it will always snow again. And twenty years ago, I could have taken a shovel and gleefully thrown snow clear over the roof, clear to Japan, but now I’m stuck here because it snowed again.

And Patch won’t eat because he gets depressed when I’m depressed, and so I’m saying, “Look, Patch, this can of dog food says Top-Sirloin Flavored... and Prime Cuts. “Umm, yum, yum,” and then I’m thinking, well, yeah, sure, someone offered you Prime Cuts once--over an altar--and it wasn’t real; it was a lie, and then I realize I’m comparing Jim to DOG FOOD, which does momentarily make me laugh, because sometimes it feels so good to hate him—-even at Christmas when we’re supposed to forgive everyone--especially when he should be here with a snow blower, or at his grandchildren’s basketball games, or helping my parents (whom he loved, and yet still broke my father’s heart when he just...left, without a backward glance, and, damn, I can’t fix it, because I’m not enough. I’m not a strong son-in-law, who can shovel snow off my dad’s roof), and, also, Jim should be with me right now wrapping presents to send to Turner in Slovakia or Parker in Mexico, or to Beau-—damn you, Jim, damn you clear to the hottest hell-—to Beau and Megan, and to Jason-—he should be anywhere but in a nice new house with a "Nice" new women, when my family is still sealed to him! Ahhhhhhhh...some days I think I will break in half. Yes, Kylie, this is me screaming, though I’m writing it on another blog, so you’ll never hear it, so you won’t catch this disease, this fear of the future from me.

And who can blame him for leaving since I am an angry, insane person and always sad? I can't even stand to be around me. I would have left me also. I did leave me. It was all too sad.

But, that’s not true. It’s literally not true. I’m looking at pictures of myself before Jim (Megan sneaked these pics out of Randy’s Minnesota house last summer, just for me), and I’m laughing and light and I remember—though it gets more vague—that life tasted so sweet and how I was glad to see the morning, even excited. ...so, what in the holy hell happened?

If I could just see it clearly, once, just understand a little of it....

And sometimes I just want to crawl in his bed and lay my head up under his chin or hear his voice because I can’t remember what it sounded like, but I remember it made me feel safe and warm—sometimes. And sometimes it made me feel like I had already died.

And the point is that no one can help you, and I don’t want help because I HAVE TO GET OUT OF THIS CRAP-HOLE MYSELF—and Heavenly Father is the only One who can really help. But, how the hell can He get through so much pain before it suffocates me, squeezes me until my bones break like brittle little mice bones. And I hear a line in my head from English Patient where the Count says, “Every night I cut out my heart, but by morning it grows back again.”

What I wanted to say to those groaning WC assistants was this: Wait to whine until you hit real trials. I know they seem big now, but they’re not, and how you handle these small ones will help you get through the big ones. You’re whining because your parents gave your room to your brother? Wait to whine until you’re 61, and you don’t go to church because some idiot speaker will say, “Everyone (she actually held her breath, anticipating the joy she’d bring to the congregation), now... close your eyes and remember your best Christmas.” And you innocently close your eyes because this is church, right? And Church should be safe, right? But you suddenly see a roomful of laughing children, a tall husband who can fight lions and tigers and bears oh my, and a big tree dripping with drippy ornaments made by the kids (which now sit in someone else’s garage, who doesn’t recognize which childish paper Mache is which, nor does she care). And because the tears wouldn’t stop gushing, you leave through the side door, embarrassed, but knowing now that Christmas can be lethal, and maybe it will be until you die.

Wait to whine until you wake up with eyes that hurt before you even open them. Wait until you have to take half the morning to re frame the day in terms of eternities, so you don’t look ahead and just see days of waking to no one--gray, quiet-quietness, where not even temples help-- before you can pull on clothes and drag yourself to a hostile place where friends used to be. Wait until you wake up to what you never thought would be your life because you wanted so much—-you, who raced a palomino horse down the Iona hill chasing rabbits through sagebrush, sure you would be empress of the universe someday; you dreamed so high that this can’t possibly be true—-THIS is the dream--I’ve disappeared already and only my shadow drifts around this house-—it’s ethereal. I’m not solid, but blend in with the chairs and tables. I’m a ghost before I’m dead. How incredibly strange, and it’s cold, so cold that my warmest blanket can’t get my blood moving again.

But, it’s not a dream, and you have to reach down and drag up from nowhere more strength and courage and spit and brassy grit because this stupid cat and dog are sitting at your feet looking up, as if to say, “Well, hey, you’re all we have, and--such as you are--you’re enough, so... what’s your problem?”

Therefore, I will turn my whole body towards the pain to disarm it, so it can kill me--face it, you wimp, you gutless wonder of a wispy wimp-—and feel it until you can’t feel any more, because it can’t kill you because nothing ever dies, and isn’t that the great irony? I am fighting an unreal battle—-a total illusion. ... I’m tilting at windmills, and right now, I don’t know if that’s painfully hilarious or heart breaking. Nope. I’m smiling. It’s funny. But, wow, what a waste of energy.

So, today, I thank the gods and God the Father that “after great pain, a formal feeling comes” and “Peace comes dropping slow,” so I can go take pictures of the snow as it falls on the river, the six-inch tufts on my deck posts, the bird and deer tracks, and it will be a good again-—for a while. I don’t know how, but the trees and river, and Patch chasing a squirrel, spraying up powder, will make it good again, so I can breathe-—because ...where else is there to go?

My biggest fear all my life has been that I would die before I died, and that is the actual battle I’m fighting through. How strange. And how stupid! Did I know this before? If I did, I wouldn’t have chosen it. Tanner Stellmon, in all your arguments about free agency, I think whoever chose this is either a total masochist or someone who had false grandiose illusions about her own strength. It wasn't moi. I just can't be that stupid. Right?

I’m going now...going to Innisfree to take pictures of shadows on the snow. (Count them—-four prepositions in that last sentence).