10:02 p.m. - Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2012
Story #16
She had covered herself in sarcasm. She put it on over her dress, her high heels, her perfectly coiffed hair, and the matching earrings and bracelet. She always had her shit together. Always. I used to sit at the kitchen table in my plaid green jumper and warm my green stockinged feet on the heater until they burned as I ate my cereal and waited for her to come down . . .It was always a thrill to see what outfit she had put together that day. I used to go up to her bedroom and sift through her jewelry box . . .matching the earrings and dangling the necklaces from my fingertips.
She had covered herself in sarcasm. She jabbed at us . . .one-liners and inappropriate jokes. I felt disgustingly inadequate. For feeling. Not five minutes after entering the church, I whispered, "I have to get out of here," as the tears welled up in my eyes. I had to get out because I could not be seen experiencing emotion. She taught me that. After pulling myself together, I went back inside and bit my bottom lip until it bled. Stared at the pew in front of me and spoke not a word. When it was time for the family to say goodbye . . .I stayed back. Stayed in my place. She went ahead with my brother. I could see in her what I felt in myself. The desperation for the expression of emotion . . .and the desperation to keep it under control. I closed my eyes so I couldn't experience empathy. So I couldn't have an emotional reaction to the scene before me . . .my mother, saying goodbye to her mother. My mother, trying not to feel.
She returned to the pew. She was holding her breath. Suddenly, it escaped from her . . .the emotion. She couldn't hold it there any more . . .it flooded her. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath . . .it was pain. It was loss. It was grief. I held steady . . .squeezing my eyes shut tighter.
I didn't want to admit it because I loved her. I admired her. I wanted to be her. I still do. Maybe I am her. Emotionally detached. Cold. Dismissive. The first time I ever heard someone tell me they loved me, I was thirteen-years-old. I'm not blaming her. I always say that. I'm not blaming her. But in saying that, do I take the responsibility for her?
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