Sunny days

It all started with
The cave by the beach,

Just south of home,

Carved into the cliff,

Where I used to bring my secrets,

Where I grieved in secret,

Loved in secret.

The safest, most painful place.

I wish you could have been my secret there.

These places have accumulated over time.

The grass below the rose garden 

Where we’d lay on our backs and watch the summer clouds.

The meditation garden in the grotto,

Where I witnessed God within my heart.

And then there’s your home.

My safest place I never knew.

The strength of the red rim, nestling the town below in its expansive arms.

Sitting in the water of the stream, kissing your face, while the dragonflies buzz about.

Soaking up the hot summer sun on our bare chests and backs and legs.

The beading drops of cool water refreshing us under the heat of a sunny day, running off us.

Light glinting from our blue-green eyes, consuming one another’s souls.

The silence of the gravesite, where my best friend lies.

Where just the memory of your presence there soothes me, just knowing you met him in your home towns, including me.

Surrounded by succulents and lizards.

Surrounded by birds and dragonflies.

The family cat and its rodent prey.

Surrounded by your loving family, sitting in your family home, watching the sunset.

Smiling. Home. Safe. Loved. 

Summer gods on sunny days.

Ash & EmberĀ 

That last camping trip, the one at the wedding by the beach, I remember laughing hysterically as we tried to pitch the tent. As we created a space on the shady side of the dune, under the warped trees. I remember putting out our sleeping bags, holding hands as we lay on top of them, looking up at the top of the yellow tent. We watched the light and shadows coming down on the roof. We listened to the leaves rustle, to one another’s breaths. I said we should do this more. You squeezed my hand and agreed. 

It had been rocky for a month or more by that time. We talked and cried almost every day, you slipping through my fingers like sand. I even started backing off, hoping to keep at least some of you in my grasp. If I only leave him alone, I’d think to myself, then his nerves will calm and he’ll stay. But you weren’t staying. You were suffering from existential breathlessness. Choking on the embers of our heart spark. 

Prior to that month, just prior, you started bringing up marriage. We played with planning, with where and when and what it would be like. You wanted to wear shorts. I countered with cargo pants. You wanted to wear tie dye. I conceded. You just wanted a party. I just wanted you. And then, the flame started smoking, sputtering. Fear froze out the flame, just leaving the ash.

The night before the wedding, you and I trekked in the dark to a bonfire, full of your family members. Your fear, your shame started coming through, making your nervousness show. We walked and walked and walked in the dark, talking things through. I tried comforting you, I tried everything to comfort you, but your nervous system was hypervigilant. Your pain resonated and broke the ribs around my heart. 

I knew something, that night, sitting around the bonfire with your family. I knew that you losing faith meant me losing you. The person in my life more important than all the others. I knew that this was the time when the special wave of love, the raging wildfire, would collapse back into mediocrity, the fire snuffed out. That once the cloud of smoke dispersed back into the air, once the wave collapsed back into the body of the ocean, the euphoria of what we had would disperse too. I had seen my great love, I had experienced the extraordinary. 

Even the best things diffuse back into a world we call normal. Sometimes waves can be ridden for hundreds of miles, other times only moments. Sometimes our moments of bliss are seconds long, some lifetimes. But, just like a river, you never step into the same one twice. You change the earth around you, and it is changing all the time. 

Heart beat, heart break. Ash, ember. Ember, ash. 

Recovery.

“We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved…The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.” –Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart


End of February 2015 I shot a commercial for Vonage telephone service, a service I used and loved for many years because it gave me precious time with my brother who lived in London. The photo on the left is a shot of me after the day wrapped. Little did I know that my life would fall apart only a week later and that I’d cancel my Vonage service and delete my relationship with my brother only months later, the day the photo on the right was taken (September 2015). 

Things fell apart. A week after my fun on set, at the top of my career, in love with my life as it was, I was diagnosed with cancer. This distanced me from my family, my friends, myself, my job, everything. I lost 40 pounds (photo on left: 143 pounds, right: 103) and my hair. I lost my job, my boyfriend, some friends, and my sense of stability. 

And during that time, people complimented my appearance. It devastated me, and I broke. I hurt everywhere, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. That photo on the right was an unhealthy version of me. I remember being cold all the time, walking through a cognitive fog, suffering from spontaneous incontinence, and really exploiting that small amount of hair that stayed attached to my scalp (the rest I had to shave because of the bald patches). I cried every single day. From pain, from loneliness, and mostly from fear. 


Photo on the left: 6/5/15. Two years ago. I’d completed a complete cycle of chemotherapy (7 doses over 7 weeks), 8.5 weeks of radiation, so many scans and biopsies and blood tests, 1 surgery, and all the misery I could have imagined. I had just been discharged from the hospital after my first surgery, the surgery that would remove the rest of my cancer. I couldn’t move from the pain, I had a catheter in still, and I was vomiting everywhere. My hair had just started to fall out, in chunks. I had an open wound where my labia used to be. And this was the day I wanted to die, when I couldn’t take anything any longer. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than that moment. 

But that wasn’t rock bottom. Over the next 6-8 months, the bottom fell out from under me and I experienced the depths. My body changed and healed, but I completely lost my footing emotionally, mentally, spiritually, financially. I was broken. Literally everything in my life changed. I experienced so many endings that it shook my cobwebs loose. 

And that’s when the healing started. I met my therapist in the city where I moved, and she gave me the room, the capacity, to experience everything in a messy, ugly, angry, irrational, emotional way. I began to learn what self-love feels like–being ok with all the emotions I’d been bottling up for so long. 

Those cobwebs that shook loose allowed room for things I could not previously accept: joy, self-respect, humor, silliness, childlike behavior, spontaneity, forgiveness, and love. I discovered what God means to me, and where I can find, accept, and celebrate spirituality. I am continuing to discover these depths inside of me, knowing now what Pema has tried to teach me for years: the things that shake you to your core remind you what inside of us is indestructible. 

“To live is to be willing to die over and over again.”

Today is my cancer survival day. Happy birthday, new body. Thank you for bringing me to my knees so that I could learn how to pray.

Upstairs

Over the weekend I walked by that place where you first opened up about your dad, where I got to know your girlfriend’s past, where we talked about pasta and laughed about movies. When we talked in This Is Spinal Tap quotes. It was 5 blocks from the Thai place where you taught us your signature move, craning your neck awkwardly to get a server’s attention. Where we celebrated you selling your first Hummer and plotted our revenge against them. The apartment above the Chinese place, next to the gay bar. Right on the main drag in my favorite part of town. Half a mile from our apartment. Close to where you could buy Saucony and cannoli. And we did.

I remembered the night you fell apart, when we couldn’t find you, when we were so worried. The night we had to carry you up those stairs and bathe you when we got there. The night we all fell apart, before we knew we had. I remembering noticing your extensive porn collection. I’d never seen anyone own porn. I remember giggling about it with your girlfriend, while we ate cold spaghetti. 

I remember the night we took a cab from our house to yours, loading up percussion as we went, drums first then bass, heading to a show in the east. How we unloaded the percussion while parked on a hill. How the bass amplifier head smashed my big toe into smithereens. How you cared for me that night. How you gave me booze and cigarettes. How you apologized every day afterwards. Including my wedding day. Including the week before you were gone forever. 

I remember smelling Chinese food coming from the floorboards the night you relapsed. As I sat with your girlfriend, bawling, worried not only about your sobriety but her own. I was mesmerized by the both of you, coming up from such depths, pushing one another to be better. Silly and tender. And we sat there, watching all of it melt away, in silence, smelling Chinese food. Oh, to turn back time to that moment. The silence. The despair. The hope for the future, it was still there. 

I remember swinging by that sign, with our hazards on, hugging, saying farewell before our long drive north. That was the last time under that sign. The last time we’d smell Chinese. Before it all changed. 

I’m not sure how I got so close to you so fast. How I felt so connected to you. I’m not sure why you tried at all with me, even after the divorce. We no longer had ties; I expected you to choose him over me. But you never forgot our friendship in the living room above the Chinese restaurant. You always remembered my birthday. You always reminded me you were there. 

Are you still?

Sin Zapatos

Last night I had a dream.

We were back in your room, 

The one by the train station.

The messy room with a wine bottle,

Once full of Maynard Keenan’s finest.

Last night I had a dream.

I was in your room,

Feeling your sheets beneath me,

Your skin rubbing against mine,

Hearing your deep, heavy breaths.

Last night, I had a dream.

We were in your room,

Wearing that Manchester United hoodie,

Long socks, no pants.

My favorite combination.

You were wearing glasses.

Last night, I was a Star.

In the room with The Wall,

A guitar I loved to hear you play,

And freshly pressed shirts.

In the room where I felt safe

For the first time.

Anoche, esta manana.

Despacio, despierto.

Por completo, cuandro sonries.

Sin zapatos. Al tiempo.

Dormido. Amor. Siempre.

Lost Time

I caught myself realizing today that it’s been almost a year since I’ve been in a committed relationship. I sat there, trying desperately to remember him. What did I like about him? Did we have fun? Or did I just play into his life? Clearly I did because I only remember the day we officially broke up and I was… happy, for the first time in a very long time. 

And then, I realize there are people in my past whom I still adore, still remember even the smallest, quietest moments. Those moments where we just breathed. Those moments I saw him coming on his bike. Those moments chopping peppers. Those moments playing pool, playing bocce, playing house. Just ordinary moments. 

“I don’t mean no harm, I just need you on my arm, wedding bells were just alarms, caution tape around my heart… You ever wonder what we could’ve been? You said you wouldn’t then you fucking did, lied to me, lied with me, got your fucking fix. Now all my drinks and all my feelings are fucking mixed. I’m missing people I know I shouldn’t be missing, you gotta burn some bridges just to create some distance. I know that I control my thoughts and should stop reminiscing but I learned from my dad that it’s good to have feelings. When love and trust are gone, I guess this is moving on…” -Gnash, I hate that I love you

What makes some people so forgettable to us? People we were convinced that, with them, we could spend our lives? What makes the feeling of being dumped so intense that you convince yourself you actually need or want someone who you never really enjoyed? 

What makes people so memorable, after years or even decades apart? What makes me hold onto the vivid memories of my best friend, swinging on swings, brushing her hair from her face, nearly 20 years after her life faded? What makes memories so sticky?

Some friends, some people I called my BEST friends for years, I can barely remember them. Others, whom I only met once or twice, are etched into my neural pathways. Why is that? I dated people for years and remember little; some for a couple months and my heart still aches for the kisses, like candy, I can still taste on my lips. 

How do we lose whole people, whole years of people? How do I sometimes forget one of my sisters altogether? Is there logic to this? Am I repressing things or do I process them away? 

There are entire years of my marriage I hardly remember and then years where I recall every day. Is that how life is? If so, I am starting to think our bodies and minds are more resilient than we give them credit.  What does it say about the memories that stick out the most? Are they our mind’s bread crumbs, leading us into something we need to continue? To lessons we still must learn? 

Thanks, mind, for forgetting him for me. And for leaving all the better ones for me to dream about, write poetry about, and look for in the next ones.