Because I see through a mirror, dimly, or however it goes: I am angry at God. I am angry at God for creating me in such a way that I'm not equipped, it sometimes seems, to deal with even the smallest sufferings, but it seems - although this is also, I'm sure, a case of blurred vision - it's one thing after another, as the popular saying goes.
Now I know, I know, intellectually, "or whatever," that I have many blessings and advantages, but I'm sitting in bed with a severely sprained ankle, loathing myself because my boyfriend is here, and we're in a mutually abusive relationship, expecting a baby, and very poor with little career direction (particularly in his case, and I'm the one who will stay home to feed and bond in the beginning, and I have to assume do more direct childcare, because that's how it almost always is). It is not just a matter of him seeming dull but that I am enraged, as he sits in the next room and submissively (remorsefully? I have to doubt on any meaningful level) brings me the paper, frozen blueberries in a ziplock bag to massage the injury with, etc. I'm enraged because I'd really prefer to walk away and have nothing to do with him ever again. But call me old-fashioned, and it almost seems a joke to say such a thing, but I'm thinking of staying together "for the kids." The kid, I mean. (Twins! Twins, I clamor, even when I wonder if I can handle even one) I shouldn't have blocked his path, but now my already injured foot is in searing, distracting pain, and I don't know what will happen to it. I don't want to be negative, but I think it's pretty serious because it hurts to move it at all, both sides of the ankle smart at a touch, I can't put any weight on it, and - though it has significantly impaired range of motion anyway -I can barely move it.
I am really sad. Vigorous walking, and working a lot /resuming my volunteer work, were serious coping tools (as well as urgent logistical & health boons) in this uncertain and ultimately very personally irresponsible situation, which I sought - and still seek, I suppose, though I am honestly despondent about this development- to improve. Now it looks like taking it very easy, to the extent of bed rest these first few days. What a bore. Perhaps I have saved up some strength and beauty from the long walks with music, the Greyhound trip from PA, etc. At least I'm in the privacy of my own home, as opposed to a hospital.
This is difficult for me. While it's not the end of the world, being active made me feel good about my pregnancy. Also, hopping around and "babying" my foot (I often thought of a little one when I was dressing the wound several times a day and being so careful, or taking my vacuum sponge everywhere with me; I know it's not nearly the magnitude of responsibility, but there are some resonances: And I will tell you this. When I laid on the threshold of FP's room and the kitchen after the blast, I was lamaze breathing through excruciating pain, and thinking very much of labor through the shock and the sweat and the icy hot of the horror) triggers surprisingly painful memories of my gunshot wound. And, not to be crude, strains my swelling breasts. It all just seems so unnecessary. I can't take pain medication because I'm serious about potential teratogens (otherwise maybe I'd float on an Ativan sea, all day). ("I knew two boys named David, who sought my hair all in my hat...")
But of course I have an extremely active role in creating these painful situations, and the great bulk of the superfluous pain, rests in me. I have a syntax disease, a coma affliction; I, could, just blog, all day. But no. What can I say?
We're going to meet with the Pastor of D's Pentecostal church ( a denomination I don't care for, but who knows?) and also a free counselor from Crisis & Counseling. I guess most of the time we both want to "save" the relationship but quite frankly, if he is going to be violent, it is unfair to the child. And right now I can hardly remember if I like him or not and no level of commitment from him would seem, at least on the surface, a victory or a gift.
I just can't easily give up the idea of having two parents there, sharing the burdens and joys. My Dad, who is temperamentally similar to D in many ways (Cap sun, Pisces moon: enough) used to be physically abusive but wouldn't dream of it now. The thing about that is that he stopped all violence after "finding" (not being condescending, just think it's strange, conceptually and semantically) Jesus. He didn't stop with his hatefulness, for a long time, however. He used to call my mom Satan, and be just awful, and run around telling people they would go to Hell. If nothing else, my dad -who has changed for the better so much that, as I said to him during our visit, "it's reason to jump up and down for joy" - has taught me a lot about forgiveness.
The other option is to try to quickly find a mate (though we wouldn't be able to do much actual "mating," for awhile) who wants to adopt the baby, which seems difficult but not impossible. I am still young and attractive, and could make another one with the new mate. But this seems less than ideal, though it happens everyday.
Last night I went for a drive with E to cool down. I feel bad that he is my go-to person in times like this but it is what it is, and at least I don't lead him on. "We can't get back together," I said. "I know," he said. (I think that's what he said. I was filled with adrenaline to the point that I didn't notice how bad my foot was.) I told him I was afraid to raise a baby if I hated the other parent, but he said, "It happens every day." He said, "Kids do amazing things to certain kinds of people."
But anyway. Teach me to love suffering, to embrace it, to love being tied. The things of this world are fucked, anyway. What an attitude! What am I going to tell the little one about this vile place? I have mixed feelings, to say the least, about being here. Damn it. I've been having a little dialogue, at any rate, with the little cellular sack, by which I mean: I believe life starts at conception, and I always have. Derek Soucy, on the front page of the KJ today (which I buy every day, and only skim, and always feel disappointed in myself about) beat and kicked an elderly man to death in front of "horrified spectators" nine years ago and was judged not criminally responsible. I know Derek through my ex who also put in some time in the psychiatric hospital. Although my ex was not, to my knowledge, a murderer (you NEVER know, do you? I mean, you mostly know, but not all the way: with anyone), they were both schizophrenic, and had formed a friendship. Derek recently received privileges to be off the grounds more and more; he is taking classes at UMA, and though I have a certain feeling of warmth towards him, part of me is outraged. The daughter of the man he killed told the judge she "has compassion" for Derek, but "remains concerned for the community's safety." Part of me just thinks it's awful: he is engaged to, apparently, a nurse, working on his degree, with friends and not having to work for his bread. All this support and compensation, and for what? For murdering someone?
Another part of me is deeply in touch with the murderous impulses in my own heart and just so grateful I haven't acted on them and will, I'm almost positive, have the restraint, or the pride, or the fear of punishment/spirit-crushing guilt to avoid such an action. When things get really bad, and I'm looking for worse scenarios, the idea that I could have killed, and didn't, makes me feel better. Not being very clear.
And as far as forgiveness, and making strange choices: I've never seen the movie "Crazy Love," about the woman who took back her lover who served a prison term for having her blinded with chemicals (I think he may have been trying to kill her) in a jealous rage. But I find something beautiful in it, not only disgusting. See: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/19070816/
This finding the beautiful in transforming such a "heinous act," is something that perhaps makes me different from certain people I know, such as J & R. I don't know what is better. There is a deep lack of common sense in many of my choices, and a leaning towards a momentum of pain, and suffering to the extent that it perhaps ripples out to others who would otherwise have been spared. I'm stumped, but hey: I still got both feet, though compromised. And: better to enter the Kingdom of Heaven without a hand or a foot, than not enter it at all.
