Menius

There's a man rattling around in my brain. Like a quarter in a tin can.

I was trying to scroll back and see when he got off work, because he told me in a text. I was wondering when I could talk to him again. I reread some of the things we would have done to each other. I read about how I wanted to taste his mouth. I read about how these feelings would probably pass. And I read that he was white knuckling our relationship... The one we have had for so long. We've known each other for almost 20 years.

I am glad he's not here. Actually, that's not true at all. I'm sad he's not here. I want him here. It's just a good thing that he's not here.

I would hurt him.

But I'll gladly be one of his mistakes.

It was five thirty in the morning, a time I usually spend with the city alone, before the cycles start up and down Clinton street as the sun begins to rise over the neighborhood behind my building, warming the air before the it has a chance to touch the roads. Then I heard the scrambling sound of sneakers on concrete.

The scrambling came from behind the electrical box for the apartment complex. And then, without warning, a wild hipster appeared. He was startled to have been rushed out of the urban jungle, struggling to see beyond his overgrown beard and wiley hair.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, putting the collected cigarette butts into his cargo pocket.

I wheeled back from the man crouching less than pandemic distance away, stumbling backwards and over my own feet and into the street.

He had bulging pockets, probably from other foraging adventures in the nearby Richmond neighborhood.

“You're fine,” I said, gaining my balance and composure.

And for some reason it was fine. It was too early in the day to be fine with meeting crouching strangers, but he seemed harmless enough.

Having lived in South Dakota, I was surprised to see a hipster collecting the trash people had left behind. Hipsters in South Dakota are usually Engineers whom you never see unless you're driving by a coffee shop or you bump into one at a live music show. They wouldn't be caught dead bending down to pick up a dollar bill on the street, much less trash of some kind. That kind of behavior was left to the dregs of society.

Last week I saw a woman who was pushing a shopping cart who stopped on SE 50th street to pick up a hair tie. She had also placed it into her pocket. And then I began to realize that this man, like the woman pushing the shopping cart, was also homeless. And that homeless people must have very dirty pockets. And that homeless people look like hipsters... Or was it the other way around?

I again marveled at the cycle of belongings in this city. Nothing much seems to go to waste. The streets are fairly clean, there are no cigarette butts in the road to speak of, and there are no broken bottles or trash unless they are properly disposed of in trash cans. Someone is always bussing their own table on the patio of some bar, recycling their empty drink recepticles, carefully separating out trash from their compostable forks and knives. And the people in the neighborhood will occasionally put out offerings to the sacred children of the street, the invisible, but not forgotten population who sleep in public spaces. The offerings as I have seen them this far comprise of leftover green apple vodka, a copy of “Last Night at the Telegraph Club”, and a much loved lawn chair.

The hipster and I started minding our own business, me about to light the one cigarette I brought down from the third floor, him collectimg the butts left out from the night's party before until he had collected them all, placing them into his right pocket. He started walking away. But then he turned around.

“Do you have a fresh one of those?” he asked, nodding to my cigarette over his shoulder.

I looked at the cigarette, glanced at the hipster, and decided to make a donation unlike the unwanted leftovers people place in the street at night to be gathered and consumed like Santa Claus and his Christmas Eve cookies. This donation was made from my hand to his, although we were careful not to touch.

And as he walked away I wondered where he would go next.

He still talks to K He says that she doesn't really matter, but she does. She's the shit show that stole my husband's heart. But maybe she doesn't matter because none of these people I'm seeing matter in comparison to Lawrence. But she does matter because he loves her.

Lawrence apparently met David last night downtown while he was drinking. He called him an “ike alike mother$$&@*&”. It makes sense. He’s like ike Culbertson's doppelganger in appearance and in temperament. So much so that you can tell that from across a room.

Today will be a busy day. I have training to do, an apartment to see, and Jamie is going to help me to get my PMP. Well, I can't get it today, but she's gonna help me figure out what to do to get it.

She also said she would help me look for a roommate situation so that I don't have to spend all of my money on rent.

I got prescription glasses yesterday for work and reading. It helps a lot. The doctor said I could just get readers, but I've tried that before and it truly sucks because one of my eyes is different than the other. This corrective vision is the bees knees though. Im loving the ability to see my phone when I'm texting… or writing in a word sprint.

I’m in this AirBnB in Milwaulkie, Oregon. The guy who stays here’s name is Wally. He lives downstairs in basically another apartment minus a kitchen. He’s got to be in his 80s because he said that he was married to his wife for 60 years. I’ve been here for two weeks yesterday, and I think I’ve been in denial about what’s happening the entire time.

Lawrence says he doesn’t want to be with me. He says he doesn’t want to take care of me anymore, that he has been for the entire time we’ve been together and he worries too much about my mental health. It makes me super upset because I think I’m doing just fine. One of my friends told me that men never break up with a woman who’s in good mental health.

So here I am in the Portland area. I don’t know what much else to say about that except that I am no longer with my husband of almost 20 years. It’s more than sad, let me tell you what. He says all kinds of things, most of them contradictory. Like he says one day that he doesn’t want to be with me anymore and that if, if we got back together it would be because we had a real separation and we started back from square one after he’s had some real time with himself. Then another day he says that he wants the ability to change his mind and ask me to come back. There was one day, yesterday, that he said he missed me in the morning when he was making coffee. But that’s not really enough to garner any hope for the relationship from. So I’m here in Portland, alone.

Last weekend, my boss, Marcella, paid for me to come down and visit her in Seabeck, WA. It was absolutely stunning there. She got me a cabin right on the water, a boathouse, actually. I got to gander at all the birds there, most of them diving ducks of one sort or another. There were also seagulls, cormorants, and a couple of bald eagles that I could hear but couldn’t see.

So today I’m going to Lake Oswego, it’s a swanky little town a little south of here. I’m meeting a guy named Robert. He’s 46, divorced, and looks a little like a movie star. He smokes Lucky Strikes, which is a strike against him. That’s a funny thing, isn’t it? If you know me.

So we’re meeting in a coffee shop. I asked to meet in the morning and someplace not a bar to see if he is sober. The last two times I’ve seen him he was drinking. I grew up in a home of alcoholics, so I’m not about to get mixed up with someone who drinks too much, seriously.

I also have three hours of training for work to do. I think they were expecting me to do it during work hours, but I’ve been pretty busy at work. It always takes me a little longer than I think I should be taking to do any task, so I have to catch up on the training this weekend.

We went to the grocery store and picked up a few things because we were out of creamer. You looked at this macaroni and cheese dish and said that could be good, so I picked it up for us. And I'm cleaning the kitchen a little today, while you're at her house. I found the wrapper for the Mac and cheese and had to throw it away. And although I'd stopped being mad about these things a long time ago, it still struck me that I was now sad about it. Sad that there may be one day soon that I don't have any more of your wrappers to throw away.

You put your phone on vibrate So that she wouldn't hear my texts Which was sweet to do for her

And she deserves it

And so do you.

I want my gas tank to be empty From driving to your house My playlist to be tiresome Because I've made the drive too many times

But today the car stays parked In the garage

It's the first nice day in forever And I want to hike with you Bring out the hammock And see if a two person hammock really sleeps two people

But i did the dumbest thing And told you that I can't see you anymore

And today the car stays parked in the garage

The gas tank is full And I have a new playlist all cued And I haven't even looked for my hiking shoes.

The hammock sits in the living room With no memories of our bodies Tangled and confused

And tomorrow the car will stay parked in the garage

Because I told you I couldn't see you anymore

Because I couldn't take the days without you And there were more days without you Than with you

And every day without you broke my heart

So instead of having a gas tank half full, It's full And the car will stay in the garage All week

Because I couldn't take the days without you.

Arctic vortex creeps In the distance between Us Dodge Ram pumps heat Frivolously at my feet And new cold snow squeaks Under tire

Negative 18 degrees Weights fog down into the valleys heavy cold air Through which street stars Sparkle

Heavy with things Unsaid Hot and wet chapped like Kisses

Parked and puttering Diesel Pumps treated Exhaust Me with your words

Fill my tank So I can take Another day Without you

Meandering patches of stiff, golden grass poke through icy snow. The sun is just rising, bringing the lift of pinks and orange in the sky beyond. A doe and her yearling crunch through the field behind my house and all I can think about his him. I never thought of this place as romantic before, but I surely do now. I can feel his lips on mine even though he’s more than a half an hour’s drive away. He lives in Sturgis. I live in Rapid City.

On Christmas Eve I went over to his house. He’d already put his daughter to bed, and I’m not supposed to meet her yet. We haven’t been dating but a month yet. Elise is five, and she was really looking forward to Santa coming in the middle of the night. Josh pulled me over to her door to hear her sing. She was singing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town...” loudly.

The singing stopped and her door opens.

I turned down Third Loop Road, had taken a right at First Presbyterian Church. Today's driving lesson was about how to eat ice cream and drive a car with a shifter. After the turn, I started slowly gaining speed, shifting from second to third gear as deftly as a fifteen-year-old with a cone of ice cream could manage. I'd had this driving lesson before.

Normally my mom was quiet between moments of sheer panic as I stalled in intersections or was driving too slowly to be safe, but today was different. The car was quiet, too quiet. I could tell she had something on her mind. And without warning, she started talking about the thing I thought she had forgotten about, the abuse.

“Did Jim really do all those things that you said he did?”

It was August. The car had cooled down from the heat outside just enough that I didn’t have to worry about my ice cream melting on the shifter. The little Dodge had a surprisingly good air conditioner. I reached down with my right hand, my ice cream hand, and shifted the car into fourth gear. One of the things that you have to do as a driver is learn how to keep your emotions out of your driving. You had to be able to drive mad, sad, and, like I was at the moment I was excited. This time, maybe, she would hear what I had been trying to tell her for the past three years.

“Yeah, he did, mom. I wouldn't lie, especially not about that.”

She never ate when she was upset. She rolled down her window, gently rocking her body back and forth. Then she tossed her ice cream out.

This was good. Maybe this time we would actually talk about it. I never did have a chance to tell her what happened.

“Do you remember when we were at the lawyer’s office, and he started asking me about what happened?”

She frowned into her empty hands, “I don’t remember that.”

I didn’t want my ice cream anymore either.

“We were at the lawyer’s office after you guys took me away from the house and went to the hotel. That was when DSS was looking for me. Before you took me in to relinquish me, we went to the lawyer’s office and he asked me some questions,” I explained.

Mom shook her head, “I remember going to the lawyer’s office, but I don’t remember what people were saying,” she said. “Take a right when this road ends.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she started strumming her nails on the car door, “maybe we need to do something else.”

I managed to finish my ice cream. She gave me directions as we drove. We drove out of town, to where she worked, at Dixie Cup.

“I’ll be right back,” she said as she slid out of the car.

I waited in the car. She said that her company was giving her a loan, an emergency loan. I was a little worried because she called into work that morning, called in sick, and here she was back again. This time she was asking for money.

She came back out with an envelope. It was thick.

“I have an idea,” she said, “but I’m going to drive from here.”

I was glad she decided to drive. I loved driving but driving this far out of town was the longest I had ever managed in one stretch. My arm was tired from shifting. I was emotionally tired too.

She drove faster than I did, her little manual Dodge hugging curves. We zoomed away from her work and back into town. Mom always drove a little fast.

“Where are we going now?” I asked.

“Well, what do you think of living someplace else, not with Jim?” she asked.

My head reeled. She couldn’t be serious. I’d dreamt of this moment, but I was convinced that we would be with Jim forever. Was it really possible that we were going to start a new life?

And then it started, as simply as I wished it would have three years earlier. We drove to an apartment complex and pulled right up to the apartment office to park.

“This place has a pool,” she said, “now, I don’t know if I can afford to get two bedrooms, so we’ll have to figure something out.” She frowned a little, life not working out the way she had planned.

She took the envelope into the office with her and came back, the envelope much thinner now.

“We got an apartment.”

“We did?” I squealed and squirmed. The weird hugs were over. Jim peering into the bathroom from the backyard was over. We were moving someplace safe.

“It’s only got one bedroom, so…”

“It’s okay mom! This is going to be great! I can even sleep on the couch, whatever you want. And they have a pool!” I said.

She smiled a sheepish smile, a smile that said more than I knew what it meant at the time, but as time passed, I knew that there was no emergency loan program from Dixie Cup. What there was, however, was John Germaine, a man that she felt like she could rely on. A man who gave her money when she decided to change her life.

We got back to the house, not knowing what to do next, but knowing that I wanted to get started as soon as possible. She sat down in her armchair at the far end of the livingroom and lit a cigarette.

“We don’t have a lot of time to pack,” she said. “It’s already four and your dad will be back at the house in an hour.”

“I got it, pack what I can and we’ll leave,” I said.

I packed within twenty minutes. I didn’t need much, just a suitcase full of clothes, my schoolbooks, and Gus, the teddy bear. When I went to go check on my mom, her door was closed.

I knocked.

“Yeah?” she asked.

I knocked the door open with gentle knocks. She was starting to sound not quite right again, tired.

“We probably need to let him know we’re leaving, honey,” she said, almost in a slur. She was sitting on the bed, the phone next to her.

“Mom, no. We can’t. We have to leave before he gets here,” I pleaded.

“We really need to tell him that we’re leaving. I’m already packed, don’t worry, but we need to let him know we’re going away,” she said.

This was trouble.

I knew he had a temper, I knew he would do more than just loose his cool. I couldn’t understand what she was thinking.

“It’s going to be okay.” she said as I left to go back to my room.

I had a few more minutes to pack, so I figured I could cram a few more things into my suitcase. But as I closed the door behind me, I locked the door, not knowing If I would hear him pull into the driveway, not knowing how long it would take him to realize what was happening, not knowing how long it was going to be until he knocked down my door and pulled me down the hallway by my hair again. It was going to happen, and it was going to happen in less than an hour. There was nothing I could do to prepare for what was coming.

And it did eventually come.

He came home and it was eerily quiet. I could tell that he was in the house somewhere, but I didn’t know where, didn’t have any idea what was happening outside my room until he was outside my door.

He tried to open it.

It was locked.

He knocked.

“Yeah, what’s up, dad?”

“You need to open this door,” he said.

“I’m busy right now, dad. I can talk to you a little later,” I explained.

“You need to open this door right now or I’m going to open it for you,” he was getting madder by the moment.

“ I just need a minute, dad. Just leave me alone right now.”

I felt the rage outside of the door, knowing that if I opened the door, it would start, and i didn’t want it to start.

He kicked down my door and burst into the room.

“I can’t believe what you’ve done. Do you know what your mother did?” he asked, enranged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dad.”

He came closer, screaming at me now.

“She ate a whole bottle of pills and the ambulance is coming now! What did you tell her?” he asked.

“Nothing! I didn’t tell her anything, dad. I swear!”

He slapped me across the face.

I screamed, “What do you want me to say? I’ll tell you what you want to hear, but I don’t know anything!”

I tried to get out of the door, but he was standing in my way. As I passed by him, he tripped me and started kicking me down the hallway.

“What did you say to her?”

I didn’t have time to get back to my feet through all the kicking. I just scrambled backwards down the hall, to the living room where I had more room to try to get away. And eventually he just walked away.

Eventually the ambulance came. I didn’t call them. I didn’t think to call them, so my dad must have done it. They worked so quickly; I didn’t see what they were doing to her. They just loaded her into the ambulance and took her away.

That night was a late night. It was late because after she went into the hospital, they wouldn’t let her come home right away, the transferred her into a mental hospital. We were sitting across the table from the doctor. The floors were cold and uncarpeted and when we pulled the chairs out to sit in them, the legs jittered across the floor.

“When can she come home?” Dad asked.

“Well, first there is an initial hold for 48 hours. It’s an involuntary hold. After that, we’ll have to see what happens.”

And that’s when I realized that I wouldn’t be going to the new apartment. I didn’t even know how to get there. Not only that, but I would be going home with dad… alone.

It’s about shame, I think. The reason I’m writing about naming my teddy bear, “Gus” is to show people how much shame is in a life when you’ve been abused. It seems counter-intuitive, right, like… if you’ve been abused, it seems like it wouldn’t be your fault and there’s nothing to be ashamed of. But you’re not just ashamed of the fact that you’re abused. You can’t fit into regular conversations with people when they talk about their parents, you can’t talk about the presents you got from your mom for Christmas this year, or, God forbid, the cruise the two of you are going on in December. And for some reason, God only knows why, you take on responsibility for the hurt people have in their lives. You own it.

This ownership makes things entirely too initiate to be comfortable for friends, especially new friends. That’s a harder concept to explain that I thought it was going to be, the ownership idea. Okay, so… let’s say you’re in a friend’s house and you open a closet, and you find a fire, what do you do?

Leave the fire, it’s not your house, close the door and go back to your day. yell for the owner of the house to come down and deal with the fire. pick up the fire extinguisher and put the the fire out…. essentially owning the fire. When you find some kind of emotional problem, as a child of abusive parents, you’re often in situations where there are emotional fires. And you’re somehow responsible for them, all of them as this child. So, when it comes to adult relationships you start to notice that people are walking around through a forest fire of emotional strife. And, being the firefighter that you are, you want to make sure people are safe and calm. As a child, it was your responsibility to deescalate any situation where there was going to be emotional strain. Your parents don’t have the skills to deal with emotional strain, so you try to help them navigate, avoid, relax, whatever it is that you need to do in order to prevent yourself from getting hit. Fast forward twenty years and you’re trying to make adult friends and, BAM, you’re trying to take responsibility for them and their emotions just like you did for your parents. But taking responsibility of the emotions of others is a weird thing. It’s actually totally inappropriate and waaaay too intimate, especially for new friends.

I’m wondering if it’s better to ignore a spirit of oppression or if it’s better to confront it in some way. So shame is like this thing that exists, but it doesn’t exist in the physical realm. It exists in the mind, in the pattern of thoughts, the passageways in the brain that we’ve trained since we were young. It’s not like ignoring it will make it worse like ignoring dogshit in the backyard. It doesn’t leave behind physical evidence. I just wonder if ignoring it is the best way to deal with it, or if there is some other way to deal with those “demons” if you will.

One time I invited a dominatrix over for pancakes. It was a friend of a friend, and so I thought we would get along. There were probably ten people over that morning, all waiting patiently for their breakfast, but in reality, they were over for the company. And this girl, Kate, the dominatrix, got one of the first of the pancakes.

“This is a terrible pancake,” she said.

“Oh no!” I really wanted to make sure that everyone’s breakfast was at least edible, so I worried that the first of the pancakes were turning out gooey on the inside. Nobody wants to eat a doey pancake.