I've been holding my breath since November. Historically, I don't do the holidays well. It's almost as if November through January 1st is my own personal tornado alley...
I have half-written blog posts sitting in limbo. But mostly they are words stuck in my throat, dying on the vine with every sad, half-hearted smile. Because tornadoes.
Little snapshots of wreckage has been strewn all around me...
And quite honestly I am still trying to understand the mess of it all- and the still frames play in my head, spinning 'round like the rings of Saturn, or better still a 1980's 3D View Master- click, focus, click, focus, click, focus, on and on and on.
Click. Focus. Click. Focus. Click. Focus. Click. Focus. ...
November fell into December and it played on repeat...
"...Sometimes I just want to sit around and gaze at my shoes, yeah and let your dirty sadness fill me up just like a balloon; And in the end, I'd do it all again, I think you're my best friend. Don't you know that the kids aren't all right. The kids aren't all alright..." [The Kids Aren't Alright, Fall Out Boy]
Sick. And tired. My faulty heart. Pericarditis. Again. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
We're driving to my favorite LA diner, talking about this and that, and then she asks if I really signed up for Christian Mingle. "I want to hear more about your dating life." ... It was an innocent enough conversation that women tend to have with each other. But mine isn't the kind easily traded over that 90's playlist in LA traffic. And so I dodge the question, while a grenade hits me dead center in my heart. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
I stand there in the porch light, frozen for a moment in this play, in the walk on part that I have just been handed. She's tipsy on her feet. A light-bright pop 80's icon of color. Bursts of words too fast, collapsing into one and other, letters blurred at the ends with a cherry on top. I take her hand and ask the question, "How much doll? How much?" And she smiles, and shakes her head and says to me, "Just enough to take the edge off." I close my eyes. Just enough to take the edge off. Indeed. I invented taking the edge off- it was my signature move. She's sitting there in her yoga pants and her over sized Notre Dame sweatshirt and my god she looks just like me, that girl I was. And for a moment, I feel lost in this reverie- the snapshots of my lonely nights that no one knew of, that sad and small creature, sitting in her pajama's, a bottle in her hand, tears rolling down her face, '1, 2, 3 drink- 1, 2, 3, drink; Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight, help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes, keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight...' I come back into focus and I take her hand in mine and say, "Coffee, love, we need some coffee. - It's going to be okay. I'm not going to leave you." [...] She's been in the bathroom too long. Too long. Much too long. I feel sick. Because I know. I know what you know when you know this. And I know this. I know this. And I push the bathroom door open and the needle hits the ground and it's so loud. And I hit the floor beside her. And scream. And in the end, I leave. I leave her there. Her sponsor comes but still, I leave her. And it breaks me in two, the leaving. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
It's 11:49 pm on a school night and I should most certainly be asleep, counting sheep in some obscure pattern that is neither here nor there- but I haven't slept in days. I am haunted by the past. By the death in her eyes. The death that was mine. And it tears at me. That cold, black, lifeless stare. Breathe. Just. Breathe. My head circles back to a recent text message whereupon the word strong was draped over me like a superhero's' cape. I smiled, you know, when I read those words, a sad kind of knowing smile that tears little shards of glass into my soul- because truth be told, I am not strong. And in this bed time story, I am no one's heroine- no one's superwoman, blazing forth in glorious wonder while the lesser mortals look on in awe at her feats of strength...No, not that, not that at all-maybe I am just an ordinary girl, small and scared and polished enough to smile when she's told well done, look at you being oh so strong. Good for you. He meant it though, those words, he meant them- that I was strong. I know that and I am trying to measure up to what he sees in me, to what so many people seem to see in me, truly I am- I wonder if that counts for something? [...] But still, my skin itches with the burden of the girl that used to be mine and suddenly it all just feels like failure. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
I am standing in the middle of the Wayfaer and I am asked for the umpteenth time to snap a group photo as I am pointedly alone. It wasn't suppose to be this way. But the 'it's definitely in my calendar', the 'I am pretty sure I'll make it', and the 'I think I should be there'- they all ended with me, party of one, looking around a crowded room, feeling horribly out of place. Wishing that I'd never even bothered to come. The crowd is halfway through "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" and I feel the sting of tears on my face, bleeding out streams of sorrow laced saline. And I walk back to my car and cry the whole way home, feeling like a mistake. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
I walk through the door and she starts screaming at me. I know these words by heart. They are nothing new, just variations of the tired one liners in her narcissistic, borderline, narrative. Mental checklist from my mother's loving words: You're so fucking ungrateful. I mean how selfish can you be. You are a mistake {never actually stated but heavily implied.} All you are is nothing but drama, drama, drama. {Drama is code for the fact that my adult life has been spent in a consummate struggle for recovery.} Why can't you be normal. I am so tired of you. Why don't you just die. Really, why don't you just die. Because I am sick of this. You broke my heart. I can never forgive you. Get the hell out of my house. I love you, you're my daughter. Why can't we have a normal relationship. You're just too much. You ruined Christmas. I am done with you. Sometimes I think you're trying to ruin my life. Various other antidotes sprinkled in-between. But for some reason, out of all of it, all I hear is, "You ruined Christmas." And it seems to sink me. More than anything. Those 3 words seem to cut me deeper. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
I am leaving a Christmas party. There is wrapping paper and tinsel strewn across the floor, underneath the restaurant table. It bothers me. It feels wrong to leave it there. And so I begin to try and pick it up. I am met with off-handed criticism. The waitress was tipped very nicely don't you know. I am dismissed. Just leave her to it, it's Jillian's deal. And I am glued to the hardwood floor, grasping the wreckage in my hands and I can't clean it up. I need someone to help me. But all there is, is retreat. And silence. And I sit there on the floor with aching hands, unable to articulate it. I need to be able to clean it up. I need to be able to clean the mess up. Why can't you see that. I need to clean it up. But there are no words. And I swallow back my tears and stand up and my hands let go of the mess and it hits the floor in a soft woosh and I walk out of the restaurant and sit in my car and cry. Because I couldn't clean it up. I can't seem to clean it up, this mess. And as I drive myself home, I seem to give up the ghost. No, the kids aren't alright.
Smile. It's going to be okay. Really, I promise.
...
Christmas comes. And goes. I kept myself held together with nothing more than a worn out smile and a faulty heart, and a body filled with the collected debris of little tornadoes.
In the days that followed, I packed a suitcase and drove myself away from this place. I watched as it all grew smaller and smaller still in my rear view mirror. I drove for 244 miles. I slept in a borrowed bed. And let the heaviness of the days past finally settle into my body. And maybe it was just enough to breathe again. Just enough to pick up my camera and see beauty through the dusty lens.
I was still. Just enough to remember how to keep my head up. I was quiet. Just enough to hear myself. Oh my darling, it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay. Really, I promise.
And when I packed my suitcase and drove home, I took a pause. And I stood on my own two feet. As tall as my 5 feet, 3 inches could stand. And I closed my eyes as the sun hit my face. And I felt the wind through my hair and I said it out loud. You. Are. Going. To. Be. Okay. I promise. And maybe because I needed to hold onto those words, I snapped a photo. And as I drove home, I felt the spark, that small little spark of something other than disaster. And while it was perhaps nothing more than a poor-man's hope, whatever it was, it was there, rising up inside of me. And it was mine.
It was mine.
And it seemed to speak the words, no, the kids aren't alright. But they will be.
You will be.
You. Will. Be.
And so, I will be. In time. I will be.
-Jillian Nichole, it's going to be alright...
