Maps

1/16/11, JFK, 5:51 PM
I'm completely heartbroken. My entire body HURTS; I'm in so much pain that I can't think straight. Which I suppose doesn't matter, because so many things are running through my head that trying to sort through them would just hurt more. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we intertwine our lives with someone else's if it's all not going to work anyway? Everything is so complicated, and is only made more complicated when everyday things become associated with one person. Everything makes me think of him. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't deal with this. I don't know HOW to deal with this. I don't know what I'm supposed to do or how I'm supposed to feel. And I wish that he was the one. As much as I love him, I know in the back of my mind that we are probably not meant to be together forever. But whoever that person is, I wish that I could find him. Because this hurts too much.

I've never been a "dater." Ever. I never understood how my friends could just move from person to person like it was nothing. I don't trust easily, and I don't open up easily. And I mate for life. When I love someone or something, I love with my whole self. Which is why I don't make friends easily, either. And it's why Steve was basically my first relationship.

This all hurts like hell. I can't stand it.

LATER, Airplane, 9:10 PM-ish
By myself in a plane full of people, 154 miles away from PHX. The captain just said we should be on the ground at "40 past the hour, and at the gate shortly after that." The woman sitting behind me is traveling with her dog. I'm sitting in the window seat, and if I tilt my head to the left towards the window, all I smell is dog breath. I just watched The Hours. I love that beautiful, sad movie. Then I watched the "Maps" music video, which I love so much that I actually bought it off of iTunes a long time ago.

I always associate that song with people leaving. Every time someone leaves, it feels like a death. Like I'm being abandoned for something so much better. People go away to their new lives, and "Maps" runs through my head. WAIT -- THEY DON'T LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVE YOU. Everybody leaves me. They leave me and go somewhere else. But I stay here, alone and stuck.

I remember before Derek was accepted to Cornish, him and Christian and I were going to move into a house together. I can still imagine what our house would've looked like--probably one of those cute, small houses near campus, with hardwood floors and warm light. The walls covered in photos and memories and art and the silly things we collect. It would be a little scary living in that area, I guess, but I wouldn't mind because I would be safe with my friends around. Inside jokes and singing the theme to Three's Company. Derek and I doing Greek homework while Christian has her latest art project spread across the coffee table.

But none of that actually happened. Derek moved to Seattle and Christian got a job at The Loft. She found a whole new group of friends, a new identity, and a new apartment. While I slowly started to fade away and float around campus like a ghost, not sure what I was doing or where I was going. Then I made the decision to transfer schools, and had one of the best years of my life preparing. Dancing, writing, taco/movie nights after class with Todd and other dance friends. Then I moved, and things felt both terrifying and wonderful. The ASU Dance program was kooky, just like me. I got cast in Kiss Me Kate, discovered the theater scene in Phoenix, met and started dating Steve.

One day before Karen's modern class, one of my classmates named Stephanie looked over at me and said, "You look really pretty today, Katy. Really happy." And I was. I felt like I was glowing. I had finally broken out of a years-long cycle of Tucson stagnation, and found my own deliriously happy place to start doing great things in.

And then everything fell apart. I fell apart. Suddenly, I couldn't get up for class anymore and couldn't figure out why. I fucked everything up. Or rather--my body did. I worked so hard to get to that great place in my life only to enjoy it for one semester before my body completely betrayed me. My health abandoned me. Then everyone started leaving again.

What scares me is that I'm at the point where I almost don't want to feel better. I don't want to work hard to get my life where I want it to be, only to completely fall apart again. I can't do it.

We've landed.

1/21/11, Bedroom, 12:31 AM
This is the predicament I'm in. I experience things so deeply. TOO deeply. And I never get over anything. I realize that pain and loss and change are all normal parts of life. But I feel like at some point, people deal with it all. It might take time, but they eventually heal. I don't heal, regardless of how much time passes. Things that have happened 2 years ago, 5 years ago, 10 years ago, 14 years ago still hurt like they happened yesterday. I'm only 23, and have an entire lifetime's worth of change ahead. But I can't keep experiencing these seemingly normal life things over and over again, because they destroy me so easily. Even as years pass, small parts of me are still baking cookies with Christine and Margie. Still remembering how cold and waxy Christine's skin felt when she was lying in a casket. Still 12 years old sitting at a parent-teacher conference with my Mom, listening as all my teachers listed everything I was doing wrong. Still dancing to "Nothing Else Matters" on Utterback's huge stage. Still drinking Dr. Pepper and pulling all-nighters in Graham-Greenlee. Still watching Twin Peaks and eating Del Taco with Steve on weekends. Still walking around New York City watching Steve be perfectly fine with everything while it takes me every ounce of energy not to cry all the time. And so on ad nauseam. I never really move on. I'll always be doing Greek homework in the adorable house that never actually happened. I can't get any of this out of my head.

What I really don't understand is how and why I got here. For years, I watched my friends find their little niches and desperately wanted to find my own. And I did, after working hard to get there. Only to get sick and ruin everything. I'm not doing this again. I'm not going to get better just to plummet all over again. I feel like I'd rather give up and succumb.

Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

I've slept most of this week. I just haven't felt like staying awake...Or, it's more like I can't drum up the energy to stay awake. And I would definitely love to stay awake, seeing as 99% of my dreams are vividly unsettling or full-blown nightmares (like the one I had last night where Aaron Echolls was chasing me. Unnnnsettling. Most likely brought on from re-watching season one of Veronica Mars with Steve, who had never seen it. Aaron Echolls is a scary man.) Anyway. The point is, I'm sleeping too much. And am kind of trapped in a vicious sleep circle--the more I sleep, the more weak/exhausted I feel; yet I don't have enough energy or motivation to fight through it and wake up. It's annoying.
So I'm up in the middle of the night right now, doing one of my favorite insomniac activities: reading The Pioneer Woman. Of course, I really don't cook. I have sparse cooking skills and my impatience with it overwhelms my desire to get better at it. But I inexplicably love reading food blogs like Pioneer Woman. I think in the back of my mind I know I'll eventually start cooking a little more in the future and probably still won't be that great at it, but will be better than I am now. Anyway. I'm reading her recipe for Decadent Chocolate Milk right now, but had to stop temporarily when I got to the part where she mentions semi-sweet chocolate. Because it triggered a series of totally random childhood memories.

When I wasn't at home, I spent the majority of my childhood hanging out with my oldest friends, Justine and Lanie. I met them when I randomly walked out of my house at age three or so, and toddled over to their house out of all the houses in our neighborhood. I remember I was wearing my white Mary Jane shoes that had the little hole punch pattern on the toe. Remember those kinds of shoes? I wandered over to their house, knocked on the door, and met their Mama (her name is June) and met Justine. Little Lanie was asleep in her crib, so we all had to whisper and tip-toe. June called my Mama who was frantic with worry by then, and I was returned to my house. That was pretty much the catalyst for a lifelong friendship, as I continued to stay friends with Justine and Lanie while my Mama continued to stay friends with their Mama.

Some of the most vivid memories I have of summer afternoons spent at their house revolve around food. We ate a lot of random things. June would make us "Dunkers," soft-boiled eggs which we ate with strips of toast. Or we would take out the tub of Nutella, and dip spoonfuls of it into Rice Krispies before eating it. I remember dreading when June would make us PB&J, because she made it with refrigerated bread, which I've always hated the taste of (and still hate to this day). But I never liked to complain when I was a guest in someone's house, so I ate it anyway. In terms of more decadent, ridiculous snacks, I remember Justine loved eating sweetened condensed milk right out of the can. I never really liked that. But we all loved the gluttonous joy of eating entire cans of cherry pie filling with a spoon! We usually had to do it secretly, because ohhh how our Moms hated that! A few years later, their stepdad John, who is from Brazil, would cook Brazilian meals for us. There is nothing more orgasmic than Brazilian steak, or that really delicious rice with the powdery stuff on top (I forgot the name). June's best friend, Mary Beth, who Justine and Lanie referred to as "Auntie," was the proprietor and cake chef at Maribelle Cakery. We loved visiting the kitchen and stealing spoonfuls of frosting, or sampling her latest recipe. Whenever Justine and Lanie had a birthday, we always had a deliciously outrageous cake from Maribelle to eat.

Oddly enough, one of my favorite snacks was the most simple: semi-sweet chocolate chips. We'd pour them into the dainty little glasses that June usually used for Dunkers. But Justine, Lanie and I would use them for eating cupfuls of semi-sweet chocolate chips while watching TV shows after school or during the summer. Every time I eat a semi-sweet chocolate chip, I definitely taste those childhood afternoons. And remember all the other random and delicious food we ate growing up. I just bought a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips from the grocery store for exactly this reason. All I need are some soft-boiled egg glasses to eat them out of.

Christine Triptych

(I wrote this earlier tonight. Eclipse was posted to give you some background if you need it.)

I)
One day when I was in elementary school, Christine took me out to buy a piñata for my upcoming birthday party. We went to Sonic for lunch. After we ordered, we waited and waited for nearly an hour but our food didn't come. I began to get silly and pushed the button, not thinking they could hear me. I jokingly said, "Look, BUSTER!! If you don't bring us our food right now, we're just gonna LEAVE!" Then we collapsed into laughter. Literally ten seconds later, a Sonic employee came running out the door to our car. He didn't say anything or apologize, just sheepishly handed us our burgers. I think about that every time I go to Sonic.

II)
Christine spoke Spanish. She taught me all the Spanish colors when I was really little. I could say them expertly. Rojo, azul, morado, blanco, naranja, negro, amarillo, rosa. I liked saying amarillo the most. She taught me other words, too. I speak six languages now.

III)
I remember spending the majority of my childhood driving around with Christine and Margie. I remember one time, I rolled down my window and smiled flirtatiously at high school boys in jeeps while the Gin Blossoms sang "Hey Jealousy" on the radio. I was obsessed with "Stay" by Lisa Loeb and "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison. I had dark brown eyes growing up and I thought he had written that song about me. My sisters had the songs on cassette tapes, and I would play them over and over again in the car. There was a button on the stereo of Christine's off-white 1991 Infiniti that would rewind the tape backward just one song. I would hit that button every time my songs ended. Loud music, laughter, a six year old fluttering her eyelashes at high school boys, my sisters asking "AGAIN?" in disbelief as I reached for the rewind button. Yes, again.

Eclipse

NOTE: This is a narrative I wrote in 2005 about my sister, Christine. I will occasionally reference her in my writing or entries, so here is background on who she is.

ECLIPSE

Usually reunions in the airport are a joyous event. There are hugs, laughs, stories of travel. But on one particular day, there was a family waiting for someone. They were all crying. The entrance of the person they were waiting for only brought on more tears. And they were not tears of happiness; they were tears of unexplainable grief.
* * * * * * * *
I was just a little girl, nine years old, playing marbles in my blue gingham-print dress at recess. I admired my fourth grade teacher because she always reminded me of Miss Honey from Matilda. I played on the playground; elaborations on the game of tag--giggling with my friends as each of us had a turn being “It.” Math lessons were a time for zoning out, for making elaborate designs with markers on the pages of my notebook. I realize now that there was nothing but happiness in the simplicity of my fourth grade life.

On the night of September 27th, 1996, there was a lunar eclipse. My older sister, Mary Beth, and I had spent most of the evening on the lawn outside of the planetarium. We looked up at the sky, feeling autumn in our hair. She dropped me back off at our house just in time to watch my favorite program at the time: The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I put on my pajamas and flicked on the TV in my room; he was in the middle of his monologue. I sat down on the floor to watch, laughing with the audience whether I understood his jokes or not--doing so made me feel intellectual and adult like my six older siblings.

The phone rang.

I was used to these late night phone calls since my Dad is a pediatrician and almost always on call. I thought nothing of it.

I was highlighting things in the American Girl catalog for my Christmas list when my Dad came running down the hallway in a panic, wearing the same pinstripe pajamas that he’s worn for years. He woke up my mother, and I glanced out the open door, annoyed at the ruckus. I don’t remember exactly what he said to my Mom, but I know it ended with this, in a shaky tear-stained tone that I’d never heard out of him before:

“…Chrissy died…”

Chrissy. Christine. Christine Anne Callie. My second mother; my twenty-year-old sister. The only one who smoothed back my hair with her perfect fingernails, singing Tears in Heaven, Fields of Gold, or Under the Bridge off-key. The only one who would hold my hand at night when I awoke from a bad dream and was too scared to go back to sleep. She spoke nearly fluent Spanish and was spending her junior year at Colby College abroad in Salamanca, Spain. We found out later exactly what happened to her: she collapsed and died of cardiac arrhythmia. It didn’t make any sense--a healthy twenty-year-old’s lungs just randomly filling up with fluid--but that was the reality we had to face.

Three months before my American Girl reverie was interrupted with news of an unthinkable loss, I saw her for the last time, boarding her flight back to Spain at Tucson International Airport. I was the last person she touched before getting on the plane. After the flight attendants closed the heavy doors and the plane took off, I cried uncontrollably and couldn’t stop. When my Mom asked me what was wrong, I told the truth.

“She’s never coming back,” I sobbed.
“What are you talking about? Of course she’s coming back, don’t be silly.” My Mom told me. I wasn’t convinced. “Before you know it, she’ll be home for Christmas,” she continued.

Unfortunately, Chrissy never made it home for Christmas. And the calm voice of reason that tried to comfort me at the airport that day was now replaced with a painful sob that only a mother whose child has died could make.

One by one, the rest of our family showed up at our house. Albert, Trina, Mary Beth, John and his girlfriend Violette. Margie was beginning her freshman year at Holy Cross College in Massachusetts. She would fly home a few days later. That night is a blur of ad nauseam hugs, tears, frowns, cries of disbelief, horrible sobs whose sound I’ve repressed over the years. John didn’t want to believe it, and kept asking for an autopsy report. Violette held me as I stopped crying but entered a daze of grief and disbelief. My little brother, James, was only three at the time--he didn’t understand. The only thing that I remember vividly is my Mom’s futile attempts to talk to Chrissy’s host family, but the language barrier only created confusion. She would hysterically repeat broken atrocious mixtures of Spanish and English until she gave up. No one knew what was going to happen. All we knew was that our family had lost one member, and grief began to ravenously and mercilessly consume us whole.

The night of the funeral, Margie came and picked me up early from Girl Scouts. We were in the middle of a game, so I was angry to have to leave. Upon returning home, there was a flurry of activity--everyone was rushing, putting in earrings, drying their hair. I was told to put on a nice dress and comb my hair, and my Mom clasped a gold crucifix around my neck. I had no idea what was going on because no one told me that we were getting ready to attend Chrissy’s funeral. When they finally told me, I went downstairs by myself and danced to Sarah McLachlan’s Angel until it was time to go.

My heart nearly stopped upon entering the church--I don’t remember anyone ever explaining to me what a “viewing” was; that my sister would be in the room with us in an open casket made of bronze and surrounded by bouquets of flowers. I got more and more nervous as we approached her casket, and I barely recognized her. Her nose was crooked from when she collapsed on it, and her skin was deathly pale. I reached out, shaking, to touch the hand that once held mine, but I abruptly gasped and yanked it back when I felt her cold, waxy, stiff skin. Our family sat in the first few pews; I sat in my Mom’s lap. A single tear fell off my face and onto her hand. The evening was a slow haze of eulogizers and tacky songs, and the murmur of the ten Hail Mary’s--a Catholic funeral tradition.


Hail Mary, full of grace,
The Lord is with thee,
Blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death.
Amen. 
I can honestly say that my family was never the same after Chrissy died. She’s not even “Chrissy” to me anymore, she’s “Christine.” Her room is thick with haunted silence, and I don’t like to go in there. Sure, we got over the grief eventually, but it was never the same. Oddly enough, this loss only strengthened my parents’ faith in God and Catholicism. I, on the other hand, wanted to sever all ties with the higher power that had taken my sister away. My faith in God has recovered a little since then, but not much. My Dad has never really recovered. He still cries at the mere sound of her name. I became, and still am, extremely bitter about it. I don’t like to reminisce, and I inwardly roll my eyes at his tears.

I’m pretty close with my siblings, but I’ve never shared a bond with any of them that was as close and deep as the bond between Christine and I. That’s probably why I’m so bitter about the whole thing--no one ever smoothed back my hair or sang to me like she did. That void has never truly been filled. Our family, I’ve grown to realize, is not defined by religion or customs or holiday traditions--we’re defined by Christine’s death, by that late night phone call from seven years ago.

I still flinch when the phone rings at night.