Odd dream

Last night, in a dream, the details of which are blurry, someone was reading a poem to me, and it started with the line, "I long for morning for all."

I started weeping uncontrollably, howling, because it hit such a nerve. I woke up shortly after that, I think because I was so upset in the dream that it unsettled me physically. I don't remember any of the rest of the dream, but, as I woke up, I told myself not to forget the words, and I didn't.

It was like those dreams in which you have a sudden loud, booming voice, stating truth out of nowhere. Some people call it divine intervention, and others say that it is the subconscious stating something that is so integral to the individual that it cannot go without stating, even if it has to be said in a dream. (I say it's the subconscious, of course, but to each their own.) I love that it was in a poem.

I long for morning for all, ache for justice, am consumed by the desire for a world in which all people have the same opportunity. I burn for morning, a fresh beginning, a sunrise, for everyone.

How strange and wonderful.

A brief counterpoint...

Since the last post was so full of sorrow and horror, a counterpoint, in regards to how my life is awesome, is forthcoming.

I am not very practically useful as a human being. I am good at writing things, singing things, playing things (when I practice), thinking things, and, sometimes, parenting people. That's about the limit of my usefulness. I am not good at cleaning things, maintaining things, paying attention to things, conserving things, not running my car into things, and similar useful skills. I am just not very practically good at life.

Sometimes I feel some guilt for this, and I ask my partner-in-crime: What use am I to you? I mean, really, what purpose do I serve in your life? I don't clean much or cook well or bring in much money.

He says: You make me happy. And that's enough. I go to work, I come home to you, I'm happy.

It is amazing to be with someone who sees your purpose in their life as simply being present to make them happy. Just me, just me being me, is enough to make someone happy enough to be satisfied with their life.

Damn.

I Have Two Children

This is the paper I'm turning in for the creative project option for my Women's Studies class. Essays were allowed, so this is nonfiction. I'm posting this for anyone who wishes to read it to do so; however, while feedback will be appreciated, I'm not asking for criticism, not because I don't think it would be constructive, but because a) I honestly do not want to touch this piece ever again, it hurt so fucking much to write, and b) I don't want to make any changes without crediting those who made suggestions, so I would rather just not make changes at this point.

I don't know if this was a good idea, but I think it's a pretty good example of how the personal is political. I deliberately chose not to delve deeply into the politics of it because, frankly, it's unnecessary. It's pretty self-evident. This is the other side of the self-sacrificing motherhood that is such an idealized norm in our society. It hurts people.

That's all I have to say about it.

I Have Two Children

Whenever girls are young, they are told that becoming a mother is the highest calling of a woman. They are told that they could never know greater joy than to hold their child in their arms. What they are not told is that motherhood is not only the sweet softness of baby skin, or the sheer euphoria of a first smile, or word, or step; it is the persistent agony of choices that not only impact you, but that perfect little person whom you were privileged to carry in your body. Motherhood is in the moment whenever your child is screaming that they want someone else, and you let them go rather than hurt them. Motherhood is in long, lonely nights, with empty arms and son-shaped holes in barely-beating hearts. The shadow side of the utter bliss of motherhood is the silent, intense hell of self-doubt that accompanies the hardest choices.

Sometimes I blame myself. It’s all you can do whenever you voluntarily walked away, no matter how bad the situation. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been told by others that it’s not my fault, that I have done all that I can do, that I was completely fucked over by my ex-husband; the words resonate intellectually, sure, but there is very little of the intellectual in the absence of your child. This isn’t about thought, or rationality. It’s about the aching emptiness whenever I see a little boy playing, or the stabbing pain I feel whenever people I know tell me that they didn’t know that I have two children.

Eddie and Morgan. Those are the names of my babies, my children, my lifeblood. Those are the names of the two most important reasons for everything that matters to me. Without them the fate of this world, with its chaos and misery, with its cruelty and beauty, would be inconsequential to me—not because I am female, but because their presence has made it possible for me to escape the cynicism that made apathy possible. Without them, I would not have come to matter to myself as I did, because I never would have had anyone to teach, through demonstration, the virtue of self-love. Without them, this image of myself, back straight and proud, walking through the blazing summer sun, fearless, homeless, would mean little to me, because my strength would be incidental at best. Without them I would not be phoenix, reborn from the ashes, because I would not have had ashes or a self to midwife back into the world. They are my reasons.

However, despite the vast importance of both of them to me, one of them is invisible to anyone who did not know of his existence prior to my exile. It is almost inconceivable to me that his sweet face, his wide smile, his brown eyes and skinny, sun-browned limbs are not tattooed on my forehead for the world to see; how can you not know Eddie? How is it not etched on every word I speak, every breath I breathe? How is this possible?

It is possible because of my choices. Rather than carving the importance of my son into my life with the blades of poverty and lack of education, wielding them against not only myself, but my daughter, I chose a better life. I chose to allow Eddie to stay with people who love and cherish him, and to save Morgan the pain of knowing that I cared so little for her well-being as to impoverish her in pursuit of custody of a child, my child, her brother, who was already happy. I made a choice that no woman, no person, should have to make. I chose to walk away completely empty-handed both materially and emotionally, but reasonably secure in my future, rather than risking hunger or homelessness again so that I could provide a home for my son, who had a home elsewhere.

It is said that the devil is in the details, but there is very little of the details in my story that matter. Of all of the different ways to describe what happened, the only version of the situation that can be agreed upon is that I lost my child to his father. That, more than the motivations of the actors, more than the months spent homeless in pursuit of custody, more than the years since my son has lived with me, is what matters. I lost my son. Why would I want to tell that story? Who would? No; my sanity lies elsewhere, but every day is an exercise in grappling with the guilt of every mother who has to leave her children. After all, we are told that this is our purpose; how can we walk away from our purpose?

I have spent long hours wondering: what will I tell my children? “I love you” will only go so far whenever you are on the other side of the country, and does not speak as loudly as waking up at night to comfort the frightened, bandaging a cut, or putting food on the table. I can do none of these for my son; I am too busy doing them for his sister, a continent away. Conversely, “Your brother’s father took him in the middle of the night,” cannot explain to someone who was too young to remember the seeming gallons of tears that have poured forth since that night, or the incomprehensible sorrow of having to choose to allow one child to flourish elsewhere so that you can grant the other the same opportunity yourself. When Morgan asks me, “Why are you crying, Mommy,” there is little that I can explain to her other than to choke out, “I miss your brother.” Here, Daughter, are years of anguished longing, rage, and guilt, encapsulated into four words that are comprehensible to your three-year-old mind. This is impossible. I cannot give Eddie and Morgan answers now, and I don’t know if that will ever be possible. How can I tell my children that I love my son whenever I voluntarily fled the state, looking for a place where I could have a home, love, support, maybe an education? How could those things matter more than my baby?

The only way that I can justify this to myself is that these things did not matter more than him; rather, they mattered equally, because they had to. When staying guarantees a life of low-paying jobs, no support, and the constant awareness that you are choosing one of your children over the other through the impact of your decisions, staying is not the best way to say, “I love you.” I cannot tell my son that I love him through proving to him that his sister and I, both women, matter less as people than him, whenever he is well-cared for. I had to tell my daughter that I loved her by saying through my actions that she mattered just as much, enough for me to deny both of us the presence of our flesh and blood in pursuit of the security, the home, the family that he already had. My love for him, rather than being tied up in snapshots of joy, is caught in my incomprehensible sorrow. My love for him is inextricable from the agony of separation, from the memory of a motel room I called home and the fact that the image that I have of myself in my head, walking proudly, is the image of a person who collapses not because she will not, but because she cannot. This is my love for my son, inchoate, so painful that I can only tap it once a week for phone calls, and even those minutes of the day are so filled with grief that the joy is almost indistinguishable. How can I express my love to my son without gushing the blood of resentment, of his father and myself, the viscera of rage and loss, over him until I am limp, left only a shell of a human being? How do I tell my son, “I don’t blame you for any of this, but I cannot breathe with this world on my shoulders!”

He deserves better. Perversely, I realize that, if I were a man, this would not be my concern. I would surely be plagued by the pain of separation, but I could direct my pain into a laser-focus onto the original object of my hatred: Eddie’s father. I know his role in the situation; however, I cannot forget that, unlike a man, my choice was not only to support myself and my daughter, but to walk away voluntarily from what I had been told for my entire life was my higher calling. Sure, it allowed me to be a better mother to my daughter, but my role, my privilege, was to be the mother of two children. Fathers, we are taught, are not supposed to be the ones to kiss scrapes and rock their children to sleep, but my ex-husband does that for my son, because I am not there. It doesn’t matter why I am not, doesn’t matter that I had to choose between myself, my daughter, and my son, that I was the only person who would be deeply wounded regardless of the decision I made. What matters is that my son asks me on the phone why I can’t come see him. He asks me how far away Texas is from Montana, tells me that he wants to play with me. I am not there.

Perhaps the worst part is that I am very happy in my daily life. I am intelligent, and getting an education that can make full use of those capabilities. I am filled with love, and I have many outlets in which to pour this seemingly inexhaustible supply of passion. My life is excellent. Leaving was the right choice, in the purely concrete sense, not only because it spared Morgan and myself the constant specter of financial ruin, but because it put me into a position in which I could find the love and support I needed most, and set me on a path to perhaps finally fulfill the potential that has always been bubbling within my innermost being. I have love, opportunity, education, challenges; what more could I ask for?

My goddamn son, is what. This joy that permeates my everyday life serves only to fuel the fires of self-doubt, sending me tumbling straight back into the darkness of loss. How can I be this happy without my son? Am I not a mother? Why is it that I am so capable of collapsing my grief, tentlike, and storing it in the recesses of my psyche, pulling it out only whenever I absolutely have to dwell within? Can mothers do that? Am I less of a person, for the exquisite enjoyment I find in every breath, despite the fact that they are almost all taken without my son? Even in my happiness I find myself bereft of the purity of anguish.

Every time I mention my son and receive an inquiring look, or I am asked why I have two squirrels tattooed on my leg, or Morgan asks me where Eddie is, or another Mothers’ Day passes by without acknowledgment of my meager contribution to my son’s life, I get another potent shot of mother-guilt. I do not have the luxury of blaming “that bitch” the way that the men often do, because I chose not to be homeless again, and that constitutes not-enough. The reality of poverty, of a lifetime spent scraping, of a daughter denied a chance at a future, means nothing in the face of having to explain to my six-year-old that I can only come once a year, to my ex-husband that I cannot just pick up the entirety of my life and relocate it without hurting far more people than I would be helping. It doesn’t matter if the choice was forced; what matters is that it was made, and that I carry my own anger and hurt, the anger and hurt of my family, the future anger and hurt of my son, packing it tightly into a tiny ball and shoving it into a dark corner, because I cannot but carry it. I am a mother. It is what we do.

Deep Thoughts

If you have enough of a problem with the possibility of my child being gay someday that you want to actively discourage it, you do not love my child.

Full stop.

I don't give a shit who she grows up to love (or fuck). That is her business, and all I really care about is that, if she partners, she end up with someone who loves and respects her, and to hell with what chromosomes are involved or what's between their legs. If you don't love my child enough to want her to be able to grow up and find the person with whom she is happiest, regardless of gender, you do not love her, and I do not want you to be involved in her life.

I don't think I've been this angry at someone since my ex-husband kidnapped my son. I'm not quite that angry, but it's up there. Homophobia so thick that someone is willing to condemn parents who don't strictly gender-police their child, as well as people who were fucking lucky enough to grow up like that (because being gay is totes a result of not being constantly reminded what is between your legs), and especially whenever directed tacitly at people who are extremely close, can just go fuck itself sideways. I have no need or desire for that in my life, and won't tolerate it. If you love my child, if you love me, then you will accept that my child is going to grow up to be whoever the hell she wants to be (even if, gods forbid, she's gay! or identifies as a boy when she's older!), and that I will do everything I can as long as I have breath in my body to make it clear to her that she has those options. I am far more concerned with the fact that she is a human being than the fact that she happened to be born female, and anyone who isn't does not love her.

I've seen "love" that cares more about the compliance of the object (because people are objects in this framework) than their happiness. I've seen people who were put in risk of bodily harm by people who "loved" them because the people who "loved" them just wanted them to be correct. And I want shit to do with that. That isn't love. That's control.

Be nice if we could stop mixing those up in our culture.

Oh, and this isn't directed at anyone here. This is just my venting because I'm irate at being proven wrong right whenever I would have most appreciated to be correct about some basic human fucking decency.

Sometimes just asking is enough.

I'm not writing this beautifully. Sorry. I just wanted to say this.

I just saw a group on Facebook that was started for people to pray for the wife of my former high school band director (who also taught private flute lessons and was a fantastic musician herself). I thought I'd tell a story about how she impacted my life. It's long, and it's pretty personal. Be warned. I don't know if I'm posting it on there, because I don't want to make this about me, but it's a story in which she made a difference, so I wanted to tell it. Also, if you read this, and if you know who the anonymous "boyfriend" is, please refrain from asking to make sure that you're correct or commenting on this. If you think you know who he was then you're probably right, and it's not about him.

Now, something I'm not sure if I've discussed on here is the fact that, when I was a freshman in junior high (yeah, our schools were kinda messed up), I attempted suicide. I'm at a point now where I could give you both no reason and thirty reasons why I did it, depending on when you ask me; the important thing is that I did. Now, Mrs. G had been talking to me when she came to the school ever since my seventh grade year because my director bragged on me a bunch, and, when I ended up committed, she kept track of me. My memories of that particular time period are (thankfully) vague, but I knew later that she had kept track of me, and she made more of a habit of talking to me afterward.

We moved to another state shortly after I started at my high school band, but we moved back a year later, and I was under a lot of stress at the time. I'd been in a bad relationship since early my freshman year and, despite multiple breakups while I was in the other state, we managed to stay together in some fashion, and the relationship became more controlling over time. He had always been verbally abusive, and he grew moreso over time. Fortunately for my mental health, when given the option of returning to either his high school or the one I had been intended to go to, I chose the latter, which both put me in a better band program and kept me away from him during school hours. I was still very unhappy, but I had other things to keep me busy, and I wasn't constantly under his thumb. Meanwhile, Mrs. G. would still talk to me regularly, just checking to see how I was doing; I didn't think of it this way at the time, but I think that she was making sure that I wasn't in the same condition I had been two years prior when I swallowed a bottle of painkillers.

Things reached a head at the beginning of December. On the first Saturday of that month, my boyfriend's mother, to whom I was very close, had gone in for surgery on her stomach; it was serious but not expected to present any major problems. At eleven that night I got a call from my boyfriend saying that she had a pulmonary embolism and had lapsed into a coma; she was not expected to live. The next day we went to church together, and then we went home, and I decided to tell him that I had been seeing someone else for a couple of months (mind you, we had an "open" relationship at the time, but I still felt dishonest). I didn't want to do anything further to hurt him, so I thought a clean slate was a good idea. I don't know why that was my reasoning, but it was. I was sixteen. I was stupid.

He raped me. It was the first time, but it wasn't the last.

His mom died that night while we were on our way to the hospital. Don't ask me how I feel about all of that, because I still could not sort out any one thing from the huge mess that was the middle of my junior year of high school. It was a living hell for me, and for him, too, I'm sure, but I was a convenient target for his anguish. I'm not minimizing his pain, but I went through some pretty intense misery as a result of his abusive behavior, which had been growing even prior to when she died. As a result of this, I've never really had the time to sit down and think about her death, about how much I missed her, and about how horrifying it was that she died so young. I can't untangle it, and part of me just doesn't want to since I haven't for this long.

Later that week, his band came from his high school to a rehearsal of our band at mine. I don't know why they did this. I sat there during the rehearsal and eventually just broke down. Someone I loved had just died, and her son, whom I also loved, had raped me, and he was sitting right there. I couldn't breathe, playing music with him there in that room. It was too open. So I went with the only option that my body allowed me: I hunched over in my chair and cried quietly. This wasn't a conscious decision. I just shut down.

After the rehearsal (or perhaps during; I can't remember), Mrs. G. pulled me aside. I mean, I'd just been sitting there openly sobbing in front of everyone (although I hope I was doing so incongruously enough that I didn't draw attention to myself). She asked me if I was okay, and what was wrong.

I didn't tell her. I mean, I couldn't; I didn't wrap my head around the word "rape" for what had happened to me until my senior year, and I couldn't handle even talking about the past week in the most abstract of terms. I might've told her that my boyfriend was there and that it upset me, but I don't think it went past that. I just kind of had nothing to say.

But she asked. No one else did. I'm absolutely not condemning any of the other authority figures in my life. My parents knew that I was very hurt about the death of my boyfriend's mother, but they had absolutely no idea that there was any sort of abuse going on since, like most teenage girls, I gave no indicator of it and would have defended my boyfriend over my own broken body. My other teachers didn't see me in such an emotionally open context. But no one else was asking questions, whether or not I gave, or even could give, answers.

And it helped. I still look back on whenever she pulled me the fuck aside and said, "Are you okay?" Someone needed to do it, but of course it was Mrs. G. who did it. She always cared, and always took the time to check and make sure that everything was okay with me. And she was the only adult who saw how much pain I was in and, rather than thinking that it was entirely private and that I would handle it, or being afraid to ask, actually pulled me aside and checked. I didn't need to have the words for the pain. It was enough, in some way, to know that someone both noticed and cared.

This is who she was. This is the impact she had on me. I've wondered how she was doing for the past few years, and this is a horrible way to find out. Finding this out put the events of December 2000 back into my head, and I thought that this was a good example of the kind of person she was.

So, there are two things I want you to take from this:

1. Mrs. G. was awesome, and I want her to get better. Now. I don't pray, but I hope fervently that this happens. You can pray if you like, and I will certainly not disparage it. We all have different ways of dealing.

2. She was a great example of how to demonstrate compassion and listening skills with your fellow human beings. I wasn't the only kid she took in that way; she had an entire band of a few hundred kids that she treated exactly the same way. I wasn't special; she would have done this for anyone else if they had problems like I did (and she was aware of them), and I'm sure she did, for that matter. The world needs more Mrs. Gs. Sometimes it's enough just to ask, just to let someone know that you noticed that their entire world is collapsing in on their heads.

Thank you, Cathy. I haven't forgotten. Please get better.

Shards Series

This is a five-part short story about the evolution of an abusive relationship. The pieces were not written in order; rather, I wrote "Shards," then wrote "All Cold Inside," and then realized that these were parts of the same story. The rest filled in.

I like this because it's deeply personal, and it was the first venture I ever made into myth time. However, I think that the style is more immature than the others, and the switches from myth- and real-time are confusing at times, or, at least, I could see how they would be confusing if one wasn't the author. I think it's the weakest of the pieces, but I still have a very special place in my heart for it. Don't mind the underlines under the subtitles; it's formatting that won't undo in here.

I would consider submitting a couple of these as stand-alones, but I think the whole story works better as a whole.

This is for David Thompson; I will always be grateful for his kindness.

The Abyss

It was a clear, crisp night in late November, and we were walking slowly around the amusement park, afraid to touch, just enjoying each other's company. Laughter and smiles surrounded us, mingled with the screams of thrill-seekers and your voice.

"Come ride this with me!" You reached for my hand for the first time, and, ignoring my reticence, pulled me towards the tallest ride nearby.

"No...wait...I feel sick...I don't..." Smiling, I tried to extract my hand from yours, but you laced your fingers through mine and my heart began to pound wildly. I stood, torn between the treasured contact and the sheer terror, but you used the firmer possession of my hand to pull me farther before I could pull back.

"It doesn't have to be that bad; just relax!" You grinned and I acquiesced, queasily joining you in the long line.

"Why are you so afraid?" Your voice deepened to a reassuring chocolate drawl and my knees weakened as your half-mocking, half-sincere green-gold eyes probed mine.

"I hate falling." I made a helpless, resigned gesture up to the metal monstrosity that loomed before us. It was a ten-story cage that would propel an open scaffold with four people slowly upwards, leave them hanging for an infinitesimal moment of suspense, and then send them hurtling back down into oblivion.

"I'll be there when we get to the bottom, and I'll hold you if you're still scared. Nothing bad is going to happen." You touched my lips with one gentle finger and smiled at the warm flush that spread to cover my cheeks.

"How do you know? Have you ever fallen like that?" I looked up at you, making no effort to hide my apprehension.

Tenderly you reached out and wrapped your arms around me, but your tone was diametrically opposed to your motions. "I've done this hundreds of times." Rather than reassuring me, your nonchalance increased my fear exponentially. I wanted to believe you, to succumb to the charms of your presence, but I felt a sudden chill as the wind picked up.

"Aren't you cold?" I snuggled against you, trying to banish the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"I don't feel a thing." You eyed me quizzically and I felt stupid.

"Next." A kid barely older than us ushered us into the ride and strapped us in. We began an agonizing, slow ascent and I felt my heart go into my throat as I gained a full view of the park below us and the darkness into which we would soon be hurled. As though sensing my thoughts, you reached for my hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Slightly mollified, I squeezed it back in acknowledgement.

"Trust me." You craned your neck around the restraints and looked over at me, and I wanted to so badly it ached.

"I don't know if..." Looking back at you, I realized suddenly that we had not been discussing an amusement park ride.

"I love you." The ride stopped at the top and there was a horrid grinding sound as your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on mine. I looked back down at the blackness that seemed miles below, the wind whistling in my ears and blowing my hair about my face.

"I love you, too..." Our eyes met and we fell, plunging into the abyss.

Two Years Later

Cold

I laid there in your bed, feeling nothing, all cold inside. I never used to be like that, but you laid your hands upon me and spoke your lies of love and I fell. I fell so hard that, before I could realize I had stepped off a cliff, I had slammed into the ground and could no longer feel a thing. Broken, bleeding in your bed, I stared into the distance. Hadn't you told me it needn't be like this? No matter. It was.

The freezing wind howled over me and I turned my head, seeing myself lying there, barely clad, blue with frost, numb with pain. I could hear your voice laughing at me in the wind and I reached up to wipe away tears so as not to give you more fodder for mocking. Had it not been so unbearably cold I would have died from the pain.

Even though you weren't there you towered over me, silently accusing, boisterously laughing, brutally stripping me of all dignity and will. I shivered. My bones ached from the chill.

A booming voice penetrated my consciousness and I looked up at you and smiled, reaching one frostbitten arm up to you. You seized my frozen fingertips and lay down beside me, pulling me into your arms and laying a kiss on my cracked lips. Instinctively I responded, moving closer to the only bit of warmth in the frigid chasm.

Your arms tightened and hands roved, removing the negligible clothing I wore, leaving me now completely bare against the icy wind. I strained against you, feeling, rather than pleasure, mere splotchy alleviations from the tender mercies of the bitter wind.

"You know you want it, don't you?" Your mouth moved on my neck and I nodded my head with no small amount of effort seeing as it was rendered nearly immobile by the cold. Please, please give me some heat, I silently begged.

"More," I heard my muffled cry against your heated skin, as you pulled closer to me and your hands explored, cracking the frost that had covered my naked body. Taking my eagerness as a sign of sensual wantonness, you pushed into me, eyes closed in a wholly selfish relish while I shivered from the cold.

Eyes stared sightlessly into the stinging wind as you took me there, heedless of the overwhelming darkness. Your body covered mine, sheltering me momentarily from the harsh atmosphere. I cried out in pain as the ice thawed away under your touch, exposing the mass of bruises and scars that you were incapable of seeing.

Your voice cried out in ecstasy, mine in agony, and then we lay there entwined on the rocks and icicles in your bed.

You laid a perfunctory kiss on my forehead and rose from the bed, yanking your clothing back on as I shivered, once more left completely vulnerable to the chill.

"Put your clothes back on. I want to play some Hexen."

I laid there in your bed, feeling nothing, all cold inside.

Defiance

I sat on your floor, silent, writing in my notebook. With every word written I gained a little more strength; a little more will.

Slowly I rose, surveying the darkness and cold around me with half-closed eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. I forced my stiff muscles to move, propelling me to the steep wall of the chasm. Placing one hand on a jagged rock and, I bit my lip against the pain and began my weary climb out of the abyss I had called home for so long.

"What are you doing?" Your hand clamped on my shoulder and I looked up at you distractedly, unsmiling.

"I'm writing." I paused in my climb, beginning to tremble. I knew that, if you could, you would pull me down, back to the sharp rocks below.

"What are you writing?" One hand reached down to grab the notebook from me, but I kept a firm grip on my writing.

One hand clamped on my ankle and pulled softly, but I kicked at the interference.

"You're always writing; why can't I see?" I pulled my work out of your hand, knowing I had to win this battle if I was to come anywhere near the top of the cliff, which seemed miles away.

"Because it's mine!" I barely pulled out of your reach and, shocked, you began to climb after me with the amusement of a predator toying with its food.

"Well, too bad; it's mine now!" You reached down and tugged the binder out of my hands and I rose abruptly with a sharp, enraged cry.

Laughing, you pulled me down and my face scraped against the edge of the cliff, leaving a frozen trail of blood. I clung to the side, unyielding, refusing to let you pull me.

"Give that back!' I clawed at your hands and yelled, and you held it over my head, laughing.

"You write too much." There was an edge of anger in your voice and you turned your back to me, beginning to read my creation.

"No! You can't read that!" I bolted in front of you and yanked the binder away, clasping it to my heaving chest.

I kicked at you, feeling my foot encounter bone, and you howled in rage at my defiance.

"Fine. We can do something else." You pulled me up and tossed me on the bed, climbing atop me before I could fight back.

I lost my precarious balance and fell, hitting the ground so hard that sharp pebbles became embedded in my skin. I heard you land lightly next to me and looked up to see you eyeing me with evil intent, my weakened condition bringing you sadistic joy.

With one deft movement you unbuttoned my jeans, then pulled them off of my kicking legs, but I was up and running before you could pin me down again.

Feeling you rip at the soft, fragile strips of cloth that barely served to protect me from the icy wind, I began to fight, pushing and kicking with muscles so stiff it sent pain shooting through my extremities.

You reached and grabbed my arm before I could flee far, yanking me back, and then got a firm grasp on the better part of my hair, pulling my head back, and laid a bruising kiss on my lips while I gave a strangled cry of protest.

"Please don't do this to me," I whispered, feebly pushing at you, but you held me down on the cold ground and continued the undesired assault on my mouth. A tear froze to my cheek and I wished I hadn't started crying; I had now merely proven my intrinsic weakness to you.

"Take off your clothes." You spoke against my trembling lips in a tone that would broach no protest.

"No." I whispered, pushing you back, but you kept your hold on me and your eyes widened with surprise.

"No!" The howl came from a place deep inside me that I hadn't known existed, and a primal ire powered me as I clawed at your face, insane with pain, fear, and rage.

Without comment you pushed me back down on the bed and took my shirt off despite my wriggling. "You're mine," you said, a hideous, frightening tone to what once would have been precious words of possession. Knowing a fight would be futile, I began to cry.

"That'll teach you to fight back."

Something snapped inside of me and I twisted under you, reaching for my shirt.

I twisted, feeling more rocks digging into my back, but I didn't care. I only wanted to fight; to be free from your cruelty.

"What did I say about your clothes?" You snarled at me, and I snarled back.

"I don't want to!!!" I raised my knee and slammed it between your legs, feeling no small satisfaction at the croak that left your throat before you crumpled on the floor.

"Don't touch me!!!" I kicked you as you lay there on the jagged pebbles, wild with anger.

"Leave me alone and let me write!!!" I screamed at you, standing over you as you looked up at me, more stunned than hurting.

"Go!!!" I hauled you up by your shirt and pushed you out of the room before you could formulate a coherent response. The door slammed and I stared at it for a moment, too shocked by my own behavior to move.

Sighing, I picked up my binder, sat down, and held my shirt to my face, weeping quietly.

Sighing, I stood up and looked up at the sheer cliff wall. With renewed strength and a heavy heart I began to climb again, preparing myself for the longest climb of my life.

Ascent

I knew it was over, and the awareness sent equal parts pain, anger, relief, and confusion coursing through me. I stood, looking at you holding the trash bag in which I had shoved every tangible reminder of your influence on my life, and felt something tear inside of me.

"I love you." I paused, on the edge of the top of the cliff, and looked down at you, so far below. Part of me almost wanted to climb back down and hold you, but I reminded myself of the little cruelties that had characterized my life in the chasm, after you brought me there.

"I love you too." You looked vulnerable, and half of me wanted to hold you; half wanted to kick you while you were down.

Your longing gaze rested on me from your place in the chasm and I wanted to kiss you for your sadness and wound you for your selfishness. However, to do either I would have to retrace and undo every agonizing step I had taken in my ascent.

"Come back to me." I did not try to disguise the loneliness in my eyes as I reached one hand out to you. You stood, holding the bag, looking more confused than I had ever seen you.

My foot slipped and I barely caught the edge of the cliff with one hand, fingers away from plunging back into the miserable hole.

"I can't." You turned to walk away and I stared at your retreating back, wondering whether the tears were from relief or misery. Perhaps it was both.

I watched as you carefully placed the bag of former treasures into your trunk, climbed into your car, and drove out of my life. My legs gave way under me and I sat down on the step, burying my head in my arms and trying to release two and a half years of abysmal pain.

I found a toehold and pulled myself out of the abyss and then collapsed, exhausted, naked, onto ground covered in shards of glass, stunned to find it wasn't over yet.

Shards

I slowly, painfully pulled myself up from the shards of broken glass surrounding me, feeling them cutting still into my hands, arms, torso, and legs, then the soles of my feet as I stood shakily. I looked down into the chasm from which I had just emerged and, with a painful shake of my head, wondered how long I had rested there. Blood dripped from the thousands of lacerations that covered my nude body, and I sobbed with every agonizing step as I began to walk towards a distant, nearly indistinguishable pinprick of light. Blood mingled with my tears and the frenzied pain increased with every step until I fell face-down once more, adding new wounds to the old.

The other travelers around me seemed completely oblivious to the glass, walking lightly towards the star in the distance, chatting blithely amongst themselves as I coughed up blood on the ground. I did not cry out or scream, but pulled myself up a little more slowly every time I fell.

Suddenly someone was beside me. He smiled at me, completely impervious to my scars and nakedness and tears. A light surrounded him, but it did not touch me; perhaps that explained his blindness. His words were kind and I forced a smile back, reaching out a hand to shake his own, which was already outstretched and pure, while mine was caked in blood, glass, and dirt. He shook it, still completely unaware of the oozing filth he touched.

Sometimes he walked beside me. Sometimes he wandered off on his own, although those occasions grew more and more infrequent as time passed. When he walked with me it was somehow easier to tread the shattered glass, and I tried harder not to fall and reveal to him my vulnerability. Why try to explain to someone what it's like to tread broken glass when they have never experienced it?

Slowly, over time, his eyes opened. One time I began to fall and he reached out and caught my hand, then looked at my face. His azure eyes narrowed in concern as he saw the tears running down my face, leaving clean trails until more blood welled up to take the place of that which had been washed. When I didn't have the strength to rise again he pulled me up, carefully making sure I did not completely fall, until I was standing again.

Are you all right?

Of course.

What's wrong? Eyes narrowed further, sensing lies.

Nothing.

Once we were talking and I slipped and spoke in passing of the trial of traveling on the glass.

What glass? His innocent face was a mask of confusion.

I sighed and blushed beneath the blood and shards he could not see, wincing slightly at the pain as they stabbed a little more deeply.

Nothing.

No, what glass?

In short, monosyllabic words and clipped sentences I guardedly told him that occasionally it felt as though I were walking on glass. Never the whole truth. Never.

I could carry you when it hurts the worst.

NO!

My refusal was so adamant that I lost all semblance of balance and pitched forward, landing face-first in the sharp pieces below me. His eyes opened and they filled with crystal tears of sorrow and sympathy, not seeing the cause, but seeing the pain. He gently reached down and held my hair back as I coughed more blood onto the ground, then picked me up and softly brushed me off, perhaps seeing the nakedness. His eyes turned away in respect, his hands still clean of the dirt that did not exist within his perception of this world.

I don't have to carry you, but let me catch you when you fall.

Weary, aching, I sighed once more and consented, not meeting his eyes.

I stumbled with every step, the glass and exhaustion both penetrating my skin to my bones. A steadying arm wrapped around my waist.

Stop. You need to rest.

I can't, I said, beginning to cry in front of my friend for the first time. His hand reached out to wipe the tears away, still free of the grime.

Why not?

When I sleep, I sleep on THAT, I choked, pointing to the shards surrounding me.

You sleep on what? Guileless eyes did not comprehend my predicament.

On the glass. My feet are used to it, but laying on it hurts more.

Let me carry you.

NO!

He looked down at the ground again and his eyes widened, seeing my reality for the first time. Tentative, frightened, he reached with his hand and touched my face, then pulled away with blood and shards remaining on the fingers.

Ouch!

A shard pierced his finger and he took out some water and rinsed the cut, marveling. Then he looked at me slowly, gaping in astonishment with first comprehension of my lacerated filth. My eyes lowered in shame as he truly saw me for the first time.

Let me help you.

NO!

Why do you make yourself suffer like that? Let me care for you. Tender eyes begged me, welling once more with deep concern.

Please, please, do not look at me. Please. I'm dirty and scarred and wounded and....

He gently reached out and began to wash me, painstakingly removing every single shard from my skin, wiping away tears from the pain that his gentle cleaning provoked. Finally I stood before him, naked and scarred, broken and bruised, and without the cover that that blood and soil had provided.

I'm hideous and worthless.

You're beautiful.

He reached out and tilted my chin up until I looked into his perfect eyes, seeing full awareness and acceptance in them.

He reached into the pack he carried with him, removing snowy bandages. Slowly he covered my wounds, taking care to leave not one sore spot uncovered. Then he clothed me, and I stood before him, clean and covered, filled with confusion and wonder at the kindness. I wobbled, nearly falling, and he caught me before I could plummet into the shards again.

Then, to my surprise, he scooped me up in his strong arms and cradled me like a precious child, singing softly to me until I fell asleep, warm, clean, and safe.

After what seemed like millennia I opened my eyes to see a contented smile on the face of my good Samaritan.

You can set me down.

I was jolted when my feet hit the smooth, warm ground.

The glass is gone!

It was never there. Kind eyes smiled at me.

Where are you going? I had never asked.

There. He pointed at the light, which seemed almost close enough to feel the warmth.

Why do you shine like that? I could not understand; I never had.

Because I know I'll get there.

How will you get there?

He smiled and took my hand, pointing me in the direction, and simply continued walking towards it.

Looking down at the ground, shardless for the first time, and looking up at he whose eyes shone with that purity, I smiled, took a deep breath, squeezed his hand, and fixed my eyes on that light.