The Endless Pool of Tears

The Endless Pool of Tears.

That may not be a direct quote, but it's at least close to a line I read in Mary Edwards (I wanted to write Ellen, that must be a Catholic upbringing hangover, unwelcome) Wertsch's book, Military Brats, a book my father gave me (fraught) that I used in therapy some fifteen years ago. Among other things - but that's a whole big-ass episode in my life about which I may address or not.

But that endless pool. While my violent, controlling, rage-aholic father, who started out as military, somewhere getting scooped up into covert activity under the aegis of National Security (NSA today), wrecking havoc on my childhood - and my Irish twin brother's (although I expect he is still less likely to admit as much) prevailed upon me to become adult before experiencing my own childhood, here I fucking am.

I've been clean for a long while. It used to be that I would break down in these uncontrollable periods of tears, sobbing racks, animal howls, torrents of tears, most often thudding my head again the steering wheel of my car, after a night out with friends, one drink too many, in the back of my mind grateful that no cop car caught me, parked, and free to let loose all the pent-up pain, rage, and fear in a flood of salt water.

It happened tonight. And I let it. I was present in my pain. I allowed all those tentacles of tangled pain wrap right around the firmament of my psyche.

All I could think of was my sister, when she was maybe three or four years old. I was pushing her on a swing. We were living in Germany. I think I remember that she wanted to go higher - something about which my mother warned me - but my little sister was never very fond of me (preferring my brother), and I wanted to please her. I think. I pushed harder.

(What the fuck is that weird feeling I get in my hands when I write that, godammit?)

I pushed her higher.

And she fell. On her face, Her bottom teeth almost perforated the place right below her bottom lip. Panicked, I picked her up, I know she was crying, screaming, and hauled her back to our house. I don't remember much after that. I I'm sure my mother took her to the dispensary, where she was stitched up, injected with penicillin or tetanus or something, and that was that.

To this day, I feel culpable. There's no getting around it.

My sister is dead.

Every so often, these sharp images come at me, so fearsome. That endless pool of tears wells up to the point where I can barely see through the windshield of the car as I drive home.

These days, I am less inchoate. These days, I say "I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry..."

Not that it makes one lick of difference.

I get out of the car, eyes swollen, and I look up at the crystal clear night, the stars so clear out here in the country. I can see all the way back in time, universes ago.

I know that it's just a roll of the dice. This consciousness, this fucking self-awareness, in all its glory, in all its agonizing responsibility, drives home the intrinsic thing: There is no god.

But it's hard.   

Comments

[Manny Rodrigues]

Htwice,

You're a brave and strong woman for sharing your thoughts like this and displaying vulnerability uncommon for a hard-core New Yorker like yourself. It's amazing how many adults spend their lives trying to reconcile their past, or undo the pain that some parents instilled in their hearts as a child.

I was one of the lucky ones growing up. My only insecurities are tied to body image without clothes on, because dressed you'd never know I don't take off my shirt in public, and wanting to be loved by a woman, which my ex did but only conditionally. These things will change for me with experiences contrary to what I've seen in my last, and they really aren't a big deal in life's broad scope.

You're a gem, Holly Hodder. My life's without question a more interesting place with you in it, and a better one, too. Hang in there, friend. If you need me for anything, make the call.

Love and hugs,
Manny

[kitty]

You're feeling bad for...your sister not being around anymore? For causing the accident when you were little?

Or are you feeling badly for your own upbringing? Feeling like, as the disciplined child, that you did something wrong to begin with to merit the harshness?

It's called a child's point of view, where the person feels responsible. It's precisely how children think at that age - that bad things happen because of them. That if only they hadn't done such-and-such, then Mother wouldn't have left, or Father wouldn't have passed away.

You're not responsible for any of the above, but perhaps you still feel that child feeling, deep inside?

There are also reasons we feel compelled to drink too much so that we can lose control. It's interesting...but there are more helpful ways to deal with such difficult feelings.

I hope you're feeling all right.

[Flibberty Bridget]

I can no longer "lurk" after reading this post. I found your blog, I think in late December, and wanted to contact you after your "Lemons" post, but I suppose I was too ... I don't know ... morbidly intrigued, while at the same time (I completely admit), neurotically comparing your glittering, accomplished life to my stunted, unfulfilled one. I shared all this with my best friend who is a mature 54 and whose wisdom I regularly rely on. I told her how curiously odd it felt to remember that I was once [more or less] this person's intellectual equal when we were in the fifth grade, (I recall feeling at least "quite bright") and that even though I know comparing myself NEVER leads to anything enlightening, it was truly painful to encounter her spectacular life on the Net like that, and to have to own the truth of how many of my gifts I've squandered by living in fear. It is good to have a true best friend. True best friends are happy to apply the loving ointments of reason and perspective to one's exposed sorrows, and to remind one of one's virtues when she can't remember any.
I am so sorry. I'm so sorry for your loss, Holly, and I am sorry I wasn't courageous enough to write when my instinct to do so first kicked in. The thing is, as foggy as it was, my memory of your baby sister's spill from the swing was intact. I nearly keeled over when I read it. I may be a distant witness, but I'm still on earth, dammit, and you were sorry enough and penitent enough when it happened, my dear little friend from long ago, and you were what, nine years old? Anyway, you have forgotten that just moments BEFORE LeRay Ann flew out of the swing, you were giving her the thrill of her life! (Oh, but those equally valid acts get buried beneath our guilt and sorrow, and lost forever in the piled up years of our lives, don't they?) So, I have overcome my fear of not writing this all down quite the right way, to 'come out,' as it were, since I'm the one with available ointment. I'm sure the momentary angst has come and gone, but I hope it is a comfort to you (and not too bizarre) to hear from a chum who loved you when when you were young, and who can absolutely vouch for your innocence.