I was holding onto it and then suddenly, without any warning, it exploded in my hands. The large piece of glass I was holding smashed into the cement floor of the basement and turned into a sea of glass.
I started to cry. I looked down at my legs and saw blood from the many pieces that showered down on me. I continued to cry as I knelt down onto the glass and started to pick up the pieces, adding cuts to my hands as well.
While I was crying, the glass was rejoicing. It sang as it rubbed against itself on the floor. It was a beautiful mess. It reminded me of a quote I had recently read by Margaret Atwood:
"You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone."
I was sad and shocked but mostly I was mad. I was mad that I hadn’t been more careful with the glass. I didn’t handle it with care. It reminded me of a conversation I had recently with a friend about relationships. Or more specifically, about the end of a relationship when your heart is in pieces and only then is it that you realize how careless you were with it. How careless it can be to look forward to seeing someone, to know how they taste, and how their breath feels on your neck. You let yourself get close and all of a sudden it all goes away, without warning. And when that happens, you say you are heartbroken. Your idea is shattered and so is your heart. And so is the glass.
I was mad because things change and and they break unexpectedly and it becomes your job to pick up the pieces. But sometimes there are pieces that you can’t find or are too difficult to reach. So you learn to be careful so you don’t get hurt again. You build a wall, avoid a room, a place, a person. You move on. Buy a plastic replacement. Something that won’t break this time.
I swept up the last of the glass, wiped away the tears and started putting band-aid’s on the cuts. They are already fading. And I am moving on. I will forever be moving on, until something else breaks. Or I find the glue to hold it all together.
“I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone.”
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Life after Death
Most waitresses don't have to deal with death. They usually just deal with cranky customers and never see them again. During my first job as a waitress at an assisted living home for the elderly, I would have a cranky customer and then not see them again because they died. And a plaque would show up on the wall and all the waiters would gather around to see who wasn't coming to dinner that night. Their spouse would come down to dinner alone or their group of friends would have a chair empty at their table now. And life would go on.
When I first learned about Child Life during my senior year of college, I was volunteering at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. I was asked to cover for the Child Life Specialist (CLS) on the kids floor and I fell in love with her job. From what I could tell she played games with kids and handed out tickets to museums. She made kids happy. She allowed these kids to be kids when they were facing circumstances that some adults couldn't handle. My friends asked if it was depressing to be around all those sick kids, but it honestly was not.
It wasn't until I started my graduate program that I realized how prevalent death would be in this job. Class after class brought up how to deal with a child dying and how to help the families after their child has died. Professors shared stories about a child dying on Halloween in her angel costume or the CLS who had to actually carry a baby down to the morgue because the family was too grief-stricken to do it themselves.
My first internship was in the Hematology/Oncology clinic of a Boston hospital. I was supposed to receive over 400 supervised hours but I was left alone a lot. I was given the keys to the clinic and it wasn't because my supervisors were neglectful or lazy, they were busy. So instead of being treated like an intern I was given the opportunities and advantages that a full-fledged CLS would receive. I was talking with doctors and supporting families and accompanying children to their procedures. I would have lunch with my supervisor or pass her in the hallway but for the most part, it was just me and I liked it. I was good at it. But at the end of the day, when I got home, I would crumble under the weight of what I had experienced that day.
The most important skill a CLS needs is to be a professional. Boundaries can easily become muddled when working in such a delicate environment. You need to be able to hear bad news in one room, console an upset mother in the next room and then be able to play checkers with a kid in the other room without giving any sort of indication of what is going on around them and this would happen every day.
I experienced the deaths of three patients during my internship and learned of the death of a 4th patient after my internship was completed. This was always the reminder that while my job was to make sure these kids got to be kids; that cancer was cancer, and it was going to do it's job as well. Everyone in the clinic would gather around and talk about the final events but then it was time to move on to the next thing. To the kids who were still fighting for their lives. There wasn't time to grieve.
When I learned about the 4th patient who died, I was completely caught off guard. On the last day of my internship he was still in the hospital but he was on the mend. There wasn't any indication that he would be dead a month after I left. I found out the news right before class, from one of my classmates who was now interning in my old position at the clinic. I was asking her for updates on certain kids and when I brought up Ross, the 4th patient, I was floored when she told me he had passed away months ago.
Boundaries got muddled with Ross and his family. I saw him every day that I was at my internship and we would play card games or Monopoly and sometimes after my hour was up, his father would follow me out of the room and would thank me, teary-eyed, as he told me how important these visits were to Ross. These were the times when it made moving on to the next patient difficult. But I appreciated him telling me that I was making a difference. It was hard to tell sometimes when I spent most of my time playing games with kids, if I was actually helping at all.
It was shortly after I learned about his death that I dropped out of graduate school. It wasn't the main reason, but it was a contributing factor. I had reached my breaking point with a lot of things and death was definitely one of them.
So I'm back to the drawing board, trying to figure out what I want to pursue now. All I know is that I don't want to work in an environment where death is a normal occurrence. I wish I could, but I've just simply had enough of it.
Every once in a while I'll have a dream about Ross. I'll dream about him sitting in his hospital bed in his yellow bathrobe, surrounded by his stuffed animals. He's still bald and frail, but he's always smiling. In my dreams, he is exactly like he was on the last day I saw him.
And then I wake up.
And life goes on.
When I first learned about Child Life during my senior year of college, I was volunteering at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. I was asked to cover for the Child Life Specialist (CLS) on the kids floor and I fell in love with her job. From what I could tell she played games with kids and handed out tickets to museums. She made kids happy. She allowed these kids to be kids when they were facing circumstances that some adults couldn't handle. My friends asked if it was depressing to be around all those sick kids, but it honestly was not.
It wasn't until I started my graduate program that I realized how prevalent death would be in this job. Class after class brought up how to deal with a child dying and how to help the families after their child has died. Professors shared stories about a child dying on Halloween in her angel costume or the CLS who had to actually carry a baby down to the morgue because the family was too grief-stricken to do it themselves.
My first internship was in the Hematology/Oncology clinic of a Boston hospital. I was supposed to receive over 400 supervised hours but I was left alone a lot. I was given the keys to the clinic and it wasn't because my supervisors were neglectful or lazy, they were busy. So instead of being treated like an intern I was given the opportunities and advantages that a full-fledged CLS would receive. I was talking with doctors and supporting families and accompanying children to their procedures. I would have lunch with my supervisor or pass her in the hallway but for the most part, it was just me and I liked it. I was good at it. But at the end of the day, when I got home, I would crumble under the weight of what I had experienced that day.
The most important skill a CLS needs is to be a professional. Boundaries can easily become muddled when working in such a delicate environment. You need to be able to hear bad news in one room, console an upset mother in the next room and then be able to play checkers with a kid in the other room without giving any sort of indication of what is going on around them and this would happen every day.
I experienced the deaths of three patients during my internship and learned of the death of a 4th patient after my internship was completed. This was always the reminder that while my job was to make sure these kids got to be kids; that cancer was cancer, and it was going to do it's job as well. Everyone in the clinic would gather around and talk about the final events but then it was time to move on to the next thing. To the kids who were still fighting for their lives. There wasn't time to grieve.
When I learned about the 4th patient who died, I was completely caught off guard. On the last day of my internship he was still in the hospital but he was on the mend. There wasn't any indication that he would be dead a month after I left. I found out the news right before class, from one of my classmates who was now interning in my old position at the clinic. I was asking her for updates on certain kids and when I brought up Ross, the 4th patient, I was floored when she told me he had passed away months ago.
Boundaries got muddled with Ross and his family. I saw him every day that I was at my internship and we would play card games or Monopoly and sometimes after my hour was up, his father would follow me out of the room and would thank me, teary-eyed, as he told me how important these visits were to Ross. These were the times when it made moving on to the next patient difficult. But I appreciated him telling me that I was making a difference. It was hard to tell sometimes when I spent most of my time playing games with kids, if I was actually helping at all.
It was shortly after I learned about his death that I dropped out of graduate school. It wasn't the main reason, but it was a contributing factor. I had reached my breaking point with a lot of things and death was definitely one of them.
So I'm back to the drawing board, trying to figure out what I want to pursue now. All I know is that I don't want to work in an environment where death is a normal occurrence. I wish I could, but I've just simply had enough of it.
Every once in a while I'll have a dream about Ross. I'll dream about him sitting in his hospital bed in his yellow bathrobe, surrounded by his stuffed animals. He's still bald and frail, but he's always smiling. In my dreams, he is exactly like he was on the last day I saw him.
And then I wake up.
And life goes on.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Year of Me
At this time last year I was just beginning to start my new life. The easy life. The happy one. I had officially left school and told my parents what I did and there was no going back. I was a grad school dropout and I was ok with that.
Even though I had left school I was still able to see a school therapist but I stopped going just before heading home for Christmas. I was telling her about how my head was still swimming with worry. I was living completely inside myself and I didn't know how to get out. So she told me to start noticing my surroundings. To look at nature and people and buildings. Sounded easy enough. So I left that session and I started looking. The sky was blue. The trees were bare. The wind was cold. I had stepped out of my head and allowed myself to join the world again.
Even the smallest of flames help you to see the whole picture.
A few months before this I had attended the first Boston Bookfest with my friend and college roommate, Laura. I told her how I had been feeling like I wanted to leave school. We discussed it a little and then the lecture started. When it was finished she turned to me and asked if I had read the book, "Eat, Pray, Love." I told her that I had and she told me that I should do what the author of that book did. Take a year off to take care of myself. To leave behind the bad and find the good. It was what I wanted to do all along and she was the first person to tell me it was a good idea. I had found my support. So away I went. Easy as that.
And since then, and during this past year, I have been having the time of my life. This has quite honestly been one of the best. I'm happy. I am comfortable with who I am. I can face whatever comes my way and there is freedom in knowing that. I am not a slave to my life anymore. I make the rules. Like a boss.
So as this year comes to an end and a new one is only days away I hope that all of you will find happiness as well. Actually, it's not even that you have to find it, you just have to realize it. I hope that you realize that you are capable of being happy. And if you are already happy then I am happy for you. But I know it's not easy. So this past year was about me and now it's your turn. Make 2011 about you and your happiness.
Happy New You Year!
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Death Penalty
It was announced today that the jury in the Steven Hayes case recommended the death penalty for his part in the slaying of the Petit Family of Cheshire, Connecticut. The story of what happened to that family makes me sick and I can't spend too much time thinking about it but this recent sentencing has made me even more upset. Sentencing him to death is a cop out. It's a get out of jail free card.
Even Hayes' Attorney made the case for the death penalty being an easy out for Hayes. He noted that Hayes has lost 80lbs in jail, has lost all privacy, and is "an animal in a zoo." He said that putting Hayes to death would, "end his misery."
I think that when emotions run high in a case like this, people feel like they want to tear the suspects apart themselves. We all want justice from this case. We want to put these men to death ourselves and see him suffer and look at the lifeless body and feel safe again.
But killing a killer makes us killers. I don't care if the state condones it. It's giving up on our citizens, no matter how nasty and terrible they may be. And the excitement that people feel when they hear that someone is receiving the death penalty, makes me sick to my stomach. "The death penalty! Yes!!" I feel like our society dies a little bit with each death sentence that gets doled out.
Evil exists, I know that, I've seen it. We see it on the news everyday. But killing an evil person does not remove the evil from the world. But America is all about the kill. We want the big pay off. The cum shot. We're pleasure seekers and the death penalty makes us feel satisfied. We're disillusioned. We're desperate for some release. With the death penalty we place our criminals in sterile rooms, with signed papers and professionals and we call it even.
I say "we" because even I felt great for a few seconds after hearing that he would probably be sentenced to death. I literally felt happy from hearing the news. "He's getting what he deserves" said the emotional side of my brain. But then logic, and sense and reasoning crept in and then I just felt sad. He did something terrible, I am not saying that he doesn't deserve to be punished but I think that any of our citizens deserve to be helped. Like his attorney said, he's lost any trace of an independent life in prison. He's being punished. His life will never be the same. And that is when the state and professionals can step in and take this empty person and make him whole again. Give him the tools to change his life. At least try. It's just terrible when we give up on someone. It's not like he would ever be released. America's karma is already so fucked up. Why not try to help more people? Set some things right. Show those people who feel hopeless that there are people who can help them. Maybe if Hayes and his partner Komisarjevsky had received the proper help when they were first incarcerated for their various multiple felonies in the past things would be different now.
See? We set criminals free and then become upset when they keep on committing crimes. Putting someone in a cell doesn't change them for the better and killing a criminal doesn't right the crime. We need to do more. We need to take responsibility for letting these crimes happen. They had both already been to jail! Why were they released in the first place? What actual evidence had they exhibited that they were good to go back into society?
They served their time? OK, great. What programs did they have to complete while in prison? Did they undergo any psychological testing? Were they given opportunities to find jobs and support groups? Were they checked up on when they were released?
And if they did receive these things then they didn't work. We need to rework the system. Make it effective and stop making prison a holding station for criminals in between crimes.
It's all fucked up. We're all too emotional. Too lazy to do more.
I live the town over from where these crimes occurred. I've been to the grocery store where Hayes and Komisarjevsky first set their sights on the Petit family and I've been to the bank where Mrs. Petit was forced to remove the family's life savings on that fateful day. It could have been my family. It could have been me. But it wasn't. I'm still here to see this all play out and to make my little opinions about what I think should happen. If it was my family in that situation and I was able to survive, like Mr. Petit, I can't imagine how I would feel. Or what justice would feel like when the men who killed my family are before me.
People have said that once those men are put to death that then the family can finally be at peace. Like I said, I don't know how it feels to be in that situation but I can imagine that peace is something that I would never feel again. Peace would be to have my family back. To never have to face the fact that these men did horrible things to my family and that they are gone now. Peace would not be found in the death penalty, not for me.
Hayes wants to die. He wanted to look like a monster because he said he felt guilty and remorseful and he wanted the jury to sentence him to death. He tried to kill himself after the crimes but was unsuccessful.
So yeah, lets give him exactly what he wants and say that it's what he deserves. We'll do the work for him.
We won't help them live successfully but damnit if you want to die, we got you covered.
Sources:
CNN: http://bit.ly/d1Gcru
Boston Herald: http://bit.ly/ctguEr
Even Hayes' Attorney made the case for the death penalty being an easy out for Hayes. He noted that Hayes has lost 80lbs in jail, has lost all privacy, and is "an animal in a zoo." He said that putting Hayes to death would, "end his misery."
I think that when emotions run high in a case like this, people feel like they want to tear the suspects apart themselves. We all want justice from this case. We want to put these men to death ourselves and see him suffer and look at the lifeless body and feel safe again.
But killing a killer makes us killers. I don't care if the state condones it. It's giving up on our citizens, no matter how nasty and terrible they may be. And the excitement that people feel when they hear that someone is receiving the death penalty, makes me sick to my stomach. "The death penalty! Yes!!" I feel like our society dies a little bit with each death sentence that gets doled out.
Evil exists, I know that, I've seen it. We see it on the news everyday. But killing an evil person does not remove the evil from the world. But America is all about the kill. We want the big pay off. The cum shot. We're pleasure seekers and the death penalty makes us feel satisfied. We're disillusioned. We're desperate for some release. With the death penalty we place our criminals in sterile rooms, with signed papers and professionals and we call it even.
I say "we" because even I felt great for a few seconds after hearing that he would probably be sentenced to death. I literally felt happy from hearing the news. "He's getting what he deserves" said the emotional side of my brain. But then logic, and sense and reasoning crept in and then I just felt sad. He did something terrible, I am not saying that he doesn't deserve to be punished but I think that any of our citizens deserve to be helped. Like his attorney said, he's lost any trace of an independent life in prison. He's being punished. His life will never be the same. And that is when the state and professionals can step in and take this empty person and make him whole again. Give him the tools to change his life. At least try. It's just terrible when we give up on someone. It's not like he would ever be released. America's karma is already so fucked up. Why not try to help more people? Set some things right. Show those people who feel hopeless that there are people who can help them. Maybe if Hayes and his partner Komisarjevsky had received the proper help when they were first incarcerated for their various multiple felonies in the past things would be different now.
See? We set criminals free and then become upset when they keep on committing crimes. Putting someone in a cell doesn't change them for the better and killing a criminal doesn't right the crime. We need to do more. We need to take responsibility for letting these crimes happen. They had both already been to jail! Why were they released in the first place? What actual evidence had they exhibited that they were good to go back into society?
They served their time? OK, great. What programs did they have to complete while in prison? Did they undergo any psychological testing? Were they given opportunities to find jobs and support groups? Were they checked up on when they were released?
And if they did receive these things then they didn't work. We need to rework the system. Make it effective and stop making prison a holding station for criminals in between crimes.
It's all fucked up. We're all too emotional. Too lazy to do more.
I live the town over from where these crimes occurred. I've been to the grocery store where Hayes and Komisarjevsky first set their sights on the Petit family and I've been to the bank where Mrs. Petit was forced to remove the family's life savings on that fateful day. It could have been my family. It could have been me. But it wasn't. I'm still here to see this all play out and to make my little opinions about what I think should happen. If it was my family in that situation and I was able to survive, like Mr. Petit, I can't imagine how I would feel. Or what justice would feel like when the men who killed my family are before me.
People have said that once those men are put to death that then the family can finally be at peace. Like I said, I don't know how it feels to be in that situation but I can imagine that peace is something that I would never feel again. Peace would be to have my family back. To never have to face the fact that these men did horrible things to my family and that they are gone now. Peace would not be found in the death penalty, not for me.
Hayes wants to die. He wanted to look like a monster because he said he felt guilty and remorseful and he wanted the jury to sentence him to death. He tried to kill himself after the crimes but was unsuccessful.
So yeah, lets give him exactly what he wants and say that it's what he deserves. We'll do the work for him.
We won't help them live successfully but damnit if you want to die, we got you covered.
Sources:
CNN: http://bit.ly/d1Gcru
Boston Herald: http://bit.ly/ctguEr
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Other Side
"I've taken up the habit of documenting the scene outside my kitchen window, when I am home to actually see it. It is a known fact among my friends that my favorite time of day during the Summer is 6pm (between 4:30 and 5pm in Winter) because the light is beautiful. It is what I imagine the word "sun-kissed" to look like. Everything is bathed in a soft sunlight and the world just seems quiet and magical and peaceful.
From my kitchen window I can see a church with a cross in the steeple that appears to be neon at night. It is the church where Sen. Ted Kennedy's funeral was held. I watched the funeral procession from the front porch of my apartment. People visit the church to see where the Senator was honored and where 4 U.S. Presidents came to pay their respects to the liberal lion. But to me, this church means home.
I've spoken of home a few times here and it has always meant Hamden. Home has always been my parents house. The small Cape Cod style house on Willard Street but Boston has been a kind of home for me too. There was a time when I loved living here and during college when I would have to return to Hamden for the Summer I would be dying to get back to this city. Now I have 218 days left here and I am committed to enjoying each and every one of them.
Because I know that when I return to my parent's house I will miss Boston. I know that there will be days where I wish I could return. I have learned so much here, about everything, and it is not a place I want to come to resent. I made these decisions, no one else. Boston is not to blame for my unhappiness. I like to say that my unhappiness lives in Boston but I am in charge of that feeling. I can remember being unhappy in Hamden too sometimes. It follows me anywhere really.
Boston is not unhappiness but it is also no longer where I want to call home. It is an old city and I have grown old with it and within it. It will never be New York, New Haven or New Orleans but it will always be a place on the map that I can point to and call my home, even if it was just for a little while.
I choose to be optimistic. I don't want to return here someday and find that my resentment, my unhappiness and my debt still live here. For the next 218 days that I have left I will turn around my relationship with Boston and leave this place feeling nothing but love towards it. Like so many of my relationships, it is time for me to accept that the best is behind us and I am blessed to have experienced it. Any of it and all of it. I want to be able to look back on these days and smile, knowing I tried my best.
So that is why I have been photographing the sunsets. Another day done here and another day closer to home. But it is always a way for me to appreciate the day I had and a way for me to look back, months from now, and remind myself how beautiful life can be even when it seems to be completely painted with pain."
I wrote this months ago and didn't post it for some reason. I think I had issues with the sentence structuring or something. Now I am sitting on the other side of those 218 days, in my parents house- my childhood home, missing Boston. I did everything I said I would do in that post. I made my peace with the city and now feel only love for it. There is no room for regret. My love for that city could fill it and I can't wait to go back and visit.
I'll miss the people the most. I made some wonderful friends in Boston. On dark days, they are the sunset. They are my 6pm.
My memories of Boston aren't based on what historic building I was near or what bar I was in or who stood on the same spot as me so many years ago. To me, those people, my friends, are the buildings. They are the history that I care to remember because we helped create it together. Even the people who have since left Boston. They have all helped to makes these past few years the best of my life. I hope to keep making memories with them.
Now that I am in the suburbs the buildings are smaller, the streets are less crowded and people look at me all confused when I tell them the name of my town. It's okay though. I am happy to be home. It was my plan all along and even though I fought it at some points I knew that this was the only choice I could make. I look out the kitchen now and see a different view but it's just as beautiful.
And someday, it will be this view that I will miss.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Shattered
I broke a glass tabletop into a million pieces the other day.
I was moving it from the basement to the backyard but it never made it out. It simply just exploded in my hands, or that's how it felt anyway. It was a large piece of glass and then it turned into many smaller pieces of glass, completely unrecognizable from it's previous shape. No longer able to hold anything. I collapsed on the floor and cried. I cried because I was in trouble but I mostly cried because I related with the glass. It reminded me of this quote by Margaret Atwood, "You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone."
It was the best visualization of an emotion that I have ever seen and even though I was in trouble, and I was covered in cuts and bleeding I still had that moment of "yeah, me too." And even after it broke into a million pieces and spread itself all over the basement, it was making the most beautiful noise. It was still breaking, and rubbing against itself and it created this chorus of broken glass. It shattered, shimmered and sang.
It made me mad. I shouldn't have been so impatient, I should have been more careful but I took a risk and being human, and not having the power to predict the future I just did what I thought I should do and it literally blew up in my face.
I was having a conversation with my best friend the other day about how life is a gamble. You can never really know if you are making the right decisions or if the "good" decisions you are making now will turn into bad ones. Lost chances, regrets, mistakes...its all a risk.
It's a risk when you go into a relationship with someone. It's a risk to even call it a relationship. To look forward to seeing someone, to kiss them, to know their body, their taste, to know what it feels like to have their body pressed to yours to hear them whisper in your ear...because you never know when it will all go away. We don't have control over other people and no matter how much you want something to go the way you have imagined it, there is a good chance that it won't.
And when it doesn't, like in a relationship- we say we are heartbroken. Our idea is shattered, and so is our heart. And so is the glass.
I picked up the glass, teary eyed, and I was mad about so many things but mostly mad about the fact that things change. Things. Everything. Without warning and it becomes your job to pick up the pieces. But there are pieces that can't be found, or are too difficult to reach so they remain there forever. Maybe you like the reminder, but you know that you have to be careful now to not get cut. There are new dangers, new insecurities to tend to. So you wear shoes. Build a wall. Avoid a room, a place, a person. You learn, and you move on. Buy a plastic replacement, something that won't break this time. Invest in something that will last forever.
But life is a gamble. It's a risk. It's scary and sad and loud and quiet and illuminating and deafening. It is what it is and nothing is guaranteed.
The cuts are already healing. There had to have been at least a dozen of them because after the sheet of glass broke I picked up the pieces with no regard to how much it hurt to hold the jagged glass in my fingers. All I saw was red, red, red. But then I washed off the blood, got a broom, wiped away the tears and cleaned it all up. And now the glass is gone. The cuts are fading and I am moving on. I will forever be moving on until something else breaks, or I find the glue to hold it all together.
"I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone."
I was moving it from the basement to the backyard but it never made it out. It simply just exploded in my hands, or that's how it felt anyway. It was a large piece of glass and then it turned into many smaller pieces of glass, completely unrecognizable from it's previous shape. No longer able to hold anything. I collapsed on the floor and cried. I cried because I was in trouble but I mostly cried because I related with the glass. It reminded me of this quote by Margaret Atwood, "You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone."
It was the best visualization of an emotion that I have ever seen and even though I was in trouble, and I was covered in cuts and bleeding I still had that moment of "yeah, me too." And even after it broke into a million pieces and spread itself all over the basement, it was making the most beautiful noise. It was still breaking, and rubbing against itself and it created this chorus of broken glass. It shattered, shimmered and sang.
It made me mad. I shouldn't have been so impatient, I should have been more careful but I took a risk and being human, and not having the power to predict the future I just did what I thought I should do and it literally blew up in my face.
I was having a conversation with my best friend the other day about how life is a gamble. You can never really know if you are making the right decisions or if the "good" decisions you are making now will turn into bad ones. Lost chances, regrets, mistakes...its all a risk.
It's a risk when you go into a relationship with someone. It's a risk to even call it a relationship. To look forward to seeing someone, to kiss them, to know their body, their taste, to know what it feels like to have their body pressed to yours to hear them whisper in your ear...because you never know when it will all go away. We don't have control over other people and no matter how much you want something to go the way you have imagined it, there is a good chance that it won't.
And when it doesn't, like in a relationship- we say we are heartbroken. Our idea is shattered, and so is our heart. And so is the glass.
I picked up the glass, teary eyed, and I was mad about so many things but mostly mad about the fact that things change. Things. Everything. Without warning and it becomes your job to pick up the pieces. But there are pieces that can't be found, or are too difficult to reach so they remain there forever. Maybe you like the reminder, but you know that you have to be careful now to not get cut. There are new dangers, new insecurities to tend to. So you wear shoes. Build a wall. Avoid a room, a place, a person. You learn, and you move on. Buy a plastic replacement, something that won't break this time. Invest in something that will last forever.
But life is a gamble. It's a risk. It's scary and sad and loud and quiet and illuminating and deafening. It is what it is and nothing is guaranteed.
The cuts are already healing. There had to have been at least a dozen of them because after the sheet of glass broke I picked up the pieces with no regard to how much it hurt to hold the jagged glass in my fingers. All I saw was red, red, red. But then I washed off the blood, got a broom, wiped away the tears and cleaned it all up. And now the glass is gone. The cuts are fading and I am moving on. I will forever be moving on until something else breaks, or I find the glue to hold it all together.
"I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone."
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