Paean to Martha

All right. All right. This is not right. I begin to feel a little better about something, I find something that's all wrong. No, it doesn't help that I've had weeks of excruciating back pain. (That I feel so goddamned guilty about. That I am the cause of this pain. Yeah, I know, there's no hard and fast proof that this is so. I just have one big fat hunch.) Hey, I have to remember that my tragic illness hasn't healed my person. (I have no trouble with "tragic" in this context, do you? I think it's times like these we save it for. So it will have maximum impact. And I fucking want to make absolutely certain that you all know through to you innards that what happened to me is tragic and nothing less.)

And I'm not going to rehash this. But I could have easily gotten one bit of sinew off track, making other bits of sinew take up the slack. And it cascades from there. And you end up with one fucking mess. I'm listening to Syl Johnson. He's feelin' frisky and wants to have fun. Oh baby, if only.

I think there will soon come a time in the near future when I'll need to be lowered into bed with some sort of rope and pulley contraption. Did anyone ever watch the British "miniseries" The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth that ran about 30 years ago? In the Catherine Howard "playlet," poor, bloated, enormous, decrepit Henry- wearing full body armor- is lowered onto his horse using the kind of contraption I'm thinking about. I'm so much lighter than Henry. Nor would full body armor or a horse be involved. Chip could figure this out in a jiffy. (He's very handy.)

Which leads me back to being neurotic. I have to remember that my physical issues didn't cure me of all my shit. The only "positive" change I can identify is the I have found My Voice. Which simply means I'm no longer frightened of what people will think of me. Let's see how that strong that voice is when I'm dealing with people face to face. It is so easy to proclaim victory on the page. Let's see if I can really cut the mustard. (Thank you Dooie) But that's it. The Voice. I think all the rest of my varied and substantial shit is the same and in the same place they were when I last looked.

I don't know how I got this way, but I tend to go off into corners (figurative or literal) and lick my wounds. I also like to provide comfort. (No, no! Way too simple and not the way my gears work.) No, I hate for the people I love to feel bad. The hard part is accepting it back when I need it.

Sophomore year, a few of my smart girls came to visit me at school. Suzanne had come the year before, and it was fabulous. She brought two friends from school with her, and we had a blast. Naturally, we'd have the same great time a year later. Foolish girl. The beau (my beau) who hadn't become the beau until the spring prior, was already fucking anything that moved. And since I didn't get angry (no, genius-head tried to make all-better), he quickly realized he could treat me like a piece of shit because I settled for his shit. (And, yeah, I had the disease that I'd never ever find another man on earth who would ever love such a sorry woman...so I stayed.)

He chooses the moment my friends come to visit to be an especially vile asshole. Coincidence? I wasn't even that stupid. I didn't know what to do except try and make believe this nightmare wasn't really happening. My attempt was pathetic and my friends didn't know what to do. Finally, back in my room far away from the creep, I burst into tears. (That is not my modus operandi. Life has to be so bad for me to completely lose control like that.) I went in my bedroom (to lick wounds and such). The most wonderful thing happened. Martha went back to find me. Said nothing and put her arm around my shoulders and let me cry. Big heaving sobs. I will love Martha forever for her Marthaness. But that moment by itself is more than enough.

Martha I love you forever.

(Boy am I weepy.)

I didn't handle confrontation very well. It was sooo much easier keeping my anger to myself. If I had only asked one of my BFF's right at the time of her hostility, "What the fuck is going on?" I know, (right, I know now) what ever bullshit it was could have been put to bed right then and there. Not 30 years later!!! Ghastly!

I have to face myself with my old friend. With whom I'm taking baby steps. Why has she not asked about what the hell happened to me. The worst thing that has ever happened to me. The thing that could still kill me with a stupid upper-respiratory illness. I think it's plain weird that it hasn't come up. This is what's all wrong. I sent out my little emails because I'm focussed on her mishegoss. Which is completely real and terrible. But I'm living mine NOW. And there's not a fucking thing I can do to make it better. Why haven't you asked about me? At all? I know you need to explain yourself. But I'm suffering here.