a chapter out of my life

I've been slowly but surely developing the unofficial memoir of my past relationships. Typical, I know. Also typical: the fact that I am most definitely using this as a way to heal and reflect. (Commence eyeroll now) It's been an emotionally turbulent summer, and I'm actually hitting a block while writing this. I've had a steady momentum until I hit a particular part of the story. In trying to figure out a way forward, I decided to look back at something I wrote during the semester one of those sleepless nights where all I could do was think and think.
Again, something daring. The next most honest thing I've written about the whole situation. Albeit slightly uncomfortable, that's the way it was. No need to mask it from anyone, least of all myself. So here it is: from the second scariest moment of my life.

There’s no explanation. There’s no reason to worry either. But still, the very idea that this could happen to me scares me to the bone.

I blame this partly on the coffee I had so late in the afternoon. I blame it partly on my nerves. I can’t sleep. I’m so fixated on the pains inside my stomach now, the fact that I haven’t had my period yet this month, the fact that I had been drinking more than I am used to in spite of the fact that I think I might be pregnant. I’ve never been more scared in my life. Ever. My life could be over if it’s true. I can’t be pregnant, not yet, not now. If I am, where do I go? What do I do? How do I hide it? My parents can’t know. My parents can’t know I’m not a virgin. It would devastate them. They may never forgive me. They may be ashamed. They may disown me.

He can’t support me. He’s like an overgrown child himself. I have to support him. I am the one with the job, with the bright future. He’s just waiting on me to make a life for us. He can’t be the father. I don’t want him to be.

I would have to have it aborted. There’s no way I can be a mother now. There’s no way I can complete a pregnancy now. There’s no way. I don’t want to go through one, but I have to. To save my future. To save myself. To save him. We can’t do this now.

But this can’t be happening. This can’t be the explanation. I’m on the pill. But I must’ve miscalculated the doses when I went to California, thus throwing everything completely off for my cycle. And he didn’t even cum the last time we had sex. Not inside me, anyway. But did he pre-cum? Did something happen with the pre-cum? Could something happen with just pre-cum? We were so stupid. We should’ve used a condom. But I wouldn’t be having these sorts of stomach pains this soon anyway. But what else is it? My stomach is bloated. But the cycle didn’t start. I just need to know what the fuck is going on.

I feel sick. I can barely think about eating. Just putting food in my mouth is repulsive to me. I can barely function. I have to find a doctor. I have to see a doctor. I need an answer.

I travel alone on a train in a foreign country to a doctor I don’t even know. The minute I sit down in the waiting area, I pick up every pamphlet about pregnancy and “alternative options.” Talk about obsessive. How much does an abortion cost? What does it take to do it? Wait… someone has to be with me? I actually have to tell one of my new friends that I may be pregnant? I only met them this week. What the hell will they think? What will they do? Will they ask questions? What do I tell them? Will someone come with me? Who do I trust enough to go with me if I have to do this?

The doctor says I’m not pregnant. Thank God. It’s just some mild form of gastritis, possibly related to the jet lag, or something like that. But he says I should take another pregnancy test in a week if nothing changes. I’m comforted. I take it easy on the alcohol for a few days. I heal. I forget this fear.

A week passes. We have some down time from our classes and film viewings. I go to the grocery store by our apartment alone. I grab a pregnancy test, but look both ways before approaching the counter, like I’m looking both ways before crossing the street. I pay, hiding my face in shame, even though these people will never see me again after next week.

There’s two tests. Great. They say you need to take more than one to verify, right? I read the instructions. I follow through. Phew! It’s negative. Still no period, but I’ll take comfort in this one test. I hide it behind a ton of toilet paper in the garbage. No one knows.

It’s the last week in Australia. Still dry as the desert. I pull out that last test. Couldn’t hurt to verify again, right? I hover, I pee, I let the test sit. Negative. Well, I guess I still have to stick to what the test says. I mean, what else do I do when I have no other point of reference, no other explanation?

I’m home. I’m at dinner for my sister’s birthday with my family. I have that strange sick feeling in my stomach again. Maybe that final hangover is just lingering. But now enough weeks have passed that I would feel some sort of pregnancy queasiness. Oh God. I’m fixating on it now, instead of paying attention to my sister’s excitement at finally getting an ESL job. Shit. I know my parents see right through me. But maybe they’ll just think I’m tired. And jet-lagged. I’ve only been home 2 days from Australia. Okay. That makes sense. That’s probably what they think. Calm down. Now you’re home. Book an appointment with your doctor.

I can’t book an appointment with her. Fuck. I can’t see her soon enough. There’s gotta be someone else. But how do I ask for a recommendation? I ask my mom. “Isn’t there anyone you know who’ll take a new patient… now?” I’m running out of lies to feed her about why I really need to see the ob/gyn. I’m grabbing breakfast in a Dunkin Donuts before heading into my internship. I’m on the phone. This isn’t the ideal place to be making this phone call.

“Is there a reason you should be worried?”

“….. Yeah….”

I’m crying in a fucking Dunkin Donuts. Buckets. It’s like a thunderstorm surging through my body, the sobs throbbing out of me, the tears flowing down like a rushing waterfall. This isn’t the ideal way to hear your daughter is sexually active. This isn’t how I wanted to tell my mom. In fact, I wish I didn’t have to admit it at all. But it’s there.

“I’ll try more doctors.”

And then, it came. The week I was finally scheduled to see my doctor. I’ve never been happier to bleed in all my life.

This summer I have embraced my inner cliche and have reveled in timeless white girl teenage angst. I turned twenty a few weeks ago and feel less entitled to my griping, but then I stop caring and write some bad poetry.

I love writing bad poetry; I wallow in it like a pig in the mud. The fifteen year old Maggie is pretty amped. She wants to go smoke a joint and call Brian and tell him to bring a guitar. Twenty year old Maggie thinks that's a pretty dumb idea but whatever. I'll just share some poetry instead (and I still need my intros).

Drunk Write

Sort of like drunk talk,

drunk write is those letters you write that you’ll never send

and those poems you write you wish you never did.

It’s crying as you try to figure out how to tell your friend that you were wrong

or sending a note to ask “how do i know if i’m ready?”

It’s laughing too hard at what the bouncer said

and turning around when you want to pretend you didn’t hear your friend.

It’s blogging at 12:04 am before you go to the bar

to get even more drunk

before you make calls you’ll regret

before you call him and say i love you

before you vomit in the bathroom with your friend outside the stall asking if you’re okay.

It’s being too honest, too mean, too willing to dance.

It’s writing a poem about it with expectations

and gin in your mouth.

Oh god, oh god, oh god—

it’s realizing you’re that girl.

Drunk write is being a bottle of soda pop all shook up

and you’re ready to explode.

Poor Guinevere

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

Stuck in your house all day

With knights chasing cups

And Merlin calling you a slut

While your husband’s fucking his sister, the Fay

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

No woman would ever blame you—

After all, you were a virgin whose father

said “Why not? It’s no bother!”

Before Lancelot could say "I love you too."

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

We all know it isn’t fair

Knights keep kidnapping you

And Arthur (that dick!) keeps trying to burn you

And Lancelot pulls Elaines out of thin air

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

Your stepson really is a bit of an ass

He’s wrecking havoc wherever he goes

And where he’ll stop you don’t want to know

Everything’s starting to move a little too fast

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

Arthur has died because of you

Not for love for he never really did

But a man’s scorned dick just cannot be hid

And so now you’ll have to give up Lancelot’s too

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

A nun’s habit is not the worst fate

With daily prayers

And less, less, less cares

You’ll be fine once you learn to masturbate!

Cold

They say we are living in a digital world and I am a digital girl

with cellular pixels that are arranging and rearranging, shifting and shaping

into illusions for their screens but I don’t feel like hundreds of waves in a wire.

I feel like an ice cream sundae

made with pistachio ice cream skin

and chocolate sauce hair with a licorice belly button

and a maraschino cherry nose.

Caramel freckles with

chocolate sprinkles spattered across

and I’m melting into a crystal bowl with a silver spoon.

The Summer Stench

There was a man at Whole Foods today who was constantly waving a magazine in the air, similar fashion to old ladies waving fans in the air when they're sitting in a hot church pew, or standing out in a park for some community event. Only there was an urgency in his intent. Something was clearly bothering him.
I spent a few minutes studying him, trying to figure out his motivation, his purpose for his fervent fanning. Was he really THAT overheated in the air conditioned throes of the Whole Foods? Or was there a smell that bothered him, something no one else could identify?
I stood behind him in line with my roommate at first. It was the shortest line, which was efficient for us since we were in a rush to return home with our to-be purchased treasures. My roommate was in closest proximity to this frustrated man, who began waving his magazine even more the closer we approached. Before it was too late, we decided to switch lines. We couldn't stand his rudeness.
However, I couldn't help but continue to observe how his behavior intensified. A line eventually had to form behind him, the naturally ebb and flow of Whole Foods customers needing to funnel somewhere. As more people surrounded him and encased him, his fanning became more frantic. A woman soon approached behind him, trying to communicate to a friend in the back of the line. Without regard for what his body language was communicating, he waved the magazine in her direction, as if redirecting her scent.

And I could only wonder, is he the insane one for having a distaste of everyone's smell, or could he possibly be in the right, detecting a despicable scent that has engulfed everyone else in the world without our own knowledge?

montpelier

hill of spices, vermont. ophelia on the rug, sleeping behind me. little angel/devil dog. little one who keeps me present, likes to play eat toadstools, spider webs, ants, earwigs. the heat wave has waved. this sunday all is cool. i have books on dog training open, a book about a man who grows up on a dude ranch, another book -- stories from pakistan: in other rooms, other wonders. in the house i live in there are floors of residence. first floor: mom, dad, baby. second floor, me. upper floors, divorced dad and sometimes sadie; upstairs fiances with dogs. behind us: an odd couple. i look out to a mountain, trees. there are cars. i don't like their noise.

having left the city what occurs? i set up a futon. i find bookcases at yardsales. people tell me the story of tables, chairs. some windows are cracked. too many times painted shut. montpelier is smallish, but there is warmth to the tone of voice, the way of greeting, how people stop on the street. a park in the hills, bark on trails. i am more quiet than i have been in months; i am familiar with this quiet, but i miss the spirl stairs in our classroom. i miss the excitement that breathes on new pages, the laughing, the suspended breath. i put myself together here, open boxes i haven't opened in years. discover what went missing in transit.

two years ago i was working with horses. now i train a great dane. there is something about animals that tends to me, to the desperate side, to the meek side. almost as if socializing, training me to be something else, a being who isn't quiet, a being who can handle chaos. a green ribbon on the table, sent to me. my writing friend april. we say we will try to make things, write things. so far this summer i've been quiet. now i venture. i try to say hello here. i begin again. soon i will return to the bubble piece. try again, try to have it say what i discover, the urgency, as april was saying, that i feel.

no people now. maybe a visit. maybe it's okay? to consider, continue? today i may swim in the dog river. i have heard of other great danes named rain and canoe. these are good names. i call ophelia oph or oaf for short. oaf, according to the oed, means fairy changling.

Monday June 28th 2010

The overcast fluid skies and thick air are stagnant in the early evening heat. Bodies drone onward towards home, their bags and shoes pounding with workday exhaustion. Silent murky steps hear the quiet subway cars beneath. Sitting with my feet clean and being painted, I look out onto the scene, gladly resting.

A phone call from a loved one interrupts the peace and my heart races. A happy conversation with my man is private among the women with the colors who can only hear my words. His voice is deep and comes from the chest. It is strong and suits his big build and scruffy beard. I can imagine his nuzzle on my chest, his reverberating mmm’s against my skin, and his manly hands grasping my slender waist.

I walk home in the stillness of Manhattan summer. Is this the voice I will call home to everyday to discuss what we’ll have for dinner?

The Meaning of Words

“Letters are just pieces of paper … Burn them, and what stays in your heart will stay; keep them, and what vanishes will vanish.”
-Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

I write to create a sense of permanence. I want my thoughts to be ingrained somewhere forever. My mind is too transient to contain every ounce of profundity that passes through; if I really want to capture something worth remembering, I have to set it down on paper, on my keyboard.
But what of this thought, this philosophy, that a shared piece of verbal communication can just vanish away? Even words can die, it seems. Words are as mortal and corporeal as our bodies.
So what is it then that remains with us? Is it mere memory? Is it truly that abstraction that picks and pokes at us once something goes away?
This notion is almost a little haunting: to truly give something its value for pleasure, it must be impermanent. It must be able to vanish away, for it is only meant to be enjoyed in that singular moment it actively exists. Is it more beautiful this way, or is it more tragic? It’s almost like an unrequited love, perhaps the most romantic kind out there because it can never be fulfilled, and thus it holds a greater longevity. What is it about something’s inability to last forever that makes us desire it more?
My heart is big; I want it to cradle all the joys and sorrows of the world I inhabit. I have constructed it to be capable of such a daunting task. I want my words, my thoughts, my feelings to stay in my heart forever, with every other external thing I tuck away inside it. I don’t ever want to burn my words away. My heart should only burn to fuel itself, keep its engine running and help it chug along its path to collect and carry every happiness and every burden, every trial and every jest.
I know that when I die, it’s inevitable that these things shall pass. But while I’m alive, these things should stay alive. Every miniscule thing has a history, a history that lives and breathes in memory. If there is an existence for everything in some way, why must it be forced to vanish? Thus, my words can experience the same. Even if they burn away with my remains, I’d like to think that all these things my heart contains will be packed away into a knapsack for my soul, something my soul will forever carry with it. I want to be impermanent; I want my words to stay.

11:50

Sometimes late at night I can't sleep. I'm not sure if it's anxiety or what. I just can't sleep. I stumbled across this blog and I forgot how much I miss our class, and I miss having something to look forward to every other day. Working is not the same, having to do the same boring thing everyday for nine hours is not the same as sharing good feelings with good people. I miss every one. I have a lot of down time during work, so today I decided to start writing a book. I don't know what it's going to be about, or how I would ever get it published, but I'm going to write, and I will not stop until it's finished. I promise. I miss everyone and I hope you're well. xoxo -Laura