'KNEE IN THE GROIN, WHATEVER"

i am looking behind at what seems to be a wasted life, and looking ahead to an uncertain one...

I.

I have so much hoped that some time you would be ready for, and would find, a good woman therapist, because so much of your trauma has come from men.

You are always in my mind. Everything you write I read with great interest. And I just want to say to you again, to urge you to remember that each of us is part of a larger Self, that no matter what you feel you have lost, whatever has been stripped away--breasts, house, mother--the spark of your soul is in no way diminished. When the gold ore is crushed and fired 98% of it is burned away, but no one who wears the ring will consider it anything but purified.

You have gold in you. I don't know that writing's all of it, but it's a part. You have the skill, the gift. But the great writers are great because they are still on the path, the path of discovering what it means to be human. They are not comfortably resting on their laurels, jotting down "Spiritual Growth for the Compleat Idiot". They're struggling with it, as they write. That's why what they write rings true, to the rest of us.

And I've got to say this. You need your memories. Sure, lots of them are awful, horrendous. Bitter fruit. But they're all done. They're past. And you're still here. You survived. You did what you did, you got your degree, you went to work, you raised your boys and nursed your mother, you were a faithful wife to a man with a troubled soul. You went through the holocaust and have potentially lived to tell about it. When you can remember. The memories are there, in detail, the harvest of your life. They haven't been deleted, I assure you--because they are being saved until you can fully process them and press them into the wine of wisdom and self-acceptance.

robert

II.

i admitted that i am probably at my most vulnerable now because of all the social and financial hardships my family is going through, all the stressors contributing to my fragility, in addition to my health, and my trying to redefine myself as a woman without breasts because i am so a nurturing woman, nurturing to all life, including animals, geese, sons, men...i cried through the confession that i am simply heartbroken, my heart is simply broken now, about everything.

not being able to nurture and hug and tuck dora into bed at night, not being able to cook for her and make her laugh, play scrabble again... and now, i cannot hold myself up when i attempt my visits at the nursing home. i merely walk in and step quietly beside her bed where she is sleeping, hold her hand, and cry until she senses i am there beside her, sitting on the floor, looking up at her silver hair encircling her sweet face...she smiles when she sees me, and hugs me.

and sobbing about michael, not being able to see his face and genuinely talk to him again, try once more before i die, apologize once more about how i messed up his young life but don't remember, damn it all, i just don't, but even so, was i at least a very good mother to him, jim knows, i worked, and went to school, listened to his problems, we were poor, mr. lenahan took all of my money for his drugs, i only had money for food. mike probably had to suffer humiliation at boston latin because of lack of diginity, lack of a good home, like his friends'. he must have had to endure harsh discipline from mr. lenahan but i cannot tell you, i do not remember, just like i don't remember what i endured, but jim witnessed it all. he tells me sometimes. then he backs off. there must have been times when the boys were not home, when jim and i were alone, God only knows what happened to me. or to mike, when he was alone with mr. lenahan.

all of the violent trauma has come from men; it is easy to trust you. i think i trust you now especially because we are friends, and we worked through the pain and suffering of forty years ago, and more...although again, almost all of it is lost in my other selves...

it helps me to process when i write to you about the sessions; you provide such interesting and rich insight.

i saw dr. miller on monday, and he graciously spent a full hour with me, mostly discussing the effects of this latest physical trauma and how serious it could have been. he knows the "lay of the land" here at island view; he had seen detailed photos in the past when i first began the landscaping renovations, and he marveled at the beauty of the property, the views of the water, and geese coming up to the back yard, the variegated colors of the unusual perennials, everything.

he encouraged me to keep applying for the housing because it is really clear to him that even with meticulous clearing of the snow, i still fell. he wants me to find a place in a building that has concierge service, (he's out of touch with the whole subsidized housing thing...) i laughed to myself while nodding in agreement, and bit my tongue from blurting out "and it must have valet parking..."

he then went on to ask me about my writing. he has always encouraged me to keep on with it, no matter what.

he also was very pleased that i found a woman therapist.

he approached the subject of socialization and actually said, "so how is that going?" didn't he realize he was talking to a hermit, an agoraphobic isolate, a pathetic person sitting in the chair diagonally across from his chair, four knees almost touching, two knees trembling... so what did he expect me to say? "it's going great. i went to a few holiday parties, and of course, the opera, and the club passim in cambridge"

(not so long this was true.)

the truth stumbled out through a series of stutters and sobs:

"i talk to no one all day except with my son before he hibernates in his cellar dwelling. (long pause.) as for making friends, or finding a companion, who would want me like this? i'm a broken down car especially now after this head injury. the village idiot. (very long pause.)

you remember what i was like last year before the cancer. bad enough losing the front bumper... if i lose the engine, i'm done. my mind is everything. without my mind, what's left?

tuna casserole in a place where no one comes to visit."

after the courtesy moment, he asked if i remembered how long since the last suicide attempt. he gently reminded me that it was only a little more than seven years.

angelina

III.

Witty. Beautifully written. It's you. But it makes me angry, want to argue with you. The world is full of people who are like this. Broken in every conceivable way. But who can't speak for themselves, like you still can. You could tell their stories. Your story. You could speak to them, you could listen to them, not as a doctor, above it all, but as one of them, a magdalene. OK, you're bitter. You've got your reasons--can't dispute that. So does James, but think how you feel when you see that bitterness in him. Think how you feel. You want him to let it go--not because it's unjustified, but because there's no future in it. It doesn't lead anywhere, or anywhere good.I don't know what to do with you, but I can't ignore you, so I'm just going to let fly.

I'm not your husband, don't claim or want to be. It's beyond that. But if I was with you now, I'd want to jump your sorry bones and fuck you until we got to some honest tears. There. Didn't that sound like a man? Righteous. Like a soldier who's confused his erection for the sword of Jesus. But it's been tried. Who could count the number of times you've been fucked in anger? At least once by me, long ago. It's not like you couldn't escape. You've become very creative at finding places to hide. You already live in a place no one comes to visit. By your own choice. But you haven't always been an isolate.... Sorry for the language. Shock treatment. Make you cry--or go numb, one or the other. Can't claim it's therapeutic--for you. It's my own woundedness talking, the hurt of being held out of your heart. I want to see, some fight out of you. Knee in the groin, whatever. Keep writing.
Robert