The Unwinding Cable Car

It's cold in here. The Fall weather hit yesterday-ish, and I felt an excited chill. Then, I thought of snow and how much I despise the white. If it didn't come along with low temperatures and brisk winds, I would love to romp in it all. However, I find myself wishing for California. Or somewhere else that has minus snow.

It got cold yesterday, which is when I felt it inside. I should've felt it on Sunday. As if my emotions affect the weather. As if we're synchronized. We're not. But it sure feels that way. So I wrote in my journal at about 3 a.m. to let it loose, but I just couldn't formulate the proper structure to the heaviness. This moment wasn't about actual snow. Perhaps you've never found yourself so stripped of syllables and sounds regarding the cold. I hate that moment. So here are some of my entries where I felt incredibly full of exactly what I wanted to say. Not saying they're perfection; however, I felt perfection in penning them at those moments:

"And I stopped caring on a winter night in 2003. And then I taught people they could care again; they could feel again. But I never found it. It must be for other people. So I did things that were to make me whole again, but my pieces are still strewn and it just didn't place me back together. I wasn't willing to find all of the loose ends, so I will always stand alone until I collect. And it's easier that way."

"They say to keep a journal. I keep it for the wrong reasons. To enrich my posterity, it will not. It seems it's spiritually void, and that defeats the very purpose of the record. It's only a mess of metaphors and poems, ambiguities. A gold mine for those searching for something less than God. It's my form of sanity, though. Surprisingly, God is found here for me. Even if you can't find Him."

"Forced to repeat my hell

As people pretend they need to hear it;

They need to hear it.

And they need to hear it from my tears,

From my eyes, and from my lips.

To help us all, these curious people,

All these good people,

They need to know my dark hours.

It's not enough to see the dark circles I wear.

After the divulsion,

I retreat with only curiosity having been fed.

Is curiosity so selfish?"

Angst and ambiguity is my writing most of the time. The ambiguity is probably a defense mechanism so that I don't let people know completely what I could possibly be thinking/feeling. Maybe that's why Tori Amos' songs done connect in the outright. Ah, but musically, she spells that out. She's good live, by the way. Quite phenomenal, truthfully. It's still cold in here. And courtesy of Lydia...

"Tell me how I finally figured it out,

That now you're caught in the things you said

You'd never do.

And now, its starting to show-

Like her skin fell out out of her clothes.

She's got a list of moves to make.

"Stay for me.

Because it was the first.

It was the...

Stay on me.

"Take your time lighting the room.

When all is said and done

I bet you're covering.

Is it a wonder you're lonely,

Taking chances to feel again.

I bet

You never knew,

I bet you never.

"Stay for me.

Because it was the first.

It was the...

Stay on me.

"Suddenly, a cloud must have cut a hole in my head

When I was tangled all in your words.

How quick to forget,

We are.

With eyes unimpressed

You're sealing the conversations.

And are you wondering how things could be?

Just staring at the surface

When all the walls have tendencies.

But it's not your fault when no one taught you how.

"And now the one you once loved is leaving...

"You're so sure that I'd be just fine here.

But you were surely just taking your own time, Dear."

This Is Twice Now

This weekend, we took a trip to Steamboat Springs, CO. It was for our anniversary. Two years is a long time for me. I'll say that again every year, I'm sure. Why Steamboat? You know, we're members of this travel thing (Worldmark, to get specific), and the Steamboat resort was available on short notice. We're pretty much okay with trying out new places. We will travel the world (but not today). Traveling is not what this post is about. Nor is it about my anniversary. And one of these days, I swear I'll write something more upbeat, more positive. Our trip was good, too, but that's also not what this post is about.

If one were to drive to Steamboat Springs, CO, from Provo, UT, he/she would be forced to drive through towns such as Vernal, Elk Springs, Maybell, and Craig. To give you an idea, in Craig, I almost hit a small antelope who was checking out traffic before he crossed the main road. He really looked both ways with his little antelope head. Craig is bigger than it looks, though. It has some one way roads (although I can't fathom why that would be necessary...), some stoplights, and a hospital. It's called The Memorial Hospital. They're opening up a newer version this fall. I saw the big sign while passing through. I said to Ren, "I wish they had a new Memorial five years ago." Because I keep thinking that maybe things would've been just a little different, a little better. For those doing the math, 2004 is five years ago. July 22, 2004, so I guess we've got an underestimate on our hands. That evening, I rolled up to Memorial in an ambulance. I got my very own. That's what happens if you yell at volunteer EMTs who can't handle the disoriented, confused patient. (The discharge sheet said I was disoriented and confused, but I beg to differ.)

On our way to Steamboat, I told my husband the story all over again, but he said that I never told him that I got my own ambulance. Well, that's not how he said it. He said that I never told him they put me in a separate ambulance. Okay, so maybe they put me there, but I still think I'm justified in being put there. Plus, it wasn't just my behavior. I needed some oxygen away from the current situation. Anyway, Ren made a point (which he does quite often). I've never written this down, and sometimes I get funny when people ask about it because it was private or impossible to describe or frustrating or lots of other excuses.

That year was never anything I would offer to an enemy. Earlier in the year, this doctor gave me medication for taking the edge off (aka antidepressants) because my world got stomped on from multiple angles, every angle. Situational, I guess. I hope. Anyway, I didn't ever feel any different after those, so I decided that I needed to make life changes. You know, the kind where you forget yourself and serve others? The kind where you don't have to swallow tabs with unpronounceable names? The kind where "Jesus takes the wheel" because you can't anymore? I hate that song, just for the record. I thought, "For sure, I'm in this s***hole because of my own poor choices." Or maybe I decided on a mission for my church because I wanted to run? I claim it's because I needed to put my frenzied mind on other things, on other people instead of just one. A healthy decision. Oh, but always sort your junk out before you make decisions like that. This post is not about mission decisions for "selfless" reasons, though. But it's a piece. You see, I then got my mission call to go to the Tennessee Knoxville Mission, the greatest mission in the world (as the saying goes). I must admit, I was a little surprised, but I'll go where I'm called. Getting off track again...

I was scheduled to leave August 25, 2004. Before the big day, there was this fantastic Disneyland extravaganza planned by my dad. I adore Disneyland. I want to live there. What a way to send me off, and the whole family (minus my mom, of course) would be in attendance. Just FYI, this was not a trip planned to send me off. It just happened to be taking place before I left. I needed a little "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride." I won't confuse you with the puzzle my family is, but just know that the trip was supposed to happen on July 24, 2004, and on July 21, I offered to go and pick up my niece in Colorado so that she could fly from Salt Lake to California, to Disneyland. Well, my mom offered, but I didn't (and still don't) trust my mom's driving, so I offered to go as "company." So the schedule would've been: July 21-22, driving to Colorado and back to Utah; July 23, going through the temple; July 24, fly out to California for Toontown. Schedule-schmedule. Are dates even pertinent?

I have this strained relationship with my mom, but I still care about her well-being. I didn't want her driving alone to and from Denver. I didn't own a car, so we took hers. She was angry with me because I took the driver's seat and the keys. Controlling, bossy, impossible. Things she called me and much more. But I was hell-bent on taking charge. And if only things would've stayed that way.

I still find it funny (not laughable funny, not that kind of funny) that when I decided to be less bossy, less controlling, I was placed in the most helpless situation. And in the moment, I remember thinking, "What the hell?! I should've never given her those keys."

I thought a lot of things before, during, and after the car rolled. I sat in the backseat to read to Elise (my niece), which was possibly the best option now that I look back at my seat placement. I didn't have complete loss of control - The Cure was still playing on the CD player. The Wish album. Before thought as my mom overcorrected for whatever reason: "We're going to roll!" Actually, that's what I screamed (and thought) while I looked through the front windshield at the ravine/hill coming toward us. I flung my body over Elise (carseat, too, of course), but that impact was stronger than I thought I was. During thoughts: disbelieving and fearful ones. Simply survival thoughts for the people in the car. And the after thoughts...

In the middle of nowhere (maps call it Dinosaur...). Somewhere in between Elk Springs and Maybell. I call it "Dear God, what will happen to us out here?". My flip-flops were gone, my phone was gone, my vomit-covered cd's were in all kinds of crevices. I would've preferred landing right-side up. As it goes, I just had to make due. I unstrapped Elise and had her crawl out of the broken back window. I hope she had shoes on. I wasn't focusing on those minor details. I called for her. I called for my mom, but she didn't answer. And all of the CPR classes that I didn't pay attention to came full-force. They always said that you think it won't happen to you. Ugh.

I don't need to explain what she looked like not breathing. She just wasn't, and I'll always remember pulling her out like that. And I'll never remember if Elise was watching or just crying on the side of the road. I stopped pulling on my mom when I was told to (twice), and I finger-swept her mouth because I then realized why she had no oxygen. But when the sweep doesn't produce the dreamed-up passageway you intended, you are helpless. And I talked to God in the warm, soft sand. Of all the patches of earth we landed on, this seemed to be the only thornless spot, the only broken beer bottle-less side of road. I felt the quiet all over, and I wasn't worried about any of it. I said, out loud, "I'm still going on my mission, and you can't stop me." I vocally asked God what to do. What to do. And I was ready to let her go, and I was settled with it. I want to watch the replay of this after I die. Because the order of things that happened after I found my peace is hazy. Two men were there blessing my mom on the side of the deserted road, and I never saw them again. But the sand was so soft and ridiculously warm. Someone rolled my mom on her side so that her throat cleared. I ran into the road, waving my arms, yelling, when I heard a car. Elise likes to impersonate me at this point in the story: "Somebody help us, please!" These days, she does it a little more dramatic. She's added her own selection of words as she's gotten older. And I still didn't know where she was standing through it all. I just knew she was living and breathing, no visible broken bones. And I know Gina and Dave were comforting her at their car.

We all lived. My mom was in all sorts of shapes, but her gargling breathing was, nevertheless, breathing. When she was brought about, she didn't remember a thing. She continually rotated the same 4-5 questions to anyone around. Mostly questions about what happened, who was with her, and who was driving. And everytime I answered her, she crumbled. And the cycle began again. I never really know how it all happened.

I held it all together. But my moment for deflation finally occurred while sitting on the edge of the ambulance. This woman just kept questioning me, and I lost my breath. Things get frantic when you have no air. They gave me some after that, and the questions stopped for the moment. I lost the oxygen again while traveling in the ambulance with my mom. The EMT just kept jabbing her with this needle. An IV attempt? I guess. Ren said he was probably a volunteer. And then we had a debate about the government and paying people like that so they can be trained properly. Not what this post is about. Anyway, I expressed myself (disoriented and confused??), and there was a stop made in Maybell where I got my own ambulance with more oxygen. But I only used it when I started thinking.

Maybell's new hospital opens in the fall. That year, July 22, 2004, CT scans must not have been working properly. (Sarcasm??) They ran some on my mom to make sure nothing was seriously broken, and it was confirmed that nothing was broken. However, she kept complaining that her neck hurt. The man moving her from one table to the life-flight stretcher carelessly allowed her head to fall to the side. There was more complaining from her and even more reaming from my mouth regarding the art of listening to patients. They took her to Grand Junction. Head trauma and a broken neck. So much for nothing being broken. The rest is history (which included a halo and fluctuating emotions courtesy of my mom). I was left to take care of the little one, to comfort her, for the night in some hotel that claimed to give a discount in times like these.

I have more to say on this. More thoughts, more insights; however, there's something to be said about the length of this already. I do want to add that I feel the same as Benjamin Button when he looked back at all of the events that led up to Daisy's accident. I remember having that moment myself. Maybe that's why I love that movie so much.

Gravity

I haven't written much in the last years. There are two reasons for it. The first excuse is that I write too much. My journal entries could be books, and my hand would ache for days afterward. And, honestly, who wants to get all up in that? At some point, other people have places to be instead of wrapped up in my ambiguity. The second reason I haven't written in years? Well, you see, I became apathetic toward any of the feelings I was writing all about. I suppose it was protection. I did believe writing helped save me somehow. In those moments. Those frequent moments of frenzy. Letters I would keep and never expose, journal entries, etc. During college classes, I would write on the outside stretches of my crappy notebook, the blank areas. I had to say it, and I had to do it regardless of what Professor Whomever was spewing. If I didn't, I could just simply die. It is a wonder I passed. My thoughts were strewn all over hell. And the writings would be so disjointed. Only I knew the code. My second reason: I lost the "healing" of expression on paper because I shut it out and I stopped feeling all of it. How much easier it is to not feel. And if I didn't write, I could not feel. Magically healed because of those choices? No, it's just a cork at its tightest, keeping all of the contents inside. Sloshing around.

Well, now I can type, so my hand can't possibly hurt that much. And my bottled material is stale. It should be poured out. It should be. I always admire those who lay it all out there. I want to not hesitate. However, I do stop. For fear of criticism from those closest to me because I shared just a little too much about them, their choices, my feelings about said choices. Ah, that tangle I find myself in. I suppose I'll still pick and choose.

Yesterday, my husband stated that he loved that I was so passionate about things. I never tried to be that way, and so I don't understand that statement. I see an average girl with multiple issues, but I don't usually place my love of specific things on my list of "Parts of my Personality." It all seems so normal that people should just thrive off of most things. But they don't. And I know people who don't relish in all of it. So, I guess I'm passionate about things; I take things in. But you have to know that I promptly dispose of items that don't appeal to me. This poses a major problem: it's special to someone else, but not to me, so I fail to remember it. Some people may call that selfishness. I suppose it is to some extent. I also call it apathy, but not toward my items of interest. And that's an unfortunate. So...I started writing again. To feel more clearly. Selflessness ensues?