1 Year in a Day

A woman wakes up on the day of her mother’s funeral. An unopened envelope sits on the dresser near her head. She gets ready and places the envelope in the pocket of her dress, the reason she picked it from her closet. The prep before the funeral is filled with constant action and interaction, every moment full while she is mostly disconnected. Going through the motions. Like swimming in a hazy pool, faces only in focus when they hit the center of her vision. Edges a blur she doesn’t mind or notice. However, intermittently, she has flashbacks, vivid memories of her and her mother. They are mostly negative: her, in various stages of life, having an argument with her mother, yelling at her mother, saying something mean about her mother to friends. She is clearly troubled by this, the sadness she is trying so hard to suppress is breaching the surface, starting to leak over the edges, spreading its arms in every direction. This forces her to push it down, plug the leak, place a veil of numbness over everything she says and does, no matter who she is interacting with or what they are saying. She doesn’t care who they are, or what they have to say, really. How can you care about something so small when you cared about something so big and it’s gone? Your care is still there. But the object. No. You’ll never see her again and your care just emits with no end.

At the funeral, she listens to the speeches, feels something. Not for herself but for those speaking. There are no tears. This isn’t the place. Too many people she doesn’t really know, who didn’t really know her mother. She walks out with what’s left of her family, knowing that this ride together is one they will only take once. The radio is on to drown out the ear-splitting silence. She continues getting flashbacks, terrible memories of her mistreatment towards her mother. Emotional abuse. God, she was such a bitch. Such a fucking asshole. “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone” might be the saddest phrase ever uttered, sang, preached, tossed out like something cliche and meaningless when really it means fucking everything. The kinda phrase that is so fucking depressing and basically sums up life here in this shithole so well that you might as well just kill yourself right now. Just pull the trigger. Pop the pills. Unbuckle the seatbelt and jump. She stares out the car’s window at so many other cars full of people that have or will go through exactly what she’s going through, because it’s nature and fuck nature anyway. The envelope is heavy in her pocket.

Family gather at the house, a potlucked assortment of various baked goods. Comfort foods. In her first and only real home, she sits with different groups, engages in conversation as minimally as she feels she can get away with while still appearing like a human with access to her soul. She looks into the hallway leading to the kitchen and another memory hits like a slap in the face she deserves. Where are the goddamn memories that a person needs in a moment like this one? Or any moment after this one til there aren’t any left cuz all the moments are ruined. Incomplete. Who needs moments now anyway? You want them? Here, take them. No? Alright, I’ll leave them here on the table next to the potato salad.

It’s time for bed. Dark clothes off, her mother's pearls carefully removed and put away. Envelope comes out of the pocket and back onto the dresser. Standing there in her underwear, staring at the floor, incapable of understanding how anyone could ever sleep again. Close your eyes, break from this scraping reality, and replenish? It can’t be done. She sits down on the edge of the bed. Sobs like she has never sobbed before. Literally, this level of emotion has never manifested itself physically in such a fury as to create these sounds. Even suppressed by her hands and held breaths they are unhinged and frighten her. She doesn’t try to stop it, letting it all out at once so she doesn’t have to look at it again. She’s left spent and aching and cold. Shivering. She climbs under the covers, turns off the light and then her mind.

Dreaming, she is flooded with more memories. Nightmares. Everything, all over again. Then a light. A door ajar in her dreams, streaming more and more light as it opens. Shit’s blinding. The whole room is white suddenly, every bit of dream evaporated. Just light. There stands her mother. Happy. Beautiful. Just in love with what she grew inside of her as ever. Radiating that motherly love like fucking bullets at close range, blood everywhere. This pain is worse than the memories. Her mother speaks, tells her she has got to stop with all of this sad, depressing bullshit. I mean, Jesus. Why would you want to remember those things? They weren’t you and me. You and I were hilarity and fun. You and I were books and negotiations and Hooked On Phonics and long international phone conversations and gymnastics class and pedicures and rubbing the inside of your palm when you had a headache. You and I were forever. Let’s think about something else. Let’s remember you and me. She is overwhelmed with happy memories. They are everywhere. They see her standing on the precipice of her no-bottom sadness, the hole she will fall into sitting, right there, in the middle of her chest. And they push her away from the edge. She can still see its depths but her toes aren’t over the edge anymore, the plunge no longer inevitable or welcome.

She wakes up. Light.

She opens it. It’s a letter ending in Love, Mom-O.

Realizing That Self-Realizations Are the Best Realities to Realize

I had a mind-blowing self-realization last night.

Let me begin by telling you about my new friend, Racheal. She’s been working in my office for over a year now but we’ve only slowly become friends over the past couple of months. She is sweet and funny and asks a lot of questions about life as she is trying to understand and give depth to important issues by listening to the perspectives of others. Which I think is fantastic because I love to talk about things like systemic prejudice, the obstructive power of hierarchy, and the possible reasons why people stay with their abusive significant others, just to give a few examples.

While running into each other in the restroom the other day, we once again began to chat about deep topics and Racheal had mentioned that her mother had passed a few years ago and this had, in part, triggered her move to NYC. I had the immediate feeling that she and I should talk about this more as I am very eager to speak to people about the experience of losing a mother and how that impacts our lives going forward, especially as women.

She and I met for drinks last night and we spent over an hour bitching about work, discussing our romantic relationships and the trials of dating, before finally coming to the topic of losing our mothers. Through our conversation, I realized that there is a Pre- and Post-Adrienne. The before and after versions of myself with the pivotal moment being the loss of the person who loved me most in the world.

Pre-Adrienne didn’t really date much. Pre-Adrienne had a support structure and felt safe that she could remain independent and unbound and, if life went a little south, there would always be people there to help her get back on her feet. I took risks and I allowed myself to embrace the noncommittal attitude that made serious relationships and full-time employment seem so unappealing. I knew I would eventually find something I loved to do and someone I loved to be with but I was in no rush and enjoyed my freedom all the while knowing that I had a support structure to fall back on if necessary.

Post-Adrienne does not want to find herself all alone one day. She worries that each person in her life that loves her and would do anything for her will be gone and there will be no one left to help her through the hard times. Post-Adrienne now knows just how hard the hard times can be and how much she needs loving people in her life to help her get through it. Post-Adrienne suddenly desires stability and safety and wants, more than anything, to find that one person to love and by loved by and build a life with. I am looking for my life partner because I NEED someone that is mine (and I am theirs) and when times are rough we are there for each other. Someone I can rely on completely because the one person in the entire world who loved me more than anyone else is gone and I realize how the loss of a love like that leaves a hole and I desperately want to fill it.

*Please forgive me for writing in the 3^rd person – I took creative license and it may have been a bit douchey.

Since my mom died and I moved back to NYC, I have been in a constant stream of relationships. And the moment I feel like one isn’t going in the serious, committed direction I want it to, I abandon it and move on to the next. I’m not cold about it. I get pretty attached to these guys. Obviously. They represent my savior who is going to keep me from being alone during life’s tumultuous moments and give me happiness, fulfillment and encouragement the rest of the time. We will build memories and love each other and life will be so much more fulfilling because I have this lovely human to share it with. I still think this is a wonderful thing to aspire to and this change in attitude isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just that I am now realizing I am approaching it with a desperation and fervor that is coming from a dark place. A place I don’t venture to often because it hurts. Which is probably why, for a girl who self-analyzes on the regular, I missed this glaringly obvious piece of myself, this Post-Adrienne.

About a year ago, after a break-up with a guy I’d been dating for just a few months, I had a serious breakdown. I was feeling so low and crying so hard I could barely breathe. And I didn’t even like him that much! I was flabbergasted as to why I was reacting that way and called my best friend to try and explain and hoped that she could offer clarity. I sobbed into the phone trying to explain that this guy had really liked me and that felt so nice and my mom is gone and I need someone, I need a someone that is all mine so I have someone to support me and make me feel cared for, and this guy wasn’t the right guy but there has to be some guy, right? It was an almost incoherent mess of words as I was trying to connect my break-up to the loss of my mother. I didn’t understand it myself, couldn’t articulate it well, and Amanda was at a loss as to what to say to help me through this moment. I think she tried to understand but couldn’t relate to what I was feeling.

When Amanda lost her mom at 23, she was already married. The only person she could talk to about her loss was Charlie. He was and is her person. Her family. Her support. She tried to talk to me about it – about how that loss felt and how much it meant for her to have me by her side during it all – but she was unable to get it all out as the emotion and vulnerability were too overwhelming. She told me she could really only talk to Charlie about it – having someone like that is a really beautiful thing.

I’m happy to have made this realization. I can’t completely separate my search for a loving life partner from the emotions associated with my mother but I can most definitely control it better than I am doing now. I had no idea that this was the overwhelming feeling I was experiencing and even less aware that it stemmed from this loss. Basically, I have some serious soul-searching to do as I continue to live and date and love and progress throughout this uncertain life full of ups and downs and self-realizations.

Thank goodness for those moments. The moments when the “crazy” you feel takes on a shape you can wrap your head around and create a game plan to address. I know my healing is far from over and may never actually end but I’m thankful for this next step in the process. Here I go…

To Write, To Share, To Connect

It's been well over a year since I last wrote in this blog.

I love to write and thought that starting this blog a year ago when my transition back to NYC was pretty rough would help me to organize my thoughts and feelings - while at the same time feel a sense that others might read it and we might connect on some level that we don't fully understand. Some level that technology and globalization brings us that we have yet to put into words in a way that can fully capture the connectedness of humanity.

Or some such bullshit.

Now I'm back and for a similar reason. I've been living in NYC for roughly 3 years, with a 6-month absence when I moved back home to California to be with my mom after she was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. I had been studying abroad for the summer in Colombia and thinking that life couldn't be sweeter, when I got a call from my dad saying that my mother had multiple tumors, malignent, and it had spread - I better come home quick. I was there the next day. The doctors gave her 11 months - she died 11 weeks later. With my brother holding one hand and myself the other. We whispered comforting things into her ear as we squeezed her hands, brushed her hair from her face, and watched. There was a moment when she was gone and we were still there and that fact seemed so impossible and the knowledge of what our lives had become, absent of the woman who loved us most, so huge and so incomprehensible that we stood in silence. My brother then walked outside. Screamed. Screamed so loud from the bottom of his tattered soul that I rushed outside and held him tight while he cried and screamed, cried and screamed, fists clenched, muscles so tight it was like he was made of stone, staring at the sky and at the house and at me like he didn't have any idea what to do next. The only thing left to do was let our hearts keep breaking - crumbling into the soles of our feet.

It is at this point that I went pretty numb to the world for about 4 months. I apologize to my family who had to deal with me in this state - I wasn't much help to them emotionally as I could barely handle what was happening to me. I really am sorry.

I couldn't have possibly written about this a year ago when I started this blog (the rough transition mentioned above). The wound was too fresh and I would sob myself to sleep so often that it became normal.

I remember dating a boy shortly after moving back. Dating was still a pretty new concept to me and I had met him on OKCupid. A red-headed, beautifully bearded plummer, born and raised in Brooklyn. He was interesting and complicated. Kind of an asshole but with the potential to be the opposite. I couldn't share any of these precious, fragile emotions with him. He'd been broken-hearted and this caused him to be closed off emotionally. I didn't know how to handle this so I broke off the relationship within a few months. Having dated several broken men since, I realize we all have broken pieces because we've all lived. We aren't 18, clean and untouched. We've loved and lost and tried and failed and jumped, dived, crashed, burned.

This didn't go where I thought it was going to.

I've never told anyone about my mother's last moments. Always wanted to, never could. Now here they are. For anyone to read. And it feels good.

I think that's why I wanted to start this again. Type what I can't say. Articulate the things that I have trouble verbalizing. My mind works best in writing. I should have been born in that era when letter writing was an important and time-consuming part of everyday life - capable of sustaining long-distance relationships. You know, like in all those Jane Austen novels. I'd Pride & Prejudice my way into Mr. Darcy's castle so fast! Well, no, not so fast cuz it took a really long time for letters to get places. Then you have to wait for a response. And you know he would have written and re-written that thing at least 6 times - you can easily do that with a text message but hand-written letters, forget about it. Then, if he spilled the ink bottle all over it, the whole thing is fucked. Then one of his servants has to make a day-trip to town to buy him another bottle - which is not cheap! - and then he has to start again. Except he can't that day because the Duchess of Windchestshire Abbey is visiting and you know how she can be. And then, when I finally get his letter, he uses "there" when he means to use "they're" and I lose interest completely.

So, I'll just write here instead. This is the conclusion.

- Adrienne

I Want a Job. No, Not That One. THAT One.

I had a job interview today. I had a different job interview a few days ago to help run a pre-school program associated with a pretty cool charter school in Red Hook. I'd told myself I didn't want the job because the hours are long and I'm still in school, not to mention Red Hook is difficult to get to from this side of Prospect Park without a car. Then I got an email from them saying they have chosen to "continue with other candidates" and my heart sank. Why not me? What did I do wrong? What did I say? What didn't I say? But I think I know the answer: I wasn't passionate about the position. It's not quite what I want to do but I pursued the interview because I need a job, money. The stress my poverty brings me on a daily basis verges on the brink of an anxiety disorder and seriously affects my sleep. I hate money, how necessary it is. But, that's the world.

Anyway, the job I interviewed for today is much the same. A job I'm not all that interested in but it'll pay the bills while I finish school. The types of jobs I really want I can't get because my background is all wrong for them. Without my graduate degree complete I have little background in policy - the transition to this field is kicking my ass but I won't give up. Not without a serious fight. In fact, I suppose I should be anticipating tears and bloody knuckles. I knew this wouldn't be easy and it isn't. It's fucking hard. But I'm strong, resilient. I'll keep chugging and my wonderful friends and family will always be there to help me along. I'm actually quite blessed and have learned how to truly appreciate good things when they do come. I may have written most of that last part to cheer myself up but I also mostly believe it.

I hope they offer me the job. And I hope they don't. I wonder if I should wait one more month for all those policy positions floating around out there with my resume in the mix to meet their deadline, wait for someone to send me an email asking when I'm available for a phone interview. Then an in-person interview. Then a "Congratulations, we like you best!" Wouldn't that be lovely?

I need to edit my resume. Make it snappier. Flashier. Impressiver.

I then got free coffee at a cafe where a friend of mine is a barista. She's almost always happy. It's nice. She flirts with cute men who buy her cappuccinos and experiments with coffee art. Why can't I be that care-free? Care-free...what the hell is that?!?! I know it when I see it though I'm not sure I've ever experienced it. I suppose caring is good, worrying is bad. I need to work on that. I don't worry, I care. Yes. Sure.

Then a subway ride with a good book. Walk the dog. Eat. Debate whether or not I should go for a run before it gets dark and then remember that I haven't bought a new pair of tennis shoes yet. Now the goal is: a workout video (Jillian Michaels is such a bitch), a good dinner using the salmon I bought (frozen), then applying for jobs while I watch a movie in the background. Perfect for a foggy Wednesday afternoon.

I still love this city.

B Train

I've been back for just a few days and find it shocking that everything looks and feels the same. It's like I never left. Which is nice though underwhelming and I still worry about all the same shit I did last time I was here like money and employment and school and boys. What a cliche.

I wake up late because I still haven't transitioned from California time and 10:30am feels like 7:30am which means that I am not at all lazy but quite the early riser considering I have no big plans for the day. I take a shower and walk the dog. It's beautiful and sunny and all I wear is the light, purple coat I bought at Target on the 50%-off rack - something I brag about every time someone mentions my coat in casual conversation. I wonder what it would be like if someone mentioned something about my coat in un-casual conversation. Probably something like, "Shit! Your coat is on fire!" Back inside, my hair is mostly dry so I curl it, something I don't do often so I feel pretty damn fancy.

My roommate suggests going to Union Square before we head over to the Center for Architecture for a talk about Urban Planning and Resilience. We take an unfamiliar subway. The B. The B existed in Harlem but I never took it because it was slow and went to parts of Manhattan I wasn't interested in. Apparently, it goes all the way to Brooklyn and is quite speedy on this side of the East river. I read from my Kindle and allow the familiar sway to guide me towards The Borough.

Union Square is just as crazy and weird as ever. I'm fairly certain the beat of those Congo drums doesn't change and if it ever stopped the earth would cease spinning. I don't know the scientific details of what would happen if the earth stopped spinning but I'm pretty sure we all die so thank God for those beanie-wearing hippies and their desire to make noise in public. We head to Bank of America so the roomie can take care of a few things because being an adult is stupid and then we decide to walk up Fifth Ave. and look at clothes we can't afford.

We find the sale section of a store that is so stupidly over-priced that I want to hate it but I don't. Instead I love it and hope to make irresponsible purchases there one day. Even the sale section is far out of our financial reach but we each pick a pretty occasion dress (we have no occasions) and try them on. Beautiful. Then we hand them back to the very pretty and very snooty lady in the dressing room and walk back out to the streets, Empire State building in the background. I love this city.

We walk down, past Washington Square park - the Christmas tree is still up and lit under the arch - and find a cute cafe just a few doors down from the Center for Architecture. Two black coffees from a bearded barista and we're ready for an academic talk about Urban Design. It's interesting and engaging and the immensity of urban planning challenges overwhelm and excite us all. Time for free wine.

Our friend from the graduate program we all love and hate came and brought yet another friend, new to our program and new to the both of us. He is funny, intelligent, and nice which is a rarity I did not ignore. We went for drinks at a cute Brazilian bar and restaurant nearby. Two Dos Equis. Good conversation (weather, sports, weather, our interests, weather) and lots of laughs made for a great night.

B train and bed.