Daily Prompt: Transformation

via Daily Prompt: Transformation

Transformation.

That’s what Vanessa calls this stage in my life. She tries to convince me that the tremors that rock that body are transformative. That the fears that creep up the back of my throat threatening to choke me are transformative. I struggle daily to believe that even though breathing feels like drowning, I am not drowning.

At the office today, John skipped a new business meeting because he was nursing a head cold. He didn’t feel the continuous coughing, sneezing and wheezing was conductive to an important meeting. I skipped out on the meeting today because I didn’t feel hyperventilation and wide eyed attendance was a good look. The real problem here though is that John is given a pass.

Physical illness is something that can be seen, quantified, and medicated. Mental illness is something that can rarely be seen, quantified or medicated easily. It’s an evolving field that is still grasping at legitimacy, despite being highly studied.  Mental illness is not talked about in good company and frankly, it’s not talked in any company. It’s this stigma that keeps people suffering in silence. So instead, we play the game: go to work, keep it together, don’t tell anyone(they’ll think you are incapable), try and have healthy relationships, go to bed, rinse and repeat.

Even as I sit here and type, I have to remind myself I am breathing.

But, progress is one day at a time.

 

A Time Travelers Guide to Planning a Funeral- Writing Prompt #3-20 minute challenge

Let me tell you about the first and second time I planned your funeral.

You died on a Tuesday in March when the weather was still tinged with the winters frost, yet not unbearably cold. The trees outside your bedroom window had just barely begun to turn. I remember sitting with you long after the warmth had left your breast. You were so peaceful. The deep creases that had once pulled your mouth into Cheshire cat smiles had settled and fallen slack. Your blue eyes, grayed by rigor, no longer conveyed your mischievous nature.

When they came to take your body, I refused to let them cover your face with the sheet. Frankly, I’m not sure why it was this that set me off but it was a long time before I could will myself off of the kitchen floor.

We played your favorite songs and laid hundreds of lilies on your grave. There were tea sandwiches, PBR’s and corn hole. It was a real “Mainer” affair and I think you would have approved.

When the day had drawn to a close, I gathered up your soft worn flannel and crawled under our down comforter. It smelled like you for a long time despite the fact that you hadn’t slept outside of the hospital bed for weeks. I laid there and spoke to you in thousand silent ways.

The second time I planned your funeral doesn’t matter because it doesn’t bring you back and I could travel time over but it’s not the same without you.

“Start the tape…” Writing prompt #2

Start the tape.

Mixed tapes of my mistakes float from the car stereo

The sorrowful symphonies, written as silent epitaphs

become road maps and roundabouts, leaving pictures of places we’ve been

There is something sad about this song

and a melancholy moan escapes in time with the music

I love this song.

Stop the tape

“I can’t sleep.”- Writing prompt #1

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered, crawling into bed with me.

“Close the window,” I replied, shifting my weight to allow her room.

She lifted the blankets and my melatonin soaked brain only half registered the brief rustle of the sheets and the quick influx of cool air under the covers. I could feel her soft fingertips dance lightly across my arm, as she folded herself into my back: a crescent moon embrace.

It was October 7^th.

It had been a particularly emotional day and we were both still reeling from the strain. Eyes swollen, throats sore and limbs stiff from shaking in the brisk autumn air but her familiar scent was comforting and settling into her, I was surrounded by the smell of lavender and patchouli. Her soft inhalations and exhalations threatened to sooth me into slumber.

I would never be closer to her nor farther from her, then I was right then. Because it was October 7^th and I was sleeping with ghosts. I was sleeping with her ghost. I struggled to hold onto the fleeting feeling of her pressed against my back and her warm breath on my neck…

I woke up cold, clutching the dress she was buried in.