Saturday, my sister, Arlene Swift Perry, passed away.  Heart failure. I think of it more as a broken, unhealable heart. 14 months earlier, we lost Darlene Swift Craver – her identical twin and my sister.

I was still in the midst of learning to discuss my family dynamics in terms of my one sibling gone; now they both are gone and it is even more difficult. I miss them both.

Arlene, was the heart of  us siblings. She was quick to forgive, a peacemaker. She loved the helpless and the vulnerable even though she was that way most of the time. She laughed. She cried. She wore every emotion she ever had on her sleeve.  And she would give them to you to do with as you will, trusting that you would care for them as much as she cared for you.  She was a God-fearing woman, strong in her beliefs and always trying to hint that you should believe as she did.  Then one day she said to me (the dredlocked, Muslim) “I don’t care what you believe as long as you treat people right.”  It was for her that I began to watch my actions more closely. What would Arlene do? Sometimes I could,  other times, I would just as soon forget her moral code and do what I wanted.  But I wanted to make her proud.  She inspired you to want to do your best even if your mind was someplace else.

We buried her next to her sister. They had ben together all through life. It would have been an act of cruelty to separate them in their passing.

I had a pair of identical twin sisters.  Now I have only the memory.

What boggles me the most about it is “where are all these loving caring, helpful people when you are spiraling out of control? Surely someone has to take notice and choose to ignore the obvious. When choosing a harmony  hut for a getaway, you need to take into consideration the staff, the medical access, the other equally not ready for the real world people.  We are not normally able to mix well. It’s a testament to the people there. There are more insanes running the asylums than mentlly stables.  If you’ve been as a resident, you know of what I speak.  Those people ain’t right.

Somehow, it all works out. I’ve begun looking at my trips to the mental ward as little getaways from reality where we are taught how to function within the realities of others. It’s not always pretty. But with enough medication and chemical restraints, we all are eventually compliant. In fact, that is the only time when compliance isn’t a problem for me. Perhaps chemical compliance kits could be given to parents of two year olds and teenagers.

So now it’s official. There are no more babies in my house.  The children are taking care of their own. The grandchildren visit but with the luxury of being sent home when they become too overwhelming. I watch them play, and tumble and fall and my mind drifts to someplace quiet, someplace peaceful, someplace where I can’t be touched or harassed or harangued.

Unfortunately, it’s thought of as daydreaming. Misery loves company so when they see that glazed look in my eye, they feel compelled to snap me out of the one place I really want to be.

Can’t I be left in peace?

Yes, there are combinations of medications and often medications and therapies that can offset what our nature tells us we need to fulfill.  Even with all the help we can muster, many of us fight against the urge. We dream of it. We fantasize. Don’t ever let us fool you. When we have convinced you that leaving this plane is the furthest inclination we have, we know when we are truly honest that we are lying to you and to ourselves.

It’s obvious why those who have a series of hard moments, vicissitudes and just plain melancholia would want to end the pain in such a final way.  Those of us with beautiful families, wonderful friends and supporters, with knowledge of our illness and access to care- we are the ones that baffle the establishment.  I can no more explain to you why I would prefer to choose death over life any more than I could explain the existence of a content, intelligent, Black, gay, Republican.

The feeling overshadows any mood I have. It caps the ceiling of happiness, lowers the bar for sadness. I feel a cloud of pessimism raining on any emotion that surfaces. Over the years, I have learned to pretend to feign happiness. I learned not to talk about it or who I could mention it to without much ado. I know how to gauge the reactions of my friends and medical staffs so that I know how completely honest I can be.  I have learned how to make light of it, to divert the subject, to remove the seriousness so that I don’t have to be visited by the local do-gooders who want me to be convinced that nothing is worth dying over, who would keep me in a room and medicated, talking about my childhood traumas and potty training until I would rather lie than admit that none of those things have the influence that they would attribute.

There is an advantage to my chronic depression. I have learned over the years not to take much for granted. I cherish a beautiful sunrise. I revel in the laughter of children. I treat each day as my last because honestly, I don’t know if it will be. None of us do, but I have the gene that makes me want to control that day. And I never know when it will activate.  Does that make sense to anyone other than someone like me? Probably not. Do I care? Probably not.  Does that make me a threat to anyone but myself? Probably not.

Sometimes the murdered are the lucky ones…

Suicide is Painless by J. Mandel

Through early morning fog I see
visions of the things to be
the pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see…

[Refrain]:
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please.

[Refrain]

The game of life is hard to play
I’m gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I’ll someday lay
so this is all I have to say.

[Refrain]

The sword of time will pierce our skins
It doesn’t hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger, watch it grin, but…

[Refrain]

A brave man once requested me
to answer questions that are key
“is it to be or not to be”
and I replied “oh why ask me?”

‘Cause suicide is painless
it brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please.
…and you can do the same thing if you choose

It frightens me so much that my own son, Trevour, is so much like him. Independent, hardworking, helpful. And it scares me that my Trevour could have been Trayvon, lying in the middle of a yard with a bullet piercing his precious body, his life force oozing from him, deepening the color of the grass.  I know how his mother feels. Her reality is my very clear and present fear.

What would I do without his smile? his laughter? What would happen to my world if I had to clear out skateboards and Nikes?  How would I explain to my neighbors why my babyboy wouldn’t be around to cut their grass or wash their cars? Mrs. Martin should be planning graduation parties, college visits… She is,instead, measuring coffins and choosing his final suit.  A part of me prays that she finds the strength to put him in his deadly, foreboding, menacing hoodie with a bag of skittles and a can of tea to see him to the next world.  The mere thought of what she has to do for her son, sends tremours through me. I don’t know if I would have the strength.

In a few days, my only son, my baby boy who loves skateboarding and hoodies as much as he does skittles and ice tea, will be eighteen.  He is the only son I will ever give birth to in this life. He has a smile that will light up a room. He laughter is infectious. My heart stops beating the moment he leaves me sight and doesn’t start again until he returns.  He thinks I’m overprotective, that this isn’t the era when young men are beaten and lynched or shot for being in the wrong place (read: the WHITE place).  He tells me that now that Obama is president, the old rules don’t apply.  I remember being that optimistic too. And I have the advantage of living the history he only read about. Emmett Tills mother thought the same thing when she sent her son on vacation.   James Byrd was just on his way home.  Raymond Thomas was on his way to his engagement party.  Michael Dawson, Jr. had just stepped out of his car after working a double shift.  Did the people that loved them know that they would never hear their voices again? that they would never hear the jokes and playfulness? that they would be left to survive on memories?  Did they know that the rest of their lives would hold the sea of sand of possibilities?  What if he would have come home sooner? Stayed out later?  Taken a different route?

I am haunted by the last words I speak to my son. I remind him to text me, to call me. I tell him I love him even when I’m so angry at him I could strangle him. And I fear each and every minute that he his out of my presence. I  and pray that he will not be the next Trayvon. I pray that there will be no more Trayvons. I pray hope that each senseless death of a black youth in this country is the one that will be the  catalyst to stop the genocide.

I had never been a fan of hoodies. I know I can’t bring Trayvon Martin back. But maybe, I can keep my Trevour here with me.

Does that sound about right? Good.  So now it begs a few questions because I am thoroughly confused.  Every time I read the paper or watch a news program, I learn the name of a new Republican that has introduced a bill or some sort of legislation that infringes on the rights of others. More specifically, these are usually bills and legislation against women’s rights and freedoms.

Here in Oklahoma, there has been passed a “personhood” bill stating that life begins at conception.  The only reason the Republican majority would entertain such an idea is to figure out a way to make the lives of women oppressive. Well that’s not entirely true. The Republicans also want to prove how incredibly insensitive they can be.

These are people that hide their racism and bigotry and insincerity behind code words likes, conservative, family values.  Meanwhile their lives are reflective of anything but.  They have no idea what the Constitution says or if they do, they certainly don’t understand it. Or maybe they do understand and just hope that we are too stupid or apathetic to care.

The laws are okay as long as it’s on their side.  Religion and worship is fine as long as it’s their religion.  Handouts are okay as long as it’s to corporations and rich people.   So what’s good for others, is not good for them. When the laws are changed to give all equal footing, they scream that there is favoritism or that there is liberal bias.

Yeah, right. Whatever.

Adding to the madness, I met a Black, gay Republican. Really? Yes, really. I had to take a xanax. In fact, I almost said hello to Whitney. Black and Gay AND Republican. It’s like this person never read their platform or worse, never read the Constitution OR read it but didn’t grasp the meaning.

Insanity. Plain and simple.  From their version of the Vagina Monologues to a new fusion of State and Church. I don’t even know where to begin.  These people are fighting against everything that America stands for. They don’t want to be told what they can or can’t do, but have no problem imposing their values on others.

Has anyone watched the debates? Did you make it through them without throwing up? I want to know how you did it because I certainly can’t seem to do it.  Even the Supreme Court is lost without a clue.

Maybe we should start at the beginning with a good civics class and try teaching them what it means to be a member of this society.  Maybe we should give them an island to let them all hash out their ideas and impose their doctrines on one another.  Maybe we should pray for them.  Whatever we do, we can’t ignore them.

Shaking my head…

Now to say that this draggle-tailed gutter snipe was nearly at Death’s door when I opened the box would be an understatement. Sadly, her little sister (we assumed) only lasted three days before she quietly went to sleep never to awaken.  Farrah, spent her time, hiding in nooks and crannies, under the couch and anywhere she could to stay away from us.  Somehow my son snatched her up as she tried to whisk past and he held on to her for dear life.  Tre carried her in his pocket, feed her from his hand, slept with her curled underneath his chin. And within two weeks, she was thriving.  Now I fear that she has thrived too much. She has gone from Interloper to Empress.

18 months later, Farrah owns the house, the neighborhood and all the other animals that abound. She is the reigning queen. Still she remembers her roots and pays homage with an occasional bird or mouse or something dead on my pillow. She rules this roost with an iron paw.  No one moves her once she has situated herself in the center of the unmade bed, lest you find your paperwork shredded, your yarn tangled, your glassware “accidentally” broken. Worse than spiteful, over-indulged children!

She definitely doesn’t like me. Even now she is staring at me from across the room. I feel her plotting and planning. I am in deep trouble.  And now she is moving closer to me, rubbing against me and purring. Surely she is trying to put me at ease. I can’t let my guard down around her.   One never knows what to expect.

Yeah, she’s up to something. I’ll keep you posted.

I reach on my nightstand and grab my laptop while simultaneously sitting up in bed.  Something has rested its way to the forefront of my conscious and I am compelled to write. I can’t stop until I get it out of my head.  There are days when I look at the night scribbles and wonder who that person could have been that set pen to paper and left what is there.  My other selves come out to tell their stories – sometimes funny, sometimes painful, very often reflective.

Sometimes, I blog days in advance. Other times, it’s a short story or a description of a memory.  The further back my memories go, the more painful it is to raise them. I know that it is a necessary process.  It has to be done so that I can heal. I have always been a writer.  I picked up a pencil at two or three and  I honestly don’t remember a time when I haven’t had one near.  Of course, it helps that I have had insomnia for as long as I can remember as well.  And there really isn’t alot to do at night unless you want to catch up on Jerry Springer reruns or Cheaters.

Some nights, I don’t write about my dreams or anything for me. I have several projects that I am trying to complete while this manic phase has it’s fingers wrapped around my braincells and I want to get those as near to completion as I can before I fall into an abyss of depression.  One night I stayed awake writing a pattern for an amirgumi butterfly that I couldn’t get out of my head. Recipes and To-do lists are big night thingies.  Oh yeah, I usually finish my group therapy assignments and notes for my doctors and therapists.

On this night, I went back far into my past and wrote about some things that often keep me awake and stifled. I felt better afterwards, but then sleep eluded me even more than it had before.   So now I’m getting out the markers and crayons and I’m going to work on a Dungeons and Dragons campaign for my nutty family.  When fantasy world takes you there, it’s best to hop on the Pegasus and fly off to parts unknown.    Besides, I’ve got at least an hour before Cheaters!

I will spend the day trying really hard not to be depressed.  I can’t eat the candy- diabetic AND I’m trying to lose weight.  Flowers, nope.  They only remind that it’s WINTER.  I think hubs and I have been together too long to worry about all the outer trappings.  That’s stuff you do when you’re trying to impress each other. We are so way beyond that.   We have trapsed the globe in search of the perfect gift, spent beyond our means, created elaborate plans that included getting rid of the kids, taking off work, losing weight.  We have surprised each other. We have planned together.  At this point, there is little we can do that is above and beyond.  We’ve become old people.  We’ve grown into old people who are comfortable and secure.

He is the love of my life. I don’t think I”ll ever be loved like this again. And I certainly don’t believe that I have the capacity to give more than I do right now. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be about?
So while you all are running around buying flowers and eating candy and reading cards that I probably wrote and sold in my downtime, we’ll be sitting here reading and rubbing each other’s feet or spotting for the one that’s doing sit-ups (that would be him), or laundry or something that we do together.  It might not seem romantic on the surface, but  when we are done, we still know we love each other.  And we saved money too!

Still some of you aren’t satisfied unless I do something reasonably VD related.  So here’s my favorite song of the year for lovebirds.   Hubby doesn’t understand it, but he likes to watch me be happy.    Luv Song

Walking around with the knowledge that you know more than the people around you and that they don’t seem to mind is just downright painful.  I have become a Xanax-Valium-Prozac junkie because of these people.  They don’t “get me”.  Sad thing is that I wish I had known this BEFORE I moved here.  When you’re looking in the Forbes “Best Places to Live”, one of the categories that they need to score but somehow forget to is “collective intelligence” and perhaps community common sense.

The other thing  I don’t understand about Oklahoma is the number of brilliant minds that come here and stay and try to fight.  Remember that old computer game Centipede? That’s what it’s like for us. We are trapsing through ignorance and bigotry and unbridled hatred and misdirected anger and trying desperately to make sense of it all.   So much talent is wasted here because we are Black or Gay or Muslims or Democrat…  It just breaks my heart.

The cost of living is really good here.   It’s a near perfect microcosym of the rest of the country.  The rich continue to become ever richer while the poor continue to hurt and hunger.  This is truly a RED state, almost a police state.  Too many live in fear of the what they do not understand. And there is no attempt at understanding.  Perfect, right?

Why don’t I live if this is such a desolute, wretched existence?  Well, it’s not as simple as I would have thought to explain.  When I drive out I-40 towards Yukon, well when I drive in any direction heading out of the city, I see the God.  There is a cleanness to the land. I see hills and pseudo-mountains. The skies are clear and crisp and blue. The stars hang so bright and so low that you can touch them.  The weather changes at a drop of a hat.  If you stand in just the right place, you can see for miles and miles and miles.  The air is breathable.  The birds chirp louder, the squirrels frolic more.

If you are really lucky, you get to meet the Jim Roths and Tony Perrys and Floyd Martins.  It’s not uncommon to catch a Thunder player in the park, or to see Trish Yearwood in Walmart.  There are little things that bring you laughter. Kids play   catch in the street.  Even me, the world’s most self-exiled recluse can enjoy a mud puddle, tracking in red earth and making my own clay.

So who cares if most of my neighbors are mental midgets? I suppose I’ll have to teach them how to think for themselves. It can ‘t be that hard, can it?