Down the Rabbit Hole

"Grasshoper" or the project that plagues me...

I have been editing in my free time, which is admittedly in short supply. On a positive note, I believe I may have found a home for the book, at least a place where the manuscript will get decent consideration, a place to start anyway. Though the story is already written, the work of editing, polishing, turning snapshots of emotion into an actual piece of writing is difficult. The subject matter brings me back to places that are dark, touches places in my spirit that are still tender. It has made me irritable and moody. I tell myself that with every effort comes reward and not to lose sight of the goal, which is ultimately, to publish the story that I need to tell and the hope that in turn, it affects others in a positive manner. But this, this is hard work particularly as I edit through the portion that deals with very intimate musings, in particular a series a letters in which my own voice is so prominent, my observations and feelings the key focus...it is unnerving to reread the passages given who am I today.

Reworked 1/9/10
Grasshoper
March 7th, 2005
Today is Monday and you have been heavily sedated since Sunday morning. The nurses tell us that this phase of your detox could last twelve to thirty-six hours. Detox , I can't believe that I word has entered my life again after this past year, when you were supposed to be "living sober".
The nurses inform us that it would do no good to visit, that you would not even know that we are there. Want to know what I think? I think the nurses are thinking more of us, wanting to spare us from the tragedy of seeing you on a ventilator, breathing through a tube. You were walking when I brought you in, sickly pale, your skin oddly cold to the touch yet slimy with sweat. Is it possible you could look any worse now?

It took me hours and hours to clean the bathroom. I would like you to know that. You must have been vomiting blood all night, trying your best to clean up afterward but missing most of what was not immediately obvious. I got sick myself, several times, scrubbing away at the tiles and porcelain only to find more and more traces in the cracks and toilet seat cover fittings. I finally gave up, torn the old seat off and threw it in the garbage. I went through a jug and a half of bleach getting our tiny bathroom sanitized. I wonder if I could ever use it again without smelling the coppery rot of your sickness.

The apartment is so empty. I have hours and hours to myself. I spend those hours trying to understand. As time wears on, my feelings have crystallized. Nagging doubts have crept in and taken residence in my heart. I realize that I never knew you, not the real you. I fear that your deceit was so broad, so entrenched, that perhaps everything was part of the act, even your love and your devotion to me. I think that it was just another part of the disguise, another part of the smokescreen you needed to continue your affair with the bottle. The betrayal is something I'm only beginning to process and the anger is kept at bay only by my constant and anguished worry for you.

It has been hard to stay away. Earlier on, before the withdrawals became too fierce and you had to be restrained, you reached out to me in your delusions. You held my hand as best you could, you stared at me, you raised your eyebrows and called me "sexy", the goofy nickname you gave me that I pretended to hate. You tried to make me your accomplice in escape, in a secret smoke, in a forbidden phone call. I touched your face, it had taken me days to get even that close to you, and you leaned into the curve of my palm and closed your eyes for a moment. I actually felt my heart break and it left me gasping for air. I left you sleeping and went home. I cried most of the night without sleep of my own.

God, how I want to be angry, to hate you for this, this senseless, horrible thing you have done to yourself. I want to be angry for the lies, for times I confronted you and you assured me you were fine. You offered me a steady diet of false truths and I just swallowed them and smiled. I think I could not hate you more and then I think of your face, of you lying in that bed and suddenly I can't find the fury, only tears. I can think only of the little moments of us, the things I miss like the curve of your back against me at night, the way you always held my hand while you read the paper at breakfast or the way you would always look at me as if you had never seen someone more beautiful.