Socks
I looked at myself this morning. I didn't mean to do that. But I was sitting on my bed, pulling out socks from the dresser. I saw me in the mirror. At that point, I was wearing old school long johns and a bra--the only things I had decided on by that time. Oh, and I was wearing a hat, a slightly fancy skull cap that I wear because it is black and lined. I doesn't pull my hair or leave lint. I was wearing it because I was afraid that if I put it down, I wouldn't find it again before I had to leave.
I was sort of stunned at the picture. The whole thing seemed absurd, and not in a way that I could laugh at . I saw fat, black, unloved, and, except in work, an utter failure. So I turned away and got dressed.
But that body nagged me. It's aging. The weather isn't helping. During the winter I seldom feel warm wthout also feeling clammy. The constant muscle clench and the head down and forward shuffle have changed my posture. I think I must look both old and ashamed. I feel that way. That gait has shortened the muscles in the sides of my calves. My second toes now touch the ground more. My feet are bigger. To stay warm, I wear the same coat daily. I suppose most people do, but most of them are not failing like I am. It doesn't help that I haven't had my hair done since summer. It's both symptomatic and emblematic of how I've been doing here.
I feel as though I've been shedding hair, maybe going bald. The person doing my hair blamed it on something medical. My doctor, who seemed to have never seen a black person's hair before, blamed it on my non-existent "braids." I knew I nneeded help. But I didn't have the energy to explain blackness one more time. 'No, my hair is not braideed. Yes this is its natural texture. It's straighening that requires extraordinary measures. No, it's not fake. Will touching it help you solve my problem? No? Then why would you want to?"
Since then I've just been afraid. I had my regular guy do my hair over the summer, and haven't been able to get to see him. I've been afraid to get someone else. I've been afraid to dye it. I wouldn't dare cut it myself. So it gets longer. more disheveled, and lighter while I ignore it and hope that something will get better or that someone will help me. So far neither has happened and I just feel worse and my life sinks further into disrepair.
Despite the fact that this defies convention a bit, I do think that "disrepair" is the right word. I've got the regular effects of not cleaning the gutters, allowing leaks and letting the foundations rot away combined with those of having termites, getting an occasional branch fall on me and occasional bouts of vandalism and squatters' piss.
Perhaps I'm doing all this to myself, just waiting for rescue. I'm getting worse. I admit it. But that admission doesn't get me anywhere. I've seen this particular brand of pathology in the rest of my family. Inertia, depression and total absence of expectations can be a powerful combination. Yet I know that if anyone in my life saw this, he or she would be worried. Strangers would just think me crazy. And I accept defeat and degradation daily.
I have been unable to keep my house in order. I know this is worse than I have ever been. This is more alone than I have ever felt. Sometimes I wonder why I can't handle things, or how they slip so far out of control. Today, when I was coming in, it became a little clearer. I walked maybe 1/4 mile farther in the 5º weather than I should have because I didn't pay attention to which bus I had gotten on. I passed by a months' worth of mail in the box. Well, I didn't pass it completely. I took out two movies and left the rest, as though the enclosed doom were the equivalent of a monster under the bed. Then I came in.
There's some card on the floor of my first entryway. It's been there for a while. Every day I look at it as though I expect it to be gone or I expect something else to have joined it. I was glad to get it, but could not muster the extra energy to pick it up when I dropped it. Every day, I have too much in my hand or just can't. There's a box of sweet potatoes halfway up the stairs. That I can justify because they need to be kept in the cold; but the truth is, I never had the energy to move them. I can see myself getting up one morning and going outside to get a sweet potato. At the first landing, there's a rolled up rug that I bought in September, for either the living room or bedroom. My bed has been moving nightly for nearly a year and a half. But I haven't done anything about it yet. Well, I've moved it again and again and I've tried to imagine me not moving while in bed, but that's it. Hell, tonight I didn't even turn on the light so I could see what I was doing. I won't help myself that much.As soon as I got close to home, my energy started dropping. I'd just have to turn it off again. I think I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it. Then it would be just one more failure. It happened once. I can't make that a habit too.
On that landing, I attempted to take off my boots. I had decided not to wear them inside. Most of the time I succeed at that, though for myriad reasons, I still haven't succeeded in cleaning the floors and going shoeless indoors. Anyway, while balancing on my right leg, I pulled off my left boot. It's always first. I'm wearing cotton socks today, so of course one damp one slid off with the boot. That's the problem with cotton and warm boots, a constant clammy feeling. With a bag and a glove and two movies, I couldn't dig out the sock and put it back on So I had to sit on the steps and put things down. As I moved, I felt shooting pains in my left thigh. I've had this pain for more than a year. I can't sleep on that side. When I try to get myself psyched to do anything about it, I realize that I don't believe anything can get better-and I do mean anything, not only the leg. Just yesterday, I fell in a way that made both wrists and my lower back hurt a lot. My neck ached when I awoke this morning. Everything else was a little sore. I grumbled until noon then accepted it. It feels as though the pain is me.
Also me is the person who suddenly couldn't bear to make two trips from the top of the stairs down the 4-5 stairs to the landing after my boots were off. That's the me that came to realization as she was crawling, head toward the bottom of the stairs, nearly on her belly on the filthy stairs trying to get her stuff in the dark. This is the person who didn't turn on that hall light though there are switches at the top and bottom of the stairs. This is the person who did not turn on an interior light, the person, who stepped gingerly inside to avoid the minefield of her life's detritus.
I am the person who ran to the bathroom and peed in the dark, in part because of the sudden urgency brought on by the house's warmth, in part because that room's a bit of a mess too. I'd rather not see it. I am the person who then turned on the water, feeling wasteful as it ran until it was hot. I am ther person who saw what I thought I had erased, or rinsed away this morning--a bit of red in the sink, there because out of habit and a need to do at least one thing right, I had made myself a smoothie in the morning. While brushing my teeth, I surprised myself by throwing up. I told myself it was the rush, and maybe not the stress. I told myself it was the toothpaste, though I had used that kind for at least 2 years. I told myself it's not a big deal to drink breakfast and not be able to keep it down. Then I forgot, not even remembering it when asked why I wasn't hungry. I am the person who leaves home each day and (mis?)represents myself as someone else. I don't claim competence, but people misread me, or maybe don't care enough to take in any of my shit. I don't blame them. And I'm such a good helper, good listener. I think that if I were missed, that's what people would miss.
I was sort of stunned at the picture. The whole thing seemed absurd, and not in a way that I could laugh at . I saw fat, black, unloved, and, except in work, an utter failure. So I turned away and got dressed.
But that body nagged me. It's aging. The weather isn't helping. During the winter I seldom feel warm wthout also feeling clammy. The constant muscle clench and the head down and forward shuffle have changed my posture. I think I must look both old and ashamed. I feel that way. That gait has shortened the muscles in the sides of my calves. My second toes now touch the ground more. My feet are bigger. To stay warm, I wear the same coat daily. I suppose most people do, but most of them are not failing like I am. It doesn't help that I haven't had my hair done since summer. It's both symptomatic and emblematic of how I've been doing here.
I feel as though I've been shedding hair, maybe going bald. The person doing my hair blamed it on something medical. My doctor, who seemed to have never seen a black person's hair before, blamed it on my non-existent "braids." I knew I nneeded help. But I didn't have the energy to explain blackness one more time. 'No, my hair is not braideed. Yes this is its natural texture. It's straighening that requires extraordinary measures. No, it's not fake. Will touching it help you solve my problem? No? Then why would you want to?"
Since then I've just been afraid. I had my regular guy do my hair over the summer, and haven't been able to get to see him. I've been afraid to get someone else. I've been afraid to dye it. I wouldn't dare cut it myself. So it gets longer. more disheveled, and lighter while I ignore it and hope that something will get better or that someone will help me. So far neither has happened and I just feel worse and my life sinks further into disrepair.
Despite the fact that this defies convention a bit, I do think that "disrepair" is the right word. I've got the regular effects of not cleaning the gutters, allowing leaks and letting the foundations rot away combined with those of having termites, getting an occasional branch fall on me and occasional bouts of vandalism and squatters' piss.
Perhaps I'm doing all this to myself, just waiting for rescue. I'm getting worse. I admit it. But that admission doesn't get me anywhere. I've seen this particular brand of pathology in the rest of my family. Inertia, depression and total absence of expectations can be a powerful combination. Yet I know that if anyone in my life saw this, he or she would be worried. Strangers would just think me crazy. And I accept defeat and degradation daily.
I have been unable to keep my house in order. I know this is worse than I have ever been. This is more alone than I have ever felt. Sometimes I wonder why I can't handle things, or how they slip so far out of control. Today, when I was coming in, it became a little clearer. I walked maybe 1/4 mile farther in the 5º weather than I should have because I didn't pay attention to which bus I had gotten on. I passed by a months' worth of mail in the box. Well, I didn't pass it completely. I took out two movies and left the rest, as though the enclosed doom were the equivalent of a monster under the bed. Then I came in.
There's some card on the floor of my first entryway. It's been there for a while. Every day I look at it as though I expect it to be gone or I expect something else to have joined it. I was glad to get it, but could not muster the extra energy to pick it up when I dropped it. Every day, I have too much in my hand or just can't. There's a box of sweet potatoes halfway up the stairs. That I can justify because they need to be kept in the cold; but the truth is, I never had the energy to move them. I can see myself getting up one morning and going outside to get a sweet potato. At the first landing, there's a rolled up rug that I bought in September, for either the living room or bedroom. My bed has been moving nightly for nearly a year and a half. But I haven't done anything about it yet. Well, I've moved it again and again and I've tried to imagine me not moving while in bed, but that's it. Hell, tonight I didn't even turn on the light so I could see what I was doing. I won't help myself that much.As soon as I got close to home, my energy started dropping. I'd just have to turn it off again. I think I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it. Then it would be just one more failure. It happened once. I can't make that a habit too.
On that landing, I attempted to take off my boots. I had decided not to wear them inside. Most of the time I succeed at that, though for myriad reasons, I still haven't succeeded in cleaning the floors and going shoeless indoors. Anyway, while balancing on my right leg, I pulled off my left boot. It's always first. I'm wearing cotton socks today, so of course one damp one slid off with the boot. That's the problem with cotton and warm boots, a constant clammy feeling. With a bag and a glove and two movies, I couldn't dig out the sock and put it back on So I had to sit on the steps and put things down. As I moved, I felt shooting pains in my left thigh. I've had this pain for more than a year. I can't sleep on that side. When I try to get myself psyched to do anything about it, I realize that I don't believe anything can get better-and I do mean anything, not only the leg. Just yesterday, I fell in a way that made both wrists and my lower back hurt a lot. My neck ached when I awoke this morning. Everything else was a little sore. I grumbled until noon then accepted it. It feels as though the pain is me.
Also me is the person who suddenly couldn't bear to make two trips from the top of the stairs down the 4-5 stairs to the landing after my boots were off. That's the me that came to realization as she was crawling, head toward the bottom of the stairs, nearly on her belly on the filthy stairs trying to get her stuff in the dark. This is the person who didn't turn on that hall light though there are switches at the top and bottom of the stairs. This is the person who did not turn on an interior light, the person, who stepped gingerly inside to avoid the minefield of her life's detritus.
I am the person who ran to the bathroom and peed in the dark, in part because of the sudden urgency brought on by the house's warmth, in part because that room's a bit of a mess too. I'd rather not see it. I am the person who then turned on the water, feeling wasteful as it ran until it was hot. I am ther person who saw what I thought I had erased, or rinsed away this morning--a bit of red in the sink, there because out of habit and a need to do at least one thing right, I had made myself a smoothie in the morning. While brushing my teeth, I surprised myself by throwing up. I told myself it was the rush, and maybe not the stress. I told myself it was the toothpaste, though I had used that kind for at least 2 years. I told myself it's not a big deal to drink breakfast and not be able to keep it down. Then I forgot, not even remembering it when asked why I wasn't hungry. I am the person who leaves home each day and (mis?)represents myself as someone else. I don't claim competence, but people misread me, or maybe don't care enough to take in any of my shit. I don't blame them. And I'm such a good helper, good listener. I think that if I were missed, that's what people would miss.