WAKING UP AND COMING TO

I am coming out of the desert. Last week I woke up and realized it has been over three months since my arrest. That is a quarter of a year ago. It is a probationary span at a new job. It is a lifetime for a child waiting for Christmas. I received a phone call from England yesterday and I was encouraged, with love, to not be so bitter; to move on, to see the individual rather than dragging in the world around me. I am ready to come back to the living and the laughing. I am ready; I hope. I pray.

MY FATHER

About three months ago my brother sent me some photographs of my father that quite clearly showed that he was not long for this world. 

This morning I awoke at 5.36 am with a huge panic. I had a physical encounter in my dream that was not a dream on its own. I know that doesn't makes sense so let me try and explain. I was standing of a cliff overlooking the ocean. I was with my father and another brother C. I had picked up a wooden object that looked like two wooden batons joined together in the middle by a hollow wooden ball that was actually a bell. My father turned to me and told me that if I rung the bell over the ocean I would be able to bring back someone dead that I loved. I shook the bell but was not able to get it to chime as the clapper seemed stuck. My father took the bell from my hands and began to clang it violently. He stood on my left and my brother C was to my right. All three of us faced the ocean. After shaking the bell for three times I was suddenly in my apartment, in my living room, were I reside now, heading for the front door. Suddenly something very invisible clasped my arms, holding them by my side, and began walking me backwards. I was immediately aware that that I was wide awake but unable to break free and this caused panic to swell in me. I could feel my body temperature begin to drop. Fast. I could not get out from the drip and I knew I had to survive as whatever it was was stronger than me. I began to look around for something to grab or to help me defend myself. To my right were knives and I was unable to visually see my phone. I could not reach the knives. So still being steered backwards I sat down in a chair and began to say: Help me. I could barely get it out as my voice would not project and was not loud but rather sounded like a small hoarse voice. I repeated these two words all the while my body temperature was dropping fast. Suddenly I woke up and  I was freezing. My nipples were so hard they hurt, not in sexual arousal but rather from paranormal and cold. I was sleeping under a down blanket and the sheets under me were wet. I opened my eyes, looked at the clock and immediately wondered what time it was in California. 

Earlier yesterday, while writing, I suddenly heard a knock at the window. I live on the fourth floor. It was three knocks. It was so loud that I turned off the sound of my TV and went to all the windows to see if indeed there was someone there. It was frightening. I live on the fourth floor. No one can be at the window knocking. No one was there. I was not asleep. I was at my desk writing. I was not in some daze of sleep. 

At 9 am Freda calls and I tell her of the dream and she says: It's your father. I burst into tears. She talks for awhile but I can't hear a word she is saying as I am tuned in to my father out in California. I tell her I will call back but that I must call to see what is going on. I call a bit after 9 and my other brother S answers the phone. I apologize for waking him and tell him why I am calling. He says dad is fine. Then of course he wants to get into my life which I specifically don't want to do. I tell him to say what he wants to say here on the blog and that I am pouring my heart out here and that he can't possibly get any more information than what is found here. He is miffed I didn't answer an email.  I ask him if that was the same e-mail where I specifically asked not to be contacted. Then of course that words that hung in the air are the ones that somehow say: But what you want is not important. Before we hang up he mentions that he has people to take to the airport. I hang up. I go back to Freda. I tell her about the knocks at the window. I interpret it to mean I am losing my mind. I think I am hearing things. Again she tells me it is my father. Then I remember this:

His comment that he needs to take people to the airport brings it all together why I had the dream. They were all out in California for a visit. My brother's. All of them except M who is in Thailand. Everyone but he and I. My father is fading. He has Alzheimer's and only God knows what he can hear or comprehend anymore. Really, only God knows. 

Then I remember another thing. I have had this sort of dream before . Another time I was working at a virology clinic in New York City. I was close to O who was HIV positive. It was a Friday evening. I was on the inpatient floor. O called me to come see him quickly and I yelled into his room, as I passed by, that I had a date and would come Monday. On Monday O was dead. Early Monday morning, near dawn, I awoke from sleep and the first things that hit me was: O is dead. He woke me up from sleep and said, "goodbye". I also woke up with the chicken pox. They are not nightmare-like or confusing. One wakes from them with a definite immediate answer. 

Later that evening I called back to my father's house and asked the care worker to place the phone next to my father's ear. Once she had done so I told him that he did not need to wait for me to come visit him. I told him I was OK and that he did not need to stay for me. He could go when he wanted. I am done with my father. Now it is time for him to let go.

ANOTHER MORNING AFTER A NIGHT

I told myself I needed to get out of the house so yesterday I went to be a spectator at the annual  NYC Marathon. I got dressed up too just in case. Just in case I was to meet a wonderful person that might take me home and make this pain go away. Christ, just in case. I opened my front door and ONE OF THE NEIGHBOURS, (read my husband's Moroccan friends), was coming out the door as well. I, being much greater than the entire country of Morocco said, "Good morning". This was a "good morning" to the same guy who, (whom? who? Today I don't care), on my arrival to Brooklyn, when my husband failed to come home, I had asked directly if my husband was perhaps not home because he was married to another woman. He denied knowing anything. 

I need to digress for a moment. Here is a case and point where I have been told it is Qu'ranically permissible to lie. It is stated that it is permissible to lie to and about spouses if it is done to keep the union together. Let me give an example. If I know X about you and I know that if your spouse found out about it it would cause the marriage to be ruined, it is my duty to not tell you. Let's face it, I know the intention behind this, it's the same as do I really need to tell you that the dress you are wearing is as ugly as sin? No, because it will hurt your feelings and what point will be served? So the intention is a good one. A very good one. Here is the problem with it. Lie to me if you know my husband is going to a bar with his friends rather than to church on Sunday. Lie to me if you know my husband has a secret account somewhere were he is squirreling away money to. You don't lie if you know the spouse is doing something that becomes a deal breaker if the other one knows. Deal breakers are things that cannot be worked out and forgiven. 

Let me see would I have married my husband if I had known the following about him beforehand? That he was married already? That he had an additional small child than the one I already knew about? That this child was conceived while he was married to his second wife? That his second divorce came only one month before he and I married? Would I have married him? Maybe I would have. You see if you give me all of the facts up front then I make a decision based upon those facts. 

I have digressed enough. I watched the marathon pass me by. I came back upstairs, turned on the television to watch the finish, and saw that it was a Moroccan in first place, and felt so angry I began yelling at the picture on the screen. Then suddenly, miraculously, he was overtaken, and eventually beat out, by a Spaniard and I felt elated. And then I burst into tears. I don't remember the rest of the day. I cried so hard and long I feel dehydrated today. The skin on my fingers hurts my hands feel so dry. I have a headache and my eyes are puffy. I woke from sleep with a big fat sense of dread and despair. I woke up wanting to die. My favourite jazz radio station seems to be playing some sort of weird top 100 of cacophonous tunes. It feels like some sort of soundtrack to the madness I am engulfed by. It's raining and overcast. My bed looks like an invitation to die. Everything I own seems like it could care less about me. The episodes, on tape, that I have of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot annoy me, and I feel mad urges to slap the pompousness right out of Poirot. I insert myself into each episode and tell him off. Get a life Poirot. Everyone was living until you showed up, you shite. I don't think I can live through another day. When I open my refrigerator and look inside I think it looks like a nice place to store cadavers. I feel like going outside - it's a perfect day for it-- and spitting on known Muslims. I feel so hurt for me. I hate everyone with children as they seems to be breeding more people to hurt me. I want my father to die so that I have one less thing to worry about. I wish a heart attack upon myself, quick and swift, so I don't have to think about starting a new job. I listen to Fats Waller complain about his companion having feet too large and I wonder why my problems can't be this petty. I wonder how he had the audacity to feel pride in such lyrics. I realize I have never had a Korean lover and think this may solve my problems if I can just find one. I think about teachers I have known and wonder why they didn't see this coming, after all, why call yourself a teacher? 

What is the point of recovery and working through this pain if, all that beckons me on the other side, is a dense profound hatred for humanity? I don't feel good today. 

Today, I can't see tomorrow.