Ericka's 'Verse

The 4^th of July marks a very different holiday for me.  One that I have come to loathe.  And unless you know me well, it is likely not for the reasons you imagine.  Most people suck at mind-reading and are rather fond of weaving tall tales.

This 4^th of July marks the 10^th anniversary of watching my first husband bleed to death in my arms on the hot pavement near our home after being run down by a woman I have since proved was on the wrong side of the road in a blind corner.  It marks me finding out that someone wanted to prosecute the case but could not because of how the police wrote the report.  It marks me ascertaining that writing the report as they did was a split decision, one that was made to spare a young mother the possibility of jail time, because screw the widow, and screw the mother who lost her only son to an irresponsible driver.

July 4^th finds me in mourning of other friends lost in recent months.  It performs its usually cruel magic of nightmares, sleepless nights, tired days, panic attacks, and utter fuck-ups both at work and at home.  There is little I can do to escape it.  But I suppose that the accumulation of really fucked up events in my life led me to this point.

This 4^th of July brought me in memory of something an old friend once said to me.  She is a yoga teacher and a body worker—a Thai Yoga therapist.  She was working on me in her house one day, about a year after Caleb died, and she noticed something.  She noticed that when she asked me to close my eyes, it was not long before my eyelids shot open and my eyeballs bulged out.

“What do you see when you close your eyes?”

That question to me was so profound because no one, not even me, had noted that behavior before.  I began to cry because the truth was too difficult to express, the visions too complex to enumerate, the weight of everything too much to bear, and the sadness too deep to successfully traverse.  So I just cried.

I find myself even now just crying any time I remotely touch on anything deeper than, “Namaste,”  which sounds ridiculous even to me.  I used to pride myself on being less transparent, but in hindsight I suppose I never was.  I fought so hard all my life to get somewhere, but I now find myself a mere shell for something resembling a soul.  It is my greatest regret that I allowed myself to work so hard, then fall to this point.

And yet, there are stories.

One of my coworkers at Trader Joe’s recently commented that she was so happy I lead the life I do because I have the best stories.  At first I thought she was being facetious, but then I realized she was actually delighted by stories of raccoons, and arguing with my attorney husband about the legalities of discharging firearms and what constituted being, “in public,” and the interactions of dogs and chickens, and dogs not even remotely having a flea bath which explained the rather interesting wound on my arm, and goats freaking themselves out and passing out because of a genetic disorder, and how I was going to hell for freaking out said goats on purpose because it’s funny, and that one time a farmer shot at me when I was flying an airplane and buzzing his turkey farm because it seemed funny to my 16 year-old brain right up until the point I got shot at (mostly funny).

I suppose the ultimate point of this rambling piece is that life is life, and as insane as mine has been, most people would kill to have it.  So, to my dearly departed, I hope to see you again.  But more importantly, to my dear friends who have become family, I bow in gratitude for you and your faithful presence, in spite of my unfortunate lack of manners.  Thank you for seeing through my rather thin but sometimes well-cloaked veneer.

To return to what I see when I close my eyes, well, many times I see blood boiling on pavement, I see zombies, I see death certificates, I see a wedding ring and an iPhone returned to me, I see the kind face of Shasta the M.E. (yes, I still remember her first name), I see all the wonderful yoga students who have graced my life, the dear friends I’ve made from all walks of life along the way, the neighbors who have helped me out and not told on me for all my misdeeds, the parents of my late husband who I love and with whom I still converse.  Some things are quite jarring, but most are filled with love and hope.  I have a husband whom I love, a new adopted family who I love and are so kind and generous, people who are close to me and care for me.

I cannot feel anything but gratitude for my tiny little world filled with friends—humans and animals alike.

Happy 4^th of July.