Pieces of Life
I wanted to write a piece of heartbreaking beauty.
But the reality is messy. And ugly.
Sometimes hideous.
The reality is mundane and frustrating and overwhelming. Never-ending.
Never Ending
Memories pile up like stacks of paper that grow on counter-tops and seem to reproduce themselves in the night.
I try to create beauty—and separation—with the gloss of beautiful words. I write blog posts that package my life into clever, compact stories with characters and story-arcs and tidy little endings. But that’s just an illusion.
It’s like taking an Instagram photo. I choose a finish that grants a false patina of time and distance… a finish that makes the blur of shaky hands look intentional, artful even. But it doesn’t fool anyone.
And just as the childhood photos we look at again and again become cemented into Memory—that’s who we were, that’s what we did—the posts I write are an attempt to draw a boundary around portions of my life and force them into making sense—that’s what happened, and that’s why, why, why.
Yet, “Why?” is a question with no real answers.
How can I possibly make sense of these things:
- The weekend before Father’s Day, a police car pulls up and two uniformed men get out and ring our doorbell. My mother sends us to my sister’s room. Several minutes later, she comes in and tells us, “Your father was shot. He’s dead. He’s not coming back.” She is eight months pregnant.
- They gather the senior class into the high school gymnasium. We look at each other, not knowing what it could be. The principal announces, “Last night, EB committed suicide. Counselors are available for anyone who wants to talk about it.” We bury him on the day I turn 18.
- One month into college, my mother calls me: “Your brother’s friend AW, the one he always got into trouble with, hit your sister’s friend, LD, with his car. He killed her. He wanted to know what it was like.”
- Just after the New Year, my friend calls me at work: “HS was walking in the woods near the camp. A tree fell on her and broke her neck. She’d dead.”
- I spend a decade married to a man, an award-winning teacher, who is never there. Toward the end, I find lingerie, notes, wigs, condoms. The girl, his student, is seventeen. The investigation relieves him of his teaching license for unprofessional behavior, but no charges are pressed. They are married now.
- My baby, my sweet daughter, looks at me with glazed-over eyes and punches me. Kicks my pregnant abdomen. Knocks over furniture. Shatters water glasses, throws rocks. I get concerned emails from her teachers. We go to counselor after counselor. There is no help.
None of these things make sense. That’s the reality.
Yet, they are the album of my life. They are the memories that even Instagram can’t fix. They pile up, up, up and threaten to overtake me.
Hold Me
So.
I wake up each day, force myself out of bed.
On weekends, my new husband lets me sleep in. He brings me tea, decadently sweetened. He cracks open the window shade, and lets me take time to reenter the world.
I take my pills. I go to yoga. I drink plenty of water. I eat dark chocolate.
I hug my children; tell them, “I love you” even when I’m not sure I feel anything at all.
I take pictures, and put the happy ones in albums so we will all remember a family life more idyllic than it was.
And I write.
About Kylie
67 Comments on “Pieces of Life”
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Absolutely right!
Thank you for sharing your pain with us. I hope it helped you. It touched my life.
Thank you. I’m glad to hear that.
I know what you mean, when you say “I’m not sure I feel anything at all”. I think there are many people in that boat, some don’t even know they are. This culture (imho) is very good at pretending, and I could see how harsh reality could sneak into one’s life unnoticed until the baggage gets so big that it tears you down. Meanwhile the merry-go-around continues to spin.
In German we say “acknowledgement is the first step to improvement”; you’re on your way.
If you need something, or if you are in the area (ever), lmk.
Thanks TAE. It felt pretty vulnerable to expose so much here, but I realized it was coming from a place of shame, and I’m trying to let go of that.
Acknowledging fears and weaknesses is far from being shameful, though. If there’s anything you feel shame for, facing it redeems you from all of it, imho. Don’t hesitate to reconcile with yourself, it’ll make you stronger.
Those are my beliefs anyway.
Thanks–I wholeheartedly agree. We should talk more about this privately too.
Agreed.
It’s amazing the happenings in life that lead people to disbelief, let alone when they all collect on the counter-tops like that making people grasp at the air for any coherent words of comfort. Had we been sitting across from each other, you’d get a reach out from me, a look of shock and concern, but silence would be the only sound in the room.
Thank you. Sometimes, a ‘reach out’ is all a person needs.
Thank you for getting up and writing, Kylie.
We just met, but I’d miss your prose and imperfect humanity.
Thank you so much. The feeling is mutual.
And you’re very welcome–especially considering one of my kids was awake for TWO HOURS in the middle of the night last night. Is it nap time yet?
Thank you for sharing.
You are right..reality is often messy. Hopefully in between that mess you can find moments of joy. Wishing you happier days ahead………….
Yes, thank you! Fortunately, there are many, many moments of joy, too
Daily.
We collect the pieces and move on. That’s what life is all about. It sounds like you have many many pieces, but you are making a mozaic… You are stronger because of it.
I love that: a mozaic. What a perfect image.
The more pain we go through, the more easily we dissociate — from the unexplained reality around us as well as from ourselves. You find your way back, even when it doesn’t make sense. You keep getting up. Your words draw you to us. This was heartbreakingly beautiful.
Thank you for sharing.
Thank you so very much. And it’s true. We do keep getting back up, and back to ourselves.
We discover our true selves through trying times. And our true selves are so complex.
Wow. A powerful and painful piece. But inspiring in its authenticity. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you Jennifer. I’m “compulsively honest”
I get so inspired by hearing about other people’s growth through adversity–it’s part of what makes us human, and also helps us know we are not alone. Thank you for your comment.
Kylie, this was the first post I read this morning. I didn’t know what to say. It’s five o’clock now and I’m still uncertain I could say anything close to what I am feeling about what you shared here. Even reading the very supportive comments, I’m at a loss and don’t want to write an epic comment, but as you responded above, I too am “compulsively honest.”
So, I’ll go back to the first thing I thought when I read your post early this morning. I loved someone once who was fond of saying, “There is no answer to the question why.” He said it when he cheated, when he lied, when he was abusive. He took his own life and all I wanted for a long time was to know why. It wasn’t until much later that I realized he’d already given me the only answer I would ever get.
You are a courageous person.
Ahhhh, what a way to wake up! Sorry about that
I really appreciate your comment–having lived with a similar person for so long. It’s hard to recognize–or realize–the depth of lying when you are such an honest person. I always assume other people are as open and forthright as myself; no matter what happens, I continue to be a trusting person. Not in a naive Pollyanna way.
Anyway, reading up on personality disorders really helped me understand what happened in my first marriage. Like another post said this week, it is what it is.
Kylie, you have had share of traumatic events. I was really moved by this. Write away. I hope it gives you solace and helps you heal. I hope more lightness lies ahead of you. Thanks for sharing your story.
Thanks Amy. Writing IS such a solace. It’s like taking those stacks of papers and finally dealing with them.
And, sometimes, it’s the “dark” that helps us recognize and appreciate the “light.”
It really is impossible to figure out the Why. It’s also impossible to try to turn traumatic memories into warm fuzzy ones. You’re doing as much as anyone possibly can to make the most of your situation, cope with the past, and provide your family with some good things to look back on. Thank you so much for sharing this, Kylie—I know it can’t have been easy or pleasant.
Thank you.
It’s the first post I’ve written that’s made me cry while writing it!
So much of this is just my “normal.” Blogging over this past year has helped me take a closer look at my life, both past and present. It helps so much to get it out of my head and onto the screen–and then to have the added gift of conversation and connection is such a blessing.
Oh Kylie -
Hi D. You came out of hiding.
Here and there ~
Like some others, I don’t feel I can add anything, except to say that your post gave me the shivers. That you had to go through all that and still are. In a way it’s terrifying that you’re getting through life at all. And with such grace.
Thank you. A lovely comment. I don’t always get through with grace, but the chocolate helps
Stunning. There’s something so intrinsic about this piece. I have no words.
Thank you.
Reblogged this on The Life of Kylie and commented:
So honored to have a guest post on Black Box Warnings today.
Brave post. Some people seem to get more than their share of grief and horror. There is no good answer to WHY? Hang in there.
Thank you so much. I’ve also gotten more than my share of joy (at least these past few years), so in the sum total of things, I consider myself a very lucky woman.
I’m not sure how important the why is. Even if you did understand the why, it wouldn’t change what happened. I guess its just best to accept things for what they are and focus your energy on the present and future instead of the past.
Yes–writing about it is my way of accepting and moving on. I’m finding it a good thing to do at middle age.
A few months ago, my husband and I were walking through a park and chatting. He remarked, “You talk about the past, while I talk about the future.” That gave me such pause. He’s a dreamer and an optimist, and while I love it, it also puzzles me. I’ve had so many things that put an end to my future plans, that focusing on the present is the best I can do.
Focusing on the present is a start. Its definitely better than the past.
Kylie,
you are right, none of these things make sense! But why try to find a logical explanation instead of accepting that what has happened has happened, move on and tell ourselves that one can’t turn back time? Why not try hard to feel good? For us and for our children, for our loved ones and for the sake of life itself? Why let ourselves in the hands of pills for instance? What greater good can they bring upon us that we, alone, can’t? I asked myself these questions a billion times. There are no answers to “why”, but there are so many answers to “what could i do in order to enjoy?”
Hugs,
mmkng
It’s all about the chocolate. And the yoga
But seriously, I think medication is a legitimate option, just like it would be for someone with cancer, diabetes, or a back injury. However, just as with these other conditions, it’s just part of a package of strategies including diet, exercise, healthy communication, self-care, etc. I think we agree these are all important.
Fortunately, I’m a mature person with a healthy dose of self-confidence and only a mild depression that is not debilitating. If I were younger or more fragile, a comment like yours, which amounts to “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” could drive me even deeper inside my lonely cave–the kind of cave where suicide looks like a door. Please be careful and respectful in the advice you give to people who are coping with mental health issues.
Your question, “What could I do in order to enjoy?” is a great one. My friend, The Mitz, recently wrote a great list of things that she does when she’s feeling down: http://dontdoitalone.wordpress.com/2012/12/14/harm-reductionself-love/
Kylie,
Apologies for sounding like I sounded. I hope nobody will go through what I went through (parents dead within 5 years. Mother 46, heard attack, father bone cancer = me injecting morphine, aged 49). I only meant that we are all very strong inside. We are stronger than we could imagine and I’ve learned that through my misfortune. No harm intended. I only hate medicine. I was prescribed a lot of anti-depressives, being “too young and with a new-born child to take care of”. I never took any of those. And I think, okay, doctors think today, that I am doing well.
No harm intended, again. Sorry if I trespassed.
mmng
No problem at all! It’s complicated stuff, and little posts like mine as well as short comments can’t do the subject justice can they? That’s part of what I meant when I called this “Pieces of Life” because it’s just a few pieces, a few snapshots, of a much bigger whole.
I’m sorry to hear about your struggles, too, and am so glad to hear you’re doing well. We’re all in this together!
That is a lot to have been personally affected and impacted by in one lifetime! This is a very moving piece of honest writing Kylie, and that is the very best kind to read….keep breathing. xo Rufina
Thank you my friend!!
P.S. I think that you have met your intent of writing a piece of heartbreaking beauty. This is it.
And what I mean by that is that your honesty is beautiful and heartbreaking, all at the same time.
Thank you so much, Rufina.
I read this at 6am, it is nearly 3pm. I can only say extraordinary things happen and we wonder, why and how will I walk through the day today, or tomorrow or the next. Yet, we do. We heal, somehow. We hurt, sometimes we don’t feel anything so we can mask the pain to great to bear on our shoulders not great enough to hold all of it at once; other times, we simply weep at that one more day we must face the world.
This was beautifully written. Thank you.
Thank you for coming back to comment, Valentine.
it amazing what we can get through… just putting one foot in front of the other day.
Be well.
I’m so touched by your very powerful words.
Thank you so much.
Writing as therapy has helped me way more than any professional I’ve seen. I feel the healing in your words, too. Beautifully written.
It’s true. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing your snapshots. It is very true that life seems to pile up like paperwork that breeds overnight (and why does it do that? Doesn’t it know we’ve enough to do as it is?) when we’re not looking. We all have our stories, our joys and our hurts, and I believe that what makes us strong is not how much we repress but how much we face head on by admitting our weakness.
I completely agree!
And from your moniker, it looks like you agree that dark chocolate is a wonderful tool for the ‘coping toolbox’
Thanks so much for reading and for your comment.
Chocolate in almost any form, to be honest! Also knitting and crochet, but those are probably things that work for me because I feel like I’ve always known how to do both and so they’re soothing, whereas I think to a beginner they’d be frustrating. In fact, if my head is being silly and getting itself into a loop, I should probably get out my knitting and do something really complicated that I have to concentrate on so that I think about the knitting instead of what my internal broken record is playing!
Kylie, I can’t believe that all those things actually happened to just one person. You have been through a LOT and yet there you are in your profile picture, smiling as if not of it has happened. Your post really touched me (and that isn’t an easy feat) and I wish you only joy and good things for the years to come as well as the strength to overcome your past and deal with your present. xo
Thanks Wendy. I’m touched that my post touched you
We all struggle, and for some people I’m sure my life looks unbelievably hard, and for others, it looks like a piece of cake. The hardest thing–and also the most joyful at times–is parenting. Thanks for reading and for your kind comments.
Kylie
Kylie,
That you write these things and share such emotion is evidence of your ability to walk forward. This is a very touching revelation of your life. This venue is so therapeutic, for writers and readers alike. It shows us, as you said in your title, the pieces of life that make us who we are.
Thank you so much for sharing this.
Red
Thanks Red. One step at a time!
It’s nice to be heard and understood.
Kylie
Sometimes writing is all you CAN do, and that’s okay. Great post, thank you for sharing it.
Thanks Katy!
Beautiful in it’s simplicity. I’ve been reading a lot of posts on Rx. This one speaks to me; I understand trauma, feeling nothing, a child who acts out, the photo albums. We survive.
Sometimes the best counselors for our daughters are us, their mothers. Because when nobody can “diagnose” them, we can at least stand by them, and keep trying. Counseling didn’t work for my daughter, but volunteering did. It turned her focus from her, to something else she had a soft spot for, which in her case was anything animal related. – and strangely, yoga. I think the physical aspect of it gave her mind something to do, her body a way to burn energy, and a method to self-soothe. She has extreme BiPolar, and self mutilates – these things have helped more than the meds. My heart goes out to you and your daughter. I hope you both find your thing. – and you are not alone.
Thank you so much for your comment. It sounds like you’re ‘been there’ and I appreciate the empathy and encouragement!