Heaven and Hell

One person's heaven is always another person's hell.

My grieving for Moo has been sorely interrupted by an unexpected visit from my mom and sisters. They came for my grandmother's birthday. They stayed for two weeks.

The rest of the family was just ecstatic they were here. The circus had just come to town and every day was whirlwind of activity, filled with things to do, places to visit, photographs to take, food to eat.

It was meant to be a surprise, even to me. When I first saw them though, the first thing I said was "Why are you here?". And I meant it. They had invaded my sanctuary when I had not even begun to properly heal yet. How could they expect me to do cartwheels in their presence when here was the person who turned me away when I had no place to go, could not find the kindness in her heart to ask how I was, or what could be done to help when my world was crumbling?

Moo's murderer, my other sister, came next. She brought his ashes with her and so my darling Moo has finally come home to me. It was the least she could do. In my mind and in my heart, she will always be guilty of infidelity in the custody of my most precious trust. I trusted her with half my heart and she did not look after it with the care I expected her to give during her watch. Her unnecessary confusion at what to do with her life and with a standing obligation regarding Moo translated into one thing for my little booger. All he knew and felt was that he was unwanted and that he was such a burden. Everybody else in that house probably wished him gone, too, just so that my sister wouldn't have such a dilemma. He probably thought that I had also abandoned him, left him to fend himself with the wolves by his lonesome and knowing that, my little darling did not have any strength in him left to bid his heart to keep beating. They killed Moo the same way they killed me. He died of a broken heart.

What do you say to those who killed your loved one? What do you do when they treat the loss as though I've just lost a pen and not someone who shared my life with me for a good seven years and kept me company when none of them did? What do you do when you come face to face with those who have ruined your life as you know it?

I had a plan, you know. A plan as crazy-ass as doing a sommersault on a tightrope the success of which relied mostly on balance and a good sense of timing. It was a big risk because I was gunning for even bigger results and the timid do not reap that reward. And in the middle of its execution, those I had trusted to watch my back for me not only shook the poles that held the tightrope; they took away the safety net, too. And I fell. Face first. The unexpected betrayal left me with a disfigured face and a host of internal injuries. The latter is worse.

So what do you say to them when they suddenly come into focus out of your peripheral vision and carry themselves as though your life's tragedies which they proximately caused was yesterday's news and not worthy of a second glance?

There is absolutely nothing to say. To see them again was like scratching an open wound. Everything's changed and yet, everything stayed the same. Different place, different country, same people. They still ignored me. They still left me behind. They still couldn't have cared less at what became of me. Worse, they did not even acknowledge the death of my dearest, as though that occurence was as commonplace as taking a crap.

Those two weeks were hellish for me. So I slept and slept and wished that I wouldn't wake up the next day. I am angry and yet utterly exhausted. How dare all of you pretend nothing happened? How dare all of you carry on so casually? How dare you say you love me when I am descending madly into a vortex and you won't even try to reach out your hand to me to keep me from falling?

I still love them, I think. Probably in the deep recesses of my heart which I have enclosed for the moment, temporarily shut down because the vital parts in me have yet to be resuscitated. My heart remains hard, cold, round and jagged as the rock that hit me in the face. Occasionally, I turn inward and check for some feeling there but finding none, I decide to best leave it be. It would have been kinder if they had just killed me than left me for dead, barely breathing. I so longed to turn to my mom and tell her that if I had known this was the way things would turn out, that I wished she wouldn't have borne me at all. I couldn't bear to say it because the words wouldn't come out. I hurt and I ache so deep inside me that I may need help to bring it out. That's why I'm writing. I need to spew out all the hurt, the anger, the pain in the only way I know how because it's eating me from the inside and I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up and I won't recognize myself. And the thing is, I liked myself before all this happened. I loved my life as I knew it. It was far from complete but I had enough to keep me looking forward to the next day.

I have been trying to remember the last time I was with my mom and sisters and I felt happy. We'd all be laughing, most probably at each other, and Moo would get passed around to be hugged and kissed by everyone. That moment escapes my memory now. I cannot call it forth because it is locked away, like all those other moments of fonder times still yet unstained by betrayal of confidences, still yet untried and untested by the ominous question that usually follows such tragedies -- what would love do now?

In the aftermath of the muteness of their reply, I dare not bring those memories out. Let me keep them for a while to draw on during happier times. To bring them out now would dissipate them and dilute their value when placed side by side, in stark contrast with the question they so miserably failed to answer.

Before my mom left, she gave me a book in which she wrote a note inside. She said, "Be assured of our continued love and care for you for we truly care for you and truly love you." Before she got on the plane, she bid me good luck. Nice as they are to hear, they ring hollow to my ears. Empty words for now. You say you love me. Tell me those words again when you are willing to do more than just say it. Tell me those words when you are ready to ask me how I am and are brave enough to sit there and listen to me speak of the pain that you have caused me and still be willing to embrace me after. Say it when you are ready to help me heal because I cannot do this on my own. Until you acknowledge the part you played in my disintegration, a part of me will always be dead.

As for my sister, I reached out to her while she was here and we actually got to talk. We covered a lot of ground and I thought that we could actually begin rebuilding our relationship but right after the talk, she stonewalled me again. Where she got the nerve to feel as though she could take the high road with me when she killed my dearest, I don't know. Where she got the gall to say all those things to me before coming here only to not be able to say them to my face, I don't know. But really, the gall and the nerve.

Because we were close before, I was ready to forgive and put a good faith effort at rebuilding ties. That's why I reached out but in the state and the situation I'm in, I can only do so much. If she expects me to cajole her out of her silence because she's "baby girl" which is what her beau (who's still alive, btw. Yes, I didn't kill him or wish him dead when I was cracking under pressure) calls her, she can go fuck herself. That kind of arrogance is the surest path to infanticide. During our talk when I asked her why she hasn't been speaking to me ever since she arrived, she claimed fear instead of pride. Ever since we've cleared the air (or so I thought), she still stonewalled. Now, whether it's fear or it's pride, I don't give a fucking rat's ass.

I entrusted my most precious and dearest with you. Even when we were arguing and I capitulated and even begged you to promise to take care of him, you arrogantly said that you wouldn't promise me that. Then, after all the hoopla, you bring him home to me in a box. You don't know how hard it is to even acknowledge the existence of the person who took so much away from you. And yet, I still tried. So if you feel that it's difficult to make small talk, to share yourself, to try to get past this by opening lines of communication, TRY FUCKING HARDER. You killed my dog. You took from me. YOU TRY FUCKING HARDER. It’s going to take a while because I have nothing left to give now. The only joy that remained in my life, you took away. So you try and you keep at it until the walls come tumbling down. And don’t you dare pretend that all I’ve lost was just a pen. You cry with me. You hold my hand. You grieve with me because you, of all people, knew how much I loved him. And I will forgive you. I will welcome you with open arms and thank the heavens that you’re my sister because that’s what love would do.

You have so much before you that I want to be happy for. I want to but I can’t. Not yet. Not until. Not before.