I started the blanket when I was fourteen. The doctors, therapists, said it would be good for me. Channel some of my aggression into something productive. I chose black yarn and a black crochet hook. It was plastic; not the good, solid metal kinds. As if they expected this hobby, this outlet to be short lived just like all the rest.
But I began. I started with the simple chain and link. Single stitches. Then I learned to double, treble, pineapple, filet. Soon I was forgetting. Or I thought I was. It seemed that the more I completed the blanket, the more my memory of that day, of that night, of that pain and humiliation, became woven into the fibers.
I began to loathe the blanket.
I'd pull out whole rows of stitching, just to make it suffer.
I'd do half a row of single stitch, and a half row of treble, to make it ugly and lopsided.
No one would want an ugly blanket.
No one would want an ugly me.
I hated the sight of it, but more than anything I wanted to finish that darkness.
"You're almost done with it," my aunt commented. She was right. If it were a normal afghan, the length was just right to be draped on the back of the couch, or a chair. Perfect for snuggling under on a cold night.
But this was my pain blanket. This was the hideous spot on my soul.
"No. Its far from done."
I finished three years later. It was over 500 feet long. Stretched as far as I could make my pain go. But it was all there, woven into the blanket.
I couldn't lift it. But I drug it to the rock quarry in the middle of the night.
The match struck orange and bright in the darkness.
And I burned my pain to ashes.
I was taught my entire life - The End of The World is Coming.
Apocalypse. Armageddon. Revelation. Rapture.
Something to fear and shrink from.
Prepare thyself for the End.
And so I wait.
I spent three years afraid to sleep, imagining I heard the trump sound.
I don't think that is what God had in mind.
And yet they preach it.
They preach fear.
When we need courage.
They preach brimstone and anger.
When we need love and understanding.
The end is here.
Just not in terms a "christian" would understand.
The end is here.
Now, go be productive.
I told my mother - I want to taste the world
You can't taste the world
It is hearable and tellible
It is touchable and smellable
But God knows it is not edible
Such a silly girl
But I still wanted to taste the world
Anything and everything is possible
They tell us it is possible
As they stand with their shirts
Holding in all their hurts
Of their failed plans and asserts
Only believing in lossible
But I still want to taste the world
Not even knowing which is my way
I left to go on my way
And I am on it still
More determined in will
And will stay on it 'til
It becomes the day
That I will taste the world
I'll bet it tastes like candy.
I wish there had been more time. But I think everyone wishes that as they stand on the precipice, about to jump into eternity. Or in my case, supine on the precipice, needing to be rolled into eternity. Day in and day out I have been here. My family coming to see me, my family coming to talk around me as if I was not there. Yes. I was angry. Yes. I did not wish to speak to them. I did not wish to speak to anyone.
But they could have at least tried. They could have at least attempted to speak. Who would not be angry in my case? Who would not blame and curse God and the Heavens for the unfortunate and tragic way my life played out?
I am a bitter old woman. But at my age, who isn't bitter? That damn little snotty, crazy Andrea down the hall. She's not bitter. At least not on the outside. But she has the mind of a two year old now. So who knows how she feels on the inside. Maybe she is just as bitter as me, and that smile crookedly splayed across her face, small bit of drool dripping down, is just a cruel type of palsy. Because our God is a cruel and vicious God. And we are the comedy He needs to get by in his long days.
Don't look at me like that. He is cruel. What kind of God would trap me, paralyzed in my own body? So that I know what is going on around me, all these passing years, but not able to move or speak or show that I understand. And the doctors tell them I am a vegetable, just laying in the bed. Not able to comprehend anything. If that is not cruel, then I do not know what is. So don't tell me I'm blaspheming, don't tell me I'll be punished. Nothing is worse than this, and He will be hearing from me once I finally die.
The only person who I actually respect, who I will actually miss, is Julie. My great granddaughter. What a shame I could not get to know her more fully. Ask her questions, brush her hair, pinch her cheek. Instead, I have watched her grow from an infant, who I never held, into a gawky preteen, a splattering of blemishes across her forehead. She looks like me at that age. But that isn't why I like her.
She always comes running into my room, jumps on top of the foot of my bed, and talks to me. Talks. Tells me things. Acts like I am alive. If I could change my will now, little Julie would get everything I own. Not my own greedy little children. John even asked if they should pull the plug on me (Not out of kindness, I saw the money signs in his eyes) but had to be reminded that I am not actually "plugged up" to anything. I smiled inwardly at this. Ha. They have to let me die naturally. At least I had the fortitude to place myself in a hospital with closed circuit camera monitoring. 24 hour surveillance. Prevention of mommy-cide.
But its close now. At least, God let it be close. I really can't do much more of this. They can have all the money, the house, the stocks and bonds. I would trade all that in a heartbeat if it meant I had more time with a functioning body. More time to be myself. More time.
If I could move my arms, I'd smother myself. Get ready, God. You're about to have one old bitter bitch at your doorstep.
