Still Crying But In Color

My roommate walked in the door on Friday night, caught sight of our new robin's egg dining room and exclaimed, "Way to take action!" I grinned at him, paint brush in hand, covered in specks of blue.

The sudden EXTREME MAKEOVER HOME EDITION frenzy was contagious and over the course of the weekend, my roommates and I painted the entire apartment with the exception of the bedrooms and bathrooms. I expect those to be done shortly as soon as we decide on colors. My original thought for my bedroom was pale yellow until recent events shattered my soul and my roommates now refuse to accept my new suggestions.

"Why can't I paint my room black?"

"SERIOUSLY, LAURA?!?! Stick with yellow, it's more 'you'."

"What if I did a mural?"

"A mural of what?"

"I don't know, like, maybe all my ex-boyfriends covered in their own blood?"

"Well. That image would definitely get you out of bed in the morning..."

"Exactly."

I found the repetitive movements of painting comforting. Up and down, back and forth, it required just enough thought to keep me focused and calm without enormous amounts of concentration. I taped the walls and doorways and methodically lowered a roller or paintbrush into the tray. Sky blue, chocolate brown, apricot, the white walls of my apartment came alive this weekend, vibrating with color, warming up to me as I coaxed them into life.

On Sunday afternoon, after breaking down again while the roller in my hand dripped dark paint onto the protective canvas, my roommate became exasperated.

"LAURA! You are going to have to stop crying sooner or later! We are RUNNING OUT OF ROOMS TO PAINT."

I wiped my nose, nodded and rolled my grief onto the walls of the hallway.

...

It must be odd for you to read about my suffering without having an explanation for it. For the gaps in the plot, I apologize. But if this blog has taught me one thing, it is that I must always live in truth in real life before posting it on here. In the past, I occasionally had experiences and reactions and then wrote about them on here without first alerting the people in my life who were a part of them. This causes confusion and hurt, especially if I act a certain way in real life and then get on my blog and freak the hell out.

It must be disconcerting to hang out with me, have a grand old time and then read my blog only to find out that I kind of hated every second. This is an exaggerated example but one worth noting. I'm trying to respect boundaries now. It's important for everyone.

So, I have to address the situation in person first and the most excruciating thing is that I can't. I'm not 100% sure that the person involved here reads this but they have been known to in the past and I am indeed Google-able so that leaves me paralyzed. Writing about anything else seems like a lie. There isn't any use denying it: I am not feeling so frivolous at the moment.

I have no idea how to articulate my feelings as the wound is still so fresh and raw. I'm thinking the following options are likely:

1. I will wake up one day and be healed. I will achieve closure. I will move on.

OR

2. I will do none of those things but I will be better able to articulate my complex feelings on the matter. I will share them with the person in question. We will get on the same page. I will then be free to write on here as I wish.

OR

3. I will drink too much wine, sign on to blogger.com and write something COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE AND INCOHERENT.

But for now. For now, I will be vague and I will dance around it and in a few days, in a week, in a year, I will open up and pour it out and maybe even smile about it and we can all paint each other's nails. Maybe then I will be old and wise and have some sapient advice to share with you young folk. So, if you can go with me on this and just allow me to ramble about something that may or may not make any sense to you, that'd be great.

The more I type, the more I realize that it doesn't matter what the provenance of the pain is. Pain is pain right? And I am feeling it in a startlingly real way, experiencing all the levels and stages as if in mourning. I am angry, I am mortified, I am nostalgic, I am surprised, I am, above all, achingly, despairingly sad.

...

I left my roommates to tackle the rest of the living room on Saturday afternoon so I could head into Manhattan to babysit. As with the paint, I channeled my focus on the twins, allowing them to lift me up and distract me. We splashed in the water, sat in the sand, ate some macaroni, sang lullabies.

Around 11:30, I heard whimpering from inside their bedroom and got up from the couch to see what was wrong. When I opened the door, Owen stood there, tears streaming down his little cheeks, reaching his arms out to me.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

He didn't respond but I scooped him up and brought him over to the couch to sit on my lap. He wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled into my neck, something that is getting harder for him to do as he grows lankier and longer. I soothed him a little bit, rocking him back and forth, telling him that everything was okay and that he was safe.

I held him out at arm's length so our eyes could meet.

"Are you scared, Owen? Are you sad?"

He slowly shook his head, his eyes puffy with sleep.

"Not anymore," he whispered and curled into me.

The light from the television flickered in the darkness as I rubbed his back and realized that even though he wasn't either of those things, I was both. I breathed in baby shampoo as I rested my chin on his head and together we exhaled.