How Slouchy is Too Slouchy?

I had one of those days last week that I so desperately wanted to tell Cory about, but couldn't.

I told Jake about it, but because Cory and I had both experienced bullying at school, where as Jake has not (to my knowledge), it just wasn't the same.

Since I can't tell her, I'll share with you:

If you're a regular reader, you have already ascertained that I was an underdeveloped, quiet, and meek child in school.  The traumatic sclerosis check of 7th grade that caught one poor classmate and I out bra-less, bare chested, and humiliated is forever burned into my memory and can be read about on this blog.  But as I often say when dishing with a good friend, wait...there's more.

So I recently bought a pair of black faux suede slouchy over the knee boots.  Do you know the kind?  My plan was to pair them with a sweet ruffly flowered dress so there was maybe an inch of bare leg showing in between.  When it gets colder, throw an over-sized, cozy sweater over top (maybe even one of Cory's that I brought downstairs) and I'd be good to go:  my fall uniform complete.  When the snow begins to fly, I'll put on fleece-lined tights and trade out the faux suede for leather and pop a hat on top of my head.  I love dress-tight-boot weather.  It completes me.

So finally this hot weather broke and I was able to give my new boots a go.  They are the sort that pull on and then you tie them securely in the back, just above your knee.

I put them on with one of the previously mentioned dresses from my closet and I was off.  Within an hour of walking around, the boots were steadily sliding down my legs and starting to bag around the knees.  This was not only annoying, as I had to keep reaching down to the pull them up, it was also making me very anxious.  I ducked into the nearest bathroom and surveyed myself in the mirror, honestly wondering if these boots looked stupid, if my body was all wrong to wear them, and if people would laugh and talk about me when I walked away.

Some unpleasant memories had come flooding back:

being in ninth grade, repeatedly and loudly made fun of by a group of girls in my sixth hour.  "Ugh, you're disgusting.  What is wrong with you?  You look EMACIATED.  Why don't you eat something?"

These comments continued for weeks while my face burned with embarrassment and I began to choose my routes in the hallway and my seat in the lunchroom strategically.

"Don't your momma feed you?  Here, you skinny white bitch, eat a fucking sandwich!"  This last bit said, screaming laughter, as she threw a half eaten sandwich and an open bag of chips in my general direction.

Of course, her friends laughed.  My friends tried to ignore her.  Some of the surrounding kids laughed, too, but most just looked uncomfortable.  Me?  I was mortified.  Already shy.  Already anxious in social situations.  If the earth could've opened up and swallowed me, my whispered thanks would've been my only response.  Back then, when I believed in a higher power, Lord, deliver me from Northwestern Middle School was my prayer.

After Christmas that year, I came to school elated to be sporting a brand new pair of Guess jeans tucked into Guess slouchy socks- the ones that had the logo on the side.  I was feeling like a million bucks...in other words, pretty much the way I feel when I wear boots these days.

So I got to sixth hour and sure enough, the laughing and pointing began.

"Damn, girl, you so boney, your fucking socks can't even stay up!"

Now slouchy socks were supposed to slouch, but sure enough, she had gotten into my head.  I was at home that night checking them out in the mirror, wondering if maybe they weren't slouching just a bit too much and wishing I had a bit more body fat, spread out nicely to my not-yet-existent breasts, rear, and legs.  The mirror stared back at me, reporting a decidedly still-boy-like physique and the waiting would continue pretty much until after I bore my first child.

So this harassment continued for several months and through it all, I had been deemed "Bones Davidson".  To this day, I am sensitive to remarks about my weight.

So fast forward about thirty years, and here I am with these damn slouchy boots, knowing my body is the best it has ever been (man, I could've gotten into some really fun trouble if I'd had this confidence level way back then) and having flashbacks that trick me into to doubting my self.

I really wish I could tell Cory how it is normal to be affected by mean things that people say, but that it doesn't make them true.  And I know Cory could've commiserated because of her own experiences being bullied at school.

Cory's experiences being bullied at school happened during the time her illness was first rearing its ugly head.  She didn't share any of it with me (much as I didn't share any of mine with my mom) until afterwards.  I was completely taken off guard by the phone call from her grade principal telling me she had beaten a girl and would be suspended for ten days.  I remember asking first if he had the right student.  I remember hearing some details of the incident from him and wondering what in the world was happening?  My girl had never been in trouble at school...not once.  

The whole story, in Cory's words, can be found on this blog.  From my point of view, I could not believe how out of character her actions were.  Something was really, really wrong.  I had her drug tested.  When they said nothing was present and referred us to Summit Pointe, we were there at the next availability.  It was much later, having heard what happened in Cory's own words and getting more information about her illness that the pieces fell into place.  At that point, she'd been hearing voices for a year, without telling anyone.  This girl had been teasing and laughing at her for months.  And as she described to me, "it was my clothes, Mom.  She made fun of the way I dressed.  I know I don't have great self-esteem, but the one thing I'm proud of is my fashion choices."

Oh, Cory, you were so my girl.  My heart.  My soul.

The outfit that led to the incident?  Cory had seen Blaire on Gossip Girl wear red tights under shorts and loved the look.  So did I, actually.  Cory's tights were either red or pink, I can't remember which and she's not here to confirm.  So the girl started up making fun of her on the bus, and Cory, already carrying the stress of a brewing mood/thought disorder and tired of dealing with her day after day after day blew up.  I could not picture her having to be pulled off of another person.  I couldn't picture her kicking the girl while she was down.  It was hearing her friend that was there describe it and Cory's own account that finally painted the picture for me.  And in it, I could so clearly see her father's face.  Out of control rage.

Many years later, Cory would share in the dark while we sat up late talking.  "That day, Mom.  I couldn't take the laughing.  It got louder and louder in my head.  Her face got bigger and meaner.  And then this voice in my head just said, 'Get her.'  So I did.  I couldn't stop myself.  I tried to act like she deserved it and I was proud, but I wasn't.  People were giving me high fives in the halls and calling me champ and I tried to act cool about it.  But not on the inside.  I knew it was wrong and I was in trouble, not just at school, but big trouble, like life trouble...and I was afraid.  What what happen to me if I couldn't control myself?"  

Well, what happened for Cory is that she learned she could tell me anything and she learned coping skills.  She was never in a fight again.

What happened for me?  I looked in the mirror again and saw those boots are supposed to be slouchy.  And maybe my legs are a little less thick than other people.  But that's okay.  Skinny thighs can be sexy, too.  

I found out, too, when I googled it, that LOTS of people are having issues with these boots sliding down- it's a fabric and design issue, not a "your legs are too skinny" issue.  Amazon even sells something called a Boot Bra to hold your faux suede over the knee boots up where they're supposed to be.  And, well my birthday is coming up...

Something Borrowed

This might not make a lot of sense to anyone who hasn't lost a child, but I thought I'd share it anyway.

Over the last couple of summers, I've worn a pair of Cory's shoes down to almost nothing.  Her favorite hoodie is my wrapping of choice in the sub-artic climate of my local Starbucks- whether I'm working on homework,writing on this blog, or making art, I am nearly always covered in her My Chemical Romance concert hoodie, no matter the season.  But that is pretty much all I have worn except for a couple pairs of shoes she'd left downstairs and her precious pearls that they took off her neck at the funeral to hand me.

I've thought about going upstairs a dozen times for a sweater or a dress, but just couldn't do it.  Why not, you ask?  Why keep all that stuff if you're not going to use it?

It's kinda like this:  when I think about Cory's room being maintained intact exactly the way it was the day she died, it provides me one small space in this world where she still is, other than that pretty, but wretched, plot in Bedford Cemetery, where her beautiful monument stands that I never in a million years wanted to design, sketching it out with shaking hands and a heaving chest, the tears falling all over my paper. 

 Do you see the difference?  One place gives me pictures in my head of her walking and talking, putting laundry away with music blaring and her cat at her feet.  The other quickly takes me back to howling at the sky on the eleventh of July as her casket waited to be lowered into the ground.

It makes a certain amount of logical sense that I want her room kept intact until you add in the fact that I can't bear to go in her room.  I spend almost no time in there at all.  It kills me to have so many memory triggers all rounded up in one place.  And it still, ever so faintly, smells like her.  

I remember the day after she died, I drove myself to Summit Pointe like a mad woman, desperate to see Dr. Z, desperate for him to tell me this wan't true or that something could be done.  After he had sat with me for longer than he really had to- the dear, sweet man that he was- he handed me off to a therapist until my sister and mom could get there to pick me up.  It was determined I was not safe to be driving.  

While waiting, this lady suggested that I get into Cory's bed and sleep that night.  I looked at her like she had quite lost her mind.  She explained that the smell of her and being surrounded by her things might bring me comfort.  I was openly horrified.  Disturb her bed, that she had left carefully made?  Be around all of her things, but not have her?  Expect to see her around every corner only to have the image of her lying on the road pop up instead.  No, thank you, lady.  Go peddle that shady advice somewhere else.

So it's pretty much like this:  It brings me immeasurable  comfort knowing her room is there, maintained as it was, even if I can't bear to go in.

Now comes the part about her clothes.  Lately, I've been in this awful dilemma where I sort of want some of her things to wear, but I am scared to death of disturbing the careful time capsule of her bedroom.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's stupid.  I know I'm being a big ass baby.  But that's the way I feel.

So then I started thinking, some minor changes have already occurred.  I brought her dolls down from the trunk at the bottom of her bed and put them on the shelves that line my studio.  All of her paintings that we've had framed rest against the walls of her room waiting patiently for the next time I go to speak at a college class about grief or mental illness.  They weren't there before.  And wouldn't she be delighted?

Why does it seem so different to paw through her drawers or rifle through her closet?  I don't know, but it just does.  I've been terrified that if I start moving stuff around, her space will be less hers, she will be less here.  I sometimes still question that she's dead.   And then on the other hand, the less people talk about her, the more that people move on with their own lives, I feel like I need tangible proof that she was here and that I haven't made up this wondrous creature in my head.  She was here.  See, look at all the things she touched!  This was her space.

I talked to a few trusted friends who all said, go up there, get her stuff, and feel close to your girl.  She'd want you to.  These responses were perfectly logical.  But grief isn't logical.  Only another Momma who'd lost their child would recognize my madness.  So I got ahold of another parent I knew who has lost a child and asked her.  She said she wasn't able to fit into her daughter's clothes, but if she could, she'd wear everything.  Okay, then.  Here I go.

I called out to Jake seconds after reading my friend's response.  I explained the mission to him.  Yes, he was willing to help me, but it kills him to go in Cory's room, too, he said.  We approached the doorway with this thought on repeat in my mind I'm a big brave dog...I'm a big brave dog...I'm a big brave dog.  I reached for Jake's hand and he clasped mine tightly.  For a fifteen year old boy who burns with embarrassment if I touch him in anyway in public or even talk to loud, he is unspeakably mature in other situations.  Hand in hand, we started up the stairs, the smell of her already all around us.  Closet first.

Jake stood there, talking about school, talking about a movie we'd recently seen, talking about the pets, anything to keep me from breaking down on the spot.  Could he be more sweet?  No, he could not.  Pushing each item past on the rack, I could see her in it and my heart just recoiled as if struck.  I finally chose a dress, laid it reverently  on the rail over her staircase and we moved together, hand in hand further into her room.  There it was...her bed, carefully made, her dresser with trinkets laid out, books on her nightstand...

How has this happened?  She can't be dead.

I stopped looking around because I was feeling the urge to bail and instead approached her dresser.  She had made labels for everything and with a smile, I opened the one that said "Good sweaters".  I pulled one out and brought it to my nose.  Jake kept up a steady banter beside me and his voice got farther away as her faded scent filled my nose.  Before I lost it completely,  I grabbed up another and decided to retreat.

What did I take?

One sweater is a pinkish purple soft cable knit she'd gotten on a trip with church friends to the outlet malls.  She had money to spend and all decisions were her own.  If I remember correctly, she'd been so anxious about her purchases, she had bought this, returned it, and re-bought it before the day was over.  At any rate, she had dubbed it her absolute favorite.  When she wore it with her Christmas pearls, her whole face glowed pink and lovely.  I have a picture of her wearing it.

The other sweater is a soft taupe V-neck that is super long.  She wore it with some raspberry colored corduroy leggings when leggings had first arrived on the scene and she looked so cute I couldn't stand it.  I have a picture of her wearing this too on Christmas Day (her last Christmas Day) with her fox purse held up under her chin and her eyes joyful.

The dress is a navy blue flowered maxi dress from the first summer maxi dresses had come back in style.  I had asked her to borrow once and she had gently said no, invoking our previously agreed upon rule.  If one has a clothing item that makes them feel especially beautiful, one is able to deny loaning rights to the Mommy or the Cory, so as not to lose that any faction of that feeling by seeing it look beautiful on someone else.  Sadly, I do not have a picture of her wearing this one, but I can remember it pretty well.  Her posture was straighter.  Her gait a bit more grown up.  Yes, this dress had made her feel beautiful.

I took them downstairs, smelled them forcefully one last time like snorting something illegal, and reluctantly put them in the washer on gentle cycle.  I went back to my bedroom and sat there, the hot tears running down my cheeks.  I hope I did the right thing.  I hope I didn't screw it up.  Again.

I'm not sure how it will feel to wear these.  I hope I feel her wrapped snugly around me.  One thing I know from the shoes, is that if anyone says they like them, I will have a chance to say her name and that is worth more than I could ever explain.

Siren Call

Sometimes I give myself a lot of grief for not doing better "by now".  Other times, it's painfully obvious why this has been the slow, dark, super twisty path that grief is for everyone- made even slower, darker, and infinitely more bendy by trauma.

Today was one of the days I could see it so clearly:  side A, if Cory had died on the road and the police had knocked on my door and side B, running onto the scene before they got there and seeing her the way that I saw her.

Maybe everyone who knows me and has been reading this blog already knows about these sides and how they affect my behavior and others who have been through these situations.  But I'm not sure I always do.  I'm in the middle of it all the time and that makes it hard to see the distinction or sometimes to even lift my head out of the storm to look around at all. But today, during the course of an outing, it became so clear.

This morning, I was up early on a Saturday, wearing some new leggings and cute booties from last fall.  I was headed to Starbucks to work on my Stats for the Behavioral Sciences and I was feeling GOOD...good, in only the way that walking in a pair of boots with heels can make me feel.  You guys know what I mean...suddenly, you feel another half a foot taller, at least, and there is a swing to your hips that wasn't there before.  I love fall.

So I got all my work done while enjoying a Salted Caramel Mocha and without having my arm half chewed off by my puppy.  I even finished sooner than I expected.  I decided to head over to Kohl's and Target, on the hunt for Jake a couple more hoodies for school.  He is, after all, a fifteen year old boy who hates clothes shopping.  When we shopped for school over the course of the last month, he claimed to need very little in order to be able to leave the tortuous errand of shopping.  Well, the weather has turned cool in the mornings this past week, so guess who suddenly can't live without more hoodies?

I was on a mission.  And, as always, I found about twenty different things that looked exactly like Cory.  Partway through Kohl's, I put in my earbuds and started listening to music to block out how badly those clothing items prompted me to miss my girl.  This worked great for a good half hour until purely by chance, one of the songs that was played at her visitation came on:   "Miserable at Best" by Mayday Parade.  My mood started to slip as if I'd stepped onto a faulty part of the ground in my super cute block heeled black ankle boots.   The first line or so of that song squeezed my heart dry, but never did I feel like a bad mom.  I only yearned for her so powerfully it made me feel a little dizzy.  But I switched the music up and kept on trucking.  Jacob needed hoodies.

I made it through Kohl's and headed onto Target.  There I spotted the absolute coolest Princess Leia slouchy sweatshirt and before I could help it, tears had sprung up in my eyes.  Fuck.  This is hard.  Cory, I miss you SO much.

I ended my little Mommy Without Cory errand running day by venturing over to the mall and into Hot Topic to see if there were any Panic at the Disco hoodies Jake would like.  While there, I came across a Gerard Way shirt she would've literally jumped up and down for and several My Chemical Romance shirts she would've had draped innocently over her arm before I could turn around, batting her gorgeous eyes at me all the while.  What I wouldn't give to have her here so I buy them all for her just to hear her squeal.

But I was still doing good.  I missed her horribly, but I was doing okay.  I was snapping pics of stuff Jake might like and texting back and forth with him.  I was still, in other words, in the present tense.  I walked out of there, still digging my boots and swinging my hips, my shoulders straight, feeling impossibly tall.  I am safe.  I can handle this.

I listened to music the whole way home, looking forward to catching up with Jake, showing him his loot, and going over the movie It that we saw with my mom yesterday.  The sun was shining, it was a perfect 70 degrees out, and it was my day off.  I got my homework done and had decided to grab Subway instead of cooking...I'd had enough grief triggers for the day, thank you very much.

I left Subway with our dinner swinging in a bag around my wrist and some ice cold beverages in my hands.  Life was as good as it could be without Cory...which, by the way, always kind of sucks, but today...today was a good day.

Driving towards home on West Michigan, with The Used blaring, my only thoughts were how much I looked forward to seeing The Used in November with Jacob in Grand Rapids...his first standing room on the floor only concert at an all ages smaller venue and how to squeeze the three new dresses I saw at Target into the budget.  They must be mine.  They must!

When I spotted the flashing lights in my rear view mirror, I was in the middle of mentally matching each dress with the correct color of over the knee boots and dreaming up accessories.

To say, it caught me off guard...not even remotely accurate.   It was like being hit in face with a brick when you, eyes closed and smiling slightly, were expecting a feathery, tentative kiss.

Some responses are automatic.  I pulled over the right, ever the compliant citizen.  But I couldn't stop myself from watching it streak past.

And the sound?

There is not one single trigger I have experienced in the last five years and two months that instantly takes me back to that scene faster and harder than that damn blatting sound a fire engine makes when its en route to an emergency.  Do you know the sound?

I hear it in my dreams all the time.

Today, it seemed to fill the world.  Maybe it's because I was so far away from the scene in my enjoyment of the day.  It was jarring.  It interrupted -no scratch that- it threatened my sense of safety...and the careful management of my grief.  "You think you're okay, huh?  How bout now?", it sneered.

If you were sitting beside me in the car on the side of the road, you could've snapped your fingers right in front of my face and I'm not sure what response you'd have gotten.  Nothing?  A blank stare?  A scream?  A flinch?

What I do know is that the image of that fire engine streaking past combined with the blatting of the horn immediately placed my feet on the pavemenet and my eyes on Cory's body...a kaleidoscope of horrific images, or maybe an old-fashioned projector...legs dirty....click....hair hanging in her face...click...arm twisted...click...her mouth as they turned her over...the rescue workers cutting her shirt open...click...screaming, someone screaming, oh, right, that was me...

I could literally feel the heat coming up off the pavement.  I could feel it under my bare knees.  Sitting in the driver's seat of my car, where it was easily 70 degrees, maybe even 68 with the ac going, and my knees encased in the aforementioned motocross leggings, it suddenly felt like a hundred degrees and as if my face was baking.

I had to put my head down and my flashers on and just wait for it to pass...my hands shaking...breathing too fast...not at all like a S.T.A.R....crying without knowing it yet...

The sirens are bad enough. They always bother me.  The flashing lights suck.  They pick at scabs that will never fully heal. At least I know to look out for them.

The hidden triggers though...they are like sharp rocks launched at me while I'm walking by, completely unaware.  If I drive by an animal who has been hit and died on the road...it brings ups all sorts of awful connotations.  If someone in everyday conversation says, "roadkill" or "break your neck"  or "run them over with my car" or "splat on the road", it feels like someone has put my heart in a noose and pushed it off a short ladder.  I can hear and feel the snap, and the rest of my day, however good it has been, is ruined.

But the blatting of a fire engine horn is easily the worst.  It brings it ALL back and in seconds.   I am never prepared for it, even if I've spotted the vehicle first, as I did today.  Somehow, I am never expecting to hear that wretched sound.  Surely, it was bad enough the first time.  What sick universe would replay that shit?

So I pulled myself together and eased my car back onto the road to drive myself the rest of the way home on the road Cory died on. I hate West Michigan. I fucking hate it.

This is where the difference between trauma and not trauma surfaces.

How did I feel in the car, with dinner beside me on the seat, getting ready to greet my boy?

I felt afraid.  I felt worried.  I felt like I was on guard.  About what? Against what?   I don't even know.  My heart was beating too fast and my muscles felt too tight.  My scalp didn't seem to fit my head anymore.  But more than anything?  I felt that heavy sense of self-loathing and the weight of the guilt had instantly put a slump in my shoulders.  I did that to her.  I let her get hurt.  I broke her.  I broke my baby.  I shouldn't have let her walk to the store.  Maybe she wasn't ready.  Stupid, Nick, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!!

Here I am now, a couple of hours later, trying to process it all and gain some control over the free fall I feel in my body and in my mind.  Maybe in a little bit, I'll get my paints out or try on some boots.  It won't fix it, but it might help.  It can't hurt to try.  Just please, no more sirens tonight.

Back To School

Hey Cory...
I've been missing you every day.  Every day, every day, every day, every day...

(deep breath)

It's so hard this time of year, getting all your brother's stuff for school.  I wanna buy you everything...just ALL THE THINGS!  Everywhere I look, there you are.  Dresses and scarves and boots.  I wanna get you a new book bag and two new purses so you don't have to choose. I wanna buy all sorts of  makeup and facial cleansers and just all kinds of stupid crap for you that you don't even need.  I wanna argue with you about the new guy you're dating who is obviously a total dick that you can't stop pursuing because he reminds you of your father.  I want you to tell me that even if that's true, it's your life and your mistakes to make because you are "twenty four years old, for crying out loud, Mom!"  
 I want to feel my heart break in half when you say you're moving out with a friend because it's time.  I want to lose sleep worrying that you'll forget to take your meds or that I'll get a call in the middle of the night from your roommate that you are acting a little strange.  I want you to show up and ask me for some money to last until payday because you haven't quite figured out the budget thing yet.  I want you to text me all the small things and the big things that make up your day. I want to hear you bitch about Econ and wax poetic about art.   I wanna hear your voice.  I just wanna hear your voice.

I'm so sorry, Cory.  I'm so fucking sorry.

All this, said out loud, bent over her grave.  Then I grab her monument around its supposed waist and try to hug it, but it has no give and feels all too reminiscent of the way she felt the last time I touched her.