To Texas and Back - In Third Person

She goes to Texas to see her sister.  For a change in scenery.  To do something.  To get out of the house.  To try it.  To see if she can do it.

She packs quickly.  In a backpack.  The same backpack she was given by a dear friend her sophomore year of high school.  It bears her initials: HB.  Whether she is going somewhere just overnight or for a week, by car or by plane, she always uses the same backpack.  The packing is easy.  Clothes.  Bathing suit.  Done.  The leaving is not.  Five hours.  Five hours of crying in every nook and cranny of the house they shared.  Five hours of trying to figure out what, of his, to bring with her.  Five hours of questioning whether she should leave the house at all.  Five hours of literally banging her head into the wall and fists into her head.  Five hours of hard core grief that leaves her voice hoarse and throat sore.

She boards and deboards two planes, an anonymous sad person.  She prays for a rare plane disaster that would allow her to join her love – a fast SMASH BOOM event that is over in the flash of an eye.  Disintegration.  Instead, she emerges, whole, into southern heat.  Sun.  Her sister’s open arms.  A Toyota cruising on roasted waves of concrete. 

Two nights in San Antonio.  Fancy hotel – her sister paid.  Free drinks at happy hour.  Gin and tonics.  Bloody Marys.  Only minimal buzz.  Too watered down.  Hotel is on the River Walk.  Lots to see and do.  People everywhere.  All kinds of food.  Shops.  Art.  Music.  Lights.  At night, the River Walk is alive.  An animal that could eat you up . . . and you wouldn’t even mind.  At a different time in her life, she would have loved that animal.  She would have wanted to eat everywhere, drink, dance, socialize.

At this time in her life, she does not want to eat, drink, dance, socialize.  She goes through the motions.  She and her sister take many photos (it’s tradition).  They walk.  They see the sights.  The Alamo.  The HemisFair Park.  La Villita.  They talk . . . or they don’t.  They only eat out at one restaurant (she knows she will regret this later – so much great food she overlooked out of grief).  She goes up in her head and conjures up unkind stories that are not even true . . . her brain’s bizarre attempt to protect her from sad feelings. 

A car ride to San Angelo, where her sister resides.  Most music makes her cry.  Most scenery makes her cry.  Most everything makes her cry.  It either reminds her of him.  Or she wants to be able to tell him about it.  Either way, his absence on this planet is constantly obvious.  And this makes her cry.  The car ride is difficult. 

Her sister tries to help, but knows she can’t.  Tries instead to just hold space for her sadness.  Her sadness is overflowing.  Cannot be contained in a space.  Cannot be contained.  Spills out and onto everything and everyone in proximity.

San Angelo is a city of restaurants.  It is a big city, but feels small.  Where do all the people live?  Her sister lives, with a talkative cat, in an apartment complex.  What is there to do?  Eat.  She does not feel like eating.  They eat out twice at local restaurants and twice they bring Subway sandwiches to her sister’s, mainly just because she cannot stand to be out around people.

They go to a minor-minor league baseball game with her sister’s boyfriend.  They walk.  They talk.  She cries constantly.  Her sister gives her hugs.  Empathizes.  Mourns the loss of this person they both cherished.  And her sister also mourns for her own impending loss.  They are sad sisters together. 

They find an overpass where bats come out by the hundreds at night.  Walk through calf-high vegetation in flip flops, hoping there are no scorpions or rattlesnakes or other perils of the plains to overtake them.  Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  Sun drops.  Street lamps come on.  Bats squeak and chirp and click.  They get too close.  Bats come straight at them, instead of flying up into the sky like usual.  They are both shrieking in fear and laughing at their fear.  For several minutes, all they have to worry about are the bats swooping past their heads.  It is all captured on video.  It will always make them laugh.

They find the downtown.  Go in shops.  She likes the shops, especially the ones with shoe sales and vintage clothes and furniture.  Holds up 40 year old dresses and envisions wearing them and how much he would like to see her in them.  Recalls how he loved to dress up.  Remembers he gone.  Puts dresses back.  Sees no point in buying clothing.  No point in buying anything at all, for that matter.  Will come home without a souvenir.  Wishes she could bring a souvenir to him.  Wishes she could tell him about this vacation.  Wishes he were with her, though she knows he would hate the heat as much as she does.

On Memorial Day, they swim in the pool at the apartment complex.  Swim between drunk men who are chugging beers while listening to 90’s rock and who never get out to take a leak.  Realize they are swimming in many hours’ worth of piss.  Try not to let any water seep into their mouths.  Leave before they are really ready to be done swimming.  Go back to her apartment and take showers to depiss themselves.

She feels lost in Texas.  Away from the home where she had been taking care of him day and night for so many months.  Away from his things.  Away from the life they shared.  It is lonely in the house, but at least it is home. 

She goes up in her head, makes up stories in which she was not good enough.  In which she screwed everything up.  In which he didn’t really want to be with her.  In which he yearned for someone else, someone better, someone less human, more perfect.  Makes up stories until there is almost nothing left of the precious memories from the few short years they did have together. 

Realizes that making up stories, albeit her brain’s lame attempt to try to distract from her emotional pain, is only making things worse (thanks, but no thanks, brain).  Reaches out for reminders.  For help.  Receives.  Feels better.  Training herself on thought stopping for these poisonous stories.  Rereads messages and texts.  Listens over and over to a voice mail.  Soothes.  Calms.  Remembers what was real.  Feels gratitude toward those who have provided soothing stimulus.

She boards and deboards three planes to get back to the mitten state.  She falls asleep on the runway in each plane, before it even taxis.  She is so tired.  Being around people exhausts her and she does not want to talk to anyone.  So sad.  She writes to him between flights.  She is always writing to him.

She arrives home to support.  From family.  From friends.  From happy dogs who missed her.  She returns to the empty house.  It is lonely, but after being with people constantly for six days, she welcomes the chance to cry and grieve alone.  She has things to do.  Does them.  Falls soundly asleep and sleeps for ten solid hours. 

She wakes up.  Goes to the doctor because she will lose health insurance in two days.  Is reassured that she is normal.  Even her made up stories, even though she wants to not experience them anymore, are normal.  The doctor wants her to return to work soon.  Establish routine.  Be around people.  She still has so many unresolved logistical issues to take care of first (number one, what to do with the dogs).  She feels like she is not getting enough done fast enough.  Feels overwhelmed.  Most of all, she is not sure she is ready to be at work yet.  Around people.  Of sound enough mind to make judgments for other people.  The doctor suggests maybe she could do some other kind of work there, the kind that does not involve interacting with people.  The doctor maybe doesn’t get it, what she actually does at work.

She tries to be gentle on herself, but also tries not to allow herself to wallow.  Goes grocery shopping for the first time in four weeks.  Nothing sounds appealing.  Winds up with a basket of fruit and cheese.  Has lunch with a friend.  Talks openly.  Chokes up, but does not cry outwardly.  Makes it almost two hours out in the world before the urge to be home is too strong.  Listens to his iPod in the car.  Tries to find the pieces of him that will sustain her.  Comes home to mail from the past week.  Reads condolence cards and cries.  Reads article sent from a friend.  Cries.  Reads his death certificate.  Cries.  Receives card and gift from coworkers and employer of a former job.  Cries at their kindness.  Walks around the house looking at things.  Cries.  Takes dogs to trail to walk with brother.  This is a break from the crying.  Returns home.  Reads.  Cries.  Writes.  Writing stops the crying.

Will take a pill to help sleep.  Will try again tomorrow.  It is all she can do.