color

In my dream there was nothing but warm light and forgiveness. When I woke up, I was afraid that I had died. I saw a version of me that I didn't know, but want to know. A version of me that wasn't sick, or hurting or telling lies.





I have been running for so long and I think it is time to stop. My dream is telling me that it is safe to stop.

And I want to believe in that dream.

wake

The tub is filled with pink. I'm cold. I can hear the echo's of the dogs barking.




I remember letting them out. I can't figure out why the tub is pink. I'm shivering but my head is burning. There is a flash of Christopher and fog...or steam...but the bath is cold. He is talking slow but I can't hear through the fire in my ears. I'm tired so I rest my eyes and the black feels nice.

tired

He took his finger and traced the number 8 over my back. My legs were hanging over our blanket, my toes curling in the sand. "Quiet k8" he said, why so quiet? A million times I have stopped and started. I don't know how to talk to him anymore.



I don't know how to make him know me, make him understand the hell that is going on inside of me. He has no idea how hard I work to keep up the facade. He has no idea how tired I have become. His inability to "get it" feeds the space that is growing between us. In its place is a loneliness I can't even begin to describe.

night

I can never actually see his face, but I know that he is there. It's the same dream over and over and over again. I'm being chased but there is no place to go. Sometimes I'm running along side of someone else...someone that seems kind and friendly. In those cases I never feel alone. A few times I have tried to reach for the other persons hand, but I can never run fast enough to catch up. But most of the time I am by myself, frantic and confused.





It seems like I run endlessly, but I always end up in the same exact place. There have been days when it has been hard to tell when I am awake and when I am dreaming. Much of it feels the same anymore...

noise

remember coming home from work, throwing the keys on the couch, letting the dogs out, taking off my shoes...

I was preoccupied and withdrawn. I remember feeling hollow.



It was a hard day. Death is part of the job but this one hit me hard and unexpectantly. I couldn't get the image of her parents out of my mind. And when the surgeon came out to tell them that there wasn't anything they could do for their baby, the screams were deafening. I can't stop hearing the mothers sobs and desperate pleas for someone...anyone to save her sweet child. I just needed to stop the noise for a little while. I wanted to bath in the sweetness of silence and darkness. I remember the first few sips. And then running water. I could hear the dogs scratching at the downstairs door. I had probably left them out too long. Had I fed them? Was it too cold? I just needed to silence the mother's terror that kept ringing in my ears. Why were the dogs carrying on? Why all the noise? I just wanted the noise to go away...

Christopher

I remember Christopher's voice. He was whispering something about saving me but his voice was so far away, I couldn't hold on to the words. From the back seat, I could see his eyes in the rear-view-mirrow.





They were glazed over, like he was anyplace at all other than in the car. The windshield wipers skid across the glass with a horrible scream over and over and over again. I remember thinking, "why doesn't he turn them off"--- but my lips couldn't form the words and my voice couldn't power the sound. My cheek pressed hard against the passenger side window. It felt bitter on my raw injured face. I knew I had blacked out. I knew something bad had happened. I knew I had gone too far this time. But I let Christopher have his guilt. It was easier that way

8

Last night I had a dream that he took me back to the little pond. It was smooth and shiny as a brand new window. I laced up the skates and picked my way through the clumps of snow until I caught the sky mirrored in the frozen space. My blade took to the ice gently and soon I felt myself folding into the figure eight.



Eights were always my safe space. The other kids in skate class struggled and fell out and couldn't keep the edge, but not me. I don't know when my obsession for the eight's began, but from as far back as my memory goes, Dad called k8. Sometimes he said I was crazy k8 or busy k8, or sad k8, or silly k8. I could follow the figure for hours, going over and over and over the same line. My world was contained. My world was organized and controlled. I wouldn't fall out and nothing could fall in. I was perfectly safe within my 8. I don't know where it went wrong. Dad says now everyone is just "chasing k8." Maybe she is back at the pond...