Fiction exercise #1, #2

#1 Character Sketch: Christine Joy Fullerton

I sat beside you Daddy the night of my first kiss. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't want to go home because I knew mama would smell my sin. I never wanted to grow up. I don't know why I felt older on that evening than I did that night you left us. Its okay daddy, I don't blame you. I know it was that deer that ran you off the road and not the handle of Jack you drank that night. I could never forget that night, or that date. Your death day marks the celebration of my life. The eleventh anniversary of your and mamma's little accident. You always used to tell me I was the best mistake you ever made. Remember how Mama used to get after you for calling me a mistake? You would just wink at me and grab your beer; by then it would be time for you to settle into your evening ritual of news and crossword puzzles. Well, three years have passed since we buried you in that cemetery down the street. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, with your death daddy, our dreams turned to rust.

I'm 14 now; daddy's little girl growin up without a daddy. It's okay I don't really mind it. I've learned to pick up the pieces. I am the one that looks out for the boys now. Jake, your baby, is getting ready for the little league tournament. I meet him every day after practice. I ask him all the questions you used to; the stuff about batting averages, and strike-outs. I even tell Jake about the Red Sox and their curse. I tell him everything you would have. Mickey is hard to talk to though. He doesn't have much use for a younger know-it-all sister. But I guess you probably knew that. Is it true that you can see everything from up there? I hope so; I told Jake that you saw his homerun last week. He is still glowing.

I help mama with dinner every night. She has gotten tired since you left. I started doing the shopping for her down at Smith's. We have a tab down there now. You'd be real proud daddy; I don't buy anything that we shouldn't have. Mama's not eatin' much these days, but I still fix her a plate. She always eats on the night I roast the brisket, though. That used to be your favorite. You would always drizzle it in Smith's secret barbeque sauce. Mama doesn't let us have that in the house anymore. She says she never liked it anyway. I tell her she's just being silly. But I know the truth; the taste reminds her of your kisses.

I started high school last week. I can hear your words, "You watch out, Christine Joy, those boys are nothing but trouble." Gregory asked me to the Homecoming dance, and it's not for another month. That was before he tried to feel me up underneath the bleachers. That right hook you taught me so many nights ago proved to be a winner. My trophy, his shiner, is still shining bright. Needless to say I will be going stag to my first high school dance. See daddy, I keep you with me all the time.

The night air is chilly with autumn on its breath. Orion is hovering. As Christine traces the outline of her father's name on his headstone, pieces of stone fall away. Jacob Ray Fullerton, beloved husband and father: It would seem that people are not the only thing that crumble after a long awaited touch.


#2 Dialogue with Character from Sketch

I walk in the house in time to catch Mama and Mickey getting into it. Silence falls fast when I shut the door. “Why don’t you get after Chrissy, ma? She's the one out all night sitting in a cemetery talking to a rock she thinks is the drunk that was our father-“ Mickey is silenced by a swift slap across the face.
“Christine Joy, you get yourself upstairs” mama says.
Mickey is red, fuming, shamed by his anger. Mama is shaking. I don’t have to be told twice to get somewhere.

I am combing out my hair; I heard a hundred strokes will make it shiny, stronger, …72, 73, 74…
“Chrissy?” Jake is standing on the threshold of my room.
“Come on in, bub” I say to the tear stained cheeks of my baby brother.
“Is he gonna die like daddy?” Jake asks me this every time Mickey and mama get into an argument. I put my brush down on the vanity and gather the sadness that is my little brother into my arms. I tell him this time, like every other time, “No honey, Mickey could never hurt mama dyin’ like he could by livin.’” He is too young to understand what that means, but Jake is old enough to know when I am telling the truth.
“Tell me a story, Chrissy. Tell me a story about daddy.” Jake said.
“You know how excited daddy was when Mama said there was another plus sign on one of those take home kind of tests?” I say, starting the story of Jake’s beginning. It’s his favorite.
“Daddy went out to buy you a baseball glove the day he found out,” I continued. “Daddy said that he knew he was going to have the best hitter on the Eastern Shore.”
Mama and Mickey’s angry words pierced through the foundation of the house. I could feel their hatred vibrating through Jakey’s little body. Innocence, the world’s greatest conductor, sat, charged in my lap. I kissed my brother’s brow. I ached to take his fear away.
“Jakey, I talked to daddy tonight,” I said. “ He told me he saw that homerun last week, remember how you hit the bat on the ground 4 times before the pitch? He said he knew that was a message for him. That was always your secret number, wasn’t it?”
Jake pulled away and looked into my eyes searching for a dream, verifying a wish. “How did you know that?”
“Like I said, daddy told me.” I said to him. Innocence should be allowed to hold on to its purity for as long as possible. I could not tell him that I heard his prayers every night through our paper thin walls; about 4 years, and leap years, and how he is the fourth tallest in his class, the fourth fastest runner, and the fourth oldest out of Ms. Miller’s class. I couldn’t tell him that I knew those things were how he knew that daddy was looking out for him. I couldn’t tell him that I did the same thing everyday. I would make messages out of cloud formations, the sudden change of a red light to green, the serendipitous vision of a father and daughter walking hand in hand down the street. No, I couldn’t tell Jake any of these things. He deserved to grow up with as much of a father as he could.
“Come on, babe, I’ll tuck you in.” I say to Jake as I carry him to his bed. I make sure he is tightly covered in his sheets. The snugness of his blankets mimicking the comfort I wish he could find during his waking hours. I get up after we say the Lord’s Prayer and head back to my room. Laying on my bed I hear Jake’s whispers, “I knew you were watching me daddy. I remembered our lucky number. I hope I made you proud daddy.”
I now wish someone was here to comfort away my tear stained cheeks. I am reminded that we buried that someone 3 years ago.
“Goodnight Daddy” I say into the darkness.

Days of Grief and Days of Joy

October 25 2006

That is today's date. I woke up thinking I had something to do all day. I woke up with someone watching me. I woke up in an empty room. Someone today told me that she was looking over her shoulder all day; though she wasn't sure why. Last year, I had to send birthday wishes to a dear friend. The woman looking over her shoulder, last year she was probably trying to find her sister. Her sister shared the same birthday with my friend. They were the same person; our Kate; a sister, a friend, a daughter, an aunt. She was everything to all and someone to one. Today is the anniversary of her life, and in less than a month I will be sitting here aware that at that specific time she made a decision to make that day the anniversary of her passing. Life and death are always so closely intertwined. I heard she drank some Sierra Nevada's on the eve of her death. So on the night of her birthday I have decided to cheers her from life to her grave with a bottle or two of her final brew.

Grief barrels forward. For me grief is a formulation of appreciating joy and relishing sadness. For the two are virtually inseparable. Grief is coming to terms that certain dreams must forever remain dreams; no matter how hard they are fought for. I can acknowledge the reason for my grief. My love of Kate in her life was so deep, so understood, so mutual. I don't grieve over our past; I grieve for what I will never have with her in my future.

I am watching a sister and a friend grieve over their own punctured or broken dreams. Grief doesn't have to born out of death; it can be born simply from a dream not ever being able to be realized. A sister, my sister gave birth to a baby girl on October 10, 2006. My niece entered this world with 10 fingers and 10 toes and 4 congenital heart defects. These defects fixable only by open heart surgery before she is six months old. I do not believe that the specific grief I am referencing will lead back to my niece. I believe the grief that is being generated at this moment belongs to my sister. She has already begun reshaping her point of reference from having two beautiful, healthy daughters to something that is now a new reality. This new normal consists of 2 beautiful daughters one who is healthy and may lead a normal life. And another daughter who will have to be nurtured in areas that do not involve contact sports and involves embracing individuality. Grief is relative; I cannot understand my sister's pain, possible guilt, and her humanness in regards to this situation. Emerson's birth is by no means a point of grief in itself. It is only a testament to something that was originally believed. It is now about creating new dreams and new visions for this daughter of hers. A friend, one of the best friends I could have is mourning a loss of a dream that was awoken from before it had actually even started. It does not make the pain any less; for the dream had already begun and taken hold. In both situations the sadness, regret and grief stem from what the original possibilities meant. The grief stems from a future we had anticipated and even come to expect. As humans we should know never to look past today for as sacred as each moment is; it too is temporary.

Home: An Exploration in Thought

I have returned to the place of my birth to watch my little sister get married. It has already been a trip of unimaginable intensity that began before I had even boarded the plane to come here. Pardon my ambiguity, but some things need time to be well thought out and right now too many thoughts are highlighted. So here I sit in a house I've considered a place of comfort for nearly 20 years. Memories are measured on the blue wall downstairs; etched with the tip of a knife and a magic marker documenting our physical growth; summer to summer. There was no way to record our personal growth. But we all grew; my sisters and I, together. Those summers stand on memories of double solitaire,swapping clothes and all things reserved for growing girls. Corbett is the sister who is getting married on Saturday. There is something magical about gathering for a wedding, especially when it is in honor of one so close in heart. Corbett was beaming when she walked in the door tonight. Purity, that is what she is. Those would never be her words; but they are the epitome of this young woman. My older sister Kate, and I are the matron of honor and the maid of honor, respectively. This to me means one thing; we have to give a speech. Seeing as Kate just got done birthing a beautiful baby girl; I have taken it upon myself to put together a string of words meant to do justice to this incredibly healthy, mature relationship Corbett and my soon to be brother-in-law have created. To say that I am mildly concerned would be a bit of an understatement. Excuse me for using this as a sort of filter, if you will. Sorting thoughts and feelings on so many varying emotional levels makes it a little difficult to focus only on the love. I will hopefully encounter the end of this sorting process relatively soon.

It is hard not to be envious in the company of honest love. My older sister has it, my little sister has it now as well. One would think that I am saying this simply because I am related to these people, connected with these relationships. I feel that is particularly why I can say what it is that I am saying. Where marriages today seem to be built on empty vows and temporary love I have watched thunder roll through these two relationships and bring about serious storms. Yet, only the beauty and eloquence remains after the clouds have parted. I am in awe, constant awe of these sisters of mine. It is hard to be surrounded with these incredible relationships and not reflect on one's own success and failures in the matters of the heart. I only hope that one day I can experience the level of completeness Kate and Corbett and their partners feel. Loving can be a beautiful thing and I am showered in the wake of its constant presence while I am back in this far away home of mine.

Truths in a Tapestry

I am consistently amazed at how life weaves us along. As if the world was one large loom; and at the end of all time the only trace of our presence is a tapestry cloaked over the world. I became an aunt for the second time in the wee hours of the morning. I am deeply thankful for the invitation of life this little girl brings. It is the first birth in my life since the rapid succession of losses. It comes at a time when I am forced to remember a good friend who took her life, for her birthday is less than two weeks. Quickly followed by the one year anniversary of her death.

Writing with trepidation; I explore again the weaves of this great tapestry. Standing in new lights from many directions I am forced to pirouette in only one direction so as to avoid dancing in my own shadow. I seek honesty. I seek to create something beautiful and untainted by past dents, present hurt, and future brokenness. I say goodbye. I am not sad, not even a little bit. It is this knowledge of shimmering life accepted and cherished by those who choose to be in my life that propels me to celebrate this moment just as much as the next.

I should be revising poems as if they were puzzle pieces but I want to say one more thing. I just haven't found the words yet. And maybe that is all part of this life; if I cannot find the words couldn't that mean that there isn't anything left to be said? This life offers us a constant reinforcement of our situation. If it is going well, trust me don't question it. It is a beautiful journey; quite possibly as beautiful as this tapestry we will never see.

Cheers - to my new niece Emerson Kate.

I will not sit quietly

It is with a heavy heart and an angry mind that I approach this entry. While in the grocery store on Monday night I walked past the montage of bony figures that currently decorate the covers of weekly tabloids. This story starts about a magazine article. It is in reference to the current People magazines, "Pressure to be Thin" articles. I used to worship those bony bodies that housed virtual emptiness. For awhile I was a home to a vacant soul. I have since moved away from that neighborhood, to a safer more accepting place. I have found through my own experience of ed-nos (eating disorder not otherwise specified) that there is a haunting curiosity surrounding this disease.

There was an article wrapped up neatly and tucked behind the pictures of a disappearing Nicole Richie. The article chronicled the lives of women who sought help at a treatment center in Coconut Creek, Florida. A highly regarded and respected treatment center called Renfrew. A treatment center I also called home for six weeks. I was challenged when I read this article; wanting so badly to experience the healing that I found in that place. That magic could not be found in the words telling of broken girls, thin girls, skeleton girls. Instead I found everything that Renfrew was not.

I attended Renfrew in the Spring of 2004. When I checked myself in I was 20 lbs above my lowest weight. One could regard me and not tell that I was battling this disease. Though I was physically representational of a normal weight, I was mentally dying. I bring this up only because I was so upset by the showcasing of extremely thin girls. Thin women, men are not the only representation of eating disorders. This is the point that disturbed me so. If the proper kind of attention was tuned into anorexia, bulimia, compulsive overeating, bingeing, then there would not be only super anoretic girls photographed for this spread. There is so much attention on this disease; yet it is so wrongly magnified. I am physically sickened by what I feel right now. I am entirely unable to understand how eating disorders are commercialized as a glamorous addiction.

I want people to be disgusted by this horrible life-robbing disease. Did you know that eating disorders are responsible for more deaths than any other mental illness? Did you know that more people with an eating disorder choose suicide than any other disease? Is it glamorous because there is this infinite control over every aspect, every moment of this life? I have heard it takes discipline, fuck yeah it takes discipline. When was the last time you didn't eat a god damn thing for three days surviving only on coffee? Has your stomach ever hurt so badly from hunger pains that you picked up a tray of strawberries and chewed them only to spit them back out? How about being 20 and aching to die? How about turning 23 and having multiple panic attacks a day because two pots of coffee would rest in an empty stomach undigested? What about making a choice at 24 to die? I laid down on my bed to die the day I turned 24. I was mentally exhausted. I thought I knew everything. I knew that I didn't want to live anymore. I believed I was filth. I have watched people die. I know this disease more than I care to admit. I know it on an academic level and I know it from a personal level. I am alive because of some sort of divine intervention that gave me the strength to focus on the smallest part of me that was not pure disgust. I was sick for 6 years with physical symptoms. But I never remember not being concerned about my body and what went into it. This is a brutal, disgusting, shameful disease that kills your soul. I want to believe that the more people who open up their eyes to the real story behind the socially acceptable protruding chestbone, the sooner we can move toward a path of healing. Until then we will watch girls, boys, women and men die under the hand of a glamorous disease.

It is important that I end this by saying that I do not blame the media for my battle. I write this because I see great importance of seeing the truth behind what is actually being shown. This is not about skinny, sick girls; it is about business and the bottom line. I will continue to wonder though, at what expense will we go to find the highest bidder. I pray that the currency we still use is a dollar and not an innocent's life.