the last days of my decline

It ends. Right here. Now. Go no further.

Stop.

Reverse.

Detour.

Find your way back to the main road. Your main road. The one that moves you. The one less traveled. Where you walk tall, with long strides. Where you sweep aside brush and duck under limbs. Where you repair for comfort in trusted hideaways, in others' arms, in others' stories.

This, the path you're on, is the road to ruin. You know this, and make light of it. You skirt the edge and laugh (after "whew!"). Your remind yourself to be careful. And you are. As careful as an actuary, assessing risk and calculating consequences. You make safe bets, but you're still gambling.

You believe in smarts more than luck. Nonetheless, you've been the victim of poor judgment. Fortunately, you've learned from each lapse. You've made adjustments. There have been no repeat performances. (Just some eerie similarities.)

Nonetheless, you are bogged down. Nearing an end you can too well imagine, one that viscerally fills you with fear:

No leap off a cliff, but a bone-shattering slide down the mountainside, straight through the scree and the switchbacks, into the dark woods, to tumble over fallen logs and rip through the branches.

You will feel alone. Feel deeply each scrape, scratch, and shatter. You will be consumed by your own pain.

You will be oblivious to those you take with you. Those venturesome few who think they can slow you, or stop you and carry you back up. You will leave them, on a random path or a cross-roads, when they make the wise decision to stop, call for back-up, and get themselves out of the dense, uncertain, and down-sloping slide.

You will, stalwartly, continue on.

Near the end, on land now level, set to the lowest common denominator, you will trudge forward with leaden feet. Your eyes useless, you lead with your hands - searching for steady holds, taking small steps.

You yearn for sunlight, lost in a swampland. You take another step. Wanting. Wishing. Worrying.

You will fall. You will fail.

This is what waits you.

Unless you turn around, look up, and take the hand that's offered you. Begin the long, hard, slow slog back up the mountain. Out of the dim valley and into the land of the living. You can't do it alone. Take the hand that's offered. Step out of the muck.

I sit here, on the eve of Mother's Day, on Long Island NY and motherless, and remember where I was six months ago, living a lonely life in Oxford, Mississippi. I thought it would be a good place for me, for I was so desperate to get out of New Orleans, to leave behind the mounting uncertainty, municipal anxiety, and personal ghosts. I thought it would be a safe place. I thought I would fit in, and I'll credit New Orleans for spoiling me for that kind of welcome, for New Orleans and I were an easy match. As quirky as she is/was, we meshed at the moment we met. I slid easily into a slot along the misfit scale and carried that confidence to Oxford, which I idly considered another quirky place. But I didn't fit there, not easily. I only fit there where I've fit in every other place I've lived: on the margins. It's tight on the margins. Not much room to stretch. Especially in a small town. Especially in a college town, where I top the "ruling class" by at least a decade, almost two. Friends were few. And the older locals had their crowd and were suspect of new blood, and since I'm a drifter and loner by nature, I had my troubles. Hence the loneliness, and the depression. And most unfortunately, a lot of late and lonely and drunken nights. (But bless the godless-universe for my FunHouse, which was lots of fun and a blessing. If only I had wrangled the outdoor bathtub... )

I never could have guessed that the hand to rescue me would have been my mother's, in death. I truly believe that she saved me by dying. Two plus years ago, when my husband left me and moved out, Mom invited me back into the family home (despite the disastrous entanglements a decade prior) and spun dreams of my exciting commuter life into New York City. I begged off then, made my own (sloppy, silly, staggering) way since. And so the story told above tells: I fell, I failed. I've come home.

Long Island is no picnic. In truth, I am as lonely here as I've ever been. Growing up here, I couldn't wait to leave. It's crowded, rife with traffic, bereft of culture (save the big-box, corporate, and market-tested type). Yeah, there's pretty parts and road-side farm stands, but mostly it's rushed, cold, and often mean. I yearn for the south and warmer climes and attitudes. I miss New Orleans. I'm here for as long as my Dad is here and I often think about where I'll go when he's gone.

But he's hale and healthy and has at least a decade left, hopefully more, so it's Long Island and the environs (hello NYC?!) where I'll be. So it's all about making the best of what is, not what I've chosen. It's about taking hold of the hands that have been offered and grabbing tight and reaching up and figuring out what to make of the wreckage of my life and what comes next. It's all been interesting so far. No reason to think it's going to be dull from here on out. I've gone though some rough spots, some hard spots, some very difficult times. I've gotten through them.

My mother, love her, rarely had a life she loved. Rarely had a life in which she felt loved (though she was, by many). I have inherited some of her demons, but that is not one. I have a lot of people on my side, and, in their honor, I promise that none of them will ever mourn me with a "could have been." I am not done yet. I am coming back. It is a long, hard, slow slog back. But I am coming.

A luta continua...