Yesterday was the 25th reunion of the premiere of The Shawshank Redemption. I watched it last night, while I was nursing my knee after dislocating it from falling down the stairs of a neighbor’s deck while chasing Geronimo. Geronimo likes to play the game of escape and chase. And while I can at least stand and walk now, I can’t run or chase him. He always runs into our neighbor’s yard, which is fenced, so I can get him back. But, it’s a humbling game. Me, with a dystonic gait, trying to lunge after a 7 pound ball of pure energy. I only fell down a few stairs, but dislocated my patella, sprained my wrist, and came home with dirt on my face, where I had planted on the ground.
I can’t explain the phenomenon that has happened to me since I started Levadopa in June. Something that was locked in an area of my brain that I had no access to has been unlocked! Visual art is flowing out of my left hand at breakneck speed. It’s wild and wonderful, and I’ve finished over 50 pieces of art since June. It’s good and it’s powerful stuff, and I’m proud of it. But my heart is aching so much, and no amount of paint is going to make it stop.
It’s a beautiful distraction. When I’m here, in my studio, I’m just free. I can be myself. I don’t have to be the young woman I was before my life was interrupted, and I don’t have to face the daunting future of what happens next. It’s just me, the paper, and the paint. It’s now. It’s all that matters.
In Shawshank Redemption, Brooks Hatlen quietly tended to the library, his only companion an old raven that took up residency with him through the prison’s small windows. Filling the cart with books, Hatlen spent his days going through the motions of life, resigned to living small and discreetly among the books and the boys that he visited with his squeaky rolling cart. After over 50 years inside, Brooks was paroled, and walked out of Shawshank with a suitcase and nothing but dusty memories of the outside world. Institutionalized, they’d call him today.
This morning I got showered and prettied up to take Beckett and his girlfriend to the mall. She is here for her birthday, and I was here to play chauffeur and guide. I sent Geronimo off to daycare, so he’d get lots of exercise and not be in his crate all day. The kids got up, and told me they had decided to just go shopping closer Intown, so I dropped them off and wow, there I was, alone in the car, with no kids, no dog, nothing to do. Nothing between me and whatever I wanted to do. I texted Basil. Maybe I’ll go have a slice of my favorite blueberry pie and a cup of coffee. It’s hot outside, so nowhere that I have to walk far, and Manny’s is always nice and cold inside. Or maybe I’ll go see The Master Painter’s Exhibit at the High. But my handcycle blew a front wheel, and with my wrist, I can’t push myself manually through the museum. As I started wandering through the city, I felt like Brooks. I was driving too slow. People were honking. I passed the High. I drove through the parking lot at Manny’s and didn’t pull into a spot.
“I don’t want to sit and eat pie in a restaurant by myself like a fat person.” And I’m a fat person. My chest started to constrict. I couldn’t breathe. Tears started falling down my cheeks. I’ve been alone so long, locked inside my own mind, inside my little bedroom, inside my house, I felt paralyzed. Basil called and was worried when I answered the phone crying. We talked and he is sweet, as always, “I understand. I’m sorry. I’ll give you a big hug when I get home.” But no, you don’t understand. And I don’t want a hug. I just want to go home. I look alive, and I have on nice shoes and my hair is pulled up. But the only place I feel safe is in my studio. Or in my bed, with my tattered blanket and the safety of the online story I’ve created. Institutionalized, you might call it.
I don’t have friends to call and say, “Hey, I just got cut loose for a couple of hours, where are we meeting?” I mean, YES, of course I do. Ten people will respond to this post and tell me to call them anytime. But how do I do that after being so alone for almost 20 years? I don’t know how to be a person in the world anymore. I don’t know how. I talk too much. I am desperate and needy. I don’t feel comfortable. I’m terrified. I’m nervous. I don’t know how to be a person anymore.
I want what I can’t have. I want my friends back. The ones that knew me, that I don’t have to talk. The ones that would just know what I’m thinking by the look on my face. I want Robert. I want Lucky. I need Michael. I want Evita. I need Marc. I want everything to be the way it was before it just stopped. I know it can never be that way again. I know. I know. I know. But I got trapped there, and life went on without me. And I feel cheated and scared, and so alone. It’s so unfair. And I’ll be fine. Of course I will. I always am. But I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it. The pain, and the loneliness are so big. I’m old now. Everything is different. I just want want one more day. But that’s all gone. And I was the only one that got stuck in this goddamn cage. My heart is broken into a million pieces. And now I’m painting it all back together, one stroke at a time.
I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when thy fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone. I guess I just miss my friend.
-Red
WHAMMY 