Swim for your Life

There’s a scene in Wes Craven’s “Last House on the Left” in which a teenage girl, only just victimized in the worst imaginable ways, runs barefoot and half-naked through a thicket of woods.  We run along with her and our hearts leap with hope as she launches herself off the rocky shore, head first, into a calm, denim-blue lake.  We know she is a competitive swimmer, so we are sure she will outmaneuver the bullets that pursue her, and we watch confidently, holding our own breath in solidarity.  

Her powerful strokes reassure me of the quiet reservoir of strength we possess, even post-trauma.  Especially post-trauma.  When there doesn’t seem to be anything left of us, there is.  When we feel empty and hollow inside our skin, we are not.  

Self-preservation is one part of it, the adrenaline that takes over when just remaining alive is the singular goal of each ten-second interval.  But after the immediate threat has passed and the exhaustion of reflection sets in, there is something inside us that says “get out of bed”, or even “don’t get out of bed … you need to rest.” This intuitive voice can be misleading and lull us into complacency — sometimes it convinces us that we have earned a third Manhattan in our struggle.  That we deserve it.  There’s another strength that helps us discern the message behind the message.

On some level, I think most survivors know that you can’t just hold your breath and hope for the best, for the bullets to whiz past in slow motion.  You have to keep swimming, kicking hard, lungs screaming for air.  Eyes straight ahead to probe the murky depth.  

Best Case

It was always the waking up that surprised her.  Not because she didn’t claim ownership over her own reckless behavior, but because she found that a little sleep, even forty minutes or so, produced just enough conscious distance that she was startled by the evidence around her.  That evidence, usually in the form of vomit (or worse) on her clothes, or receipts, or other sundry items that made it home with her somehow, served to confirm events from the previous night that those few moments of sleep attempted to wash away.  But the evidence was clear and couldn’t be disputed. 

As long as she was alone, she could imagine a “best case” scenario.  And she was almost always alone.  She made it home most nights – clutched that tiny victory of self-control fiercely, like a baby with a soggy cheerio in her closed fist.  Waking up anywhere other than home seemed a double defeat.

On Sleeping and Stravinsky’s Wife

Stravinsky’s wife got the shaft.  She tirelessly championed her husband and musical pioneer, watched as he spent almost twenty years living a double life with his mistress and eventual second wife, passed along her own tuberculosis to her daughter Ludmila, then witnessed said daughter die before she croaked herself.  What a raw deal.

Up until now, I pitied myself a lot.  Felt bad that I’d been through my own gamut of unfortunate events.  But really, it was nothing like Katerina Stravinsky.

I feel a bit guilty, too, for using a work like “croaked” to describe her death.  I’m certain the onomatopoeia is right on, but sadly, I also have no doubt that her demise was prolonged, painful, and very messy.  As she lay in her bed, likely confined to bed for most of her final days, she must have soaked countless rags with spit and coughed-up blood.  Necessarily isolated, and yet still responsible for the death of her daughter, she must have lingered that final year in mental agony matching her physical pain. 

I’m struck by the cavalier nature of my initial reflection.  Is this because I can’t seem to wrap my head around the tragedy of her life?  Certainly, she’s not alone in this standing; every day, thousands of men, women, and children must suffer unimaginable horrors.  But that’s just it - they aren’t really unimaginable.  These horrors are fully real and present, imaginable by those of us who allow ourselves to go down that dark path of the mind’s eye.  No need for visual evidence even, just a quiet union of emotion.  It’s easy enough to come back, to open our eyes to the drawn curtains of morning, with the January sun peeking through.  A sigh of relief might escape between sticky lips and a quick rub to the forearms will liven up frightened and heavy limbs.

Because then it’s morning.  All the beasts of the past are sleeping again and there’s nothing to fear but fear itself.  All that panic may rush in again without warning and flash flood the chest, like consumption, until it can’t draw breath.  But panic won’t kill you, at least, it won’t stop your heart.  My doctor told me so.

Your heart keeps right on beating, right through the fear.  All the way to the last day.  As long as those beasts stay asleep (tiptoes and whispers, but look back, and yes, they’re there), I’ll smile a little because they’re not so frightening, really, purring and cuddled up against each other to stay warm. 

But I’ll kill them yet.

Upon Hearing Footsteps

The neighbors said he was crazy.

When I moved into this house, I knew that the previous owner lived out of state, and bought it for his father. He was selling it because the old man had gone into an assisted living facility.  That’s what the realtor said, anyway.  I also knew that he struggled to take care of the house, leaving it grimy and in certain disrepair.

And then I found the pillow.  It was in the basement, in a cement corner, tucked behind the furnace.  At first, I worried about squatters, wondering if my new home was vulnerable to intruders.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed a curtain around the area, and multiple extension cords leading into the tiny space.  It was like a child’s hideout. 

The next weekend, as I raked leaves in the front yard, Jeff from across the street ambled over and asked, “You find any loose dirt in the basement yet?” He told me that Gunnar, the previous resident, had two lodgers … but only one was seen moving out.

“The guy, he didn’t stay long,” Jeff shook his head, “but the lady, she just disappeared.”  He smirked, “When Gunnar said she skipped out on the rent, but left all her stuff behind, we wondered.” I did too, and took a closer look around.

The couple next door told me how relieved they were that I had moved in.  Apparently, the old guy had called the cops because their front light was too bright.  On the other side of the house, they said he complained about their dog barking, even when the old spaniel was inside.

 Each time I talk with the neighbors, any of them, I hear a new story.  Shots fired into the air in the backyard, his crazy attempt to lay a path using firewood, and that he crashed into the fence, stumbling from the car steaming drunk.

The more I heard, the sadder I became.  More than one person had mentioned that he was a vet, and they speculated that he might be in the protective care of the Veteran’s hospital nearby.  I wondered what combat he’d faced, what terror he’d seen.  The strangeness of the house transformed from creepy to heartbreaking.  I imagined him in the basement, behind the curtain, perhaps with a radio, feeling safe.  I imagined him scared in the nighttime, the blinding porch light peeking through closed curtains.