Patchwork Quilt

What is life, if not some patchwork quilt made up of snippets of stories, put together in such a way to be most aesthetically pleasing? Depending on the day, the stories differ, changing form and direction. Ever-changing moods color the scenes differently, opalescent, like a fish’s scales in the sunlight. Today, the air is thick with sweet remembrance. The cookies in the oven remind me of my favorite birthday cakes. There are two that stand out. The first one was a homemade, from the box, chocolate sheet cake, covered in chocolate icing and M&M’s. It was special because Mom let me decorate it myself. With help from my little brother, we tediously spelled out “Happy Birthday” with the candy-coated chocolates. The second was the first professional cake I’d ever received. It was from DQ, a chocolate ice cream cake. It was almost too decadent to eat. My loving boyfriend had compiled a list of my favorite treats, including the cake, and surprised me with them after I’d returned home from my best friend’s house. That cake tasted like pure love and happiness.

When I think of pure love and happiness, I think of a house I’ve seen only one time. It belonged to a family I don’t know the identity of, and I’ll likely never see it again. Even still, it’s the home of the birth of my love for a man who deserves all the love in the world. My friend was house/dog sitting for some people she knew. Like any responsible 19-year-old, she decided to invite people over to get drunk and have a good time. Since we both still lived with our parents, the man I’d been getting to know and I decided it was the perfect opportunity to spend a night together for the first time. The alcohol gave me courage I didn’t know I had. We traipsed through the house, getting rowdier with each shot taken. More people showed up, but I don’t remember most of the night. What I do remember is going outside, walking towards a field to find a private place to vomit. Afterwards, I lay there in the grass, listening. I heard my man looking for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to call out to him. He found me, anyway, and lay there next to me, ignoring the bugs that were bound to cover us with their bites. “I know I maybe shouldn’t say this…” he trailed off. I looked up at the stars, wishing for him to keep going, but I knew if I opened my mouth the moment would be ruined. I stayed still, quietly waiting. “I think I really could love you,” he told me. That moment is burned into my memory with the blinding golden light that filled me when he said those words. A picture exists of the two of us from that night. We’re clearly very drunk. It was dark, and the picture is a bit blurry. But there, upon my face, is a smile that has not existed anywhere other than that frame.

The window in front of me frames the back of a strip mall. Some grass and a brown fence separate my apartment from the shops, but sometimes I see the employees of the Mexican restaurant prop themselves against the dumpster for their smoke break. Since we brought our cat, Stella, into our home, my fiancée and I leave our blinds open in the daytime. Otherwise, she’ll take it upon herself to break them. It’s August now, and though we’ve had her since January, I still haven’t quite adapted to it. I hop out of the shower with no clothes and no second thought, just to catch a glimpse of the smokers. Every time, it surprises me. I run back into my bedroom and throw on some clothes. I don’t think they’ve ever seen me. They don’t seem to be paying much attention in this direction.

As if she can sense that I’m talking about her, Stella climbs into my lap. She’s gotten better about not stepping on my laptop’s keys, but I can tell she would really like to. I pause a moment to give her some love, but afraid that I’ll lose steam, I hurry back to my train of thought.

I got a new job a few weeks ago. Since I’m in nursing school, it seemed a natural step to become a CNA. My town’s local nursing home offers classes. When my last boss gave us three days notice that the doors were closing for good, I jumped at the opportunity to make more money before the new semester. I’d worked at an assisted living facility before, so the nursing home doesn’t feel foreign to me. I’ve swiftly fallen in love with each resident I’ve met so far. I only wish there was more time. Each hall gets two CNA’s and a nurse. Depending on the hall, there can be 20 or so residents to tend to. In an 8 hour shift, that doesn’t give a whole lot of time for each individual. One can enter this position with the best intentions, and still fall short. Each night, I leave the place feeling ragged, weary, and absolutely grateful. I get to go home at the end of each long day. I get to climb into my car, roll my windows down, and feel the freeing wind cool my sweaty skin. I take the bypass to my apartment, and I see the cross by the Railroad Crossing sign. It’s adorned with a wreath and her name: Ava Jean. As my tires bounce over the tracks, I get that feeling you get when the roller coaster has reached its peak and you know what goes up must come down. My heart skips a beat, and I wonder what it must’ve been like. Getting off work after a long shift at the nursing home, taking the bypass to get back to your boyfriend faster, coming up to the tracks with no idea that moment is going to be your last. Maybe you see the lights flashing, but the music on the radio covers up the horn. The car ahead of you crosses without incident, but just as your front wheels cross, that feeling, that heart sinking feeling– then nothing.

Some stories we acquire from others still become apart of our quilt. We sew them in diligently, quietly, so as not to offend. Sometimes the lines become blurred, we become unsure of what stories are ours to tell. How can something be a part of us without belonging to us? How can something be a part of us without being real?

Last night, I dreamt that I told my father everything I’ve ever wanted to and more. It didn’t come out nicely, and he was certainly upset. He kicked me out of his home and bid me to never return. As I awoke this morning, the pain felt real. The pain is real. I watch, albeit from a distance, my father slowly wither away. His skin and the whites of his eyes are jaundiced, but he denies it. His body is weak and wasting, aside from his bloated belly and swollen feet. He’s in denial that he’s dying. He continues living as if nothing is different. As if the past few years haven’t transformed us both. As if I am still the perfect angel daughter he thought I was. I used to be enamored by my dad. I thought he was the funniest, coolest dad. When the circumstances led me to sharing a home with him, I convinced myself it was a good thing. When he let me start smoking cigarettes and drinking, I thought he was so awesome. My friends and I could hang out around his glass table, playing cards and getting trashed with no consequences. We’d laugh at his stories, and feed into his ego. I don’t know if it was dependence or love that made me blind, but I was.

At 18, just before I took off with a homeless traveler, I suddenly woke up to reality. It was quite ugly. I had no real idea what to do with my life, and I was more depressed than ever. I learned things about my dad that began to change the way I saw him. Instead of a charming, funny man, he was suddenly pathetic and gross. He was a man who never took responsibility, a man full of delusions. His alcoholism had always been apparent to me, but I’d always hoped he’d get sober. I thought alcohol was the only problem, and that once help was received, he’d be the dad that I really needed. I was a bit delusional, too. When I finally realized the truth of the matter, everything cascaded around me. It wasn’t just my dad, it was the world. Everything began to feel tainted and evil. I couldn’t find a single good thing to hold on to. I hated every job I’d had. I felt lost, alone, scared. People who know me now find it so hard to believe that little old me, three days after meeting a man on Tinder, jumped into my car to travel the country with no plan, no money, nothing. What they don’t realize is that decision saved my life. It was that or end it all.

On the road, I met many people in all different walks of life. I spent a lot of time with homeless people. It was hard for me to identify as homeless myself, but Zach embraced it. It was an honorary badge. For me, I felt stuck between two worlds. I didn’t really “belong” with the dirty kids and home bums, but I didn’t belong where I’d come from either. I kept pushing, despite the ugliness of the world. Each person I met came with their own, often tragic, backstory. I met a 17 year old who called himself Turtle, who’d run away from home. Well, a foster home. His third. I remember thinking how odd it was that everyone seemed okay with it. I mean, he was a runaway, shouldn’t we have been eager to turn him in, return him to where he belonged? It wasn’t until later that I realized Turtle wasn’t very different from me. I may have been a legal adult, but I was a runaway, too. The only difference was that I told my parents I was going, going, gone. Now, when I see runaways on the news or Facebook posts, I say a little prayer that they find a Turtle, or a Dustpan, or anyone who will listen and guide them. Maybe they’ll be more at home among the dirty kids than I was.

 I was barely there as we bounced from state to state. I often drove hours passed the point when I should’ve pulled over to rest. One night in particular, I remember struggling to stay awake. It’s not like there was a time sensitive mission. The only one pushing me to keep going was me. Looking back, it terrifies me how little regard I had for myself on those nights. I’d just keep chugging the energy drinks, chain smoking the cigarettes. I’d turn the music up a little louder in hopes it would wake me. Still, I’d nod off, incapable of stopping it. Before then, it always seemed absurd to me that someone could fall asleep while driving. I mean, it still is absurd, but I at least see how possible it is now. That was the night we reached Nashville. I watched the sunrise over the first new city I’d reached. It was a taste of what I’d dreamed of. The travel bug that kept me going for the next 9 months of my life was fueled mostly by beautiful scenes like those. And beautiful people with beautiful stories. And this overwhelming sense that somewhere, somehow, someone had my back. There was no other explanation for why I was still alive, still somehow moving forward despite all the dangerous situations I’d put myself in. It was as if the death wish persisted, but someone more dedicated than I had an alive wish against me.

I sometimes still fantasize about life on the road. I glamorize my memories, remembering only the beauty and community. I conveniently forget that, despite the gorgeous scenery, I was hopelessly depressed no matter where I happened to find myself that day. I was hopelessly depressed because the core of who I am was built on falsities such as: “You’ll never be good enough.” “You’ll never find your way.” “No one will ever love you for who you are.” My foundation was an insecure one, inherited from my parents. I couldn’t run fast enough to escape the truth. I’ve stopped running now, and it isn’t easy. That foundation persists despite my desperate attempts to hammer it away. It makes me so angry sometimes that it’s my responsibility to fix something that, if it were up to me, would never have been built wrongly to begin with. I try to use the anger as fuel, but more often than not, it freezes me. I get stuck for days or weeks, not really doing much of anything other than existing. I find myself, today, thawing out. The thawing process is always painful, as that which was frozen numb can now feel what was there all along.

Despite our best efforts, every quilt is bound to have a few flaws. I used to try very hard to hide mine. My flaws were a very well kept secret, and I knew if anyone were to ever find me out, that would be the end. Anyone with a sane mind would see the deepest, darkest parts of me and hit the ground running. So imagine my surprise when the man who thought he could really love me, really did. He really does. I briefly come out of my writing reverie as he wakes from his slumber. He stumbles sleepily to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. He keeps his eyes closed against the sunlight. Barely awake, he still stops before going back to bed. “I really love you,” he tells me. Just that easily, with a few simple words, he reminds me to keep the golden light alive. Despite anything else, despite the flaws and ugliness of the world, despite broken foundations and families, despite hunger and pain and loss and deranged depravity: love– that golden light, persists. I will weave it in amongst all the rest, and never let the flame go out.