JOURNAL: Saturday, Oct. 20th

I guess you could say that I’ve been given a reprieve. Danny called yesterday to say that his car is in the shop for the weekend and that he won’t be coming down. He wanted to discuss our plans on the phone but I told him that I thought it would be better if we were together to talk about such things.

This isn’t a good time for me to be discussing the future; I’m having enough trouble trying to deal with the present. At least two or three times a day I’m on the verge of tears.


I’ve been able to control myself at work, and I’m always busy in the evenings: there’s my class on Tuesdays, I go to the pool at least one other night each week, and there’s always prep for school and research to do. All of these things help me cope. They keep me moving forward, but they don’t leave much opportunity for dealing with what’s happening inside me. And I don’t know if that’s the best thing for me right now.

Perhaps Jean is right to suspect that I have some things to deal with, left over from when I was a kid. When I think of the children that I work with at school, and the others that I’ve interviewed for the research, I imagine them, each in their own little compartments of struggling sadness and anger – and there I am, right beside them. I feel just as weak and vulnerable and alone as they are – and I don’t understand why.

Perhaps I should spend some time with Starla – the old Starla, the Starla who worked so hard to keep it all together as a kid.

I’ve been putting some thought into it and I can come up with so many different ways to begin my story, but none of them seems to lead me down a road where I feel I want to go. I’m not sure I want to be listening for a voice that will take me inside myself – to uncover the details, to listen to the stories.

Throughout my teens, my journals had always been such collection of images and ideas that I’d picked up from watching life unfold around me. I’m good at remembering details and events; I’m an observer. So why am I finding this process so difficult now? Why am I hesitant about looking at those memories?

I’m not so much afraid of my childhood as I am exasperated and frustrated by it. I always felt that I was on the wrong set of the movie that was my life. I’m a quiet and reserved person by nature. This shyness always made my life uncomfortable, living as I was then in an environment that demanded alertness. Mom and Bill had lots of friends who were always coming to stay at our apartment. Most of the time I would feel like a puppy at a dance, afraid to move for fear of being stepped on. Everyone was so loud and exuberant, or intense, or lost in a haze, and I never felt that I belonged there – nor did I ever want to belong.

There were some good memories from those days that came bubbling to the surface this week. I remember wrestling with Bill in the backyard of some house where we lived. I remember holding his hand as we walked through Chinatown on Saturday mornings; his warmth and closeness could transform the exotic sights, sounds and smells into comfort food for my brain. I remember at some music festival, eating a sundae: maple walnut ice cream with rhubarb sauce and sunflower seeds. It sounds a bit weird now, but then it was decadence beyond belief.

I had a girl in one of my psych classes once who used the word “granola” as an adjective to describe anything of the hippie era. I guess it could be said that I had the ultimate “granola” childhood, but somehow I came out with a more “croissant” attitude, striving for lightness, delicacy and a buttery richness in my life.

I‘ve also been thinking a lot about Claire since talking with Jean. We’ve always been bonded, Claire and I. She’s more than a sister – she’s part of me, she’s my soul. By the time she was born, I was eight years old – I’d lived a whole childhood already, yet it seemed as if she’d always been with me. As far back as I can remember I felt as if there were more aspects to me than others could see. I would often talk to myself, as all children do, but I wasn’t sharing with an imaginary friend or verbalizing inner thoughts; I was carrying on a conversation with another self, one who shared my body. When Claire was finally born, I recognized her immediately. I knew that she was simply that other aspect of myself who now had her own body. I never considered it weird or unusual, it was just how I saw us.

I miss Claire. It’s been nice to have her back in my thoughts these past few days. Her presence has helped me remember the strength I had when we were kids, but it’s also reminded me of so many of the disappointments that life threw at us. Claire has always been part of my spiritual self; maybe she can help me go back now.
Copyright 2003