It is completely accidental. I don’t mean to find the letter. I’m not snooping, only looking for a clothing website. Why he keeps a copy in his favorites folder I guess I’ll never know. But there it is.
  Rendered in black and white on the computer screen is the thing that has been nagging me. The thing I know but can not name. I can not breathe as I read and reread the letter not meant for me. It is sweet in its own shy way and when I can breathe again I cry. Great big sobs that leave me breathless on the floor and then quietly weeping when that’s all I have left until I am dry.
  I email a copy to him so when he gets home and checks his email he will know I have seen and know.  I cannot think of a better way to confront this without falling apart.
  “What do you want” he asks. He’s sitting against the door, knees to his chest. I’m on the bed, curled up, covered up, looking at him almost eye level.
  “What do I want?” I repeat. I want so much. I want to have never found the letter. I want none of this to have happened. I want him to have not done this horrible thing. I want to stop breathing. I want him to stop breathing. I want her to stop breathing. I want to know how involved it really is not just what he says. I want to know why I am so stupid and why I gave up so much for some asshole. I want to know if there were others. I think there were. I want to know if she’s prettier than me, thinner with longer hair.  Does she know how you hit me in the face and I forgave you? Is she forgiving like me? I want to know what I did wrong. And how I can fix it. And I want the world to just. Stop. Spinning. Just for a minute. And let me catch my breath.
  “I don’t know what I want” I’m trying not to cry but the tears are coming again anyway “what do you want?”
  In the end I can’t bring myself to ask him to leave. I don’t want him to go. He chooses to stay.
  He calls her, every night now that it’s out in the open, with the calling card I bought him when I was still stupid and trusting enough to believe they were ‘just friends’.  He talks to her in the hallway for an hour while I cry on the couch. We still sleep together. I still hold out hope.  And it is killing me.
  I can no longer eat more than a few pieces of toast a day or sleep more than an hour a night. After a week I take up drinking. After two he notices the fifteen pounds I’ve lost and does the thing I’ve needed him to do all along. He leaves.
  “Only for a week” he says, “to give you a break.” And I am relieved and horrified at the same time.
  A week turns into three. And then she is visiting and he brings her over to see the cats. Right in front of me and I want to die. And then he’s getting the rest of his stuff. She goes back to South Dakota or North Dakota or where ever the hell she came from and he resumes visiting and sex a few times a week. I can’t say no. He might still come back. And he says he might.
  Two months later he helps me move. I am alone in the city now. I have no car, no friends, no relatives and now live in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He promises to come help me out, visit the cats.  We talk on the phone once. But I never see him again.
  Four and a half years later I think I see him on the train. He won’t look at me. I can’t tell. He’s only on for one stop. On and off so fast. It only might have been.

  He wears a long jacket. It’s hot out, but he wears it anyway. Jack is only two inches taller than I am, so he also wears heavy boots that give him another two inches. We meet on the street two blocks from the theater.
  I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes in front of a bagel shop. Long enough to realize I’m hungry, and also, the Burger King will be closing soon.
  “Hungry?” he asks, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind. “Burger King is still open.” It doesn’t occur to me that he’s hungry too, only that he knows what I want and need. It’s like magic.
  We hold hands as we cross the street. We don’t talk, drawn like moths to the florescent sign.
  He holds the door for me. He orders for me. He carries the tray. We have the restaurant to ourselves. We sit by the window at a faded table with worn chairs looking out on to the street.
  “Ozzie has a cold.” he says. “He’s sneezing.”  And I wonder how he can tell a regular ferret sneeze from a ferret with a cold sneeze.
  “I’m sure he’ll get better” I say, dangling a french fry over my ketchup . “I bet ferrets catch colds all the time. Just like people.”
  “I think so.” He pulls his pickles off his burger for later.
  “I have a new throwing star. I just got it yesterday from this new shop I found in Blue Ash.” He dips his french fries three at a time into the ketchup. Always three.
  I don’t really care, but he sounds so proud. “You’ll have to show me later” I say, and I smile.
  They’re closing the restaurant and we have to leave. He takes my hand and we walk slowly through the almost empty streets to the theater.  On the corner there’s a bar playing Jazz.
  “Roger is having a party next Thursday night. Wanna go?”
I don’t like Roger. “Sure” I say. I sneak a glance over at him. Jack has the most beautiful blue eyes. I really, really don’t like Roger, but I smile.
  We’re late for the movie, but I don’t care. I’m just happy.

Mom was on the couch again. Just sitting there, rubbing her head with one hand, cigarette in the other. I wondered if she would notice it was noon and I was supposed to be in school. She ashed her cigarette in the too full ashtray and cringed. Rubbing her forehead some more she reached for an almost empty bottle of aspirin.
  She dry swallowed three. I never knew how she could stand to do that. She ran her fingers through her hair, roughly combing it. It didn’t help much. But when the light caught it just right, as it was now, it was this beautiful shade of gold, mess and all, and I wondered how she used to look.
  Then she turned one bloodshot eye towards me. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
  I walked across the room, stepping over a pile of newspapers, and sat down in the armchair. “Sent home” I said “inappropriate t-shirt.” I was only occasionally very good at lying so I didn’t mention that I was supposed to change clothes and go back.
  She ashed again, this time choosing a days old coffee mug with some stale coffee still in the bottom from among the clutter on the coffee table. Cups. An overfull ashtray. A lone spoon gleamed from the far side. Magazines held down by a pair of dirty salad plates, ashes and another too full ashtray. Mugs. An out of place shoe. A few beer cans.
  “Why do you do these things?” she asked as she stood up. And I had no answer for her. I wanted to ask why she did the things she did. But I didn’t.
  She looked at me again. “You used to be such a good girl.” she said, as she left the room. She sounded so tired

The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them. That is the essence of inhumanity. - George Bernard Shaw 1856-1950

There are 325 million egg laying hens in the U.S. confined in battery cages. What is a battery cage? It is truly a life of hell. Battery cages are small wire cages, about sixteen inches wide stacked one on top of the other and lined up in rows in huge, overpopulated warehouses. Kept in the dark, the birds, packed four to a cage, accumulate massive amounts of waste. The excrement of the birds in the cages above falls on those in the cages below. They cannot see or stretch their wings or legs. They cannot walk around or be social

read on...

  To tell you why I can’t talk I have to tell you about grocery shopping. And jam. Jam is the worst offender in the grocery store. And there are many offenders. Many. But jam is the worst and I can’t tell you why.
  Grocery shopping itself is so painful for me. Any shopping really but grocery shopping is something I have to do fairly often. Several times a week now. You would think it would get easier but no. It’s always going to be a challenge. I’m always going to have this problem. There will never be a cure. I will always live this way. But grocery shopping is the worst. Maybe because I have to do it most often.
  And in the grocery store the worst offender is jam. JAM. I hate jam. I love jam. That’s why I attempt to buy it.
  I go down the jam aisle. Really there is less jam in the aisle than anything but I call it the jam aisle because for me its all about the jam there. I focus on the jam because I can focus on nothing else. Peanut butter is easy to buy. I know my brand. I know my style. Bread is harder. But jam. JAM.
  I go down the jam aisle. I stop and look at the jams. I know my brand and my flavor, I do. But I am compelled to look at them all anyway. I might want to shake things up and buy something else. Something I like in another brand might be on sale. I could save a few cents.
I like blueberry all-fruit spread, but its expensive and the jars are so small.
I look for the sales.
I look at other flavors.
I compare.
I put a jar in my basket. I keep looking.
I take the jar out. I can’t buy it. I can never buy the first jar. I decide on another one.
I put the jar in my basket. I keep looking. Maybe I don’t want it. But I should get it. It’s already in my basket after all.
But I put it back on the shelf. I can’t get it. It’s not right. I keep my hand on the jar, I should get it. I can’t let go of the jar just yet. Do I really not want it? I should take it. I hesitate. I let go.
I stare at the jam. Its jam. It’s a fucking jar of jam. Buy one. Any one.
I take another jar and only hold it in my hand and look at it. I think I want it but I’m unsure. Maybe. I can’t decide. I hold it a bit longer and put it back on the shelf.
My stomach is starting to ache and my palms are sweating. I need to pick a jam. Just pick something. Anything. Or leave. Damnit! Why is this so hard.
I pick a jar. I pick the blueberry all-fruit spread. I put in the basket and go down the aisle.
I back up and put it back on the shelf. I can’t do it. I just can’t buy that jam. The jar is too small. And its purple. I had purple last time. I need a different color.
I pick cherry.
I put it in my cart and go down the aisle.
I turn around go back to the jam and put the cherry back. I can’t do it. It costs too much. It’s not on sale. I can’t spend that much. I need to get a cheaper jam.
Apricot is on sale.
I put it in my cart and take two steps away before I turn back.
I don’t like apricot.
I leave it in my cart though. This is getting ridiculous. I need to make a decision. Or leave. Buy a jam or leave. Those are my choices.
I start to cry a little. Just a little.
It has now been twenty minutes.
I put the apricot back on the shelf.
I stand there and look at the jam a little while longer.
I walk away.
  This is what grocery shopping is like for me. Jam is the worst. But all of it is like this. All of life. It’s all like jam. It’s all just as difficult to varying degrees.
  And this is why I could not talk. I could not pick a word. Picking words were even worse than picking jam. By the time I had my words picked the conversations had moved on. Sometimes by hours and I was left behind. I had so much to say. I just could not say it.
  Sometimes, after all my other stuff is picked I’ll go back to the jam aisle and pick up a jam. If its last, I can, sometimes, get myself to the check out and in line with people behind me before I can have second thoughts and turn around. Sometimes that strategy would work. After all, I could never say “excuse me” to get back out of line. Too many words.
  From 14 to 31 talking was the most painful thing for me. All I ever wanted was to be able to talk to people. Sometimes I could do it. If I knew you. And even then it would wipe me out. I went through periods where I could talk more so then other times. But I never spoke ‘normally’. I never talked as much as I wanted. Never said all I wanted to say. My most active speech periods would be considered ‘shy’ by most people. I took to telling people right up front, one of my standard sentences that I was able to say was “I don’t talk”.  I got kicked out of the house I lived in when I first moved to Utah for not talking. They didn’t like me because I didn’t talk to them. I had periods, when my son was small, where, if I didn’t talk to my mom, other than my son, I did not speak to anyone. I did not call any friends I had. I did not, could not reach out to anyone.
  Therapy was out of the question. I barely spoke to the doctor. I asked him once how he knew I needed a medication increase when we didn’t really talk. He said I had flat affect. That was how I learned what that was. It had to be something because I wasn’t talking to him. I barely responded to questions. I always used the minimum amount of words required for any question asked of me. I could not answer open ended questions very well. Talking to me was like pulling teeth only twice as painful for everyone involved. Eventually I just stopped trying.
  When I was 17 I met a group of people I would later become friends with. It was our first meeting. My other friend left me with them. He introduced us and told them I didn’t really talk and walked off. I don’t think they were prepared. I sat with them the whole night, twelve hours, and never said more than yes, no and maybe. Those were the last friends I was able to make. For 17 years.
  The not talking goes so much deeper than jam. But it is the same. For the same reason I could not pick a jam I could not speak to people I did not know. And know well. And even then I could not speak as much as I wanted. Even with people I knew well I could not speak to them in public places where people I didn’t know were. Because I could not speak to people I did not know.
  When I was 30 I got therapy enough to expand my talking to be able to participate in some things and start to live my life a little fuller. It wasn’t much, but it was a little bit. I was also unmediated and needing surgery. Things began to go downhill and by 31 I was back on meds. I got Lamictal. That drug let me talk. A lot, for me. The next drug I got was Abilify. It didn’t have any impact on my speech really. At 34 I now have Geodon. It has increased my words yet again. Triple what the Lamictal did. And let me get a bit assertive. I don’t really know what that is. I’ve been so passive so much of my life. So muted. I’m afraid I’m too aggressive now. I’m trying not to be.
  I can buy jam now. Its still a hassle. I still struggle with flavor, color, price and brand. I still sometimes put it back on the shelf and still sometimes leave the store empty handed. But I spend less time deciding and leave without less often. I haven’t cried over jam once since I’ve gotten Geodon.
  My therapist told me to buy more than one jam at a time. See if this made the jam situation any easier. It does not. It only complicates the matter.
  If I do this, then we have twice the problem. Sure I could buy blueberry AND blackberry but those are both purple. All-fruit has strawberry, but I don’t like the seeds, and apricot, which I don’t like but I’ve bought just because it’s orange. I can’t buy two purples at the same time. And I can’t bring myself to mix brands. Not at the same time. That was pre-Geodon. Maybe now. I should try now. Only a few brands make blueberry and only a few brands have a cherry. So to get the two I have to mix brands. No choice. But jam brand mixing on the same shopping trip is unheard of. It can’t be done. This is how it must be. Even with Geodon things must be a certain way. I’m fairy sure jam is going to be one of those things. One of those rules that I just can’t break. I can buy different brands. I have different brands in my fridge. And I even have two, count them, two purples in my fridge. Just not bought at the same time. Only at different times. I don’t know why it has to be that way. It just has to. Things are getting a little OCD up in here.
  There is no cure. It will never go entirely away. It is only better. I can live now. And I can live well. My world is expanded. I can finally pick a jam in less than ten minutes. 95% of the time. It just took me two minutes to pick a percentage.
  On to the bread aisle. Potato. Whole Wheat. Multi-Grain. Double Fiber. Lite. On sale. With more choices, this is surprisingly easier than jam. 
  Peanut butter is easy. I like the Kroger brand, natural that you have to stir that goes for $1.98 on the bottom shelf. If I go to a different store I either hold off or get a different brand, which causes me some anxiety but nowhere near the twenty agonizing minutes and tears involved in getting jam. I would say I can pick an off-favorite peanut butter in three minutes. At the most. On a bad day.
  The harder part of peanut butter is actually deciding to buy it. Once I decide to buy it, and I have it on my list, I have to decide to buy it all over again once I am in the store. Because maybe the list says so but maybe I don’t really want it after all. So I have to make that choice all over again. Once that is made then I’m able to pick a peanut butter. Then later in the store I sometimes have to argue with myself AGAIN about do I really want the peanut butter or not. Because maybe I’ve changed my mind since I put it in my basket. Next to the damn jam.
  I hate food.