The Wastepaper Basket

Dove and I painted a wall today.

Sitting down to write has seemed like a herculean task these past few weeks– I had some lofty ideas of turning into a more consistent writer in the new year, and the stress of not completing that vision has been discouraging. We continue on anyway– we always continue on.

There are a lot of things I could blame my lack of writing on– the holidays, the family events. TV was too good. I had to catch up with my sister before she left for school. Job applications. Reading mystery novels. Working on my patisserie skills. Late nights staring at the empty wall wondering if I’m ever going to amount to anything.

But mostly, honestly, the TV was just too good.

It’s not a great day for painting a wall– we’ve been blessed with some odd spring weather (the usual post-christmas warm spot that Missouri allows) and the warmth is met with wet, gloomy air. Last night I was kept awake by a comedically loud bird. It seems like all the birds are out now– all the birds, and all the dark clouds. With weather like this, you want to go tramping along the hills and fields in a  loose nightgown. Not trapped in the top room of the house, three days into a painting project. But it’s nice to just be alive, I tell myself. I’d rather be alive, alive, sweating, crouched in the cramped room that used to be my childhood bedroom, hiding away the bubblegum pink with a tasteful, forest green. I’d rather be inconvenienced like this and alive.

We’ve meant to have this wall painted for the past few days. Dove asked me to help, and I couldn’t say no. I want to be kinder, more generous. Part of what’s made me so sick the last few days is knowing that if it was Mariah asking me to paint, I would have been whistling as we worked. I want to be a helpful person. Just not for Dove.

The first day was moving the furniture. For the past two nights, Dove has had to sleep on the living room couch, curled up under two forest green blankets. Their bed has been taken over by all the knicknacks that needed moved to begin the painting. It was only when we finally moved the nicks and the knacks that we realized all the little gaps that were in between the wall and the floor, or the floorboards themselves. That was day one– we moved the furniture, and my sibling filled the gaps. I was glad– all the murder mysteries seemed to be inspiring me that day. 

The second day we laid down the plastic, collected the supplies, the brushes, and taped down all the little edges. Dove even washed the wall, since it was covered in smudges and scuffmarks where my middle-school feet had kicked it from where my bed had sat. There were a few pieces of tape where a while ago, I had hung my drawings. The drawings are packed up safely in the attic now. Most everything else that was and is mine is scattered around poor Mariah’s room. 

We did the detail work, and were finally ready to paint at five o’clock. Five o’clock– time for me to make dinner. We put a second pause on the painting, and waited until today: day three. I’m almost glad it’s taken so long– it’s given me a lot of time to think why it is that my worst nightmare is painting a wall with Dove.

I can’t help but think about all the things I’d rather be doing when I paint. Tramping outside in the nice, gloomy weather, of course, but also working on my art– painting a new portrait, designing an etsy shop, writing a novel, baking cookies, even folding laundry.

I pause from my writing; I’m on the front porch, and the rain has begun battering on the tin roof. How can I be frustrated at a single living soul when I am really living to hear real rain on a real farmhouse roof?

I don’t know what to tell you. Only maybe reading three murder mysteries in a row wasn’t such a good idea.

The mysteries in question are from a series by Louise Penny, The Inspector Gamache Mysteries. I like the series for a lot of reasons, enough reasons to dedicate an entire piece to it. I won’t do that to you, but I’ll say that they’re very hungry books. Louise Penny should have been a columnist, she seems to have a very large passion for very fine food. It’s almost reminiscent of an Anthony Bourdain piece, only people get crushed to death by statues, in between.

It’s cold out on the porch now– time to write inside.

Louis Penny seems to know a lot about everything, if I think about it. Quebec history, fine art, food, poetry, and classic literature. In one of her books, A Rule Against Murder, the inspector makes a few strong mentions of Milton’s Paradise Lost. That specific installation in the series takes place during the inspector’s summer holiday, at a remote inn on the edge of a lake.While there, the inspector becomes acquainted with a friend’s dysfunctional and neurotic family. The siblings are at each other’s throats, the stepfather distant, their mother barbed, entitled, and boiling over. To add another delicious layer to the scenery, this all takes place in the heat of the summer season– many of the characters wake up swimming in sweat soaked sheets, make dazed observations in screened porches, trudging through the waves of heat and familial animosity.

It’s a good book.

I won’t spoil the ending, thought it’s a good one, and would make an excellent addition to the piece. What’s important here is the inspector’s observation of the family. It really would have been heaven if they hadn’t hated each other so much, but unfortunately, as Gamache quotes, “Hell is other people.”

Dove came in a moment ago. It’s been an up and down day for them. Most days are– I feel bad writing this. I felt worse keeping it all in. It’s hard finding a balance, but it’s my life. It’s my feelings, and it’s a journey.

I listen a lot these days. Listen, and wait. I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. Maybe I want to share– Dove wants me to share. We had a talk a few weeks back. I’ve been a coward, I’m ashamed to say. I had written them a letter before coming, bold and assertive and true to myself. I had said that I was uncomfortable coming home so long. That there was a lot unsaid, that there was a lot of hurt, and a lot to work through. But I was ready to be honest. Time for a fresh start.

It make me sick to think of this now. 

When we painted today, it was either silence, singing, or shouting. The silence was mostly me, and some of the singing. The shouting was all Dove. I’m used to it– it was the biggest reason I hadn’t wanted to paint in the first place. I’ve done enough jobs with my older sibling to know it would probably involve a lot of shouting. That’s how games went, too. Lot’s of shouting. Sometimes throwing things– sometimes laughing. Sometimes I was the thing being laughed at. Sometimes not. There was never really any reason to how Dove felt– sometimes more excited than all of us, then blowing up with anger at the drop of a hat. I feel ridiculous being so scared of them, still. They’re so changed now– but on days like this, it comes out.

“Jesus FUCKING CHRIST–”

For the fourth or fifth time. Then, a little quiet.

“Sorry,” They say earnestly.

I keep brushing the corners of the window. The shouting is normal. The apologizing hurts. I listen to their worries– I don’t say much, but it’s rare that this is noticed. I’ve found the balance, after almost a decade of practice. You don’t have to laugh at al of their jokes– I used to, and when I stopped, they were hurt. And angry, of course. Now I know that for the most part, if I keep my face neutral, make eye contact a couple times, nod a little, it’ll be alright. The secret sauce it to make your own jokes. Dove doesn’t actually mind if everything they say isn’t funny. They only want interaction, they don’t need every laugh. If I crack my own, I don’t get weird looks. Or serious talks– serious talks about how odd I’m acting. Serious talks about how distant, how cold, how unfair I am. Just nod, and joke every now and then. I haven’t been pulled aside for a few weeks with the new method. Mariah and I got a talk before Christmas. Dove was worried we were acting weird. We gave each other a look–  the truth was only going to make it worse. 

It’s not the shouting that bothers me. They’ve always shouted. Always insulted. Always pointing out my behaviors, moulding and pling and prodding me in all directions. A little like being a bonsai. I think now that it’s really over, now that we’re in the new chapter, I feel lost. There was strength in being someone’s project, being a small person that stood up and walked away. That was my narrative.

“I’m sorry,” They keep sighing today. It makes me flinch. More than raised arms, more than hitting furniture, more than screaming. “It’s bad behavior. I’m in a bad mood.”

For the longest time I worried about the brushstokes, and run in circles in my head. Dove frets over their life plans. They hadn’t expected to be home this long without a new blueprint for their next steps. They’re hurting. My head is elsewhere. I thinking about screaming, high and shrill. Giving Dove attention is the last thing I want to do.

When I come home I want to be able to hug you,

I had written. I hate thinking about the letter. I was so sure who I was coming home to. My mother had called me, and warned me that Dove had fully moved in. I knew this– she had told me this. But why would her daughter want to come back home unless she thought that Dove was away?

I’ve been interrupted a few times as I write. I’m interrupted a lot at home– I try to see the comedic perspective that it’s my own family that has the least respect for me. My family and our egos– we all want attention so badly. Every moment is now, and it’s going to die if we don’t use it– and share it, and get attention for it. I’m included in this. I’d go as far to say that Dove and I are the worst for this. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing headphones, hiding upstairs, on the toilet, if I’m wanted, I’m called for. There’s a beauty in this. It’s frustrating, but it’s also adorably pathetic how much we all need each other. What Dove needed me for was to listen to a monologue, then later, to stop me so we could seal up a draft with plastic. I’m doing better- I said it needed to wait. They argued it, but they relented. So here I write.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n”

Is happiness as simple as making a choice? If this trip back home has taught me anything, it’s that my brain is not suited to simple constructs. Love isn’t simple– hating isn’t either. Maybe it’s my religious upbringing, but hatred, anger, frustration, have always felt like poisonous fruit to my body. I can feel anger eat away at me. Don’t get me wrong– I’d like the anger. I’d just rather it not erode me.

In between swears, Dove sings. In between singing, we joke. I catch myself laughing a dozen times. Sometimes it makes me sick, and I have to stop. I don’t want to be happy here. I just want to be somewhere else. Both our hands become freckled with green paint. Forest green. When Dove isn’t shouting, swearing, or weaving in condescension, I try and think it out. If I could hate them, I would. If I could be full of good thoughts, I would. 

There was one car ride, the first week I was home, that we actually talked. I knew right away that it was different– changes in the air. Even their voice was different– and the anger seemed to be cooled. I could stand next to them without being burned. Then our mother called– unsurprisingly, our father’s truck had broken down in town, and could we pick them up. Dove and I leapt in to action– a rescue mission. We sped down the road about thirty feet before my stomach dropped. We were alone in a car. I knew they’d take the chance to talk. But already, I had a feeling that this wouldn’t go well. 

It started off cool– honest, raw, with me beginning in a falter. They wanted to hear what I had to say, and had to be the one to begin. How I felt about them. What I had been thinking. I was hopeful. I stared ahead at the brittle fields, the dead grass of lukewarm Missouri. I talked– slowly, carefully, daring to feel something thaw. They were apologizing– 

It turned.

“I’m not saying I didn’t do anything wrong– I’m really sorry for how I’ve been to you–”

I saw the look in their eyes as they said this. Everything in me shut down. With sinking resignation, my mind spoke with them, as if it was a verse we were quoting together. The worst poem in the world.

“-but I think you put way too much on me than I deserve. I always tried to reach out to you, and it’s like I could never say anything right. You had just decided that whatever I said was going to be wrong–”

It was like they had been possessed by the fears that had lived inside me. It wasn’t that bad– you make it sound worse for attention, to feel important. You’re the cruel one. You’re not protecting yourself, you’re just a stuck up bitch.

It’s all nonsense. These fears still speak, but I’ve done enough work to tell you they’re not true. But Dove believes it– there’s been a hundred little things they’ve done this trip to show me what they think of me. And why wouldn’t they? I mess up my sentences sometimes, I stutter. I don’t always say yes. I like being alone. I enjoy movies and hug our mother. What a little bitch.

It’s funny to know that their jokes are their secrets. It’s this way with a lot of people. It’s like finding someone’s tell in poker… if someone tells you to fuck off enough when you’re laughing together, it’s usually a sign that they want you to fuck off in real life. If they call you a bitch enough times… sneer at you, make fun of you, make you the punchline when they don’t have to. Dove keeps telling me to be more condescending. It’s always part of a joke. I know they means it. It was their sore spot as kids. They always said we “handled” them. If anything has taught me about unreliable narrators, it’s our family. I worry what parts of myself I’ve narrated away.

Part of me think that I shouldn’t have come home at all. I know this isn’t true. But it’s been over a month now of being on edge. I’m worried that I’m going to blow up as much as I worry about Dove lashing out. Poor Dove– they think we’re alright. That hurts me as much as they hurt me. The fact that they think I’m alright. More than this– the fact that they think this is who I am.

We continue on anyway. Tense, of course, and faltering. I dream about my next trip. I dream about letting that tired, frightened look on my face falling off. I dream about shouting all the things I’ve ever thought at Dove. I’d like to be myself– my kind, silly, honest, confident self. I’m a shadow around them– and it’s ridiculous. I know what you have to be thinking– what’s the worst that could happen? What’s so bad about being honest? Closure? Healing?

I dream about painting a wall and it not being a chore. 

This story isn’t finished, so there’s no last line for me to say. I have hope, but no answers. I’d like to be brave– but I’ve been brave dozens of times. I’ve gotten more hurt from being brave than anything else. Maybe it’s time that will fix us both. But I have no last lines– as is my habit, I’ll let poetry do the talking for me.