Round Trip

It's too much: full Just too much. Intense group therapy twice a week, individual therapy once a week. Articles and books to read, dream journals to keep, journals to write, secrets to keep - no public acknowledgement of group members if you meet them out in the streets someplace, anyplace.

How was i supposed to even guess she owned a used bookstore around the corner from my house?

Used bookstores and libraries- my safe places. I usually find those books, essays, articles, assigned by a well meaning therapist in one or the other. And since I've stopped drinking for sport, I sniff around in them like a hound dog on a rabbit hunt.

Musty, dusty, organized, disorganized, sometimes the scent of patchouli so strong it gags me. But I get over it and look. And look and look. For help. For answers. For ideas, strategies, techniques, succes stories of women who have decided to step out of being beaten every Saturday night by a drunken partner, insulted on a daily basis, cleaning the tiled floors with a toothbrush for a compliment only to be probed about the house smells like Listerine and Pepsodent.

The Self Help section is usually where I start. I find four books and sit down on a yellow flowered love seat, which sinks into the shape of my body, which I understand now is too big, too gandy, ill proportioned and warped in some places - my nose, my fingers, etc. Etc. Etc. The chosen scent in this one is Lavender and the love seat matches. Peace.

She saw me before I saw her. The group leaders had so stressed not acknowledging each other in public because of the very sensitive nature of the group I forgot what they all looked like as soon as I left there. I'd learned my lessons, the hard way, for doing anything I was told not to do. Fists, fingers, shoes, hair pulling, hair brushes, threats....once I was held over a toilet by my ankles and told I was going to be drowned for asking for something I shouldn't have ask for. My lessons had come early and lasted my lifetime. It was normal for me. So I didn't see her.

She sat down on the love seat next to me and softly said,

"I'm trying to get my friend over there to join our group. She needs help. Do you mind if I tell her you are a member and you talk to her?"

I looked at the woman standing by the register. Wrinkled clothes, flip flops in rainy weather, hair unkempt. And older. I could taste her grief - smell her sadness.

"I don't mind at all, " I lied. And we both rose from our seats. The cushions breathed a sigh of relief and returned to their normal pluff and waited for the next person to find some peace, some comfort, some safety....

I bought a book about keeping a dream journal. Keep it by your side in your bed so you can write it down immediately after waking up.

I fell asleep with my journal and pen next to me. I worried about picking my mother up at the airport the next morning, on time, with a smile on my face, a good credit card, and a nice place for lunch all planned. I felt the thump of her comb against my head as she detangled my hair, the force of the tug as she pulled my hair when I cried from the pain. I saw her holding me over that toilet by my heels threatening to drowned me because I asked for another quarter to play Patsy Cline on the jukebox while she sat on her wobbly barstool drinking beer from a bottle.

I dreamed. I was running through the airport. I was late. I was scared. I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. I finally saw her - exactly who I was looking for. A beautiful woman, in white linen pants and a beige blouse, Italian sandals, gorgeous red hair, a good manicure, carrying a brown leather briefcase. She turned, looked at me, square in the eye and smiled a healthy, gorgeous smile and I knew. I knew it was me. In a new life, on a different journey, to a new space. I knew it. I liked her immediately.

I had the money for lunch. I had a good credit card. Today my mother would accompany me to a nice restaurant for lunch. And then....we would check into a decent motel. I wanted to get to get to know the woman I had met in my dream....I wanted to know how she took such good care of herself; how she had gotten such a gorgeous smile; her stylist, her manicurist.

Did she go to church? Have a garden? Read a lot of books? Go to the theatre aline?

Did she grow orchids, create miniature habitats with fairies, gnomes, angels?

Perhaps she sang Patsy Cline songs in a band or at a popular piano bar.

"Used book stores, libraries, resale shops, auctions, antique stores, " I would question her, have a cup of coffee with her. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea instead.

I would follow her around everyday. Take notes on how walked, talked, waited in lines, with confidence and pride.

She did seem like she was a proud woman. I'd need to ask her why....what were her accomplishment in her life that had made her proud? Great kids, being a Cub Scout den mother, loving her children, taking care of her mom and dad? Being a member and Vice President of The PTA?

Does she pray alot? Is that her coping mechanism? Prayer? Would she pray if she was smashed by a fists, had her eye blackened, beat on her thighs so no marks were visible, thrown across the room and her skull fractured? Last night. I knew what she would do. She would leave. She would take her car, her purse, and the clothes on her back and go. Somewhere. To her kids' homes? To a shelter? To a McDonald's parking lot? A friend? SHE would have friends.

SHE would go to a decent motel. Take her mother with her. Take a couple of days to create a brand new plan. Maybe Galveston. Her mother, just like line, hates the beach. But I'm sure she lives it. I'm sure. But that's too bad. This day, and tomorrow, I'm going to follow her around Galveston. Smell the salty air. Walk in the sand.

Im sure glad I met her. I has no idea who she was until that dream introduced me to her.

We'll buy some miniature fairy lights and a dozen roses for the motel room.

And a box of chamomile tea.