I can barely see to type this entry... Mike is all upset because he had a chat with his best friend's boyfriend, and the boyfried was a jerk to him. And of course, the best friend is his Soul Mate ( David: "I like your sense of capitalization..." Me: "What?" David:"Soul Mate. Capitals. I like that."), and the boyfriend is a jerk, and he's jealous and hurt and whiney.
He doesn't get it. He thinks his life is over because this guy was a jerk to him. At least he knows his best friend loves him in return.
Suddenly, I don't think anything can go right. The depression has held off this long, but now it's on me again. I feel my eyes glazing over, my heart breaking, my mind slowing to a halt, my soul pausing on the edge of that damned Bridge again. I'm listening to Björk, probably not the best choice for the moment; I'm switching to something a little happier... Madonna, because I'm realizing I don't own any other happy music... Unless you count Chumbawamba, which just doesn't seem right...
I wish Jeff was online. I wish Jayden was online. I wish- no, I don't want to talk to Peter. I want a hug. I want a real hug. I want someone to hold me right now, to tell me they love me, to tell me I'm not alone in this gahd-forsaken desert. And I don't believe Peter's hugs anymore. I just want a real hug.
My sister died yesterday. Not my biological sister, of course: my dog, Heidi. She was more than a pet to me; more than a critter who begged for food and lay on the floor next to me while I watched TV. She was my sister. She knew me better than anybody ever has, loved me more thoroughly than any human ever could. Her hugs were more genuine than any I've ever received.
When my family was a real family, before my brother went nuts and decided he was an alien, before my mom was hospitalized, before my dad hit his midlife crisis and became a dickhead, before my parents separated and my mom moved in with her lover, before me and my youngest brother were the only sane ones left in the household, we used to take hikes in the woods. We'd go to The Waterfall, this beautiful forested area in Pennsylvania someplace. And Heidi would accompany us. She'd lead the expedition at first, excited to be outside, thrilled by all the sights and sounds and scents. It was her paradise. Then she'd turn, look behind her, see the family straggling behind her, and run back. She'd nudge whomever was the furthest behind, urging them to hurry up. Then she'd race back to the front again, and stop in the center of the path to make sure the first person didn't get too far ahead. Rounding us up was just an instinct of course: shelties are known for being excellent sheep-herders, but she took it to heart, using her talents on her family.
Heidi was afraid of my room - it was a wreck, to say the least, and she never wanted to step on anything, so she avoided my room like the plague. But she always knew when I was sad. She'd scratch on the door when she knew I was crying into my pillow over Peter. She'd always seem to need more attention when Erich was around - she used to play these head games with me, trying to get me to feed her or let her out so that I'd leave the room and Erich and I would be separated. She was civil to him, but she surely didn't like him, and she let me know he wasn't right for me. She caught us making out one time and barked to be let out, something she rarely did. She knew. She always knew.
She watched me grow up. She was there for almost every day of my life since I was six years old. She was proud of me when no one else noticed I'd done anything to be proud of. She used to sit in the room with me while I wrote, watching intently and panting silently. When I'd finished a chapter, she'd know, and she'd come lick my hand. She used to growl under her breath at my mom's friend Wendy (name not changed because the bitch isn't worth the effort of looking through the phone book for a new name...); Wendy hated my brother and me, and Heidi knew that too. She used to wander into the living room after I'd watched a scary movie and snuggle up to me, knowing I wouldn't yell at her or tell on her for being on the couch when she wasn't supposed to be. The night I watched "Silence of the Lambs" and was too afraid to leave the room because of the giant moth fluttering around the kitchen light, it was Heidi who stayed up watching me through the night.
We used to have these conversations with our eyes. I cannot explain it in any other way that doesn't sound utterly stupid. She spoke to me. Her body movements, her facial expressions, her infrequent woofs and growls communicated more than I'll ever be able to do with these fingers and these words. She was so much more advanced than me, than any of us, even more than any other animal I've ever known.
She was there when Erich hit me the first time. She bit him. No one else knew but her. I was too embarrassed and humiliated. I didn't even tell Peter.
Heidi was there to meet David the night he came over for fried chicken and a long talk. She nuzzled up to him and begged to be petted.
She was there when I used to sneak outside to smoke. She'd watch me from inside the glass window. She knew the ritual; first it was the cigarette, then a dill pickle from the fridge to clean the aftertaste out of my mouth, then a good toothbrushing session upstairs. She followed and watched, knwoing she was the only one who knew. And promising she'd never tell. No one else could understand her subtle little conversations anyway.
She was there when Valerie ran away. Heidi knew damn well there was a girl hidden in my closet. She also knew damn well that she wasn't supposed to go sniffing around, giving away the secret. She stopped sniffing immediately when Daddy came home, ran downstairs, and acted natural around everyone but me, whom she looked at with questioning eyes all night.
My sister is dead. Lethal injection. She had cancer. By the end, she was more tumor than dog. But before she died, she was more friend than pet, more family than beast, more sister than responsibility.
I remember the last time I petted her. We knew it would be the last time. She took my wrist in her mouth gently, refusing to let me go. "Stay," she begged me with her eyes. "I can't," I told her silently. "I love you." "I love you too." I touched her nose. She blinked, annoyed at the touch. I smiled. She smiled back. And licked me for the last time. I turned my back, unable to look at her with my eyes full of tears. Still, I felt her eyes on me, nudging me from a distance with her nose, telling me to hurry up and catch up with the others.
I miss her. I miss her so much. Who do you turn to when the only one who understood is gone?
~Helena*
"You're the only one who really knew me at all..." --Genesis, "Against All Odds."