Someone spoke to me of triggers the other day.
They meant memory triggers.
That experience when something in your current life suddenly flashes connectively to some earlier part of your life that you had not been considering at all . . . and now it is all that you can see. And then that recalled memory? Just floods you with power and takes you for a moment out of the moment in which you are living.
Back.
Like the other day . . . I was helping Kallan right the inside-out sleeve of a new sweatshirt, and my fingers lingered for a moment against the downy fluff of the sweatshirt’s reverse.
Lingered.
And connected.
To a memory of sweatshirts given our family by some charitable organization. A Christmas present. Several years in a row we received them. Brand new and brightly colored. An unimaginable luxury.
I would wear my new sweatshirt repeatedly over the Christmas vacation, filled with delight at its soft feel of downy reverse against my skin.
And I would always want to wear this new lovely shirt on the first day of school after the holiday. But there was a problem.
The charitable organization who gave us these sweatshirts got them from someone who had been unable to sell them at any price. Someone who had kept these sweatshirts in storage for a very very long time. And on the front of each sweatshirt was a large circular sticker, about 4 inches in diameter, which touted the warm fleecy nature of the garment.
But the sticker had been on the shirt for so long? The adhesive backing had melded with the fabric. The sticker came off easily, but there was no way at all to get the stickiness out of the shirt. Ever.
And so, despite washings and wearings and the passage of time . . . there was always a large circular discoloration on the front of the shirt.
To wear this shirt to school would be akin to wearing a target on my chest.
I tried very hard to avoid being a target.
And so I would turn the shirt inside-out, convincing myself it was cuter that way, anyway. Turned the sticky discolored target in upon my chest. Wore the lovely fluff on the outside, where I could caress it with my fingertips. And I would head off to school that first day after vacation, inside-outed and hopeful.
And every year? The same thing happened.
No one mocked me that day.
But they took note.
Because at school that first day? Interspersed among the fabulous new outfits my classmates had received as Christmas gifts? Were a few brightly colored sweatshirted people, all fluffy in reverse.
Our inside-outed hopefulness?
Marked us clearly as the poorest of the poor.
A tragic miscalculation on our part, as we all worked hard to avoid being targets.
But every year, we wore our sweatshirts fluffy-side out and announced our status.
Because we were forever hopeful.
And forever poor.
And forever targets.
Sigh.
Back in the present, Kallan shoves her arms into her shirt with no appreciation whatsoever for the exquisite feel of her garment.
There is no way to make her see what I see. To feel what I remember.
As I am taken back.
Triggered.
Someone spoke to me the other day of triggers.
They meant memory triggers.
But I was taken back by the word.
To the memory of a gun.
That I had been sent to retrieve.
Who knows what he’ll do! He says he has a gun. I think he’s just drinking and pissed but who knows what he will do! You have to go check on him. See if you can get the gun.
And so I went.
I know. I know. Too much to explain now.
I went and sat across the table from this man whose life had just fallen apart.
A friend.
Sat with him as he drank.
And we both considered the gun that lay on the table between us.
A dark gray menacing presence, shimmering with possibility.
Loaded with possibility.
And then I drank as well.
And we talked about the end of things.
Like love.
And hope.
And life.
For a while.
And then he leaned forward and wept into the table and pushed the gun toward me.
But I reached for him instead and in that moment?
He picked up the gun.
There was an instant in which all was light as I realized what might be about to happen.
But he turned it in his hand.
And gave the gun to me.
So heavy.
The air was heavy.
It was hard to breathe.
I held the gun in both hands and my fingertips caressed its smooth polished surfaces.
The curve of the trigger.
Someone spoke to me the other day of triggers.
They meant memory triggers.
But I was taken back by the word.
Triggered.
Thank god I always carry my hipflask.
Fancy a swig?
Hey, you!
I am always up for a drink.
Thanks much.
I find that if I don’t get here early I cannot bring myself to leave a comment – I get all shy and overcome by performance pressure from all the brilliant comments from other people.
Speaking of which, where the heck is Nigel??
*swig*
You are always looking for Nigel!
He was here yesterday.
Today?
Perhaps not so much.
So I am always looking for him.
Can you blame me?
Thought so.
*swig*
Snort!
You may look to your heart’s content.
He comes and goes.
I’m at a loss for words. Powerful, emotion stirring. Just wow.
Silence is good, sometimes.
Here.
I will pour you a drink as well.
I love your funny posts about your family…the ones that make me laugh so hard I cry. But I like these posts more…the ones that make me think so hard I cry. You are an amazing writer and I’m so glad I discovered your blog.
For me?
I like the mixture.
The funny is funnier because of the pain that went before.
And the pain is more poignant because I know of the joy that followed.
I like that mix of pain and joy.
Much.
oh gosh. how I understand. understand so much that by high school, I took to buying the most garish thrift store clothes I could find. the most garish so that I was making the joke. I owned the ridicule. they couldn’t laugh because I laughed first.
your second story. so powerful. I can’t say I’ve been there, but I get it. I once stood between a friend and her jealous ex who was holding a baseball bat. the site of baseball bats still zooms me back to that moment.
also: you have a gift. seriously. you’re an extremely talented writer!
I went the opposite route and tried to dress as drably and inconspicuously as possible.
And I actually still do that, all these years later.
And if you have ever been in that moment where the possibility of violence and death shimmers before you? That shimmer stays with you. Always.
As for the compliments?
I will always take compliments.
Thank you.
so true.
and you’re so welcome! I mean it. the compliments come from the heart.
i did the same, andy. the rattier the clothes, the brighter the colors, the more ridiculous the paint spatters or stains — it was my joke, right? not theirs.
right! I still wear huge jewelry when I’m nervous about a situation. I think I hide behind it.
So funny.
Because I wear my wedding ring. And sometimes a watch.
If I wear more jewelry than that?
I feel as though I am wearing a beacon, drawing attention to myself.
I do not want that.
At all.
Unbelievable. Well done,Kris.
Thanks, you.
Very much.
Powerful post.
Remember just the other day, how I said my brother was my Mabel? This post brought me back there again. A trigger for me.
As I write?
More and more things in my everyday life connect me back to the past.
It is difficult but also awesome in its loveliness.
I wish the same for you.
I wish I could write about certain things from both my past and present. However, my family is not one of those understanding type of families. It’s all about peace and harmony. And some of what I have to say is so far away from peace and harmony.
Snort!
My family?
Is not one of those understanding type of families.
I walk a tightrope here every day.
Fuck it.
For me, that would probably just cause way too much stress in my life. And drama. And who the fuck needs more drama and stress?? I need to talk about them to relieve my stress!
I suppose another option is a secret blog. Or to just drink a lot. Drinking sounds like more fun.
I?
Am careful not to tell other people’s stories.
But I am determined to tell my own.
And fuck the consequences.
No words.
Not today.
Just thoughts, and feelings.
We’ll just hold hands, then.
And be quiet.
Go ahead and pour me one too, mama.
I have plenty.
Plenty for you.
i love reading your writing. i came to make a joke about you being an online hotsy totsy so still gotta get that out. i have noticed much color and variance in your t-shirt jeans attire. i think inside out was cool wasn’t it? i did that to extend the wear on clothes. because our family never kept up on laundry.
Hello, real-life sister.
My wardrobe at the moment?
Four tee shirts and 5 pairs of jeans.
I am all stylish.
And hotsy-totsy.
Snort!
Oh holy FUCK. Kris? Sometimes you scare me.
My Mabel? My Beau? He had a gun that he was going to use. Not on me…but out of fear and desperation that I would tell a secret. I made a promise that I wouldn’t tell, and in fact, I never ever have until just now.
Holy shit. Sometimes? I think you are me. Any idea how scary that is?
We have talked elsewhere?
And I will just leave it at that.
Private.
My chest hurts. I don’t know why. Fear? Sadness? Recognition of both of those things in your writing and in myself? Lying about my thrift store clothes to friends? That’s it a little but mostly it’s the power behind your words that cause a physical reaction in me. Sigh.
That my words have power to do more than release their hold on me?
Is a source of ongoing astonishment.
I love that we have connected.
Sigh.
ah. thank you.
beautiful.
and now i am being triggered.
Hello, triggering one.
Because it was with you, of course, that I had the conversation that started this post.
Thank you.
We are all triggerable up in here. Love.
It might lighten the mood if I tell you that my post from last night was triggered by you.
It is called: Billy Idol.
Off to check.
Lighter?
Would be lovely!
That?
Is just awesome.
We have sooooo much in common.
Igor.
Dude!
Snort.
Ha! So much love to you, soul sistah.
I had been wanting to write about that for such a while, but couldn’t figure out how. Then HAIKU struck me, and all was right in the world.
ah, Billy Idol.
I LOVE those moments of realization.
This is how I will say it!
And then all is right in the world.
Love that feeling.
Yes! There could be, however, the possibility of Too Much Haiku. I gotta shift my focus a bit.
You are a lovely writer, no matter the rhythm.
You know that.
Powerful words, lady. I would take up a fine swig with you all, but I don’t drink. It makes me crazy. Crazier than I already am.
I also have candy.
Want a handful of M&M’s?
Blue are my favorite.
Nah, I just ate a whole bag of cotton candy. Thanks though.
Hee hee!
That’s good stuff.
The other day?
The girls bought a bag of cotton candy to share. They chose yellow, thinking it was lemon.
Instead?
Banana.
They were not pleased.
But they ate it.
If I’d have known you then? I would’ve let you rummage in my closet to your hearts content. I? Had every thing a kid could want except? Love. And all my “cool” clothes and other shit? Would’ve given it away in a heartbeat to be important to my parents.
Yes, at my house?
There was much missing.
For me?
I have chosen today to talk only of one missing thing.
But there were other larger missing things.
That had nothing to do with money.
Much love to you for having seen me in this moment.
I realized today that when I read your blog? I hold my breath.
Sometimes it comes out in the form of my hideously annoying laugh, other days not so much.
But the big breath I have to take at the end of every one of your posts? Totally worth it.
You have made me a little teary with that image.
In a good way.
Thank you.