Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
That's What She Said
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Tuesday
Oct172006

Dancing On The Lip Of A Volcano


I haven't left my bed yet. A sky the color of an old man's milky cataract has been leaking tears since I woke up. Depressing weather. I like it. The sun inspires guilt if I'm not taking advantage of the weather. Like I should be out and about accomplishing Productive Things! When it's raining - well, it's the perfect excuse to stay inside. In bed. Don't want to get wet, I justify, when really it's because I don't want to see people or do much of anything.

I recently bought bright red sheets. I love them. Not a violent, orange-y red, a deep red with purple undertones. My bedroom is very autumnal. I prefer the reds and browns. They're cozy, warm colors, like a lamplit coffee shop on a frigid winter evening. Blue or green would make for dreary pajama lounging on a gray day such as this.

Max occupies The Surge's usual spot on the bed. He is on his back snoring gently, hind legs tucked up to his chest where his front legs clutch them, fetal-like. I imagine this is how he spent most of his time in his mama's womb with his eight brothers and sisters. Every now and again I grasp an avacado sized paw and breathe in its' unusual scent. More often than not his paws smell like sweet country hay. It's a strange phenomenon both The Surge and I have noticed. I like to sniff his paws and kiss the bald spot on his tummy where his tender pink skins peek through black hairs. His belly looks just like the crown of a newborn baby's delicate head.

Speaking of heads - my life is conducted in my head. By that I mean to say that I spend so much time sorting through my relationships, perceptions and realities. I come to conclusions, make decisions, set goals - but rarely does that change my demeanor. I still behave like the Monica that everyone knows. It's why not many people know I suffer from social anxiety. I am able to maintain.. yet inside I am a volcano waiting to erupt with thoughts and fears and goals and gossip and tears and love and hate. But I maintain.

I suppose we all engage in a fair amount of maintaining. The champion maintainers among us are tough nuts to crack. Others are a bit softer. Bananas just waiting to be peeled. I don't know which edible best describes me in the food analogy arena.. Maybe I'm an onion. Peeling me is dirty work, makes you cry, sometimes you need to step away and take a breather. It is possible to peel me. Just not easy.

Man, I'm rambling. I pulled out my book today. Books, actually. I have two half finished books. The Girl Who and The Girl Who: Mormon To Married In Manhattan. I've stopped writing. Not sure why. Perhaps it seems a futile endeavor. I am tired of memoirs and boohooing about life. I do enough of that here. I'd like to write a juicy fiction book. Create instead of reflect. I had a conversation with my Mom - who doesn't remember many instances of my childhood the same way that I do. As with anyone, I have unpleasant memories of incidents that don't shed my parents in the best light. Things Mom insists never happened, were never said. But I remember them. If I grew up with these memories then they have shaped who I am.. whether they happened or not. They are my reality. For 29 years they have been a part of my reflection repertoire. Yet I can't write about them because she says they didn't happen. I s'pose I wouldn't write about them anyway - what gives me the right to write about the most intimate moments of others? It would be unsavory, unethical to do so. Writing may be my cheap therapy - but others opt for different prescriptions. Repression may be brother's medication of choice, intense guilt is Mom's coping mechanism and denial is Dads.