The Persiads

It is still this morning, the air just stands from a storm. It is moist and muggy and Fall is here, with all its' whirling leaves, and crisp days, and lemony light. The sun blazes into the forest in the Summer, but simply and gently paints it in the Fall. I took a walk through the forest with Max yesterday, and memories swelled up into my eyes so that I could hardly see the deer path.

I have lost some forest friends, to these disorders. While they are irreplaceable, others move into the forest with me; the forest attracts many. I am lost and found. The bark lies underneath my feet, and the flowers that bloom in August wait. Choke berries are tall, and filled with purple ink that we used as children to write on sidewalks. I do not know if birds eat choke berries.

I miss the cherry trees at the Old House, full of sour cherries for everyone to pick.

But the light here, in the City, is just as lemony as any. I think of a Fall day, several years ago, spent in a coffee shop, in a time of absolute despair. The air was delicious, and the light streamed over the tables and the wooden floors, and touched the pastries, in their glass case. The scents of coffee, and coffee beans being roasted, drifted over the tables as well.

There will be that one day of Fall when you can see the light is lemon. When you can see each wave and particle, and the dust motes drift in the streams.

A large, almost unshakeable part of my support network will visit me this weekend, and it conjures the feeling of Christmas, and the warm days of winter. The grass will be green for this visit, and my flowers will be out. We will circle the new garden that she has not seen. You know this garden, it's right outside my door. You have been on the walkway with me, surrounded by the wild zinnia, growing between the paving stones. The window of freedom opens onto this garden where the lavender, and the impatiens paint the grey of the stones.

I will have her company for the whole weekend, a vacation for me. I will smell the sophistication and loving kindness that she and her husband bring. I would coat myself on her like her perfume, if I could. I would touch her with the slow, bluing, yellow light of Fall. She is my friend, and a more gentle person I do not know.

I am surrounded by the wildest color of pillows this morning, done out in needlework by my Mother. I have lighted a candle, and the unicorn meat eating cats leap in and out of the night. The dog sleeps and my coffee has a familiar taste. The fall blanket lies on the foot of the bed, and soon, it will be time to unpack the winter blankets. The painting by my Grandmother hangs on the wall facing the bed, yes, you know I blog sitting on the quilt. It is a forest path, with rock walls, and the yellow leaves of the aspen.

I do not want to drink or cut. I feel harmonious this week, with my therapist back in town, and group and individual therapy, and homework to turn in, and a record of my moods and actions to discuss with him. He is only a phone call away.

I am replete with the feelings that Fall brings with it: its' memories of school, and orange and yellow leaves on the sidewalks, and then frozen in wax paper. Its' memories of a first-grade teacher, with a white dress, touches of dark blue, and the darkest of hair and eyes, and the palest of skin. She had us gather the leaves to iron into the wax, for all time, if we could keep up with them. She admired each picture that every child made with their leaves...

Today, and all this week, I can celebrate the change in temperature; humidity levels can go to hell. It will be so cool, the humidity will not matter.  It is the time of year that horses love the most. And the horses being gone from my life, and the life gush of blood it took, when they left it, is what I thought about in the forest yesterday, with Max the dog.

What was given to me in the Fall, I hold most close. What is gone, lives on in the leaves on the sidewalk.

This is not a week for celebrating what was given and lost. This is a week, a frozen moment in time, to curl up to. It is a week of celebrating what was given and remains, when Dark Star and Schrodinger visit. I usually devolve into a lather of anticipation, that I can't come down from, until they are gone. When they leave, I weep helplessly for a day. Then I accept the reality of talking with her everyday almost, from afar, and the sadness leaves, and it's winter until I see her again.

I am supposed to be taking twice the amount of Abilify that I take now. While the Abilify calms me, eventually the effect devolves into a kind of depression I can't handle. I cut back to my original dose when that happens. But this week, I will again take the double dose my shrink thinks I take in the first place. I will double my anti-depressant the day they leave.

I don't know how to write about this for you. Whatever we do, we cannot play with our medications, or drink or cut. You know we can't. And yet, I am. I know that I am not more wise than my psychiatrist, although I just told you I am by playing with my meds. The simple way I excuse it, and get out of it, and will have to tell my therapist about, is that the medications are such a delicate balance. Like a feather in the wind, like the thought of summer in a child's heart. Like the weight of a razor on the skin.

I am the one who listens to her body scream. I am the one who weeps. I am the god that deals with the stress in my life. My borderline personality disorder is the demon that pours the cup of abandonment over me, and yet I must be different now. I must be still and listen, this year. I will feel the comings and the goings of others, and know that the forest and the field remain to me. I must look at the bark under my feet, and watch the leaves change. I must know that the field will turn golden, and the trees stand like sentinels on the edge of it. I must remain in reality, weighted with meetings and group. I will not drink or cut.

I wait, for the favorite lemon colored light. It was my Mother's favorite flavor, when I was a child. My brother and I refused to taste it, until she got us the exotic treat that lemon meringue pie was, then. We had never seen such a thing, so yellow, with something white on top we had never tasted before.

So I wait for the first turned leaf, and the yellow taste of the Fall. I wait for the visit, and the love, and the shared memories. Five minutes from now will be the time for the falling stars that visit us, this time every year.