Five Days in Liminal

Monday, October 9, 2023

I buried Eleanor over the summer. I didn’t cry.

In fact, I must confess, I carried myself with a composed, almost nonchalant demeanor throughout the service, and mourners noticed. I could feel their gaze. They regarded me as carefree and unbothered by the whole ordeal.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The fact is, all the pain and wrath and tears had been flushed out of me by the time the wake came around. I was there, not them, holding Eleanor’s hand until the bitter end.

I need coffee. I’ll be right back to finish this entry. I promise. If there is one thing you should know about me, it is that I don’t lie. Not at this stage. What would be the point?

Where was I? Right. Yes. This journaling project.

My genius therapist, Dr. Joshua, whom I stopped seeing last month after only a couple of sessions because he’s an oddball, and because his office reeks of chamomile tea and old leather (and because what kind of doctor uses their first name in their professional title like some goddamn comic book villain?), recommended journaling.

Besides, it’s a pretty uneventful Monday, and starting at the beginning of the week helps keep me accountable. I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose by giving it a shot.

Let’s start the healing, shall we?

OK. It’s true. My feelings for Faye Santoro have returned. Yes, that one. You read that right. The famous one. The one you’re thinking of. The goddess of rock and pop and fashion and animal rights and human rights and pretty much everything she’s ever touched.

Fine, maybe “returned” isn’t the right term. If I’m being frank, these feelings never really went away. They’ve festered. They’ve lingered — like the fissure in the House of Usher. You know what I mean?

And before you pound the gavel, you must know that despite all that, like a man, I put my head down and did everything in my power to become the best damn husband to Eleanor that I could be. Loyal. Faithful. Devoted. Subservient. Sometimes even loving.

The universe works in mysterious ways, don’t you think?

The universe took Eleanor away from me, buried her, and in doing so, it unearthed these feelings with an indescribable ferocity. I’m the victim of circumstance here, you know? I didn’t choose for my wife to die. All I can do is play the hand I was dealt.

Early on in life, I had resigned myself to the fact that Faye Santoro and I would never be together. Well, the universe has given both of us a second chance at true happiness, and should our paths ever cross, as God is my witness, I won’t stand by and watch the opportunity pass me by.

I read in a psychology book once (or on a mug at the mall, it’s hard to remember due to this damn sleep deprivation) that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. Well, I’m prepared. I’ve been prepared ever since my 12-year-old self turned on the TV set one afternoon and saw Faye Santoro — dressed in black, bandoliers, crown of thorns, bloody tears — on MTV. Something awakened in me.

Tuesday, October 10, 2023

You Are Not Alone. It’s OK not to be OK. Seize the Awkward.

We had a World Mental Health Day presentation at the firm today with Dr. Nasir from St. Rita’s Hospital. Mellow. A little scatterbrained. But the effort was there. I liked him. Better than Dr. Joshua. That’s for sure.

OK, as a quick aside — to Dr. Joshua’s credit, this whole journaling thing has been surprisingly pleasant. After just one day, I feel that it’s working. It feels good to sit down with my thoughts and jot them down with full transparency. Sure, he might’ve gotten the part about me being lonely (and a bunch of other psychiatric and psychological jargon) dead wrong, but I’ll give him that — the journaling idea was spot on.

Anyway, back to my day.

Sadie, whose cubicle is adjacent to mine and who’s been trying to take me out to lunch since the summer, sat next to me during the presentation, like always. As Dr. Nasir set up his laptop and began to decipher the intricacies of HDMI cables and Microsoft PowerPoint, Sadie told me about her miniature schnauzer, Luna, and how she’s been actively looking to pair her up with a “handsome schnauzer” so they could have puppies and she could “become a grandma.”

I hope this 28-year-old woman understands the surreal nature of her statement. Luna is, in fact, a dog, and Sadie’s out there casually planning the poor animal’s reproductive life. Despite all that, I don’t entirely hate those interactions. Sadie’s giggle amuses me, and she smells like powdered strawberries. If anyone in that office should be exempt from a mental health presentation, it’s probably her.

Eventually, Dr. Nasir figured it out, which must have been akin to mankind discovering fire in his mind. An Employee Assistance Program that includes three free “private, confidential 24/7 support” phone calls to a 1-800 number a year, discounted gym memberships and bereavement leave — the latter of which I tuned out since I already used the hell out of that this year. Definitely better than nothing. They also catered Subway — the mini sandwich trays, which even included cookies. Sadie gave me her macadamia cookie, which is my favorite, so I can’t really complain.

At one point, Dr. Nasir asked if anyone wanted to share their experience dealing with grief or emotional distress. Not to toot my own horn, but had I raised my hand and volunteered, I think I’d be a good example to my coworkers in that regard. Look at me. I lost my wife at 31. Others would’ve broken, but I turned out just fine on the other end, handling everything better than expected.

Sure, Dr. Joshua disagreed, and I respect that, but at the end of the day, it came down to a difference of opinion. He has his way of thinking, and I have mine. What he doesn’t understand is that the human mind is not an exact science. Unlike astronomy, where scientists can predict exactly when and where a comet will pass years — even centuries — in advance, the human mind remains an unexplored mystery.

Speaking of space and comets, it reminded me of one of my favorite quotes ever: “Remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.” That’s Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, who, by the way, famously dealt with his own mental health issues. And look how he turned out. He created some of the most relatable and recognizable anthems for an entire generation, inspiring future stars like (my) Faye Santoro.

Ah, speaking of which, if you think about it, Kurt Cobain was the Faye Santoro of his time.

Wednesday, October 11, 2023

There must have been something in those damn Subway sandwiches yesterday. Perhaps the Black Forest ham (I blazed through like four of those) was left out sitting a bit too long. I wasn’t feeling it today. I stayed home.

It also doesn’t help that I woke up at 6:55, like every morning, after staying up past 4 o’clock counting the bumps on the bedroom’s popcorn ceiling — a popcorn ceiling Eleanor chose, to be clear, as I wanted more of an orange peel finish! Honestly, once I get past 500, it all becomes a blur. But that’s beside the point.

Eleanor.

The last time I felt this nauseous was the summer before 12th grade. Eleanor had just gotten a new Motorola Razr (remember those?) and the first text message she ever received, which we opened together, was riddled with what looked like hieroglyphics.

FWD: FW: FWD: !!! B@CK 2 SCHOOL B@SH !!! MICH@3L J@CKSON M@Y HV DI3D, BUT W3R3 STILL GOING OFF TH3 W@LL THIS W33K3ND!!! RIP TH3 KING OF POP!!! S3NIORS CL@SS OF 2010!!! T3XT 4 @DDY... BYOB... BR@C3L3TS $5... $10 @ TH3 DOOR!!! FWD 2 10 PPL OR HV B@D LUCK 4 S3NIOR YR!!

Yep. That’s Liminal, Texas for you.

I’d been dating Eleanor since the end of freshman year. That was also the year she and her family moved from Roswell, New Mexico, after her dad got a job as a senior landman in Liminal. This decrepit town was booming with oil back then, believe it or not, so Eleanor and her folks did well for themselves.

Early on, it was clear Eleanor’s folks weren’t my biggest fans, that she could do better, which is why I think they didn’t always trust me with her safety. They were smart folks, to be fair, but they softened with time, especially her mother (who still calls sporadically to check in and has sent over two fruit baskets and one muffin basket since the summer, all of which I’ve taken to work, where everyone at the firm stood around my cubicle like starved vultures) and especially in later years — and during the final days.

“Roswell? So, are you like an alien or something?”

That was the first thing I ever asked Eleanor. We sat in the back of art class, trying to talk about anything while our teacher rambled about Caravaggio and his painting about Judith beheading some guy from the Bible and the chiaroscuro technique. It was literally my first interaction with Eleanor, or any girl in school for that matter, after weeks of sitting next to each other, exchanging amiable smiles.

She tittered. More than she should have. Her eyes — one honey amber, the other a misty gray — pierced through her blonde and pink bangs. Blonde and pink bangs… kind of like early Faye Santoro during her ska-punk, grunge days with her band Dante in Paradise.

Hold on. Let me check real quick if there’s Pepto-Bismol or Tums in our medicine cabinet. I’m really not feeling well. I genuinely don’t remember. I haven’t opened that thing since the summer.

Thursday, October 12, 2023

Thanks for “discovering America” on a day like today, Christopher Columbus.

I’m not a history connoisseur, by the way, nor do I claim to be, but Eleanor was. She’d talk — endlessly, I might add — about Ancient Greece and the Renaissance and the Victorian Era and the Roaring Twenties, and she just knew so much about them.

Speaking of Eleanor — I’m aware I didn’t finish my story yesterday. I just felt sick. Pepto-Bismol and Tums didn’t help much, but I’m much better today! One sugar-free Red Bull (Eleanor detested that I drank those because she’d say my heart would explode), one cortado (courtesy of Sadie), and I’m pretty wired.

I fear that the delay in telling this story has built up a tension that calls for an epic payoff, akin to the Greek tragedies Eleanor spent her evenings reading out on the balcony, but it’s nothing dramatic like that. I got stupid drunk. Borderline blacked out. She cared for me. That’s the gist of it.

I pulled up to the curb in my father’s white Bronco (RIP old man, Semper Fi), and Eleanor was already waiting outside because she wanted to avoid her parents having a last-minute change of heart. It was the first party she was allowed to go to with me alone. She wore distressed jeans, purple Chuck Taylors (one had my initials doodled in Sharpie), and an old Dante in Paradise tee.

Now, for the record, the statute of limitations in Texas is two years, so anything I say next can no longer be considered a chargeable offense. OK? That night, as underage kids, we may or may not have found a way to purchase alcohol. While it feels liberating to say now, I paid for it dearly that night.

Don’t ask me how, but we eventually got our hands on some MD 20/20 — the abominable, despicable, wretched, godforsaken stuff. Remember those colorful bastards from hell? The stench of the “Blue Electric Melon” hitting my nostrils as I cracked one open still haunts me to this day. Also, it’s the last clear image I remember of that night.

Suddenly, the front door burst open and I jolted back to life. I was sitting on my porch’s rocking chair. Eleanor’s eyes — one honey amber, the other a misty gray — pierced through the pitch-black night sky. I was nauseous (like yesterday), and the feeling worsened when a sudden breeze hit my face. I turned toward the door. My old man’s silhouette, along with that of his beloved Remington, filled the doorway. “What in the hell is going on out there?” he said.

We always figured my old man’s outspoken devotion to our “God-given” Second Amendment right was merely theatrical. During his bourbon-soaked nights, he’d sit on that very same rocking chair, reminiscing, laughing, telling stories about when Mom was alive — then, inevitably, he’d get to the part where he lamented the death and suffering he had witnessed at the hands of such tools. I usually nodded along, so that night, we didn’t pay much attention to him or his Remington.

I turned back to Eleanor. I later learned that despite never having driven before, she got into the Bronco’s driver’s seat and hauled my ass back home when the “Blue Electric Melon” bottle emptied and I began to lose control of myself. Home was only a few miles away, sure, but I, the man in the relationship, had put Eleanor in harm’s way.

“What about your parents? How are you explaining this one?” I managed to ask.

Her brows pinched, her nose twitched. Faye Santoro’s face sparkled on her tee. “Oh, they know already. I’m grounded for life apparently. But you’re awake. And you’re OK. I’m happy about that.”

Friday, October 13, 2023

Boo. It’s Friday the 13th. If you’re not careful and doze off, Michael Myers might show up in your dreams and slit your throat.

I know I butchered that. Honestly, horror films aren’t really my thing because it’s hard for me to suspend disbelief and buy into all that supernatural nonsense. I’m too grounded in reality for that. However, I can still appreciate the vision and technical prowess of a good one — The Shining. Rosemary’s Baby. Possession. Nosferatu.

Nosferatu, by the way, is the kind of scary flick I’d watch on a Friday the 13th, in the coziness of my living room, perhaps with a pumpkin spice aroma in the air, and my soulmate by my side to hug and protect during the scariest scenes. Honestly, I haven’t watched it in a while, but what I do remember is that the ending isn’t entirely happy, which feels more like real life. The world laughs at the notion of two souls from seemingly different worlds finding each other, desperately wanting to be together, and sometimes there is no choice but to fight for that love — even if it’s not necessarily in this life.

But enough about cinema. Let me tell you about my day.

I had lunch with Sadie today. I finally gave in. Apparently she’s also a fan of Faye Santoro and her band, though her knowledge is mostly limited to the hits, which she described as “old school jams” she found through “TikTok trends.” She told me there are still some nosebleed seats left for…

Oh my God. I didn’t mention it, did I? It totally slipped my mind. D’oh! Faye is actually in town tonight. For the first time ever, Faye Santoro and her band will make a stop in Liminal as part of their reunion tour!

Sadie said she’s on the fence about going because these types of events aren’t meant to be experienced alone — that it’s more affordable to buy tickets in pairs, so she was waiting it out to see if any fellow fans would emerge throughout the day. I respect that. That’s smart thinking. Not that I care about work at this point, but it’s good to have Sadie on the team.

Now, Jason and Rex, who are the closest things I have to “work buddies,” were able to snatch some tickets early in the day for them and their wives. During our coffee break where we usually talk about fantasy football and online gambling, they asked if I wanted in, but I politely refused. And this wasn’t the first time they tried to include me in their social plans. Since Eleanor, they’ve invited me out, especially to “Lobster Thursday” at the nearby strip club. I’ve refused those too, though I suspect they still go, telling their wives they’re at the bar trying to cheer up a grieving friend.

Why wouldn’t I take their offer if it’s freaking Faye Santoro live? Good question. First, I don’t want to be a fifth wheel. But most importantly, when talking about the concert, and particularly about Faye, one of them said that even though she just turned 44, “she could still get it.”

I clenched my jaw and took a series of inconspicuous sharp breaths. Breathing exercises were among the few things where Dr. Joshua actually knew what the hell he was talking about. They came in handy. My skin itched. But I thought better of it. It just wasn’t worth it. It could derail my plans.

Also, at the end of the day, the idea that I should buy a ticket to a Faye Santoro concert is insulting, to be honest. Sorry. It had to be said. Think about it. Does Taylor Swift freeze her ass standing in the ticket booth line during a blizzard outside of Arrowhead to pay her way into Chiefs games?

Anyway, listen, this was a good week of journaling. I’ll cherish this. Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I was this open and honest — nor the last time I thought about my early days with Eleanor. I don’t know if I’ll ever write here again. It’s good to end things on a high note, don’t you think?

Remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.

Peace, love, empathy. XX