The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

I read The Diving Bell and The Butterfly on a friend's recommendation partially because I trust their taste, partially because I needed a new book to read, and almost fully because of Jean-Dominique Bauby's incredible story that it tells and how it was managed to be told. After suffering a stroke that resulted in locked-in syndrome, Jeam-Dominique was left completely paralyzed- imprisoned in a body over which he had no control, without any sort of contact to the outside world aside from blinking his left eye. This 132 page book was written by him using only his left eye to blink letters to someone typing. And although I knew that it would inevitabley be heartbreaking, I didn't expect a beautifully written, insightful, thought-provoking, and life-changing book out of this. What captured me the most was his memory of small moments that he missed, little pleasures from his old life that would never carry over to his new one. Here are two excerpts where he talks about that:

The delectable moment when I sink into the tub is quickly followed by nostalgia for the protracted immersions that were the joy of my previous life. Armed with a cup of tea or Scotch, a good book or a pile of newspapers, I would soak for hours, maneuvering the taps with my toes. Rarely do I feel my condition so cruelly as when I am recalling such pleasures.

For pleasure, I have to turn to the vivid memory of tastes and smells, an inexhaustible reservoir of sensations. Once, I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories. You can sit down to a meal at any hour, with no fuss or ceremony. If it's a restaurant, no need to call ahead. If I do the cooking, it is always a success. The boeuf bourguignon is tender, the boeuf en gelee is translucent, the apricot pie possesses just the requisite tartness. Depending on my mood, I treat myself to a dozen snails, a plate of Alsatian sausage with sauerkraut, and a bottle of late-vintage golden Gewürztraminer; or else I savor a simple soft-boiled egg with fingers of toast and lightly salted butter.

Last thursday, I sat inside a cafe across the street from Ms.51, wasting time before a rehearsal that I had to be at at 2:00. School was out for me already as graduation had been the day before, but there was another week left for the younger students. I sipped my iced coffee and wrote in my notebook and felt very grown up, watching the sixth and seventh graders out to lunch- yelling to their friends, strolling into the restaurants and delis where the people knew my order. I heard them each complain as the whistles blew and they slowly trickled back into the building we all considered to look like a jail and I realized what I had taken so for granted and what- they too- were overlooking. I couldn't help but be jealous of each and every one of them for the extra year or two that they would have there that I wouldn't. And when I went to pick up my report card and the teachers were all in a straight row of chairs that I wasn't allowed to pass- a row of chairs blocking off the entrance to what had been my second home for the past three years, the ugly brick building with broken lockers and bars on the windows and hideously painted walls that I'd spent only 194,400 minutes inside of and that held so many of both my worst and most enamoured memories- only then did I realize what was over, what I had lost. It wasn't until then that I realized that these small comforts of my middle school were- not soon to be, but already behind me- it wasn't until then that I realized how strongly I relied upon these comforts or that they existed at all. It hit me so suddenly and painfully in a way that not much does.

I don't mean to compare my experience with moving on to high school to Bauby's condition because it- of course- doesn't compare on any level and I don't claim to think that it ever can. As shallow as my struggles are next to his, this book has made me realize what defines happiness, what is goodness. It's not having a perfect life. I don't think that happiness comes with what anyone pictures or is convinced will make them truly happy. No one has a perfect life, because even when they get what- in their mind- will most definitely make them deeply happy, they want more- that's just human nature. I think that happiness is having little spurs of goodness to sustain you for that moment in time before the next one. Happiness is his warm bath and appreciation for food- happiness is having a school where I know faces and I love teachers and I'm on the top of the heap. Happiness is the forty minutes of freedom we were given with our friends out to lunch that I won't have in high school, it's going into Cafe Martin and not having to tell Martin what I want to drink. Happiness is simple things that are easy to overlook look and are far too often forgotten.

And I'm terrified of this- of time or not having enough of it, of taking life for granted or just taking the small, important moments for granted. Because I don't think that anyone can be happy if they don't see the good in pieces of their life until they've lost those pieces. I don't think that anyone can be happy when filled with the regret of having having overlooked something- no matter the size or importance- that made them happy. I think that it's about more than stepping back and looking at things in prospective and trying to realize your good fortune, or trying to see it all with an optimistic point of view. I do that- or at least I try to. I don't think the idea of optimism or gratefulness is something that people forget about, it's just something that- in the moment- is much more difficult to commit yourself to than it seems. Maybe it's because we lose faith in ourselves or in other people or in the world or in life or in whatever religion we claim to be faithful to. But this underlying fear that comes with almost everything I do or say or think or feel is that I somehow won't have control over it- as if something will dictate my thoughts, monitor my words, change my actions, take authority over my feelings. As if something will keep me from appreciating these moments given to me or not let me recognize the good things in my life. Something will hold me back, something won't allow me to be happy. Or maybe I'm just afraid that I won't allow myself.

This is why I read.

Slow down.

When I flipped to the end, I honest-to-god didn't know it was over. I scanned the next page and saw that blankness- that absence of words- and the feeling that came wasn't so much sad as it was confused. I waited for the empty, hollow-ness that always came with the end of a beloved book. But, it never come. Maybe then, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings wasn't so beloved to me after all. Or maybe the end of the book just didn't feel like an ending. It stopped abruptly and out of the blue just as a new chapter of her life was being opened- almost as if Maya Angelou had collapsed, mid-paragraph, pen still in hand, unable to finish her thought. That's what it felt like. But then again, that's what this whole book seemed to feel like to me- one event after another, one place or thing after another that you just keep thinking you'll get attached to. Person after person gets introduced into Maya's life and they just seem so prominent for that moment, that you keep hoping they'll be important or that you'll get to know them and love them, but then, before you know it, they're ripped out from under you, gone from the story. And you just keep wondering- what happened to him or her? Where did they go? When did they go? Did I miss it? Every chapter in her life seems to begin and end in all too much of a hurry and before you know it, she's gone from 7 years old, living with her grandmother in Arkansas to 16 in California with her mother and very own baby boy. All that happens in between is this great big blur, and you find yourself wanting to know more about that best friend that she once mentioned or the woman that introduced her to literature and changed her life or the people she stayed with when she was 15 and didn't have a home. You want to know more because, when they were mentioned, they seemed so vital- at the time, they were all that mattered. And then suddenly, they were gone as quickly as they seemed to come.

That's why I sort of hated this book, at first. I expected it to be more poetic, more smooth but everything seemed to come out jumbled and sudden and out of place. Only now- now that I've finished it and put it down and started to move on- only now do I realize that this unpredictable, erratic seemingly mess of a book wasn't poorly written or not well thought out. It was like one long stream of consciousness, but in the best way possible. The way in which this book was written so accurately symbolizes coming of age- it so precisely describes growing up.

The other day, as I was going through my insanely disorganized room- cleaning it out to prepare for repainting the wall from a light peach-y pink and yellow theme to a more dignified, mature, deep red- I came across a number of old notebooks and journals. And as I read about my teachers and friends and problems that seemed to consume my life at the time, I realized that I didn't remember any of it. I didn't remember why I had been mad at Ms.Dina or what the wonderful present that Mackenzie had given to me for my birthday was or who on earth Jane was. I barely even remembered anything about the year that my best friend spent in Puerto Rico- something that I'm absolutely positive consumed every second of every day in third grade. All of this that I'd written about- complained about, cried about- things that crumbled my little heart or things that brought me to life, things that my world spun around- all these things were so quickly forgotten. Just six or seven years later. All that was left were these little snip-its, brought back to life and drawn into my mind again by my writing.

And I realize that- just like Maya- I'm growing up, perhaps slightly too fast. Me not remembering my elementary school years is like Maya jumping through every moment of her own growing up experience in her writing. All of the sudden, these things that meant so much are gone- these shallow things that consumed my life are forgotten. And sometimes I wish, just like with the book, that I could rewind and live through everything slower, get to experience it all again fuller. More poetically, more smoothly. Because now all I have are these little glimpses- like passing by my younger years through the window of a moving train- the view is sharp and inconsistent and everything is rushing by so fast that I only have time do catch tiny glances, snapshots. I want to slow down and get to know the people better and see the places closer and encounter the problems more fully- I need some time to smell the roses. Because I feel that, just like Maya, my life is swerving forward uncontrollably and I'm practically grown up.

And I shouldn't be.

Not yet.

Why Teenagers Don't Want To Wake Up In The Morning

I would be fine alone.
And I was.
Until the morning. When, only half awake, I tried to think why I was alone in the bed. There was a leaden feeling. It was the same leaden feeling with which I woke on mornings after John and I had fought. Had we had a fight? What about, how had it started, how could we fix it if I could not remember how it started?
Then I remembered.
For several weeks that would be the way I woke to the day.
-The Year Of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

I love sleeping more than practically anything else in the world. Maybe it's because I'm going through a staying-up-late-sleep-deprived phase that puts me in a constant state of tiredness, making sleep a precious commodity that I crave more of, always. Forget parties or concerts or running around the city at all hours of the night, acting twice my age- I’d much rather go home and take a nap, any day. This makes me sound incredibly lazy, but that’s really not what it’s about. Sleep lets me run away in my thoughts or from my thoughts. When I'm up at 4AM for the 5th time that week, completing a project that should have been done months ago, or waiting to see a TV show late at night, what keeps me going is the wonderful thought of how I will, eventually, be able to lay down my head, slip under the blankets, curl up into a ball, and fall fast asleep. The covers are always soft and safe and every line in my brain or heart is blurred and smudged. I’m in my own little unconscious world, unaware of anything happening around me or inside of me. It's this peaceful, carefree sensation that beats every feeling in the universe.
I can't be touched.

Until I wake up.
And the covers get pulled back.
And my mind slowly sharpens.
And everything comes crashing down.

Like Joan Didion-- when her husband dies and every morning she wakes up and that hard truth dawns on her once again. Every morning the covers are pulled back and her mind sharpens and she digs through her brain to remember everything that breaks routine, everything unnatural, everything that her unconscious, carefree self would never fathom- like John dying.

And the feeling that comes every time that that happens is unbearable-- the forgetting and remembering of the things that hurt the most. Because it's said that everything heals with time, all pain lessens as the hours and days and weeks pass. But how will anything heal if every morning is a fresh realization? How will the pain ever fade if you are hit each day with the initial shock of the very first time that it happened?

That's what I found most heartbreaking about this book- the way Joan would momentarily forget whether it was from falling asleep or just time starting to wear away the truth. Then she would wake up or see something that jolted her memory and it would all come rushing back in a second and she would have to face it all over again. It was as if each time this happened to her, every ounce of progress she had made was erased or forgotten and it was "back to the drawing board". Throughout the book, I was terrified for a character that I'd come to love so dearly because it seemed like she would never be OK, she would never feel OK when it was always "one step forward and two steps back".

Recent events of my life and just the fact that I'm fourteen has left a distance between my mother and I. It's hit like a meteor, practically over night, splitting the earth in half, leaving me on one side, and her on the other. What I laughed at and couldn't seem to understand as a little girl, what I swore would never happen, has happened. My mom and I have lost our relationship. I can’t handle her and she can’t handle me and neither of us know how to say that. Maybe it’s a phase, or maybe it’s forever. But, whatever it is, it’s here. The other day, when I could hear her steady breath and low snores from the next room over- when I was sure that she was sound asleep, I crept into her room to say goodnight. I used to do that every night. I used to kiss her cheek and she would pull me down for a hug and say something along the lines of "goodnight" and "I love you, beautiful girl" and "I'll see you in the morning". But I haven't kissed her cheek in weeks and I can't even remember the last time we've hugged.

I tiptoed to her side of the bed and leaned down and whispered goodnight and when she stirred, I expected tears or emotional ranting or a confused stare- all that seems to define our strange relationship lately- something I'd bite my lip at and awkwardly stalk off, not knowing quite what to say or do. But she looked up at me with the ocean blue eyes that stood out when she wore grey, the eyes that I’ve always envied, and they were tight and squinted like someone who had been staring at the sun for too long- slightly confused, but at the same time like she’d been expecting me. A slight smile played across her face- only one corner of her mouth turned up, sending ripples across that cheek. Then she closed her eyes again but kept the smile, and for a moment I thought she’d fallen back asleep.

Then I heard a whisper come of “goodnight” and “I love you” and “my beautiful girl”, in the same, ordinary way that it always used to. And for that moment, it felt like we were one of those pairs of mother and daughter who had a relationship again. Like what were before, like things had never changed. Like the days from years ago of sleeping curled beside her and cuddling and my imaginary rule of being safe from anything as long as she was there had never ended. Like we'd fixed it all or maybe just rewound.

Then I snapped out of my thoughts and looked down at her and remembered that she was half asleep- that she was having a barely-conscious moment. The kind where you wake up and for a minute, you forget what has happened- what life-changing thing has happened, or you forget that you’re supposed to be upset about something or angry at someone. And so, for a moment, you act like it’s not there, because for that second, it isn’t, not for you. And suddenly, I knew that she’d wake up the next morning and never remember this at all. And that things would go back to how they were- emotional and teary and frustrating- free of half smiles and squinting eyes. It would be like it had never happened.

I realized that just like Joan Didion, she would wake up the next morning and forget everything that has come between us over the past few months. She'd forget because the non-existant bond that we now have is completely irrational- it's something that no one could fabricate or imagine in a perfect state of sleeping. So, she'd forget, even if only for a split second and maybe start to call me in for an opinion or just to ask the time, before she remembered the unspoken rule telling her that she couldn't do that. It would come crashing down- the truth- and standing over my mom, looking at her ignorant-seeming blissful face was like staring into the sweet eyes of a small child that I knew would be hurt and I couldn't do anything about it, I couldn't even warn them-- I could only stand and watch it happen. And that was almost more painful than being the "Joan Didion", being the one to have the realization all over again time and time again, the one who has to pull back the covers and sharpen their mind, the one whose pain seems like it will drag on forever. Because watching pain can be harder than feeling it and on the outside looking in is an impossible position.

Revised and Published "Sometimes I Wish I Could Forget"

So, this is the New and Improved version of this:

Time is relative. When you're 14 years old, the last 4 years may have seemed like the longest, best, worst, most important, most painful, what-ever-it-is years of your life. Then, as a 50 year old, your life has been steady, settled for a while and the last four years seem unimportant, a nonentity. A senior in high school may think that the year can't go any slower- that it seems like a lifetime before they will graduate when, in the big picture, this year is only one tiny fraction of their life. We all live and die, and go unnoticed by many. Four years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time, can define someones entire life.

Now, take a moment to think about the last four years of your life. Think about what they meant, what they did, how they changed you as a person. Think about what things would be like had they never happened, what you would be like if they simply disappeared. One moment they were a piece of your history, a chunk of your memory, part of what made you you, and the next thing you know, they were just gone. It would be as if a part of your life never even existed, you suddenly re-winded. This is what happened to Naomi Porter.

She hit her head on slippery steps and in a split second, four years disappeared. Anything from after the age of 12 was simply erased from her memory- her mothers affair, her parents divorce, her boyfriend Ace, her best friend Will, her love for yearbook and tennis, her ability to drive, her lost virginity, her new house, her half sister- everything. The most eventful, vital years of her life were forgotten. Her world had become a mystery- why did she drop that class? Why did she fall for Ace? Where did she wear that dress? How did she have her hair? Did her father have a girlfriend? Did she like the girlfriend? She begins to search for clues to piece together her history with. She had to trust people to tell her pieces of her past, and to tell them honestly. Naomi's life became a complete nightmare of question and wondering. At the same time, though, her amnesia had given her a fresh start. At sixteen years old, she had basically no past. She could choose to simply start over, be a whole new person. She didn't remember the old one, and no one would know that it ever existed. When Naomi finally does remember everything, she hides it. She doesn't tell anyone that her memory is back because, she doesn't want it to be. Starting over felt good, why face the reality of her messy but true life if she didn’t have to?

This book, Memories of a Teenage Amnesiac, makes me think about what it's like to forget. Is it better to forget your mistakes? To live with no history? To start with a clean slate? Or, is the point of life to live with the decisions that you make? At one point in the book, Naomi comments that she thinks perhaps the only reason that her significant other, James liked her is because she has no past, because the present and the future can be what she chooses, what she wants them to be. There are times in my life when I think that nothing could ever get worse. When I feel as if a mid-life crisis is occuring 30 years premature and all I want to do is just give up on everything and everyone. I would kill to erase my mistakes. I would do anything to go back in time and just start over. But maybe everything does, despite how cliche this may sound, happen for a reason because if it didn’t, there would be no argument as to why Naomi shouldn’t forget. She just would, there would be no hesitation because there would be no reason why she shouldn’t.

In sixth grade, I said something awful about one of my closest friends that I’ve had for as long as I can remember. The thing is, I didn’t even mean what I said about her, and she overheard. I remember what made me feel the worst about it was that when I called to apologize and tell her it didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to lose her, yadda, yadda, ya she wasn’t angry-- just really hurt, sad. And, I’ll never forget how her voice sounded because I’d never ever heard it that way before and that made everything a million times worse. I remember in that moment, hating myself more than I ever have before, being so ashamed of what I’d done that still to this day, the only person that knows is my mom. I remember a list of things I would do to take it back going through my head. A stream of items or words or people or foods or anything I would give up if I could go back in time and have her back.

Anything.
Anything to loosen the tight, dry knot in the back of my throat or fill the empty, aching hole in my stomach.
I had become desperate like anyone in a similar situation would be.

But, I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do because I’m only human and I don’t have a fairy god-mother or Hermione’s time turner. Because I’d done something that so many had done before me and so many will do after me- made a possibly life-altering mistake. And I regretted it deeply but, like the others, I would have to live with that.

So what’s the upside to this? Why, if everyone wants so badly what Naomi has the opportunity to have, should she not take it? Because I made up with that friend and she’s still at my house practically everyday eating my families supply of cookies. Because, while what I said will always be there, we still have our run-around-like-4-year-olds-on-a-summer-afternoon kind of juvenile relationship. Because, since that day, I have tried as hard as I possibly can to not say a single bad thing about a friend behind their back, and it’s worked for the most part. Because I learned an important lesson in a painfully hard way but because of that, I’ll never forget it. And, if I did, who knows how many times I would’ve made that mistake again. Sometimes I think when you do something wrong, you just get a strike and a bit of luck and everything is OK. But, if you forget and keep on doing that thing, you’re out of luck and strikes and nothing turns out OK. Because, “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it” and though this quote is overused in my writing that’s only it’s so true and so, so, vitally important to remember.

Sometimes, I Wish I Could Forget

Time is relative. When you're 14 years old, the last 4 years may have seemed like the longest, best, worst, most important, most painful, what-ever-it-is years of your life. Then, as a 50 year old, your life has been steady, settled for a while and the last four years seem unimportant, a nonentity. A senior in high school may think that the year can't go any slower- that it seems like a lifetime before they will graduate when, in the big picture, this year is only one tiny fraction of their life. We all live and die, and go unnoticed by many. four years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, but can define someones entire life.

Now, take a moment to think about the last four years of your life. Think about what they meant, what they did, how they changed you as a person. Think about what things would be like had they never happened, what you would be like if they simply disappeared. One moment they were part of your history, a chunk of your memory, and the next, they were just gone. It would be as if a part of your life never even existed, you suddenly rewinded. this is what happened to Naomi Porter.

She hit her head on slippery steps and in a split second, four years disappeared. Anything from after the age of 12 was simply erased from her memory- her mothers affair, her parents divorce, her boyfriend Ace, her best friend Will, her love for yearbook, her love for tennis, her ability to drive, her lost virginity, her new house, her half sister- everything. The most eventful, vital years of her life were forgotten. Her world had become a mystery- why did she drop that class? Why did she fall for Ace? Where did she wear that dress? How did she have her hair? Who was Will, really, to her? She begins to search for clues to piece together her history with. She had to trust people to tell her pieces of her life, and to tell them honestly. Naomi's life became a complete nightmare of question and wondering. At the same time, though, her amnesia had given her a fresh start. At sixteen years old, she had basically no past. She could choose to simply start over, be a whole new person. She didn't remember the old one, and no one would know that it ever existed. When Naomi finally does remember everything, she hides it. She doesn't tell anyone that her memory is back because, she doesn't want it to be. Starting over felt good, she didn't want to face the reality of her real life.

This book, Memories of a Teenage Amnesiac, makes me think so deeply about what it's like to forget. Is it better to forget your mistakes? To live with no history? To start with a clean slate? Or, is the point of life to live with the decisions that you make? At one point in the book, Naomi comments that she thinks perhaps the only reason that her significant other, James liked her is because she has no past, because the present and the future can be what she chooses, what she wants them to be. There are times in my life, and I'm sure yours too, when I think that nothing could ever get worse. When I feel like just giving up on everything and everyone. At such a time, I would kill to erase my mistakes. I would literally do anything to go back in time and just start over. But, maybe everything happens for a reason (I know, that sounds corny and stupid and over-used) but, perhaps it is true. Perhaps, every thing you do happens for a reason. Every mistake you make is meant to be nothing more or less than a mistake. I often wonder, should Naomi start over? Should she take this golden opportunity to be a whole new girl? Or, should she accept the person she was and live with it, with what she was supposed to be, for better or worse. What would each of us, as flawed human beings do?

The Giver

I could talk about memory. I could talk about pain. The givers pain, Jonas's pain- both emotional and physical. I could talk about my empathy- my sympathy for Jonas's character- for all his frustration and loneliness. But, I feel this has all been covered before- I feel I've written and thought about all these topics before, whether in fourth grade or in seventh.

Every single person who writes one of these entries or essays talks about Jonas, talks about the giver. But, more interesting than their characters almost, more heartbreaking than them, I think, is the rest of the community.

They do not feel.
They do not feel pain or hate or stress.
They do not hug or kiss.
They do not see colors.
Everything is the same- Everyone is the same.
Spouses are chosen, children are given, jobs are assigned.
Feelings of passion are prevented with a pill.
There is no hurt, but in return, there is no love.

To deprive so many people of these things is, I think worse than to let one feel it all. And although many people will argue the point that they don't know what they're missing- so it's not so bad, I think that that makes it even worse because, at least Jonas can feel the good in addition to the bad, at least his life was not a lie. There is a point at which Jonas is talking to The Giver about his parents life once Jonas and Lily grow up and move out of their house-
"They'll go and live with the other childless adults and they won't be part of my life
anymore. And, after that, when the time comes, they'll go to the house of the old. And they'll be well cared for and respected and when they're released, there'll be a celebration"

"Which you won't attend" pointed out the giver.

"No, of course not, because I won't even know about it. By then, I'll be so busy with my own life. And Lily will, too. So our children, if we have them, won't know who their parents-of-parents are either"
This quote broke my heart into a million pieces. It, to me, is worse than anything else in this
community or this book. The fact that they would simply forget about their family without a
second thought. The fact that they would erase the people they have spent their entire lives with from their from their future, forever, and never look back. Many people in our world today do the same, including my own dad. Many people, like the people in Jonas' community, never talk to their family again, try hard to forget. The difference is, they have to try hard, the difference is it's not the automatic thing to do, the difference is, they have the choice. The people in The Giver were taught to do this, they were told that it was the way- the only way- anything else was dangerous. These poor people are trapped in this tiny world, there are so many things that they don't know and never will.

Some say that ignorance is bliss. It's a trade off, though, when you think about it- all or nothing.
Personally, I would chose all- the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, the mad and the
glad. And, maybe the people in The Giver would chose nothing, maybe they would chose all but,
that's not really what matters- what matters is that they didn't get the choice.