Vacant Rooms

When I lived in Germantown, Ohio, as a child, my bedroom was on the second floor tucked into the eaves over the front of the house. During my early childhood on Walnut Street, my best friend lived across the meadow and would often come over to play. Although I was much more solitary the older I got, I was a sociable child in kindergarten and enjoyed playing with others. As an only child, this was the only interaction I got with children my own age. One afternoon, we spent hours playing Lite-Brite in my upstairs bedroom. After the day was over, she went home. Yet something very odd happened that day—I can recall the way the afternoon light looked streaming in through the tall windows and the mournful shadows it cast across the floor. It felt as though every corner remembered the sound of her voice, and the house shuddered beneath the long purple shadows in her absence. Suddenly an overwhelming, heavy feeling of complete solitude overtook me. It wasn't just the feeling that I was alone; it was the sense that she had previously been there and now she was gone. Her absence was overwhelming. I remember crying next to my mother, and despite her assurances that she would return to play with me again sometime, I could not shake the feeling of an all-consuming absence.

I mentioned this emotion once before in an essay when I wrote about sitting in an upstairs courthouse hallway immediately following my divorce hearing. My father and I sat on a bench directly outside of the courtroom to give my now ex-husband time to leave, and an extremely heavy sense of loss overcame me. I was, in fact, instantly transported back to my childhood bedroom, where I had felt this eerie feeling once before. Oddly enough, this same marriage produced aching memories of being in the now-abandoned church we attended during our decade-long relationship. While attending Sunday School and working as the unofficial church secretary typing up the church newsletter, I spent a lot of time in the building when the Sunday morning crowds had left, wandering through empty basement corridors and eerie upstairs classrooms built into the church attic, now unused and abandoned for decades. When I was in these rooms, I once again felt a deep sense of solitude and abandonment, and a heavy, otherworldly feeling of absence. There is a certain dread that always accompanies this sensation—I have come to believe that this feeling is present whenever the veil between this world and the afterlife is thin. I believe that this emotion of existential dread that overtakes me is not only supernatural, but indicative of a tragic event that occurred at the location perhaps decades (or centuries) before.

Interestingly, I have felt this same feeling in certain storage rooms in the basement of the office building in which I work. I wonder if at one time the location served as the office of someone who experienced a tragedy or perhaps itself was a location of death. The feeling I get is so strong—and eerie—that it cannot be a coincidence that I feel it in certain locations and not in others. What is this dread that seems to pull at me from the other side? The sensation is light yellow in color, although I am not sure why. As a synesthete, I associate certain colors with shapes and sounds, but it is quite rare that I associate colors with feelings. In the Victorian era, yellow flowers were notorious in the language of flowers, representing disappointment, jealousy, infidelity, or the waning of romantic affection. (As an aside, yellow has been my favorite color since I was a child, which is why my childhood bedroom was painted yellow. Which, of course, brings us to the beginning of our story). Apart from the association of yellow with my childhood bedroom, it must be noted that the sunlight streaming in through the empty classroom in the church I mentioned earlier gave the room a certain yellowish glow. Is this the source of the color that fills my brain during these intense feelings of abandonment and solitude that I feel in these locations?

Maplewood Cemetery in my city is the site of several well-known graves of local celebrities, founders, and prominent figures. Once I visited with my father in an attempt to locate the grave of Jay M. Arena, the Duke toxicologist and pioneer of the poison control movement. (When we got to the cemetery to visit his grave, creepily enough, his headstone cataloged on Find a Grave appeared to be missing from his family plot entirely). In the course of our search towards the end of our afternoon, we came upon a locked family mausoleum that proudly towered over even some of the grander graves around it. As I peered in through the door, I saw a marble bench in the center of the small structure, flanked on either side by wall crypts. At the back of this little room was a beautiful stained glass window, casting watercolor-like shadows across the floor. Although the mausoleum was locked and completely empty, I pictured a widow sitting there, day after day, waiting for something. The presence of a bench implied that someone would sit there—although perhaps completely alone—surrounded by death and the memories of what was. A life past, filled now with only an overwhelming absence. The same creepy feeling I have sensed in my past. Was this feeling caused by the fading afternoon sun that often accompanies this sensation? Was it the locked, empty nature of the tomb? Or was it the presence of death? What about this beautiful structure held the same eerie sense of abandonment that my childhood bedroom had? Why was I overshadowed the same way I was in the empty church classrooms after Sunday services when the crowd had left and I was standing alone in the almost-suffocating silence? Here for the first time, this feeling was associated with an origin I had inferred all along: death. Not only death, but also the finality of death and the knowledge that life must now be lived without someone.

It is the presence of memories that makes this abandonment so profound—in each case, I had been left alone by someone that had previously been there. The silence that remained became engulfed in the knowledge of what once was; it wasn't merely the aloneness that haunted me, it was the sense of abandonment that pervaded every inch of the location around me. As a young child, I had been left alone in my bedroom by a friend who had gone home. In the church, I remained after the crowd had dispersed after Sunday services, standing alone with my thoughts in an empty classroom. As I sat in the hallway after my divorce hearing, not only had my ex-husband left the building before me, but I was now acutely aware of the finality of divorce. He was gone, and he was never coming back—because of my petition for divorce. So too was it with the mausoleum—in my case, viewing the empty tomb and picturing the widow sitting alone reminded me of the inevitable mortality of my own husband. Someday when he is gone, I will be left alone. And yet his memories will fill every inch of our home. It is a destiny that, even years in the future, I struggle to accept.

I realize a certain irony in this aching abandonment that comes with this sense of absence; after all, I have lived most of my life by choice completely alone. I have shunned most friendships to the point that I often struggle to find a reason to leave my house and face society. But in each case I mentioned, the sense of abandonment that I felt in those specific places was something that happened to me—I was left alone, by my own fault or not. The current solitude that invades my life is my own choice. But the solitude of which I speak—it seems to come from beyond the grave. It is as if that same spirit has followed me like an illness, stalking me in the shadows, appearing in places of solitude. I'm not sure I will ever outrun it.

Future Directions for This Blog

Last night I published four articles in a short series here on my blog. (If you didn't see them in your inbox, it's because they're not regular articles. They're part of a small—often surreal—feature that I will update from time to time). They're a vast departure from my regular subject matter here on my blog, where I usually write about death, divorce, depression, and the lives of celebrities cut short. I mention this for a very specific reason this morning: part of the impetus for taking a break for several years from this blog is that it gets tough writing about heavy topics day in and day out, and sometimes I can run out of dark things to write about. Granted, this type of writing is what attracted my loyal readers to begin with, and for that I am very grateful. However, I think it is good from time to time to write about other things, which is what I will be doing this upcoming autumn.

This autumn I am planning on posting several vignettes with photographs from upcoming trips, not only to various parks in my city, but also cemeteries and several other cozy places. I also plan on posting photos of the autumn baking I do every September-November, some of which is for an autumn get-together I am having here at our apartment with family. In December, my husband and I always travel to Bath, North Carolina, which has become a very special town for us. I know that I will post photos and reflections from that. If you don't see the type of article you like posted for a while, please be assured that I am continuing my series Sad Premonition, and several featured vignettes from last night I plan on using as springboards for longer articles. My thoughts don't always follow a linear pattern, and this is why you will often see different types of articles posted throughout my week. Some are reflections on my feelings, some are death notices about someone famous, and others, like my piece on what I daydream about, don't really mean anything except what interested me to write about at the moment. I hope you, dear reader, continue to find inspiration in this journey of self-reflection I've undertaken on this blog, and on more light-hearted posts, I hope you can find what makes usually solitary writers like me interesting.

On Jason Arday's Death

Jason Arday, fellow autist and former Cambridge University professor, died on Friday. The cause of death has not yet been released, but in the wake of the controversy surrounding his alleged plagiarism and subsequent resignation from his position at Cambridge, many are speculating that he took his own life. I do not want to add to the pain of his family by commenting on any controversies in which he may have been embroiled during his life, but I will say that I am horribly saddened by this turn of events. As a teenager in the mid- to late nineties, I grew up on the campus of Duke University, where my father was a PhD student. I feel a certain kinship with any academic because of my father, controversy or not. I cannot imagine what his family and two children are going through right now. I have intentionally fostered a certain introspection on this blog over the years, and his death is no exception. As stated before, I will not comment on any controversies related to him, as with his death, doing so would serve no purpose but add to the already large amount of anguish that plagued him (and by extension his family) during his life. However, I do want to say one thing: nothing he could have done could possibly warrant the amount of hatred he received from thousands of commenters on the internet.

There comes a point where you must realize that your opinion as a third party is irrelevant—mine included—and throwing gasoline onto an already raging fire serves no purpose whatsoever. Of course, I myself was guilty of this back when I had social media, not only angrily commenting on articles relating to whatever the controversy of the day was but also being unkind towards others, bolstered by a certain anonymity. It has taken years for me to realize that I needed to use my words for good on the internet when stories involve individuals, and it is partially my regret related to my past actions that has caused me to retreat from these platforms to the solitude of my writing. I deeply regret my actions in the past, and it is stories like this that make me realize how warranted my regret is. No one is perfect, and we all get angry sometimes, often rightfully so, but it is good to step back and realize that there are human beings with feelings behind the stories we read about. I hope that Jason Arday's family can find some solace in this difficult time. Peace was something that, during the last few weeks of his life, seems to have been robbed from him. I've always liked to think that when we pass away, we each go to whatever version of heaven would be heaven for us. I truly hope that Jason has found this peace and comfort in the afterlife.

Sad Premonition: Yukiko Okada

I first heard of Yukiko Okada, like many Westerners, in the context of the so-called "Yukiko Syndrome," the rise in deaths by self-infliction in Japan immediately following her death. I've been reading about—and pondering—strange and morbid stories most of my life. Hers, though, was different from most others: she was only eighteen when she chose to jump from the roof of the Sun Music Building in Tokyo. Unlike Phyllis Hyman, whose story will also be discussed later on in this series, she had achieved phenomenal success as a singer, with no downturn in her short, two-year career. Some speculate that this meteoric rise to fame at such a young age precipitated her depression, which ultimately led to the final turn of events. Okada died on the fourth anniversary of the death of cult leader Susan Alamo (leave it to a freak like me to know something like this), and her sudden death came just after the release of her one (and ultimately only) number-one single and in the middle of a concert tour. Yet she had other projects planned; she was young, talented, and at the top of her game. Then suddenly, almost as quickly as her career began, it was over. Of course, I was only two when all of this happened, and I wouldn't hear about her until much, much later. Okada's story, however, and the fact that she has remained forever eighteen have never left me.

Born on August 22, 1967, in Ichinomiya, Aichi Prefecture, as Kayo Satō, she was the second of the two daughters of the Satō family. At the age of two, she moved to the Atsuta Ward in Nagoya. She was already showing a creative talent at a young age: in the third grade, she wrote in a composition that she was interested in becoming a "painter, manga artist, and novelist." The following year she began studying watercolor painting and told her mother that if she were so inclined, she perhaps would study at an art university someday. As the years continued, she sketched and dabbled in oil painting, drawing, and Japanese-style painting. In August 1981, when she was in middle school, she entered the "Nikon Fresh Gal Contest" and was runner-up. Her picture was subsequently published in a Shagaku magazine in March 1982. That summer, she worked as a model at a camera workshop held by Nikon at Osaka Castle.

It was during middle school that, despite the objections of her parents, she expressed a desire to be an idol singer. During this time she appeared on the talent show Star Tanjō!. She qualified for the finals by singing Sawako Kitahara's "My Boyfriend." The 46th final competition was held on March 30, 1983: she sang Akina Nakamori's "Slow Motion." Ultimately, she won Star Tanjō!, entering Nagoya Municipal Kōyō High School the following month. On May 15, 1983, she joined the Sun Music talent agency. She also signed a record contract with Canyon Records.

During this time she also auditioned to be in the movie "Aiko 16," which was filming in her hometown of Nagoya, but she wasn't chosen. Despite this setback, she moved to Tokyo alone on August 25, 1983, transferring from her former school to Horikoshi High School in Tokyo on September 1. (Incidentally, she counted among her classmates future stars Minako Honda, Yoko Nagayama, Yoko Minamino, Masatoshi Nagase, Yoko Ishino, and Yasuko Kuwata). She moved into the home of Sun Music President (and founder) Hideyoshi Aizawa, along with Yasuko Kuwata and Satomi Taki, who became Yukiko's roommate. During this period, she began using the stage name Yukiko Okada, reportedly chosen on the advice of name/fortune consultant Hiroko Oki. The name was selected, according to Wikipedia, "because of the supposedly favorable balance of its written characters and because the characters could suggest the idea of possessing hope."

Two months later, a publicity photo of the aspiring singer (billed as Yukiko Okada) was published in the magazine POPEYE. Her career as an idol thus began. On December 10, 1983, recording sessions for her debut album Cinderella began in Hitokuchizaka Studio. Singer-songwriter Mariya Takeuchi had been asked to compose the first songs for Yukiko. (Interestingly, Takeuchi recorded the original Japanese version of Roger Nichols' musical composition "Heart to Heart," which was later given English lyrics by Dean Pitchford and retitled "Now," fatefully becoming Karen Carpenter's final recording). Takeuchi wrote several songs for Okada over her career, including "First Date," "Little Princess," "Teenage Love," "Dreaming Girl-Koi, Hajimemashite," and "Akogare," among others. The first few months of 1984 were extremely busy for Okada—she appeared in the magazine Schola on January 10 (16 days before I was born), and appeared several months later on the radio show Make a Chance! Tobidase Pop City!! on March 11. During this time she also made appearances at Pop City Sweets Fair and a fan event, Gather Yukiko Friends, from March 20 to April 8. She sang on the programs The Hit Stage (March 25), Yangyang Singing Studio (April 14), and Idol Punch. Her first single "First Date" was released a month later on April 21, 1984, reaching #20 on the Oricon charts. (As an aside, this song was also used in a Glico Café Jelly commercial, a company for which Okada would star in several advertisements).

On July 6, 1984, she won the "Best Rookie Diamond Award" at the 3rd Megalopolis Song Festival. A few weeks later on July 18, her second single "Little Princess" was released, reaching #14 on the Oricon weekly singles chart. September 21 saw the release of her third single "Dreaming Girl-Koi, Hajimemashite", peaking at #7. The following month, she ranked 8th on the The Top Ten, where she appeared on October 15, 1984. Just three days later, Yukiko wrote that she achieved the goal of appearing in The Top 10, when she ranked 10th on the TBS Music Program The Best Ten. In September of this year, she released her debut album Cinderella. Two months later, on November 28, 1984, her first compilation album, Okurimono was released. Finally, in December she won the "Best New Artist" award at the 26th Japan Records Awards for the song "Dreaming Girl-Koi, Hajimemashite."

1985 saw the release of her fourth single "Futari Dake No Ceremony" on January 16, marking her first collaboration with songwriter Ami Ozaki. Her sophomore album FAIRY was released on March 21, followed by her first nationwide tour Heart Ni Kiss beginning in Sapporo on March 25, and ending in Iwata on May 26. During this time, her fifth single "Summer Beach" was released on April 17, 1985. This year Okada began adopting a more mature image—she expressed a desire for shorter hair in the summer of 1984, but her record company said it would not fit her image. Sun Music, however, championed the change, stating it would pair well with her latest single "Summer Beach." Her shorter hair ultimately appeared around this time. The following month, she returned to The Best Ten ranking 7th on May 9, 1985. In June, she went to Switzerland to make a series of promotional videos, Memories of Switzerland and Yukiko in Swiss. She apparently had always wanted to go to Switzerland after having read Johanna Spyri's Heidi as a child. (Her desire to go to my homeland always tugged at my heartstrings, as a Pennsylvania Dutch of Swiss descent. This is partially, I think, why I've always felt so connected to her as a singer).

July 17, 1985 saw the release of her single "Kanashii Yokan" (Sad Premonition). It was said that during this time cracks were beginning to show in her perfect idol façade. While in rehearsals for the television program Night Hit Studio, she allegedly burst into tears. Despite her internal turmoil, her career continued to soar, and she won the "Golden Dove Award" the following month at the 11th Japan TV Music Festival on August 29, 1985 for her single "Kanashii Yokan." During this period, she apparently was only sleeping 3-4 hours a day, saying of the time, "I'm working about 20 hours a day these days." Filming for the television show Forbidden Mariko began in September, lasting until the end of December. (This coincided with a series of concerts during the day). During this period, her third album Jugatsu no Ningyo (October Mermaid) was released on September 18. This album had a much more mature sound from her previous two releases (and contains my favorite Okada song "October Mermaid"). The following month, on October 5, her seventh single "Love Fair" was released. In November, Forbidden Mariko debuted on television, where Okada starred in the title role about a girl with psychic powers. (Remember this series—it will come up later in our story). Not surprisingly, she was hospitalized for exhaustion from November 29-December 2, 1985. (Incidentally, her second compilation album, Okurimono II came out three days later on December 5).

1986 started with a trip to Hong Kong and Macau. While in Hong Kong, she was a guest on a Cantonese-language radio program. Her eighth single "Kuchibiru Network" with lyrics written by fellow idol Seiko Matsuda (who was on maternity leave from the industry) was released on January 29, 1986. This became her first—and only—number one single. It was subsequently used in commercials for Kanebo Cosmetics. Jpop Wiki states that "[a]round this time, [she] was preparing for an image change from a cutesy princess type to a more mature, avant-garde style." She graduated from Horikoshi High School on March 3, releasing her fourth (and final) album Venus Tanjou a few weeks later on March 21. The following month, she began her Heart Jack tour, appearing at Shibuya Public Hall in Tokyo on April 5, and Nagoya Civic Hall on April 6. Visiting her family briefly in Nagoya, she then had dinner at the home of Sun Music President Aizawa, during which she expressed that since other singers were coming out she may "be wrong now"—the president and his wife tried to reassure her, with President Aizawa stating, "You are the pillar of our company, so cheer up!"

The day before her Heart Jack tour began, she moved out of her previous residence in the home of Sun Music President Aizawa and into her own apartment in the Minami-Aoyama Rotary Mansion. According to Wikipedia, this was intended to be a temporary residence until an apartment with an automatic-lock security system could be found. On April 7, she attended a screening of Rocky IV with a friend at Shibuya Pantheon, returning home at 10pm.

The following day she was scheduled to begin filming a television series tentatively titled Iede Shōjo (Runaway Girl). However, this was not to be. On the morning of April 8 at around 9am, residents of her apartment building noticed the smell of gas and alerted the building manager. Tokyo Gas was also notified. Soon, the Akasaka Fire Department Rescue Team was dispatched, with the paramedics arriving shortly thereafter. She was found crying and bleeding in her closet, and subsequently taken to Kita-Aoyama Hospital for treatment. At around 10am, the building manager notified Sun Music's general affairs department. At the hospital, Yukiko's calm demeanor apparently contributed to the rationale to discharge her. Confronted about her attempt, she remained silent while crying. She was then asked if she wanted to return home to Nagoya, or to the Sun Music building. Instead of returning home to be comforted by her family, Okada responded that she preferred to go to the "office." Offering Okada this choice, however, was the worst possible decision management could have made. At around noon, Okada was brought back to the Sun Music Building. Briefly left unattended while discussions were held as to what to do with the singer and how to avoid a scandal, Okada ascended to the roof of the Sun Music Building, took off her shoes, and jumped. She died instantly. She was just 18 years old.

Okada's story has always profoundly disturbed me. But it wasn't simply the horrifying manner in which she died; it was that her death seemed so preventable. When she was hospitalized at the end of 1985 for exhaustion, where was her management and what kinds of decisions did they make that allowed her to resume the same demanding schedule immediately afterward? Why didn't they use this moment as a time for reflection not only on Okada, but on all of the other young stars they managed? If Okada's mental health was suffering, how many other idols were suffering in silence at the same time? The fast-paced schedule of an idol would be daunting for an adult, let alone a teenager who was simultaneously enrolled in high school. Could she have been saved had she felt able to openly discuss her feelings with her friends and family?

I imagine that there were so many things she could have been feeling simultaneously: exhaustion, of course, but also depression and the isolation of being so far from her family. When she graduated from high school and moved out of President Aizawa's house into her own apartment, could this isolation have triggered emotional distress? Of course, that distress could have already been present due to exhaustion and the high expectations placed on an idol. But being alone during this could have exacerbated an already fragile mental state. When she visited her family in Nagoya just before she died, was time with her family something she desperately needed, only to have it taken away when she returned to Tokyo? In Tokyo, however, she had friends with whom she could speak. Why didn't she tell them what was going on inside of her? Maybe she felt that admitting she was under too much stress or that she was depressed simply wasn't an option for her.

There are other theories about Okada's death, however. One is that her death was the result of an unrequited crush on actor Toru Minegishi, with whom she starred on the series Forbidden Mariko. At a press conference following her death, Minegishi reportedly stated, "We're different ages and it wasn't that kind of relationship. I was just careful not to show too much favor. I wonder if [it really happened] because of me." In a reported interview with Nobuyuki Nakano, he stated "I thought of myself as being like an older brother to her. Perhaps she felt something more than that toward me…" Of course, this rumor is lent some credence by the fact that in Okada's writing (which has never been made public), Minegishi is apparently mentioned. Of the actor, Okada reportedly said, "I wanted to see him again. My heart has nowhere to go."

Another possibility concerns the pressures of her career. One is that after having achieved her childhood goal of becoming an idol, she felt as though she would disappoint those around her by leaving the entertainment world once it became too much. For a high achiever like Okada, I can see how this might have led to her feeling ashamed. Of course, we will never know. Okada's final decision on April 8, 1986 left the idol industry—and the entire country of Japan—reeling. When she died she left so many questions that can never be answered. We will never know how Okada's singing career would have evolved as she aged—what wonderful music would she have made? How would her legacy continue to shape the idols that came after her? We will never know if she would have married or had children. We will never see her grow old. When the Satō family buried their young daughter that April, a chapter was closed far too soon. A young life was gone before it even had a chance to really start. Far from being yet another internet horror story for me, Okada's story has lodged itself in my brain. She has had a lasting impact on me—not just because of her wonderful music, but because I am haunted by what could have been. Yukiko, you are not forgotten.

Editor's Note: This installment was researched and written using secondary sources in a language I do not speak nor understand. As such, mistranslations and errors are possible, although unintentional on my part.

Finally, I would be remiss if I did not mention user "Nemurenatta" (see source list below) from Dailymotion for his incredible three-part series on Yukiko called "Kanashii Yokan: The Life and Legacy of Yukiko Okada." His was the first—and only—long-form documentary I have found on the singer in English. His original title Kanashii Yokan (taken from the Okada song translated from the Japanese as "Sad Premonition") became the source of inspiration for my own title for this series. On a factual level, his documentary helped clarify several facts and translations. ✦✦✦✦

Sources

Hernon, M., & Hernon, M. (2023, April 10). Yukiko Okada — A talented yet tormented idol | Tokyo Weekender. Tokyo Weekender. https://www.tokyoweekender.com/entertainment/music/yukiko-okada-tormented-idol/

Japanese music wiki contributors. (2015, August 15). First Date. Japanese music wiki. Retrieved August 11, 2026 from https://jpop.fandom.com/wiki/First_Date_(Okada_Yukiko)

Jpop Wiki. (n.d.). Okada Yukiko. Fandom. Retrieved August 13, 2026, from https://jpop.fandom.com/wiki/Okada_Yukiko

Nemurenatta. (2018, November 30). Kanashii Yokan: The Life and Legacy of Yukiko Okada [Part One]. Dailymotion. Originally retrieved October 15, 2025, from https://https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6y5bci

Nemurenatta. (2018, November 30). Kanashii Yokan: The Life and Legacy of Yukiko Okada [Part Two]. Dailymotion. Originally retrieved October 15, 2025, from https://www.dailymotion.com (Original link no longer available).

Nemurenatta. (2018, November 30). Kanashii Yokan: The Life and Legacy of Yukiko Okada [Part Three]. Dailymotion. Originally retrieved October 15, 2025, from https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6y5bis

Okada Yukiko. (2026, July 26). NamuWiki. https://en.namu.wiki/w/w/오카다%20유키코

Okada Yukiko [death] case. (2026, July 15). NamuWiki. https://en.namu.wiki/w/오카다%20유키코%20투신자살%20사건

Wikipedia contributors. (2026, July 28). Yukiko Okada. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yukiko_Okada

Wikipedia contributors. Okada Yukiko. Wikipedia. https://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/岡田有希子

Les Goëlands

When I was young there was an old Damia song which was recorded in 1929 called "Les Goëlands" (it was actually written by Lucien Boyer in 1909 and first sung by Damia in 1911). It tells the story of seagulls who gather the souls of dead sailors. It actually sparked my lifelong fascination with seagulls...but tinged with a slight horror.

Why do I mention this a century later? Because there have been reports that multiple Navy sailors on board the USS Abraham Lincoln whose tours have been extended since the air craft carrier has been deployed for more than eight months have attempted to jump overboard. Their deployment (which was in support of the US military operations against Iran in the middle east) was supposed to end in May. As it is, they have no publicly-announced return date set. I cannot begin to tell you the dread with which this article fills me. My uncle and cousin were both in the Navy. I cannot imagine the amount of psychological stress these brave souls are going through. Politics aside, this is a dreadful situation. I truly hope that our brave men and women get the psychological help they so desperately need in such a horrible situation, and that they return home to us soon.

L′âme et l'oiseau ne font plus qu′un
Ils cherchent le corps du défunt
Loin du rivage
Et c'est pourquoi sous le ciel noir
L'oiseau jette avec désespoir
Son cri sauvage

From the Archives

Several years ago, I began a series of short horror stories that all took place in a fictional small town and county, based upon the small Ohio hometowns of both me and my father. There were many ghost stories that both of us heard growing up in Germantown and Bluffton, Ohio: some of them came from our own family, and some of them we heard through the years. Of this series, two stories are finished: "Helen," which was published in installments back when I had social media, and "A Sympathy Arrangement," which is available on this site in its entirety. This series is ongoing, and I plan on writing more stories in the future.

In this same fictional "universe," I began a short story based upon ghost stories and experiences that I had as a child living in New Salem, North Dakota. This is the first page of the unedited short story that I started writing in the summer of 2023 but never finished. I may finish it in the future, but for now, enjoy this small remnant. (For what it's worth, I'm completely aware that posting only the first page leaves you at a small cliff-hanger, but it's really all I wrote. Sorry.)
✦✦✦✦ LARSON [WORKING TITLE]
Milstad, North Dakota is home to sixty-seven residents, all of whom make up the majority of the congregation of the town’s one remaining church, and fill the only other business in town—a bar open since the 1960s—late into the evening. At its peak in the early twentieth century it boasted nearly three hundred residents, the names of whom fill not a small section of the graveyard of the long-abandoned Milstad Lutheran Church, an ominous structure locked inside of a chain link fence which appeared sometime after the rotting roof finally collapsed in the late 1980s. Its official purpose is to keep people out of what remains of the ominous structure, but there’s a well-known hole that was cut in through the poison ivy patch that fills the graveyard, and anyone brave enough to venture through the bramble can easily get in.

A gravel road that is more dirt than gravel runs the length of the parcel of land, edged in dandelions that return every year, one of the only signs of new life in this part of the county. Looming in the background is a crumbling cinder block structure, long ago painted white—or perhaps eggshell, no one really remembers; springing up among the milkweed and tansy like an afterthought. Rusted farm equipment surrounds the structure, in a wild garden where long-forgotten bolts and nails grow like flowers among bits of gravel. A staircase-shaped crack runs up the wall of the building, framing a window which, like the others, is covered in a half-painted, half-rusted metal grill, the only remnant of the once-valuable farm equipment inside, now sitting in pieces among cans of oil and formalin. The air smelled like gasoline and decay.

Through one of the windows, past the lace veil of cobwebs, Nat Larson stood in cut-offs and a faded shirt, sweeping piles of old bottles and oil-soaked rags. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but it beat spending the summer getting boulders out of the fields, and his uncle had promised him a fair amount of pay for the chore, plus any money he made off of the recycling of old scrap. The aging building had once been the hub of his grandfather’s dairy farm nearly half a century prior, a proud family business that was one of the most prosperous in Granby County. But once his grandfather retired from farming to concentrate on his funeral home down the road in the county seat, all that remained now of the business lay scattered about in boxes, relegated to the cinder block building like an afterthought, the labels of embalming powders and bottles of formaldehyde sun-bleached and peeling in the window sills.

Nat paused for a moment and stared out the grainy window pane, past the desiccated remains of a box elder bug which lay on its back, drying in the sun, its legs curled up, frozen in time. Beyond the silhouette of the church up the hill lay the treeless plains of Granby County, broken up only by the occasional gravel road dotted with rusting mailboxes. In the summers the stillness seemed to settle ominously in the mostly-abandoned towns. He squinted in the dusty air. Somewhere under the graveyard of tools was the workbench where he used to sit and watch his Uncle Nels work on old farming equipment; it had always been just the two of them.

The sound of breaking glass startled him. A bottle lay in pieces at his feet. NATURE-GLO. COSMETIC EMBALMING FLUID. COMPOUNDED ONLY BY HYDROL CHEMICAL CO. PHILADELPHIA, PA.

Under the Weather

I will be discussing two things in today's entry: current events, and possible plans:

I woke up yesterday feeling as though I was getting a cold—my nose was runny and my throat felt itchy. I told my dad, who promptly asked me if I still wanted to go out for coffee. Of course, I said, as there has been little in over 25 years that has prevented me from going out for our weekly coffee dates. We have now attended the local coffee shop The Can Opener for so long that it has almost replaced Fowler's in my mind as where we've always gone, and I have to think about our time in Peabody Place over twenty years ago to put the pieces together. This, of course, is a miracle in itself—when Fowler's was bought out by Parker and Otis, we adjusted. It wasn't quite the same as where we had gone since I was a teenager, but it was close enough, and most importantly still in the same location as we had made all of our previous memories. So, the adjustment, at least for me, wasn't too bad.

But the year the pandemic started, this property management company called Asana Partners came from Charlotte and not only bought Peabody Place, they gutted Brightleaf Square and the old St. James building that used to house Torero's, Fishmonger's, and several bars over the years. This, course, would be fine if they left my city the way it was, but they raised rent in all of these properties, essentially kicking out Parker and Otis, Morgan Imports, El Rodeo (my favorite restaurant I had gone to since I was a teenager) and gutting the Brightleaf District. It's never really recovered, all these years later. Some of the buildings have sat empty (like Morgan Imports and Parker and Otis), and the rest have been turned into completely different establishments. The Brightleaf Square sign that had been there for as long as I could remember was torn down. And I've never seen a single soul in the square since. Not in the restaurants, not in the boutiques, not lingering in the square. I used to sit in Brightleaf Square after going to Fowler's and write poetry when I lived in downtown Durham. But now that it's empty and they've ruined essentially one of the most popular haunts in Durham, there's no use in my mind. Why would I do that? Everything has changed. This company did not and continues to not have Durham's best interests at heart. I would have at least given them time to show me what they turned the properties into, but since they've mostly sat vacant they've done absolutely nothing. No improvements were made to my city when Asana Partners came to town. They ruined a lot of memories for a lot of people, myself included. I've heard that they're planning on tearing down the Saint James building all together, replacing it with at least a 5-story mixed use development. But of course, that hasn't happened.

It's a miracle, really, that the Can Opener has meant as much as it does to me and my dad. I was honestly depressed when Parker and Otis moved out of Peabody Place, and I sulked about it for years, refusing to go to any other coffee shop. We tried, of course, but nothing felt right. It's hard to replace a location at which you've built so many memories in 25 years. But the Can Opener has become our new place, now, so when my dad asked me yesterday morning if I still wanted to go out for coffee of course I said yes. So we did.

Our conversation at the coffee shop yesterday gets to the heart of what I want to discuss in today's entry. Some of my readers know, yet some are unaware, that I had to fight to get my first installment of my series Sad Premonition published here on Blogger. Apparently the subject matter could potentially be triggering for some viewers—I'm not really sure who these viewers are, as my blog isn't that popular, and children would have no incentive to read the daily ramblings of a middle-aged housewife-turned-writer. But I digress. The entry that I painstakingly planned out and crafted over a few days was immediately pulled upon its initial publication and essentially put behind an age-verification wall. Of course, the average reader of my blog isn't going to take the time to go through that, because, let's be honest—my writing isn't that interesting. Entries appearing on my blog is one thing; but I was informed that even my subscribed readers did not receive the censored entry in their inbox. So I pulled the parts of the story that I figured had triggered the ban, and rewrote others. I even had to pull the sources because one of the links contained a potentially-triggering word. This is why there were no sources listed below the installment. But this is all-encompassing issue. Even yesterday's entry which mentioned the childhood ghost story of the Simon brothers had to be sanitized before I posted it. The scariest part of the story—and what horrified everyone over the decades the tale was told over and over again—couldn't be discussed. I was scared that if told the entire tale, my entry would be pulled again. And of course, there is potentially a hidden counter of how many times a blog is able to be censored before it is pulled from the web entirely.

I have mixed feelings about this. The maternal instinct in me—believe it or not, under all my social awkwardness I suspect I do have one—does not want to scare or upset vulnerable people with my writing. But the free speech advocate in me thinks the entire situation is upsetting. After all, in each case, the scary part of the article wasn't the main point at all. It was something that was mentioned in passing. But of course, that doesn't seem to matter to the AI Blogger employs to make these backend decisions.

Why do I mention this? Well, there are other blogger platforms I could move to. I've been on Blogger since the early 2000s, and it's currently the only platform I understand. It's free, too, and if I were to move to WordPress, for example, not only would I be responsible for having my entire template recoded to work on their website, I'd have to pay to have it hosted. This is some of what is keeping me on Blogger. So far the censorship hasn't gotten to the point where I want to jump ship yet, but the thought is in the back of my mind. Of course, if this happens, you, dear readers, will be the first to be informed of my new address, but in the meantime, I plan on keeping What Remains (At the End of the World) here.

This discussion is a corollary to my next point: my dad mentioned to me yesterday that he is glad that I'm finally pursuing my passion of writing. I don't primarily write for other people—I use writing as an outlet for my own problems and thoughts, and if another people enjoy reading them, so much the better. But I noticed a calm and purpose that has returned to my life after the much-needed hiatus I took from blogging for a few years. I enjoy having an outlet to discuss my feelings, and most importantly, I enjoy having an outlet to perhaps help others dealing with addiction and mental illness.

As an aside, this brings me back to what I mentioned first in this entry. I'm really, really sick today. I tend to get upper respiratory infections worse than most people I think because most of my lungs are scarred from bronchial pulmonary dysplasia. I went to bed early last night, of course, after having gotten up so early yesterday morning, but I was woken up in the middle of the night by excruciating pain due to my cysts. So there I was, nauseous from the pain of my cysts and completely wracked with an upper respiratory infection. Today I doubt I will leave the house at all. I want to get as much of this sickness out of my system before I inevitably have to get up tomorrow morning at 4am to go to work. The older I get, I find I recover from brief periods of illness slower and slower.

I plan on continuing Sad Premonition perhaps later on this week, but if I do not post another installment right away, please know that I am recovering from an illness. Entries like I wrote today are easy to compose, but series like Sad Premonition require research and planning. I do not feel as though I have the mental clarity currently to dedicate the time needed for this endeavor, so these next few entries over the week may be on other topics before the series picks back up—but it will pick back up.

On Employment and the Eeriness of Winter

As usual, I'm up very early on a Saturday morning. My Monday-Friday job requires me to get up at 4am, and on the weekends, despite my best efforts, I still get up at 4am. This of course truncates my access to daylight considerably—I go out for coffee with my dad every Saturday at 10h30, but by early afternoon I'm exhausted again. I cannot leave this job with this current schedule because it is one of the few jobs I can work with my issues. I am no longer required to interact with the public on a regular basis, and the social requirements are few and far between. To be sure, most jobs in my life that I've had that required me to interact with customers have been successful in one sense: I am good at hiding my feelings and am often seen as friendly and easygoing. However, interactions with anyone in management often end disastrously. I often don't understand invisible societal rules, and am rigid in my understanding of social situations. I got in trouble once as a secretary for keeping my door shut to keep people out of my office. It didn't matter that my job was completely feasible from behind closed doors, it wasn't what I was supposed to do. But that made no sense to me. Few rules like this ever do. I was let go from this job and told to return to university, saying I'd be much better in an academic setting. They were right, of course—I excelled academically and became the president of the social work society at my college. But as soon as I graduated, like clockwork, I was back to failing miserably in jobs.

I don't mean to seem like I am whining; I realize that there are things about being an adult you just have to tolerate to make a living—but it has been my experience that there are few jobs I am good at doing. My heart is in the right place: I got a degree in social work precisely because at the time I wanted to work helping people. But wanting something and being good at it are two different things. My range of talents—speaking foreign languages, writing, and memorizing esoteric topics—are always hampered by my inability to do them in any setting where I am required to interact with a hierarchical structure. I used to work as a receptionist and part-time French-speaking contact for a certain company. Once I needed to speak to someone above me about a certain issue. So I did. I later got in trouble for not going through the right channels. But the person with whom I needed to speak was the right channel in my mind. And so it was. It didn't matter how many times I was told that I was not allowed to speak to this person, whose office door I could see from my desk—I never understood the rule. Any organization who has useless rules and unspoken expectations like this will be a very hard place for me to work. And I've come to believe after four decades of existence that I'm not the problem at all—situations like this are completely unnecessary because they make no sense. But now I'm rambling.

I stated before that my early morning schedule often affects my energy levels later on in the day. I have been getting up at around 2am to write, still managing to make it to my job by 6am. This perhaps isn't ideal when the weekend comes, but it works for me during the week, and I am grateful that I have had a job that allows me the clarity of mind to write. Writing is one of the few things I've ever found that brings me true joy. ✦✦✦✦ My husband and I have started a tradition where we go to Bath, North Carolina every December when we are off from work before the new year. I am very much looking forward to this in a few months. I am hoping that the quiet of the little town I love so well will be a place of respite and inspiration for me. I am planning on continuing my series Sad Premonition featuring several stories of missing persons that have touched a nerve with me. One of these stories I've heard over the years—a story which may or may not be included in my series—features one of the oldest missing persons cases in North Carolina. Leila Bryan and her daughter Mary went missing from Carolina Beach in May of 1941. Her husband told authorities that they had left go to a local store. An article on CUE states:

At Carolina Beach at the time, according to town records, there was a small grocery store catering to fishermen and vacationers, a store similar to a general store, and a combination grocery/department store. All three of the stores were in the same general area, near the modern intersection of U.S. 421 and Channel Drive. Where Leila went shopping that evening, if she did, has never been discovered.

In the stillness of winter in Bath, I often think of cases like these. There has always been a certain eeriness about rural and small town communities for me. When I was a child living in New Salem, North Dakota, I was often haunted by local ghost stories, like that of the Simon brothers (see newspaper clipping at the right). There was something otherworldly about the stark winters, the abandoned farms, and the miles and miles of fields. With Bath, it is the vastness of the ocean and the tininess of the community that calls me to a very eerie place.

I am thinking of all of these things as I sit here with my coffee writing by lamplight. I could try and go back to sleep, but I know it won't be of much use. The city this morning has filled my head with all sorts of tales, tales I love writing down, if only for myself. Writing makes me feel alive and important—someday when I am gone whoever goes through my things will find hundreds of poems and short stories I have written over the years, yellowing and long-buried among my books. This morning I feel as though I am looking over the horizon at a new dawn. And there are so many stories I want to tell.

Sad Premonition: Christine Chubbuck

I first heard (and wrote about) Christine Chubbuck around 2009, back before the movie, back when she was just a cautionary tale mentioned in passing on the internet. Of course, hers was one of many eerie tales I remember hearing about throughout the course of my life—I was too young to remember Budd Dwyer, but later discovered both incidents with a kind of curious horror that many people of my generation reserved for images and videos on the now-long-defunct websites Ogrish and Rotten. But I don't mean to give the impression that hers was a mere horror story for me—like that of Yukiko Okada, it was the tragic details of her life before her death by her own hand that I have spent years contemplating.

Christine Chubbuck is one of a handful of women—including Yukiko Okada, Connie Converse, Huguette Clark, Fréhel, Dorothy Arnold, Karen Carpenter, and Phyllis Hyman–whose stories are so tragic, and in some cases end in such mysterious circumstances that I have carried them with me for decades. In some cases–those of Christine, Yukiko, and Phyllis–troubling lives and personal torment led to untimely deaths by their own hand. Connie and Dorothy disappeared, and Huguette was out of the public eye for decades before finally dying in relative anonymity at the age of 104. Fréhel and Karen's choices both led them to premature deaths, yet their haunting voices became the soundtrack to my own troubled life. Christine Chubbuck's story is the first in a collection of tales I am calling Sad Premonition.

Outside of a handful of articles that have been published on her over the years (and some photographs I found in her high school yearbook on Ancestry.com,) I have found that Wikipedia has some of the most concise biographical information on Christine, which I will paraphrase here:

She was born in East Cleveland, Ohio (other articles state Hudson) in 1944, one of three children of Margretha (Peg) and George Chubbuck. While attending a girls' school in Shaker Heights, she formed the "Dateless Wonder Club." A quote in her high school yearbook described her as a "dashing figure with a twenty inch (sic) waist...outstanding and outspoken." Upon graduation, she briefly attended two colleges before settling on Boston University where she received a broadcasting degree in 1965. Also in this year, she apparently had her one—and only—relationship with a man in his thirties, a relationship which might have ended due to the disapproval of her father. 

After two stints in Ohio at WVIZ in Cleveland (where she worked in station publications) and Canton, in 1968 she ended up at WQED in Pittsburgh for three months. (I've always wondered if she and Fred Rogers knew each other during this time). The following year, she moved to Florida, working at both WTOG and the WXLT (now WWSB). Here she lived in Siesta Key in the family summer cottage with her mother and two brothers, although her brother Greg was gone by the time her brother Tim moved in. We know from accounts that she was very close to her family, although she had few—if any—outside relationships. 

At WXLT in Sarasota, Chubbuck worked as a reporter before eventually landing the community event show Suncoast Digest, a show which saw her nominated for the Forestry and Conservation Recognition Award. As an aside, it should be noted that she also volunteered during this time at the Sarasota Memorial Hospital, producing a handmade puppet show for intellectually disabled children. 

Much has already been written about her death on July 15, 1974—during a live broadcast, she attempted to take her own life, dying 14 hours later at the aforementioned Sarasota Memorial Hospital. The eulogy at her funeral stated, in part

We suffer at our sense of loss. We are shocked at the suddenness of her absence. We are frightened by her rage. In her manner of death, we take note of her loneliness and our own as well.

It has been suggested that a lack of intimate relationships caused her depression; in fact, she had made a previous attempt with an intentional overdose several years prior in 1970. Making matters worse, she apparently had an unrequited crush on coworker George Ryan (who was himself dating coworker Andrea Kirby. Ultimately, Kirby's acceptance of a news role in Baltimore apparently exacerbated her depression.) Although she was often "brusque," Chubbuck desperately needed close friends, apparently being "defensive whenever [coworkers] made friendly gestures towards [her]," remaining "self-deprecating" and self-critical, ultimately "rejecting any compliments paid towards her." 

To add insult to injury, Chubbuck wanted children, yet was told she was unlikely to conceive unless she became pregnant within the next few years, a timeline truncated by the scheduled removal of one of her ovaries. Despite her standoffishness, she quizzically hosted a party just days before her death, an event which saw her noticeably more open and friendly. 

So what exactly is it about Christine Chubbuck's story that resonates so deeply with me? Before you worry, no—I have no plans to do the same, on live television or otherwise. But the circumstances that led to her death—that of depression, isolation, and an inability to form close friendships—are eerily similar (if not identical) to my own experience. I will not attempt (and indeed it isn't fair) to try and posthumously diagnose her with any condition or illness. But I can guess how she felt during those last few years of her brief life, and this is at the heart of why I cannot get her story out of my mind. 

Apart from being a fellow Ohio native, her troubles with forming relationships date to at least her time in high school. I imagine she might have been an introspective, intelligent young woman, perhaps prone to bouts of depression and resulting isolation. I have spoken at length elsewhere on this blog about my own troubles with forming relationships with others, troubles which began when I was in elementary school. To be sure, I had more friends when I was in kindergarten and elementary school than at any other stage in my life—the older I got, the more withdrawn I became, and my willingness to socialize with others became almost nonexistent. But even in grade school, I was keenly aware that there was an invisible veil that seemed to separate me from others, a veil I never completely learned how to cross. 

It is hard to say what about my own story is caused by my aloneness due to being an only child, and what is caused by my autism or other conditions. But I distinctly remember being perfectly content to be by myself, reading the encyclopedia for hours, imagining I was on my own little planet far from others. Here, however, our similarities seem to diverge—as I stated previously, many have speculated that this solitude was a cause of great consternation and depression for her. And unlike me, this difficulty with relationships also included romantic ones, and I admit even I was shocked to discover that she had only apparently had one brief romantic relationship in her entire life. 

Are we so alike? Maybe. But I cannot tell you the number of times I have wanted to meet her, to tell her that I felt like I understood what she was going through. That I wanted to be her friend. That she mattered. One thing has always puzzled me, however, about her story: if she was as lonely as they say, why did she go to such lengths to shrug off all friendly gestures by others? I wonder if she felt as though she didn't deserve their friendship or interest. That she wasn't good enough. I myself have never really felt good enough—I excelled in college, graduating first in my class—but my graduation marked the end of an academic career filled with so much hope and expectation. I never went to grad school, despite the pleading of my academic advisors, and I've in the decades since worked a series of dead-end jobs that are paying the bills so I can write in the evenings. 

For Christine, at least in the movie, she was hailed as the smartest one at WXLT. How true this is I will never know, but I imagine it to be a likely possibility. In this situation, others were chosen for bigger and better roles at other television stations—not her. Others were in the relationships she so desperately wanted—not her. So when friendly gestures were made towards her, it isn't so hard to believe that she felt as though there were something wrong with her, and she didn't deserve their attention or friendship. So much of my own story has been one of self-sabotage: addiction, poor choices in relationships, and a fear of new situations. I've been the cause of a lot of my problems. But knowing that hasn't really helped any, when I'm lying awake at night and I feel as though the world was made for everyone but me. So perhaps it was with Christine. 

Can I be honest with you? I've watched the only extant news clip of her countless times over the years. I've studied her hair, the jewelry she wore, the clothes she had on. But far from being an unhealthy obsession, my fascination in her stems from the fact that I see myself in her. I think a lot of us could. Her awkwardness. Her loneliness. A better life always somehow out of reach—the life she wanted, the life she deserved. How many of us have lain awake at night thinking, "Why didn't my life turn out the way I wanted it to? How did I get here? What am I doing wrong?" I could have been anything I wanted. I could have been a translator. I could have been a professor. I could have been a mother. But I'm not. And sometimes, although I've found the love of my life in my husband R. and am happier now than I've ever been before, I have to admit—those thoughts really bother me. Haunt me. Refuse to let me go. And so Christine's story—with its nagging emptiness and loneliness—refuses to let me go. Christine's story is tragic not just because of how she ended her life, but because of how she experienced it. She would have been 82 in a few weeks. As it is she never saw the age of 30. Christine, you are not forgotten.

About Daydreams

This entry serves as part two to the entry I wrote yesterday on my lunchbreak at work. I've come to realize throughout my adulthood that I spend nearly every second of my day when I'm not either with R. or my dad daydreaming. The sad part is that I'm not exaggerating. My job is one that once you know it, you can pretty much think about whatever you want, and I do. It doesn't help the fact that I listen to music and podcasts simultaneously while I am daydreaming. This is why during the few times I've been fired in my life, I've just sort of shrugged and walked out—I'm not really there to begin with. 

These daydreams usually fall into three categories: intrusive thoughts, possible scenarios, and a category I'll call encyclopedia entries, that is, when I obsessively think about all of the things I read about during my downtime. 

Of these categories, the intrusive thoughts one is the most jarring and destructive to my day. I regularly daydream about disturbing things, things I'd never really do, but that seem to come to the forefront of my mind more often than not. I've read that this can be a sign of anxiety or OCD, which is a real possibility considering my Type A personality. These intrusive thoughts are themselves of two varieties: things I definitely shouldn't say, and things I definitely shouldn't do. 

Intrusive Thoughts

Oftentimes things come into my head that are just awful things to say. Curse words. Random things I think about other people. They always come into my head as a question, followed by a desperate attempt to keep myself from doing it: "What would happen if I yelled this out right now? Don't yell this out. Don't yell this out. DO NOT yell this out."

Then there are things I definitely shouldn't do but think about. When I'm at the grocery store I often wonder what would happen if I were to just shove the person in the aisle in front of me into the shelf. (Or rather, I know what would happen, but I wonder how it would feel.) How would it feel to just sweep your arm across the cracker shelf and knock all of the boxes down simultaneously? If I went to the meat department and started licking all of the packages of meat, would I get some horrible disease and die? 

Sometimes the daydreams are self-destructive: Just open the car door and jump out. Open the autoclave door and crawl in. Open the sharps container at the doctor's office and stick your hand in.

Possible Scenarios

I find possible scenarios the most interesting. When I quit one of my many jobs, I had a brief stint cleaning offices at night. This job brought me into contact with a lot of diplomas, family pictures, and other office memorabilia. I used to look at their diplomas for example and think, I wonder if my life would have been different if I had this degree instead of my degree in social work. I wonder what kind of job I could get, apart from this one. Or looking at their family photos—I wonder what their house looks like. I wonder if they mow their lawn on the weekend in diagonal stripes. Then I imagine myself working in their office. I think about what kind of view I'd have from their little office window. I wonder what kinds of clothes I would wear everyday. Would I go out of my way to dress up like I always do when I go out of the house, or would the quotidian become so mindless I'd no longer care what I wore? 

Sometimes these scenarios have no basis in any current reality. One of the most prominent of these is my ongoing daydream about moving to Bath, either with my husband or after I am inevitably widowed.  If I were widowed, I'd buy a historical house and just live in it as a recluse. Forever. I'm sure there would be rumors started about me by curious neighbors who see me only through the lilac bushes. Rumors that say I'm a witch, or that I used to own a small candy store that inadvertently made me rich and afforded me the historical house, or that I am a black widow who marries and kills men for the insurance money.

Then there's romantic possible scenarios. These I have found the most guilt-inducing, as I am happily married and would never leave my husband, but I'm starting to think that these types of daydreams are part of the human experience. What would it be like to be married to this person? If we started spending more time together, would we fall in love? I wonder if her lips feel soft. Would he take me to an old theater where we could watch a silent film and snuggle?

Encyclopedia Entries

It is no secret that I've been a voracious reader since I was a small child. I read nearly anything I can get my hands on—good and bad. A lot of times during the day I think about all of the things I read:

I go over long, drawn-out scenarios about what Yukiko Okada's life would be like had she not jumped from the Sun Music building at the age of 18. Could she have been saved? Would she have continued to sing idol music during the remainder of her youth, and then transition to a more adult sound as she aged?

Or I think about missing people: What happened to the Springfield Three? Where are they buried? Who kidnapped them, and why? What happened to Dorothy Arnold?—Was she really murdered, or did she spend the rest of her life writing books in anonymity in a foreign country? 

Sometimes I don't think about people at all, I think about things: I wonder who decided to put the radio tower in Bath, North Carolina. Is there a secret radio station there as well, hidden in some tiny brick building? Is there a numbers station there? 

Is the siren-looking apparatus on Roxboro Rd. a relic from the Cold War? 

Are there nefarious things going on in the windowless phone company building? 

Today at work I didn't even listen to music throughout most of my shift because I thought that I would look less distracted. This just gave my brain more time to think about things. Sometimes I am worried that I'm going to run a red light or pass a stopped school bus on my drive home because of how distant my thoughts are. But it seems as though the more I try to be present in the here-and-now, the less I want to be present. Things are so much more interesting in my head.

Tuesday

I just want to get through August. It's an incredibly busy month for me at my job, and there are a lot of details I must keep track of. Luckily, when I am in the thick of my job, I can be left alone to deal with it as I do. This summer has been a summer of waiting—waiting for my new job to start, waiting to lose the weight, waiting for my hair to get long enough again to pull up, waiting for the cool weather to return. And of course there is waiting for the weekend to start. However, the thought has occurred to me—if I spend most of my life waiting, am I really content? Aren't I just waiting my life away, and what precious time I have with my aging husband? Of course, R. is waiting, too—waiting to come home to me each night, waiting for our December trip to Bath, waiting for our weekends together. What is it about life that is so mundane day-to-day? 

Monday Morning Early

This will be a quick entry as it is almost 5am and I will be leaving for work soon:

If I can get through today I will have done the hardest part of my week. I've started taking days one at a time. Sometimes it is all I can handle. It makes life manageable for someone like me who is so frequently overwhelmed. And then tomorrow, I will deal with that day. I am of course looking forward to autumn as I do every year, but this year I think especially because I have been on a journey of self-improvement lately. I'm trying to be the most elegant middle-aged woman I can be. And by autumn I will be that much farther along. It's funny because every winter I look forward to summer because it is too cold, and yet when summer comes I look forward to autumn because it is too hot. 

There is something self-reflective about cozy days, and I am looking forward to them coming. Yes, even the rainy ones. I need to try and leave my house more often this autumn, even if just to go for longer walks. I have all these beautiful clothes that currently only get shown off when I'm at the coffee shop with my dad, or at the grocery store, or on our (now) yearly trips to Bath.

As an aside, I have been listening to self-help podcasts to help me deal with the lingering trauma of my divorce. I hope by autumn something clicks in my brain and it thinks "Aha! I don't have to think about this anymore!" I want to get to the point where my brain is self-soothing, and I no longer have to write M. or call J.M. or talk to S. I want to be self-reliant. And although I have successfully learned to live without others' relationships I still turn to others when I need a listening ear. Maybe someday I will no longer need that as well. If no one is necessary for my survival no one can hurt me. Or so I've been telling myself. 

An Apology and an Explanation

I feel like I owe my readers an apology and an explanation for this three years-long hiatus I have taken from writing on this blog. So much has happened in my life these last few years: My best friend M. wrote me out of the blue and came back into my life. Another friend died of pulmonary fibrosis.  I was professionally diagnosed with autism after a lifetime of symptoms that now make sense. I took and quit a succession of jobs, attempting to focus both on my writing career (my latest short story came out this past April) and remove myself as far as possible from social situations I do not understand. My husband has been diagnosed with emphysema, and I have felt it is my duty as his wife to take care of him. My head is so overcrowded with thoughts that I cannot write for long periods of time at all. And I'm sorry. 

But the good news is that things are slowly getting better. My dad and I found a new coffee shop to go to after our coffee shop of 20+ years shut down and moved to an unfamiliar location of which we have no memories. We have started going out for coffee again each Saturday morning. I am slowly trying to reintegrate myself into the outside world—even though my interaction with society is extremely limited. I turn down all invitations I am given. I have placed emotional distance between myself and others that I am not sure will ever be crossed again—but I am doing it because it is the only thing I need at this point in my life. I have spent so much energy on trying to understand other people and form friendships and then getting hurt that I started to disintegrate on the inside. I need to learn how to take care of myself because I have gotten such little care from other people. And someday, when my husband and parents are gone, I will be all I have. 

Sometimes I feel as though I am standing at the edge of the world and looking over into a vast abyss that frightens me yet feels strangely familiar—it is a solitude that has followed me my entire life.  When I was a child I used to imagine that I was friends with the early 20th century singers I idolized and whose photos adorned my bedroom walls at Merisel—I feel as though I knew them intimately through their songs I admired and had memorized. In these fantasies I was loved, cherished, and understood—sitting at a warm table in a bal-musette surrounded by Fréhel, and Damia, and Charles Trenet, and Jean Sablon. But I began to realize that these relationships didn't exist in real life—they couldn't, not just because the singers were long gone, but because it has been my experience that people do not behave like this towards me in real life. But the fantasies are so strong that I have carried them with me for three decades. It is my hope that someday I will find these types of people. But now at the age of 42 it has become apparent to me that perhaps I never will. So I have learned to exist at the periphery of society. And to be honest I'm not sure this will ever change. Not now, in my middle age, with all of the trauma and experiences of my past. In my forties now I have experienced a kind of calm that I didn't have in my youth—it is a calm that comes after radical acceptance, of letting things be, of realizing that I will continue to experience disappointment and sorrow if I place my hopes and dreams on other people. This doesn't always make the long nights any shorter, and I still experience bouts of depression--but I've found that the depression and nights are tolerable because I have come to expect it now, and I know that eventually, these feelings and darkness will pass.