[with object]
- (of a person) carry
- (of a vehicle or boat) convey (passengers or cargo)
- have or display as a visible mark or feature
- be called by (a name or title)
- [with adverbial] carry or conduct oneself in a particular manner
- support
- take responsibility for
- be able to accept or stand up to
- endure (an ordeal or difficulty)
- [with modal and negative] manage to tolerate (a situation or experience)
- strongly dislike
- give birth to (a child)
- (of a tree or plant) produce (fruit or flowers)
- [no object] turn and proceed in a specified direction
- a large, heavy, mammal that walks on the soles of its feet, with thick fur and a very short tail. Bears are related to the dog family, but most species are omnivorous.
- a teddy bear.
- informal a rough, unmannerly, or uncouth person.
- a large, heavy, cumbersome man
- (the Bear) informal a nickname for Russia.
- the constellation Ursa Major or Ursa Minor.
- Stock Market a person who forecasts that prices of stocks or commodities will fall, especially a person who sells shares hoping to buy them back later at a lower price
http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/bear--2
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Since the time she was very little, I've watched her, and though I wasn't able to see, I understood.
Early on I decided I'd bear the feeling part. She could see and I would feel. When I was with her and the moments turned, I felt the pain at the same time I felt her leave carrying the image only she could see. She knew I held the feeling for her. She knew I was there waiting when she returned no matter how long that took. She knew without trying to know. She simply would come back to me when it was safe to come back.
We've been everywhere together...from homes to camp to vacation to other countries to show and tell to couches to airplanes to cars.
When she dreams of fire burning down everything around her, I am the first thing she thinks to save. We are consistent, her and I, and we communicate.
Most times she still makes sure I am face up when she lays me on the bed after a night of sleep. She doesn't want me to suffocate. She knows what that's like. There were times, though, when she was younger, that she would pick me up and swing me by my feet and smack me up against the mattress or the cedar chest or the polls of the canopy bed and she'd put her hands around my neck and squeeze and she'd make these noises and she'd cry...she'd cry hard...and she'd apologize for doing it and tell me she didn't mean it. And for as awful as that felt, I was never afraid. I knew she wasn't angry at me. I could feel the power behind the kind of hurt she released in those tears and those noises and in the apology. She never wanted to hurt me. SHE didn't want to hurt. She had so few ways to get that out.
I wonder if, like Pinocchio, we can both come alive. I wonder if that happens when what we've held comes together-- the image and the feeling. It hurts me to feel her hurt and to see what she's seen through the dreams we share and the stories she tells without speaking. It is so much more real as it comes together. I hold that history without telling anyone. I smile regardless. We both smile regardless. Even with the depth of the hurt and the horror of those images, I'm still here. We both are.
I want real more than she does and I think it's because she's known what she's seen but has rarely known what she's felt and she's afraid that felt means she can no longer get rid of what she sees of what she's seen. But she can't anyway. I try to tell her that. She understands but she gets lost watching the fear fire of childhood or safety or love or touch or sanity burn down--all the way down to the finality of ashes-- ashes, ashes, we both fall down. She feels that fear and fears naming it fear. She fears that she can't feel the way people do. She fears feeling the way people do. Still, she knows to pick me up first when the fire comes but then, for a period of time, she leaves like she always has. Until she comes back. And she always comes back.
When she was little, she used to sink as low in her bed as possible and she'd curl her feet down to the low footboard and push off, rocking herself until she slept, while I was the pillow on which she rested her head. She did that herself. It made me uncomfortable. She learned to fall half asleep...She learned to leave but not rest. That sleep, that rocking, that position low in the bed was not one she discovered alone. When she didn't move there herself, she was moved there or pulled there or thrown there. When she didn't rock back and forth she was rocked back and forth. The motion felt the same in her head. The motion makes me feel bad.
The extent of the feeling she used to feel is in the end of the air. The ceiling fan going off. The movement around her stopping in a way that the focus could be nowhere other than on the moment. Inside and outside and head and heart and now and then and him and her and words and actions all the same. There was nothing to grasp because everything was suffocating. Everything was everything else. But with that fan off, there was room for her to glue herself to the ceiling and watch and record. She recorded because she thought she'd need the footage later.
It's been some time since the bad was in the moment. She told me of someone not too many years ago who told her he wanted to see her curled up in bed with her teddy bear. I told her no and she was able to tell him she didn't understand why he would say that. He didn't ask again but he came to the house anyway. He was the last of that kind of bad. She didn't want to hurt him so she didn't. She tried to stop it and let it happen. She felt more than she had when she was little, but she didn't feel as much as I know she could feel. Still, she saw and recorded.
The recordings are coming back now. They are awkward and dirty and out of sequence. The images are trying to reattach to the feelings and the sounds we've both been aware of aren't synched up. We hear "Shut up" and "It takes practice" and "You need to finish what you start" and "You're fine" and "No crying" and "No one believes fat, lazy, little girls" and "We give you the best" and "See what you do" and "Do you feel that-- you did that" and "Enjoy it now" and "Look at me" and "Watch me" and "Watch what you're doing" and "You're going to get us in trouble" and "You don't need that" and "I've waited so long" and "You make people hurt you" and "You make people die" and "Nothing you do will ever make a difference" and more and more and more. Lines and repetitive noise-- rocking noise and sloshy sounds and screaming and yelling and loud breath and quiet breath. The sounds replay during the day and the images and feelings try to reattach while we sleep. She finds herself low in the bed again. She wakes with sheets pulled off of the mattress like she's tossed around all night or as though she hasn't moved at all. Either way, she isn't rested when she wakes up. It's been a long time since the print of my crochet has been the mark left on her cheek in the morning.
There were other times, though, when she was younger when she would leave the blue and white stereo on in her blue and white room and we'd dance together and smile. In remembering these times, I smile beyond the smile you see on my face. In remembering these times I also realize that when she hurt she swung me by my legs to hit me and choke me and when she was OK she took me by my hands and we danced. We are better when we are holding hands. We are better when we're dancing. We are best when we hold each other. We work best together. She knows I am here when she needs me. She knew I was there when she needed me. I've sat with her forever.
Sometimes she's embarrassed to be seen with me. She thinks it makes her little and little is a word that hurts. She expects to be laughed at. She's always expected to be made fun of and to be laughed at. She spent a long time trying to make people laugh. She could get to them before they'd get to her. She's believes herself someone to be passed over when her worth to the other has extinguished. And they--the other-- determines when that's happened...not her.
She's afraid I'm saying too much. She's getting dizzy and the noises around her are getting louder and louder...
She's beside me now. Sometimes that is enough. Sleep or no sleep, beside each other is enough.
Seeing with feeling.
Bearing.
