In September of 2008, I was raped on a date. I never told anyone. I mean I never told ANYONE. Not a doctor, or a therapist, or a best friend. No one. I was so embarrassed and ashamed this had happened to me, and I felt so stupid that I had not kept myself safe. I felt like all that money for all those fucking degrees ought to have been good for something, and here I couldn't even take care of myself. Normally so forthcoming and expansive, I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to be told what to do or who to talk to. I didn't want to be asked any questions. I didn't want to explain. I just wanted to forget. Up until that point I felt like I'd been a fairly healthy woman with a fairly healthy sex life, and I was convinced I could maintain that through sheer will.
By the end of the same month, I had started to completely fall apart.
Anxiety seemed to ooze from my pores. I couldn't relax. I had recently started my first job and bought a car and suddenly I felt like I was losing control of everything. I couldn't sleep. I would be awake for three days straight. Not just awake, really, but AWAKE! I needed to talk, I needed to write, I needed to make things. Things to say were erupting out of me and I was unable to control them. I made greeting cards and little boxes. I started writing. I wrote all over my walls, in fact, and pounded out long missives on my computer in ALL CAPS because I WAS RUNNING OUT OF SPACE INSIDE TO PUT ALL OF THIS SHIT.
The lack of sleep made me wild-eyed and crazed, and the long commute to work (not to mention actual work) because impossible. The panic attacks started in earnest around this time, and they made me feel desperate and doomed and frantic. I had them everywhere--in my office, in my car, alone in my bed, in the shower. No place was safe.
I can remember driving home from work, my fingers clutching the steering wheel for dear life. I rocked back and forth furiously chanting:
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
One day on the drive home I felt so terrified to go home and be alone that I phoned ahead to Nannette and pleaded for her to let me come over as soon as I was back in the city. She told me I was welcome to come, and I fiercely held onto that as I drove. But by the time I got back to San Francisco, I was frantic again and couldn't bear to be around anyone. To her confusion, I told her I couldn't come.
Some nights she let me sleep on her couch because I didn't want to be alone.
I became obsessed with the Golden Gate Bridge. I needed to look at that bridge! I needed to see it, to drive on it, to read about it, and watch videos of people jumping off of it. I needed to know just how deep it was in the bay underneath. It felt important to know just how far down there was to go. I read, "San Francisco Bay is relatively shallow but reaches depths of 100 feet in some places." I had dreams about it. I dreamed of what it felt like when my feet left the side, and I dreamed of what I saw on the way down. I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke upon hitting the water, and I dreamed of the light disappearing above me. I decided that the exact point at which I would jump off would be 98 feet deep, and I needed to keep that number in my head constantly. I wrote the number 98. I cut the corners out of books that showed page 98. I made a box I called "98 feet deep."
The awful part about it was that I didn't WANT to jump off. I didn't want to! It terrified and horrified me to think about it. But I was obsessed with it. My brain wouldn't leave it alone.
The days without sleep were punctuated by complete crashes. Depression and sobbing and apathy, days I called off work because I just could not function. After Nannette pleaded with me to see someone, I sent my doctor an email. All I could think to say was, "I'm going down fast." On my 32nd birthday, she had me come in for an appointment.
My doctor is wonderful, and she urged me to apply for disability and to see a psychiatrist as well as a therapist. I was getting in deeper and deeper shit at work, but I insisted to her that I could still work--didn't need the time off. I regret deeply that I didn't take her advice, but I was determined to hold on to the balls I was trying to juggle by the skin of my teeth.
Eventually, I got fired. I lost a lot of friends when they didn't understand what was going on or the decisions I made. I made a mess of relationships. I lost my baby.
These days I struggle with leaving the house, with seeing people. It feels like the only place I can be remotely safe is in my apartment, because the outside world is much too scary and unpredictable. The last time I tried to have brunch with a friend, I had to force myself to go. I threatened and begged and cajoled myself to go, and when I got home, my beloved bird was dead. A voice inside of me whispered, "I knew this would happen." It is a lonely existence.
I am taking medication now--slowly--and I have told exactly four people what happened to me. It honestly didn't occur to me until a couple months ago how all these things might be tied together. I'm sure I've told portions of my story in this venue before as I recounted my struggles with mental illness, but it has never been told in this complete fashion. I feel somewhat horrified as I type these words that now it will be OUT THERE and PEOPLE WILL KNOW and I CAN'T TAKE IT BACK.
But I needed to tell my story.
Showing posts with label Meta-blogging comments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Meta-blogging comments. Show all posts
September 7, 2011
June 9, 2011
By popular request: An update on bow-tie bank boy
A few folks have commented or written to ask for the follow-up story on the sweet man from the bank I mentioned in my last post. It had been nearly a month since my strange interaction with him, and I was pessimistic that he would still be a Wells Fargo employee.
As I took my place in line, I was surprised and pleased to see that he WAS, in fact, working that day. I noticed immediately that he was not sporting a bow-tie, but instead a regular tie. I was lucky enough to have him as a teller.
He never smiled once. He didn't ask me how I was doing. He was lethargic, and quietly took care of my transaction--none of the spunk or charm that had made me notice him before.
I wanted to tell him I understood. I wanted to whisper words of encouragement: "Don't let the man get you down!" But a person who appeared to be his supervisor was only a couple feet away, and I worried that I would cause him further trouble.
Admittedly, I was also afraid he would think I was hitting on him.
I walked away feeling a little sad. They've broken him!
As I took my place in line, I was surprised and pleased to see that he WAS, in fact, working that day. I noticed immediately that he was not sporting a bow-tie, but instead a regular tie. I was lucky enough to have him as a teller.
He never smiled once. He didn't ask me how I was doing. He was lethargic, and quietly took care of my transaction--none of the spunk or charm that had made me notice him before.
I wanted to tell him I understood. I wanted to whisper words of encouragement: "Don't let the man get you down!" But a person who appeared to be his supervisor was only a couple feet away, and I worried that I would cause him further trouble.
Admittedly, I was also afraid he would think I was hitting on him.
I walked away feeling a little sad. They've broken him!
March 27, 2011
You
I haven't been feeling too gracious about anything lately, so I thought I would grab this fleeting moment while it lasted. My bottle of Nyquil and my box of tissues are here to support me.
I have heard from so many people in the last 8 days. People from all the different parts of my life have written me the kindest and most loving words. You've sent phone numbers and addresses and cards and invitations to do everything from sit and cry to stay in your homes. I have been humbled repeatedly by the private pain and brutal, gut-wrenching experiences that so many have confided in me to let me know I am not alone. Some people have said some stupid things, too, but in my more charitable moments I try really hard to remember that they are just clumsy attempts to comfort me.
Thank you.
I haven't actually managed to call anyone on the phone--not even my own parents--and have thus far responded to very few emails. Please forgive me for this and know that it's not because I didn't appreciate them. I am really feeling my way around in the dark here.
I'd also like to ask in advance for your patience as I continue to grieve through my blog. I realize that if you're looking for light and lovely reading my blog has rarely been the place, but it's even less so at present. It's just that I need somewhere to put these words, and somehow in the last 5 years of using this little corner of the internet as a repository for them I have come to rely on it heavily.
Now back to our regularly scheduled angst and intensity to express my deep and complex nature.
I have heard from so many people in the last 8 days. People from all the different parts of my life have written me the kindest and most loving words. You've sent phone numbers and addresses and cards and invitations to do everything from sit and cry to stay in your homes. I have been humbled repeatedly by the private pain and brutal, gut-wrenching experiences that so many have confided in me to let me know I am not alone. Some people have said some stupid things, too, but in my more charitable moments I try really hard to remember that they are just clumsy attempts to comfort me.
Thank you.
I haven't actually managed to call anyone on the phone--not even my own parents--and have thus far responded to very few emails. Please forgive me for this and know that it's not because I didn't appreciate them. I am really feeling my way around in the dark here.
I'd also like to ask in advance for your patience as I continue to grieve through my blog. I realize that if you're looking for light and lovely reading my blog has rarely been the place, but it's even less so at present. It's just that I need somewhere to put these words, and somehow in the last 5 years of using this little corner of the internet as a repository for them I have come to rely on it heavily.
Now back to our regularly scheduled angst and intensity to express my deep and complex nature.
March 17, 2011
My porn skills are apparently being under-utilized.
More and more frequently, I am noticing folks coming across my blog via google searches for topics of a graphic sexual nature. Recently it was "how to lick my husband's penis" from an interested party in India. Quite regularly, it is "grandmother swallows" from all over the world.
What the hell?
I mean, sex is good. I have spent years teaching and conducting research on sex-related topics. I have even been known on one or two occasions to have sex (but only in the dark in the missionary position with someone I love). People can look up whatever they want, of course, but how are these things bringing them to my little narcissistic, self-indulgent corner of the web?
I feel certain I've never written about any of these topics. Perhaps I should start--maybe this is the shift in career directions for which I have been searching.
I feel certain Ivan will have other ideas about the merits of such an endeavor.
What the hell?
I mean, sex is good. I have spent years teaching and conducting research on sex-related topics. I have even been known on one or two occasions to have sex (but only in the dark in the missionary position with someone I love). People can look up whatever they want, of course, but how are these things bringing them to my little narcissistic, self-indulgent corner of the web?
I feel certain I've never written about any of these topics. Perhaps I should start--maybe this is the shift in career directions for which I have been searching.
I feel certain Ivan will have other ideas about the merits of such an endeavor.
February 14, 2011
Guess what?
Good news!
I have now disabled anonymous comments on this blog. That means the folks who have been sending me nasty little comments and snide remarks for the last 12 hours or so can *not only* go fuck themselves, but they can also put their name to their words or kindly shut up!
Happy Valentine's Day!
I have now disabled anonymous comments on this blog. That means the folks who have been sending me nasty little comments and snide remarks for the last 12 hours or so can *not only* go fuck themselves, but they can also put their name to their words or kindly shut up!
Happy Valentine's Day!
October 7, 2010
On the squelching of panic
I think I have always been under the impression that once you find a partner, you don't feel lonely any more. I should know already from experience that this is not true--that it's my own problem--but somehow I still seem to operate under this illusion. And it surprises me every time I encounter it.
I still don't know how to negotiate the boundaries of writing so much of my personal life in a blog that suddenly includes another person whose privacy has to be considered. And rather than deal with that or find a way through it, I have just not been writing, in general. And I miss it.
I still don't know how to negotiate the boundaries of writing so much of my personal life in a blog that suddenly includes another person whose privacy has to be considered. And rather than deal with that or find a way through it, I have just not been writing, in general. And I miss it.
July 26, 2010
July 6, 2010
Awash in the post-taco glow
I know. I'm off living my life and not writing about it. Crazy, huh?
A bus hit me in my car. Still dealing with insurance and, as TK said, some of the organge-y goodness has been squished out of Julius.
On July 3 I passed the five year mark of living in San Francisco. It filled my mind with nostalgia and memories of the day that Chris and I arrived with the moving truck feeling exhausted and wary and anxious. So many things have happened since then. I have fallen into and out of love, gotten jobs, gotten fired, made new friends, lost one friend, lost my two beloved grandparents, traveled, has emotional breakdowns, got help, got lost, got found...and so on.
I have some decisions to make. I keep putting them off, hoping they will get easier.
A bus hit me in my car. Still dealing with insurance and, as TK said, some of the organge-y goodness has been squished out of Julius.
On July 3 I passed the five year mark of living in San Francisco. It filled my mind with nostalgia and memories of the day that Chris and I arrived with the moving truck feeling exhausted and wary and anxious. So many things have happened since then. I have fallen into and out of love, gotten jobs, gotten fired, made new friends, lost one friend, lost my two beloved grandparents, traveled, has emotional breakdowns, got help, got lost, got found...and so on.
I have some decisions to make. I keep putting them off, hoping they will get easier.
June 21, 2010
Despite what at least one of you may be thinking...
...No, I am not pregnant. There's at least one essential activity that has to be taking place for that to occur and--not that it should be publicized here, but will that stop me? No. No it won't--I've not done that for, what? Years? Seems that way.
Lighten up!
Lighten up!
June 15, 2010
"There is no Naomi in view..."
"And my emptiness is swollen shut
Always a wretch I have become
So empty
And please, please don't leave me here."
Some of you have been asking where I've been and it warms the cockles of my cold, cold heart to know that I have been missed.
To tell you the truth, I'm doing well. I'm in a period of transition.
I love my new job. I really do. It's not like it's anything spectacular, but it's the normalcy of it that makes me happy. I don't dread getting up in the morning. I don't shake and cringe when my boss calls or stops by. No panic attacks. No tears.
I have been meeting a lot of new people and shedding cracks of light on parts of myself that have been hiding.
I have been taking stock. There are things I'm unhappy with and want to change, and I'm figuring out how to go about that.
I want to purge it all. I want all the weight of the things I've been carrying off of my shoulders.
A perfect example: In the closet of my office I have a bag of stuffed animals that I have been collecting since I was 16 years old. They're animals given to me by Chris or ones that we acquired together. I've loved them dearly for so many reasons--because they represented young love and hope and innocence to name a few. I haven't been able to look at them, but I haven't been able to get rid of them either.
The past is weighing me down.
When Nannette gently suggested it might be time to get rid of them, I welled up immediately. I think it's time for them to go.
I'm looking around all the signs of light and hope in my bedroom--a room which I've adorned with the things I love: lanterns, paper cranes, collage, words--and trying to pull out inspiration and the forms in which it comes.
I have two definitions written on my wall. One is for the word "desiderium": a yearning, specifically for a thing one once had, but has no more. The other is for the word "balter": to dance clumsily.
I'm ready for less desiderium and more balter.
Not so long ago, I mourned to a friend that the people who have loved me most and best are gone, and I don't know how to be. If I continue to lament this and to live in the past, then it will always be this way.
Part of the reason I stayed away from blogging, also, is because some of my thoughts on the things I need to let go of have the capacity to hurt other people--the last thing I want to do. As much as I love having readers, sometimes it's also a curse to have them. I've chosen to keep my thoughts private.
"She comes and goes most afternoons
One billion lovers wave and lover her now
They could love her now
And so could I..."
Always a wretch I have become
So empty
And please, please don't leave me here."
Some of you have been asking where I've been and it warms the cockles of my cold, cold heart to know that I have been missed.
To tell you the truth, I'm doing well. I'm in a period of transition.
I love my new job. I really do. It's not like it's anything spectacular, but it's the normalcy of it that makes me happy. I don't dread getting up in the morning. I don't shake and cringe when my boss calls or stops by. No panic attacks. No tears.
I have been meeting a lot of new people and shedding cracks of light on parts of myself that have been hiding.
I have been taking stock. There are things I'm unhappy with and want to change, and I'm figuring out how to go about that.
I want to purge it all. I want all the weight of the things I've been carrying off of my shoulders.
A perfect example: In the closet of my office I have a bag of stuffed animals that I have been collecting since I was 16 years old. They're animals given to me by Chris or ones that we acquired together. I've loved them dearly for so many reasons--because they represented young love and hope and innocence to name a few. I haven't been able to look at them, but I haven't been able to get rid of them either.
The past is weighing me down.
When Nannette gently suggested it might be time to get rid of them, I welled up immediately. I think it's time for them to go.
I'm looking around all the signs of light and hope in my bedroom--a room which I've adorned with the things I love: lanterns, paper cranes, collage, words--and trying to pull out inspiration and the forms in which it comes.
I have two definitions written on my wall. One is for the word "desiderium": a yearning, specifically for a thing one once had, but has no more. The other is for the word "balter": to dance clumsily.
I'm ready for less desiderium and more balter.
Not so long ago, I mourned to a friend that the people who have loved me most and best are gone, and I don't know how to be. If I continue to lament this and to live in the past, then it will always be this way.
Part of the reason I stayed away from blogging, also, is because some of my thoughts on the things I need to let go of have the capacity to hurt other people--the last thing I want to do. As much as I love having readers, sometimes it's also a curse to have them. I've chosen to keep my thoughts private.
"She comes and goes most afternoons
One billion lovers wave and lover her now
They could love her now
And so could I..."
April 8, 2010
Holy blog hits, Batman!
So my interview about this blog is posted here, and my blog hits have shot way up. How exciting! Maybe soon I'll reach SPACE. Although I'm not exactly sure how that would work.
It should be noted that they messed up a comment I made at the bottom. It should say "a little wit" instead of "a lit." This is really bugging me, as my words will be messed up for posterity.
Better get my autograph while you still can...
It should be noted that they messed up a comment I made at the bottom. It should say "a little wit" instead of "a lit." This is really bugging me, as my words will be messed up for posterity.
Better get my autograph while you still can...
March 31, 2010
Humbled
My humble blog was selected as a reader favorite, and I was asked to be interviewed as "the person behind the blog." Oh good! More people can read about the train wreck of my life! When the interview is put up on Blog Interviewer's website, I will link to it here so you can read my words of wit and wisdom and tales of personal angst.
It's gonna be great!
It's gonna be great!
March 8, 2010
February 4, 2010
Mystery that shall remain unsolved
I got a phone call at 5:30am from a 415 number with a voicemail (okay, so I broke down and checked out of curiosity) that say, "Hey, Amie. This is Robert. Give me a call." I don't know any Robert. Especially one that would call at 5:30am.
P.S. I took an ill-advised nap, Shobana, so tonight promises to be a productive one, too!
P.S. I took an ill-advised nap, Shobana, so tonight promises to be a productive one, too!
January 23, 2010
Three three
I'm a little late with this post. I think it is a good thing.
So I just turned 33 yesterday, and usually I am feeling quite nostalgic and write a rather reflective blog post. You can read those from years past by searching the tag "feliz cumpleanos a tu" if you're looking for some type of self-flagellation aside from reading this blog, in general. And who am I kidding anyway: almost ALL of my blogs are nostalgic and reflective. This year felt different. (Although it started off as par for the course.)
To begin with, I dreamed** about C. Now I should say that anytime I go on a date--irrespective of how good, bad, dull, or uneventful it is--my dreams take me to him. This one was particularly affecting.
**Brief dream aside: I came home to an apartment that was somewhere in the middle. It was a combination of all the apartments I've ever had in Richmond and San Francisco. He was waiting at the door for me with quiet brown eyes. I felt a rush of relief and said, "I knew you'd come." I unlocked the door and let us inside, and we sat down and looked at each other. The years apart left us unsure of how to interact, of how familiar it was acceptable to be. I started by asking him questions. "What have been your favorite movies that came out in the last three years?" We described our favorites to each other and I saw his favorites through his eyes and he saw mine through my eyes. I didn't want to know who he'd been with, who he'd loved or cried over; I was just so happy he was there. I hugged him and he said, "This feels so natural."
I woke grateful to have dreamed of him, and happy that I had taken the day off and allowed myself to sleep in. I decided to buy myself a birthday present.
I got a pedicure. I also decided at the last minute to get my eyebrows waxed. As I lay down on the table, my Vietnamese waxer lady said, "Why you neva wax mustache?"
I got some kind of crazy fancy new phone that I can use as a camera and video camera, and can use to access the internet as well as other regular phone things. (Look out Twitter and Facebook! Now I can write status updates and tweets all the time.)
I had Vietnamese spring rolls.
I had a brief nap, and I lay thinking about birthdays past**.
**Brief birthdays past aside: I remember on my 3rd birthday, my mom and I lived in our apartment on Broadway--the one with the cockroaches. My two major impressions of that birthday are, 1) I got roller skates that clamped on over my shoes, and 2) my grandpa and uncle taught me how to rub a balloon against my hair and make it stick to the wall. (My hair thus ended the night in particularly rare form.) I remembered my 13th birthday when I cried because I felt like I was leaving my childhood behind. (Yes, melodramatic and emotional from the start--that is yours truly.) I remembered my 23rd birthday in 2000 when I talked to my father for the last time for the following three years.
When I woke, the mail had come. Danita, C's mom, had sent me a beautiful card, and my old friend from Shepherd, Sally, had sent me a package that she put an awful lot of thought and effort into. I held them both and sat a cried with the emotion of being thought of and remembered by these two wonderful women.
I went out to The Orbit Room and to Pauline's pizza with four dear friends and had a lovely time. As one should on her birthday, I completely overindulged and ended up ill and in bed, being sung to over the phone by Miss Mary Smucker.
I felt loved.
So I just turned 33 yesterday, and usually I am feeling quite nostalgic and write a rather reflective blog post. You can read those from years past by searching the tag "feliz cumpleanos a tu" if you're looking for some type of self-flagellation aside from reading this blog, in general. And who am I kidding anyway: almost ALL of my blogs are nostalgic and reflective. This year felt different. (Although it started off as par for the course.)
To begin with, I dreamed** about C. Now I should say that anytime I go on a date--irrespective of how good, bad, dull, or uneventful it is--my dreams take me to him. This one was particularly affecting.
**Brief dream aside: I came home to an apartment that was somewhere in the middle. It was a combination of all the apartments I've ever had in Richmond and San Francisco. He was waiting at the door for me with quiet brown eyes. I felt a rush of relief and said, "I knew you'd come." I unlocked the door and let us inside, and we sat down and looked at each other. The years apart left us unsure of how to interact, of how familiar it was acceptable to be. I started by asking him questions. "What have been your favorite movies that came out in the last three years?" We described our favorites to each other and I saw his favorites through his eyes and he saw mine through my eyes. I didn't want to know who he'd been with, who he'd loved or cried over; I was just so happy he was there. I hugged him and he said, "This feels so natural."
I woke grateful to have dreamed of him, and happy that I had taken the day off and allowed myself to sleep in. I decided to buy myself a birthday present.
I got a pedicure. I also decided at the last minute to get my eyebrows waxed. As I lay down on the table, my Vietnamese waxer lady said, "Why you neva wax mustache?"
I got some kind of crazy fancy new phone that I can use as a camera and video camera, and can use to access the internet as well as other regular phone things. (Look out Twitter and Facebook! Now I can write status updates and tweets all the time.)
I had Vietnamese spring rolls.
I had a brief nap, and I lay thinking about birthdays past**.
**Brief birthdays past aside: I remember on my 3rd birthday, my mom and I lived in our apartment on Broadway--the one with the cockroaches. My two major impressions of that birthday are, 1) I got roller skates that clamped on over my shoes, and 2) my grandpa and uncle taught me how to rub a balloon against my hair and make it stick to the wall. (My hair thus ended the night in particularly rare form.) I remembered my 13th birthday when I cried because I felt like I was leaving my childhood behind. (Yes, melodramatic and emotional from the start--that is yours truly.) I remembered my 23rd birthday in 2000 when I talked to my father for the last time for the following three years.
When I woke, the mail had come. Danita, C's mom, had sent me a beautiful card, and my old friend from Shepherd, Sally, had sent me a package that she put an awful lot of thought and effort into. I held them both and sat a cried with the emotion of being thought of and remembered by these two wonderful women.
I went out to The Orbit Room and to Pauline's pizza with four dear friends and had a lovely time. As one should on her birthday, I completely overindulged and ended up ill and in bed, being sung to over the phone by Miss Mary Smucker.
I felt loved.
January 2, 2010
Año Nuevo
I wanted to post a New Year blog.
I wanted to curse 2009 and welcome 2010. I wanted to reflect on New Year's resolutions and my history with and without them. I wanted to say that I couldn't believe it's now been a decade since Chris and I sat on my couch in my first apartment in Richmond, VA, wondering if all hell would break loose when Y2K arrived.
Tonight I was at Safeway when Rod Stewart's "Ooh La La" came on. At first I was pleased and hummed along as I picked out my yogurt for the week. By the time I got to the frozen foods aisle, I heard:
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was stronger.
I started to cry. "Fuck," I thought. "Way to start out 2010: sobbing to Rod Stewart in front of the frozen pizza."
It's just that I really want this year to be different, and no words I can say or write can sufficiently convey just how urgently I want that. Every year I approach the new year with renewed hope about what my life might be, what I might accomplish. I suppose most people do.
This New Year's Eve I stared at the blue moon and thought about my best year so far: 2004. I finished grad school and my entire family came to be with me. My grandpa and grandmother were still here. I started training for a marathon and was in the best shape of my life. I felt like I was going places.
It's just that I've lost so much time. I have now lost years to depression, and I'll never get them back. I have always had a tendency toward nostalgia and melancholy, and my focus on absence--on the people I have loved best and most who are no longer with me for whatever reason--overtakes me for long periods of time.
They're never coming back.
I am turning 33 in a couple of weeks.
I am going to run. I am going to run my fucking ass off.
I wanted to curse 2009 and welcome 2010. I wanted to reflect on New Year's resolutions and my history with and without them. I wanted to say that I couldn't believe it's now been a decade since Chris and I sat on my couch in my first apartment in Richmond, VA, wondering if all hell would break loose when Y2K arrived.
Tonight I was at Safeway when Rod Stewart's "Ooh La La" came on. At first I was pleased and hummed along as I picked out my yogurt for the week. By the time I got to the frozen foods aisle, I heard:
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was stronger.
I started to cry. "Fuck," I thought. "Way to start out 2010: sobbing to Rod Stewart in front of the frozen pizza."
It's just that I really want this year to be different, and no words I can say or write can sufficiently convey just how urgently I want that. Every year I approach the new year with renewed hope about what my life might be, what I might accomplish. I suppose most people do.
This New Year's Eve I stared at the blue moon and thought about my best year so far: 2004. I finished grad school and my entire family came to be with me. My grandpa and grandmother were still here. I started training for a marathon and was in the best shape of my life. I felt like I was going places.
It's just that I've lost so much time. I have now lost years to depression, and I'll never get them back. I have always had a tendency toward nostalgia and melancholy, and my focus on absence--on the people I have loved best and most who are no longer with me for whatever reason--overtakes me for long periods of time.
They're never coming back.
I am turning 33 in a couple of weeks.
I am going to run. I am going to run my fucking ass off.
November 24, 2009
All this grateful (and ungrateful) business
Several people I know are naming something they're grateful for on Facebook every day until Thanksgiving. Even though these are friends of mine and very lovely people, this practice makes me a little nauseous. Probably because I am cranky and cantankerous and bitter and jaded.
Still.
I thought I'd do my own version here. I wanted my version to include a lament about the things I am ungrateful for, too.
Please excuse any sap that may follow, and if you think it will nauseate you too much, you might want to take a rain check on this blog entry.
Things I am grateful for:
- Friends I can call when I’m sitting in my car for hours because I don’t know where to go.
- Little birdie belly feathers.
- Getting a teaching job for the spring semester because I will be much less broke in the months to come.
- My grandparents and my aunt, without whom I would probably be dead, in prison, or on crack. Possibly all three.
- Nannette. For being my friend during the most challenging years of my life thus far, even when it was hard for her, and for talking sense into me on one very dark evening. Without her I would have left San Francisco behind already.
- Cindy. For knowing me almost better than I know myself; for being insane in nearly identical ways to myself (and I say that with love), for listening to me at times when I am nearly incoherent, and for being my first grown up best friend.
- Christopher. For loving me when I was unable to love myself.
- My many friends at work who make each day Monday through Friday more bearable, who put up with me dropping into their offices when I need a break, and without whom I would have taken a bazooka to the joint. Ruben, Shayna, Wendi, Laurie, Tamara, Jodi, John, Peggy, and Diana: I love you to pieces.
- For a free washer and dryer in my building. SCORE!
- For Yan, Patrick, Scott, Brian, Amber & Suzie, Judith, Amber, Shannon, Dave, Kelli, Jenny, Tony, Lauren, and Cyrano for taking me out, getting me drunk, calling me, texting me, sending me sweet packages, going to dinner with me, inviting me to their parties, visiting me in the hospital, and letting me crash at their houses even if I was far away (mentally or physically), drank too much, didn't call back, was doped up on morphine, and/or didn't show up.
- Danita and Nan, for treating me as part of the family no matter what.
- The color green for adorning my walls, pants, shoes, umbrellas, and coats and for cheering me up in the most ridiculous and random ways.
- The funniest, weirdest, and most thoughtful book club in the history of the world.
Things I am not grateful for:
- Several days without antidepressants because I am totally broke.
- Four parking tickets waiting to be paid.
- E. for making up his mind, J.H. for not being in the right mental space at the right time, P. for breaking my heart, and J.T. for what amounted to persistent booty calls.
- A very specific person whom I see five days a week who makes me distinctly unhappy, treats me like I am stupid and incompetent, has unreasonable expectations, seems to always suspect that I have or am about to screw her over, and blames me for what feels like everything.
- C.J.B. for leaving without saying goodbye and re-smashing my heart into itty bitty pieces.
- The raccoon fight club that meets nightly behind my house.
November 22, 2009
Thick-skinned, thin-skinned, pig skin
I admit I'm not particularly cheerful at this time. I'm getting hung up on weird things. For example, my mind won't stop going back to the day I left Richmond.
I was way behind schedule in terms of packing and moving. My landlord was due to come and inspect the apartment soon, and I was still packing. The moving truck was nearly out of room, I still had lots of stuff, and I hadn't even thought about cleaning yet. In my growing panic, I started putting everything in the trash. Things I loved, things I'd used, things that were given to me--all flung over the balcony and carted out to the trash cans in the alley behind the building. I threw out the pizza stone my grandmother gave me! I always wanted a pizza stone!
At the moment I am feeling alone and grief-stricken, and this is where my mind has chosen to focus its angst. Fuck my life.
I turned on the television this evening just to hear some noise, some voices, and caught the tail end of the Chicago Bears vs. Philadelphia Eagles football game. Now, I could give two shits about this sort of thing to be honest. But I left it on and observed the last five minutes of the game and a bit of the post-game activities.
Philadelphia won after a last-ditch effort touchdown pass thrown by Bears' quarterback Jay Cutler was intercepted with less than a minute to go. From what I gathered, Jay--a young quarterback--has been struggling lately with many of his passes getting intercepted. After the play ended, Jay took off his helmet dejectedly and walked off the field. Shortly thereafter, the camera showed the Eagles' quarterback, Donovan McNabb, with his arm around around Jay, quietly speaking advice into his ear. This went on for a couple of minutes, and Jay thanked him and they patted each other and went their separate ways. The commentators speculated on the kind of advice an experienced quarterback would give to a relatively new one, and I found myself sobbing with emotion.
Some days it feels like there is not nearly enough good in the world, and I'll grab onto anything I can get. Now I love Donovan McNabb.
I cannot believe I just blogged about football.
I was way behind schedule in terms of packing and moving. My landlord was due to come and inspect the apartment soon, and I was still packing. The moving truck was nearly out of room, I still had lots of stuff, and I hadn't even thought about cleaning yet. In my growing panic, I started putting everything in the trash. Things I loved, things I'd used, things that were given to me--all flung over the balcony and carted out to the trash cans in the alley behind the building. I threw out the pizza stone my grandmother gave me! I always wanted a pizza stone!
At the moment I am feeling alone and grief-stricken, and this is where my mind has chosen to focus its angst. Fuck my life.
I turned on the television this evening just to hear some noise, some voices, and caught the tail end of the Chicago Bears vs. Philadelphia Eagles football game. Now, I could give two shits about this sort of thing to be honest. But I left it on and observed the last five minutes of the game and a bit of the post-game activities.
Philadelphia won after a last-ditch effort touchdown pass thrown by Bears' quarterback Jay Cutler was intercepted with less than a minute to go. From what I gathered, Jay--a young quarterback--has been struggling lately with many of his passes getting intercepted. After the play ended, Jay took off his helmet dejectedly and walked off the field. Shortly thereafter, the camera showed the Eagles' quarterback, Donovan McNabb, with his arm around around Jay, quietly speaking advice into his ear. This went on for a couple of minutes, and Jay thanked him and they patted each other and went their separate ways. The commentators speculated on the kind of advice an experienced quarterback would give to a relatively new one, and I found myself sobbing with emotion.
Some days it feels like there is not nearly enough good in the world, and I'll grab onto anything I can get. Now I love Donovan McNabb.
I cannot believe I just blogged about football.
September 14, 2009
On protocol
I have resisted writing this particular blog. As much as I love having readers, sometimes I start to censor myself in order to protect one of them or—more often—to protect myself.
I started this blog as a place to express my thoughts and explore my creative urges and if I can’t do that, what is the use? I tend to think and write in metaphor and symbol and much of my blog reflects this, but sometimes I just need to come out and say what I mean. This is a constant struggle in my personal life. I am trying to get better. So here goes.
I feel like I am terrible at this dating thing.
I’ve gone out with 70+ guys in the last year or so (I KNOW! BELIEVE ME, I KNOW!). Some of them read this blog (Hi folks!). But by the end of all that I was so…tired. I met some very nice people (and some BATSHIT CRAZY ones—a couple of those written about in other blog entries). Mostly the dates consisted of a pleasant enough dinner and small talk and getting-to-know-you kind of stuff. Sometimes I was incredibly bored and discreetly glancing at the clock, wondering how soon I could be home and in bed (ALONE). Almost always I could tell that this would be the first and only time I would ever see this person.
Well, I finally met someone I like.
Here’s the tricky part, see? There’s the risk of saying the wrong thing. There’s the risk of giving too much away. There’s the risk of allowing myself to be vulnerable. Just by writing this I know very well that I could be hastening a fragile beginning’s demise.
I can’t help it. I never was very good at keeping my mouth shut for long.
I don’t know how to do this and I’m not sure how to figure it out. I’ve made a very real effort not to stress or overanalyze and—for the most part—I’ve done well. But sometimes the real me breaks through even though I thought I had her muzzled and blindfolded and tied up in a basement somewhere. I start to worry that I don’t know how often to call, so I just don’t call at all. I worry that I don’t know how often to see each other, so I just don’t bring it up at all. Why is it so hard to say, “I like you. I like talking to you. I like spending time with you”? Everyone’s an adult here. I don’t think anyone’s consciously playing games. It’s just that the fear of rejection is a very powerful one.
Of course, everyone has advice to offer. Some are in the camp of, “Men like the chase. Don’t make it too easy.” Others are in the, “Just say it. Say it all! If he likes you he can handle it” camp. (Oh, but they don’t know how much I always seem to have to say!)
Meanwhile I tread water; I try to distract myself; I spend time with friends; I tend virtual farms on Facebook; I write and dance around my feelings; I bide my time. I wonder.
There.
I may very well have said the wrong thing. I may very well have given too much away. I am, in fact, vulnerable. I don’t know any other way to be.
I started this blog as a place to express my thoughts and explore my creative urges and if I can’t do that, what is the use? I tend to think and write in metaphor and symbol and much of my blog reflects this, but sometimes I just need to come out and say what I mean. This is a constant struggle in my personal life. I am trying to get better. So here goes.
I feel like I am terrible at this dating thing.
I’ve gone out with 70+ guys in the last year or so (I KNOW! BELIEVE ME, I KNOW!). Some of them read this blog (Hi folks!). But by the end of all that I was so…tired. I met some very nice people (and some BATSHIT CRAZY ones—a couple of those written about in other blog entries). Mostly the dates consisted of a pleasant enough dinner and small talk and getting-to-know-you kind of stuff. Sometimes I was incredibly bored and discreetly glancing at the clock, wondering how soon I could be home and in bed (ALONE). Almost always I could tell that this would be the first and only time I would ever see this person.
Well, I finally met someone I like.
Here’s the tricky part, see? There’s the risk of saying the wrong thing. There’s the risk of giving too much away. There’s the risk of allowing myself to be vulnerable. Just by writing this I know very well that I could be hastening a fragile beginning’s demise.
I can’t help it. I never was very good at keeping my mouth shut for long.
I don’t know how to do this and I’m not sure how to figure it out. I’ve made a very real effort not to stress or overanalyze and—for the most part—I’ve done well. But sometimes the real me breaks through even though I thought I had her muzzled and blindfolded and tied up in a basement somewhere. I start to worry that I don’t know how often to call, so I just don’t call at all. I worry that I don’t know how often to see each other, so I just don’t bring it up at all. Why is it so hard to say, “I like you. I like talking to you. I like spending time with you”? Everyone’s an adult here. I don’t think anyone’s consciously playing games. It’s just that the fear of rejection is a very powerful one.
Of course, everyone has advice to offer. Some are in the camp of, “Men like the chase. Don’t make it too easy.” Others are in the, “Just say it. Say it all! If he likes you he can handle it” camp. (Oh, but they don’t know how much I always seem to have to say!)
Meanwhile I tread water; I try to distract myself; I spend time with friends; I tend virtual farms on Facebook; I write and dance around my feelings; I bide my time. I wonder.
There.
I may very well have said the wrong thing. I may very well have given too much away. I am, in fact, vulnerable. I don’t know any other way to be.
May 24, 2009
In regard to "Ode to Medication #3: The Missing Piece"
It is proving more challenging to write than I would like. The final product should capture my hopes for it as well as my fears of it. It should be full of the detailed images of pleasure and comfort and contentedness that I wish to recapture. It should be fairly vague and elusive yet clear, vibrant, and concise. It should make my eyes sting with tears of self-recognition. All of the pre-requisites ensure that it will never meet my expectations and will slip through my fingers like fine, soft sand.
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