If I could live any year of my life over again, I would repeat July 1999 - June 2000. I was 22 years old, had just graduated college, and was moving into my very first apartment in Richmond, VA to start grad school. I was broke, but I was in love, excited about life, and just getting started.
Showing posts with label hindsight is 20/20. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hindsight is 20/20. Show all posts
February 18, 2019
March 9, 2013
Mine and yours
"...and all this was happening around 500 B.C. You know, when the Greeks were doing their thing. In my region--not your region. I don't know what yours were doing at that time. Fucking sheep, probably."
A portion of Ivan's account of a chapter on Buddhism he'd recently enjoyed in a book on world religion, and one of many reminders that his Balkan ancestors are superior to my Northern European ones.
January 19, 2013
The good things
Things are pretty dire right now. My unemployment has ended, and
today I am placing my beloved bird Cricket in a new home. If I
let myself think about it all more than a couple seconds I melt into a
puddle of fear and sadness.
So I need to focus on a good thing for at least a few moments.
I have a history of being a sad bastard on my birthday. It's always been less about getting older (though that is becoming more of a factor these days) and mTore about having way too many expectations and then being disappointed when no one lives up to them. (The month is still young, however, and there is still time for me to catch up!)
There was, though, the year (2008? I think it was?) my old book club and my friend D.P., in particular, had the sweetest and most thoughtful little surprise celebration for me at our monthly meeting. I still have the origami cranes from that. And the melted record album bowl. And the cards. Because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
Anyway.
Ivan called me from work on Thursday, breathless with excitement. I was surprised, because usually when he calls from work he sounds much more tired. He started telling me what all errands he'd run during a couple hours he had off earlier in the afternoon, and then he burst in with, "and I got you something!"
He told me all about how he had wanted to find me something so special, something that could possibly convey the depth of his love ("That's a lot of expectations for one present," I pointed out as he shushed my skepticism.)
"I went to Haight Street," he said, "because there are so many weird goddamn shops close together that I figured if I was going to find something for you it would be there." I rolled my eyes. "Did you know there's a store there for Edwardian fashion? Like, nice stuff. I bet they only get customers one time a year..."
"Halloween," I broke in, just as he said, "Burning man."
"Anyway," he continued, "I went from store to store. I even went into the Edwardian place. Who knows? Maybe they have something for you in there. But I couldn't find anything. I could find anything just right. That said what I wanted to say. I gave up. Honey, I had given up! And then I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye. There it was!"
"What, in a window?" I asked.
He went on to tell me about how the store clerk had been so helpful to him as they examined his options. My curiosity grew and grew.
"You're going to love it!" he promised. "You're going to know instantly why I got it for you and you're going to understand what you mean to me."
This was dramatic language even for Ivan. I could barely disguise my doubt and disbelief, though I was completely intrigued by whatever item he thought could accomplish all this.
He wasn't done.
"Also I'm going to prove you wrong over what you said at Christmas. How you said I didn't get you at all. I do get you! I get you and I love you so much! You mean so much to me. Do you want it now? Yes! Let me give it to you now! I don't think I can wait."
I was completely blown away by the level of enthusiasm he was showing for this (and it doesn't even involve Warhammer!) but I said, "Look. You would not believe the history I have for negotiating my presents early. But I want to wait for this one. Things have been so hard for so long for us and my birthdays usually feel so crappy to me that it would be really nice to have something to look forward to on my birthday."
He was doubtful and pointed out that he had to work on my birthday and I would be home alone with the baby. I knew that, though. And I don't even need the present. The thought and effort that he put into really touched me, and this birthday, in one of the last days that I will be able to stay home with my girl before something--one way or another--changes. This is enough.
So I need to focus on a good thing for at least a few moments.
I have a history of being a sad bastard on my birthday. It's always been less about getting older (though that is becoming more of a factor these days) and mTore about having way too many expectations and then being disappointed when no one lives up to them. (The month is still young, however, and there is still time for me to catch up!)
There was, though, the year (2008? I think it was?) my old book club and my friend D.P., in particular, had the sweetest and most thoughtful little surprise celebration for me at our monthly meeting. I still have the origami cranes from that. And the melted record album bowl. And the cards. Because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
Anyway.
Ivan called me from work on Thursday, breathless with excitement. I was surprised, because usually when he calls from work he sounds much more tired. He started telling me what all errands he'd run during a couple hours he had off earlier in the afternoon, and then he burst in with, "and I got you something!"
He told me all about how he had wanted to find me something so special, something that could possibly convey the depth of his love ("That's a lot of expectations for one present," I pointed out as he shushed my skepticism.)
"I went to Haight Street," he said, "because there are so many weird goddamn shops close together that I figured if I was going to find something for you it would be there." I rolled my eyes. "Did you know there's a store there for Edwardian fashion? Like, nice stuff. I bet they only get customers one time a year..."
"Halloween," I broke in, just as he said, "Burning man."
"Anyway," he continued, "I went from store to store. I even went into the Edwardian place. Who knows? Maybe they have something for you in there. But I couldn't find anything. I could find anything just right. That said what I wanted to say. I gave up. Honey, I had given up! And then I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye. There it was!"
"What, in a window?" I asked.
He went on to tell me about how the store clerk had been so helpful to him as they examined his options. My curiosity grew and grew.
"You're going to love it!" he promised. "You're going to know instantly why I got it for you and you're going to understand what you mean to me."
This was dramatic language even for Ivan. I could barely disguise my doubt and disbelief, though I was completely intrigued by whatever item he thought could accomplish all this.
He wasn't done.
"Also I'm going to prove you wrong over what you said at Christmas. How you said I didn't get you at all. I do get you! I get you and I love you so much! You mean so much to me. Do you want it now? Yes! Let me give it to you now! I don't think I can wait."
I was completely blown away by the level of enthusiasm he was showing for this (and it doesn't even involve Warhammer!) but I said, "Look. You would not believe the history I have for negotiating my presents early. But I want to wait for this one. Things have been so hard for so long for us and my birthdays usually feel so crappy to me that it would be really nice to have something to look forward to on my birthday."
He was doubtful and pointed out that he had to work on my birthday and I would be home alone with the baby. I knew that, though. And I don't even need the present. The thought and effort that he put into really touched me, and this birthday, in one of the last days that I will be able to stay home with my girl before something--one way or another--changes. This is enough.
December 10, 2011
Where I went and why I stayed
I imagine most people think they know how they would react in a given situation. I know I did. I always had a bit of feistiness in me that led me to believe I would fight an attacker tooth and nail. Plus, I was smart. I was educated in sexuality and gender issues. I taught classes on those subjects fer chrissakes.
In the back of my mind lately--in spite of all the other things I have going on--I have been processing some of the issues that kept me from fighting back, from speaking up. The list is incomplete.
1. Though I struggled, I didn't scream while it was happening because I didn't want to make a scene. I get made fun of for being overly dramatic; I always have. And when I reported a molestation to a trusted adult as a child, I was told that I had misunderstood what had happened, and that it had not happened the way I said it did. Because I misunderstood.
I thought maybe I was misunderstanding this time, too.
2. Admitting to myself what was happening put me in danger of panic. And if panic set in I felt like I would lose all control.
Better to keep quiet and calm and alert.
3. He didn't beat me up. Didn't pull a weapon on me. Didn't even say a word, in fact. He just held me down with his own weight. Despite the pain and the powerlessness, I kept telling myself, "It's just sex. That's all it boils down to. I've had sex plenty of times. I can survive this." Though I couldn't even allow myself to think about the word "rape" at the time, looking back I know I felt I wasn't "raped enough" (i.e., raped violently enough) as others I knew had been in order to be seen as having been "legitimately" raped by others.
They wouldn't believe me--wouldn't take me seriously.
4. I know you're not supposed to shower. I've seen enough Law & Order episodes to know. But the idea of going to a doctor or a police officer dirty and unwashed was unthinkable to me. I just wanted to wash his presence off and forget.
The shame and humilation were unbearable.
In the back of my mind lately--in spite of all the other things I have going on--I have been processing some of the issues that kept me from fighting back, from speaking up. The list is incomplete.
1. Though I struggled, I didn't scream while it was happening because I didn't want to make a scene. I get made fun of for being overly dramatic; I always have. And when I reported a molestation to a trusted adult as a child, I was told that I had misunderstood what had happened, and that it had not happened the way I said it did. Because I misunderstood.
I thought maybe I was misunderstanding this time, too.
2. Admitting to myself what was happening put me in danger of panic. And if panic set in I felt like I would lose all control.
Better to keep quiet and calm and alert.
3. He didn't beat me up. Didn't pull a weapon on me. Didn't even say a word, in fact. He just held me down with his own weight. Despite the pain and the powerlessness, I kept telling myself, "It's just sex. That's all it boils down to. I've had sex plenty of times. I can survive this." Though I couldn't even allow myself to think about the word "rape" at the time, looking back I know I felt I wasn't "raped enough" (i.e., raped violently enough) as others I knew had been in order to be seen as having been "legitimately" raped by others.
They wouldn't believe me--wouldn't take me seriously.
4. I know you're not supposed to shower. I've seen enough Law & Order episodes to know. But the idea of going to a doctor or a police officer dirty and unwashed was unthinkable to me. I just wanted to wash his presence off and forget.
The shame and humilation were unbearable.
September 7, 2011
What it's like
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.
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.
June 9, 2011
Missing
Let me begin by saying that if I owe you an email, phone call, visit, book, or anything else, please forgive me. I have been rather under the weather and everything has suffered.
On a related note: I have a lot of shit to do. The list is long and many of the tasks are daunting. But I am working on them.
First and foremost on the list is my mental health. I don't really know what or how much to say at this point. I will say that I have been considering and making phone calls to investigate a variety of options along the continuum, everything from a different psychiatrist to partial hospitalization to *gulp* possible full hospitalization for a period.
It is scary.
It is often overwhelming.
There is so much red tape and bureaucracy to get through, and it is so easy to feel frustrated and discouraged and hopeless.
Since I--for better or worse--am fairly open through this venue, in particular, many issues you may already be aware of: struggles with bipolar disorder (although there is some recent disagreement on this particular label), depression, anxiety, a job loss, a miscarriage, and some significant relationship challenges. There have been other events of which I've never spoken until the last couple of days. Not even to best friends or therapists or physicians.
I know now how fucking stupid my silence has been. And it has cost me a great deal.
I don't know at what point I crossed over from being the girl who took on things that scared her just to prove that she could do it to being this little, fearful person who is terrified of everything and everyone.
But I hate her.
I miss the little girl who was a scrapper. I miss the little girl who had holes in the knees of her jeans that she patched with scotch tape and wore them to school anyway. I miss the little girl who preferred to pee in the snow rather than going inside to use the bathroom so as not to miss a minute of sled-riding. I miss the little girl who chewed on the plastic handle fringes of her Big Wheel as she skidded around corners, dangerously close to traffic, and would race anyone who cared to challenger her.
I am trying to find her again.
On a related note: I have a lot of shit to do. The list is long and many of the tasks are daunting. But I am working on them.
First and foremost on the list is my mental health. I don't really know what or how much to say at this point. I will say that I have been considering and making phone calls to investigate a variety of options along the continuum, everything from a different psychiatrist to partial hospitalization to *gulp* possible full hospitalization for a period.
It is scary.
It is often overwhelming.
There is so much red tape and bureaucracy to get through, and it is so easy to feel frustrated and discouraged and hopeless.
Since I--for better or worse--am fairly open through this venue, in particular, many issues you may already be aware of: struggles with bipolar disorder (although there is some recent disagreement on this particular label), depression, anxiety, a job loss, a miscarriage, and some significant relationship challenges. There have been other events of which I've never spoken until the last couple of days. Not even to best friends or therapists or physicians.
I know now how fucking stupid my silence has been. And it has cost me a great deal.
I don't know at what point I crossed over from being the girl who took on things that scared her just to prove that she could do it to being this little, fearful person who is terrified of everything and everyone.
But I hate her.
I miss the little girl who was a scrapper. I miss the little girl who had holes in the knees of her jeans that she patched with scotch tape and wore them to school anyway. I miss the little girl who preferred to pee in the snow rather than going inside to use the bathroom so as not to miss a minute of sled-riding. I miss the little girl who chewed on the plastic handle fringes of her Big Wheel as she skidded around corners, dangerously close to traffic, and would race anyone who cared to challenger her.
I am trying to find her again.
May 25, 2011
The meditative cherry crisp: A photo essay
Baking helps me think more clearly. Something about the way the chemistry has to be precise--everything patiently measured, leveled off, rolled, kneaded--calms my brain and forces it to slow down.
Lately I have been seeing beautiful, sweet red cherries popping up at produce markets so I bought an assload* of them (*actual unit of measurement). I settled in to bake a cherry crisp with approximately half the assload I had purchased.
The cherries were ripe and lovely and stained my fingers with crimson juice. But I needed a glass of wine after pitting all the goddamned things.
I hadn't had the occasion to use my pastry blender for awhile. I happily pulled it out of the difficult silverware drawer and started to use it to cut the butter into the flour, oats, and brown sugar--all the while admiring that I *owned* a pastry blender--when the damn thing bit the dust and snapped in half.
Notice a significant portion of the wine had been drunk at this point.
Apparently, I have to add 'pastry blender' to the existing list of ladle and whisk as kitchen utensils to be purchased.
Due to the setback/technical failure, I found it easiest to get my hands in there and mix it together the old fashioned way. I didn't take a picture of that because I had poured another glass of wine and was temporarily over the picture-taking thing at that point.
But it did come out very nicely.
And it made me feel cozy.
In hindsight, I shouldn't have used the chipped bowl in the picture. But I love these delicately-shaded purple bowls and, well, fuck it.
Lately I have been seeing beautiful, sweet red cherries popping up at produce markets so I bought an assload* of them (*actual unit of measurement). I settled in to bake a cherry crisp with approximately half the assload I had purchased.
The cherries were ripe and lovely and stained my fingers with crimson juice. But I needed a glass of wine after pitting all the goddamned things.
I hadn't had the occasion to use my pastry blender for awhile. I happily pulled it out of the difficult silverware drawer and started to use it to cut the butter into the flour, oats, and brown sugar--all the while admiring that I *owned* a pastry blender--when the damn thing bit the dust and snapped in half.
Notice a significant portion of the wine had been drunk at this point.
Apparently, I have to add 'pastry blender' to the existing list of ladle and whisk as kitchen utensils to be purchased.
Due to the setback/technical failure, I found it easiest to get my hands in there and mix it together the old fashioned way. I didn't take a picture of that because I had poured another glass of wine and was temporarily over the picture-taking thing at that point.
But it did come out very nicely.
And it made me feel cozy.
In hindsight, I shouldn't have used the chipped bowl in the picture. But I love these delicately-shaded purple bowls and, well, fuck it.
September 11, 2010
On better
Somewhere along the way I lost the need to be better--to improve, to try, to embark on new personal projects. I can't seem to find that desire. I'm not sure how to get it back.
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 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 27, 2010
I can haz repetition?
I can be kind of all or nothing about things. I'm either all about it or could care less. When I find something I like, I LOVE it passionately, dearly. If it's a song I discover, I need to hear it 1,000 times on repeat (S.T. suggests this is symptomatic of the aforementioned need for medication). If it's a meal I enjoyed, I want to have it every day for two weeks straight. A movie I love? I need to watch it over and over, read about it, get the soundtrack, watch the trailer on YouTube.
I recognize that this extends to larger issues in my life, too. Taking this one step further (but stopping short of laying down ALL of my neuroses for you), I am attracted to similar intensity in others. I have been criticized for this, but is it something I can really change?
I don't know how to find the middle ground. It feels so...mundane.
I recognize that this extends to larger issues in my life, too. Taking this one step further (but stopping short of laying down ALL of my neuroses for you), I am attracted to similar intensity in others. I have been criticized for this, but is it something I can really change?
I don't know how to find the middle ground. It feels so...mundane.
April 24, 2010
Future-oriented
I keep telling myself: one day we'll look back on this period--at the things I did and thought out of insecurity--and laugh.
April 11, 2010
Someone to throw the waffle back
I related this story to Dave earlier today in trying to convey to him some of the reasons I loved him, and it seemed worth mentioning here.
I know. All of my posts are about love these days, right? Deal with it. There's plenty of angst from the last four years to tie you over.
Anyway: I caught onto the show "Friends" several years later than everyone else. I thought it was a pretty cute show once I got into it. There was one episode that always stayed with me.
Monica decided to break off her relationship with a guy to whom she was engaged, and her friends were incredulous about why she would take such a drastic action. In trying to explain her reasoning, she relayed a story from a recent morning at breakfast. She was making waffles, and her fiancé was reading the paper. In a moment of playfulness she threw a waffle at him. He wasn't particularly pleased with her childishness, and went back to reading the paper. Monica pointed to that incident as an analogy for their relationship: "I want someone who would throw the waffle back," she said.
That struck a chord in me and stayed with me for years.
I want someone who would throw the waffle back. I want someone who would dance in the kitchen. I want someone who will sing off key and make silly faces and impersonate animals. I want someone joyfully and unabashedly ridiculous and comfortable being such. I want a fool who can turn around and make me feel naughty and sexy one minute later.
Hell yeah.
I know. All of my posts are about love these days, right? Deal with it. There's plenty of angst from the last four years to tie you over.
Anyway: I caught onto the show "Friends" several years later than everyone else. I thought it was a pretty cute show once I got into it. There was one episode that always stayed with me.
Monica decided to break off her relationship with a guy to whom she was engaged, and her friends were incredulous about why she would take such a drastic action. In trying to explain her reasoning, she relayed a story from a recent morning at breakfast. She was making waffles, and her fiancé was reading the paper. In a moment of playfulness she threw a waffle at him. He wasn't particularly pleased with her childishness, and went back to reading the paper. Monica pointed to that incident as an analogy for their relationship: "I want someone who would throw the waffle back," she said.
That struck a chord in me and stayed with me for years.
I want someone who would throw the waffle back. I want someone who would dance in the kitchen. I want someone who will sing off key and make silly faces and impersonate animals. I want someone joyfully and unabashedly ridiculous and comfortable being such. I want a fool who can turn around and make me feel naughty and sexy one minute later.
Hell yeah.
March 4, 2010
"You're not listening or I'm not saying it right."
Damn. I have been a hot mess! I have tried to limit my blog posts during this time and it's probably a good thing.
I'm having one of those days where the fog lifts and I feel normal. I want to run around and make up for the past few days of being in the toilet. I want to get back to the goals I was working on full steam ahead. I want to make decisions and take actions and make plans before the sun starts to set again.
Last night I had to teach class even though I didn't feel well. As I was sitting in the front of the room waiting for time to start, I glanced over at one female student just as she was saying something to her friend about me. I smiled and said, "What?" She flushed a little and said, "I was just saying that you didn't look very happy and we should try to cheer you up." I was really touched.
I am fighting the urge right now to look for apartments and jobs in RVA. I have other stuff to focus on--namely, my well-being. There's plenty of time for the other stuff if I decide to do it.
I'm having one of those days where the fog lifts and I feel normal. I want to run around and make up for the past few days of being in the toilet. I want to get back to the goals I was working on full steam ahead. I want to make decisions and take actions and make plans before the sun starts to set again.
Last night I had to teach class even though I didn't feel well. As I was sitting in the front of the room waiting for time to start, I glanced over at one female student just as she was saying something to her friend about me. I smiled and said, "What?" She flushed a little and said, "I was just saying that you didn't look very happy and we should try to cheer you up." I was really touched.
I am fighting the urge right now to look for apartments and jobs in RVA. I have other stuff to focus on--namely, my well-being. There's plenty of time for the other stuff if I decide to do it.
February 25, 2010
Musings
This blog has generated a bit of a stir.
A couple things before I go on:
1. This is my journal. You don't have to read it.
2. When I said I was thinking about moving I meant what I said. Thinking about it.
3. If you work with me and we are not friends and you read this I think it's really inappropriate. Especially if you are management. Ahem.
Anyway.
I'm trying to remember how it felt when I knew it was time to leave Richmond and come to San Francisco. I had been there for 6 years and I was itching for change. It felt like I had learned the things that I needed to learn there and I wanted to move on. I was restless and pent up and pacing. It's weird, because that's not really what I'm feeling right now.
I feel defeated and tired. Really fucking tired.
People have asked me where I would go. I'd probably start with North Carolina, but I think realistically I would end up in Richmond again. I know. That sounds weird after I described being ready to leave, huh? It's just that the times I have returned to Richmond since I have been here, I have felt absolute joy. When I feel homesick, it is for Richmond. When I hear a weather report or a news story about Richmond, I feel a pang. When a friend mentions traveling to or being in Richmond, I am incredibly jealous. I miss it. I miss Judith and Amber and Dave and the folks I used to work with. I think it's the closest thing to "home" I ever felt.
I don't know.
The last time I made this decision it was a natural transition period in my life. Plus, I had someone to go with. This time I have neither going for me. Can I do it again? I don't know. I am considering it seriously enough that I told my friends here. I promised Nannette that before I made the decision I would work on getting to a mentally healthier place.
I am working on that.
A couple things before I go on:
1. This is my journal. You don't have to read it.
2. When I said I was thinking about moving I meant what I said. Thinking about it.
3. If you work with me and we are not friends and you read this I think it's really inappropriate. Especially if you are management. Ahem.
Anyway.
I'm trying to remember how it felt when I knew it was time to leave Richmond and come to San Francisco. I had been there for 6 years and I was itching for change. It felt like I had learned the things that I needed to learn there and I wanted to move on. I was restless and pent up and pacing. It's weird, because that's not really what I'm feeling right now.
I feel defeated and tired. Really fucking tired.
People have asked me where I would go. I'd probably start with North Carolina, but I think realistically I would end up in Richmond again. I know. That sounds weird after I described being ready to leave, huh? It's just that the times I have returned to Richmond since I have been here, I have felt absolute joy. When I feel homesick, it is for Richmond. When I hear a weather report or a news story about Richmond, I feel a pang. When a friend mentions traveling to or being in Richmond, I am incredibly jealous. I miss it. I miss Judith and Amber and Dave and the folks I used to work with. I think it's the closest thing to "home" I ever felt.
I don't know.
The last time I made this decision it was a natural transition period in my life. Plus, I had someone to go with. This time I have neither going for me. Can I do it again? I don't know. I am considering it seriously enough that I told my friends here. I promised Nannette that before I made the decision I would work on getting to a mentally healthier place.
I am working on that.
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.
December 22, 2009
Personal history
Holy mother of god.
I spent some time cleaning out my email inbox and I feel like I've relived the last 3 years of my life in about one hour. I should also add that the last 3 years of my life have been chock-full of physical and emotional turmoil.
I found:
Emails from, like, every book club event I've ever attended.
Messages from various (ill-advised) dates I've gone on about where/when to meet up.
Emails I sent to myself when I was trying not to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
Emails from C.
Emails regarding my research on moving to Barcelona and finding work.
Notifications of and condolences for the deaths of various friends and family members.
Emails regarding job search resources from when I finished my postdoc.
Announcements of 6 Birds Cards.
Messages from friends who--for whatever reason--are no longer in my life.
Drafts of writings I did during turbulent times.
Etc.
2010 has to be better. It just has to be.
I spent some time cleaning out my email inbox and I feel like I've relived the last 3 years of my life in about one hour. I should also add that the last 3 years of my life have been chock-full of physical and emotional turmoil.
I found:
Emails from, like, every book club event I've ever attended.
Messages from various (ill-advised) dates I've gone on about where/when to meet up.
Emails I sent to myself when I was trying not to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
Emails from C.
Emails regarding my research on moving to Barcelona and finding work.
Notifications of and condolences for the deaths of various friends and family members.
Emails regarding job search resources from when I finished my postdoc.
Announcements of 6 Birds Cards.
Messages from friends who--for whatever reason--are no longer in my life.
Drafts of writings I did during turbulent times.
Etc.
2010 has to be better. It just has to be.
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 17, 2009
'"E" is even more than anyone that you adore...'
Once or twice a year, I became incredibly hopeful about my finances. This was when the Power Ball jackpot reached at least 200 million dollars--the prize amount was prominently displayed on the large billboard over the interstate near my house. Similarly hopeful folks began to line up to buy tickets at local gas stations and convenience stores, and the news ran nightly updates about how large the pot had grown.
Though my grandpa devotedly played the lottery in all its forms--not just Power Ball but also Pick 3, Pick 4, and various scratch-offs--I never really played. Every Sunday evening when I spoke to him on the phone he would update me on how he had done in the lottery the previous week. Usually he had a couple of Power Ball number or, on especially lucky weeks, had won $5 on a scratch-off ticket. "I'm still working on that million dollars," he would tell me, "and when I win you'll never have to work again." I would laugh and usually tease him about how he was certainly taking his sweet time winning this million dollars. "One day, hon," he would assure me, "one day." Even though I wasn't a player, I always felt like I had a chance of winning because he was playing on behalf of the family.
In the winter of 2004 when the Power Ball reached 300 million, I broke down and bought a ticket; Chris and I both bought one. I believed firmly that we should each buy our own ticket and that only one per person should be purchased. I felt that one special ticket was much luckier than some bulk amount of tickets. I also liked choosing my numbers myself: specifically ones involving 2's, 4's, and 8's. I felt that I was more likely to win if each number was carefully chosen with intention and meaning, the way one might choose apples for a special pie, or a greeting card with just the right words for the occasion.
Chris and I got our tickets and sat in the living room waiting for the 10:59pm drawing before the nightly news. I had never before been so certain of winning, and in anticipation I mentally and verbally spent my money. "I want to go to Fiji," I gushed, and stay in one of those huts on stilts over the water with a glass table top that I can open and feed the fish." I went on. "I will pay off my credit cards and buy a cockatoo and a jet ski. I'll spend time in Germany and Italy and France, and I'll go to Norway to see a fjord." Chris listened as I rattled off my selfish desires, and then I went on to plan how much money I would give to each of my family members and close friends. Then he cut me off.
"You're telling me you would give out money?" he asked. I was startled out of my reverie.
"Of course," I answered. "My grandpa and I've always planned who to give our money to if we won."
He shook his head is disbelief. "You'd GIVE money away?" he reiterated incredulously.
I was surprised that he was so surprised, "Yes," I answered again. And then something dawned on me. "Wait. You wouldn't?"
"No!" he answered without hesitation. "It would be MY money."
I couldn't hide me shock. "You wouldn't give any money to your mom? or your grandma? or your brother? What about me?" He relented that he would buy gifts for people; he would make sure I had something if I needed it and he would buy our birds golden cages, but that he wouldn't give away any money. It would be his. Period.
I felt a growing sense of alarm rising in me. I kept insisting that it wasn't possible for him to be so selfish with so much money and really? He wouldn't give any to me? I began to reassess the millions of dollars I had mentally allotted for him. He stood firm. He also didn't believe that I would actually go through with giving any money away were I to win.
"But, but," I sputtered, "my grandpa and I ALWAYS talk about who we'd share our money with!"
"I think everybody SAYS they would share their money, because they won't actually win and it doesn't really matter. I'm just being honest."
By this point I was angry.
"Why are you getting so upset?" Chris asked in bewilderment. "It's not like it matters. It's not like we're going to win. You're getting mad at me for something that's not even going to happen!" I insisted it was the principle that was disturbing to me, and that I still couldn't believe he wouldn't share.
This conversation has come back to me many times over the years. Part of me feels like there is at least one moment in every long relationship during which you look at your partner and don't recognize them. Another part of me wonders...was this it? Was this the turning point at which we began a descent into irreconcilability? Could I have stopped it? Should I have pretended to agree with him?
I often wonder if he remembers this conversation, and if he still feels the same way. I wonder if and how aging and wisdom have affected his reflections on us, if at all. I wonder if and how I am described to other people he encounters. Does he blame me? Does he refer to me as batshit crazy? Does he thank his lucky stars I am no longer near? Does he make allowances for us having met so young and for trying to navigate a relationship when we had no idea what we were doing? Does he neglect to mention me at all? Does he regret leaving without saying goodbye? Does he hope he never lays eyes on me again?
Though my grandpa devotedly played the lottery in all its forms--not just Power Ball but also Pick 3, Pick 4, and various scratch-offs--I never really played. Every Sunday evening when I spoke to him on the phone he would update me on how he had done in the lottery the previous week. Usually he had a couple of Power Ball number or, on especially lucky weeks, had won $5 on a scratch-off ticket. "I'm still working on that million dollars," he would tell me, "and when I win you'll never have to work again." I would laugh and usually tease him about how he was certainly taking his sweet time winning this million dollars. "One day, hon," he would assure me, "one day." Even though I wasn't a player, I always felt like I had a chance of winning because he was playing on behalf of the family.
In the winter of 2004 when the Power Ball reached 300 million, I broke down and bought a ticket; Chris and I both bought one. I believed firmly that we should each buy our own ticket and that only one per person should be purchased. I felt that one special ticket was much luckier than some bulk amount of tickets. I also liked choosing my numbers myself: specifically ones involving 2's, 4's, and 8's. I felt that I was more likely to win if each number was carefully chosen with intention and meaning, the way one might choose apples for a special pie, or a greeting card with just the right words for the occasion.
Chris and I got our tickets and sat in the living room waiting for the 10:59pm drawing before the nightly news. I had never before been so certain of winning, and in anticipation I mentally and verbally spent my money. "I want to go to Fiji," I gushed, and stay in one of those huts on stilts over the water with a glass table top that I can open and feed the fish." I went on. "I will pay off my credit cards and buy a cockatoo and a jet ski. I'll spend time in Germany and Italy and France, and I'll go to Norway to see a fjord." Chris listened as I rattled off my selfish desires, and then I went on to plan how much money I would give to each of my family members and close friends. Then he cut me off.
"You're telling me you would give out money?" he asked. I was startled out of my reverie.
"Of course," I answered. "My grandpa and I've always planned who to give our money to if we won."
He shook his head is disbelief. "You'd GIVE money away?" he reiterated incredulously.
I was surprised that he was so surprised, "Yes," I answered again. And then something dawned on me. "Wait. You wouldn't?"
"No!" he answered without hesitation. "It would be MY money."
I couldn't hide me shock. "You wouldn't give any money to your mom? or your grandma? or your brother? What about me?" He relented that he would buy gifts for people; he would make sure I had something if I needed it and he would buy our birds golden cages, but that he wouldn't give away any money. It would be his. Period.
I felt a growing sense of alarm rising in me. I kept insisting that it wasn't possible for him to be so selfish with so much money and really? He wouldn't give any to me? I began to reassess the millions of dollars I had mentally allotted for him. He stood firm. He also didn't believe that I would actually go through with giving any money away were I to win.
"But, but," I sputtered, "my grandpa and I ALWAYS talk about who we'd share our money with!"
"I think everybody SAYS they would share their money, because they won't actually win and it doesn't really matter. I'm just being honest."
By this point I was angry.
"Why are you getting so upset?" Chris asked in bewilderment. "It's not like it matters. It's not like we're going to win. You're getting mad at me for something that's not even going to happen!" I insisted it was the principle that was disturbing to me, and that I still couldn't believe he wouldn't share.
This conversation has come back to me many times over the years. Part of me feels like there is at least one moment in every long relationship during which you look at your partner and don't recognize them. Another part of me wonders...was this it? Was this the turning point at which we began a descent into irreconcilability? Could I have stopped it? Should I have pretended to agree with him?
I often wonder if he remembers this conversation, and if he still feels the same way. I wonder if and how aging and wisdom have affected his reflections on us, if at all. I wonder if and how I am described to other people he encounters. Does he blame me? Does he refer to me as batshit crazy? Does he thank his lucky stars I am no longer near? Does he make allowances for us having met so young and for trying to navigate a relationship when we had no idea what we were doing? Does he neglect to mention me at all? Does he regret leaving without saying goodbye? Does he hope he never lays eyes on me again?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)