I still dream about my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. J. She loved me because I was quiet and got good grades and made 100% on all my spelling tests that year. But I hated her. She got mad and lost her temper easily, and when she did she said nasty, mocking things to her students. This volatility was an anxious kid like me's worst nightmare.
One of the students that Mrs. J's wrath was regularly directed to was Robbie V. Robbie was a naughty boy who was usually causing trouble, but even worse was the fast that he smelled like mothballs. The rumor around school was that Robbie's parents were mean to him and made him put his clothes in mothballs as punishment. I have no idea what the actual situation was, but I identified with Robbie because my home life was unhappy, too. I tried to be nice to him, and I didn't complain if I had to sit next to him at lunch like everyone else did.
One day in class, Mrs. J. was fed up with Robbie, and she placed his desk in front of hers so she could keep an eye on him. She was in an exceptionally bad mood that day, and I watched her warily as I tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible.
At one point she got so irritated that she said, "Robbie, you smell. I'm sick of smelling mothballs. Stand up." Robbie slowly did as he was told. Mrs. J. grabbed her can of Lysol off the bookshelf behind her, directed him to hold his arms up and turn around slowly, and then proceeded to spray him up and down.
The class was surprised and looked around at each other for cues on what to do. Some stifled giggles behind their hands clamped over their mouths. I was horrified and started to cry. I can still remember the look of shame and humiliation on Robbie's face as he stood in front of the class with his arms out. And I still dream about it to this day.
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
January 15, 2012
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 1, 2011
Out of sorts
**Warning: If you are one of those people who finds others' dreams boring, you might want to skip this entry.**
I feel incredibly bizarre today. I didn't sleep much last night and--while that is nothing terribly unique--today I felt like I just couldn't recover. My head is in a fog and I am moving in slow motion. I had all these things to accomplish today but by noon I was so exhausted that I knew nothing would ever get done if I didn't lay down and take a nap.
I dreamed I had invited Nannette, Amber, and Suzie over for dinner. I was making a beef stew, even though 2/3 of that crowd is vegetarian. Bob G. texted me and asked why he wasn't invited, and I texted back, "Come on over!"
As I started to chop vegetables, I was suddenly transported to my mother's kitchen. I looked around in confusion. The clock said they were supposed to arrive in an hour and I was already way behind schedule. I figured I'd just better get going and not worry about why I'd suddenly arrived at my mother's.
I quickly realized I didn't have half the ingredients I needed. Plus, I had no wine and nothing for dessert. What kind of hostess was I? I begged my mother to let me borrow her car to run to the store. She was doubtful. "I'm 34 years old!" I cried. "I can be trusted with the car to go to the grocery store!" She reluctantly handed over my keys and said that I could go if I took my brother Keith with me.
We ran to the car. I gave Keith--in childhood form--my grocery list. We hauled ass to the store, but the car would not park. "You have to leave it somewhere flat," my brother informed me, "or else it will roll away."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snapped. "Why does she have this damn car?" But it was urgent. My friends were coming and I had nothing done. We dashed into the store and raced back home. When I arrived, I realized I'd only bought a potato and nothing else. I moaned in desperation. Everything felt so urgent. And nothing was going right.
Meanwhile my mom, who is not the most tech-oriented person in the world, was marveling at my smart phone and playing around with it. As I looked in the refrigerator for more ingredients, an Atlanta number called my phone. My mother handed it to me. A woman's voice said, "Amie? This is Jack-in-the-Box from Atlanta, Georgia. YOU HAVE JUST WON A $5,000 TRIP FOR TWO TO BAJA, MEXICO!"
I started laughing with glee! Holy hell, I could USE a fucking vacation! Then I realized that I don't even go to Jack-in-the-Box. And I hadn't been to Atlanta for years. I don't even think they have the damn things in Atlanta. Christ on a crutch! I thought. This is a dream! I haven't won anything.
With annoyance I slammed the phone shut and then realized: Everyone is coming to my house for dinner in SAN FRANCISCO. I am in WEST VIRGINIA. This will never work!
I tried to text them all that dinner was cancelled as the pot in which I was cooking my stew broke and everything started running down the stove. But my phone would not work right. My mom had messed it up. Every button I pushed led to the wrong function. I looked at that clock, and it was past time for them to arrive. I knew that Suzie and Amber were always late, but Nannette was probably there, waiting outside my door, wondering where I was. I had forgotten about Bob. (Sorry, Bob.)
I stood forlornly watching the sauce drip to the floor in long streaks down the oven, feeling like a failure and an unreliable friend. A text message from my mom woke me up: "What r u doing?" she asked.
Hell's bells.
I feel incredibly bizarre today. I didn't sleep much last night and--while that is nothing terribly unique--today I felt like I just couldn't recover. My head is in a fog and I am moving in slow motion. I had all these things to accomplish today but by noon I was so exhausted that I knew nothing would ever get done if I didn't lay down and take a nap.
I dreamed I had invited Nannette, Amber, and Suzie over for dinner. I was making a beef stew, even though 2/3 of that crowd is vegetarian. Bob G. texted me and asked why he wasn't invited, and I texted back, "Come on over!"
As I started to chop vegetables, I was suddenly transported to my mother's kitchen. I looked around in confusion. The clock said they were supposed to arrive in an hour and I was already way behind schedule. I figured I'd just better get going and not worry about why I'd suddenly arrived at my mother's.
I quickly realized I didn't have half the ingredients I needed. Plus, I had no wine and nothing for dessert. What kind of hostess was I? I begged my mother to let me borrow her car to run to the store. She was doubtful. "I'm 34 years old!" I cried. "I can be trusted with the car to go to the grocery store!" She reluctantly handed over my keys and said that I could go if I took my brother Keith with me.
We ran to the car. I gave Keith--in childhood form--my grocery list. We hauled ass to the store, but the car would not park. "You have to leave it somewhere flat," my brother informed me, "or else it will roll away."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snapped. "Why does she have this damn car?" But it was urgent. My friends were coming and I had nothing done. We dashed into the store and raced back home. When I arrived, I realized I'd only bought a potato and nothing else. I moaned in desperation. Everything felt so urgent. And nothing was going right.
Meanwhile my mom, who is not the most tech-oriented person in the world, was marveling at my smart phone and playing around with it. As I looked in the refrigerator for more ingredients, an Atlanta number called my phone. My mother handed it to me. A woman's voice said, "Amie? This is Jack-in-the-Box from Atlanta, Georgia. YOU HAVE JUST WON A $5,000 TRIP FOR TWO TO BAJA, MEXICO!"
I started laughing with glee! Holy hell, I could USE a fucking vacation! Then I realized that I don't even go to Jack-in-the-Box. And I hadn't been to Atlanta for years. I don't even think they have the damn things in Atlanta. Christ on a crutch! I thought. This is a dream! I haven't won anything.
With annoyance I slammed the phone shut and then realized: Everyone is coming to my house for dinner in SAN FRANCISCO. I am in WEST VIRGINIA. This will never work!
I tried to text them all that dinner was cancelled as the pot in which I was cooking my stew broke and everything started running down the stove. But my phone would not work right. My mom had messed it up. Every button I pushed led to the wrong function. I looked at that clock, and it was past time for them to arrive. I knew that Suzie and Amber were always late, but Nannette was probably there, waiting outside my door, wondering where I was. I had forgotten about Bob. (Sorry, Bob.)
I stood forlornly watching the sauce drip to the floor in long streaks down the oven, feeling like a failure and an unreliable friend. A text message from my mom woke me up: "What r u doing?" she asked.
Hell's bells.
August 30, 2010
Bump in the night
Last night Darius spent the night with us. He likes sleeping on my Aerobed and in my sleeping bag, and we set him up a bed in the living room. After giving strict instructions to come get dad if he had to go potty, we all went to sleep. About an hour later, he jumped out of bed in terror and came running into the bedroom crying from a nightmare. Ivan and I sprung out of bed immediately to comfort him. I wrapped my arms around him and stroked his hair, while Ivan said, "It's okay, buddy. Do you want to climb in bed with us?"
Somewhere during my half asleep confusion, I remember looking at Ivan and thinking, "Yes, I want to do this with you."
As Spiderman
Behind the mask
Somewhere during my half asleep confusion, I remember looking at Ivan and thinking, "Yes, I want to do this with you."
As Spiderman
Behind the mask
April 30, 2010
March 30, 2010
On insomnia (part 742)
I dreamed of the Golden Gate Bridge falling on my house.
I dreamed of sipping sweet mango nectar and wondering where it had been all my life.
I dreamed of my brothers when they were little and innocent.
I dreamed of standing in line, waiting to be picked.
I dreamed I was alone and pregnant in an empty house, about to give birth.
Then my dreams stopped, and so did my sleep.
I dreamed of sipping sweet mango nectar and wondering where it had been all my life.
I dreamed of my brothers when they were little and innocent.
I dreamed of standing in line, waiting to be picked.
I dreamed I was alone and pregnant in an empty house, about to give birth.
Then my dreams stopped, and so did my sleep.
March 22, 2010
This morning I dreamed I was showing you my temple.
I dreamed about you. I dreamed that I went to meet you at the airport, and that when I saw you coming I ran up to you and we grabbed each other and held on. Other arriving passengers pulled their suitcases around us in irritation and the airport security staff nearby rolled their eyes in boredom--they had seen a thousand and one greetings before ours. I walked you back to my car and--once we put your suitcase in the trunk--we got in and held on to each other for the longest time. I knew it would be so much better when I got you home and we could do this in complete privacy, but I couldn't resist. Eventually we pulled ourselves apart and I did, in fact, take you home. We left your suitcase in the living room and climbed directly in my bed, all our clothes still on for the time being, and wrapped our arms around each other.
It was lovely.
It was lovely.
March 1, 2010
My future daughter
I had the most beautiful dream last night. I had taken medicine because I wasn't feeling well, and it gave me vivid, lucid dreams. I dreamed I was pregnant with a little girl, and I was getting ready for her arrival. I was preparing myself for her entire childhood and not just for the arrival of an infant. I filled a trunk with clothes for her to play dress up. I had visions of her and a friend digging through the trunk, adorning themselves with whatever they fancied. I went from thrift store to thrift store buying old ball gowns, colorful scarves, pillbox hats, and costume jewelry. I was thrilled with her imminent arrival and so looking forward to the person I would be meeting soon.
It was lovely.
It was lovely.
February 14, 2010
Osama bin Laden sent this pie
She dreamed he was in the kitchen. Here. After all these years. He talked to the others in the room while she carefully averted her eyes, but she was dying to stare open-faced. He wanted to take a walk, and she casually offered him her favorite green umbrella. He suggested she come along. Her heart sang, but she reacted coolly. No reason to give it all away, after all.
She led him through her childhood backyard, pointing out where trees used to be, where daffodils bloomed every year, where second base had been when playing youthful games of kickball. They walked past her grandpa's, and she had the luxury of knowing he was there--still alive, inside. They walked through the neighborhood, first hand-in-hand, then with their arms around one another.
She tried not to think too hard. She knew she was dreaming. She knew to take it for the few moments of happiness it could bring. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and it's sandpapery flush was so familiar.
She awoke alone, heart thumping, to grieve the loss of the dream.
She led him through her childhood backyard, pointing out where trees used to be, where daffodils bloomed every year, where second base had been when playing youthful games of kickball. They walked past her grandpa's, and she had the luxury of knowing he was there--still alive, inside. They walked through the neighborhood, first hand-in-hand, then with their arms around one another.
She tried not to think too hard. She knew she was dreaming. She knew to take it for the few moments of happiness it could bring. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and it's sandpapery flush was so familiar.
She awoke alone, heart thumping, to grieve the loss of the dream.
February 4, 2010
There is no sign of land...
Sometimes the most interesting people end up in my dreams. This time it was a former student of mine whom I haven't even seen in a couple of years, but communicate with regularly on Facebook. It's not the first time he made it into my dreams. I imagine he must be totally creeped out by now. Here's the recount I gave him:
This time we were both 13. Early in the morning we stood on my childhood porch. You were in an old flowered bathrobe. I drank coffee and listened while you taught me words in Spanish. Devolver. I conjugated the verb in my head. I worried that my stepfather would wake up and find a *boy* within a hundred yards of me.
This time we were both 13. Early in the morning we stood on my childhood porch. You were in an old flowered bathrobe. I drank coffee and listened while you taught me words in Spanish. Devolver. I conjugated the verb in my head. I worried that my stepfather would wake up and find a *boy* within a hundred yards of me.
January 25, 2010
Metaphor in dreams
I was on a plane when--somehow--the other passengers found out there was a terrorist on board, although no one was positive exactly who it was. The furious, terrified whispering among the passengers started. Unbeknownst to me, I was carrying a number of secrets vital to national security, and the flight crew had been instructed to save me before the terrorist took the plane down.
A kind flight attendant came and got me from where I sat huddled in a ball in fear, and said I would be getting off the plane in a moment and she needed to get me ready. "What do you mean I'm getting off the plane?" I asked in alarm. She smiled reassuringly and handed me a parachute. "But I've never done this before!" I cried.
"Don't worry. You'll figure it out," she said gently. "Just let yourself free-fall for awhile and--when it feels right--pull on the cord."
She stood me in front of the cabin door. I was mute with terror, and I was sure I'd never have the nerve to actually jump. Suddenly I didn't have a choice. The cabin door opened and I was sucked out: falling, falling.
I was startled that it was night--I had expected daylight. I looked down and saw my pale bare feet illuminated by the moon as they plunged into blackness below. I had always assumed that when one was in a free-fall, your thoughts were a blur. I was wrong, though. There was plenty of time to think. It occurred to me that I had never asked whether we were over water or land, and what part of the world we had been flying over. How high had we been when I went out the door? How would I survive when I couldn't even fathom what I would encounter when I reached the bottom? What were these secrets that I supposedly already knew, and to whom was I supposed to tell them? Would anyone even believe me if I tried? I felt strangely calm, and vaguely wondered how fast I was falling.
I reached up and felt for the cord. How would I know when it felt right to pull? Would it be a gradually dawning awareness or a sudden realization? I found the end of the cord flying somewhere up around my ear. My fingers tensed around it, ready to pull.
A kind flight attendant came and got me from where I sat huddled in a ball in fear, and said I would be getting off the plane in a moment and she needed to get me ready. "What do you mean I'm getting off the plane?" I asked in alarm. She smiled reassuringly and handed me a parachute. "But I've never done this before!" I cried.
"Don't worry. You'll figure it out," she said gently. "Just let yourself free-fall for awhile and--when it feels right--pull on the cord."
She stood me in front of the cabin door. I was mute with terror, and I was sure I'd never have the nerve to actually jump. Suddenly I didn't have a choice. The cabin door opened and I was sucked out: falling, falling.
I was startled that it was night--I had expected daylight. I looked down and saw my pale bare feet illuminated by the moon as they plunged into blackness below. I had always assumed that when one was in a free-fall, your thoughts were a blur. I was wrong, though. There was plenty of time to think. It occurred to me that I had never asked whether we were over water or land, and what part of the world we had been flying over. How high had we been when I went out the door? How would I survive when I couldn't even fathom what I would encounter when I reached the bottom? What were these secrets that I supposedly already knew, and to whom was I supposed to tell them? Would anyone even believe me if I tried? I felt strangely calm, and vaguely wondered how fast I was falling.
I reached up and felt for the cord. How would I know when it felt right to pull? Would it be a gradually dawning awareness or a sudden realization? I found the end of the cord flying somewhere up around my ear. My fingers tensed around it, ready to pull.
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.
November 27, 2009
Gobble
After all of my weird obsessing and reading/comparing of, like, 500 cornbread stuffing recipes, it turned out awesome. I was so pleased.
Yesterday I spent my fifth Thanksgiving at Nannette's house. Fifth! How is it possible I've been here so long? This year Jenny and Scott were missing, and there were several people I don't really know there. It just wasn't the same. I mean, our food was lovely. Everyone was in good spirits. But many of the people there didn't feel like MY people, and it made me feel a little sad. The best part by far was spending the morning and afternoon cooking and drinking mimosas with Angie and Nannette and periodically sending and receiving texts of Thanksgiving wishes. I am still wondering about the mystery texter, though.
In the late afternoon hours, someone from a 650 number texted me and said, "Goble, goble, goble!" Goble? I returned the text with, "Hi! Gobble to you, too! I'm sorry, but who is this?" The person responded, "Is this amy?" (Obviously it is not someone who knows me very well.) I texted, "This is Amie! Who's this?" and never heard anything again.
I find that my cell phone book fills up with names of people I don't remember. They come from dates I've gone on--times that I was meeting someone for a drink or coffee and we exchanged cell numbers in case anything happened. Because those times are generally the first and last date, the phone number stays in there and I promptly forget who it is. Last night in my food-induced coma, I sat down and deleted all the numbers I didn't recognize: Daniel, Kevin, Paul, Jon, Jon, etc. It makes it sound like my life is much more exciting than it actually is, I think.
Last night I got home around 10pm, and it was a relief to have quiet. My dreams were vivid and specific, and one of those times when I woke up to realize they weren't true and I burst into tears.
Today I will go back to Nannettes for a leftover dinner. You can bet I'm gonna rock that stuffing's world.
My dear friend Beau and his new wife are in town, and during the next two days I will show them around San Francisco sites, views, and restaurants. (Because more eating is exactly what I will need.)
Yesterday would have been my Papaw's 80th birthday. He loved Thanksgiving and I always loved when his birthday fell on Thanksgiving. I miss him terribly.
It looks like I will only be buying one Christmas present this year, and I'm trying to decide how I feel about that.
I will be 33 soon.
Yesterday I spent my fifth Thanksgiving at Nannette's house. Fifth! How is it possible I've been here so long? This year Jenny and Scott were missing, and there were several people I don't really know there. It just wasn't the same. I mean, our food was lovely. Everyone was in good spirits. But many of the people there didn't feel like MY people, and it made me feel a little sad. The best part by far was spending the morning and afternoon cooking and drinking mimosas with Angie and Nannette and periodically sending and receiving texts of Thanksgiving wishes. I am still wondering about the mystery texter, though.
In the late afternoon hours, someone from a 650 number texted me and said, "Goble, goble, goble!" Goble? I returned the text with, "Hi! Gobble to you, too! I'm sorry, but who is this?" The person responded, "Is this amy?" (Obviously it is not someone who knows me very well.) I texted, "This is Amie! Who's this?" and never heard anything again.
I find that my cell phone book fills up with names of people I don't remember. They come from dates I've gone on--times that I was meeting someone for a drink or coffee and we exchanged cell numbers in case anything happened. Because those times are generally the first and last date, the phone number stays in there and I promptly forget who it is. Last night in my food-induced coma, I sat down and deleted all the numbers I didn't recognize: Daniel, Kevin, Paul, Jon, Jon, etc. It makes it sound like my life is much more exciting than it actually is, I think.
Last night I got home around 10pm, and it was a relief to have quiet. My dreams were vivid and specific, and one of those times when I woke up to realize they weren't true and I burst into tears.
Today I will go back to Nannettes for a leftover dinner. You can bet I'm gonna rock that stuffing's world.
My dear friend Beau and his new wife are in town, and during the next two days I will show them around San Francisco sites, views, and restaurants. (Because more eating is exactly what I will need.)
Yesterday would have been my Papaw's 80th birthday. He loved Thanksgiving and I always loved when his birthday fell on Thanksgiving. I miss him terribly.
It looks like I will only be buying one Christmas present this year, and I'm trying to decide how I feel about that.
I will be 33 soon.
November 16, 2009
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floor of silent seas."
I worked 40 hours this weekend as part of a video shoot.
I met and got to know amazing women who reminded me why I do what I do.
After working the first half of today--Monday--I came home and collapsed.
I dreamed of Richmond
I dreamed of driving down Broad St. with you, trying to decide which restaurant to go to. Mekong? Casa Grande? Maybe over to Thai Diner?
I dreamed of another Thanksgiving without my grandma and yours, and I woke up and cried.
I met and got to know amazing women who reminded me why I do what I do.
After working the first half of today--Monday--I came home and collapsed.
I dreamed of Richmond
I dreamed of driving down Broad St. with you, trying to decide which restaurant to go to. Mekong? Casa Grande? Maybe over to Thai Diner?
I dreamed of another Thanksgiving without my grandma and yours, and I woke up and cried.
October 24, 2009
Anniversary
Alternative title to this blog: To you
Seventeen years ago today I fell in love with you. Doesn't that seem unbelievable? And how did I know so fast? Was I really that intuitive? Or was I just young and naive and hopeful?
I remember every inch of you: the smell of your hair, the particular shade of brown of your eyes, your long eyelashes, the feel of your hands, the shape of your feet, your impatience in traffic.
I dream of you when I am anxious and afraid. Cricket no longer calls your name, but I imagine that sometimes I still must in my sleep.
I still think of things that I want to tell you and show you, and then I remember that I can't. And even if I could, you probably wouldn't want to hear or see them.
You told me once that you didn't know what to say to me that didn't involve writing a book. And then you never told me any of them.
I can remember an evening in Richmond so clearly. We had come back from dinner, and were walking up the stairs to my apartment. You were 2-3 steps in front of me. At that moment I loved you so much I wanted to bury my face in your neck and steal your warmth and bite you to make sure you were real and living and breathing.
I don't know where you are or what you are doing or how to get in touch with you, and I never dreamed that I would say those words. I don't know how to wrap my head around the fact that I will probably never lay eyes on you again.
I want you to know that if you needed something I would do whatever I could to give it to you. And I want you to know that I take you with me everywhere I go, and that some part of each and every day is still trying to figure out how to be without you.
Seventeen years ago today I fell in love with you. Doesn't that seem unbelievable? And how did I know so fast? Was I really that intuitive? Or was I just young and naive and hopeful?
I remember every inch of you: the smell of your hair, the particular shade of brown of your eyes, your long eyelashes, the feel of your hands, the shape of your feet, your impatience in traffic.
I dream of you when I am anxious and afraid. Cricket no longer calls your name, but I imagine that sometimes I still must in my sleep.
I still think of things that I want to tell you and show you, and then I remember that I can't. And even if I could, you probably wouldn't want to hear or see them.
You told me once that you didn't know what to say to me that didn't involve writing a book. And then you never told me any of them.
I can remember an evening in Richmond so clearly. We had come back from dinner, and were walking up the stairs to my apartment. You were 2-3 steps in front of me. At that moment I loved you so much I wanted to bury my face in your neck and steal your warmth and bite you to make sure you were real and living and breathing.
I don't know where you are or what you are doing or how to get in touch with you, and I never dreamed that I would say those words. I don't know how to wrap my head around the fact that I will probably never lay eyes on you again.
I want you to know that if you needed something I would do whatever I could to give it to you. And I want you to know that I take you with me everywhere I go, and that some part of each and every day is still trying to figure out how to be without you.
September 20, 2009
Sweetness.
I dreamed I was a kid at summer camp. I dreamed of a wonderful job offer. I dreamed of an Indian restaurant where the music they played had secret meaning. The music was code for an ancient language most people had long since forgotten. I dreamed of someone I once loved drinking chocolate milk.
August 19, 2009
Lack of subtlety
I was so furious with my alarm clock this morning when it went off. I angrily told it that it had no sense of subtlety as I slammed my hand down on top of it in my half comatose state. I want an alarm clock that will rub my back and whisper softly in my ear that it is time to get up.
August 9, 2009
May 8, 2009
Filling jars full of silence you'll get nowhere.
You know, I worried that this medication would take away my inspiration and creativity. I think it has. I don't feel like writing and I have nothing to say to anyone.
I will tell you about a dream I had last night (that recurred all night). I was with a group of people from different parts and times in my life. We were walking through the woods. We came to a clearing to find a ravine the size of New River Gorge in WV. There was a swinging rope bridge going across it.
Everyone but me exclaimed in delight and surprise and started crossing it, but I was frozen in place. Every time I peered over the edge, my stomach dropped and I jerked in my sleep. My friends looked back at me and urged me on. "It's fun!" they cried, "Such a long way down!"
I gathered my courage and ventured out 2-3 steps on the bridge. My head swam and I became dizzy, and I staggered back to land. I shook my head vehemently at those who were calling to me. "I can't!" I shouted. "You go ahead. I'll stay here!"
And then I looked at the forest around me, wondering what I would do by myself.
I will tell you about a dream I had last night (that recurred all night). I was with a group of people from different parts and times in my life. We were walking through the woods. We came to a clearing to find a ravine the size of New River Gorge in WV. There was a swinging rope bridge going across it.
Everyone but me exclaimed in delight and surprise and started crossing it, but I was frozen in place. Every time I peered over the edge, my stomach dropped and I jerked in my sleep. My friends looked back at me and urged me on. "It's fun!" they cried, "Such a long way down!"
I gathered my courage and ventured out 2-3 steps on the bridge. My head swam and I became dizzy, and I staggered back to land. I shook my head vehemently at those who were calling to me. "I can't!" I shouted. "You go ahead. I'll stay here!"
And then I looked at the forest around me, wondering what I would do by myself.
March 29, 2009
An incomplete recount
I dreamed of you again.
You were finally alone, which you never are when I've seen you. It makes me wonder what you'd do if you were.
I digress.
You had been away a long, long time, and I ran into you at home. Your mom and brother were so happy to see you. I had been up for three days without sleep, and was preparing to return to San Francisco. A pair of someone else's pants was mixed in with mine and, not thinking, I put them on.
When you and I spoke you were very quiet. You didn't say much but your brown eyes fixed on me intently. I saw your eyes flick to the pants I was wearing. "Oh, my God," I said, "Are these yours?"
"No, they're my wife's pants," you said, sitting down. Is it just me or did you emphasize the word wife a little too much? I thought. My next thought was, I must've lost weight. She's skinnier than me! And the thought after that was one that recalled the suspicion I always had that you wanted a skinny art chick who rode bikes and enjoyed things like finding meaning in repetitive wallpaper. (Remember our little joking arguments about that kind of stuff? I hate to point out that I was right, but if the chamois fits...)
When I woke up I was so irritated that I'd focused on my fucking weight in that dream. Then I felt moody and morose.
Must. Bake. Cookies.
You were finally alone, which you never are when I've seen you. It makes me wonder what you'd do if you were.
I digress.
You had been away a long, long time, and I ran into you at home. Your mom and brother were so happy to see you. I had been up for three days without sleep, and was preparing to return to San Francisco. A pair of someone else's pants was mixed in with mine and, not thinking, I put them on.
When you and I spoke you were very quiet. You didn't say much but your brown eyes fixed on me intently. I saw your eyes flick to the pants I was wearing. "Oh, my God," I said, "Are these yours?"
"No, they're my wife's pants," you said, sitting down. Is it just me or did you emphasize the word wife a little too much? I thought. My next thought was, I must've lost weight. She's skinnier than me! And the thought after that was one that recalled the suspicion I always had that you wanted a skinny art chick who rode bikes and enjoyed things like finding meaning in repetitive wallpaper. (Remember our little joking arguments about that kind of stuff? I hate to point out that I was right, but if the chamois fits...)
When I woke up I was so irritated that I'd focused on my fucking weight in that dream. Then I felt moody and morose.
Must. Bake. Cookies.
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