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.

He came.

And he hasn't left since.

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.

4...3...2...1...

I'm feeling restless and experimental again. God help the world.

On anticipation (III)

My house is clean in preparation for a friend coming over to cook dinner with me this evening. I'm wearing a strappy sundress despite the fog and drizzle because I feel rather sunny today.

The day is perfect except for one minor inconvenience...

For some reason...

...a growing number of men seem to want to have coffee with me. Is there something about me that screams, "I love coffee?" 'Cause I do.

"Hello, beautiful!"

Alright. I admit it, okay? I bought a pack of cigarettes today. The stress and transition of last couple of weeks have done my months of hard work in--temporarily, I would like to emphasize--and I broke down. So this morning on my way to work I stopped at the old tobacco shop that I used to frequent in order to purchase them.

Some of you already know part of this story.

There is a 60 year old Indian man (no idea what his name is) who owns the place and--for years now and for unfathomable reasons--has seemed to really like me. I would walk into his shop and he would cry out, "Hello, beautiful!" For a long time I have assumed he does this to many female customers, as he is a bit of a flirt. He would always ask me if I had a boyfriend and why did he never see me with him? Then he started asking me out for coffee.

I had learned bits and pieces about him over my years of visiting his store. He commutes to and from Vacaville, has two college-age sons, likes to play soccer with his friends on the weekends and (are you ready?) is single. His interest in taking me on a date began to get uncomfortable, so when I moved further away from his shop I didn't bother stopping there anymore.

When I came in this morning he was so surprised. He ran out to hug me and kiss my cheek and ask me where I had been? How was I doing? Where was I working now? He renewed his request to take me out for coffee and I laughed to put him off. Getting very serious, he said, "No, really. When are you going to let me take you out?"

Apparently I need to continue to stay away.

If I weren't 99.9% sure that he had romantic intentions, I might consider having coffee with this strange man, but I have no interest in encouraging him further. I can't even begin to imagine what we would talk about. I have a few ideas about where he would like to take the conversation and it creeps me out to think about it.

What's the best way?

Counting weeks? Or months?

On the alignment of stars

You may remember that a few weeks ago I wrote about advertising on Craigslist for new friends. I was so pleased that I did actually get a friend out of the deal--my new friend R. She is interesting and quirky and spontaneous and good-hearted. We started hanging out regularly immediately.

I was so happy I'd taken a chance and gone out on a limb a bit, despite some ribbing from existing friends.

You may also remember that I spent a couple years attempting (and generally failing) online dating. I'm not even linking to any of those posts here because I want to think of them as little as possible.

On the day before my birthday this year, Jan. 21, 2010, I gave up. I had the 2nd worst date ever and ended up in tears in my car on the phone with the lovely M.S.P. I took down my account and stopped, and prepared myself for a life of singledom. I cried, I mourned, I slept, and I became annoyingly apathetic again. My friends said, "You'll meet someone when you least expect it!" I scoffed at this, because I LEAST expected it at that moment.

Then I met Dave.

Dave and I met through R's Facebook page--by commenting on each other's comments--and now we are inseparable. Unfortunately, he is currently in Dallas. That makes being inseparable a little challenging and frustrating. He is coming here to see me in a couple of weeks, and I couldn't be more thrilled.

Isn't it funny the chains of events that take place to bring people into our lives? Isn't it funny how easily we could have missed each other had I changed my mind about posting my ad, had R. not responded, had we not gotten our schedules together to meet up, had I not left a comment on her Facebook page.

It's enough to make one believe in fate.

For the first time in a long time...

...I am ridiculously happy.

On surprise, 2

Friday night I got home from drinks at El Rio with friends. While messing around on Facebook before falling asleep, I got an instant message from a former SFSU student I had a little over a year ago in class, M. At first we chatted about what we'd been up to since our class, and then he asked me out. I laughed and joked that I was 8 years older than him and why would he want to go out with an old lady? He got serious and said I didn't give myself enough credit. He said, "You can use me at your discretion."

My goodness.

I once had a friend named M.

M. was one of the first people I ever went on a date with and, while the romantic part of the relationship wasn't there, I loved him to pieces. We started hanging out all the time. We took drives. We went out to dinner. We sat and talked. He was a wonderful friend to me during a terrible time. He was a source of support and a confidante and a cheerleader.

M. met someone and fell deeply in love, and it was a joy to watch. He bloomed and grew and his happiness was contagious. He moved to the east bay and--despite my happiness for him--I was sad that he was going so far away. I knew it would take extra work to keep in touch, but I was fine with that. It was worth it.

I've never seen him again.

There were a couple of cursory emails since then, but that was all. It hurts me. I've struggled with how to handle this. I told myself it wasn't all about me. I know it's not. I told myself that I would let him know that I was here if and when he wanted to be in touch. I can't be in limbo that way anymore.

I wrote him and told him we needed to break up as friends, because I can't be in limbo about our friendship anymore and I'm so tired of crying over people who are now gone. Maybe it seems bitchy. Maybe it seems selfish. Maybe it seems heartless.

I just needed to prune the hedges. Everything is way overgrown around here.

Fear

I should probably let this being a chicken thing stop getting in the way.

Trouble? No trouble.

Tonight I went on the 2nd worst date I've ever had. It was horrible. I burst into tears immediately afterward, and silently yelled at myself for engaging in this foolishness the night before my birthday. Sobbing on the phone to Miss Mary Smucker helped a great deal.

Thank you, Mary Lou.

Conversation #842

Her: I'm scared to get off the phone because it means tomorrow is coming.

Him: I want to stay on the phone because at least I know you're thinking about me. I'm sorry. That was childish.

Her: Wait--what did you say? Thinking about you?

Him: No. That was the first childish thing I've said to you and I'm not proud of it.

Her: Well, at least let me hear it so I can participate, too.

Him: [sighs] I said I want to stay on the phone because at least I know you're thinking about me.

Her: But you don't know that.

Him: That's true.

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.

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.

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.

The end

...and another one down
and another one down
and another one bites the dust!

"...and separate's always better when there's feelings involved..."

Alternative title to this blog: Two truths, one lie

Once, in a fit of curiosity (and, I don't know, a brief bout of self-loathing?) around two and a half years ago I took a look at C's blog. After reading just a few moments I felt utterly destroyed, so I never looked again.

Tonight I looked at E's blog after a few days' hiatus. In reading the last couple of entries I had missed, I ended up going to bed tearful and filled with dread and anxiety. This was an extreme change from such a lovely weekend. I told myself that--in the interest of self-protection--I could no longer read this blog. No more, no more, no more.

I am thick-skinned.