2 A.M. Ramblings

Oh my god, I can't sleep!  I'm stuck crocheting and watching season 1 of Dexter.  It's 2:30 in the morning and I know there was a period where I was tired but that passed and now I have fallen into All-Nighter phase.  Hunter is in Colorado with his family for the holidays.  It's crazy, I have been an extremely independent woman for the past 3 years, now, suddenly, the idea of going to bed without him is almost agonizing.  Maybe it has something to do with Dexter.  I spent my life checking my bedroom closet ritualistically 3 times a night for Micheal Myers cirque Halloween I, 1971, or something like that.  Now I'm in my apartment alone and I am watching episode after episode about blood and murder.  I hope I never have kids, my idea of comfort is severely fucked up. 

Funny thing.  I found myself completely freaked out the other day.  I dreamt we adopted a baby girl.  She was laying, wrapped in pink fleece, on the sidewalk just waiting for me to pick her up.  In my dream I looked over at her and thought to myself "what the fuck did I get myself into?" then I walked over to her and as I bent over to pick her up she started to giggle, hysterically, and after that I fell instantly in love.  I woke feeling a little messed up in the head.  I think the thing that bothered me the most was that I liked her, and the fact that I actually adopted a baby covered head-to-toe in pink.  I'm not the mommy type.  Some women are destined for children.  My best friend, Lilly, for instance, she's meant to be a mother, she'll be a great one too.  Sadly, she miscarried yesterday.  She called me broken hearted and I just felt so helpless.  Some situations, the best you can do is wrap your arms around someone and tell them that you love them.  I couldn't do that for her and it broke my heart.  Maybe some babies just aren't meant for this world.  Maybe her and her husband needed more time to mentally prepare.  He wasn't very interested in the prospects of becoming a father until they were taken from him.  What ever the case may be, sometimes you just have to believe that these things happen for a reason, and maybe God has a better plan.

This Christmas is strange.  I'm away from both Hunter and my mom.  Double whammy.  The plans are to go to my aunts house for dinner but she was recently diagnosed with cancer of the lymph nodes, I believe.  The doctors say they think she will be fine.  I guess they caught it early.  It would be nice if this one had a happy ending.  Cancer is so fucking prominent lately, more than ever it seems.  So I need to call her and just keep praying.

My life, personally, is quite good.  I am working 4 jobs and still not pulling in a lot of money but 2 out of 4 of them are in my field, which is always hopeful.  Plus, I finally realized what I want to do with my life.  I've been talking about it for years, noncommittally really, but I know for sure now, in fact, it's never felt more right.  I know that I want to get a second major in journalism, no matter what.  I can't wait to go back to school.  Since I got my first degree in Interior Design, my hopes are to combine my degrees and write for an interior design magazine, critiquing homes and hotels all around the world.  For the first time in my life I know exactly what I want and it feels right.  My future has always felt so fuzzy but for once it makes sense.  Maybe it sounds incredibly idealistic, illusory and intangible but I don't care. I've spent my entire life not knowing, completely what I want, or who I am , or what I am even good at for that matter, but to just know with as much conviction what I could do and succeed in, is a liberating feeling.  It's taken me long enough but hell, at least I'm getting closer to what, at the heart of things, I really am. Love to you all.  Here's hoping I'll pass out without dreams of blood baths and serial killers, or babies for that matter.

Humoring Hunter

Just a follow up from my last few blogs, Hunter fears you all think that he is a gigantic gas bag, although we know he is, it is very important to him that all readers understand that there is far more to him than just his bad gas.  Don't worry, he is not narcissistic or insecure but, lets face it, flatulence is not an easy matter to deal with.  I love Hunter for his massive penis and his fabulous sense of humor, for the record.  Not to mention, he does a mean dish cleaning and can clean the bathroom in 17 seconds flat.  He also has great arms, he's interesting and he has really beautiful eyes.  So, with that said, please veto my past blog regarding his alleged gas problem, there definitely is so much more to him.

The Many Complexions of My Death Bed

I am a very self absorbed creature.  Don't get me wrong, the Existential Journey has been going well.  I have made more of an effort to reach out to others and my waitressing skills over at SOL are better than ever.  By the way, speaking of SOL, The Recruit came back!  She had disappeared for 3 weeks but now I know why; last week she showed up with Gout and Pediphilio in a new pair of brown leather, thigh high boots, and a brand new EE cup!  It was amazing.  And instead of smiling and staring off, uncomfortably, into space, she actually batted her eyes and giggled repeatedly!  The Stepford Club really did a number on her.  I think it's fascinating, if I didn't love my small breasts and loathe dirty, old, saggy men so much I would go under cover and write a story on the metamorphosis that takes place among Pediphilio's girls.  I imagine they all go down to some cellar in a big mansion and are transformed into large breasted, integrated, multicultural robots who are than rebooted and retrained by black mama herself.

Anyways, so I am still pursuing my "pull my head out of my ass" experiment.  Life has been good, but the other night I was in the bathroom cleaning and, due to the thin sheet of dry wall that stands between my neighbors and I, I heard my neighbor, Robin, talking to her husband and then, out of nowhere, she started singing to a song I did not recognize, in a rather endearing off-key manner.  I smiled to myself, because I absolutely adore my neighbors.  Than I started to realize how very, very strange it is that there is a whole story, a lifetime even, 2 actually, that exists on the other side of my bathroom wall, and Hunter and I are completely oblivious to it.  Our life, mine and his, is all I know in my small, limited world; our apartment, our food, our music, our schedules.  How can there be such a full existence sharing my plumbing?

Every few years I go through a realization that the world does not revolve, completely, around me and each time it is a fabulously refreshing slap in the face.  The first time it happened I was in grade school; I realized I was one day going to die and that the rest of the world really didn't give a shit, then I proceeded to cry for the remainder of 4th grade.  Another time was when I was 16 and I was sitting in detention in my math class and noticed a poster on the wall of all the stars in our solar system, with a tiny little arrow pointing to a tiny little star and it said "you are here".  I loved that poster.  I felt this natural high emerging from the divine sense of acceptance that the poster seemed to communicate; it was this great feeling that nothing really mattered as much as I thought it did.  I assumed my math teacher put that poster up for me personally.

Unfortunately, in spite of these "realizations," I am still very self-centered.  I rest in my own little world and only step outside of it long enough to feel uncomfortable, then, whap, I slam my beautiful front door shut again and ask Hunter if he is up for a game of bananagrams.  I settle for the mentality that as long as I live a decent life, as a decent person, then that should be enough.  But I find myself still constantly in my head.

The fact is, at this point in my life, I feel as if just being a good person just isn't sufficient.  I cry for myself but barely cry for others.  I'm so quick to laugh at people but lack the ability to laugh with them.  I have this outrageous ego that's badgered incessantly by a protruding inferiority complex.  The other day my girlfriend and I were talking about how her cousin, who was an alleged pedophile, died in his apartment and was discovered 3 weeks later, in a state of dreadful decomposition.  She said, "a person's death is directly correlated with the way they lived their life."  A flash of deaths ran through my head; my grandfather died quickly and painfully from asbestos poisoning, he abused his children and cheated on his very devoted wife, my grandma, who he threatened to abandon after she was hospitalized and given shock treatment for bipolar disorder; my friend's sister rotted away in her room when she was a teenager, it took her family 3 days to find her after she had overdosed on heroin; my old co-worker and ex-member of AA died of a severed artery after his intoxicated girlfriend had stabbed him in the thigh during a drunken fight in their trailer home-this man was a drunk, a drug addict and a compulsive liar.  On the other hand, my dear friend Sharon died of cancer, in a beautiful room filled with flowers and people singing to her and holding her hand, she was a magnificent woman, she was colorful, animated and filled with gratitude.  Not a day goes by that I don't think about her.  If I die tomorrow, how will it reflect the life I'm living?  Internal bleeding as a result of self-absorption?  Busted brain aneurysm from interminable self-obsession?  A woman from my home group had 4 strokes last month, now she is deaf in one ear and was told she would be facing persisting vertigo for the rest of her life.  She got up tonight at the meeting and went on for 5 minutes about how grateful she is.  That is the kind of person I want to be.  At 50, this woman is more beautiful than I have ever been in all my vanity-driven youth. 
 I'm going to bypass the resolution for the evening and end this blog with a simple good night.

Living in the Now, an Extension of the Existential Journey

So my experiment has proven as difficult as expected.  At work, I find I want to stick my shoe up every one's ass and at meetings, well a room of alcoholics could piss anyone off.  Tonight Hunter got out of school 45 minutes early and I was planning on writing and exercising with that alone time.  It's not his fault but loving kindness is still rough.  Although I smiled and did the best I could, I would say the day was successful.

I am finding it hard to "live in the moment".  My head wanders so easily it's difficult to just concentrate on what is going on right now.  We were actually talking about that at my meeting tonight and I started thinking about the importance of living in the now and realized that if I want to enjoy the holidays I should dress up our apartment a little more.  I started thinking about how much more present I could feel if I had some yummy smelling Yankee candles from Target and perhaps a wreath and a Christmas throw for the sofa.  I also thought it would be helpful to buy a Christmas clock so there is Christmas music playing all day long.  Than I realized that I would benefit from a shoe rack like my mom has, it's doubled up so there is a lot of room and this could help make the living room look more organized.  Then I thought about buying a funky colored Christmas tree and started wondering what colored lights would best express my personality.  Multi-colored, definitely.  I bet Jane Austen would use white, simple and classy.  My friend from work went all red.  I do not like all red lights, too Moulin Rouge for my holiday likings.  Why is it so hard to find black, low rise, boot leg pants these days?  Skinny jeans have taken over the world and I can't wait for the day to come when we look back at skinny jeans and coach purses and ask ourselves what the hell everyone was thinking?!  My purse is falling apart.  I need a day off to go thrift store shopping.  But I always feel inadequate at those places.  I don't think I have a solid enough sense of self to wear 1960's patterns anymore.  They are very much, "stare at me!" and I am very much "close your eyes and put your ear plugs in".  I wish I had a nose plug to wear at night, Hunter gets really bad gas and it wakes me up sometimes, the smell is like nothing I've ever experienced before.  Funny thing is, practically nothing wakes me up on Seroquel, that's how pungent these fuckers are.  He suggested he fart on me in the morning to make getting out of bed easier.  I'm not sure I am down for that idea.  This thought process started 7 minutes into the meeting, the next thing I knew we were standing up to do the lords prayer.  I definitely have a problem with being present.

The Existential Journey

Ahhh, the written word.  When my whole life is a series of stammered vocalizations and missing phrases and aphorisms, supplemented by the assumption that whatever I have to say could never quite be good enough for the listening ear and accompanied by the feeling that each sentence faces the possibility of becoming the catalyst to my social downfall, I can breathe so much easier in the comfort of verbal composition.

I just spent the last week back home for Thanksgiving.  I've had the song, River, by Joni Mitchell, in my head since the beginning of the trip; as I was packing to head home, "It's coming on Christmas, their cutting down trees, their putting up reindeer. . .";  as I helped my mother prepare Thanksgiving dinner, "singing songs of joy and peace. . ."; and as I sat in the airport, crying over my boarding pass, "oh I wish I had a river, I could skate away on. . ."; and right before I boarded the plane and took one last breath of the fresh Chicago air, preparing myself for my return to the city of smog and internal loneliness, "but it don't snow here, it stays pretty green, I'm going to make a lot of money then I'm going to quit this crazy scene, oh I wish I had a river, I could skate away on, oh I wish I had a river so long I would teach my feet to fly. . ."

 I left behind everything that ever really mattered to me when I moved out here.  I know I had to, if I stayed I would have always wondered.  Most of my life, California was my Utopia, I was so sure that I would find my place in this world through it's ocean breeze and beautifully polluted sunsets, but instead I developed a bittersweet affair with humility,which I did not know until now that I needed badly, and I fell in love with Hunter.  I look forward to the world of retrospect, when I can look back and understand completely what my experience here was meant for.  I know that it's not time for me to go back home yet, one day, but not yet.  If I went home now, within a year I would be restless.  I know that the happiness I seek is within me and no other force but my own brain can lead my thoughts to a place of self-acceptance, maybe even love.  Something inside of me feels as if there is still more to accomplish and explore out here.  Lately, I've begun to realize that it really isn't Orange County or L.A. or my boss or the people I work with, it's not even my financial instability; it's me.  It's always been me; it's my incessant lack of gratitude which dwells inside of me like a desert, draining me of the nectar of contentment; it's my dependence on outside circumstances to satisfy the illusory needs that bind me; it's the pitiful intrusion of self-loathing that incarcerates me.  I have so many good people in my life although I have spent most of it thinking only about myself.  Deep down the love that I need so badly has always been right here, within me, yet, all my energy has been put on the placement of my reliance on those around me and it's really never been fair to anybody; such a heavy weight of responsibility. Wherever I go I'll be faced with the shadows of my own perception and we have a choice to see what we want, although, it's no grand revelation that when it comes to perception, it has always been a struggle for me to see the brighter side of things.

I think that our sense of self was strongest during our childhood; long before we always questioned everything and became too busy to play; during a time where terms such as jaded and disillusioned were not in our vocabulary; when our hearts had not yet been broken and our dreams had no bounds; when we believed we could do anything and our own understanding was ours to enjoy.  Now, I look back at my youth, jealous and sad and I find myself desperately searching for the brighter side that I could see so effortlessly as a little girl, I long for those days when I could see what's in front of me and honor it as it is, rather than what I think it should be.  I find I either think the worst of a person as a means to prepare myself for their judgement or I think so highly of somebody that their own sense of humanity is like a deadly weapon.  Either way, I end up feeling isolated and alone.  

I am on an existential journey to do what ever I can to become the person I'm supposed to become.  I intend to execute this process through simple acts that I have avoided in the past out of fear of discomfort such as, calling the people I care about on a weekly basis, paying attention to how I can make any single person, friend or foe, more comfortable and bring to the table a greater sense of ease in the lives around me.  This is actually more difficult than one would think, when it entails a person like myself.  I find I don't even listen to people when they are talking to me, my mind wanders into the world of A___, which makes it difficult to be there for people when I am not even present.  These are things I don't like to admit.  Now, I understand that these actions resonate the Chicken Soup for the Soul mentality that the average cynic like myself normally shuns, but my intentions are not to "feel good" for a minute, but rather, I am hoping that if I can manage to permanently alter my destructive behavioral patterns through distracting myself from self-obsession and placing the focus on non-ego related issues, it might result in the firm, lasting removal of my head from my own ass.  If anybody wants to be involved in this, please feel free to hop on board, and let me know how it works for you. I will be checking in.

Battling Villians and Overcoming Cancer: A Story Based On A Series of Semi-Factual Events

There's a serial rapist in our neighborhood.  Sometimes I find myself fantasizing that I'm the one that catches the bastard, well, let's be honest, I don't want to catch him, I want to kill him.  I guess he has been roaming in and out of the area, sneaking into women's homes late at night and attacking them, for the past 2 years.  How does that work?  What keeps an attacker like that in one place for so long?  How, after after all this time, has he been able to continually get away with it?  I have to keep the chains on all the doors when I'm home alone now and I can no longer cut through our alley to get to the apartment.  I hate all the limitations I face as a woman, the dangers that threaten my everyday life, and the fear that I'm always experiencing when dusk hits and Hunter isn't there with me.  It's so frustrating.  I know there are self-defense classes and pepper spray is a definite must in regards to utilizing the best forms of safety methods, but, still, the extent we need to go to in order to avoid victimization in this world is overwhelming. 

I've never been raped before.  I am one of the lucky ones.  I've had some unsettling experiences, one having occurred in a bar parking lot by a co-worker, but I was able to get out of the situation safely.  His name was Warthog and he wouldn't let me leave, he yelled, tried to block my way, complimented, threatened and than, eventually, he came from behind me, threw his arms around me and pulled me into him so I wouldn't be able to get into my car.  Crying, I kept begging him to let me go and once I realized he didn't intend to, I reminded him that there were cops across the street and that I was going to scream.  That's when he let go and told me I was crazy and should be locked up.  That seems to be the direction a guilty man always goes-we're the crazy ones.  It's the Sexual Predators National Anthem, cry insanity from across the rooftops and even the most confident woman will be faced with self-doubt. 

Anyways, it could have been avoided, but I was so afraid of what everyone else thought of me I landed myself in a one on one situation in a sleazy, gravel parking lot with Warthog.  I invited drama, I guess I still do, to some extent.  Not to say I'm proud of it, but there really is nothing like a lump on your breast or an alleged neighborhood attacker to get the heart pumping.  I've already decided to keep a knife under the mattress and in the shower, just in case.  And in regards to the lump on my breast, well, who needs an ultrasound when I have symptoms.webmd.com?  I'm ready to start writing my autobiography, covering my cancer days and how I killed the serial rapist well I was washing my hair.  I have a few ideas for the title: Fighting Cancer and Being a Hero in Today's World or Battling Villains and Overcoming Cancer, A Story Based On Semi-Factual Events.  Oprah will eat it up.

The Stepford Wives of SOL

They all walk into SOL the same way, every single one of them; slowly, hips swaying; their lips finely shrouded in the latest plumping gloss, hair extensions grazing the exposed cracks of their once fat asses that seem to fit superbly well in the latest Gucci Antiqued Denims; always their false pride, practically dripping off their stiletto heels.  I sometimes wonder what they keep in their Birkin bags, maybe there's a universal pouch for Pediphilio's girls; lube, some $5 perfume to spray themselves down with, condoms, hand sanitizer?  All of their breasts are like down payments for the rewards that follow.  They are the Stepford Wives of SOL.  Black, Hispanic, Puerto Rican, he never goes after white women; it's like a multi-cultural whore house on the water that serves brunch 7 days a week; a hodgepodge of America's most beautiful rejects, dried ethnic potpourri served shamelessly glazed over with SOL's finest cheap champagne.

How do I even begin to describe Pediphilio?  Pedophilio is my other boss, D's, older brother and co-owner to the restaurant.  There are certain things in this world that are prevalently repugnant and discomposing, for example, extremely overweight men in Speedos on a hot summer day, the smell of menstruation in a woman's locker room, motel room remote controls (think about it),  exorbitantly gassy old men on air planes, maggots, necrophilia, port-o-potties, etc, etc. the list could go on for miles, but of all the disgusting, despicable, and distasteful circumstances that day to day life can be threatened to comprise of, Pediphilio will always take the cake in my book.  His body reminds me of one of those drip candles they sell at psychedelic stores, you know, the ones that sell black light posters and always seem to have an abundance of teenage boys in the back inspecting their pipe selection.  When I see those drip candles I think of Pediphilio; except the candle has 2 legs and is made of old, hammered leather.  I can't imagine how much of his life was spent beneath the sun, with a face like a deflated football, my guess is his mother had a sun lamp up her coochie from the moment he was conceived.  Every so often he takes off his panama hat and sunglasses, which always remind me of a child molester, and you get can see the bags under his eyes and his receding hairline and for a split second, humanity.  Don't get me wrong, Pediphilio has never been mean to me, one time he even stood up for me to a customer.  I don't think the man is evil, but he's definitely not capable of much.  I imagine that there was a time when he was driven by money, power and women and that drive eventually transcended into an anesthetized indifference stimulated by the mere force of habit.  He does not laugh or even smile and he manages to maintain the utmost monotony when he speaks to you.  He wears tropical, button down shirts and kackys, with a pair of loafers on his tanned, leather feet.  That's Pediphilio.

A few months back there was an incident at SOL.  A thin, flashy black woman came into the restaurant and walked towards Pediphilio screaming "YOU GAVE MY DAUGHTER GONORRHEA!  THIS MAN PAID MY DAUGHTER FOR SEX AND GAVE HER GONORRHEA!! HE HAS STD's!  HE PAYS FOR SEX, PEDIPHILIO PAID MY DAUGHTER FOR SEX AND GAVE HER AN STD!!!!  She continued on like this for a little longer.  Pediphilio tried to escort her off the patio but she pushed him away, so then his niece, Wife Beater, came out and started screaming and swearing at the lady, "IF YOU DON'T GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!  YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW!"  This then led into an even bigger battle, so D's aunt, Marge, who was managing that day, came out and told every one that was enough and began clapping, which compelled all of the customers to break out in applause until black mama finally ran off with her hands in the air muttering something about prostitution.  This is my job.  I suppose I should be grateful for this day to day life, as it always gives me something to write about.

Pediphilio brought in a new recruit yesterday.  A little African American girl who surely wasn't over 19.  She trotted in wearing cut offs and a pair of sandals.  Her face was freshly painted and her hair had been styled.  Not very big in the chest, though I'm sure that will change.  Pediphilio's friend, Gout, was actually the one that brought her.  She had this awful, plastered smile on her face that made me want to pull her aside and warn her that none of this was necessary, to run before it was too late.  I got the feeling that no one bothered to ever tell her that she had options.  Pediphilio and Gout kept ordering more rounds of champagne for her and Gout kept trying to feel her up under the table well she sat there with that same awkward smile on her face, staring off in the distance avoiding making eye contact with him.  Once, when I walked over there I looked down at his hand stroking her upper thigh and he pulled away when he saw my eyes glaring down at the scene.  Later he kept trying to hold her hand, again, she sat there like a dead fish staring, smiling, nothing to say.  I wondered if black mama put her up to it, hopefully she handed her some condoms.  Oh well, give it a few months, she'll be driving one of Pediphilio's cars,  wearing designer jeans and stiletto heels in replace of those sandals.  The transformation never ceases to amaze me.  Well, that's all I wish to reveal about The Stepford Wives for now.  Stay tuned.

The Wiley Coyote Generation

Attention:  I apologize, this gets a little political, that will happen sometimes, but don't worry, I will always warn you.  P.S. I tend to lean to the left.

God, there's been so many teen suicides this year.  What is it about our culture that leaves so many young people making a conscious decision to either take their lives or take the life of another?  Between Facebook, MySpace, and the endless layers of self-expansion that our new found multi-media seems to bring to the table, I can't help but wonder if it's just an over all sense of immortality that gives our youth such an immense lack of value for human life today or are we honestly going to blame "bullying"?

I'm calling it the Wiley Coyote Generation.  It's as if they believe that they could drop a piano on someones head without any real consequence due to the illusion that they will wake up the next morning and find that very person in the exact same condition he was prior to the piano-head situation.  Let's face it, "bullying" is nothing new.  Kids have been brutal to each other as far time can tell.  They're not nice, in fact, they are assholes.  But that is the nature of teenagers, that's what they do.  Now suddenly, every poor, terrified mother in America is launching a crusade against meanness?  But what are we telling these disillusioned children who are being bullied, if you end your life we will make these kids pay for their cruelty?  Bullying is just a symptom.  The problem lies in the very thing that is teaching these teens that the solution to their problems is suicide?  I spent my whole life contemplating ending it-depression, unbalanced meds and a lack of tools was the dilemma.  But I never actually succeeded and I believe the reason was because I had a sense that there were repercussions to my actions; death is eternal, and I knew deep down that it was not an illness one can recover from.  The same goes for murder; there are some people I would love to kill; 95% of Orange County is just one example, conservative republicans and Sarah Palin is up there too, but I won't do it for three reasons, one, 1000 more will pop up in their place, let's face it they're like fleas, two, I am afraid of the consequences of my actions and, three, the enormity of it all is enough to deter me from taking any real action that would result in the elimination of an existence, even if it were Sarah Palin.  These are some of the dilemmas that people in my generation and before have faced, an overall sense of value for human life and fear of the consequences one might confront if that life were taken.  But these issues or dilemmas do not seem to phase today's youth.  I would rather us look at that than the fact that there are some assholes out there bullying each other, because, frankly, there will always be assholes, that will never change, it's how we choose to handle it.

It really isn't funny at all and I hope I didn't give anyone the impression that the recent teenage suicides that have taken place in the past year are to be taken lightly.  Sometimes it's just easier to laugh, I guess.  But really, it's sad and infuriating.  If the minimum wage wasn't so pathetic, maybe both parents wouldn't be forced to work well children were being raised by the Internet and their television sets.  The modern day America seems to demand much but offers little.  How are we supposed to raise our children to be happy, healthy human beings when the cost of living is so high and they are surviving off fast food and basing their primary development on online social networks.  It's no wonder children feel alone and alienated when we place so little value on our education systems and demand so much of parents financially, where are kids supposed to look for examples?   The breakdown of the family system has nothing to do with gay marriage or the fact that we eliminated prayer in public schools, the breakdown of the family system is a direct result of the large multi-million dollar corporations paying their employees $9.00 an hour, and than making a 210% consumer profit.  Perhaps if their wasn't such a tremendous imbalance in the distribution of wealth, families could afford to actually live the traditional American dream, honoring the so-called family system and raising their children to value their lives and the ones around them.  But I suppose this is the very reason it's called a dream.  Until something changes, I guess The Wiley Coyote Generation will have to settle for The American Nightmare.  I think I'm done for the evening.  Sorry this isn't perkier.  Now I want a drink but I have to settle for chocolate.

Riding the Storm Out, Although When It's Over Please Tell REO Speedwagon to Eat My Ass

I've been thinking about becoming a nurse.  Not because I love medicine or people for that matter.  I just am so tired of working dead end jobs and barely making ends meet.  I can't help but wonder if maybe dreams are only meant for the overly-ambitious, cut-your-throat-for-the-part, brilliantly-creative, die-hard artists that somehow seem to reside in the coolest parts of the world and never seem to run short of food or clothing.  Perhaps I need to work harder at making wise decisions on how to spend my money.  But I'm scared, insecure, timid and confused 96% of the time.  The other 4% is spent reading books, having sex, or cleaning the bathroom.  Hunter says I should do some research before making an emotional decision.  It seems like the majority of big decisions I have ever made were either driven by emotions or by the need to please others.  Either way it leaves me unsatisfied and regretful.  For example, choosing to get a degree in Interior Design; I had an artist friend over at my very first apartment back when I was 20 and she said that I had a knack for decorating and should go into Interior Design, so I said, "o.k."  End of story.  Now I have a degree in a field I could do without and I'm waitressing at a job I hate.  So, for tonight, I'm taking Hunter's advice and I'm going to make a calculated decision, based on research and questions and I am going to leave my  people-pleasing, passion-driven resolution reaching process for someone slightly less medicated.  I'll let you know how it all works out.

Chasing The Fantasy

I have an idea of what my life is supposed to look like; of the kind of person I'm supposed to be; how my relationship should appear to the rest of the world.  I think, in some sense, we all do.  What I notice is that the more i try to mold and perfect that fantasy, the more unhappy I become.  It's like swimming against the current, although it's exhausting and unnatural I can't help but wonder what I might be missing out on if I were to stop.  Those around me might be telling me to stop thrashing and just float, but I have already created an image of what the results will look like if I only swim a little harder.  My fantasy paints a fabulously vivid picture of what I will accomplish and possess as a result of this endeavor.  But, eventually, I drown.  Really, life is hard enough as it is, why do I feel the need to make it more difficult?  Perhaps I just get scared; the idea of going with the flow and embracing what I already have seems slightly too easy and suspicious, reminding me how skeptical I really am.  Not to mention I also begin to find that this idea of what my life is supposed to look like is actually not that fun for me.  I live in a fantasy world where relationships are characterized by their boundless passion and lovemaking, wisdom is defined by a person's travels, friendship is a group activity with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha, and true integrity involves oil paint, canvas and an acoustic guitar.  My fantasy involves confidence I don't have to work for, love I don't have to give, fashion as the catalyst for my bohemian disposition, and money as the solution to my life's problems, oh and, also, in my fantasy I am not materialistic or vain.  Funny thing, I don't like big groups, I do better one-on-one, and I'm lazy when it comes to being fashionable, a pendant and t-shirt are usually adequate when choosing an outfit for the evening, passion is really a poetic word for drama and it makes me feel confused and sometimes manic, and limitless amounts of sexual intercourse usually results in a yeast infection.  I don't have the patience to paint and my guitar skills are unimpressive.  Traveling sounds wonderful but I'm realizing that I am afraid of new things and would want to do it with a close friend, somebody free of drama and excess passion who accepts me for who I am.

Every time I try to chase these fantasies they leave me emotionally hungover and under the impression that if I could only alter my circumstances, even just a little, my life would become what I think it's supposed to be, but instead I just find myself repeatedly seeking shelter from my own shadow, tears in my ears crouched up on my imperfect apartment floor, wondering what exactly it was, or who for that matter, that lead me in the wrong direction this time-if only my boyfriend was more chivalrous, my mother paid more attention to me, my dad was capable of caring about me, my friends called more, my job was better, skin clearer, body more tone, income higher, bipolar non-existent, etc. etc. etc.  My world really consists of a variety of imperfect things that are, in fact, perfect for me.  Deep down, the reality of every challenge and defect is that growth, change and advancement of self that leads me to becoming the person I'm really supposed to become, not the person I think I should be.  When I lay my arms out and take a deep breath, letting the current take me where it wants me to go, I find myself in a position where I have everything I need, I guess it's just a matter of appreciating it.  I'm a real ungrateful bitch sometimes, when I'm chasing the fantasy.

Proposition 8

The general elections are tomorrow and they have me recalling what California went through in 2008, after proposition 8 got the vote, banning same sex marriage across the state and leaving millions of homosexual couples furious and fighting for their rights.  I'm really hoping 2010 is slightly less disappointing.  Do our civil rights really even exist, or were they just created by the Christian Right Wing as a security blanket for U.S. citizens when injustice found it's way into the harsh cold realities of the ever-changing American circumstance?


November 7, 2008

I watched as my neighbors were arrested today; some of them beaten and kicked by the very people who are there to protect us and our rights as citizens of this country.  I observed innocent protesters, as they were handcuffed and shoved in the back of squad cars and police vans.  The sad irony of their confinement seemed to resonate against the American Flags and Protest signs that filled the streets.  How has our government manipulated its way into the hearts of innocent Americans?  When California overturned the ban on Gay marriage in early 2008, it was believed that the gay sector had made a large leap in the development of a more tolerant and just nation.  Unfortunately, as the polls closed at the end of this election day, in spite of the excitement of our newly elected, African-American President, Barack Obama, it is clear that we still have a long way to go before we can refer to our people as civilized. 

 I don’t believe anyone has the God given right to decide who can marry who.  Nor do I believe it is our place as a society to determine what characterizes a family.  We are a nation that has raised, by far, the most confused and disillusioned generation of young people in American history.  41% of first marriages end in divorce.  The rate of school shootings have increased on an annual level.  Who are we to sit in judgment on the family system, or the deterioration of it for that matter?  I was genuinely impressed by the government’s decision to utilize our childrens education as a veil for the actual intentions of Proposition 8’s overturn.  We wonder about the corrosion of our youth’s moral, yet never seem to question how children might be affected when they are repeatedly exploited by the Republican Party in order to achieve their own personal gain.  For example, the issue of teaching children about gay marriage in school; leave it to the Republicans to generate fear through the utilization of child development and how it could be effected if children are taught about the marriage ceremony of same sex partners .  The part that I find most agitating is that I don't recall ever being taught about marriage , gay or straight, during any of the years of my education, yet this is what they are supposedly trying to protect us from.  Perhaps we should hire an exorcist to be on site at our local schools, in case some poor defenseless child might suddenly be possessed by the gay devil.

The point is, it is completely unconstitutional to remove a right that has been granted to someone; in addition, these are people we are dealing with, not animals, and to separate a classification of American citizens based purely on their sexuality is inhumane and it violates our civil rights. Wikipedia defines Civil Rights as a “class of rights ensuring things such as the protection of peoples' physical integrity; procedural fairness in law; protection from discrimination based on gender, religion, race, sexual orientation, etc; individual freedom of belief, speech, association, and the press; and political participation.” If we let this breach in the freedoms and liberties of our marriage laws settle into a forgotten issue, than where do we draw the line?  What next?  Will a woman’s right to vote be robbed from her because it threatens the family unit?  Will the abolishment of Jim Crow Laws be overthrown out of fear of interracial marriages compromising the importance of maintaining a distinguishable level of cultural diversity?  As Bob Dylan once asked, “how many times must a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?

LOVE?

Why does loving a man have to be so complicated?  These passionate beginnings are the trap door to a world of questions and self-doubt.  Do we ever know what love is?  Does it even exist?  I imagine it's warmth and familiarity and friendship.  That sounds right, that's what I have.  But in the midst of it all, I feel hateful and tired and completely frustrated.  As a woman, am I just programmed to want and demand what I can not have?  Are we destined for disappointment based on our endless list of needs and expectations?  Hunter never takes me out to restaurants, makes me dinner or surprises me with treats or gifts.  In fact, the entire year and a half we have been together I have payed for my part of every meal we have ever had together.  Rather than courting me, he's simply my tag along.  In return, I have become critical and verbally abusive.  When I was with Narcissus, he took me out to dinner every week, bought me flowers and chocolate covered strawberries, showered me with gifts and surprises, but he was a terrible boyfriend.  He didn't respect me and there was a constant air of condescension about him that always left me feeling 2 inches tall.  Hunter loves me unconditionally.  He listens to and respects me.  I can talk to him about anything and he makes me laugh.  He is loyal and just as anxious to explore what the world has to offer as I am.  So why must I demolish one of the greatest relationships I've ever had simply because I am with a man that is poor and slightly thoughtless.  He is younger than me and, up until a year ago, was an active alcoholic and heroin addict.  Fuck, is patience from me really so much to ask?  Yes, I want it all, I want to bake, have and eat my cake all at the same time, but in regards to demands, when is enough, enough?  If I let myself cherish and love him the way he does me, I think we could be happy, but what if all I am doing is settling?  There seems to be a very thin line between gratitude and personal compromise.  If I appreciate what he has to offer and prioritize my needs in regards to this relationship, does that mean that I am not honoring what I am looking for in a man?  I want to love Hunter, half the time I think he is perfect for me, but the rest of the time I am focused on what I think I deserve.  Really, I'm just a selfish, ungrateful brat.  Honestly, I don't know what I would do with myself if we broke up.  He's just a part of me now and I can't believe I went 28 years not knowing him.

So why am I so unsatisfied?  I have a companion who will do anything with and for me.  Is it really all that bad that I have to plan everything and always pay for my part?  Dam this sucks.  My future is cloudy when I try to picture a life without him in it.  I just want a simple answer; a voice that will tell me what I should and should not do.  They say that's what God is for but She must be working with somebody elses ridiculous problems right now, or maybe there are just way too many people in the world with real, actual issues that need attending, not some stupid, alcoholic, bipolar female who can't seem to make a decision regarding her own love life.  I imagine if God had the time She would take a look at my life and say, "stop wasting your time in front of the computer, go do something fun with your boyfriend and come back to me when you want to cure cancer."

S.O.L.

I've been so strangely uninspired lately.  I would hate to believe I have to suffer in order to be creative.  Life hasn't been painful at all.  Hunter and I have been redecorating and I seem to do well when there is a project at hand.  Although writing itself has been stagnant.  I think Southern California tends to suck any artistic stimulation right out of you.  L.A. and Orange County are like a little, plastic, pink cockroach that feeds off of Mexican food and silicone, shitting out surf board shaped, white, stucco feces all over it's palm tree infested streets.  How can one be honest or interesting in a world where they stage everything from their homes to their alleged natural habitat?  Sometimes it feels as if I'm the only woman in all of Southern California that wears a B-Cup and has an actual bikini line.  Thank God Hunter's not from here.  He shares my distaste for "Bros" and BMWs.  For those of you who don't know, a Bro is a bronze asshole with jet, black hair, who lives in a beach town, surfs, drives an over-sized white pick-up truck, looks like a pin-up model standing in for one of the beach boys and lives under a much overly diluted notion that he crossed over his rite of passage upon exiting the womb.  I don't regret moving here but I can not wait to get out!  Eat my ass Hotel California, don't tell me I can never leave!

Anyways, I'm sorry if I offended anyone, but, if it makes you feel any better, they don't really like me either.  Well, other wise life has been really good.  Although, I hate my job.  I'm a waitress at SOL.  SOL High.  My boss reminds me of Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus. . .but worse.  We call her D.   D for Dragon Lady, Demonic Device, Degenerate, Depraved, Distressing.  D for Drag me naked through the gates of hell on a carpet of hot coal rather than to sustain her presence for more than 5 Dreadful seconds.  If D hates you, which she always does, at one point or another, she will follow you around, yelling at you for every decision you make, action you take, and expression you display.  If she makes you cry, she will yell at you further.  If you apologize she will put you down until you are 8 feet under (because just being good and dead isn't good enough) and then will still not be satisfied.  She has criticized me for the direction I've given someone to the bathroom and once told me off for not knowing what my customer wanted from me prior to my actually asking.  D wants you to suffer for any disappointments you might have caused, to show no fear but always feel threatened, and, at the same time, to constantly entertain her, make her laugh and be her pal.  On top of that she expects each of us to be the head cheerleader and student council president of SOL High.  I guess just being a hard worker and a good waitress is no longer enough in this world.

It really is so much like being in high school again, but worse because I'm an adult and therefore should know by now how to deal with bullying and pettiness.  I don't.  SOL continues to blow my mind in spite of the fact that I've been employed there for over two years.  I don't leave in tears everyday but there is definitely no place on earth that makes me hate myself the way SOL High seems to.  My goal every day is to A: not kill anybody, B: not lose my job and C: not kill myself.  I suppose I should be grateful because I could honestly say that for over two years straight I have managed to, consistently, achieve goals.   Nobody is dead or unemployed because of me, woo hoo!  Yesterday, one of my co-workers, Shrek, decided to ignore me when I had 5 hot plates of food in my hand-I kept calling her name to get her attention and she proceeded to talk to Eeyore and pretend like I wasn't right behind her, then, later on that day, she criticized my work ethic and made a joke about how I'm always standing around.  I stared at her wide eyed and she laughed and said, "I love fucking with you, I really do, it's so fun to see your reaction."  So much for the term "she's not doing it to purposely upset you."  SOL is the job I just can't seem to get away from, no matter how hard I try.  D and her cheer squad are like that bad acid trip in the movie Natural Born Killers, except the acid is 700 pounds of hash browns and the rattle snakes are my co-workers and instead of a shotgun I have 32 bottles of Tabasco and a tumbler full of dull, serrated steak knifes.  And, also, rather than all the annoying characters being brutally shot to death, they live, in good health, and I have to be nice to them and keep a shit eating grin on my face the whole time.

So that is my job and I hope one day not to have it anymore.  Until then, it pays my bills and, supposedly, is teaching me a very important life lesson.  I'm sure, 5 years from now, I will have a strong grip on what that life lesson is, but for now, I just have to keep looking in other directions for happiness and hang on to the hope that there is something better out there for me.

My Final Days at North West Community Hospital

My doctor finally moved me up to level 2 and I was able to participate in group activities again. The night I received the signature I had an unexpected visit from my parents.  I remember the strong sense of duality I felt that stemmed from my hope that they were going to check me out and my fear that they were going to transfer me to a residential home.  Neither of the two situations occurred.  Their visit was to inform me that they were going to separate.  I think, deep down, it didn't really surprise me, but like any stereotypical child who just learned that she had become a member of The Broken Home Society, I assumed it was my fault; had I not created so much stress in their lives, it wouldn't be happening.  I remember the kindness in Dr. M's eyes.  It was the first time I ever noticed that he was capable of something besides ageism and mockery.  He didn't laugh at me that night.

I recovered from that family meeting much easier than I thought I would; there was a new patient in the ward.  I don't remember his name, but, really, does it matter?  It was a he and he distracted me greatly. It might have been John but who really cares, for a brief moment I wasn't in the psych ward and my parents were not contemplating divorce.  For a brief moment I was a 13 year old girl with a crush on a 14 year old boy.  Unfortunately, that didn't last for very long because I discovered, 2 days later,that he had once taken a girlfriend to see The Lion King and, when the movie had ended, He got on one knee and sang The Circle of Life to her in front of the whole audience.  Sometime following that event, his girlfriend broke it off with him and he overdosed.  The mere thought of him putting me through that mortification was enough to bring me back to reality.  Although my life was jam-packed with unpleasantness, at least it was not yet corrupted by a combination of Elton John's downfall and a young romeo in an ugly hospital gown with very bad taste in movies.  Needless to say, it ended abruptly with my fallen opinion of his character and his immediate release.

There was one other that was admitted shortly before I was discharged.  He was not as attractive.  In fact, his first day was spent locked in a room with wall to wall padding and a camera in the corner.  The first hour he spent screaming obscenities and calling the staff a "bunch of fucking porn stars".  As a fairly sheltered 13 year old girl, I thought this was a peculiar insult seeing that porn stars usually had nice faces and large parts that those around them usually valued and enjoyed.  Anyways, he spent the night mooning the camera and giving them the finger.  I have standards and this gentlemen was not what I was looking for.  I don't know what happened to him.

There were a few other experiences that I had during my incarceration.  I had a budding eating disorder and was found exercising at odd hours of the day and night.  With this eating disorder came an ardent sense of perfectionism that had some of the staff a little concerned, I often discarded 3-4 pieces of paper at a time because each time I wrote my name at the top of it, I did not feel it was adequate and decided to start over.  On one occasion, we were asked to cut out magazines images, words and sayings that best described us and we were to put them in the brown paper bag that had been given to each of us to decorate.  I never finished mine because I did not feel any of the cut outs that I had done were suitable for the project and I couldn't seem to get past the decorating of the brown paper bag.  The doctors were unable to tie one symptom to the other, strangely enough, and therefor, my alleged eating disorder was not identified.  This would not be an addressed sickness for another 3 years, as it had not yet completely developed.

When I was eventually released from North West Community Hospital, my dad picked me up and lectured me on how embarrassed I should be for making an attempt on my life and suggested I not tell anybody about it-of course if I had known he would become the kind of man that would go to a beach wearing a neon speedo and a gold chain around his neck I probably wouldn't have taken that statement so seriously.  I spent the next 6 months grounded and was not allowed to make any phone calls.  Dr. G and Dr. M both thought that that would help to surmount any inclination towards manipulative and dishonest behaviors that I may still be entertaining.  I guess that's the way things were handled back then.  I don't blame my parents for their decision, I know they did it to protect me from myself because they loved me.  I do wish that, as a child with a mood disorder, there had been more support and more options available for us back then.  We were not molested or abused in that ward, but we were punished, condemned and chastised for feelings we did not even understand and for a mental illness a lot of us did not even know we had.  I still wonder which of those kids made it and which finally succeeded in ending their lives.  I wonder how many other patients with Bipolar Disorder were treated at NWCH and diagnosed as Manipulators and Narcissists; I wonder how many of them finally got the care that they deserved and how many went on thinking they were bad kids that should keep their feelings to themselves.  I wonder if Charlie finally found his missing chess piece.

I guess worse things could have happened; I could have died way back then and never gotten to watch my little sister grow up; to hear my baby brother speak his first words.  Maybe this is why people have children, to keep them moving, even when they don't want to.  I don't want to have kids because I'm afraid they would turn out like me.  But I don't always feel like there is something there to keep me moving forward today and that really puts a damper on things.  I guess, for this very moment, I get to write and I come home, every day, to Hunter and his sweet smile; I have an uncle and an old friend who inspired me to start this blog in the first place, and I know they are on my side, supporting me, and, for this moment, that makes the day a little easier.

North West Community Hospital Part 2

All of the patients in the adolescent ward were there for depression and for making attempts on their lives.  Charlie was the only one who was clinically out of his mind.  He was 17 years old, tall,thin, had glasses and sandy blond hair.  I believe he suffered from acute, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. . .among other things.  He was admitted for his continual quest for a missing chess piece.  It started when he was in junior high.  One day he wanted to play chess during an in-door recess and discovered that there was a missing piece to the chess board and decided that he was going to find it.  The next 5 years of his life were spent searching for the missing chess piece.  "It had to be somewhere, chess pieces don't just disappear, I knew that if I kept looking, it would turn up, eventually."  In spite of my inability to remember faces, I will never forget Charlie's.  He didn't look anybody in the eye and he smacked his lips together constantly, bobbing his neck back and forth as he sat.

Charlie's mother had him admitted when she felt he was a threat to his own life.  He had suddenly developed an immense regard for the sunlight and decided that, no matter what the circumstances might be, he needed to be beneath it at all times.  He developed a new behavior that involved getting out of the car when they were at a stop light just to sit in a patch of grass that was free of shade.  Around that time, Charlie also began exposing himself to people.  On a few occasions he would step out of the shower, significantly nude, and into the hallway of the ward, yelling "I can't open my shampoo!"  I did not like that.  He had really bad acne and he ate hot dogs provocatively, always bobbing the neck back and forth, in such a way that disturbed even the most innocent of young minds.  He ate them for lunch and dinner, every single day.  I grew up sitting next to my handicapped brother at the kitchen table, staring as his meal ran down his chin with a stream of drool and watching him shoot noodles out of his nose when he laughed, but those meals with my brother pale in comparison to watching Charlie eat those dam hot dogs.

Charlie spent a good portion of his time in the ward sitting in The Chair.  It was a punishment for, either, bad behavior or if a patient failed to get to another level at the the time they were expected to.  I spent 10 days in The Chair, not because of bad behavior, like Charlie, but because my doctor would not give me the signature I needed to move up to level 2.  He felt that my manipulative tactics were not yet subjugated and that as soon as I admitted that all my suicidal, depressive thoughts and behaviors were a direct result of my inability to be honest about my self-seeking motives, than my doctors would consider allowing me to move up to level 2.

North West Community Hospital Part 1

My father was ashamed of me.  I knew this because he told me at one of our family meetings.  He said he had thrown away my brand new roller blades they had bought me for my 13th birthday because I was ungrateful of everything they had given me and I had no value for human life.

This was the third time I had attempted suicide since depression hit me at the age of 9.  It wasn't anything glamorous.  I was 13 and was not yet educated on how to succeed in the art of self-destruction.  All I understood was that I was in pain and no one could help me.  I tried to tell my mom that I wanted to die and she told me that everyone goes through those feelings.  I tried to talk to my friends but they had little advice, being that they were all a bunch of 7th graders.  I tried to tell my therapist but nothing she told me made a lick of a difference.  I was alone and completely tired of it.  I remember feeling trapped, scared and very emotionally driven in an embarrassing way.  I felt like an alien.  I honestly didn't believe I had any other options, although I knew deep down, much like how I feel today,  that I was horribly afraid of death, which left me feeling suffocated.  What does a 13 year old girl do when she wants to die, hates her life, can't talk to anybody and is terrified of death? 

So there I was in our 2nd family meeting, locked up in a cold, hospital psych ward, miserable, afraid and facing a desolate state of persecution.  Juvenile hospitalizations back than (although I am not sure they've changed) did not regard children who were dealing with mental illnesses as vulnerable human beings who were sick and in pain; rather we were viewed as manipulative and unstable.

I had two doctors treating me that were tag teaming every depressed child in the ward.  Dr. G was good cop while Dr. M was bad cop.  Dr. M was Yugoslavian and appeared to view me as a member of a mass, social conspiracy, jumping on the conveyor belt of spoiled dis-ease and insoluble demand.  When he saw me the 2nd day I was admitted he asked me questions such as, "what do you hope to get out of your parents?  You tried to kill yourself, you want big TV or maybe new clothes?"  I tried to explain to him that I wanted nothing out of them but he just laughed at me and shook his head.  Dr. G appeared to be more friendly and willing to listen to where I was coming from, although I had never played these kind of games before.  But when I tried to explain to him why I tried to kill myself, he said to me, "so it appears that you have a very narcissistic and manipulative way about you, I mean, that is why you made an attempt on your life, correct?  To get something out of your parents?"  I said to him, "no sir, I really don't want to live anymore".   To which he responded, with a big smile, a shake of the head and a laugh, "so than you're unstable?  Have you ever considered long term residence, such as a juvenile delinquent center or a residential home, there are some perfect ones for people like you."

This was a no win situation and the beginning of one of the most awful experiences of my life.

Ego Mania and the Art of Choosing the Perfect Wind Chimes

All I could say was "o.k."  I wanted to scream at him, to blame it all on him.  To make it all about him and not me for just one god dam second.  He asked his kind questions and I gave my hidden answers:
"How do you feel?"
"ok" - I hate myself
"ok" - I don't know who I am
"ok" -I'm so pathetic
"ok" - I can't keep doing this
"ok" - I have no confidence
"ok" - I hate me
"ok" - I hate you
"ok" - Go to hell you can't help me                                                                                                                
"ok" - For just once could I not be the lost, emotional, ridiculous excuse for a human being that I constantly feel like!!!!!????  Or am.
I listen to those dam wind chimes on my back porch and am not quiet sure if I dislike them for being a potential disturbance to my neighbors or if I dislike them because I simply just dislike them, as a person, with an opinion.  Sometimes it seems as if I don't know what part of me forms thoughts and opinions based on my character and what part of me forms thoughts and opinions based on what I think I should and should not be thinking and feeling.  How terrifying to be a grown woman and not know if I like the sound of wind chimes.  But these particular ones are just so dam loud and disorderly.  It's too much.  So, no, I do not like loud and disorderly wind chimes.  Thank God-an assessment to call my own.  One down, 974 million to go.

Seriously though, I don't want to be indifferent.  If I did I would not be vying for a fight.  I just want the confidence that everyone around me seems to either have or successfully fake so gracefully.  Sometimes I compare myself to the everyday film, usually it's a dramatic comedy, they're easy.  And I try to pinpoint which character I would be, just to have something to compare to so that if I were an outsider, looking in, I could know what I would think of me.  I'm not aiming for the hero or even the lead role-though that would be a perk-I just want to be tolerable.  I mean I certainly don't want to be the character that everyone dreads having to stare at for another 87 God forsaken minutes.  So I wonder to myself, would you feel a sense of grace or humanity towards this person?  Would you be able to relate to her thoughts and feelings?  Would you forgive, love, or at least appreciate her existence?  Or is she the character you keep hoping will get hit by a garbage truck at the end of the film for the sake of comic relief?  Or worse, does my character not exist because the public is not interested in seeing that classification of crazy, because she's just too painfully annoying and pathetic to have to see on the large screen!  Fuck, I sound like such an ego maniac.  I guess what it comes down to is that I just want a happy ending.  You know the ones with the really awesome happy ending song, like Cat Stevens, If You Want to Sing Out Sing Out, and the audience all nodding their heads in grateful approval, thinking to themselves, now that's a character I would love to end up like.  Hmm, ok, so in this movie I am the lead role, I guess that was just a given.  Maybe I'm not even crazy, perhaps i just give too much credence to that petty, overly analytical head of mine.  Ya, right, I'm not so delusional that I don't think that every person doesn't tell themselves that statement at least once a week.

I just want confidence, even if it's over confidence.  AA, God, medication, meditation, sex, exercise, yoga, therapy, healthy diet, hobbies-check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check!  Where is the relief?  I want something lasting and hopeful.  Something that does not end in me, a garbage truck and a delighted applause from an amused audience.

My Fabulous Feet

I took a bath yesterday and stared long and hard at my feet and decided that they are fabulous.  They were definitely inspired by the stone age era.  Fred Flinstone's narrow-toed sexy older sister.  They are wide; solid as a rock.  No swaying or imbalance going on here.  A California earth quake couldn't knock this one down.  But I have a lovely arch, from my gymnastics days, you could slip and slide right under them with out so much as a giggle out of me (did I mention they are ticklish?).  Yes, they really are lovely.  My toes are narrow and I have perfectly proportioned nails, although they have no polish on them, I like to sport the little crustaceans Agrarian Style.  Although there's an inherent veinyness at the Dorsums which kind of resemble a dick, I still stand by my opening statement, my feet are fabulous.

The Battle Between Me, PMS, and the Boring, Narrow Minded Bitch in My Head

Yesterday Hunter and I got into an argument about who was more daring.  He seems to think, that of the two of us, I am far more cautious.  Then I asked him if he thought I was a narrow minded bitch-because I can be-and he said no.  So I asked him if he could understand why I would think he might view me as a narrow minded bitch and he said yes.  So then we got into another argument because I said that he accused me of being a boring, overly cautious, narrow minded bitch.  Hmmm, as you can see, Hunter didn't stand a chance. 

Friends Forever?

There is tension between one of my closest friends and I.  She recently blew me off with out so much as a phone call, something she has a tendency to do, but I love her and that's just one of her character defects, plus I know I'm not perfect either.  Funny thing is something similar happened with Hunter and a friend of his over the weekend and I just got off the phone with my sponsor who just told me that her and her best friend had a falling out yesterday.

It's so strange what happens to friendships as we get older.  The more depth they have, the more fragile they become.  One fight could sabotage everything.  In all it's strength and intimacy, in spite of the shared experiences and cherished disclosures, a few poorly chosen words could completely devastate all that it represented to begin with.  Really, a friendship isn't much different from a bar of chocolate in the sunlight; it's sweet, solid and easily dissolves if left beneath the heat for too long.  I remember when I was a child, I would get into fights with my friends and I would walk away or talk to someone about it and then, what usually happened is that we would both realize that the joy of the companionship simply outweighed the reason we were upset to begin with.  Perhaps it's the disillusionment that comes with too many broken hearts and promises; I suppose after enough pain, it just feels safer to let go of the friendship all together, but it seems that as adults, when we talk to each other about what a friend might have done, it's more or less for validation, not to be told what we did wrong, and when we walk away, it's usually for good.  I am a difficult person to be friends with and have had to work really hard to maintain, or sometimes, salvage what I have with the women in my life and sometimes it was better to let go but I can't help but wonder at what point in our lives did letting go become so easy?

The Taunting Memories of Mania

I've been taking some new supplements.  I don't think I can ever go off the Lithium but it's the Seroquel that I can't stand.  The sedation, the odd night time behaviour followed by my inability to wake up in the morning, but the worst part of it, the part that I hate more than anything, is the memory loss.  It's bad enough that I feel crazy 95% of the time but then stupid on top of that-really?  I was taking Provigil in the morning to help wake me up and get me out of bed but as a result I felt speedy, kept getting headaches and couldn't quit smoking, which triggered my chronic bronchitis.  Jesus.  So I started taking some supplements for my depression and constant fatigue and I feel wonderful, alive...happy.   But then I begin to wonder, am I too happy?  Am I manic?

I don't feel numb.  I don't feel speedy.  When I got laid off of my full time job on Thursday, my first thought was, how will I deal with this?  What will my plan of action be?  What are the worst case scenarios and how will I cope with them?  It seems pretty dam sane, really.  Yet, one of the girls today at my serving job told me I seem like I'm tweeking.  Yes, I feel giddy and silly and on top of the dam world, but FUCK why the hell not!  I've spent the last 20 years falling in and out of depression and living in blind fear of the next time it would happen again.  Is it so bad to want to enjoy this?!  Maybe I've simply become so jaded by this mental illness that I am just that much inclined to label happiness as mania.  Perhaps I am a little overzealous and unpredictable but there are worse things.  I have memories of my mania and not a day goes by that I am not mortified by them.  If I am manic, God help the people around me.

My Mother's Wedding, July 2000

I refuse to shave my legs, even if I am the maid of honor.  I have principals, she doesn't understand that.  I will shave my arm pits, simply because her and one of the bridesmaids begged me to, but that is as far as I'll go. 

Today she gets married and I will make it more special for her than anyone.  I'm going to help her feel as if my grandpa is still alive and that he is there with her today.  She is going to love it!  I made copies of all the pictures of him that I could find and even bought cheap frames so that they stand up nicely, as if he is looking right at her.  This will be the most memorable day of her life, I'll make sure of it.  She needs to know how much I love her.

Finally at the church!  I'm so excited!  I bring my bag full of pictures of my grandpa.  I have 9 total!  That should be enough to surround the entire room.  I walk into the dressing room where her and the bridesmaids are helping her get ready.  It makes me mad, I should be the one by her side helping her get ready.  I'm 19 and just because I was hospitalized twice this year, does not mean I am incompetent.  It's fine, let it go!  I have something better.  I start to run circles around the room placing framed photos of my dead grandfather in every corner and open space I can find.  I tell her he is with her and am sure she will cry tears of joy, then hug me for my thoughtfulness.  Then I stop.  I look around the room at the horrified faces and watch my mother put her freshly makeuped face in her hands as tears start to pull her mascara down her cheeks and she begs me to put them away.  Her bridesmaids stare at me in disbelief.  This is going all wrong.  What did I do? 

I don't want to go back to that, but I ache for a sense of happiness and commonality.  Like those people that walk down the streets smiling as if they are so thankful to be alive.  The people that shake off the negativity as if it were no greater of a threat than a butterfly on their shoulder.  They laugh at objectionable behavior and shed a tear for injustice, but go on their merry way in the end of it all.  The ones who have gifts and know what they are and embrace, nurture, and flaunt them.  Those in this world with one simple, beautiful thought at a time.  To live with out shame would be my greatest achievement and most commendable loss.  Well, perhaps I am on my way, but if not, at least I'll have a dam good story to tell.   

Narcissus Part 2

I wanted so badly to believe that I had found my Garden of Eden.  I was sober and in a relationship with a good looking man who could make me laugh until my sides hurt.  We were in love and already planning our perfect wedding.  Although his impatience and subtle demonstrations of disrespect seemed slightly crooked, I told myself the very words that every woman at some point in her life has found comfort in, This Time Will Be Different.

Prior to Narcissus and the one year I took to "be single and focus on my program"- a piece of direction I took very halfheartedly during that period-I had ended a 3 year relationship with a young artist and musician who had a heart of gold and an intimate affair with Irish Whiskey.  His name was Tom.  Last I heard about him, he had walked into an elderly woman's home in a black out, took off his shirt and than knocked over a lamp well he was trying to find a place to sleep.  Needless to say he was arrested.  I know I loved him.  In spite of how unhealthy we both were, we shared something simple.  Our relationship was characterized by the kind of love and acceptance that grows over time and is not easily compromised.  In so many ways that relationship was healing for me, but, like so many connections between two people that are plagued by alcoholism, it did eventually grow sour.  I wanted to get better and Tom just wanted to keep on drinking.  The end was dramatic, painful and filled with promises and ultimatums.  But the final days left me sick to my stomach and heart broken for the both of us.  Today I look back at that time in my life and know that, more than anything, I just needed to be on my own, but couldn't, simply because the idea of not having a boyfriend and facing, alone, even the most incidental moments that occur through out every day life, seemed unbearable.  I needed men just as much as I needed to drink.  I was a puppet attached to the strings of addiction-shopping, sex, alcohol, drugs, eating disorders-it didn't matter.  I couldn't function without the misguided direction of some form of physical distraction to pull me out of my own self-perpetuating, miserable reality.

So, it turned out, that Narcissus wasn't any different, maybe different wrapping but the same broken gift.  Really we were both broken, with me it was just so much more obvious.  For 9 miserable months we fought and I held on out of fear that this was my last chance, that if I let go I would destroy an opportunity for happiness and the world would never give me another one.  I didn't understand God's will for me in this broken relationship and I did not have faith that there was something better out there.  Fear of loneliness and rejection haunted me.  If our failed relationship was my fault and I let it go and risked losing what I thought was true love, than what would become of me?  I learned three valuable lessons in that relationship; one, that if we are constantly kicking and screaming, begging for happiness in the throws of darkness, than all we will ever find, is darkness; and two, that if my senses are telling me that something doesn't feel right and I keep looking for rightness through the one person who keeps delivering into the palms of my hands, a sense of wrong, than I will never feel balanced; and, lastly, that if I don't know who I am and what I want, I will never be able to share myself with somebody else.  So I said goodbye and it was not pretty, but it was real and it was a decision that was true to my heart and I did not ever have to question if I did the right thing.  I knew that if this relationship was meant to work out, it would.  So I let faith, my friends and family, and the people in AA carry me through one of the most painful experiences of my life.

Narcissus

I returned from Chicago late last night. It really was an amazing trip. I went back to my old home group (a term in AA that we use for our regular meeting that we commit to going to every week) and I had completely forgotten how much love existed between us.  When I first got sober 6 years ago, I walked through those very doors, hateful, scared and unwilling.  It was the last place in the world I had ever wanted to be and, seeing that, for a good portion of my life I viewed AA as a cult, filled with pathetic, weak-minded people who were all just victimizing themselves, I did everything in my power to avoid it at all costs   I tried desperately to appear as if I had everything together, yet, I was dying inside.  I can even remember what I wore that day, practically every woman does.  We can walk into those rooms with dark circles under our eyes, a sad inability to smile, 25 pounds under weight and, in some cases, flaunting the repercussions of our disease through our teeth, hair and swollen liver, but any of us would be damned if we were to show up to our first AA meeting makeupless in a T-shirt and jeans.  Yet, in spite of that, they welcomed me with open arms.  

One of the members of that home group once told me that if a person with a drinking problem takes away the alcohol, he gets healthy, but if an alcoholic takes away the alcohol, he's becomes crazier than ever.  That is how I knew I belonged in Alcoholics Anonymous.  I was selfish, self-centered, dishonest and utterly afraid.  It's said, and I definitely support this theory, that anger is a manifestation of fear, and, being that I wanted to kill everyone that both did and did not come near me, it was easily apparent that I was hopelessly consumed by fear.  I didn't have to be a member of that home group long before I received the nick name "Angry A___".  So I did what any terrified woman in recovery would do, I alienated myself from every female who tried to get close to me and viewed every semi-attractive man- although in some cases even that particular requirement wasn't a necessity-as an opportunity.  I suppose that to some I was the modern day Medusa and to others I was just an easy target.  Either way, I quickly found myself practically friendless and in a terrible relationship.

His name was Narcissus, he had 12 years sober and was very charming.  I actually did what I was supposed to do, I waited until I had a year and finished my 5th step.  Those were both mine and his sponsors terms if both of us wished to pursue a relationship with each other.  It was a mistake though, and if I hadn't been so desperate for a happy ending after so many years of sickness and insanity, I might have seen it.  A lot of people in AA say that people are usually considered newcomers for the first 5 years and, frankly, I couldn't agree more with that statement.  I might have had a year, but I was still out of my mind and lacked the tools I needed to, not only, choose a good companion but to be one as well.  The red flags were waving in all directions and I was high on ADSD, Ardent and Dysfunctional Self-Deception.

To be continued. . . 

Choosing to Live

I know that we all have those weaknesses and limitations that sometimes torment our sanity and threaten our hope for happiness.  I will never claim to hold a stronger knowledge of pain or sadness than others.  All I know is myself and the form the yellow wallpaper takes in my periphery.

I woke up this morning with 3 options haunting my every thought; overdose; go off your meds and leave the country; let them lock you up.  I was crying in what is now my old bedroom and thinking about how many awful memories that very room has been an accessory to in the past 20 years.  The sadness; the tears; it was horrifying.  How could one tiny, unimportant life be filled with such misery?  And if, after all this time, my solution is still limited to the same 3 options, how on earth can I ever claim happiness?  I remember the first time I tried to kill myself I was 10.  It was in this room.  I had a thin rope that was just long enough to wrap around my small, 10 year old neck.  I tried to strangle myself but instead walked away alive, with a cluster of  purple marks all around the skin of my neck.  I was a ten year old amateur who was too depressed to live and too scared to die.  I guess my will to live is much stronger than I give it credit for, because here I am, 19 years later, still contemplating death but unsuccessful to this day.  So I called my therapist and I walked out of my dreadful room.  That was the first step.

On the other side of that door was the familiar sound of my dear friend Joni's voice.  Her and my mom became tight in their 30's and I instantly took a liking to her.  A funny, beautiful, recovered alcoholic with amazing talent and remarkable wisdom, Joni had a way of making sense of the things I had yet to understand.  I had no idea I was bipolar and I certainly didn't think I was an alcoholic, but I related to her in a way I had never related to anybody.  From body image issues to male obsession, she always seemed to know exactly what to say.  So when she came over to pick my mom and I up for lunch the relief was almost instant.

 ". . . I still use you as an example whenever I talk to other women in the program who struggle with bipolar disorder.  You have never allowed yourself to be victimized by it.  To those who are still struggling, you are an example that it is possible to come out the other side.  You were bad, as bad as Jenn, maybe even worse, but you fought it and look at you now, you're living your life, you moved to California, you're in a healthy relationship, you're doing everything you said you wanted to do; you're amazing, you really are.  You're nothing like you used to be."

Funny, about 10 minutes ago, I was.  Jesus, I don't want to be that person again.  I've come so far.  So I pulled my head out of my ass and had a strange realization.  I keep looking for answers but I've been asking myself the wrong questions.  All this time I have been looking, with no success, for an example of a recovered alcoholic that is manic depressive, sane, strong and completely competent.  I've become so diluted by my own frustrations and sense of hopelessness that I have forgotten that that very example I have been searching for, is me.  I owe it to myself, and to the many other people that are struggling with bipolar disorder and alcoholism, to survive, to be a testament to everything we're capable of, and to be that very person that I have so desperately looked for.  All this time she was looking right back at me.

My Hometown

I came home to Chicago to visit my family for the week. . . and my dog, a big fluffy Rottweiler/Lab mix.  I love that dog.  She's a bitch, but I love her. 

Taking her for a walk around the neighborhood was so surreal.  That town was my childhood.  We played Ghost in the Graveyard on cool summer nights and smoked pot at the small park down the street.  Our names are still carved in the gazebo.  It never ceases to amaze me how the nostalgia of youth can be both painful and glorious at the same time.  How different my hometown can look as a child, as a teenager, and as an adult.  Same world, same homes; different people.  As a little girl, I loved this neighborhood; I loved the familiarity and safeness of it all.  I knew the grown-ups around me and felt, with that knowledge, I would always be protected.  As a teenager I hated this neighborhood; the bourgeois, middle class life seemed to threaten the veiled idealism I carried around with me.  But, as an adult, jaded by disappointment and self-doubt, I cherish this neighborhood.  The summer shadows that cast themselves upon the faded pavement, the way the leaves move like velvet through the trees every time the wind picks up.  The quietness of it all.  I used to climb a tree out side our house and stare out at the empty intersection, the way the street lamp cast a warm glow upon it.  I used to get lost in the mere peacefulness of it all.

I wonder if we are forever meant to want what we can't have and to persecute all that's in our grasp; to escape from simplicity out of fear that our lives aren't worth living without the heavy, uneven breadth of complication endlessly aggravating every gift of solidity that rises in it's absence.  I don't know if it is better to yearn and to dream, chasing visions of hope like a feather in the wind or to rest easy and peacefully and to take in what comes without anticipating anything but the warm embrace of consistency; the familiar faces and sunsets that you learn to depend on and know you love. 

I want to be passionate and safe; wild and familiar; to live in a world that is ever-changing but beautifully reliable.  I want to have my cake and eat it too.  But I guess even Utopia wears a poker face.

Procrastination

I wanted to die today.  The feelings of hopelessness were unbearable.  My mother and Hunter always joke about how I have 2 emotions-ecstatic and pissed off.  But depression, that, among them all, consumes me.  So, so regularly.  It swallows me, suffocates me.  I miss being manic.  Those feelings like you could take on the world with just one, tiny, crooked little finger.

I know it's not just me that's struggling.  I spoke to Hunter, my little sister, my grandma and my uncle today.  All of them talked about hopelessness and frustration and fear.  We are living in a time where nobody can depend on much of anything.  The stagnant but powerful feeling of unrest that characterizes America has left us disillusioned, discouraged. . . .unhappy.  Perhaps the knowledge that I'm not alone might just be enough to keep me alive today.  But I'm not sure what will do it for me tomorrow.  So I guess I'll save my dull razors for a rainy day, considering it hardly rains in Southern California, I'm hoping that when it does start to fall, my thoughts will be dwelling on sunnier circumstances.

Finding A Balance

I got into a car accident yesterday.  I might have been hurt.  The doctor says I have whiplash.  I am just desperately trying to give a dam.  Maybe it's the economy; maybe it's California; maybe it's me.  It's amazing how quickly my head takes over.  There is nothing like a big, fat, stereotypical downward spiral to complete an already shitty day.  By the time I was ready for bed last night I had decided that I was going to relinquish all my dreams and just start having babies (I hate children).  I began to wonder if maybe the reason some women choose to give up their career ambitions to have kids and be stay-at-home moms is because it gives them a sense of purpose.  Suddenly you no longer have to worry about who you are, your self-worth, your competence.  You're a stay-at-home mom, you raise children, no questions ask, no judgement placed.  It's the one way ticket out of a land that constantly has you faced with the possiblity of failure and rejection.  In some ways I imagine it's refreshing. 

I've spent the past 30 years chasing my dreams, and all it's done is landed me broke, in a foreign, hostile land, with little to show for myself but a few home made songs and a flea-infested apartment by the water.  I feel as if I've spent the past 2 years in survival mode, every time I finish picking up the pieces from one disaster, another one begins.  Aside from Hunter, all the people I love, who truly love me, are back home.  I'm beginning to wonder what really defines us-the people we love, or the places we go?  I would go crazy, living in one small town for the rest of my life.  But, being so far away from my people, after a life spent longing to feel a part of, the sheer loneliness of it all isn't necessarily keeping me sane.  There has got to be a balance.

Humanity

I have a boyfriend, Hunter.  We moved in together shortly after we started dating.  We met through a mutual friend about a year and a half ago.  Well, actually, it was longer than that.  I guess we met about 2 years ago and sat together at a few AA meetings here and there.  He said he went out of his way to sit by me and that we talked the whole time.  I don't remember.  He said he gave up after he came into a meeting one time and came towards me to say hi and I looked right past him as if we never met.  He then labeled me as just another pretentious, Orange County snob and decided not to bother. 

I lost my ability to recognize faces when I was a little girl.  From what I understand it was a direct result of a series of events that took place, following my brother's accident.  Most of the time I have to meet someone 5 or 6 times before I finally recognize who they are.  It was always a bit of a drag on first dates or those first times I got together with a new friend.  I relied solely on their expression when we made eye contact.  On more than one occasion, when I was feeling confident, I have walked up to someone, positive we had talked a few days ago, called them by what I though was their rightful name and started asking them questions about our last conversation.  Of course the confusion on their face and the fact that they were looking at me like I had a third nostril usually gave it away.  Luckily, since a lot of this happens at AA meetings they just figure I'm high and give me a hug.   I guess the beginning of every relationship and friendship I have ever embarked on was characterized by a series of blind dates.  Perhaps the next time I'm getting together with someone for the first time I will have them wear a carnation in their front pocket.

Nowadays, Hunter stands by my side and reminds me of who people are when they come over to say hi.  I imagine it's what the president feels like at a big event; every few minutes his secretary leans over and whispers names and descriptions in his ear.  Perhaps if I could wipe the confused look off my face and replace it with a far more self-important one, people will have no idea I have an early case of Alzheimer's.

Anyways, by the fourth time I met Hunter I finally remembered him.  We started hanging out regularly because a friend of ours had just been broken up with by her boyfriend of a year.  Our primary goal was to stay near her and keep her from shooting dope or, for that matter, getting back together with the dirt bag that broke her heart.  So we developed our friendship based on a mutual desire to keep a fellow addict from relapsing.  He became my best friend over night.  Being a newcomer in sobriety and 5 years younger than me, I figured it was safe to befriend him since I could not imagine us getting romantically involved.  But we spent every waking moment together; talking until 3 in the morning about everything, laughing, exploring the aspects of Southern California that still have a shred of natural beauty, sharing our experiences, fears, doubts and frustrations.  He was my companion and I was so grateful.  Falling in love with him was so easy.

Now we live together.  We just celebrated our 1 year anniversary.  I have to say, although falling in love with him was easy-it's maintaining that love that feels difficult.  Not because of anything he has ever done or not done, but because I am fueled by my emotions and, on top of that, I struggle constantly with the ability to honor the humanity in the people around me, as they, so eloquently, honor it in me.  If Hunter were perfect, I would be irritated by his excessive perfection.  He accepts everything about me, well I sit there staring at him, pissed off.  I know I am not an easy person to love, but I will keep trying, because what other option is there really?

A Barometer for Normalcy

I wonder what my life would be like if I believed that I was my own barometer for normalcy.  That every choice I made and every action I took was, in my conscience, the perfect action and decision for me.  If the invisible woman whose terms I stand by and whose shoes I walk in, all this time was me.  How do I invite self-improvement and self-acceptance into my life?  Can the two even exist?  It seems so contradictory.  There has to be a balance.  In the mean time, I'm focusing on self acceptance-that will be my self-improvement.

My First Time

I stare at the computer screen, fondling my thoughts and this new phenomena that characterizes American culture.  Are we lonely?  Desperate for a sense of connection?  Perhaps it's my own sense of desperation.  I suppose living in a place like Orange County can do that to a person.  I moved to Long Beach 2 years ago after spending most of my life in Chicago.  I longed to smell the ocean and be at liberty to walk along the beach whenever I pleased.  As a bi-polar alcoholic with, at the time, 4 years of sobriety, I wanted to side swipe my own limitations and prove to myself that, like any hot blooded American, I could chase whatever American dream captured my fancy.  I have no regrets.  After years of going in and out of mental institutions, rehab, battling an eating disorder and alienating myself from friends and loved ones, I felt I owed it to myself to chase whatever ambitions came my way until I found that sense of belonging I spent my life yearning for.  I pride myself on little.  I don't claim to know anything but the knowledge of how much I long to know.  All I have to share is my own experience and tid bits of understanding I have gained as a result of them.  This is my first blog.