When I was a little girl, in spite of my countless fears, there was a safe place for me where I truly believed nothing bad could ever happen. That safe place was my school. With the exception of a few spiders and an innocent fight now and then, I always believed that my refuge could be found within those doors; that, among my teachers and fellow students, within the brick walls that I played, I was some how impervious to danger, death or violence. My heart breaks for the downfall of that sanctuary, the mass disillusionment of our nation's youth, and the lives that went with it.
What will it take for the citizens of this country to stop waging war against the innocent?
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Man Over Board
Vertigo is like battling to cross a ship over choppy seas. Three weeks of feeling nauseous has left me yearning for solid ground. Day after day the world appears to move in front of me like a metronome on crack while I sway like one that desperately needs a new battery.
I started taking Valium for the dizziness about a week ago. It has not suited me. I'm lazy and unmotivated. By the time I get off work all I want to do is sleep. Worst of all is the constant moral dilemma that I tend to experience. The side of me that feels entitled to take more versus the side of me that still feels a certain level of obligation to what I was taught in AA.
I love the way Valium relieves me from giving a dam about anything. Not that my giving a dam is at all related to the love of man kind, although I really wish it was. It's more selfishness combined with an overall sense of fear of what others think of me; how I must look to the rest of the world and how little I truly think of myself. Yet, with the aid of Valium, my thoughts and obsessions not so much evaporate, but rather blend in with their environment. It doesn't necessarily shut anything off, but it dims it just enough. I feel the presence of my thoughts, but I can no longer see them. Blending feels so much safer. To be one of many seems so much easier than being one of few. At least I know where I stand. Its as if, on my own, without that little pill, those same blending attempts are completely useless. If I can't dim the blinding lights of my own thoughts, then no amount of identity alterations will change what I really am . . . just another crazy, sick idiot lost at sea. But, oh well, it's time to turn that light back on and say goodbye to my little friend. I honestly don't know if my brain serves any purpose in life but checking out doesn't seem like much of an answer.
I started taking Valium for the dizziness about a week ago. It has not suited me. I'm lazy and unmotivated. By the time I get off work all I want to do is sleep. Worst of all is the constant moral dilemma that I tend to experience. The side of me that feels entitled to take more versus the side of me that still feels a certain level of obligation to what I was taught in AA.
I love the way Valium relieves me from giving a dam about anything. Not that my giving a dam is at all related to the love of man kind, although I really wish it was. It's more selfishness combined with an overall sense of fear of what others think of me; how I must look to the rest of the world and how little I truly think of myself. Yet, with the aid of Valium, my thoughts and obsessions not so much evaporate, but rather blend in with their environment. It doesn't necessarily shut anything off, but it dims it just enough. I feel the presence of my thoughts, but I can no longer see them. Blending feels so much safer. To be one of many seems so much easier than being one of few. At least I know where I stand. Its as if, on my own, without that little pill, those same blending attempts are completely useless. If I can't dim the blinding lights of my own thoughts, then no amount of identity alterations will change what I really am . . . just another crazy, sick idiot lost at sea. But, oh well, it's time to turn that light back on and say goodbye to my little friend. I honestly don't know if my brain serves any purpose in life but checking out doesn't seem like much of an answer.
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Survival of the Unfittest and the Egyptian Hand-Sewn Tapestry That Will, Most Likely, Never Change My Life
Instincts to me are like this mysterious acquired power; a mystical skill; another fashionable accessory to Darwinism. I hear them spoken of, "what's your instinct telling you?" or "go with your instincts." I just don't get it. My "instincts" are like the head of the Medusa; a thousand little snakes coming from the same damn place, all squirming in opposite directions.
I've continued to cancel plans because my "instincts" tell me that socializing would be a disaster. I eat pizza for breakfast because my "instincts" tell me I need comfort. I move to another city because my "instincts" tell me it would be a fun adventure and that I could handle it, only later do my "instincts" harshly inform me that I made the wrong decision and was actually following my impulses, not my instincts. I drop friends because my "instincts" tell me they're not good for me. I tell people what I think because my "instincts" tell me that I should and then I search for a hole to hide in because my "instincts" tell me I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. Emotional responses, fear, impulses, instincts, reactions . . . am I the only person in this world that feels confused by it all?
I spent an hour picking out a tapestry at a flea market over the weekend after finally accepting that my last poorly chosen, over priced purchase was a massive mistake and stuck out like a big, red, sore thumb in our bedroom. At the time, The Tree of Life seemed like a fantastic idea, especially the turquoise and green one, so much so that I bought the red and orange one instead. I took it home, hung it up over my bed and stared in agony at my big red Tree for a month. After extensive rearranging, 35 different paint swatches and hours on end spent on the computer looking into removable wall paper for our bedroom walls (because the color of the walls were the problem), I decided to take the Tree of Life down. It was making a mockery of our bedroom and taunting me with it's divine, mystical, sacred context.
So I stood in a tent at a flea market next to a very enthusiastic African merchant and stared at 4 tapestries fighting an anxiety attack. There was the yellow and peach one, the bright colorful birds and flowers that lacked symmetry but made up it for it in imagery, the green one with the large butterflies which reminded me of something you'd find at an overly commercialized yoga studio where all the instructors where the same "I love yoga" v-neck t-shirt, and the semi-neutral beige one with black, red and green undertones. I almost bought the bright one with the birds. It seemed right; colorful. Perhaps it would raise my ever-descending mood and part-time suicidal agenda. But was it what I wanted? Would it look good? What would all the other visitors that never come to my house think of it? When I one day have those amazing dinner parties where I'm the life of the party and I share all of the fascinating knowledge I've acquired about politics and women's studies, will this tapestry be consistent with the "I'm totally awesome and have everything together" image I'm trying to portray?
Please, I'm not fooling anyone. I don't cook, never leave the house, I hate people, am bored by politics and can't retain information for the life of me, which totally cancels out the sharing of knowledge since I don't really have any and can't remember what I read on a "store hours" sign 2 minutes ago. Plus, even if I traveled to Egypt and bought a tapestry hand-sewn in pure gold and silk, woven by princesses from the fruits of the Nile, there would not be enough fabulousness in that god dam thing to veil my sour puss ways. But, inevitably, these are still the questions I ask myself. Again, over and over, "what do you like? What do you want? What do you like? What do you want?" and then, "what is the look you are going for? What would be consistent? Fuck, what is the look you're going for? What WOULD be consistent?" Cause, you know, it really helps to emphasize certain words and syllables when trying to establish your identity and make life changing decisions such as what kind of tapestry should be on your ugly bedroom wall.
So, at the very last minute I tossed the blue, asymmetrical birds and bought the beige one. I suffered slight buyers remorse as I placed it on the wall over my bed. If this one doesn't look good, then what?! What does that make me? The bright, asymmetrical birds on the off white wall? The God Damn Tree of Life? Do I trash the tapestry idea all together and hang the fucking head board, ugh but that's far too uniform for my taste. . . right, or is it? Maybe I'm supposed to have a head board at this stage in my life, maybe I am clean cut, sophisticated and structured. Or maybe I'm just a plain white wall with a thousand holes in it.
Medusa leers her ugly head. I have a 100 eyes but none are my own.
I've continued to cancel plans because my "instincts" tell me that socializing would be a disaster. I eat pizza for breakfast because my "instincts" tell me I need comfort. I move to another city because my "instincts" tell me it would be a fun adventure and that I could handle it, only later do my "instincts" harshly inform me that I made the wrong decision and was actually following my impulses, not my instincts. I drop friends because my "instincts" tell me they're not good for me. I tell people what I think because my "instincts" tell me that I should and then I search for a hole to hide in because my "instincts" tell me I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. Emotional responses, fear, impulses, instincts, reactions . . . am I the only person in this world that feels confused by it all?
I spent an hour picking out a tapestry at a flea market over the weekend after finally accepting that my last poorly chosen, over priced purchase was a massive mistake and stuck out like a big, red, sore thumb in our bedroom. At the time, The Tree of Life seemed like a fantastic idea, especially the turquoise and green one, so much so that I bought the red and orange one instead. I took it home, hung it up over my bed and stared in agony at my big red Tree for a month. After extensive rearranging, 35 different paint swatches and hours on end spent on the computer looking into removable wall paper for our bedroom walls (because the color of the walls were the problem), I decided to take the Tree of Life down. It was making a mockery of our bedroom and taunting me with it's divine, mystical, sacred context.
So I stood in a tent at a flea market next to a very enthusiastic African merchant and stared at 4 tapestries fighting an anxiety attack. There was the yellow and peach one, the bright colorful birds and flowers that lacked symmetry but made up it for it in imagery, the green one with the large butterflies which reminded me of something you'd find at an overly commercialized yoga studio where all the instructors where the same "I love yoga" v-neck t-shirt, and the semi-neutral beige one with black, red and green undertones. I almost bought the bright one with the birds. It seemed right; colorful. Perhaps it would raise my ever-descending mood and part-time suicidal agenda. But was it what I wanted? Would it look good? What would all the other visitors that never come to my house think of it? When I one day have those amazing dinner parties where I'm the life of the party and I share all of the fascinating knowledge I've acquired about politics and women's studies, will this tapestry be consistent with the "I'm totally awesome and have everything together" image I'm trying to portray?
Please, I'm not fooling anyone. I don't cook, never leave the house, I hate people, am bored by politics and can't retain information for the life of me, which totally cancels out the sharing of knowledge since I don't really have any and can't remember what I read on a "store hours" sign 2 minutes ago. Plus, even if I traveled to Egypt and bought a tapestry hand-sewn in pure gold and silk, woven by princesses from the fruits of the Nile, there would not be enough fabulousness in that god dam thing to veil my sour puss ways. But, inevitably, these are still the questions I ask myself. Again, over and over, "what do you like? What do you want? What do you like? What do you want?" and then, "what is the look you are going for? What would be consistent? Fuck, what is the look you're going for? What WOULD be consistent?" Cause, you know, it really helps to emphasize certain words and syllables when trying to establish your identity and make life changing decisions such as what kind of tapestry should be on your ugly bedroom wall.
So, at the very last minute I tossed the blue, asymmetrical birds and bought the beige one. I suffered slight buyers remorse as I placed it on the wall over my bed. If this one doesn't look good, then what?! What does that make me? The bright, asymmetrical birds on the off white wall? The God Damn Tree of Life? Do I trash the tapestry idea all together and hang the fucking head board, ugh but that's far too uniform for my taste. . . right, or is it? Maybe I'm supposed to have a head board at this stage in my life, maybe I am clean cut, sophisticated and structured. Or maybe I'm just a plain white wall with a thousand holes in it.
Medusa leers her ugly head. I have a 100 eyes but none are my own.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Borderline
I can't figure out what my life is supposed to look like. I'm not very social, in fact, socializing gives me anxiety attacks. I want to go to parties on the weekends, do interesting things; know the latest trends in art and music; understand just enough about politics to have an intellectual conversation about it, but how do I do these things when I can't even keep in touch with my own family? I hear phrases such as "you only live once" and wonder what that means to me. Everywhere I go I want to be somewhere else and every solution I think I discover turns into something I must recover from. I am desperately, inconsolably, delusionally and, most of all, erratically, uncomfortable.
Three days ago I made a joke at work, today I am still tormented by the idea that it wasn't funny; that it was, rather, inhuman or stupid or selfish on some level. It was none of these things of course but that is the cruel labyrinth that is my mind. I've been wondering a lot why people like me stay alive when we clearly have as much productivity as a banana slug, although even banana slugs are fun to look at. I'm just a 31 year old woman consumed by fear and, apparently, Borderline Personality. The latest diagnosis, well, actually, the latest re-diagnosis.
"a condition in which people have long-term patterns of unstable or turbulent emotions, such as feelings about themselves and others. These inner experiences often cause them to take impulsive actions and have chaotic relationships . . . People with BPD are often uncertain about their identity. As a result, their interests and values may change rapidly. People with BPD also tend to see things in terms of extremes, such as either all good or all bad. Their views of other people may change quickly. A person who is looked up to one day may be looked down on the next day. These suddenly shifting feelings often lead to intense and unstable relationships."
I get it, the term fucked-up just isn't professional sounding enough. Oh well. It's true though, I mean it fits me perfectly. Everything feels like forever, each emotion, good and bad, feels like the most intense and the heaviest of any emotion I've ever experienced, I can't hold on to a single friendship. and I hate myself, with every element that constitutes my existence, I despise who I am. There is no one dumber or more pathetic then me; that's right, I am God's spinning Disappointment. The Christian Right would probably shit themselves. Unfortunately I only give autographs on Leap Year. It's all a bunch of self-deprecating bullshit but it's there whether I wish to write it off as self-deprecating bullshit or not.
Luckily, Hunter refuses to go anywhere, no matter how many times I've tried to push him away, same with my mom. Sometimes I wonder what I would do without their accountability. I wonder if anything else would keep me alive. I hate where I stand in all my relationships; all the people I've pushed away; friends I've lost; loved ones who have given up on me. I sometimes want to go on Facebook and write:
"Don't hate me, I know I don't talk to any of you, it's not that I don't want to, but I may say the wrong thing and leave you to realize that my personality and my mere existence is completely worthless, so consider this a loving favor. Trust me, you'll thank me in the long run. Just stick around, give me a little more time, and one day I'll be able to cross over and join your side. I'll post, with smiley faces and exclamation points 'I TOO AM FABULOUSLY NORMAL, SOCIALLY GROUNDED AND READY TO COMMENT AND TAG AND LIKE AND POKE LIKE THE REST OF YOU!!!!' "
As if Bipolar disorder doesn't suck enough. I've tried every medication under the sun, spiritual programs, changing my diet, exercising regularly, moving out of the state, changing jobs, changing therapist, I've even tried completely ignoring both diagnosis all together, but I never seem to change and this thought process continues to stay stagnant. It's a lonely feeling really. Sometimes I wish I had cancer because then at least I could openly talk about the problem with people and in the end I could just die with dignity and make room for people in this world whose mere presence won't pollute the air. I can't just go up to my friends and say "ya I have bipolar and borderline personality and I seriously think I might slit my wrists in the bathroom tonight, do you have any good home remedies for personality disorders? Or at least some good advice on how to clean up a bloodstained bathtub, my boyfriend is going to need it?"
I'm sorry, being pathetic was never on my list of goals when I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a singer and a writer but now I would just settle for being happy. Is any of this even good enough; my writing, my sadness, the immense lack of purpose in my hopelessness. I search for an end, maybe a beginning, the foundation or the base that all this dark, painful insanity seems to stem from, like dividing the hairs of the beast just to reach the skin. When it grows from all angles, in all directions, like a thousand layers of sharp thorns, finding the root is never as easy as it seems. A personality disorder is the thick, hidden root beneath a thousand layers of sharp thorns. I can not part it as easily as I would like to so I ask for patience within myself that I may one day no longer be buried beneath the sharp layers of anxiety attacks, past wars waged against myself, and the callow time bombs I have to call my emotions. That maybe one day I'll just be me, in proper form, simple, flowing, talking and listening, laughing and crying, sinuously perceptive, grounded, neutralistically hopeful, decidedly, undividedly me.
Here's what I know- I have a new basset hound puppy, a mother that loves me and a boyfriend who would do absolutely anything for me. I can say very little for interesting stories, eventful evenings and nights out with close friends, but I am not going to die today. So I guess that's a start.
Three days ago I made a joke at work, today I am still tormented by the idea that it wasn't funny; that it was, rather, inhuman or stupid or selfish on some level. It was none of these things of course but that is the cruel labyrinth that is my mind. I've been wondering a lot why people like me stay alive when we clearly have as much productivity as a banana slug, although even banana slugs are fun to look at. I'm just a 31 year old woman consumed by fear and, apparently, Borderline Personality. The latest diagnosis, well, actually, the latest re-diagnosis.
"a condition in which people have long-term patterns of unstable or turbulent emotions, such as feelings about themselves and others. These inner experiences often cause them to take impulsive actions and have chaotic relationships . . . People with BPD are often uncertain about their identity. As a result, their interests and values may change rapidly. People with BPD also tend to see things in terms of extremes, such as either all good or all bad. Their views of other people may change quickly. A person who is looked up to one day may be looked down on the next day. These suddenly shifting feelings often lead to intense and unstable relationships."
I get it, the term fucked-up just isn't professional sounding enough. Oh well. It's true though, I mean it fits me perfectly. Everything feels like forever, each emotion, good and bad, feels like the most intense and the heaviest of any emotion I've ever experienced, I can't hold on to a single friendship. and I hate myself, with every element that constitutes my existence, I despise who I am. There is no one dumber or more pathetic then me; that's right, I am God's spinning Disappointment. The Christian Right would probably shit themselves. Unfortunately I only give autographs on Leap Year. It's all a bunch of self-deprecating bullshit but it's there whether I wish to write it off as self-deprecating bullshit or not.
Luckily, Hunter refuses to go anywhere, no matter how many times I've tried to push him away, same with my mom. Sometimes I wonder what I would do without their accountability. I wonder if anything else would keep me alive. I hate where I stand in all my relationships; all the people I've pushed away; friends I've lost; loved ones who have given up on me. I sometimes want to go on Facebook and write:
"Don't hate me, I know I don't talk to any of you, it's not that I don't want to, but I may say the wrong thing and leave you to realize that my personality and my mere existence is completely worthless, so consider this a loving favor. Trust me, you'll thank me in the long run. Just stick around, give me a little more time, and one day I'll be able to cross over and join your side. I'll post, with smiley faces and exclamation points 'I TOO AM FABULOUSLY NORMAL, SOCIALLY GROUNDED AND READY TO COMMENT AND TAG AND LIKE AND POKE LIKE THE REST OF YOU!!!!' "
As if Bipolar disorder doesn't suck enough. I've tried every medication under the sun, spiritual programs, changing my diet, exercising regularly, moving out of the state, changing jobs, changing therapist, I've even tried completely ignoring both diagnosis all together, but I never seem to change and this thought process continues to stay stagnant. It's a lonely feeling really. Sometimes I wish I had cancer because then at least I could openly talk about the problem with people and in the end I could just die with dignity and make room for people in this world whose mere presence won't pollute the air. I can't just go up to my friends and say "ya I have bipolar and borderline personality and I seriously think I might slit my wrists in the bathroom tonight, do you have any good home remedies for personality disorders? Or at least some good advice on how to clean up a bloodstained bathtub, my boyfriend is going to need it?"
I'm sorry, being pathetic was never on my list of goals when I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a singer and a writer but now I would just settle for being happy. Is any of this even good enough; my writing, my sadness, the immense lack of purpose in my hopelessness. I search for an end, maybe a beginning, the foundation or the base that all this dark, painful insanity seems to stem from, like dividing the hairs of the beast just to reach the skin. When it grows from all angles, in all directions, like a thousand layers of sharp thorns, finding the root is never as easy as it seems. A personality disorder is the thick, hidden root beneath a thousand layers of sharp thorns. I can not part it as easily as I would like to so I ask for patience within myself that I may one day no longer be buried beneath the sharp layers of anxiety attacks, past wars waged against myself, and the callow time bombs I have to call my emotions. That maybe one day I'll just be me, in proper form, simple, flowing, talking and listening, laughing and crying, sinuously perceptive, grounded, neutralistically hopeful, decidedly, undividedly me.
Here's what I know- I have a new basset hound puppy, a mother that loves me and a boyfriend who would do absolutely anything for me. I can say very little for interesting stories, eventful evenings and nights out with close friends, but I am not going to die today. So I guess that's a start.
Saturday, September 01, 2012
Diva-Dai-Ahn-My-Asshole . . . Or Something
I would just like to say that people who change their names because they become yoga instructors can suck my ovaries. What the hell is that? Eastern religion teaches us to accept the world around us and to grow in and understand our place in society, yet I watch all these western, white American girls change their identity, abandon their lives to live in pseudo communes and then post all their enlightened experiences on Facebook for the super-unatural world to like, dislike or (woohoo) comment on. It seriously takes everything in me not to punch them hard in their quasi peaceful cyber faces. Isn't the purpose of yoga to connect with the world around you, not separate yourself from it?
Yet: I found God through Downward Dog, now call me Flying Dolphin?
What a better way to dishonor your family than to say, "sorry mom and dad, I know you gave me this great name, but now I'm too spiritual for it because I teach yoga and meditation so I'm moving on to bigger and better names. Except, oops, by the way, you won't ever be able to pronounce it! Love you guys. Oh, and one more thing, can you get me that new $120 yoga mat for Christmas, I spent all my money on teacher training and generic, new age tattoos."
Yet: I found God through Downward Dog, now call me Flying Dolphin?
What a better way to dishonor your family than to say, "sorry mom and dad, I know you gave me this great name, but now I'm too spiritual for it because I teach yoga and meditation so I'm moving on to bigger and better names. Except, oops, by the way, you won't ever be able to pronounce it! Love you guys. Oh, and one more thing, can you get me that new $120 yoga mat for Christmas, I spent all my money on teacher training and generic, new age tattoos."
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Manic Depression Full Speed Ahead
This is not graceful, thought out, or even coherent. Please do not use this post to form any opinions on my abilities as a writer. I have to let this out. I have to scream out loud to an invisible world without worrying if I'll lose a friend, a job, my mom's respect. I just need, for one moment, to rant completely and honestly with out depending on the hope for sanity to get me through it.
Fucking pills. I hate everything about you. The round one takes the depression away but makes me too sedated to function. The oval one gets me out of bed but causes me to smoke and grind my teeth, the pink ones are supposed to stabilize me. And now, you, octagonal little trouble makers. What are your intentions for me?
I'm getting off the seroquel. I hate everything about it except for the fact that the last 7 years I have been less inclined to kill myself than I ever was my whole life. But it causes disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, god knows what else. There's already been a class action law suit against those ignorant, sadistic, money grubbing assholes in the pill pumping department of human abuse and misuse. Without the seroquel I could get up in the morning, but can not sleep at night. When I've tried to go off it on my own, I've spent the nights rolling back and forth in my bed experiencing various odd forms of unconscious psychotic episodes that leave my bedroom strange colors and my thoughts racing in words and phrases that make no sense. The worst was the depression. I thought of every which way I could kill myself. The pain started in my head and worked its way into my chest, my stomach. I think even my vagina hurt. So I went back on it again.
Now a new doctor and new health care, so I'm once again trying to ween off the seroquel as well as the provigil which I've been taking all these years to help with the retched sedation, giving me that boost I need to wake up in the morning.
Now Lamictal, the latest and the greatest with the littlest of side effects. I wondered, through all these changes, what would it be this time, if it would be anything at all. I told myself that I was in a better place, more well rounded, sober, healthier. I hoped that I could get out of this transition alive and with very few consequences. But no. I have gone full force into mania. I can't stop talking, loudly, vulgarly. I stutter. Every fucking word is choppy when I try to let it out. I talk Everywhere. To anyone. I got written up at work today for swearing on the floor in front of customers to my boss. I've never been written up for anything in my entire life. I have always composed myself at this job with dignity and a certain level of professionalism that I've been truly proud of. I can't stop it. I don't even know it's happening until it's too late. The behavior, the fucking behaviour. I should be more collected, more calm, I should know better than THIS. Fucking mania. I thought I won. worst of all, or maybe not, I don't really know what worst of all is, by the end of each day I crash. Every ounce of energy is sucked right out of every pore in my body. All I am is drained. I'm at war with my own brain, my cognitive existence. Bombs and tear gas are going off right inside my head as we speak.
Ugh, how long will this go on for? I hope I get over it before my mom comes to town. She's always embarrassed by my mania. I don't blame her. I am too. Sometimes I love it. I'm funny, witty, fun. Other times I know I'm annoying and out of line. Loud. Obnoxious. Undesirable. Hunter says that it's only when I'm off my meds or making changes in them that he's reminded that I'm bipolar. He says that when I'm stabilized one might think me crazy to even elude to the idea that I have a mental illness. I want to be there. Stabilized. So normal that the people around me would never believe I take lithium for manic depression. Let me be manic though because I know its either this or depression so deep that all I can think about is killing myself. Every single time I've made medication changes it's always one or the other. At least I don't want to die. But God I want the transitional period to be over. Already 2 weeks of this chaos. How much longer can I hold my job if my big mouth won't stop flapping incessantly, loudly, vilely. And the twitching. Oh my god it's so embarrassing! If I could just stop twitching. I'm so tired. It's exhausting trying so hard to act normal. If I could spend the next month only communicating through letters and email. I could think things through, write, edit, reread, write again. No one would judge me or look down on me or think I'm crazy. I need a big dark hole to hide in for a while. Just to get through this. It's been so long since I've had a manic episode I forgot what it felt like. It was fun the first 2 weeks but I don't want it anymore. Please go away mania. Let me be me again.
Fucking pills. I hate everything about you. The round one takes the depression away but makes me too sedated to function. The oval one gets me out of bed but causes me to smoke and grind my teeth, the pink ones are supposed to stabilize me. And now, you, octagonal little trouble makers. What are your intentions for me?
I'm getting off the seroquel. I hate everything about it except for the fact that the last 7 years I have been less inclined to kill myself than I ever was my whole life. But it causes disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, god knows what else. There's already been a class action law suit against those ignorant, sadistic, money grubbing assholes in the pill pumping department of human abuse and misuse. Without the seroquel I could get up in the morning, but can not sleep at night. When I've tried to go off it on my own, I've spent the nights rolling back and forth in my bed experiencing various odd forms of unconscious psychotic episodes that leave my bedroom strange colors and my thoughts racing in words and phrases that make no sense. The worst was the depression. I thought of every which way I could kill myself. The pain started in my head and worked its way into my chest, my stomach. I think even my vagina hurt. So I went back on it again.
Now a new doctor and new health care, so I'm once again trying to ween off the seroquel as well as the provigil which I've been taking all these years to help with the retched sedation, giving me that boost I need to wake up in the morning.
Now Lamictal, the latest and the greatest with the littlest of side effects. I wondered, through all these changes, what would it be this time, if it would be anything at all. I told myself that I was in a better place, more well rounded, sober, healthier. I hoped that I could get out of this transition alive and with very few consequences. But no. I have gone full force into mania. I can't stop talking, loudly, vulgarly. I stutter. Every fucking word is choppy when I try to let it out. I talk Everywhere. To anyone. I got written up at work today for swearing on the floor in front of customers to my boss. I've never been written up for anything in my entire life. I have always composed myself at this job with dignity and a certain level of professionalism that I've been truly proud of. I can't stop it. I don't even know it's happening until it's too late. The behavior, the fucking behaviour. I should be more collected, more calm, I should know better than THIS. Fucking mania. I thought I won. worst of all, or maybe not, I don't really know what worst of all is, by the end of each day I crash. Every ounce of energy is sucked right out of every pore in my body. All I am is drained. I'm at war with my own brain, my cognitive existence. Bombs and tear gas are going off right inside my head as we speak.
Ugh, how long will this go on for? I hope I get over it before my mom comes to town. She's always embarrassed by my mania. I don't blame her. I am too. Sometimes I love it. I'm funny, witty, fun. Other times I know I'm annoying and out of line. Loud. Obnoxious. Undesirable. Hunter says that it's only when I'm off my meds or making changes in them that he's reminded that I'm bipolar. He says that when I'm stabilized one might think me crazy to even elude to the idea that I have a mental illness. I want to be there. Stabilized. So normal that the people around me would never believe I take lithium for manic depression. Let me be manic though because I know its either this or depression so deep that all I can think about is killing myself. Every single time I've made medication changes it's always one or the other. At least I don't want to die. But God I want the transitional period to be over. Already 2 weeks of this chaos. How much longer can I hold my job if my big mouth won't stop flapping incessantly, loudly, vilely. And the twitching. Oh my god it's so embarrassing! If I could just stop twitching. I'm so tired. It's exhausting trying so hard to act normal. If I could spend the next month only communicating through letters and email. I could think things through, write, edit, reread, write again. No one would judge me or look down on me or think I'm crazy. I need a big dark hole to hide in for a while. Just to get through this. It's been so long since I've had a manic episode I forgot what it felt like. It was fun the first 2 weeks but I don't want it anymore. Please go away mania. Let me be me again.
Saturday, July 07, 2012
Hanging on by a Thread
I cut ties with my handicapped brother, Lost, today. I've tried for years to maintain a relationship with him in spite of his bitter and relentless hatred towards my mother and anyone else that refuses to "take his side."
Lost has cerebral palsy. He wasn't born this way. He fell in a pool when he was two and nearly drowned. There was a law suit. He was supposed to be taken care of, financially, for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, drugs, alcohol, sex and the desperate need for acceptance has led him into a dark place filled with the kind of people determined to take advantage of him and take him for all he is worth by any means possible. 3 years of this behavior has resulted in a marriage to a stripper with a criminal record, including assault and battery of a police officer and a "friendship" with a man who was imprisoned for sexually molesting a 9 year old boy. These are vicious people that are evil to the core. After only a year of being married to this dreadful woman, my brother's funds had almost completely diminished. We all began to fear that, if something terrible didn't happen to Lost in the process, he would eventually find himself in a state run facility for the disabled, as my mother does not have either the money or the physical strength to care for my brother on the level he needs to be cared for. Realizing that Lost would not listen to anything she had to say, my mom eventually had to step in, involve the courts, have him deemed incompetent and void the marriage.
Since this has happened Lost has gone on a crusade against my mom, alienating everyone around him and remaining completely incapable of listening to reason on even the simplest of levels. No matter how hard I've tried, I can not talk to him and everything that is said turns into a fight. Even the simplest emails, just an "I love you" or "I'm thinking about you" has transformed into some form of ammunition. Its been an endless source of sadness and frustration for everyone that knows him. I have watched his life crumble like a mountain of sedimentary rock, falling down and turning to dust right before our eyes. I've felt myself lose my balance at the top of it and fall slowly and painfully, waving my arms in the air, desperately grasping for solidity. This man is my older brother, he was my mountain at one point in our lives.
The last straw was yesterday when I went on to Facebook to discover a fresh post written by Lost about the recent death of his dog. It was not a long post, it was initially about his dog, but somehow turned into 3 raving sentences about how it is my mom's fault and how she has ruined his life and all his chances of happiness. I tried to respond with love but it was no use. My words were immediately under attack. This is not my brother.
For 3 years I've tried to remain in his life on some level. I've tried to remain neutral. I've asked him to leave myself and our other siblings out of his problems with my mom and dad, but in the end we have always been dragged back in. He has told me on more than one occasion that if we were not with him, we were against him. The powerlessness of it all could kill me on it's very own. I can do nothing, literally, nothing. It's awful; to watch someone suffer and know you can't reach them. With all solutions exhausted, feeling both indignant and heart broken, I decided to write Lost my last letter:
Dear Lost,
this will be the last letter I ever write to. After this i will never try to contact you again. There are some things I need to say to you before I cut ties with you completely. I would like to start by saying that I am sorry I have made you feel like I have constantly yelled at and talked down to you. I would like to remind you that I have repeatedly asked that you leave me out of everything and allow me to remain neutral. It has only been at the times that you have pulled me in against my will that I have reacted with anger.
I need to remind you that you did not leave mom's house voluntarily, you were kicked out. She specifically told you she didn't want you there anymore and that she didn't want to be in charge of your trust anymore because she was afraid it was coming between the two of you. When you got your own place and asked Brad and Phil to take over your finances, she was the first to support it. She talked extensively about what a great decision it was, that she was proud of you, that she felt it was important that you had your independence and that she was grateful she would no longer have to be in charge of your trust as it was becoming a source of animosity between you and her. She encouraged Brad and Phil to go through with the decision and did what she could to help in the process.
It has only been in the past 3 years that she began to worry about your well being. Your funds were quickly diminishing and she was worried you would wind up in a home or someone would hurt you in another way. For a year I watched her weigh out her options and talk to everyone she knows about what the right thing to do was, as your mother. She witnessed behaviors and actions being taken by others that seemed dishonorable and dangerous to you. She was sick with worry for years and felt like she was a bad mother for not doing anything about it. She knew that as the years went by, she would no longer be able to take care of your physical needs and was terrified that you would have to go to a state run facility if you continued to run out of money to care for yourself. She was also worried that Kasandra and Raymond were taking advantage of you.
When she decided to go to the courts about the situation it was through much consultation and a greatly broken heart because she knew it would result in you hating her for the rest of her life. A a mother, she had to choose between you hating her and you being physically and financially safe. She chose your safety. Please remember that she specifically requested to the courts that she have nothing to do with your money. She asked for a financial guardian to take care of your trust instead. She neither wanted the weight of the financial responsibility nor the consequences of you feeling as if she was in it for the money, this is exactly why she told them she did not want to be in charge of it. Whatever you may think about her decision or her as a person, her intentions were never to take your money from you.
I know you are angry and feel betrayed. I would too. But this a battle no one will ever win. There are no sides and you are fighting an invisible enemy. She did what any mother would have done for the sake of your health and well being. She has done nothing bit desperately try to be a good mom to all of us, even if we have not always liked her decisions. Every decision that was ever made in regards to you was a result of various facts she had collected from numerous people regarding your home life and how your money was being spent. No adult ever completely agrees with how their parents raised them, but almost anyone can look back and know that they did the very best they could. You had food, shelter, luxury and love in your life. Neither mom or dad ever molested, abused or neglected us. We were fortunate to grow up in a home with so much love. There are moments where that love may all we have to go by but we know in our hearts that it was there. I believe we all get to an age where we absolutely have to make the decision to stop blaming those around us and take responsibility for our lives or live in misery and die alone. Those are each and every person's only options.
Your family will always love you and will always be there for you, that is a fact I wish you would acknowledge on a deeper level than what you think you might see in front of you. But we, as your family, do love and care for you, to the point that decisions have to be made that could greatly hurt us on an emotional level. The biggest sacrifice mom ever made was to contact the courts. Every moment of that sacrifice left her in absolute agony over the outcome. She desperately wanted you to be safe and financially secure. I wish with all my heart that you understood that. The anger that you carry with you is not healthy. I wish I could just make all this go away but I can't. There are things about all of this I wish you could see but you are in too deep with your resentment and I know I can't do anything about it.
Again, this is the last email you will ever receive from me; the last time I will ever try to contact you. Whatever war you are waging in your own heart is not one I can or want to be a part of. Please do not respond to this, as I know it will be with hatred. I am asking that you let me go so that I can live my life without the pain of knowing you. I can no longer call you my brother; I don't know you at all the way I once did and, sadly, I don't think I want to. I remember adoring you and looking up to you as a little girl, I would give anything to have that back but the path you've chosen is not one I can take with you.
I will always love you,
but please stay out of my life.
A
Sadly, I found myself checking that thread on Facebook every few hours throughout the day today; wondering what others are saying, how he is responding; reading the other confrontations and arguments; observing the dire attempts of my dear friends and family members to give Lost some sense of reality, or at least a different perspective. I hung on to that last thread knowing that it was the only thing I had left to tie me to him; my last thread of hope that he might see even just a fragment of the truth through the words of others or that I might see in him the person I know that he is. I suppose all I can do is let go. Solid ground is a little painful to face at times and not at all where you would find my brother, but it's where my feet are, where I find the people I love, where life feels real. I would rather be here, than up there hanging on by a thread with him. I will still keep my eyes open though, just in case the universe hands me a rope ladder.
Lost has cerebral palsy. He wasn't born this way. He fell in a pool when he was two and nearly drowned. There was a law suit. He was supposed to be taken care of, financially, for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, drugs, alcohol, sex and the desperate need for acceptance has led him into a dark place filled with the kind of people determined to take advantage of him and take him for all he is worth by any means possible. 3 years of this behavior has resulted in a marriage to a stripper with a criminal record, including assault and battery of a police officer and a "friendship" with a man who was imprisoned for sexually molesting a 9 year old boy. These are vicious people that are evil to the core. After only a year of being married to this dreadful woman, my brother's funds had almost completely diminished. We all began to fear that, if something terrible didn't happen to Lost in the process, he would eventually find himself in a state run facility for the disabled, as my mother does not have either the money or the physical strength to care for my brother on the level he needs to be cared for. Realizing that Lost would not listen to anything she had to say, my mom eventually had to step in, involve the courts, have him deemed incompetent and void the marriage.
Since this has happened Lost has gone on a crusade against my mom, alienating everyone around him and remaining completely incapable of listening to reason on even the simplest of levels. No matter how hard I've tried, I can not talk to him and everything that is said turns into a fight. Even the simplest emails, just an "I love you" or "I'm thinking about you" has transformed into some form of ammunition. Its been an endless source of sadness and frustration for everyone that knows him. I have watched his life crumble like a mountain of sedimentary rock, falling down and turning to dust right before our eyes. I've felt myself lose my balance at the top of it and fall slowly and painfully, waving my arms in the air, desperately grasping for solidity. This man is my older brother, he was my mountain at one point in our lives.
The last straw was yesterday when I went on to Facebook to discover a fresh post written by Lost about the recent death of his dog. It was not a long post, it was initially about his dog, but somehow turned into 3 raving sentences about how it is my mom's fault and how she has ruined his life and all his chances of happiness. I tried to respond with love but it was no use. My words were immediately under attack. This is not my brother.
For 3 years I've tried to remain in his life on some level. I've tried to remain neutral. I've asked him to leave myself and our other siblings out of his problems with my mom and dad, but in the end we have always been dragged back in. He has told me on more than one occasion that if we were not with him, we were against him. The powerlessness of it all could kill me on it's very own. I can do nothing, literally, nothing. It's awful; to watch someone suffer and know you can't reach them. With all solutions exhausted, feeling both indignant and heart broken, I decided to write Lost my last letter:
Dear Lost,
this will be the last letter I ever write to. After this i will never try to contact you again. There are some things I need to say to you before I cut ties with you completely. I would like to start by saying that I am sorry I have made you feel like I have constantly yelled at and talked down to you. I would like to remind you that I have repeatedly asked that you leave me out of everything and allow me to remain neutral. It has only been at the times that you have pulled me in against my will that I have reacted with anger.
I need to remind you that you did not leave mom's house voluntarily, you were kicked out. She specifically told you she didn't want you there anymore and that she didn't want to be in charge of your trust anymore because she was afraid it was coming between the two of you. When you got your own place and asked Brad and Phil to take over your finances, she was the first to support it. She talked extensively about what a great decision it was, that she was proud of you, that she felt it was important that you had your independence and that she was grateful she would no longer have to be in charge of your trust as it was becoming a source of animosity between you and her. She encouraged Brad and Phil to go through with the decision and did what she could to help in the process.
It has only been in the past 3 years that she began to worry about your well being. Your funds were quickly diminishing and she was worried you would wind up in a home or someone would hurt you in another way. For a year I watched her weigh out her options and talk to everyone she knows about what the right thing to do was, as your mother. She witnessed behaviors and actions being taken by others that seemed dishonorable and dangerous to you. She was sick with worry for years and felt like she was a bad mother for not doing anything about it. She knew that as the years went by, she would no longer be able to take care of your physical needs and was terrified that you would have to go to a state run facility if you continued to run out of money to care for yourself. She was also worried that Kasandra and Raymond were taking advantage of you.
When she decided to go to the courts about the situation it was through much consultation and a greatly broken heart because she knew it would result in you hating her for the rest of her life. A a mother, she had to choose between you hating her and you being physically and financially safe. She chose your safety. Please remember that she specifically requested to the courts that she have nothing to do with your money. She asked for a financial guardian to take care of your trust instead. She neither wanted the weight of the financial responsibility nor the consequences of you feeling as if she was in it for the money, this is exactly why she told them she did not want to be in charge of it. Whatever you may think about her decision or her as a person, her intentions were never to take your money from you.
I know you are angry and feel betrayed. I would too. But this a battle no one will ever win. There are no sides and you are fighting an invisible enemy. She did what any mother would have done for the sake of your health and well being. She has done nothing bit desperately try to be a good mom to all of us, even if we have not always liked her decisions. Every decision that was ever made in regards to you was a result of various facts she had collected from numerous people regarding your home life and how your money was being spent. No adult ever completely agrees with how their parents raised them, but almost anyone can look back and know that they did the very best they could. You had food, shelter, luxury and love in your life. Neither mom or dad ever molested, abused or neglected us. We were fortunate to grow up in a home with so much love. There are moments where that love may all we have to go by but we know in our hearts that it was there. I believe we all get to an age where we absolutely have to make the decision to stop blaming those around us and take responsibility for our lives or live in misery and die alone. Those are each and every person's only options.
Your family will always love you and will always be there for you, that is a fact I wish you would acknowledge on a deeper level than what you think you might see in front of you. But we, as your family, do love and care for you, to the point that decisions have to be made that could greatly hurt us on an emotional level. The biggest sacrifice mom ever made was to contact the courts. Every moment of that sacrifice left her in absolute agony over the outcome. She desperately wanted you to be safe and financially secure. I wish with all my heart that you understood that. The anger that you carry with you is not healthy. I wish I could just make all this go away but I can't. There are things about all of this I wish you could see but you are in too deep with your resentment and I know I can't do anything about it.
Again, this is the last email you will ever receive from me; the last time I will ever try to contact you. Whatever war you are waging in your own heart is not one I can or want to be a part of. Please do not respond to this, as I know it will be with hatred. I am asking that you let me go so that I can live my life without the pain of knowing you. I can no longer call you my brother; I don't know you at all the way I once did and, sadly, I don't think I want to. I remember adoring you and looking up to you as a little girl, I would give anything to have that back but the path you've chosen is not one I can take with you.
I will always love you,
but please stay out of my life.
A
Sadly, I found myself checking that thread on Facebook every few hours throughout the day today; wondering what others are saying, how he is responding; reading the other confrontations and arguments; observing the dire attempts of my dear friends and family members to give Lost some sense of reality, or at least a different perspective. I hung on to that last thread knowing that it was the only thing I had left to tie me to him; my last thread of hope that he might see even just a fragment of the truth through the words of others or that I might see in him the person I know that he is. I suppose all I can do is let go. Solid ground is a little painful to face at times and not at all where you would find my brother, but it's where my feet are, where I find the people I love, where life feels real. I would rather be here, than up there hanging on by a thread with him. I will still keep my eyes open though, just in case the universe hands me a rope ladder.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Midwest Heterosexual Meets the East Bay Pansexual Bears
So I've been trying to branch out and make more friends. Although at 30 years old, I've begun to realize I'm more likely to drown in my own bathroom sink than develop healthy friendships with other women. I met 2 girls at Schmeckle's last week who seemed talkative, fun and my age. Their hair was a variety of colors and they both had on combat boots. Now, I usually try to avoid women in mini skirts and combat boots because the ensemble is an oxymoron and I have difficulty trusting a walking contradiction, but I chose to overlook this. We exchanged numbers and decided to have a bite to eat together. I am trying to take more risks, in spite of my exhorting subconscious begging me to stay inside and wait for the alien infiltration to abort their mission. I even told Hunter prior to the get together that I usually think that any woman who wants to be my friend is probably crazy or intends to murder me. But I went. In spite of my trepidation.
I met E.T. and Rosie O' Fuck My Life at a little Farmers Market in North Berkeley to pick out some food and have a picnic in one of Berkeley's many local parks. They spent an hour educating me about produce and cooking as we walked through the market. Not a bad beginning, I'm terrible when it comes to cooking and have never been very good at properly picking fruits and vegetables. Although, after a while I found myself getting antsy and hopeful that the conversation would be a little less one-sided once we finally left the market; every word that came out of my mouth was cut off instantly by 20 minutes of unwarranted, in depth information about each or both of their personal lives. During our shopping excursion, they asked me 3 times what kind of food I like to eat and I never once was able to dispense a full answer. I kept reminding myself that they were helping me, that I needed to be patient and open minded, and that I owed both of them my gratitude for taking the time to teach me about California Cuisine.
When we finally got into the checkout line they asked me what I like to do for fun, I opened my mouth and started to say that I like to write but the moment the word write shot into the air I was stuck digesting another 25 minutes of what an amazing writer E.T. is, the classes she took and how her teacher tried to get her memoir published but E.T. wasn't ready yet. In the midst of hearing everything there is to know about E.T.'s father, the "many lives" she's lived, the places she has lived in and the wisdom and immense maturity she's developed as a result of it all, we had made our way to one of the parks nearby and had found a place to sit and eat. For the second time they asked what I like to do and I mentioned that I enjoy the outdoors which somehow left me voiceless again as Rosie O'Fuck My Life went on for 15 minutes about their room mates.
These are all matters I could have dealt with. So they like to talk-who doesn't; so I can't get a word in edge wise-I probably talk to much anyways. But then I made the biggest mistake of all by asking them how they met. The flood gates opened, loud and unnecessary. Except it wasn't water flowing out of them but rather a high pressure, unending out poor of multi-sexual, quasi-enlightened self-affirmations compounded with a detailed play by play of every sexual endeavor they've ever indulged in that might possibly separate them from the conventionality's of everyday life.
It was awful. I wanted to run but my legs were paralyzed. I was stuck watching a two-woman show wondering how 2 grown adults could be so insane and so ridiculously obtuse to the rest of the world around them. People were every where, CHILDREN were everywhere, as they talked in loud, boisterous tones about dog collars, kink, S&M, and the extent of their Pansexual, Polygamous lifestyles. I actually had to sit their for 30 minutes just listening to them define Pansexuality. They even went in to the Greek definition behind it. Why on earth does anyone think that complete strangers would be interested in those kind of details about someones life unless those strangers were writing an article on the byproducts of sexual disorientation? When I discovered, after the longest 45 minutes of my life, that E.T. and Rosie O'Fuck My Life, were in fact not 30 years old, as I had assumed, but were actually 21 and 23, I did find that the relief was instant. I realized that post adolescent bull shit is a hell of a lot easier to absorb than the idea of two grown women in their 30's making an absolute spectacle of themselves as they try to convince me that their extraordinary life styles are completely beyond their control.
After listening for another 10 minutes about how E.T. has a habit of making her partners fall in love with her and how she is anatomically female but conceptually parthenogenetic, a man with a puppy walked up to us, sat down and I watched as E.T. took her hat off, shook her hair around, and then scooted right into the guy and straddled her legs around his as she started to pet the dog. Then she began to inspect the dogs ass and teeth claiming that she used to work with animals.
For me, this was the end of our horrendous little girl date. At 30 years old, I no longer have the patience or desire to sympathize with the audacious and overbearing identity crises of another. I've been there once before. I picked up my stuff, said I was tired and bolted the fuck out of there.
I met E.T. and Rosie O' Fuck My Life at a little Farmers Market in North Berkeley to pick out some food and have a picnic in one of Berkeley's many local parks. They spent an hour educating me about produce and cooking as we walked through the market. Not a bad beginning, I'm terrible when it comes to cooking and have never been very good at properly picking fruits and vegetables. Although, after a while I found myself getting antsy and hopeful that the conversation would be a little less one-sided once we finally left the market; every word that came out of my mouth was cut off instantly by 20 minutes of unwarranted, in depth information about each or both of their personal lives. During our shopping excursion, they asked me 3 times what kind of food I like to eat and I never once was able to dispense a full answer. I kept reminding myself that they were helping me, that I needed to be patient and open minded, and that I owed both of them my gratitude for taking the time to teach me about California Cuisine.
When we finally got into the checkout line they asked me what I like to do for fun, I opened my mouth and started to say that I like to write but the moment the word write shot into the air I was stuck digesting another 25 minutes of what an amazing writer E.T. is, the classes she took and how her teacher tried to get her memoir published but E.T. wasn't ready yet. In the midst of hearing everything there is to know about E.T.'s father, the "many lives" she's lived, the places she has lived in and the wisdom and immense maturity she's developed as a result of it all, we had made our way to one of the parks nearby and had found a place to sit and eat. For the second time they asked what I like to do and I mentioned that I enjoy the outdoors which somehow left me voiceless again as Rosie O'Fuck My Life went on for 15 minutes about their room mates.
These are all matters I could have dealt with. So they like to talk-who doesn't; so I can't get a word in edge wise-I probably talk to much anyways. But then I made the biggest mistake of all by asking them how they met. The flood gates opened, loud and unnecessary. Except it wasn't water flowing out of them but rather a high pressure, unending out poor of multi-sexual, quasi-enlightened self-affirmations compounded with a detailed play by play of every sexual endeavor they've ever indulged in that might possibly separate them from the conventionality's of everyday life.
It was awful. I wanted to run but my legs were paralyzed. I was stuck watching a two-woman show wondering how 2 grown adults could be so insane and so ridiculously obtuse to the rest of the world around them. People were every where, CHILDREN were everywhere, as they talked in loud, boisterous tones about dog collars, kink, S&M, and the extent of their Pansexual, Polygamous lifestyles. I actually had to sit their for 30 minutes just listening to them define Pansexuality. They even went in to the Greek definition behind it. Why on earth does anyone think that complete strangers would be interested in those kind of details about someones life unless those strangers were writing an article on the byproducts of sexual disorientation? When I discovered, after the longest 45 minutes of my life, that E.T. and Rosie O'Fuck My Life, were in fact not 30 years old, as I had assumed, but were actually 21 and 23, I did find that the relief was instant. I realized that post adolescent bull shit is a hell of a lot easier to absorb than the idea of two grown women in their 30's making an absolute spectacle of themselves as they try to convince me that their extraordinary life styles are completely beyond their control.
After listening for another 10 minutes about how E.T. has a habit of making her partners fall in love with her and how she is anatomically female but conceptually parthenogenetic, a man with a puppy walked up to us, sat down and I watched as E.T. took her hat off, shook her hair around, and then scooted right into the guy and straddled her legs around his as she started to pet the dog. Then she began to inspect the dogs ass and teeth claiming that she used to work with animals.
For me, this was the end of our horrendous little girl date. At 30 years old, I no longer have the patience or desire to sympathize with the audacious and overbearing identity crises of another. I've been there once before. I picked up my stuff, said I was tired and bolted the fuck out of there.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Tackling IT in All it's Glory While Happily Ever After Takes the Guestroom
Hunter and I broke up and for over a week now he’s been sleeping
in the guest room. It’s both awful
and awkward. We have somehow
maintained our sense of partnership but sit, eat and speak only as
friends. I never in my life would
have thought myself capable of this kind of dynamic.
I’ve spent the last 3 years hoping he would work the steps,
face his fears and come out a stronger and more honest person. But that never actually happened. Honesty and courage remained a constant
source of neglect on his part.
Everywhere he went and everything he said I absorbed with
trepidation. Wanting desperately
to believe him and to have faith in what I thought we shared, I often kept my
mouth shut and forced myself to focus on other aspects of my life outside of
his challenges and the denial he seemed to carry with him through his day to day life.
Unfortunately, no matter how happy I thought we were, I
have sat in my own fears, waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. I often attempted to picture what that
would look like and am now stuck staring it in the face. Consequently, all I want to do is
sleep. I’m not even angry. I wish I was because then at least it
would be familiar. This is, more
or less, a cloud; thin, empty, foreboding and, seemingly, invisible to the rest of the
world the closer you get to it.
It feels like I have a 5 ton anchor full of dog shit tied to both my
legs. Every step I take is
overbearing.
Living in limbo is painful and confusing. He says he won’t give up. That he’s going to spend this time working
on himself, facing what he’s spent all these years avoiding and becoming the
honest and courageous man he thinks he’s capable of being. Maybe he will be, but what the hell do
I do in the meantime? I’m too
tired to write, exercise, or even leave the house. I go to work and am terrified that I will either kill
someone or get fired, but am reassured by the fact that I’m too tired to kill
anyone. I need to disappear. I wish I had the kind of money that
would allow me to drop everything and take a vacation somewhere far away from loneliness I feel encased by. No one warns you of the kind of chances you actually take when you choose to pack your life up and leave
everything behind; in the excitement of it all it's hard to imagine what will happen to all of your hope and determination if the shit hits the fan. I think I picture myself a far stronger person than I really am. All I ever think about is the
delusion of Happily Ever After and how each realization that nothing is that
easy leaves me feeling shocked and suddenly aware that I have no one to run
to. No wonder people in their 40’s
laugh at younger generations. How
many times have I stepped out of my life impulsively naive, looking in at it
with the eyes of a foolish romantic thinking that this was it; that the world, in all its sadness and suffering, was powerless
against whatever temporary sense of elation I was grasping on to. I don’t even know what it is; power, success, a sense of
understanding that encompasses life on a spiritual, physical and emotional
level? The only real truth I possess is that I don’t have it. All I have is my teddy bear and a big
empty bed. Neither of which feel
even remotely close to what I probably need right now.
Truthfully I have no idea where Hunter and I will go from here. I know I love him and I honestly believe these matters could be worked out if he did the work, which, apparently, he's been diving into diligently. I just can't keep making the same mistakes and expecting my life to be or look like anything more than what it is. The man I've wanted to marry is afraid of everything and lies over matters that seem ridiculous and don't make any sense to me. And no matter how much I promised myself I would never let my life fall to pieces over a man. . . .I feel very much like my life is suddenly falling to pieces over a man. Funny how quickly that happens and how easily these little vows and promises seem to vanish just when they're needed the most. If this is the universes way of reminding me that nothing in life is permanent then I get it, so what the hell do I do now?
Monday, April 23, 2012
Perfection
Today I took a yoga class and, during shavasana, found myself staring at a vent in the ceiling that was designed in a basic grid pattern; vertical and horizontal lines all spread the same distance apart. It got me to thinking about the concept of perfection. I began to speculate on how much time and effort was actually put into
the construction and installation of that vent all to create a product
that ran in a perfectly calculated, even and precise grid. I realized that, in spite of how well calculated each of those little squares were, they could not possibly be perfect. The metal becomes dented and warped, the little squares start to expand. It made me start to wonder what the meaning of perfection really is. Say a computer can create a perfect design, meaning that every calculation, every picture, is exactly as it was intended to be, but how can it be perfect if it wasn't created by the human hand. With out the sense of connection that comes with personal, physical effort, is it really worth anything at all?
So what is perfection? If it's as far from precision as it is close to the raw, unwelcome flaws of humanity, does it really even exist? I've always put so much pressure on the idea of being perfect, but never quieted my brain long enough to realize that I was constantly trying to meet the standards of an invisible, abstract entity separate from my own beliefs and comprehension. Seems to me it's all a matter of opinion, in which case, I'd say perfection may be everywhere. This girl farted during core training today at the end of a yoga class, I'd say that was perfect. Or the lilacs growing from our neighbors tree and hanging over their wooden fence, just long enough to make it possible to smell them as you walk by. My mother's laugh. The way nature and classical music always seem to move so synchronously together, as if they weren't two completely separate entities. And how my step dad has started to set his phone alarm to remind him to call me every Monday at the same time, that effort and love is impeccable, even if we don't get to talk, the existence of it alone can not be tarnished by anything, because it continues to make me smile. And Hope, hope is always perfect, no matter what discouragements it might collide with, hope can always be met with open arms. I know what perfection is. I am surrounded by it.
So what is perfection? If it's as far from precision as it is close to the raw, unwelcome flaws of humanity, does it really even exist? I've always put so much pressure on the idea of being perfect, but never quieted my brain long enough to realize that I was constantly trying to meet the standards of an invisible, abstract entity separate from my own beliefs and comprehension. Seems to me it's all a matter of opinion, in which case, I'd say perfection may be everywhere. This girl farted during core training today at the end of a yoga class, I'd say that was perfect. Or the lilacs growing from our neighbors tree and hanging over their wooden fence, just long enough to make it possible to smell them as you walk by. My mother's laugh. The way nature and classical music always seem to move so synchronously together, as if they weren't two completely separate entities. And how my step dad has started to set his phone alarm to remind him to call me every Monday at the same time, that effort and love is impeccable, even if we don't get to talk, the existence of it alone can not be tarnished by anything, because it continues to make me smile. And Hope, hope is always perfect, no matter what discouragements it might collide with, hope can always be met with open arms. I know what perfection is. I am surrounded by it.
Removing the Kosher Pickle from My Ass
My friend Swank, from Shmeckles, just dropped by with four new CD's for me of some of her favorite indie bands. She's actually a really awesome person. I was kind of put off by her a few days ago when I took her out for dinner for her birthday. We were talking about our weeks and I mentioned that I spent my day off exhausted and feeling kind of funky and wound up watching a ridiculous amount of Friends episodes and she responded by saying "that's kind of gross." Then later I was telling her about my financial situation and how I need to get out of debt before I can take out anymore loans for this restaurant idea that I have and she started laughing and said, "what are you gonna do, just work at Shmeckles for the next 10 years until you get it paid off!!!???"
I know she didn't mean any harm by it, but I couldn't help but feel a little insulted. I sometimes forget that I'm dealing with a woman who's still in her 20's, who's family helped her through school so she doesn't have to deal with debt and who can now quit her job and focus on her dream of being a potter as a direct result of some rich relatives. I think I'm too hard on people sometimes, especially those that are younger than I am. I forget that our 20's are meant for cockiness, the belief that anything is possible, and the feeling that your way is the only way to live. I was always so caught up in my own self-doubt I think I missed out on that a little, but why ruin it for the rest of them. It's a time I would never go back to but it's also a time for learning and humility. The human experience is so diverse and interesting, nobody deserves to be put in their place or told what they're doing is wrong, it doesn't work anyways. The more I've taken that route the more alienated from those around me I've become. Why dismiss a dear friend because of a few petty insults? Plus, I think she was right about both matters, slothfully watching Friends when I could be writing or making music and trapping myself into the belief that my only option and path to happiness involves another 5-10 years at a job I hate is unproductive. Maybe I could use some of that 24 year old spunk and moxie. I'm starting to think I may have a few full sour, Kosher Shmeckles pickles lodged up my ass somewhere, perhaps it's time to get those dam things out.
I know she didn't mean any harm by it, but I couldn't help but feel a little insulted. I sometimes forget that I'm dealing with a woman who's still in her 20's, who's family helped her through school so she doesn't have to deal with debt and who can now quit her job and focus on her dream of being a potter as a direct result of some rich relatives. I think I'm too hard on people sometimes, especially those that are younger than I am. I forget that our 20's are meant for cockiness, the belief that anything is possible, and the feeling that your way is the only way to live. I was always so caught up in my own self-doubt I think I missed out on that a little, but why ruin it for the rest of them. It's a time I would never go back to but it's also a time for learning and humility. The human experience is so diverse and interesting, nobody deserves to be put in their place or told what they're doing is wrong, it doesn't work anyways. The more I've taken that route the more alienated from those around me I've become. Why dismiss a dear friend because of a few petty insults? Plus, I think she was right about both matters, slothfully watching Friends when I could be writing or making music and trapping myself into the belief that my only option and path to happiness involves another 5-10 years at a job I hate is unproductive. Maybe I could use some of that 24 year old spunk and moxie. I'm starting to think I may have a few full sour, Kosher Shmeckles pickles lodged up my ass somewhere, perhaps it's time to get those dam things out.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Emotional Baggage and the Burning of the Shoulds
Is there some kind of code people have to crack in order to discover the standards of normalcy? Perhaps some secret club you have to be initiated into if you want to feel like an accepted part of society? I watch people around me; some of them look happy, others serious or sad; families that sit in silence while they eat; couples that engage in the kind of conversation and body language I find myself grateful not to be a part of. Like the dude next to me in the tight tee shirt joking about how long the food is taking and how he’s determined to get a free meal. Then there’s the young family, with their toddler sitting next to them playing with a toy phone. Do other people look around and wonder if they’re doing it right? Am I the only person who thinks I should be happy every minute of the day?
How is it I still struggle with this? The worst is trying to understand the kind of relationship I actually want and the kind of relationship I actually have. Hunter has always been my best friend, but never really knew how to be a boyfriend. Flowers and romantic dinners have always gone by the wayside. In the end I suppose that’s all that matters, I mean, having someone to talk to and share your dreams with, someone who knows you and respects you for who you are. But I look at other relationships or even those bullshit ones in movies and on television, and I sometimes doubt us. I find myself wondering if I’m selling myself short by not demanding more than what we have or if I’ve watched way to many god dam romantic comedies. Perhaps it would help if I stopped talking to my little sister, who’s new boyfriend showers her with candy and flowers every chance he gets. I’m lucky if I can get Hunter to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher half the time. The fact is I don’t think he knows how to treat a woman on that level, I’m not sure he ever had much of an example out of his own parents. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never met a kinder, more intelligent, more decent human being, but when it comes to chivalry, he’s missing something that always seems to come so naturally to other men. I obsess about how things are supposed to be with us and wonder if this constant wavering state of uncertainty isn’t as bad as I think it is, or if his lack of chivalry is a characteristic that’s completely overrated anyway. Would things had been different if I had just let Hunter come to me; to take his time and move at his own pace, instead of coming forward with my feelings the second I realized they were there? When I was living in Long Beach, one of Hunter’s, now ex-friends, told him I was boy crazy. I was so insulted back then, but now I suppose there was some truth to it. I was attached to the idea of the perfect relationship, being loved and valued, having someone in my life that I could call my best friend. But I suppose the biggest truth and greatest humiliation in what he said is the “boy” part. Hunter’s friend was spot on about that one; I have spent my life chasing after boys. I’m 30 years old and Hunter just turned 26. He was 24 when we started dating. I’m not going to fall into some wicked, depressed state of morbid reflection over the whole thing; I’m not a pedophile. But I do think I’ve spent my life trying to avoid men who reminded me of my dad. My father was not a bad man, but he definitely engaged in inappropriate behavior. I grew up watching him sexualize every woman around him, including me. He constantly was hitting on girls that were my age, sometimes younger. I was lucky if I could get a friend to spend the night at our house, he made everyone so uncomfortable, something about him just always seemed driven by sex. I remember feeling weary around and avoiding anyone that even appeared to have a man’s build. I always felt safer around thin, scrawny looking guys, like they would never put me in a position that would make me feel the need to escape. Hell, it took me 8 years of knowing my stepfather before I was finally comfortable enough to get in the car alone with him, and he’s a wonderful man.
It’s amazing how these little experiences shape who we are; how our idea of what’s normal hangs like a cloud over our daily comprehension, spreading like fog over our ability to make even the simplest of decisions. I talk in WE but I really don’t know anyone out there that struggles with these feelings, or maybe the normal ones are just smart enough to keep it to themselves. Not me, I publicize it to the world and wonder why it’s so hard to make friends.
Observing those around me, I notice how few people really feel the need to smile for the outside world and if the stage family I always philosophized about was really only my own. I always thought the people around me were so unhappy, but here I am grinning ear to ear for the sake of the rare few that might give a dam and inside I just feel completely unsure of myself.
My life is nothing but a compilation of shoulds layered one on top of the other; a slowly growing wall around my periphery, making it impossible for me to make objective, healthy decisions for myself. Questions like "what I want" and "what I need" are tainted with the many shoulds that leave me feeling hopeless and muddled . If the sun is shining I should be out, if it’s raining I should be watching an inspiring documentary on Einstein or Maya Angelou. If there’s lightning I should write poetry. If I’m broke I should make art. If I’m in a relationship I should make love. If I’m single I should be empowered. If I’m strong I should stay the fuck away from gluten, dairy, and sugar. If I’m rich I should take guitar lessons, build a website and spend my days people watching in Golden Gate Park. If I’m 30 I should be confident, not care what my mother thinks, be too productive to take naps and be everything that I wasn’t in my 20s. But I’m not. And the world continues to rotate on it’s axis, with or with out my idea of success. So in the end, none of it really matters, neither the desperate need for perfection or the fears that always seems to come with it. We’re all alone with our past and the knotted strings of dysfunction that interlace its materialized existence in our lives. As far as I’m concerned all the ‘shoulds’ of the world should really just be thrown into a pile with Hollywood, Hallmark, cosmopolitan magazine, every member of The Tea Party and perhaps the 85% of my brain that clearly doesn’t function properly and we should all just have a big old should-burning bonfire by the water.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Shmeckle's
What is it about restaurant employees that make them so crazy? Every restaurant I have ever worked at has left me surrounded by odd, dramatic, needy or eccentric people. Is it the restaurant environment that makes them that way or are the crazies just magnets to working in the service industry? Perhaps a little self-evaluation may help in answering that, although I'm not really in the mood for rigorous honesty at the moment, at least not about myself. . . .
I work at a Jewish deli called Shmeckle's. That's Yiddish for penis and not the name of the restaurant at all. It's not a bad place to work, the managers treat us really good and the money is reliable. The clientele is rough, "this matzo ball soup tastes nothing like the matzo ball soup my mother made me, it's too salty and you can hardly call these matzo balls!" or "This pastrami is nothing like New York style pastrami and just by looking at it I can already tell that this is not 6 ounces! You need to talk to the owners about not being so greedy. Not to mention, there is a little crack in the center of this plate, I could get salmonella poisoning from this. I know it's not your fault honey, but you should talk to the chef about this problem. Also, they didn't trim the salad leaves properly, look at this, they left the stems on this arugula." My favorite was when a couple bought 3 latkes to take home with them and than came back the next day with all 3 of them untouched because they didn't look like the latkes the women's mother used to make for her. I fantasized about shoving those latkes in a place that women's mother had never been to.
I work with a 50 year old dead head with 10 years sober named Need, a Mexican knock out and compulsive liar named Jalapena, a 7' tall homosexual giant named Andre, and a vaingloriously cocky and flamboyant bohemian Potter named Swank. There are quite a few others but I just wanted to provide you with some examples of the kind of people that are contributing to my east bay experience.
Need is like a big, huge 5 year old boy with wrinkles around his eyes and a mouth-full of profanity. When he makes a joke that is funny, he will repeat it to you for the next hour, jabbing you with his elbow and chuckling incessantly, hoping to get another round in. "That was pretty funny what I said huh, 'you can't get around me that easily', ha ha ha, that was pretty funny, eh, you can't get around this belly, ha ha ha, pretty funny right?!" Other times I don't bother laughing at all, which brings forth even greater consequences because than, he not only laughs repeatedly, he tells the joke over and over again and eventually decides to just explain what he meant in the event that I didn't get it the first 5 times he told me. Sometimes I just feel sorry for him, but mostly it's annoying. The worst is the way he talks to people who speak English as a second language. When he communicates to the Mexican support staff, he insists on doing it in broken English with a Spanish accent. "Roberto, Needy needs more cola, more cola for Needy, lemon and lossa ice por favor, no need straw, have one on table." He does this with the customers too, it's like watching a train wreck. I can't imagine what some poor Japanese family that's visiting the U.S. for the first time must think when they have a fat American server in their faces shouting random verbs and nouns at them. I don't get it, do Americans think that if they speak to someone in bad, improper English, it will be more comprehensible?
Sadly, I can't help but picture Need walking around at home with a can of PBR in his hand and a diaper on, blasting Casey Jones and chasing after his poor wife yelling "did you hear what I said? That was pretty funny wasn't it? Did you get that one? Aren't you gonna answer me!?" At least she's not from out of the country, I can't imagine what the sex would be like, "ooh, Needy like you do tha, you is sooo good, you like when Needy do tha? Ya, you wan Needy do more like tha?" Ouch, I think this has gone far enough.
Tomorrow should be interesting, I'm on the floor with both Need and Jalapena. I've got an overgrown 5 year old on one side and Shmeckle's little Mexican Pinoccio on the other. Wish me luck!
I work at a Jewish deli called Shmeckle's. That's Yiddish for penis and not the name of the restaurant at all. It's not a bad place to work, the managers treat us really good and the money is reliable. The clientele is rough, "this matzo ball soup tastes nothing like the matzo ball soup my mother made me, it's too salty and you can hardly call these matzo balls!" or "This pastrami is nothing like New York style pastrami and just by looking at it I can already tell that this is not 6 ounces! You need to talk to the owners about not being so greedy. Not to mention, there is a little crack in the center of this plate, I could get salmonella poisoning from this. I know it's not your fault honey, but you should talk to the chef about this problem. Also, they didn't trim the salad leaves properly, look at this, they left the stems on this arugula." My favorite was when a couple bought 3 latkes to take home with them and than came back the next day with all 3 of them untouched because they didn't look like the latkes the women's mother used to make for her. I fantasized about shoving those latkes in a place that women's mother had never been to.
I work with a 50 year old dead head with 10 years sober named Need, a Mexican knock out and compulsive liar named Jalapena, a 7' tall homosexual giant named Andre, and a vaingloriously cocky and flamboyant bohemian Potter named Swank. There are quite a few others but I just wanted to provide you with some examples of the kind of people that are contributing to my east bay experience.
Need is like a big, huge 5 year old boy with wrinkles around his eyes and a mouth-full of profanity. When he makes a joke that is funny, he will repeat it to you for the next hour, jabbing you with his elbow and chuckling incessantly, hoping to get another round in. "That was pretty funny what I said huh, 'you can't get around me that easily', ha ha ha, that was pretty funny, eh, you can't get around this belly, ha ha ha, pretty funny right?!" Other times I don't bother laughing at all, which brings forth even greater consequences because than, he not only laughs repeatedly, he tells the joke over and over again and eventually decides to just explain what he meant in the event that I didn't get it the first 5 times he told me. Sometimes I just feel sorry for him, but mostly it's annoying. The worst is the way he talks to people who speak English as a second language. When he communicates to the Mexican support staff, he insists on doing it in broken English with a Spanish accent. "Roberto, Needy needs more cola, more cola for Needy, lemon and lossa ice por favor, no need straw, have one on table." He does this with the customers too, it's like watching a train wreck. I can't imagine what some poor Japanese family that's visiting the U.S. for the first time must think when they have a fat American server in their faces shouting random verbs and nouns at them. I don't get it, do Americans think that if they speak to someone in bad, improper English, it will be more comprehensible?
Sadly, I can't help but picture Need walking around at home with a can of PBR in his hand and a diaper on, blasting Casey Jones and chasing after his poor wife yelling "did you hear what I said? That was pretty funny wasn't it? Did you get that one? Aren't you gonna answer me!?" At least she's not from out of the country, I can't imagine what the sex would be like, "ooh, Needy like you do tha, you is sooo good, you like when Needy do tha? Ya, you wan Needy do more like tha?" Ouch, I think this has gone far enough.
Tomorrow should be interesting, I'm on the floor with both Need and Jalapena. I've got an overgrown 5 year old on one side and Shmeckle's little Mexican Pinoccio on the other. Wish me luck!
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Singing in the Rain Amidst the Unwanted Self
The other day I went to a meditation center in this little mountain town called Marin, where Jack Kornfield was speaking. For those who have never heard of him, he has written a variety of books on Buddhism. It was actually a really awesome experience in which he spoke for 2 hours on self-awareness and other related topics. Of course, in the midst of this very spiritual experience, I found myself sitting next to a peculiar woman who went on a rant about her money-grubbing niece and than refused to let me sit in the seat next to her so that I could see the speaker better. Later, I made the mistake of telling her that I had to go to the bathroom and she responded with an extensive dialogue about camels.
I tend to attract insane people into my life and I always wonder why. I'm beginning to realize that I see myself in them and that it bothers me. I guess those people are a lesson for me. Until I can forgive and, possibly, love the person that I am, I will continue to attract representatives of my unwanted self. My mistakes and past behaviors hang over me like storm clouds, and I stand under them, fearfully, waiting for the lightening to strike, desperately trying to shiver away the icy awareness of who I was and who I could easily be. Perhaps if I open my arms and invite it, it wouldn't seem so cold; so despairing; so dangerous. There was a time when I loved the rain; dancing, walking, skipping. There was no place in the world that I would rather be than underneath the cloudy night sky on wet pavement. Now I sit on my couch and look out at it, grateful to be inside. When did everything in life become so intimidating? My goal for this week is to open my arms to to the world and yell "bring it on!"
I tend to attract insane people into my life and I always wonder why. I'm beginning to realize that I see myself in them and that it bothers me. I guess those people are a lesson for me. Until I can forgive and, possibly, love the person that I am, I will continue to attract representatives of my unwanted self. My mistakes and past behaviors hang over me like storm clouds, and I stand under them, fearfully, waiting for the lightening to strike, desperately trying to shiver away the icy awareness of who I was and who I could easily be. Perhaps if I open my arms and invite it, it wouldn't seem so cold; so despairing; so dangerous. There was a time when I loved the rain; dancing, walking, skipping. There was no place in the world that I would rather be than underneath the cloudy night sky on wet pavement. Now I sit on my couch and look out at it, grateful to be inside. When did everything in life become so intimidating? My goal for this week is to open my arms to to the world and yell "bring it on!"
Friday, March 09, 2012
Finding My Voice
I've started working on a series of children's books about my family. I remember when I was a little girl and I went through a phase where I couldn't sleep at night. It started at the age of 9 when I first became aware of my own mortality. It was as if the realization of death was like an endless wave that just kept washing over me, again and again. There was a period where I thought the force of it alone might kill me. Every night I cried, terrified to turn off the light. The idea that I could be alive at that very moment and possibly dead the next was just too much for me to wrap my 9 year old head around. So every night I would lay down in bed with the lights on and reach over to my book shelf and grab 1 of 30 different books from my Berenstain Bears collection. Whether brother bear was visiting the dentist, or mama bear had decided that the family was watching too much T.V., I found my sanctuary in those pages; a sense of safety I could not seem to muster up within myself. The innocence and consistency of it all brought me a sense of peace in those dark moments when I felt I had no control over anything. Jan berenstain died last week and I guess their fundamentalist christian son decided to take over the stories. Go figure, my refuge to ease my fear of death passes on and is replaced by a structural belief system that is constantly trying to divide and conquer it. Oh well.
Anyways, a friend of mine has encouraged me to try and find my voice in these children's books. My hope is to make a new series, one that is more up to date, that will comfort and relate to children in the modern world. I want to acknowledge divorce, diversity, and the common afflictions of everyday life in a manner that will both calm and sympathize. In other words, I want to offer children in todays world a tool that is similar to the one I had when I found myself too scared to close my eyes at night. I'm sure there are other kids out there that are just like I was, although I hope to God not too many, because frankly, those days sucked.
I'm not sure where my voice lies entirely. All I know are my intentions. I think I spent my whole life trying to find my voice. I've begged for consistency and now all I want is multiplicity. Go figure.
Anyways, a friend of mine has encouraged me to try and find my voice in these children's books. My hope is to make a new series, one that is more up to date, that will comfort and relate to children in the modern world. I want to acknowledge divorce, diversity, and the common afflictions of everyday life in a manner that will both calm and sympathize. In other words, I want to offer children in todays world a tool that is similar to the one I had when I found myself too scared to close my eyes at night. I'm sure there are other kids out there that are just like I was, although I hope to God not too many, because frankly, those days sucked.
I'm not sure where my voice lies entirely. All I know are my intentions. I think I spent my whole life trying to find my voice. I've begged for consistency and now all I want is multiplicity. Go figure.
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