I'm not getting worked up about New Year's Eve this year. I've done some housework, ordered a pizza, talked to Tim (about which more in a minute), folded laundry...nothing special, nothing emotional, nothing really even other-than-ordinary. I have some resolutions but they're sort of works-in-progress; some of them, I think, may be too big to fit into one designated night.
Anyway, about the Tim thing: I kinda had to give him a pass when he called a couple of days later and left me a message in which he basically asked questions I'd already answered, claiming to remember nearly nothing about the morning I kicked him out. Further discussion led to the following: "After you invited me out of your place--which was just...unreal to me; I swear I heard Disney music in my head--anyway, I don't remember much of anything except that I somehow ended up downtown and I threatened to beat the shit out of a cabbie because he nearly hit me. I mean, yeah I was drunk, but I STILL had the right-of-way!!!" And of course, he apologized profusely. It's cool, I told him. I know his situation really sucks enormously right now; he's not allowed to be an asshole at my apartment anymore, but if he's willing NOT to be an asshole, he's welcome here. Which is pretty much what I told him. I'm low on friends right now; I'm really not willing to push anyone out of my life.
This year has gone by so fast. Hell, this DECADE has gone by so damn fast; it was nine years ago tonight I really-quit heroin for the first time, and three years tonight since I quit after my relapse. This is generally a good night for me to make big changes, I guess. (Pause, while I redirect my thoughts from another New Year's Eve, seventeen years ago, and how much I wish I had that kind of spirit again. But...yeah. Past and gone, Gladys, past and gone.)
2009. That looks just...astonishing, to me. (And I'm really going to miss writing "2008". I LIKE eights. They're fun to write, like little decapitated snowmen, and I'm kinda bummed that I'm going to have to wait another nine years before I can start writing them again. And maybe when I'm 48 it won't be so much fun anymore.)
When I'm 48....yeesh. Now THAT's one for the let's-not-think-about-it file. I'm still amazed that I'm 38. Is it cliche to say I don't FEEL thirty-eight?? (Fortunately, I don't LOOK thirty-eight, either; people generally peg me somewhere in the late 20's, like 26 or thereabouts. But one of my smaller resolutions for this year involves maybe starting to wear foundation, maybe, just to take the edge off my extreme pinkness. If Bare Minerals drops their price some, maybe.)
I want to do big things this year. I'd be more confident about that, though, if I could get a handle on the little things--getting out of bed before dinnertime on my days off, maybe, or eating meals that don't consist of Froot Loops and Pepsi. Maybe I'd be smarter to tackle the REALLY big things, and take my little comforts where I find them, like in a box with a giant toucan on the front. Who knows?
It's a strange way for me to end a year, really; but since the old ways haven't really served me too well, I'll try this one for a change. But regardless, I wish you all a happy New Year, and hope that all of you have the year you wish for.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
No, Really--I'm SERIOUS.
Well, that was a heckuva holiday.
First off—I was one of the two last living bodies to flee my workplace, at 6:30 PM on Christmas Eve. Now. Let’s look at this through the distant lens of logic, which so seldom is found in my office. My work is dependent on a stream of work tickets. These tickets are provided by the first-line phone support staff, who receive requests for assistance via both phone and e-mail. If there were no first-line staff, work tickets would not be created.
So why in the name of curdled eggnog were we still there at 6:30 PM, a full TWO HOURS after the first-liners had shut off the phone, shut down their e-mail, locked the front door, and fled the vicinity on foot or by wheel???
(Answer: because the boss said we had to be there. Good enough reason, I guess.)
So Mom picked me up from work and we stopped at my place to feed the kits, and I picked up my suitcase and my bags of this and that, and went to spend the night at Mom’s, which is part of our Christmas tradition. And we did our little candle-lighting and our Bible reading, and Mom fixed a fabulous dinner, and we began the other part of our Christmas tradition: the Potato Ceremony. (This is actually part of the _real_ Christmas meal, but the preparations involved are time-consuming enough that we have to start them the night before.) And then Mom went to Midnight Mass, and I turned on WGN’s “Bozo, Gar and Ray” special, and wrapped the one present for Mom which had survived the holiday season intact; and placed it under the tree and went to bed.
And the next day, we opened gifts and finished potato-ing, and then we packed up what seemed like half the food in the house (four trays of twice-baked potatoes, two large cheesecakes, and two containers of strawberry topping, along with a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting) and trekked it down the ice-glazed walks to Mom’s car, and went to The Fun Relatives’ House. (The house belongs to my aunt-in-law; between her and the various people who bring side dishes and desserts, dinner there is a thing of beauty. And they really are fun people.)
Then I went home.
Here was my first mistake:
At about 11:00, later than the usual time that anyone calls me with GOOD news, I picked up the ringing phone to the sound of hysterical male weeping. I mean, just sobbing. My immediate thought was Oh my god, Tim’s cat died. (It was, of course, Tim. Who did you think it would be?) But no—the cat is apparently hale and hardy, though it took some time before I could pick out enough whole syllables to ascertain that such was the case. He was just…bawling. Apparently something something Squeaky’s roommate something mutual friend something tried to tell him but something something and then I just took it straight to him…which I wasn’t proud of but something something….blah blah…probably shouldn’t have called you…I’ll talk to you soon, okay. Click.
Well, I said. That was…perplexing.
At which point the phone rang again. “Listen, G? I’m gonna head out toward you, okay? I mean, it’ll be a while because of the buses and everything, but I’ll keep you posted…”
Oh. Goody.
He showed up at about 3 AM, moderately drunk, as I expected. You know for 100% sure that Tim is drunk when every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is “Seriously?” I guess if you hang around a ditzy twenty-year-old long enough, you get to sounding like one yourself. So anyway—seriously?—he calmed down enough to tell me the story. See, Squeaky’s roommate was a 60-year-old-guy, and—seriously?—he had a crush on one of Squeaky’s friends, who was like 23. Seriously. And so she (the friend) tried to dissuade him (the roomie) and—seriously? (Okay, I’ll stop, I promise. But that’s what the conversation was like—seriously.) And anyway, the roomie didn’t like it, and Tim tried to talk to him and somehow, something just blew up and punches were thrown and the friend fled the vicinity in disgust, and I STILL have no idea what the hell Tim was all hysterical about on that first call, but whatever.
So then we devolved into Various Dark Secrets of Tim’s Past and Present, of which the only one I’m at liberty to disclose is that he’s in love with Betty the Bartender and thinks it’s mutual. But there was a lot more than that, and it was about 5 AM when I finally chugged off to bed. And I was tired. I’d had a very, very busy day, what with the potatoes and the family and the socialization and this and that…
I wanted my peace and quiet, is what I wanted.
Unfortunately, before leaving the room, I had answered “yes” to a very simple, seemingly harmless question: “Hey, G, you mind if I have a shot of your vodka?” I figured, as late in the night as it was, and as stressed as he’d been, he’d have a shot and pass out on the floor for a few hours.
My first notion that this was not going to be the case came when I got up to use the bathroom. “No—wait—don’t go back in the room yet—I want to ask you something—no, seriously—“ He then attempted to stop me from feeding the cats because he didn’t believe “you’ve got them on a schedule? Seriously?” And what, should you ask, was the crucial thing he needed to ask? He needed me to proofread a text-message to Squeaky. And then he came into my room—which from long roommate-ship, he knows is not appreciated—after I’d told him I was tired and I was going back to sleep now, and goodnight.
The next thing I heard was BadCat, yowling and hissing and generally sounding thoroughly outraged, alternating with “Seriously? What. What are you gonna do, huh? Seriously?”
Now, BadCat and Tim are not good friends. BadCat, from kittenhood, has been…concerned…by Tim’s existence. He expresses that concern through loud meows, yowls, and hisses whenever Tim violates his own personal feline zone of no-contact. Even a casual walk-by will elicit a mew of consternation; actual, direct attention gets a concert of yowls and moans and very very unhappy cat noises, increasing in volume. I know those yowls well enough to know that intervention was required.
I opened the door, and Tim was on all fours in the hall, with BadCat backed into a corner. “Dude. Cut it out,” I said. No response. “Dude, I said cut it OUT!” He continued. Finally I stepped forward, put my hand on Tim’s forehead, and pushed. “Tim! Stop it right now. Leave the cat alone.”
“Yeah, okay, sure,” he said. I went back into the room.
Five minutes later, yowl, hiss, meow, Seriously, etc.
The conversation progressed thusly.
“Tim. Leave the cat alone, please. Go to sleep.”
“Tim. Stop it. “
“I’m not kidding. Stop aggravating the cat. You’re pissing me off.”
“You are really, seriously, pissing me off right now, Tim. Go to sleep and leave the fucking cat ALONE.”
And finally, the coup de gras: “You know what? You need to leave now.”
If I thought I’d heard the word “Seriously?” a few times earlier in the evening, it was nothing at all compared to how many times I heard it as he put his shoes on, pulled on a sweatshirt, and picked up his backpack—all in triple-slow motion, because surely I was going to change my mind, right?
I didn’t. Not through “seriously?”, not through “I’m sorry, I’m an asshole,” not through “I thought we had a stronger friendship than that, but whatever.” And he walked out the door in quadruple-slow motion, and it took a good five minutes for him to walk the length of the hallway to the elevator.
And I locked my door, gave BadCat an extra treat for being a trooper, and went to bed.
(He called me about eight times in the next four hours. He left his jacket in my closet, for one thing, and I guess he either wanted to apologize or let me hear him bitching out pedestrians who were cruel enough not to give him a cigarette when he asked. But he also called after he sobered up, and the messages sound, at least, like he recognizes what an ass he was. It’s something, anyhow.)
Christmas, man. What a freakin’ riot.
Seriously.
First off—I was one of the two last living bodies to flee my workplace, at 6:30 PM on Christmas Eve. Now. Let’s look at this through the distant lens of logic, which so seldom is found in my office. My work is dependent on a stream of work tickets. These tickets are provided by the first-line phone support staff, who receive requests for assistance via both phone and e-mail. If there were no first-line staff, work tickets would not be created.
So why in the name of curdled eggnog were we still there at 6:30 PM, a full TWO HOURS after the first-liners had shut off the phone, shut down their e-mail, locked the front door, and fled the vicinity on foot or by wheel???
(Answer: because the boss said we had to be there. Good enough reason, I guess.)
So Mom picked me up from work and we stopped at my place to feed the kits, and I picked up my suitcase and my bags of this and that, and went to spend the night at Mom’s, which is part of our Christmas tradition. And we did our little candle-lighting and our Bible reading, and Mom fixed a fabulous dinner, and we began the other part of our Christmas tradition: the Potato Ceremony. (This is actually part of the _real_ Christmas meal, but the preparations involved are time-consuming enough that we have to start them the night before.) And then Mom went to Midnight Mass, and I turned on WGN’s “Bozo, Gar and Ray” special, and wrapped the one present for Mom which had survived the holiday season intact; and placed it under the tree and went to bed.
And the next day, we opened gifts and finished potato-ing, and then we packed up what seemed like half the food in the house (four trays of twice-baked potatoes, two large cheesecakes, and two containers of strawberry topping, along with a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting) and trekked it down the ice-glazed walks to Mom’s car, and went to The Fun Relatives’ House. (The house belongs to my aunt-in-law; between her and the various people who bring side dishes and desserts, dinner there is a thing of beauty. And they really are fun people.)
Then I went home.
Here was my first mistake:
At about 11:00, later than the usual time that anyone calls me with GOOD news, I picked up the ringing phone to the sound of hysterical male weeping. I mean, just sobbing. My immediate thought was Oh my god, Tim’s cat died. (It was, of course, Tim. Who did you think it would be?) But no—the cat is apparently hale and hardy, though it took some time before I could pick out enough whole syllables to ascertain that such was the case. He was just…bawling. Apparently something something Squeaky’s roommate something mutual friend something tried to tell him but something something and then I just took it straight to him…which I wasn’t proud of but something something….blah blah…probably shouldn’t have called you…I’ll talk to you soon, okay. Click.
Well, I said. That was…perplexing.
At which point the phone rang again. “Listen, G? I’m gonna head out toward you, okay? I mean, it’ll be a while because of the buses and everything, but I’ll keep you posted…”
Oh. Goody.
He showed up at about 3 AM, moderately drunk, as I expected. You know for 100% sure that Tim is drunk when every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is “Seriously?” I guess if you hang around a ditzy twenty-year-old long enough, you get to sounding like one yourself. So anyway—seriously?—he calmed down enough to tell me the story. See, Squeaky’s roommate was a 60-year-old-guy, and—seriously?—he had a crush on one of Squeaky’s friends, who was like 23. Seriously. And so she (the friend) tried to dissuade him (the roomie) and—seriously? (Okay, I’ll stop, I promise. But that’s what the conversation was like—seriously.) And anyway, the roomie didn’t like it, and Tim tried to talk to him and somehow, something just blew up and punches were thrown and the friend fled the vicinity in disgust, and I STILL have no idea what the hell Tim was all hysterical about on that first call, but whatever.
So then we devolved into Various Dark Secrets of Tim’s Past and Present, of which the only one I’m at liberty to disclose is that he’s in love with Betty the Bartender and thinks it’s mutual. But there was a lot more than that, and it was about 5 AM when I finally chugged off to bed. And I was tired. I’d had a very, very busy day, what with the potatoes and the family and the socialization and this and that…
I wanted my peace and quiet, is what I wanted.
Unfortunately, before leaving the room, I had answered “yes” to a very simple, seemingly harmless question: “Hey, G, you mind if I have a shot of your vodka?” I figured, as late in the night as it was, and as stressed as he’d been, he’d have a shot and pass out on the floor for a few hours.
My first notion that this was not going to be the case came when I got up to use the bathroom. “No—wait—don’t go back in the room yet—I want to ask you something—no, seriously—“ He then attempted to stop me from feeding the cats because he didn’t believe “you’ve got them on a schedule? Seriously?” And what, should you ask, was the crucial thing he needed to ask? He needed me to proofread a text-message to Squeaky. And then he came into my room—which from long roommate-ship, he knows is not appreciated—after I’d told him I was tired and I was going back to sleep now, and goodnight.
The next thing I heard was BadCat, yowling and hissing and generally sounding thoroughly outraged, alternating with “Seriously? What. What are you gonna do, huh? Seriously?”
Now, BadCat and Tim are not good friends. BadCat, from kittenhood, has been…concerned…by Tim’s existence. He expresses that concern through loud meows, yowls, and hisses whenever Tim violates his own personal feline zone of no-contact. Even a casual walk-by will elicit a mew of consternation; actual, direct attention gets a concert of yowls and moans and very very unhappy cat noises, increasing in volume. I know those yowls well enough to know that intervention was required.
I opened the door, and Tim was on all fours in the hall, with BadCat backed into a corner. “Dude. Cut it out,” I said. No response. “Dude, I said cut it OUT!” He continued. Finally I stepped forward, put my hand on Tim’s forehead, and pushed. “Tim! Stop it right now. Leave the cat alone.”
“Yeah, okay, sure,” he said. I went back into the room.
Five minutes later, yowl, hiss, meow, Seriously, etc.
The conversation progressed thusly.
“Tim. Leave the cat alone, please. Go to sleep.”
“Tim. Stop it. “
“I’m not kidding. Stop aggravating the cat. You’re pissing me off.”
“You are really, seriously, pissing me off right now, Tim. Go to sleep and leave the fucking cat ALONE.”
And finally, the coup de gras: “You know what? You need to leave now.”
If I thought I’d heard the word “Seriously?” a few times earlier in the evening, it was nothing at all compared to how many times I heard it as he put his shoes on, pulled on a sweatshirt, and picked up his backpack—all in triple-slow motion, because surely I was going to change my mind, right?
I didn’t. Not through “seriously?”, not through “I’m sorry, I’m an asshole,” not through “I thought we had a stronger friendship than that, but whatever.” And he walked out the door in quadruple-slow motion, and it took a good five minutes for him to walk the length of the hallway to the elevator.
And I locked my door, gave BadCat an extra treat for being a trooper, and went to bed.
(He called me about eight times in the next four hours. He left his jacket in my closet, for one thing, and I guess he either wanted to apologize or let me hear him bitching out pedestrians who were cruel enough not to give him a cigarette when he asked. But he also called after he sobered up, and the messages sound, at least, like he recognizes what an ass he was. It’s something, anyhow.)
Christmas, man. What a freakin’ riot.
Seriously.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry...Something.
I hope all of you are having a good holiday.
Me, not so much. I'm stuck working Christmas Eve til 6:30 PM even though there's NO ONE else in the building except me and the few others in my department who share my bad luck.
And yesterday, FedEx delivered the package containing my mom's Christmas present--a mini-DVD player--and by the time I got home, someone had stolen it. Ho ho ho, right? And of course, the security cameras weren't running. After a few hours of trying to find out where it might have ended up, I just accepted fate and forked out another $150-plus for a new one. THIS one gets delivered to Mom's.
People are jerks, you know?
Anyway, I'll be spending the night at Mom's--oh joy!--and we're having Christmas Dinner with the Fun Relatives. So that's a good thing. Maybe I'll feel more Christmasy then; at the moment, though, not so much.
Stoopid thieving bastards. I hope they use it to watch porn and it slams shut on their naughty-bits and chops them off.
As for the REST of you, Merry Christmas (unless you stole my FedEx package, in which case: see above.)
Me, not so much. I'm stuck working Christmas Eve til 6:30 PM even though there's NO ONE else in the building except me and the few others in my department who share my bad luck.
And yesterday, FedEx delivered the package containing my mom's Christmas present--a mini-DVD player--and by the time I got home, someone had stolen it. Ho ho ho, right? And of course, the security cameras weren't running. After a few hours of trying to find out where it might have ended up, I just accepted fate and forked out another $150-plus for a new one. THIS one gets delivered to Mom's.
People are jerks, you know?
Anyway, I'll be spending the night at Mom's--oh joy!--and we're having Christmas Dinner with the Fun Relatives. So that's a good thing. Maybe I'll feel more Christmasy then; at the moment, though, not so much.
Stoopid thieving bastards. I hope they use it to watch porn and it slams shut on their naughty-bits and chops them off.
As for the REST of you, Merry Christmas (unless you stole my FedEx package, in which case: see above.)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Holy Moly Guacamole....
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuude.
They arrested the Governor.
Let me type that again:
They ARRESTED. The fucking GOVERNOR!!! of the ENTIRE STATE!!!!!
Just exactly how dense do you have to be: you're elected as a REFORM governor, because the LAST guy is in jail for official corruption; you KNOW--because EVERYONE IS TELLING YOU--that you're under investigation for all sorts of various shenanigans; and STILL you allow yourself to be AUDIOTAPED--AS YOU TRY TO SELL A SENATE SEAT TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER??? A Senate seat that belongs to the by-god PRESIDENT-ELECT OF THE ENTIRE COUNTRY?????
I think I should maybe calm down.
But:
DUDE.
They arrested the GOVERNOR!!!!!
(Needless to say, I am thrilled; even though he was a Democrat, he certainly wasn't MY type of Democrat--though I'm trying to remember if I voted for him. I don't believe I did, but if he was running in an election I voted in, then I probably did--more shame on me! The man is a pestilence, a parasite, a wart on the butt of a state which already has WAY too many governmental butt-warts in its past. The sooner he resigns, or is impeached, or--preferably!--both, the better off. Though I can't imagine his Lieutenant Governor would be a stunning improvement...hey, I could be wrong.)
They arrested the Governor.
Let me type that again:
They ARRESTED. The fucking GOVERNOR!!! of the ENTIRE STATE!!!!!
Just exactly how dense do you have to be: you're elected as a REFORM governor, because the LAST guy is in jail for official corruption; you KNOW--because EVERYONE IS TELLING YOU--that you're under investigation for all sorts of various shenanigans; and STILL you allow yourself to be AUDIOTAPED--AS YOU TRY TO SELL A SENATE SEAT TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER??? A Senate seat that belongs to the by-god PRESIDENT-ELECT OF THE ENTIRE COUNTRY?????
I think I should maybe calm down.
But:
DUDE.
They arrested the GOVERNOR!!!!!
(Needless to say, I am thrilled; even though he was a Democrat, he certainly wasn't MY type of Democrat--though I'm trying to remember if I voted for him. I don't believe I did, but if he was running in an election I voted in, then I probably did--more shame on me! The man is a pestilence, a parasite, a wart on the butt of a state which already has WAY too many governmental butt-warts in its past. The sooner he resigns, or is impeached, or--preferably!--both, the better off. Though I can't imagine his Lieutenant Governor would be a stunning improvement...hey, I could be wrong.)
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Oh, Yeah--I Forgot...
(See, this is what happens when I don't post in a long time. Things get overlooked.)
I didn't mention the BIG FREAKING DEVELOPMENT:
Tim and Squeaky are mostly-broken-up and (shocker) once again mostly-homeless. AND: Betty (Tim's friend who used to be a bartender at his favorite bar til she got fired several months ago) is apparently travelling with them.
The order of events, as I understand it, went something like this:
Tim and Squeaky had been living with Squeaky's dad for the past year. Squeaky's dad (hereafter abbreviated to SD) has his own issues; he's apparently schizophrenic, along with a bunch of other diagnoses, and so he lives in an apartment subsidized by some church group with which he's affiliated.
Meanwhile, Betty had been staying with her boyfriend, but they got into a huge fight and she left, and SD told Tim and Squeaky "sure, why not, what's another one?" So Betty was staying with Tim and Squeaky.
One night, after some trivial slight, Squeaky just basically flipped the fuck out. (I have this on the authority of both Tim, whose version of the story would be open to doubt, and Betty, who would have no reason to varnish the truth.) She started screaming at Tim "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" and pounced on him, scratching and clawing and strangling and just generally losing her mind. Betty, at the time, was sitting in the living room watching TV with SD, and SD said "What's she doing to him NOW???" (Both Tim and Betty claim that Squeaky's attacked Tim before. I don't entirely doubt it...in fact, I don't doubt it at all.) Betty ran in and pulled Squeaky off Tim, and the screaming and yelling and the rest continued.
Meanwhile, SD had had enough. Now, normally, when people have Had Enough, they yell and make ultimatums and so on. Not SD. SD, when he's Had Enough, checks himself into the hospital for a break. And that's what he did in this case--he left, and went to the hospital, and checked himself in as a psych patient.
Betty and Tim managed to calm Squeaky down, and Tim was of course properly pissed--as who wouldn't be...Anyway, Tim told Squeaky that he was pretty sure that they were all in serious trouble, now that SD had gone to the hospital, and that the next few days would be critical.
Enter the Church Guy. The Church Guy (now CG) is apparently SD's caseworker or whatever; anyway, CG showed up at the hospital and heard SD's story of why he was there, and CG--quite rightly--said "oh HELL no; out they go, the lot of them." And so there they were: Tim, Squeaky, Betty, and two cats, out on the streets two weeks before Thanksgiving.
The first I heard of it was the first day of my vacation, when Tim called. "Um, G?" he asked. "Could me and Betty maybe crash at your place for a day or two?" He told me the story, told me he had "suggested" that Squeaky find somebody else to stay with among HER friends (oh, wait, that's right--she didn't really HAVE any, but fortunately someone she knew from the old days was willing to let her crash there anyway) and emphasized that it was only for a couple of days, that they were working on several other options. That was at about 8 PM, and they said they were "on their way".
They arrived at 4 AM, after several stops and missed buses and pauses at bars and et cetera; they told me the full story, which lasted pretty well til sunrise. Throughout the story, and in fact through the next two days, every conversation was interrupted with the BEEP of either Tim's or Betty's phones, with text messages from Squeaky. She was DETERMINED to get back into their good graces, which--from what I was hearing--was totally NOT going to happen.
Anyway, they stayed three nights, at the end of which it was determined that they REALLY needed to get Betty out of my apartment before her entire head exploded--Betty is HIGHLY allergic to cats!--and so they actually left. They've since been staying here and there, and apparently Squeaky has some roommate situation developing, and though Tim is adamant that he and Squeaky are broken up, apparently they're going to be staying in the same place--all three of them, plus the cats (the cats had been living with SD, and getting fed by CG when he wasn't around--Tim was more worried about the cats than Squeaky, really, and I can't blame him) and Tim may have a job in the works, at last.
Mostly I'm just happy he and Squeaky broke up; I'm pretty sure it's for keeps, too. I have heard Tim at various points in most of his breakups, and I can pretty much tell when he means it and when he doesn't; then, too, Betty is a helpful reinforcement in several ways. One, she loathes Squeaky; two, Tim has had a crush on Betty for quite a while, though it's not reciprocated; three, Betty is pretty much an exemplar of all the qualities which Tim admires and which are completely lacking in Squeaky: Betty is down-to-earth, has street-smarts, is self-sufficent (well, when she has a job!), has a life outside her relationship...I would say "isn't annoying" but...well, Betty is kinda loud and brash, but in a fun way, and she has enough other good qualities that it can be forgiven. And she's smart, too. She actually READS--in fact, she left here with a couple of my books, and when I talked to Tim a couple of days ago I heard her in the background saying "Tell her I need more books!" It's been so long since I've had people around me who READ...like, at least ten years, maybe more. I don't think Tim and Betty will end up together, but it wouldn't be a bad match, if they did.
Really, I'm just glad they're figuring this out on their own, for the most part. Tim, when they were here, made some remarks about how much I've done already, and how he doesn't feel comfortable asking me for any more, in the face of all that; not that I mind helping him, but I'm impressed that he seems to want to handle it without asking me for help. That--like dumping the Squeakster--is a step in the right direction.
I didn't mention the BIG FREAKING DEVELOPMENT:
Tim and Squeaky are mostly-broken-up and (shocker) once again mostly-homeless. AND: Betty (Tim's friend who used to be a bartender at his favorite bar til she got fired several months ago) is apparently travelling with them.
The order of events, as I understand it, went something like this:
Tim and Squeaky had been living with Squeaky's dad for the past year. Squeaky's dad (hereafter abbreviated to SD) has his own issues; he's apparently schizophrenic, along with a bunch of other diagnoses, and so he lives in an apartment subsidized by some church group with which he's affiliated.
Meanwhile, Betty had been staying with her boyfriend, but they got into a huge fight and she left, and SD told Tim and Squeaky "sure, why not, what's another one?" So Betty was staying with Tim and Squeaky.
One night, after some trivial slight, Squeaky just basically flipped the fuck out. (I have this on the authority of both Tim, whose version of the story would be open to doubt, and Betty, who would have no reason to varnish the truth.) She started screaming at Tim "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" and pounced on him, scratching and clawing and strangling and just generally losing her mind. Betty, at the time, was sitting in the living room watching TV with SD, and SD said "What's she doing to him NOW???" (Both Tim and Betty claim that Squeaky's attacked Tim before. I don't entirely doubt it...in fact, I don't doubt it at all.) Betty ran in and pulled Squeaky off Tim, and the screaming and yelling and the rest continued.
Meanwhile, SD had had enough. Now, normally, when people have Had Enough, they yell and make ultimatums and so on. Not SD. SD, when he's Had Enough, checks himself into the hospital for a break. And that's what he did in this case--he left, and went to the hospital, and checked himself in as a psych patient.
Betty and Tim managed to calm Squeaky down, and Tim was of course properly pissed--as who wouldn't be...Anyway, Tim told Squeaky that he was pretty sure that they were all in serious trouble, now that SD had gone to the hospital, and that the next few days would be critical.
Enter the Church Guy. The Church Guy (now CG) is apparently SD's caseworker or whatever; anyway, CG showed up at the hospital and heard SD's story of why he was there, and CG--quite rightly--said "oh HELL no; out they go, the lot of them." And so there they were: Tim, Squeaky, Betty, and two cats, out on the streets two weeks before Thanksgiving.
The first I heard of it was the first day of my vacation, when Tim called. "Um, G?" he asked. "Could me and Betty maybe crash at your place for a day or two?" He told me the story, told me he had "suggested" that Squeaky find somebody else to stay with among HER friends (oh, wait, that's right--she didn't really HAVE any, but fortunately someone she knew from the old days was willing to let her crash there anyway) and emphasized that it was only for a couple of days, that they were working on several other options. That was at about 8 PM, and they said they were "on their way".
They arrived at 4 AM, after several stops and missed buses and pauses at bars and et cetera; they told me the full story, which lasted pretty well til sunrise. Throughout the story, and in fact through the next two days, every conversation was interrupted with the BEEP of either Tim's or Betty's phones, with text messages from Squeaky. She was DETERMINED to get back into their good graces, which--from what I was hearing--was totally NOT going to happen.
Anyway, they stayed three nights, at the end of which it was determined that they REALLY needed to get Betty out of my apartment before her entire head exploded--Betty is HIGHLY allergic to cats!--and so they actually left. They've since been staying here and there, and apparently Squeaky has some roommate situation developing, and though Tim is adamant that he and Squeaky are broken up, apparently they're going to be staying in the same place--all three of them, plus the cats (the cats had been living with SD, and getting fed by CG when he wasn't around--Tim was more worried about the cats than Squeaky, really, and I can't blame him) and Tim may have a job in the works, at last.
Mostly I'm just happy he and Squeaky broke up; I'm pretty sure it's for keeps, too. I have heard Tim at various points in most of his breakups, and I can pretty much tell when he means it and when he doesn't; then, too, Betty is a helpful reinforcement in several ways. One, she loathes Squeaky; two, Tim has had a crush on Betty for quite a while, though it's not reciprocated; three, Betty is pretty much an exemplar of all the qualities which Tim admires and which are completely lacking in Squeaky: Betty is down-to-earth, has street-smarts, is self-sufficent (well, when she has a job!), has a life outside her relationship...I would say "isn't annoying" but...well, Betty is kinda loud and brash, but in a fun way, and she has enough other good qualities that it can be forgiven. And she's smart, too. She actually READS--in fact, she left here with a couple of my books, and when I talked to Tim a couple of days ago I heard her in the background saying "Tell her I need more books!" It's been so long since I've had people around me who READ...like, at least ten years, maybe more. I don't think Tim and Betty will end up together, but it wouldn't be a bad match, if they did.
Really, I'm just glad they're figuring this out on their own, for the most part. Tim, when they were here, made some remarks about how much I've done already, and how he doesn't feel comfortable asking me for any more, in the face of all that; not that I mind helping him, but I'm impressed that he seems to want to handle it without asking me for help. That--like dumping the Squeakster--is a step in the right direction.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
One of My Weird Fixations
Most people who know me well, know that I have an odd range of interests. Stephen King, in a foreword to one of his books, explained it pretty well--it's like everyone has a series of filters in their heads, which all your thoughts and all outside input has to go through. Some ideas pass through the filters and other ideas get caught in them. And what catches in my filter, might pass right through yours, and vice-versa.
When I was much younger, I was a nearly-obsessive keeper of pop music statistics. Every New Years' Eve, I would hunker down in my bedroom with a transistor radio and a portable cassette recorder--this was before boom boxes--and listen to the entire "Big 89 Countdown" on WLS Radio. I would painstakingly write out the list, song by song, as they were played, and I would record the ones I liked, sitting in motionless silence so the tape recorder wouldn't pick up any unwanted noise. At the end of the song I would play DJ, reading off the title and the artist with a sense of deep gravity. I dreamed of a career in radio.
During the other fifty-one weeks of the year, I was no less obsessive. I would pick up the WLS weekly countdown sheet, with the top 45 singles and the top 33 albums, every time I went near a record store, and follow my favorite songs' progress up and down the charts. But even that wasn't enough; though I couldn't afford the $100 for a subscription to Billboard, but I had the next best thing; each Sunday, the Chicago Tribune printed the Billboard Top 10 in their "Arts and Fun/Books" section. I would snip the Top-10 chart out (I left the Country and the Adult Contemporary charts alone--who wanted THOSE?) and add it to my collection.
It was on one of these Sunday-afternoon chart-snipping expeditions that I first encountered the story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels school. I was about twelve years old, and on the same page as that week's charts, there was a review of a book called The Fire That Will Not Die, by Michele McBride, who had survived the fire. I read the review, and somehow the story really hit me hard; maybe because I was twelve years old myself, it caught my interest, and so I mentioned it to my parents, who told me the story.
The story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels is one of those tragic stories which every big city seems to have. Back in 1958, before fire drills were mandatory for schools, and during a time when Catholic schools were mostly filled beyond capacity, a fire broke out in the school basement on a Monday afternoon, about forty-five minutes before dismissal. There was a rule that only the principal could pull the fire alarm, and so was some delay before the Fire Department got there; rather than risk an unauthorized evacuation, the nuns who were teaching the classes told their students to stay in their seats and pray until the firemen came to rescue them. It was the 1950's; children obeyed their teachers, especially Catholic children, especially when the teachers were nuns; in the end, 92 children and three nuns died as a result of the fire.
I was horrified, when I heard the story; I was an obedient child, for the most part, and I couldn't imagine how hard it must have been to stay there. I always wanted to read "The Fire That Would Not Die", but that was awfully harsh reading for someone so young, and so my parents never bought it for me. I tucked the story away in my subconscious, and there it sat for another thirteen years.
Unlike my parents and the rest of their generation, I was fairly uninformed about the Catholic geography system of Chicago--in my parents' day, you were not identified by what neighborhood you came from--Beverly, Marquette Park, Logan Square--but by what parish you lived within--St. Barnabas, St. Rita, and so on. My parents and grandparents could tell you where ANYTHING was, as long as they knew the parish name. I, however, had grown up without that system of landmarks, and so I had no idea, really, where Our Lady of the Angels was located...
...until a late-winter afternoon in early 1995. JP had heard from someone that there was a really incredible heroin spot at Chicago and Lawndale, and so we drove over that way. As usual, we circled the block a couple of times. We pulled around the corner, and on a wall of sky-blue tile, I read the words: Our Lady of the Angels. "Oh my God," I said. JP, of course, had never heard the story; he was the first of several people to whom I'd tell it. It felt strange, to me, circling around the block where so many innocent lives had ended; it felt a little profane, even, to be buying heroin within sight of the building itself. (It wasn't the actual school building as it had stood in 1958; that building had been torn down and rebuilt.) But of course, we continued to do what we were there for; it was just another way the past and the present were dovetailed together.
A few months after JP died, when I was still living at my mom's house and had about four or five months sober, I found that someone had finally made an effort to tell the whole story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels. A book--"To Sleep With the Angels"--was a definitive account of the disaster. It was written by a former fireman, and filled with recollections from people who were actually there, who had survived, or who had lost family members or friends.
Needless to say, I bought the book. Bought, and devoured, and analyzed, and in some cases memorized. My collection of "disaster" books expanded from that point onward, but OLA, as it was called by its students, was always the first story, as far as I was concerned.
December 1st was the 50th anniversary of that fire. In some ways, fifty years seems like an impossibly long time ago; then I consider: The children who were involved in that fire were between 8 and 14 years old. This would make them between 58 and 64 years old now; the survivors, the friends and siblings of the ones who died--even the parents of some of the younger children could conceivably still be alive. Suddenly fifty years isn't that long ago.
We had our yearly fire drill at work this week. As hundreds of people filed out of the building, I heard one of my co-workers say to another "Hey, did you know last week was the 50th anniversary of that fire?" The person to whom he was speaking had no idea what he was talking about, so between the two of us we went on to explain: this is why we have fire drills, fire stairs, panic hardware on the doors. Most of the things we take for granted about fire safety came in part from that fire. There are children in schools in California and New York who have no idea why they have fire drills; fifty-one years ago they wouldn't have had anything to wonder about, because there were no laws mandating such things. (My colleague was unimpressed. "Government intervention at its finest," he concluded, but then again he's a contrarian; we've learned to expect these kinds of comments, from him.)
I don't think about "government intervention", though; I think about ninety-two children and three nuns; about their ninety sets of parents, untold numbers of siblings. I think of the two families who each lost TWO children in the fire--I cannot imagine losing ONE child, let alone two. I think of Mr. Raymond, the janitor, who was blamed for "shoddy housekeeping"; I think of the nameless twelve-year-old boy (now dead) with a history of firesetting, who was widely believed to have set the fire in a trash-barrel in the basement so he could get a day off school. I think of the ones who escaped with burns and broken limbs, and the scars they carried for the rest of their lives; I think of the ones who escaped with no visible wounds, who still panic when they smell smoke, or hear a siren. I think of the hundreds of children who were told "God took them to heaven to be his angels," or "only the good die young"--and who spent the rest of their childhoods wondering why, then, they were left behind.
Many of the friends and families who spoke years later said that the fire was the beginning of the end for that neighborhood. Grieving families moved away, and those that stayed seemed set-apart. Then, of course, the 1960's intervened, and the same scare-tactics which led to the so-called "white flight" on the rest of the West Side were repeated in the OLA neighborhood. By the time JP and I made our circuits of the neighborhood, it was indistinguishable from any of the rest of the West Side--unless you knew the story, of course.
People who know me well, know that I don't make a profession to any particular religious faith. I don't think, despite what Tim says, that I'm an atheist; I'm more a "recovering Catholic" with an unhealthy level of skepticism as regards the afterlife. I try not to get my hopes up by thinking of an eventual reunion with our lost loved ones, for reasons I'm sure will be fairly apparent; likewise, I'm not willing to embrace the concept of reincarnation, for much the same reasons.
But....IF I believed in such things as reincarnation, or remembering past lives, or such-like...I would be inclined to postulate that in some previous life, I was somehow involved in the fire at Our Lady of the Angels. Between my early interest in the fire itself, and my almost-immediate love for the neighborhood (when I started house-shopping, my original intention was to buy in the square mile surrounding OLA. Unfortunately I was priced out, at that point--but that was where I wanted to live)--plus a few other things I haven't mentioned, like my lifelong fear of fire...I can't explain it, and if someone else claimed such a thing, I would probably quirk an eyebrow at them and wonder at their sanity, but it's one of those unprovable thoughts that have come to roost in my strange little brain.
The school was rebuilt after the fire, but once the real-estate vultures and the crack epidemic had blighted much of the neighborhood, sometime in the 90's the parish was combined with another, and the parish school was likewise shut down in the mid-90's sometime. I believe the building now houses a charter school--but to those who know, it's still OLA, still hallowed ground. For many years there was no memorial anywhere to the victims of the fire; now, recently, they've dedicated a memorial...several miles to the south and east, at Holy Family Church--in a "revitalized" neighborhood, where those who would want to see it wouldn't have to travel to some "scary" part of the city. It makes me sick, honestly; I hope someday the memorial will find its way back to the neighborhood where it belongs.
And if I ever buy another house in the city, I have promised myself that it will be somewhere in the area of OLA. Whether it's real or not, whether it's memory from several years back or the memory of another lifetime--I love that neighborhood, and even though I've never lived there, it feels more like "home" than any of the places where I -have- lived. I can't explain it, but that's nothing unusual; there are a lot of things that I can't explain.
When I was much younger, I was a nearly-obsessive keeper of pop music statistics. Every New Years' Eve, I would hunker down in my bedroom with a transistor radio and a portable cassette recorder--this was before boom boxes--and listen to the entire "Big 89 Countdown" on WLS Radio. I would painstakingly write out the list, song by song, as they were played, and I would record the ones I liked, sitting in motionless silence so the tape recorder wouldn't pick up any unwanted noise. At the end of the song I would play DJ, reading off the title and the artist with a sense of deep gravity. I dreamed of a career in radio.
During the other fifty-one weeks of the year, I was no less obsessive. I would pick up the WLS weekly countdown sheet, with the top 45 singles and the top 33 albums, every time I went near a record store, and follow my favorite songs' progress up and down the charts. But even that wasn't enough; though I couldn't afford the $100 for a subscription to Billboard, but I had the next best thing; each Sunday, the Chicago Tribune printed the Billboard Top 10 in their "Arts and Fun/Books" section. I would snip the Top-10 chart out (I left the Country and the Adult Contemporary charts alone--who wanted THOSE?) and add it to my collection.
It was on one of these Sunday-afternoon chart-snipping expeditions that I first encountered the story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels school. I was about twelve years old, and on the same page as that week's charts, there was a review of a book called The Fire That Will Not Die, by Michele McBride, who had survived the fire. I read the review, and somehow the story really hit me hard; maybe because I was twelve years old myself, it caught my interest, and so I mentioned it to my parents, who told me the story.
The story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels is one of those tragic stories which every big city seems to have. Back in 1958, before fire drills were mandatory for schools, and during a time when Catholic schools were mostly filled beyond capacity, a fire broke out in the school basement on a Monday afternoon, about forty-five minutes before dismissal. There was a rule that only the principal could pull the fire alarm, and so was some delay before the Fire Department got there; rather than risk an unauthorized evacuation, the nuns who were teaching the classes told their students to stay in their seats and pray until the firemen came to rescue them. It was the 1950's; children obeyed their teachers, especially Catholic children, especially when the teachers were nuns; in the end, 92 children and three nuns died as a result of the fire.
I was horrified, when I heard the story; I was an obedient child, for the most part, and I couldn't imagine how hard it must have been to stay there. I always wanted to read "The Fire That Would Not Die", but that was awfully harsh reading for someone so young, and so my parents never bought it for me. I tucked the story away in my subconscious, and there it sat for another thirteen years.
Unlike my parents and the rest of their generation, I was fairly uninformed about the Catholic geography system of Chicago--in my parents' day, you were not identified by what neighborhood you came from--Beverly, Marquette Park, Logan Square--but by what parish you lived within--St. Barnabas, St. Rita, and so on. My parents and grandparents could tell you where ANYTHING was, as long as they knew the parish name. I, however, had grown up without that system of landmarks, and so I had no idea, really, where Our Lady of the Angels was located...
...until a late-winter afternoon in early 1995. JP had heard from someone that there was a really incredible heroin spot at Chicago and Lawndale, and so we drove over that way. As usual, we circled the block a couple of times. We pulled around the corner, and on a wall of sky-blue tile, I read the words: Our Lady of the Angels. "Oh my God," I said. JP, of course, had never heard the story; he was the first of several people to whom I'd tell it. It felt strange, to me, circling around the block where so many innocent lives had ended; it felt a little profane, even, to be buying heroin within sight of the building itself. (It wasn't the actual school building as it had stood in 1958; that building had been torn down and rebuilt.) But of course, we continued to do what we were there for; it was just another way the past and the present were dovetailed together.
A few months after JP died, when I was still living at my mom's house and had about four or five months sober, I found that someone had finally made an effort to tell the whole story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels. A book--"To Sleep With the Angels"--was a definitive account of the disaster. It was written by a former fireman, and filled with recollections from people who were actually there, who had survived, or who had lost family members or friends.
Needless to say, I bought the book. Bought, and devoured, and analyzed, and in some cases memorized. My collection of "disaster" books expanded from that point onward, but OLA, as it was called by its students, was always the first story, as far as I was concerned.
December 1st was the 50th anniversary of that fire. In some ways, fifty years seems like an impossibly long time ago; then I consider: The children who were involved in that fire were between 8 and 14 years old. This would make them between 58 and 64 years old now; the survivors, the friends and siblings of the ones who died--even the parents of some of the younger children could conceivably still be alive. Suddenly fifty years isn't that long ago.
We had our yearly fire drill at work this week. As hundreds of people filed out of the building, I heard one of my co-workers say to another "Hey, did you know last week was the 50th anniversary of that fire?" The person to whom he was speaking had no idea what he was talking about, so between the two of us we went on to explain: this is why we have fire drills, fire stairs, panic hardware on the doors. Most of the things we take for granted about fire safety came in part from that fire. There are children in schools in California and New York who have no idea why they have fire drills; fifty-one years ago they wouldn't have had anything to wonder about, because there were no laws mandating such things. (My colleague was unimpressed. "Government intervention at its finest," he concluded, but then again he's a contrarian; we've learned to expect these kinds of comments, from him.)
I don't think about "government intervention", though; I think about ninety-two children and three nuns; about their ninety sets of parents, untold numbers of siblings. I think of the two families who each lost TWO children in the fire--I cannot imagine losing ONE child, let alone two. I think of Mr. Raymond, the janitor, who was blamed for "shoddy housekeeping"; I think of the nameless twelve-year-old boy (now dead) with a history of firesetting, who was widely believed to have set the fire in a trash-barrel in the basement so he could get a day off school. I think of the ones who escaped with burns and broken limbs, and the scars they carried for the rest of their lives; I think of the ones who escaped with no visible wounds, who still panic when they smell smoke, or hear a siren. I think of the hundreds of children who were told "God took them to heaven to be his angels," or "only the good die young"--and who spent the rest of their childhoods wondering why, then, they were left behind.
Many of the friends and families who spoke years later said that the fire was the beginning of the end for that neighborhood. Grieving families moved away, and those that stayed seemed set-apart. Then, of course, the 1960's intervened, and the same scare-tactics which led to the so-called "white flight" on the rest of the West Side were repeated in the OLA neighborhood. By the time JP and I made our circuits of the neighborhood, it was indistinguishable from any of the rest of the West Side--unless you knew the story, of course.
People who know me well, know that I don't make a profession to any particular religious faith. I don't think, despite what Tim says, that I'm an atheist; I'm more a "recovering Catholic" with an unhealthy level of skepticism as regards the afterlife. I try not to get my hopes up by thinking of an eventual reunion with our lost loved ones, for reasons I'm sure will be fairly apparent; likewise, I'm not willing to embrace the concept of reincarnation, for much the same reasons.
But....IF I believed in such things as reincarnation, or remembering past lives, or such-like...I would be inclined to postulate that in some previous life, I was somehow involved in the fire at Our Lady of the Angels. Between my early interest in the fire itself, and my almost-immediate love for the neighborhood (when I started house-shopping, my original intention was to buy in the square mile surrounding OLA. Unfortunately I was priced out, at that point--but that was where I wanted to live)--plus a few other things I haven't mentioned, like my lifelong fear of fire...I can't explain it, and if someone else claimed such a thing, I would probably quirk an eyebrow at them and wonder at their sanity, but it's one of those unprovable thoughts that have come to roost in my strange little brain.
The school was rebuilt after the fire, but once the real-estate vultures and the crack epidemic had blighted much of the neighborhood, sometime in the 90's the parish was combined with another, and the parish school was likewise shut down in the mid-90's sometime. I believe the building now houses a charter school--but to those who know, it's still OLA, still hallowed ground. For many years there was no memorial anywhere to the victims of the fire; now, recently, they've dedicated a memorial...several miles to the south and east, at Holy Family Church--in a "revitalized" neighborhood, where those who would want to see it wouldn't have to travel to some "scary" part of the city. It makes me sick, honestly; I hope someday the memorial will find its way back to the neighborhood where it belongs.
And if I ever buy another house in the city, I have promised myself that it will be somewhere in the area of OLA. Whether it's real or not, whether it's memory from several years back or the memory of another lifetime--I love that neighborhood, and even though I've never lived there, it feels more like "home" than any of the places where I -have- lived. I can't explain it, but that's nothing unusual; there are a lot of things that I can't explain.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thanksgiving, a Wee Bit Late
Let's see...You know, I don't know what it is :::coff:::lack of meds:::coff::: but I'm not at my most thankful this year. I mean, I'm not UNgrateful--I've certainly got nothing to complain of (well, except the Itch, which is still here, at which the allergist has finally shrugged her shoulders and suggested a dermatologist, and which seems to respond to exactly NONE of the various lotions, potions, cremes, and pills thrown at it by modern medicine) and many things which are overwhelmingly positive. But in terms of that sense of "Wow, I really have it good, don't I?" I'm going to have to admit that it's just not really strong this year.
I am thankful for my job, still. I am ALSO thankful for the week of days off which I have taken revolving around the Thanksgiving holiday. I have been off since Sunday, and I don't go back til next Tuesday, and even THEN I have Friday off. I need a break; towards the end of last week I was getting pretty snappish with customers.
I am thankful for my cats. I am especially thankful that Snickers isn't showing any after-effects from his yarn-eating escapade of last week.
I am EXTREMELY thankful for Thanksgiving leftovers. I just fixed myself the Obligatory Middle-of-the-Night Post-Thanksgiving Turkey Sandwich, and I must say: nom nom nom!
I am thankful that our country is finally, FINALLY getting rid of GWB. I couldn't believe it when he was "elected", I REALLY couldn't believe it when he was RE-elected, and I'm thrilled that he's now run out his clock. Now, we just have to clean up his mess.
I am thankful that, for the first time in a very long time, I am in a reasonably-safe job in a reasonably-safe industry. This time two years ago I was completely terrified, not sure what would happen next; this year, my biggest concerns are housekeeping and the welfare of my various friends. (And the Itch, of course, but that's just background noise.) It's very unusual for me to feel safe in a job, but in this job, I do--both because I do a good job, and because it's been nearly-impossible to fill open positions in our department. And it's nice to have a job where I feel a sense of accomplishment, most days.
I'm incredibly thankful for all of you who read this blog and comment, or read this blog and lurk, or who find my mundane life interesting in any way. It's been a pretty dull year from my point of view--nothing too cool or catastrophic--so I'm especially grateful that none of you have been driven away by boredom. I'm grateful for your continued presence. I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving; that your tables were surrounded by those you love; and that your lefrovers are plentiful.
I am thankful for my job, still. I am ALSO thankful for the week of days off which I have taken revolving around the Thanksgiving holiday. I have been off since Sunday, and I don't go back til next Tuesday, and even THEN I have Friday off. I need a break; towards the end of last week I was getting pretty snappish with customers.
I am thankful for my cats. I am especially thankful that Snickers isn't showing any after-effects from his yarn-eating escapade of last week.
I am EXTREMELY thankful for Thanksgiving leftovers. I just fixed myself the Obligatory Middle-of-the-Night Post-Thanksgiving Turkey Sandwich, and I must say: nom nom nom!
I am thankful that our country is finally, FINALLY getting rid of GWB. I couldn't believe it when he was "elected", I REALLY couldn't believe it when he was RE-elected, and I'm thrilled that he's now run out his clock. Now, we just have to clean up his mess.
I am thankful that, for the first time in a very long time, I am in a reasonably-safe job in a reasonably-safe industry. This time two years ago I was completely terrified, not sure what would happen next; this year, my biggest concerns are housekeeping and the welfare of my various friends. (And the Itch, of course, but that's just background noise.) It's very unusual for me to feel safe in a job, but in this job, I do--both because I do a good job, and because it's been nearly-impossible to fill open positions in our department. And it's nice to have a job where I feel a sense of accomplishment, most days.
I'm incredibly thankful for all of you who read this blog and comment, or read this blog and lurk, or who find my mundane life interesting in any way. It's been a pretty dull year from my point of view--nothing too cool or catastrophic--so I'm especially grateful that none of you have been driven away by boredom. I'm grateful for your continued presence. I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving; that your tables were surrounded by those you love; and that your lefrovers are plentiful.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Confession...
I am SO JEALOUS of those little Obama girls.
Also terrified for them--the possibilities of "what could go wrong" actually keep me awake at night--but if the worst DOESN'T happen? What a life they're going to have...Can you imagine?? Besides which, they're so damn pretty!!! Either one of them could grow up to be a model, if they weren't already going to grow up as the President's daughters. I think there should be a law that only ugly little girls should get to have splendid lives. There really is no kind of fairness, is there?
In news of the distressingly average:
--still itchy
--slightly less-sad
--on vacation for Thanksgiving week--wOOt!
--on "stupid cat--please don't be sick" alert (Snick ate an unknown quantity of yarn yesterday morning--he dug through four heavy layers of blanket and two bathtowels to get at the balls of yarn in the bottom of the basket he'd decided to nap on--and though he puked up a big yarn-blob shortly thereafter, I'm still worried--he also barfed his dinner tonight, though from looking at the outcome, I'm guessing it was just because he didn't actually bother to CHEW the chicken pieces--just slurped them down whole. Could be that--could be yarn. I'm worried.)
--worried about the cat
--worried about the itches
--worried about everything, mostly.
--but also on vacation. Did I mention "w00t"?
Also terrified for them--the possibilities of "what could go wrong" actually keep me awake at night--but if the worst DOESN'T happen? What a life they're going to have...Can you imagine?? Besides which, they're so damn pretty!!! Either one of them could grow up to be a model, if they weren't already going to grow up as the President's daughters. I think there should be a law that only ugly little girls should get to have splendid lives. There really is no kind of fairness, is there?
In news of the distressingly average:
--still itchy
--slightly less-sad
--on vacation for Thanksgiving week--wOOt!
--on "stupid cat--please don't be sick" alert (Snick ate an unknown quantity of yarn yesterday morning--he dug through four heavy layers of blanket and two bathtowels to get at the balls of yarn in the bottom of the basket he'd decided to nap on--and though he puked up a big yarn-blob shortly thereafter, I'm still worried--he also barfed his dinner tonight, though from looking at the outcome, I'm guessing it was just because he didn't actually bother to CHEW the chicken pieces--just slurped them down whole. Could be that--could be yarn. I'm worried.)
--worried about the cat
--worried about the itches
--worried about everything, mostly.
--but also on vacation. Did I mention "w00t"?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Annoying of the Sick and Other Unwelcome Sacraments
So Tuesday morning, instead of going back to the allergist as scheduled, I called my mother, who was supposed to take me to the appointment, to tell her "don't bother--I'm not going." Since about Friday, I'd been feeling less-than-100%; by Monday, most of my focus was needed to keep my stomach contents in place, and by the wee hours of Tuesday morning, I knew it wasn't getting any better. Fortunately I'd scheduled the day off anyway.
Mom, however, needed to pick up some paperwork from me. She's leaving tomorrow to go out of town for a family event, and I'd booked the flight online. Even though she had all the codes and info, Mom is not the sort of person who can walk into an airport with just some hand-written notes; she's got to have something PRINTED, or she's not at peace. I can understand that. She said she'd come by around noon to pick the papers up; I tried, at least, to straighten up anything I thought would cause comment.
Now, let's look for just a moment at the state of things here in Gladystopia. I'm still dealing with the itches, somewhat; they're better, but they're still not gone. In deference to the possibility that it's my meds I'm allergic to, I've now been off my antidepressants for over six weeks. I am seriously stressed out about bullshit at my job, and frankly I'm doing quite well to get through the basic daily routines right about now. Oh, and now let's layer three days of nausea on top of the equation. The point being: My apartment is not at its best right now. It's not -dirty-; it's just messy. The laundry is in a large pile that overruns the boundaries of the hamper; there are dishes soaking in the sink; things need to be picked up and put in their rightful place, and unfortunately this apartment is not overrun with "rightful places" in the first place. I have lots of make-shift shelves, bookshelves full of not-books, things like that.
So: Mom comes in. She is fully aware of the situation--I'm stressed, depressed, itchy, and now nauseated. Her first comments: "What's this with your hair?" (I had put in a braid the night before, then taken it out but didn't wet it down, so I had a crinkly piece toward the front.) "Your face is kinda puffy again, isn't it?" (Yup.) "I'm worried about you. I mean..." (long pause) "...You're not on drugs again, are you?" (Sigh. No, Mom. I'd probably be feeling better if I was, to be honest.)
She stayed about an hour. About 20 minutes in, I started feeling REALLY pukey, and I'd found that I felt better if I laid down, so I went into my room and told her to follow me. She came into my room and immediately started in on "the mess". "This place would drive me crazy," was her comment. "Don't you have a hamper?" THEN she started picking up objects. "What's this? What's that over there? What are you reading? What's this catalog? What's that--a box of Froot Loops? Gladys..." At one point, she picked up a sketchpad from a table near my bed, and I asked her to leave it alone. "Really?" she said, "I can't...?" "I'd rather not," I told her. "Well, I hope it's nothing....pornographic, or anything..." (No, Mom, actually, it's me trying to work out my unhappiness in cartoon form. Remarkably enough, it pretty much starts with the declaration you threw at me all the months after JP's death: "Why do you think your life should be different? You're no different than anyone else..." So...yeah, I'd really rather have ONE item in my room safe from your intrusions--IF you don't mind--since my own damn BRAIN can't even have that much anymore.)
Eventually, thank heaven, she left. And I went back to bed, and around 11 PM I woke up feeling mostly-better, and also hungry enough to eat a buffalo. Instead I settled for a little bowl of leftover rice--no use pissing off the tummy-gods--and this morning when I woke up, I was fine. Well, my stomach was fine, anyway. My mind...well.
And then, tonight, I decided it would be a good night to return all the calls I'd been ignoring while I was feeling pukey. Tim didn't answer, so I left him a message and went on to the next call: Debbi.
You all know: Debbi has been my friend since we were preschool age. I know she wouldn't intentionally upset me for anything. Today, though...well, I wished I'd left that call for another day.
Debbi is getting married soon. I don't know whether or not I like her guy; I've really only met him a couple of times, and he's definitely not what I would have expected her to pick, but she says she's happy. She ALSO, however, admitted that she'd just taken two days off to have anxiety attacks about whether or not she really wants to get married. I would characterize this as 25% normal cold-feet, and 75% Other. And I think, on some level, she's trying to convince herself.
However, as much as I'd like to be her sounding board about "I've already lived the wild part of my life, I won't miss it" and "I'm happy just to come home and have him there, or wake up and the dishes are done, or..." ...As much as I'd like to be her sounding board (or maybe even to ask the right questions to have HER see how weird that all sounds from an outside standpoint)...can I tell you, just talking about "the wild part"--which she seems to somehow think I'm "over" too--is like having bamboo splinters shoved under my nails. There were a couple of times when I had to tune out what she was saying and focus on something meaningless for a minute, just so I wouldn't sound like I was ready to cry--which I totally was. And you don't want to rain on the nearly-wed's parade when she talks about how fabulous it is to have someone to come home to, but...again, I ain't the one to talk to about it. Not in general; DEFINITELY not at the moment.
I got off the phone as soon as I could, and went into the kitchen and had my cry while washing the dishes. At least the kitchen is clean...
There's more to it; more connected to the way I feel society sees me as a middle-aged, unmarried woman with no children; and the way I see my life, with my mother hanging over it so effectively that she doesn't even need to object anymore to what I want, because I've now got her objections down so well that I fill them in for myself. I don't really see a path through this, you know? It's just one of those things...
I'm tired of trying to count my blessings. I'm tired of trying to be a good person and not question the way things happen. I'm tired of trying to rise above it all. It's hard, sometimes, not to even see myself as a petulant child; because somewhere underneath all the pretty little words and the psychobabble, one of the main issues I have with all of this is: It's not fair. And honestly, all I really want is someone--maybe even just myself--to be able to honor that little voice instead of seeking to shut it up with the callous adult's: Of course it isn't. Life isn't fair. Why should you be any different?
We always seem to come back to that question, don't we.
Mom, however, needed to pick up some paperwork from me. She's leaving tomorrow to go out of town for a family event, and I'd booked the flight online. Even though she had all the codes and info, Mom is not the sort of person who can walk into an airport with just some hand-written notes; she's got to have something PRINTED, or she's not at peace. I can understand that. She said she'd come by around noon to pick the papers up; I tried, at least, to straighten up anything I thought would cause comment.
Now, let's look for just a moment at the state of things here in Gladystopia. I'm still dealing with the itches, somewhat; they're better, but they're still not gone. In deference to the possibility that it's my meds I'm allergic to, I've now been off my antidepressants for over six weeks. I am seriously stressed out about bullshit at my job, and frankly I'm doing quite well to get through the basic daily routines right about now. Oh, and now let's layer three days of nausea on top of the equation. The point being: My apartment is not at its best right now. It's not -dirty-; it's just messy. The laundry is in a large pile that overruns the boundaries of the hamper; there are dishes soaking in the sink; things need to be picked up and put in their rightful place, and unfortunately this apartment is not overrun with "rightful places" in the first place. I have lots of make-shift shelves, bookshelves full of not-books, things like that.
So: Mom comes in. She is fully aware of the situation--I'm stressed, depressed, itchy, and now nauseated. Her first comments: "What's this with your hair?" (I had put in a braid the night before, then taken it out but didn't wet it down, so I had a crinkly piece toward the front.) "Your face is kinda puffy again, isn't it?" (Yup.) "I'm worried about you. I mean..." (long pause) "...You're not on drugs again, are you?" (Sigh. No, Mom. I'd probably be feeling better if I was, to be honest.)
She stayed about an hour. About 20 minutes in, I started feeling REALLY pukey, and I'd found that I felt better if I laid down, so I went into my room and told her to follow me. She came into my room and immediately started in on "the mess". "This place would drive me crazy," was her comment. "Don't you have a hamper?" THEN she started picking up objects. "What's this? What's that over there? What are you reading? What's this catalog? What's that--a box of Froot Loops? Gladys..." At one point, she picked up a sketchpad from a table near my bed, and I asked her to leave it alone. "Really?" she said, "I can't...?" "I'd rather not," I told her. "Well, I hope it's nothing....pornographic, or anything..." (No, Mom, actually, it's me trying to work out my unhappiness in cartoon form. Remarkably enough, it pretty much starts with the declaration you threw at me all the months after JP's death: "Why do you think your life should be different? You're no different than anyone else..." So...yeah, I'd really rather have ONE item in my room safe from your intrusions--IF you don't mind--since my own damn BRAIN can't even have that much anymore.)
Eventually, thank heaven, she left. And I went back to bed, and around 11 PM I woke up feeling mostly-better, and also hungry enough to eat a buffalo. Instead I settled for a little bowl of leftover rice--no use pissing off the tummy-gods--and this morning when I woke up, I was fine. Well, my stomach was fine, anyway. My mind...well.
And then, tonight, I decided it would be a good night to return all the calls I'd been ignoring while I was feeling pukey. Tim didn't answer, so I left him a message and went on to the next call: Debbi.
You all know: Debbi has been my friend since we were preschool age. I know she wouldn't intentionally upset me for anything. Today, though...well, I wished I'd left that call for another day.
Debbi is getting married soon. I don't know whether or not I like her guy; I've really only met him a couple of times, and he's definitely not what I would have expected her to pick, but she says she's happy. She ALSO, however, admitted that she'd just taken two days off to have anxiety attacks about whether or not she really wants to get married. I would characterize this as 25% normal cold-feet, and 75% Other. And I think, on some level, she's trying to convince herself.
However, as much as I'd like to be her sounding board about "I've already lived the wild part of my life, I won't miss it" and "I'm happy just to come home and have him there, or wake up and the dishes are done, or..." ...As much as I'd like to be her sounding board (or maybe even to ask the right questions to have HER see how weird that all sounds from an outside standpoint)...can I tell you, just talking about "the wild part"--which she seems to somehow think I'm "over" too--is like having bamboo splinters shoved under my nails. There were a couple of times when I had to tune out what she was saying and focus on something meaningless for a minute, just so I wouldn't sound like I was ready to cry--which I totally was. And you don't want to rain on the nearly-wed's parade when she talks about how fabulous it is to have someone to come home to, but...again, I ain't the one to talk to about it. Not in general; DEFINITELY not at the moment.
I got off the phone as soon as I could, and went into the kitchen and had my cry while washing the dishes. At least the kitchen is clean...
There's more to it; more connected to the way I feel society sees me as a middle-aged, unmarried woman with no children; and the way I see my life, with my mother hanging over it so effectively that she doesn't even need to object anymore to what I want, because I've now got her objections down so well that I fill them in for myself. I don't really see a path through this, you know? It's just one of those things...
I'm tired of trying to count my blessings. I'm tired of trying to be a good person and not question the way things happen. I'm tired of trying to rise above it all. It's hard, sometimes, not to even see myself as a petulant child; because somewhere underneath all the pretty little words and the psychobabble, one of the main issues I have with all of this is: It's not fair. And honestly, all I really want is someone--maybe even just myself--to be able to honor that little voice instead of seeking to shut it up with the callous adult's: Of course it isn't. Life isn't fair. Why should you be any different?
We always seem to come back to that question, don't we.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
One of Two Things Is Happening Here
Either a) I really, REALLY need to be on meds again, as in "more than even I suspect", or b) the human race at large is devolving into an irredeemable pack of heartless fuckwads.
Normally, I'd put the probability ratio of the two choices at about 50-50, or maybe 60-40. But in the case of the item that inspired this post, I'm going to have to rethink my optimism and call it 90-10, if that.
Here is the article. As you might imagine, I find it heartbreaking: three ostensibly smart kids, who have already overcome many of the difficulties of growing up in a rough neighborhood, who are on their way to greater things, die because they made a silly misjudgement in a moment of fun. I would cry at THAT no matter what.
But go to the end, and read the comments, and you'll see why I'm more depressed by this article than I would normally be; why I'm pretty much ready to write off the greater part of the human race as heartless assclowns. What on earth would possess these jerks to write such cruel things about people they don't even know--people whose families could very well be reading that website--that article--those comments?? Whatever happened to not speaking ill of the dead?
I am finding it harder and harder to deal with the human race in aggregate. Again, this may just be the absence of antidepressants...but I don't think that's the whole story. People have always been cruel; but lately, I think, they're getting crueller and crueller. That, just as much as the tragic story, makes me cry.
Normally, I'd put the probability ratio of the two choices at about 50-50, or maybe 60-40. But in the case of the item that inspired this post, I'm going to have to rethink my optimism and call it 90-10, if that.
Here is the article. As you might imagine, I find it heartbreaking: three ostensibly smart kids, who have already overcome many of the difficulties of growing up in a rough neighborhood, who are on their way to greater things, die because they made a silly misjudgement in a moment of fun. I would cry at THAT no matter what.
But go to the end, and read the comments, and you'll see why I'm more depressed by this article than I would normally be; why I'm pretty much ready to write off the greater part of the human race as heartless assclowns. What on earth would possess these jerks to write such cruel things about people they don't even know--people whose families could very well be reading that website--that article--those comments?? Whatever happened to not speaking ill of the dead?
I am finding it harder and harder to deal with the human race in aggregate. Again, this may just be the absence of antidepressants...but I don't think that's the whole story. People have always been cruel; but lately, I think, they're getting crueller and crueller. That, just as much as the tragic story, makes me cry.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Something That Inexplicably Pisses Me Off Way More Than It Ought To
Okay. So all over the news, there's this link to a story about a former American Idol contestant who drove to Paula Abdul's house and killed herself, apparently. Her name was Paula Goodspeed, and she apparently was one of the not-so-good auditions from the 2006 season.
I don't remember her. I don't remember 99.999% of the bad auditions; in fact, I'd say I remember less than 75% of the actual top-ten contestants of a given season. But I do love the show; Season 1 got me through the summer after CR left me, and along with "Shrek" and "O Brother Where Art Thou?", I have to give it credit for the gloriously-necessary distraction that it was.
Not my point, though.
My point is: In not ONE of the articles, not one of the links that I've seen to the story of her suicide, do they actually show a picture of Paula Goodspeed. Instead we're treated to picture after picture of Paula Abdul--one of the most overexposed, most useless celebrities I've ever encountered. We KNOW what her goofy ass looks like; yet every media outlet that's writing about this poor girl's suicide, is making it into a story about stupid Paula Abdul.
Talk about shit not being fair....
I don't remember her. I don't remember 99.999% of the bad auditions; in fact, I'd say I remember less than 75% of the actual top-ten contestants of a given season. But I do love the show; Season 1 got me through the summer after CR left me, and along with "Shrek" and "O Brother Where Art Thou?", I have to give it credit for the gloriously-necessary distraction that it was.
Not my point, though.
My point is: In not ONE of the articles, not one of the links that I've seen to the story of her suicide, do they actually show a picture of Paula Goodspeed. Instead we're treated to picture after picture of Paula Abdul--one of the most overexposed, most useless celebrities I've ever encountered. We KNOW what her goofy ass looks like; yet every media outlet that's writing about this poor girl's suicide, is making it into a story about stupid Paula Abdul.
Talk about shit not being fair....
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I'd Prefer the Itch
I will attribute to my current lack of psych-meds the fact that I hate pretty much everything and everyone, right at the moment.
Without my non-altered state to blame, I would have to say it's my job that's thoroughly soured me on humanity right now; that, and the weather, and my loneliness, and the total lack of anything approaching "fun" in my life. I'm SERIOUSLY pissed at work, which for me is unusual; suffice to say a number of giant, enormous, painfully STOOOPID things have taken place, and I'm rapidly growing weary of everyone else's "no, we can't do that; we always do THIS" attitude. They're wasting my enthusiasm and my willingness to go beyond what's expected of me, and they're crushing my morale at the same time. I'm sick of offering to help; it's always turned down, generally in a way that makes me wish I'd never said anything in the first place.
I would love to run away, right about now. Part of this misery is that I feel like I'm wasting my life living by other people's rules; I look forward to the day when I don't have anyone to justify my actions to. And that, right there, is a pretty not-nice thought to think...but my god, I'm nearly 40 and I feel like I lived for maybe 18 months, once, a long long time ago. There are so many things I want to do that DON'T have anything to do with a 9-5 job, a quiet life, and a 401k...and every day I get closer to being too old to do them. But even the slightest move toward ANY of them--something as simple as dressing the way I'd like, or wearing my hair in a way that would make me happy--requires explanation to those who see any sign of change as dangerous.
I'm fairly damn miserable, to be honest. I have the beginnings of a plan, but no energy to carry it out; all I really want to do is sleep.
But at least the itch is mostly better; there are still a few spots I find myself scratching, and my legs look like I lost a battle with a blender; but for the most part, I think the worst is over.
Now, if only my brain would play nice...
Without my non-altered state to blame, I would have to say it's my job that's thoroughly soured me on humanity right now; that, and the weather, and my loneliness, and the total lack of anything approaching "fun" in my life. I'm SERIOUSLY pissed at work, which for me is unusual; suffice to say a number of giant, enormous, painfully STOOOPID things have taken place, and I'm rapidly growing weary of everyone else's "no, we can't do that; we always do THIS" attitude. They're wasting my enthusiasm and my willingness to go beyond what's expected of me, and they're crushing my morale at the same time. I'm sick of offering to help; it's always turned down, generally in a way that makes me wish I'd never said anything in the first place.
I would love to run away, right about now. Part of this misery is that I feel like I'm wasting my life living by other people's rules; I look forward to the day when I don't have anyone to justify my actions to. And that, right there, is a pretty not-nice thought to think...but my god, I'm nearly 40 and I feel like I lived for maybe 18 months, once, a long long time ago. There are so many things I want to do that DON'T have anything to do with a 9-5 job, a quiet life, and a 401k...and every day I get closer to being too old to do them. But even the slightest move toward ANY of them--something as simple as dressing the way I'd like, or wearing my hair in a way that would make me happy--requires explanation to those who see any sign of change as dangerous.
I'm fairly damn miserable, to be honest. I have the beginnings of a plan, but no energy to carry it out; all I really want to do is sleep.
But at least the itch is mostly better; there are still a few spots I find myself scratching, and my legs look like I lost a battle with a blender; but for the most part, I think the worst is over.
Now, if only my brain would play nice...
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
History
I would have expected myself to get a little more grandiloquent and pompous tonight. Finally, finally, the last eight years of bullshit are over; that alone would be enough, but that it would unfold the way it has....What could I possibly add? Honestly, the weather in Chicago said it all today; sunny and bright, with the changing leaves gleaming in the sun and the cool breeze coming from the lake. It was perfect; it was a day for history.
The only thing I would change: I would wish for JP to be here for this moment. He was really a militant; in fact, he endured a lot of teasing from his childhood friends, for dating a white girl. I don't know if it ever stung him, but I would guess it probably did. The notion of an African-American President, back in 1995, was a pipe dream; yet here we are, thirteen years later, and within viewing distance of his mother's apartment Barack Obama is making his victory speech. I wish JP could have lived to see this day. It would have blown his mind.
As for me, I'm just happy and hopeful and worried, all at the same time. This could be the best thing to ever happen to America...or it could be the nightmare to end all nightmares. Time will tell. But tonight we are all a part of history, and I think the best thing to do is enjoy it.
The only thing I would change: I would wish for JP to be here for this moment. He was really a militant; in fact, he endured a lot of teasing from his childhood friends, for dating a white girl. I don't know if it ever stung him, but I would guess it probably did. The notion of an African-American President, back in 1995, was a pipe dream; yet here we are, thirteen years later, and within viewing distance of his mother's apartment Barack Obama is making his victory speech. I wish JP could have lived to see this day. It would have blown his mind.
As for me, I'm just happy and hopeful and worried, all at the same time. This could be the best thing to ever happen to America...or it could be the nightmare to end all nightmares. Time will tell. But tonight we are all a part of history, and I think the best thing to do is enjoy it.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Diagnosis (Totally Specious)
I've figured it out.
I've figured out my itching, my misery, my queasy tummy, my abject exhaustion, my total anomie:
I have American Electionosis.
All the cruelty, horribleness, meanspiritedness, disregard of fact, reliance on innuendo, ugliness, and generalized putrid behaviour surrounding this election has taken on a physical manifestation: namely, all the stuff I've had for the past month or so.
Since my defenses were already weakened by eight years too many of That Person Who Insists He Is The President, I was prime territory for this new disease to take hold. And take hold it has.
Fortunately, Tuesday is coming. I'm sure there will be a few days of residual symptoms, but I don't expect to experience this again til 2012, at least.
I've figured out my itching, my misery, my queasy tummy, my abject exhaustion, my total anomie:
I have American Electionosis.
All the cruelty, horribleness, meanspiritedness, disregard of fact, reliance on innuendo, ugliness, and generalized putrid behaviour surrounding this election has taken on a physical manifestation: namely, all the stuff I've had for the past month or so.
Since my defenses were already weakened by eight years too many of That Person Who Insists He Is The President, I was prime territory for this new disease to take hold. And take hold it has.
Fortunately, Tuesday is coming. I'm sure there will be a few days of residual symptoms, but I don't expect to experience this again til 2012, at least.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Itchy.
The Itch, which improved for several days, has returned. This is probably due to the allergist's prohibition: no antihistamines for three days before my appointment. As I was feeling utterly hideous anyway--to the point of taking two days off work and pretty much sleeping the clock around--I just said "to hell with it" and stopped taking everything. My body spent the better part of today kicking me very hard for it, including a barfing spell early in the morning as I was getting ready for my much-unloved Saturday work day. This was followed by queasy-icky-tummy for most of the rest of the day, which led me over to Walgreens for Sick Tummy Supplies: Pepto, Rolaids, 7-up, and animal crackers. The Pepto helped a little, but it was an uneasy truce. Finally, after I got home from work (Mom actually gave me a ride, and unlike most times she offers, I didn't object--it was that or a cab, because if the ride to work was any indication, I wasn't going to make it on the bus) and laid down for a little bit, normal processes resumed and, after a while, I felt much better. A couple hours later, I fixed myself some mac and cheese, which seems to be staying down all right, and since I don't feel queasy, my outlook on life is much improved. (Seriously, is there anything that can make you more instantly and more thoroughly unhappy than an upset stomach? I honestly think that someone could have come to me this afternoon and told me "Gladys, you've won the lottery, and furthermore, you will now be transported for the rest of your natural life to the mythic Island of Hot Men, Free Chocolate, and Cute Kittens" and I would have had a hard time registering any emotion.)
So now, there's just The Itch. I have nothing more to say about the Itch, other than that I really wish it would go away, ASAP, and nevermore return; other than that, however, I think I've said all there is to say on that topic. I can't wait til my allergist appointment, anyway. I'm very much NOT used to my body screwing with me to this degree--especially when it's not clearly an effect to a cause. Heroin withdrawal, I understood: You do A, and B comes of it. This latest episode of itch/misery/discomfort/whatever seems to have no cause-effect relationship that I can see; I've stopped all the possible causes I can think of, and yet the effect remains stalwart. I'll be greatly pleased if this turns out to be something stupid and easy that I just didn't think of...but I'm starting to think it won't.
Anyhow, Tuesday will have a dual distinction: both The Itch and The Dubya--nasty, long-term scrofulous annoyances both--will be rooted out, and the process of sending them on their way begun.
I have wrestled in my mind with the notion of going downtown for the Obama rally. The "For" side says "It's history in the making! You'll be able to tell someone else's grandkids about it someday!" The "Against" side says "Are you fecking KIDDING me? All those people? MILLIONS of them. Do you know what the buses will look like afterwards? And besides, we have to go to work Wednesday morning...do you really want to stay out til they call the results, and then stay around for the party? Also, all those PEOPLE. Nuh-uh. History happens on TV too, you know."
There's another concern I have, too, about this rally; almost too horrible to whisper about. For the first time in my adult life, I am actually afraid for a public figure. If anything happens...yes, I know, millions upon billions have been expended to make sure nothing happens. But...Things happen. And if they happen, a lot of people will die. I honestly believe that; if something goes wrong, 1968 will look like a practice run. The Rodney King riots will look like a day in the park. And I'm afraid that if the worst happens, a lot of people who know better, who in normal times would trust their neighbors no matter what their race, will forget what they know. If it comes to that, I'm in a bad place. But if it comes to that, I really don't know too many people who AREN'T in a bad place.
So, further disproving Tim's evaluation of my belief system: I'm praying it doesn't come to that. But it scares me, all the same.
So now, there's just The Itch. I have nothing more to say about the Itch, other than that I really wish it would go away, ASAP, and nevermore return; other than that, however, I think I've said all there is to say on that topic. I can't wait til my allergist appointment, anyway. I'm very much NOT used to my body screwing with me to this degree--especially when it's not clearly an effect to a cause. Heroin withdrawal, I understood: You do A, and B comes of it. This latest episode of itch/misery/discomfort/whatever seems to have no cause-effect relationship that I can see; I've stopped all the possible causes I can think of, and yet the effect remains stalwart. I'll be greatly pleased if this turns out to be something stupid and easy that I just didn't think of...but I'm starting to think it won't.
Anyhow, Tuesday will have a dual distinction: both The Itch and The Dubya--nasty, long-term scrofulous annoyances both--will be rooted out, and the process of sending them on their way begun.
I have wrestled in my mind with the notion of going downtown for the Obama rally. The "For" side says "It's history in the making! You'll be able to tell someone else's grandkids about it someday!" The "Against" side says "Are you fecking KIDDING me? All those people? MILLIONS of them. Do you know what the buses will look like afterwards? And besides, we have to go to work Wednesday morning...do you really want to stay out til they call the results, and then stay around for the party? Also, all those PEOPLE. Nuh-uh. History happens on TV too, you know."
There's another concern I have, too, about this rally; almost too horrible to whisper about. For the first time in my adult life, I am actually afraid for a public figure. If anything happens...yes, I know, millions upon billions have been expended to make sure nothing happens. But...Things happen. And if they happen, a lot of people will die. I honestly believe that; if something goes wrong, 1968 will look like a practice run. The Rodney King riots will look like a day in the park. And I'm afraid that if the worst happens, a lot of people who know better, who in normal times would trust their neighbors no matter what their race, will forget what they know. If it comes to that, I'm in a bad place. But if it comes to that, I really don't know too many people who AREN'T in a bad place.
So, further disproving Tim's evaluation of my belief system: I'm praying it doesn't come to that. But it scares me, all the same.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Malaise
I actually had written most of a post about today, and how I'm trying not to give in so much to the anniversary blues...Unfortunately it turned into exactly that, and I'm just tired of it. I'm in...a "rut" doesn't describe it, really; it's more like "a Chicago-area main-street pothole in March after a full winter of freeze-thaw cycles and a bi-weekly parade of semi trucks." I hate that JP is gone, and I hate that I'm alone, and blah, blah, blah, haven't we been through all this before? I actually did spend the day trying to do stuff to improve my outlook a little; I did all the laundry--you would think one person wouldn't generate much laundry, but then again the person you're thinking of probably does her laundry more than once every six weeks or so--and I took apart my bedroom and vacuumed all the fluffy corners and dusted all the dusty stuff. My environment looks great; my attitude, not so much (though part of that has nothing to do with the anniversary and everything to do with The Godforsaken Itch. TGI has improved, yes--except for my back, and my shoulders, and behind my knees, and.... Finally today, I couldn't stand it anymore and called the allergist my doc referred me to; she said, and I quote, "No antihistamines for three days before your appointment, please." My appointment is Tuesday. Technically, I COULD take some tomorrow, but since I'm now out of Benadryl anyway, there doesn't seem to be much point. I hope I don't go completely insane by Tuesday morning--judging from today's scratch marks, it's a very real possibility.)
I'm tired of my rut, tired of my outlook, tired of my misery. I want to be happy. I want to feel normal--like I'm part of the human race for a change. I would like to have SOME hope that I could possibly attract a partner someday; that, maybe, most of all. I want to be able to look at all my wonderful options and all the great ideas I have, and actually FEEL something--excitement, hope, optimism, ANYTHING. Right now my life puts me to sleep, and I don't even know how to make that better. I know how fortunate I am, how blessed, how lucky--whatever you want to call it--but that knowledge doesn't really do me any good; sometimes, in fact, it makes it even worse. I've got all these things going for me, and I've been given so much...so why, again, am I so miserable?
Mostly I'm lonely, and tonight, at least, that makes sense. I can't believe it's thirteen years since I lost JP; it seems like a billion years, maybe, or maybe just a day or two. I'm amazed at how meaningless those thirteen years have been, how little I have to show for them--not materially, but emotionally. I try not to think about the next thirteen years, or the next. It scares me to think that this is really it--that the rest of my life is set up before me, no surprises--just more of the same. I don't think I could stand knowing that for certain.
I'm tired of my rut, tired of my outlook, tired of my misery. I want to be happy. I want to feel normal--like I'm part of the human race for a change. I would like to have SOME hope that I could possibly attract a partner someday; that, maybe, most of all. I want to be able to look at all my wonderful options and all the great ideas I have, and actually FEEL something--excitement, hope, optimism, ANYTHING. Right now my life puts me to sleep, and I don't even know how to make that better. I know how fortunate I am, how blessed, how lucky--whatever you want to call it--but that knowledge doesn't really do me any good; sometimes, in fact, it makes it even worse. I've got all these things going for me, and I've been given so much...so why, again, am I so miserable?
Mostly I'm lonely, and tonight, at least, that makes sense. I can't believe it's thirteen years since I lost JP; it seems like a billion years, maybe, or maybe just a day or two. I'm amazed at how meaningless those thirteen years have been, how little I have to show for them--not materially, but emotionally. I try not to think about the next thirteen years, or the next. It scares me to think that this is really it--that the rest of my life is set up before me, no surprises--just more of the same. I don't think I could stand knowing that for certain.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Fortuitous Itchiness
Maybe the main thing I need to get through my late-October doldrums is to find some way to render my entire body a giant, itching, writhing mass of nerve-endings and unhappy skin-cells. (Yes, the Itch is still here. I thought it was getting better, and I suppose on one level it sorta is--but it's certainly not 100% better! I finally caved and made an appointment with the allergist for next week; I was told "no antihistamines for three days before the appointment (Tues morning) so the next few days could be a bit....unpleasant.))
Anyhow, unlike in most years, this anniversary has crept up almost imperceptibly, owing to the upheaval of work and the crazy-making-ness of The Itch. I'm amazed that thirteen years have passed since I lost my beloved JP; I'm amazed at how insignificant those years have been, how little I've accomplished, how little of these thirteen years I remember as compared to the four years that I knew him. I'm amazed that I've done nothing of consequence, that I'm in the same sort of rut I would have expected to find myself in if I'd never even known JP.
Needless to say, I'm fairly unhappy with my life as it currently stands. I have a lot of changes I need to make, and not a lot of drive right now. More drive than I've had in the past, perhaps, but still not quite enough to overcome the inertia of my massive gravitational field.
More to the point: I'm scared.
There are so many things I could do right now, things that could potentially change my life for the better, but two fears stop me from pursuing those life-changing possiblities:
1) What if I fail? and
2) What if I DON'T fail??
On some level, as much as I hate the rut I'm in, I think I'm also a little bit afraid to leave it. I'm not sure whether that knowledge is a good thing or not; all I know is that I have not only slowed down on doing things that interest me, in many cases I've slammed the brakes down to the floorboards and come to a wrenching STOP. There are days--the bad ones, obviously--where I feel like I'm just sitting still and waiting for my clock to stop.
That's not me, though. That's not who I am. (An aside, apropos of nothing: I'm fundamentally amazed at how many people think they know who and what I am, and how many of those people are completely wrong. The other night, when Tim was here, talk turned to religion, and he told me this: "You know, it really bothers me a lot that you're an atheist." He went into great detail about it, how he really cares about me, but he can't agree with my beliefs here, and so on and so forth...and he even refused to allow me to interrupt to tell him the fact of the matter: um, Tim? I'm not an atheist. Agnostic, sure; pissed off and confused at the celestial "plan", damn skippy; but no, not an atheist. "Ohh, yes you are," he said. "You've said many times that you don't believe in anything." (Okay, no I haven't. Where did this COME from???) I'm not sure where being angry at whatever god/gods/system you believe in can now be conflated with disbelief--though I'm thinking this is just more of the current fundamentalism sweeping the country and the world--but in order to be angry at someone/something, one first has to believe it exists. Try to explain that to Tim, though.)
Now, where was I? Ah--yes. The rut.
I'm trying to put a positive spin on it. I have a good job, for starters (please ignore the quiet mumbling in the background; I try to remind myself that every job, even the best, has its irritants--but unlike most places, the irritants are increasing every week, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore them, though I'm still doing pretty well at it). I have a great place to live; I've been frustrated lately by the degree of clutter and mess (not much storage space, lots of things to store) and so today I undertook two of the more-vexing projects I'd been putting off: first, the laundry mountain, and second, a full dismantle-and-clean of the entire bedroom. The dust factor has dropped substantially, thanks to that, and the bedroom looks like a sane person lives there, for a change. I've still got three dryers-full of laundry in the works, but the worst of THAT task is over as well. In short, I've spent the day trying to attend to the good things I have; trying to concentrate on where I am and how far I've come, instead of what I've lost.
But in the back of my mind, I also know: in thirteen years, I haven't yet been able to create, or even to imagine, a life as full or as happy as the one I had with JP. I could do everything right for the rest of my days on earth, and I doubt it would do me any good. Most of the time I can ignore that truth enough to be okay with it; most of the time I can distract myself. That, at least, is progress. It makes of life a fairly pointless exercise, of course; it's difficult to work toward a goal with any sort of enthusiasm when you realize that even when you reach that goal, there won't be anyone to share it with. It's twistedly funny, when you think about it: I am now in a situation where I am pretty much capable of creating exactly the life I want, in terms of material things, goals, etc--but no matter what I choose or choose not to do, whether I choose Perfectly Good Life #1 or Perfectly Good Life #2; no matter which of many wonderful and desirable outcomes I could bring about in my life, no matter which of my own happily-ever-afters I decide to make...it will be happily-ever-after and alone.
And that? Sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks, and nothing is going to make it not suck; and the even BETTER thing about it is, I know this nearly for a fact: If I was pretty, I wouldn't have to worry about being alone, not for a minute. I'm one of those women who a certain kind of guy would go crazy for--I'm smart, funny, weird, adventurous--but because my exterior doesn't measure up, all those traits are pretty much worthless. I seem to be harping on that notion quite a bit these days, but it's a pretty big realization to come to--that the only thing really "wrong" with me is how I look. (Not to say that I'm otherwise perfect, understand; but nobody even gets to find out what my personality issues might or might not be, because they look at the exterior and don't bother to look deeper.)
I'm trying to learn to shrug it off; to look at the good things in my life and be happy for them, and for the fact that I can bring other good things into my life as well.
Anyhow, unlike in most years, this anniversary has crept up almost imperceptibly, owing to the upheaval of work and the crazy-making-ness of The Itch. I'm amazed that thirteen years have passed since I lost my beloved JP; I'm amazed at how insignificant those years have been, how little I've accomplished, how little of these thirteen years I remember as compared to the four years that I knew him. I'm amazed that I've done nothing of consequence, that I'm in the same sort of rut I would have expected to find myself in if I'd never even known JP.
Needless to say, I'm fairly unhappy with my life as it currently stands. I have a lot of changes I need to make, and not a lot of drive right now. More drive than I've had in the past, perhaps, but still not quite enough to overcome the inertia of my massive gravitational field.
More to the point: I'm scared.
There are so many things I could do right now, things that could potentially change my life for the better, but two fears stop me from pursuing those life-changing possiblities:
1) What if I fail? and
2) What if I DON'T fail??
On some level, as much as I hate the rut I'm in, I think I'm also a little bit afraid to leave it. I'm not sure whether that knowledge is a good thing or not; all I know is that I have not only slowed down on doing things that interest me, in many cases I've slammed the brakes down to the floorboards and come to a wrenching STOP. There are days--the bad ones, obviously--where I feel like I'm just sitting still and waiting for my clock to stop.
That's not me, though. That's not who I am. (An aside, apropos of nothing: I'm fundamentally amazed at how many people think they know who and what I am, and how many of those people are completely wrong. The other night, when Tim was here, talk turned to religion, and he told me this: "You know, it really bothers me a lot that you're an atheist." He went into great detail about it, how he really cares about me, but he can't agree with my beliefs here, and so on and so forth...and he even refused to allow me to interrupt to tell him the fact of the matter: um, Tim? I'm not an atheist. Agnostic, sure; pissed off and confused at the celestial "plan", damn skippy; but no, not an atheist. "Ohh, yes you are," he said. "You've said many times that you don't believe in anything." (Okay, no I haven't. Where did this COME from???) I'm not sure where being angry at whatever god/gods/system you believe in can now be conflated with disbelief--though I'm thinking this is just more of the current fundamentalism sweeping the country and the world--but in order to be angry at someone/something, one first has to believe it exists. Try to explain that to Tim, though.)
Now, where was I? Ah--yes. The rut.
I'm trying to put a positive spin on it. I have a good job, for starters (please ignore the quiet mumbling in the background; I try to remind myself that every job, even the best, has its irritants--but unlike most places, the irritants are increasing every week, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore them, though I'm still doing pretty well at it). I have a great place to live; I've been frustrated lately by the degree of clutter and mess (not much storage space, lots of things to store) and so today I undertook two of the more-vexing projects I'd been putting off: first, the laundry mountain, and second, a full dismantle-and-clean of the entire bedroom. The dust factor has dropped substantially, thanks to that, and the bedroom looks like a sane person lives there, for a change. I've still got three dryers-full of laundry in the works, but the worst of THAT task is over as well. In short, I've spent the day trying to attend to the good things I have; trying to concentrate on where I am and how far I've come, instead of what I've lost.
But in the back of my mind, I also know: in thirteen years, I haven't yet been able to create, or even to imagine, a life as full or as happy as the one I had with JP. I could do everything right for the rest of my days on earth, and I doubt it would do me any good. Most of the time I can ignore that truth enough to be okay with it; most of the time I can distract myself. That, at least, is progress. It makes of life a fairly pointless exercise, of course; it's difficult to work toward a goal with any sort of enthusiasm when you realize that even when you reach that goal, there won't be anyone to share it with. It's twistedly funny, when you think about it: I am now in a situation where I am pretty much capable of creating exactly the life I want, in terms of material things, goals, etc--but no matter what I choose or choose not to do, whether I choose Perfectly Good Life #1 or Perfectly Good Life #2; no matter which of many wonderful and desirable outcomes I could bring about in my life, no matter which of my own happily-ever-afters I decide to make...it will be happily-ever-after and alone.
And that? Sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks, and nothing is going to make it not suck; and the even BETTER thing about it is, I know this nearly for a fact: If I was pretty, I wouldn't have to worry about being alone, not for a minute. I'm one of those women who a certain kind of guy would go crazy for--I'm smart, funny, weird, adventurous--but because my exterior doesn't measure up, all those traits are pretty much worthless. I seem to be harping on that notion quite a bit these days, but it's a pretty big realization to come to--that the only thing really "wrong" with me is how I look. (Not to say that I'm otherwise perfect, understand; but nobody even gets to find out what my personality issues might or might not be, because they look at the exterior and don't bother to look deeper.)
I'm trying to learn to shrug it off; to look at the good things in my life and be happy for them, and for the fact that I can bring other good things into my life as well.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Update: The Itchy and Scratchy Gladys Show
Thank heavens, the rash is leaving me.
This is probably due in part to the THREE major prescriptions I have been taking, plus handfuls of Benadryl and the occasional Advil just for kicks. I'm taking prednisone, Zantac (apparently there are histamines generated in the digestive tract? Who knew?), and some super-duper anti-itch medicine which doesn't seem to do much at all. I'm also completely off the Lexapro, and I have a referral to a dermatologist and one to an allergist as well. There are still a few itchy bits--mostly on my back where I absolutely CANNOT reach them without sacrificing every bit of dignity I've got--and on my belly, where also I cannot scratch with dignity. My legs look like I fought a table-saw and lost; my arms look like kindergarteners with red Magic Markers used them for a lesson in pointillism. But at least I can sit still for five minutes at a stretch, a blessing indeed.
I still don't believe for sure that it was the Lexapro, although I looked up "Lexapro side effects" and discovered that yes, "itchy rash" was on the list, along with almost every other physical complaint of mankind, and including lots of minor physical annoyances that I'd attributed to "tiredness" or "weight" or "drinking too much". So there's that... I hope whatever I end up on next won't have too many goofy outcomes associated with it. I certainly don't plan to go through THIS again!
This is probably due in part to the THREE major prescriptions I have been taking, plus handfuls of Benadryl and the occasional Advil just for kicks. I'm taking prednisone, Zantac (apparently there are histamines generated in the digestive tract? Who knew?), and some super-duper anti-itch medicine which doesn't seem to do much at all. I'm also completely off the Lexapro, and I have a referral to a dermatologist and one to an allergist as well. There are still a few itchy bits--mostly on my back where I absolutely CANNOT reach them without sacrificing every bit of dignity I've got--and on my belly, where also I cannot scratch with dignity. My legs look like I fought a table-saw and lost; my arms look like kindergarteners with red Magic Markers used them for a lesson in pointillism. But at least I can sit still for five minutes at a stretch, a blessing indeed.
I still don't believe for sure that it was the Lexapro, although I looked up "Lexapro side effects" and discovered that yes, "itchy rash" was on the list, along with almost every other physical complaint of mankind, and including lots of minor physical annoyances that I'd attributed to "tiredness" or "weight" or "drinking too much". So there's that... I hope whatever I end up on next won't have too many goofy outcomes associated with it. I certainly don't plan to go through THIS again!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Rash Acts
Have I mentioned AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! ?
It's taken over. Everywhere EXCEPT my face, my hands, my head, and my girlybits are covered in hives. Little bitty grainy-looking hives, but hives. And holy FUCK, the itch.
Tuesday morning I just couldn't take it anymore and walked over to the Emergency Room. They fed me a couple of Benadryl, took my history, fed me a prednisone pill, and then spied on me from the other side of the curtain. After I had scratched myself silly for about ten minutes, an intern came in with a big whompin' needle and gave me a shot of Benadryl.
Let me tell you, intramuscular Benadryl? Has way more of a kick then heroin, my friends. I started feeling a little tingly, and within about two minutes I actually had to lay down on the gurney because the head-rush was so outrageous. I seriously thought I was going to pass out. But the itching had come to a FULL STOP.
Unfortunately, the de-itchification only lasted a couple of hours; the woozy groggy stoned feeling, on the other hand, lasted long enough for me to get to work and get told by my co-worker that I should go home. Normally that's not a suggestion I would take, and if it wouldn't have been for her watching me for the next three hours, I might have tried to stick it out, but: nah. I called the boss and left, and went home and slept like a rock.
Oh, yeah. The "diagnosis"? The ER doc seemed to think it was a drug reaction. I asked him which of my two meds was the culprit--methadone or Lexapro? He said "Methadone is basically non-allergenic, so I highly doubt that's it." Then he suggested I taper off on the Lexapro, told me to keep taking the Benadryl, and prescribed a week's worth of prednisone. Since my doc has already broached the subject of trying a different medication, I'm not heartbroken about the Lexapro--but I am confused. First off, I've been taking it for four months, and only NOW do I break out? And then, this rash seems to be in all the places my clothing comes in contact with skin, and none of the ones where it doesn't. I'm going to double-wash my clothes tomorrow, with no soap in the second go-around, and see if that helps. And Friday I'll go talk to my regular doc. (I also, while I was in the ER, ran past the doctor and nurses all the Really Bad Possibilities--diabetes, hypertension, liver failure, etc--and all of them said "HIGHLY unlikely." So there's that--we've at least narrowed down the problem somewhat.
But I still wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I REALLY hope it goes away soon.
More soon--right now there's some Benadryl with my name on it. (I should buy stock in the company--I'm certainly making them rich enough.)
It's taken over. Everywhere EXCEPT my face, my hands, my head, and my girlybits are covered in hives. Little bitty grainy-looking hives, but hives. And holy FUCK, the itch.
Tuesday morning I just couldn't take it anymore and walked over to the Emergency Room. They fed me a couple of Benadryl, took my history, fed me a prednisone pill, and then spied on me from the other side of the curtain. After I had scratched myself silly for about ten minutes, an intern came in with a big whompin' needle and gave me a shot of Benadryl.
Let me tell you, intramuscular Benadryl? Has way more of a kick then heroin, my friends. I started feeling a little tingly, and within about two minutes I actually had to lay down on the gurney because the head-rush was so outrageous. I seriously thought I was going to pass out. But the itching had come to a FULL STOP.
Unfortunately, the de-itchification only lasted a couple of hours; the woozy groggy stoned feeling, on the other hand, lasted long enough for me to get to work and get told by my co-worker that I should go home. Normally that's not a suggestion I would take, and if it wouldn't have been for her watching me for the next three hours, I might have tried to stick it out, but: nah. I called the boss and left, and went home and slept like a rock.
Oh, yeah. The "diagnosis"? The ER doc seemed to think it was a drug reaction. I asked him which of my two meds was the culprit--methadone or Lexapro? He said "Methadone is basically non-allergenic, so I highly doubt that's it." Then he suggested I taper off on the Lexapro, told me to keep taking the Benadryl, and prescribed a week's worth of prednisone. Since my doc has already broached the subject of trying a different medication, I'm not heartbroken about the Lexapro--but I am confused. First off, I've been taking it for four months, and only NOW do I break out? And then, this rash seems to be in all the places my clothing comes in contact with skin, and none of the ones where it doesn't. I'm going to double-wash my clothes tomorrow, with no soap in the second go-around, and see if that helps. And Friday I'll go talk to my regular doc. (I also, while I was in the ER, ran past the doctor and nurses all the Really Bad Possibilities--diabetes, hypertension, liver failure, etc--and all of them said "HIGHLY unlikely." So there's that--we've at least narrowed down the problem somewhat.
But I still wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I REALLY hope it goes away soon.
More soon--right now there's some Benadryl with my name on it. (I should buy stock in the company--I'm certainly making them rich enough.)
Saturday, October 18, 2008
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Friends, I am in serious trouble here.
I am about one nanosecond from a full-fledged attack of the Screaming Meemees.
You see, I have An Itch.
A couple of days ago...okay, closer now to a week, really...I noticed that my ankles and my lower calves were itchy. You know how, if you tie your shoes too tight and the socks kinda squish into your skin and when you take the shoes and socks off at the end of the day, the top of your foot itches like crazy for like, a minute?
Like that. Except to about midway up my calf, and not going away.
So I tried some lotion. Didn't help. Tried some other lotion. Didn't help. Tried not to scratch and fail, fail, FAAAAIIILLLED. In not-too-long a time, it looked like I was wearing reddish-purple mid-calf socks.
Then the itch started creeping northward.
I bought some hypoallergenic Eucerin lotion. I bought some hydrocortisone cream. I bought some Bactine, because by now I'd scratched a few spots so badly that Bactine seemed like a good idea. Ditto Neosporin. Nothing helped. Now the reddish-purple socks were at the knees, and my legs and ankles were swollen from the scratching.
That went on for a couple of days. Last night I noticed that the backs of my knees were itchy now. I took some Advil and some Benadryl, one or the other of which seemed to help. Today at work, though, EVERYTHING started itching. Legs, torso, arms, pits, back, EVERYTHING, the works. The parts not in the reddish-purple-knee-socks area look...distinctly...BITE-like.
I don't think I have bedbugs--where would I have got them? I haven't slept anywhere except my own bed for practically forever.
I don't think it's spiders....oh, fuck, I HOPE it isn't spiders! or ants, or mites, or....You know, I don't like this train of thought.
Fleas, maybe? except the kitterz aren't scratching, only me.
I haven't changed my soap or my detergent or my lotion or my shampoo or my ANYTHING. (Though I did buy some Ivory soap today, in case it's the Irish Spring that's doing it--but I've been using V05 shampoo for a hundred years and have never had any problems.) Seriously--there is NO REASON this should be happening right now.
And then I went to WebMD, and let me tell you: if you're ever faced with a seemingly-minor issue? DON'T go to WebMD. They will scare the undawares RIGHT OFF you. According to them, I could have diabetes, hypertension, any number of nasty subcutaneous critters, MRSA, impending death, and/or hysterical pregnancy. (Okay, those last two I made up, but aren't the rest of them just SPECIAL?) So basically I have Unexplained Total Body Itching Leading To Insanity. That's the diagnosis, I think.
I made a doctor's appointment, but she can't take me til Friday. I should live so long.
If anyone needs me, I will be sitting on my hands and trying valiantly not to scratch. (And failing. Failing MISERABLY, in fact. AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHHH :::scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritch:::
AAhhhhhh. That's better.
No....wait.....scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch.....)
I am about one nanosecond from a full-fledged attack of the Screaming Meemees.
You see, I have An Itch.
A couple of days ago...okay, closer now to a week, really...I noticed that my ankles and my lower calves were itchy. You know how, if you tie your shoes too tight and the socks kinda squish into your skin and when you take the shoes and socks off at the end of the day, the top of your foot itches like crazy for like, a minute?
Like that. Except to about midway up my calf, and not going away.
So I tried some lotion. Didn't help. Tried some other lotion. Didn't help. Tried not to scratch and fail, fail, FAAAAIIILLLED. In not-too-long a time, it looked like I was wearing reddish-purple mid-calf socks.
Then the itch started creeping northward.
I bought some hypoallergenic Eucerin lotion. I bought some hydrocortisone cream. I bought some Bactine, because by now I'd scratched a few spots so badly that Bactine seemed like a good idea. Ditto Neosporin. Nothing helped. Now the reddish-purple socks were at the knees, and my legs and ankles were swollen from the scratching.
That went on for a couple of days. Last night I noticed that the backs of my knees were itchy now. I took some Advil and some Benadryl, one or the other of which seemed to help. Today at work, though, EVERYTHING started itching. Legs, torso, arms, pits, back, EVERYTHING, the works. The parts not in the reddish-purple-knee-socks area look...distinctly...BITE-like.
I don't think I have bedbugs--where would I have got them? I haven't slept anywhere except my own bed for practically forever.
I don't think it's spiders....oh, fuck, I HOPE it isn't spiders! or ants, or mites, or....You know, I don't like this train of thought.
Fleas, maybe? except the kitterz aren't scratching, only me.
I haven't changed my soap or my detergent or my lotion or my shampoo or my ANYTHING. (Though I did buy some Ivory soap today, in case it's the Irish Spring that's doing it--but I've been using V05 shampoo for a hundred years and have never had any problems.) Seriously--there is NO REASON this should be happening right now.
And then I went to WebMD, and let me tell you: if you're ever faced with a seemingly-minor issue? DON'T go to WebMD. They will scare the undawares RIGHT OFF you. According to them, I could have diabetes, hypertension, any number of nasty subcutaneous critters, MRSA, impending death, and/or hysterical pregnancy. (Okay, those last two I made up, but aren't the rest of them just SPECIAL?) So basically I have Unexplained Total Body Itching Leading To Insanity. That's the diagnosis, I think.
I made a doctor's appointment, but she can't take me til Friday. I should live so long.
If anyone needs me, I will be sitting on my hands and trying valiantly not to scratch. (And failing. Failing MISERABLY, in fact. AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHHH :::scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritch:::
AAhhhhhh. That's better.
No....wait.....scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch.....)
A Logic Problem For You
If I sent you the following in an e-mail on Wednesday afternoon....
"...Please make sure George Blow's computer gets checked over AS SOON AS IT GETS THERE and please get it back to him tomorrow; this is hugely important because he's been waiting for it for a long time and I told him he'd have it Thursday at the latest..."
Would anything in that message lead you, when asked on Thursday afternoon, "Is there any hurry for checking out George Blow's computer?" to answer, "No, not really..."???
I was working on a computer from my regular building, which I'd brought to the downtown building so I could finish it. It took longer than I thought, and so on Wednesday, when I packed it up to send back to the main building, I sent my boss (Joe) an e-mail containing the sentences above. I made it a point to emphasize that I wanted him to get the computer to George on Thursday because I'm off on Thursdays and I knew I was in no position to check up on him til Friday afternoon at the earliest.
I got to work Friday, and the ticket was still in my queue. I called Joe and left a message for him to call me; when no call was forthcoming, I called twice more, then called the help desk to see if he was even in the office. "He's in a meeting," I was told.
Around 5 PM--you know, when reasonable people on a 9-5 shift are pretty much ready to go home--I got a call from Carl, one of the other techs. (Carl actually used to be our boss, but due to office politics he was "reassigned"--translation: demoted--and his job was given to Joe. Carl was EASILY the best manager I'd ever had, and I was so mad when he got shafted like that...) Anyway, Carl called me to ask me a question....about George Blow's computer.
"That's not DONE?" I squeaked. "I TOTALLY e-mailed Joe on Wednesday to tell him that needed to be done YESTERDAY!"
"Well then how come he told me, when I asked him 'Is there any rush on the George Blow machine?' he told me 'No, not really,'?" Carl asked.
"Carl, I have NO idea. I told Joe that George should get that computer back on Thursday."
"Well why didn't you tell ME that?" Carl asked.
"Dude, I had NO IDEA that you were going to be the one who got it. I figured Joe would have assigned it to one of the new guys..."
And of course, by that point in the day, George had long ago left for home, so by this time there really WAS no point in hurrying. But steam was coming out my ears. Talking--or e-mailing--to Joe is like talking to a brick wall, I swear. There is literally no point in telling him ANYTHING, because he will ignore it, forget about it, override it, or otherwise discard it, and then leave US to clean up the mess when it comes.
--done venting now.
:::deep breath:::
Okay. Goodnight, all.
"...Please make sure George Blow's computer gets checked over AS SOON AS IT GETS THERE and please get it back to him tomorrow; this is hugely important because he's been waiting for it for a long time and I told him he'd have it Thursday at the latest..."
Would anything in that message lead you, when asked on Thursday afternoon, "Is there any hurry for checking out George Blow's computer?" to answer, "No, not really..."???
I was working on a computer from my regular building, which I'd brought to the downtown building so I could finish it. It took longer than I thought, and so on Wednesday, when I packed it up to send back to the main building, I sent my boss (Joe) an e-mail containing the sentences above. I made it a point to emphasize that I wanted him to get the computer to George on Thursday because I'm off on Thursdays and I knew I was in no position to check up on him til Friday afternoon at the earliest.
I got to work Friday, and the ticket was still in my queue. I called Joe and left a message for him to call me; when no call was forthcoming, I called twice more, then called the help desk to see if he was even in the office. "He's in a meeting," I was told.
Around 5 PM--you know, when reasonable people on a 9-5 shift are pretty much ready to go home--I got a call from Carl, one of the other techs. (Carl actually used to be our boss, but due to office politics he was "reassigned"--translation: demoted--and his job was given to Joe. Carl was EASILY the best manager I'd ever had, and I was so mad when he got shafted like that...) Anyway, Carl called me to ask me a question....about George Blow's computer.
"That's not DONE?" I squeaked. "I TOTALLY e-mailed Joe on Wednesday to tell him that needed to be done YESTERDAY!"
"Well then how come he told me, when I asked him 'Is there any rush on the George Blow machine?' he told me 'No, not really,'?" Carl asked.
"Carl, I have NO idea. I told Joe that George should get that computer back on Thursday."
"Well why didn't you tell ME that?" Carl asked.
"Dude, I had NO IDEA that you were going to be the one who got it. I figured Joe would have assigned it to one of the new guys..."
And of course, by that point in the day, George had long ago left for home, so by this time there really WAS no point in hurrying. But steam was coming out my ears. Talking--or e-mailing--to Joe is like talking to a brick wall, I swear. There is literally no point in telling him ANYTHING, because he will ignore it, forget about it, override it, or otherwise discard it, and then leave US to clean up the mess when it comes.
--done venting now.
:::deep breath:::
Okay. Goodnight, all.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
More
Thank you all for all the hugs and good advice. It's always good to have like-minded people around; it helps me feel like I'm not standing alone in shallow water with a great big wave heading dead at me....
...like that.
There are so many things I want and need to do to finally build the life I want to have; I'm overwhelmed, a little, but I'm also excited. I wish there were more hours in the day; I wish I didn't have to do silly things like sleep and work and...well, okay, work isn't silly. Right now, though, it's more time-consuming than usual; I've been moved to our downtown facility and switched to the evening shift for a couple of weeks, since Frack is on vacation. So I leave here at noon and I get home around 10:30, and by the time I get the kitters fed and wind down sufficiently, it's time to go to sleep so I can start the whole process over. I'm spoiled by living five minutes from the office.
This, however: not the point.
I am trying to visualize what my ideal day would look like: what I would do, what I wouldn't have to do; where I'd be living, what my living space would look like, things like that. It's an ongoing task, but I'm learning a lot about what really matters to me. I'm also learning that for a long time now, I've been pushing those things off to the side in favor of what I "should" be doing--or, even worse, avoiding the "really-oughtta" tasks--the laundry, the dishes, whatever--and then not doing the things I enjoy as some sort of "punishment" for my frivolousness.
If I learn nothing else from this time of inner turmoil, I have learned the most important lesson already: I am easily my own worst enemy, critic, saboteur and censor. I am far harder on myself, in almost every realm, than anyone else could possibly be....and if I want to have anything even close to the life I'm visualizing, I have to stop beating up on myself.
More later; it's way past bedtime. But again, thank you to all for the encouragement.
...like that.
There are so many things I want and need to do to finally build the life I want to have; I'm overwhelmed, a little, but I'm also excited. I wish there were more hours in the day; I wish I didn't have to do silly things like sleep and work and...well, okay, work isn't silly. Right now, though, it's more time-consuming than usual; I've been moved to our downtown facility and switched to the evening shift for a couple of weeks, since Frack is on vacation. So I leave here at noon and I get home around 10:30, and by the time I get the kitters fed and wind down sufficiently, it's time to go to sleep so I can start the whole process over. I'm spoiled by living five minutes from the office.
This, however: not the point.
I am trying to visualize what my ideal day would look like: what I would do, what I wouldn't have to do; where I'd be living, what my living space would look like, things like that. It's an ongoing task, but I'm learning a lot about what really matters to me. I'm also learning that for a long time now, I've been pushing those things off to the side in favor of what I "should" be doing--or, even worse, avoiding the "really-oughtta" tasks--the laundry, the dishes, whatever--and then not doing the things I enjoy as some sort of "punishment" for my frivolousness.
If I learn nothing else from this time of inner turmoil, I have learned the most important lesson already: I am easily my own worst enemy, critic, saboteur and censor. I am far harder on myself, in almost every realm, than anyone else could possibly be....and if I want to have anything even close to the life I'm visualizing, I have to stop beating up on myself.
More later; it's way past bedtime. But again, thank you to all for the encouragement.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Very Interesting
So I've been reading all your responses to my last posts, and I've got to say, this is one heck of an intersting conversation for me.
Am I seeing a counselor? Yes. She's one of the main singers in the "have the surgery!" chorus; she's convinced that I'd be much less-depressed if I lost weight and thus, liked myself better. The problem with that, though, is what seems to be my underlying "logic": if I lose weight, others will find me more attractive, and therefore I will like myself better. That's a perfectly accurate statement of my thought processes, and it overlooks the elephant in the room:
Why, exactly, do I base my opinion of myself on what others think of me? Particularly potential partners? Why the hell does that even MATTER??
But it does. That's the bitch of it; since I have been able to remember, the opinion of potential love interests has absolutely superseded my own opinions in nearly every way. I'm talking five, six, ten years old: my self-esteem was absolutely entangled with whatever my latest crush thought of me, or if he thought of me at all.
First of all: Yes, I know that's sick. Well-aware of that, thanks. :)
Secondly--and much more interesting to me--WHERE DID THAT COME FROM??? (There are times I feel like, if I could answer that question, I would be able to understand every stupid decision I've made in my entire life--especially the financial ones, but there have been plenty of others as well.) What, exactly, happened in the first four or five or six years of my life that taught me:
--it is more important what some little boy thinks of you, than what you think/know about yourself
--your accomplishments are only valid if some male thinks they are valid
--anything you can do, or be, or think, unless it is given the proper degree of recognition and approval by a male, is invisible and beneath even your own notice?
And it can't even be just some random guy, or even a guy in a position of authority: even a teacher or a boss or a supervisor, people whose judgement of me should have an effect on how I perceive myself and my accomplishments, even THEY don't matter in this Bizarro Gladys World. Only the opinions of potential Princes Charming; only the judgements of men in whom I feel a romantic/sexual interest--those are the only ones that count. Average Joe need not apply.
The intelligent, logical, rational, well-read and well-educated feminist Gladys knows that every single one of those beliefs I've listed above is bubbling, festering, noisome, malodorous bovine excreta of the purest form...
...but it's clear from situations past and present that intelligent, logical, rational, well-read well-educated feminist Gladys is NOT ruling the emotional roost here.
And yes, it would be VERY much worth my while to get rid of that ridiculous backwards belief system...and I would, too, if I had the slightest notion how to go about it. I think it may be the root of much of my unhappiness, my apathy, my inactivity...nearly everything. If a woman succeeds in the forest, and there's no man there to hear her, does she make a sound?
So: apparently I am carrying around some bad mental wiring, some old misconnection that tells me if no man wants me, I am worth nothing; if no man wants me, my accomplishments may as well not exist, and even if there IS a man who wants me, if he does not recognize those accomplishments as worthwhile, then they lose their worth to me as well.
What a fucked-up world-view. And I haven't the slightest notion of how to un-fuck it. If my mind was a computer, I would recommend a total rebuild--wipe the hard drive, reinstall a clean OS, andadd back all the data piece by piece, without the bad files. Unfortunately, that's not an option here... as this makes quite clear, science doesn't fix everything. Instead I'm left with the disquieting knowledge that I may actually be one of the most screwed-up people I know, and not in that cool, interesting screwed-up sense--I mean, in the sense of "Wow, that's seriously, seriously lame."
Lameness aside, though, it's easy to follow the rest of the road all the way straight down: if the only view that matters is the view of the guy who's interested, and there's no guy who's interested, then I am basically invisible and in order to be a useful contributing member of society, I must attract a male. Barring a fluke like JP, that will be impossible given my current appearance and weight; ergo, a)my current physical attributes render me worthless; b)I will only become worthwhile again once I lose some weight.
Again: what a fucked-up world view. I'm gonna call it a night. Thank you, all, for helping me think this whole thing through.
Am I seeing a counselor? Yes. She's one of the main singers in the "have the surgery!" chorus; she's convinced that I'd be much less-depressed if I lost weight and thus, liked myself better. The problem with that, though, is what seems to be my underlying "logic": if I lose weight, others will find me more attractive, and therefore I will like myself better. That's a perfectly accurate statement of my thought processes, and it overlooks the elephant in the room:
Why, exactly, do I base my opinion of myself on what others think of me? Particularly potential partners? Why the hell does that even MATTER??
But it does. That's the bitch of it; since I have been able to remember, the opinion of potential love interests has absolutely superseded my own opinions in nearly every way. I'm talking five, six, ten years old: my self-esteem was absolutely entangled with whatever my latest crush thought of me, or if he thought of me at all.
First of all: Yes, I know that's sick. Well-aware of that, thanks. :)
Secondly--and much more interesting to me--WHERE DID THAT COME FROM??? (There are times I feel like, if I could answer that question, I would be able to understand every stupid decision I've made in my entire life--especially the financial ones, but there have been plenty of others as well.) What, exactly, happened in the first four or five or six years of my life that taught me:
--it is more important what some little boy thinks of you, than what you think/know about yourself
--your accomplishments are only valid if some male thinks they are valid
--anything you can do, or be, or think, unless it is given the proper degree of recognition and approval by a male, is invisible and beneath even your own notice?
And it can't even be just some random guy, or even a guy in a position of authority: even a teacher or a boss or a supervisor, people whose judgement of me should have an effect on how I perceive myself and my accomplishments, even THEY don't matter in this Bizarro Gladys World. Only the opinions of potential Princes Charming; only the judgements of men in whom I feel a romantic/sexual interest--those are the only ones that count. Average Joe need not apply.
The intelligent, logical, rational, well-read and well-educated feminist Gladys knows that every single one of those beliefs I've listed above is bubbling, festering, noisome, malodorous bovine excreta of the purest form...
...but it's clear from situations past and present that intelligent, logical, rational, well-read well-educated feminist Gladys is NOT ruling the emotional roost here.
And yes, it would be VERY much worth my while to get rid of that ridiculous backwards belief system...and I would, too, if I had the slightest notion how to go about it. I think it may be the root of much of my unhappiness, my apathy, my inactivity...nearly everything. If a woman succeeds in the forest, and there's no man there to hear her, does she make a sound?
So: apparently I am carrying around some bad mental wiring, some old misconnection that tells me if no man wants me, I am worth nothing; if no man wants me, my accomplishments may as well not exist, and even if there IS a man who wants me, if he does not recognize those accomplishments as worthwhile, then they lose their worth to me as well.
What a fucked-up world-view. And I haven't the slightest notion of how to un-fuck it. If my mind was a computer, I would recommend a total rebuild--wipe the hard drive, reinstall a clean OS, andadd back all the data piece by piece, without the bad files. Unfortunately, that's not an option here... as this makes quite clear, science doesn't fix everything. Instead I'm left with the disquieting knowledge that I may actually be one of the most screwed-up people I know, and not in that cool, interesting screwed-up sense--I mean, in the sense of "Wow, that's seriously, seriously lame."
Lameness aside, though, it's easy to follow the rest of the road all the way straight down: if the only view that matters is the view of the guy who's interested, and there's no guy who's interested, then I am basically invisible and in order to be a useful contributing member of society, I must attract a male. Barring a fluke like JP, that will be impossible given my current appearance and weight; ergo, a)my current physical attributes render me worthless; b)I will only become worthwhile again once I lose some weight.
Again: what a fucked-up world view. I'm gonna call it a night. Thank you, all, for helping me think this whole thing through.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Continuation
So: back to my rant.
The story thus far: When I was young, all I heard about from my mom was how I needed to watch my weight. How I was already too heavy. How I shouldn't eat X, Y, or Z--regardless of the fact that those were foods she had chosen, portioned, and prepared. Vegetables--in fact, anything vaguely wholesome--were a source of battle--and anyone who's read my writing for very long knows what happens when I'm faced with a battle! And yet despite all this, I didn't really GET fat til I was 22. But all my life--and my friends can tell you this--I always believed I was fat. ("We kept trying to tell you different," Firefly said one time, "but you didn't believe us." But how could I? Mothers don't lie, do they? And they're not....you know, WRONG...)
An aside: how is it that I can reject NEARLY EVERY OTHER THING MY MOM BELIEVES, yet the one thing I can't toss out is the one that affects me most profoundly? Because it plays into my fears, that's why. I can reject, say, her brand of religion because I have never thought I believed the things she does; but because I have always been afraid of being thought of as ugly, I can easily accept the thought that it might be true.
Anyway. From the time I was 22, my weight has fluctuated pretty widely. I was in the low 140's when JP died; however, the minute I quit heroin the weight started coming back. I was a solid size 12 in November of 1995; by the time I came back from Charlotte I was a size 18. (Right now I am a 24; the lowest I've been in the last 6 years was a brief stay at 20 before settling in for a long back-and-forth between 22 and 24.) Part of the reason I got back on heroin was that I wanted to be a size 12 again, so I could be pretty. It didn't work; apparently the weight-loss is specific to the first experiences with the drug, and in the end I found that it was actually stimulating my appetite. Just my luck.
That was when my sweet tooth took off, as well. I could drink vast expanses of Pepsi, shovel down anything sugary-sweet--candy, ice cream, cake and cookies; and I DID, because there was no one there to stop me. This went on for quite a few years...and slowly, slowly, my weight climbed.
Which brings me to the here and now. I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. With very few exceptions I don't even ENJOY food anymore; what I eat is often based on what's quickest to make, cheapest to buy, and easiest to clean up. Much of the time it's noodle-based, sometimes just exactly that: plain noodles, with a bit of butter and parmesan. And sugar, of course (no, not on the noodles--ewwwww!--but after food, there's always something sweet.)
I talked to Debbi today--having sent her the link I'd discovered to our old mutual friend--and she said the following: "I hope he DOES e-mail you back, and you can tell him I said hello and to e-mail me so I can send him a picture. Because you know what? I want ALL those fools to know what I look like now. I'm 163 pounds, I'm damn cute, and my ass looks FABULOUS in a pair of jeans." (As you may have guessed, I hadn't said anything to her about my current emotional state; all the same, that was not an enjoyable piece of the conversation for me.) I can see her point, I guess; however, I also happen to know that she's only switched addictions, and though I'm surely not enough of a hypocrite to judge her for that, it does kinda give the lie to her whole "I'm skinny now, happily-ever-after" story. During our talk on the way back from NASCAR, she said something to the effect of "What they don't tell you, when you have the surgery, is that they're taking your crutch away. You literally CAN'T use food as a crutch anymore, because it will make you sick, and they're not taking away the problems you were using food to escape from--so you just find something else to use instead."
I've been encouraged to have the surgery, at least the lap-band kind (though Debbi says "if you're gonna do it, you might as well do the whole damn thing--the complication risks are pretty much the same and the band has a few other dangers as well.") After seeing what she went through, though, I have steadfastly stood against it. She had complications, a second surgery, weeks of healing time, oozing surgical sites, infections; she lived on fluids for weeks, semi-solids for more weeks, and at one point she was malnourished enough to be experiencing hair loss. And this surgery has been done for such a short time, scientifically speaking, that no one can say for sure whether or not there are any long-term dangers, 20 or 30 or 50 years later. It would suck to have the surgery, be thin enough and pretty enough to actually attract someone, put together this awesome perfect life, and then--20 years from now, as I'm approaching my "golden years"--die from some long-term side effect nobody knew about at the time the surgery was done. That would suck.
And furthermore--#2 on the list of "Why I Don't Want Gastric Bypass Surgery" (#1 being "because I really fear pain")--I don't want to do it because--to me, at least--it seems like cheating, somehow. I'm not saying that I think the people who DO have the surgery are making the wrong choice, or judging them for how they chose to do things--but if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it with consciousness of the process. If I'm going to do something that requires hard work, then, so be it.
If you sense, reading this, that I'm forming some sort of resolve here, you're not far from the truth. I don't plan to make it a big dramatic crusade, announcing some grand majestic goal and then subjecting everyone to the endless minutiae of food diaries, calorie counts, and the rest. For one--BO-ring!--and further, I don't operate well under such circumstances. The fewer people I tell about a goal, the more likely I am to actually achieve it. (I've been told that's not how most people succeed, but that's just how I work best.) So, without turning it into a big announcement, I will only say: Yes, I am forming some sort of resolve here.
I sort of HAVE to, really, because otherwise I'm going to hate myself into an early grave.
The story thus far: When I was young, all I heard about from my mom was how I needed to watch my weight. How I was already too heavy. How I shouldn't eat X, Y, or Z--regardless of the fact that those were foods she had chosen, portioned, and prepared. Vegetables--in fact, anything vaguely wholesome--were a source of battle--and anyone who's read my writing for very long knows what happens when I'm faced with a battle! And yet despite all this, I didn't really GET fat til I was 22. But all my life--and my friends can tell you this--I always believed I was fat. ("We kept trying to tell you different," Firefly said one time, "but you didn't believe us." But how could I? Mothers don't lie, do they? And they're not....you know, WRONG...)
An aside: how is it that I can reject NEARLY EVERY OTHER THING MY MOM BELIEVES, yet the one thing I can't toss out is the one that affects me most profoundly? Because it plays into my fears, that's why. I can reject, say, her brand of religion because I have never thought I believed the things she does; but because I have always been afraid of being thought of as ugly, I can easily accept the thought that it might be true.
Anyway. From the time I was 22, my weight has fluctuated pretty widely. I was in the low 140's when JP died; however, the minute I quit heroin the weight started coming back. I was a solid size 12 in November of 1995; by the time I came back from Charlotte I was a size 18. (Right now I am a 24; the lowest I've been in the last 6 years was a brief stay at 20 before settling in for a long back-and-forth between 22 and 24.) Part of the reason I got back on heroin was that I wanted to be a size 12 again, so I could be pretty. It didn't work; apparently the weight-loss is specific to the first experiences with the drug, and in the end I found that it was actually stimulating my appetite. Just my luck.
That was when my sweet tooth took off, as well. I could drink vast expanses of Pepsi, shovel down anything sugary-sweet--candy, ice cream, cake and cookies; and I DID, because there was no one there to stop me. This went on for quite a few years...and slowly, slowly, my weight climbed.
Which brings me to the here and now. I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. With very few exceptions I don't even ENJOY food anymore; what I eat is often based on what's quickest to make, cheapest to buy, and easiest to clean up. Much of the time it's noodle-based, sometimes just exactly that: plain noodles, with a bit of butter and parmesan. And sugar, of course (no, not on the noodles--ewwwww!--but after food, there's always something sweet.)
I talked to Debbi today--having sent her the link I'd discovered to our old mutual friend--and she said the following: "I hope he DOES e-mail you back, and you can tell him I said hello and to e-mail me so I can send him a picture. Because you know what? I want ALL those fools to know what I look like now. I'm 163 pounds, I'm damn cute, and my ass looks FABULOUS in a pair of jeans." (As you may have guessed, I hadn't said anything to her about my current emotional state; all the same, that was not an enjoyable piece of the conversation for me.) I can see her point, I guess; however, I also happen to know that she's only switched addictions, and though I'm surely not enough of a hypocrite to judge her for that, it does kinda give the lie to her whole "I'm skinny now, happily-ever-after" story. During our talk on the way back from NASCAR, she said something to the effect of "What they don't tell you, when you have the surgery, is that they're taking your crutch away. You literally CAN'T use food as a crutch anymore, because it will make you sick, and they're not taking away the problems you were using food to escape from--so you just find something else to use instead."
I've been encouraged to have the surgery, at least the lap-band kind (though Debbi says "if you're gonna do it, you might as well do the whole damn thing--the complication risks are pretty much the same and the band has a few other dangers as well.") After seeing what she went through, though, I have steadfastly stood against it. She had complications, a second surgery, weeks of healing time, oozing surgical sites, infections; she lived on fluids for weeks, semi-solids for more weeks, and at one point she was malnourished enough to be experiencing hair loss. And this surgery has been done for such a short time, scientifically speaking, that no one can say for sure whether or not there are any long-term dangers, 20 or 30 or 50 years later. It would suck to have the surgery, be thin enough and pretty enough to actually attract someone, put together this awesome perfect life, and then--20 years from now, as I'm approaching my "golden years"--die from some long-term side effect nobody knew about at the time the surgery was done. That would suck.
And furthermore--#2 on the list of "Why I Don't Want Gastric Bypass Surgery" (#1 being "because I really fear pain")--I don't want to do it because--to me, at least--it seems like cheating, somehow. I'm not saying that I think the people who DO have the surgery are making the wrong choice, or judging them for how they chose to do things--but if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it with consciousness of the process. If I'm going to do something that requires hard work, then, so be it.
If you sense, reading this, that I'm forming some sort of resolve here, you're not far from the truth. I don't plan to make it a big dramatic crusade, announcing some grand majestic goal and then subjecting everyone to the endless minutiae of food diaries, calorie counts, and the rest. For one--BO-ring!--and further, I don't operate well under such circumstances. The fewer people I tell about a goal, the more likely I am to actually achieve it. (I've been told that's not how most people succeed, but that's just how I work best.) So, without turning it into a big announcement, I will only say: Yes, I am forming some sort of resolve here.
I sort of HAVE to, really, because otherwise I'm going to hate myself into an early grave.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Follow-up
So on the bus on the way home from downtown, I was thinking (or trying to--there was this trio of friends, two girls and a guy, and the girls had two of the WORST laughs I've ever heard in my life, and they were having one of those nights where EVERYTHING is funny)...Anyway, I was trying to figure out what, exactly, I think is wrong with me. I don't mean little details, like "I'm disorganized" or whatever; I mean the fundamental thing that makes me dislike myself so damn much.
You know what I came up with?
I dislike myself because I'm fat and ugly.
(Spins, stop snarling. I can hear you all the way in Chicago. I'll explain it.)
If I take a reasonably-realistic look at my inner self, I come out better than average. I'm intelligent, I'm creative, I'm funny, I care about other people, I'm not mean-spirited (much), I'm reasonably moral...Yeah, I have some flaws, but for the most part they're outweighed by the good qualities.
If I look in the mirror, though, everything goes directly to shit.
To begin with: There are large-sized women who still look good. They take the time and make an effort to look good, and many of them have a sense of style that enables them to do that. (Then there are the ones who wear super-tight t-shirts that don't all-the-way cover the belly...but I digress. Man, the things you see on the CTA--seriously. When you can see three inches of flesh between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband? You need to go a size up. Sorry....) Anyway. There are larger women who look good.
I am not one of these.
I have never, NEVER had a sense of style. When I was young, we had school uniforms, which choked out any sense of individuality (we weren't even allowed to wear striped socks.) Other than uniforms and jeans, though, my mom made many of my clothes, and bought the rest. And of course, she made, and bought, the clothes SHE wanted me to wear. They were sensible and serviceable; they were not attractive, by any means. As I got older, I would go shopping with my friends, but I always felt uncomfortable in wearing anything attention-getting. (We'll get to the "why" of that in just a moment.) On the rare occasions that I did want to buy something trendy, for the most part it was shot down by the clothing-buyer: Mom. I tried to balance what I liked with what was in style and with what my mom was willing to pay for; most of the time I came out looking like a damn train-wreck. And being an only child, with no older cousins or anyone else in my life to point me in a different direction, I had only my own likes and dislikes to follow--and again, I was always uncomfortable in clothes.
And why was that, you ask?
From the time I was three, I have fought against my weight.
Wait: no. There's more to that sentence.
From the time I was three, I have been urged by my mother to fight against my weight.
That's far more accurate. From my earliest days, I can remember being cautioned against taking second helpings, or eating anything I enjoyed. If I ignored her exhortations, I would be likely to hear the following: "Well, go ahead, but when you get older and you're fat, don't blame me!" (Would it be ridiculous to bring up the fact that SHE COOKED THE FOOD? She chose the menus; she chose how much to cook. But if I ate it, that was MY fault.)
But here's the thing, see--She talked about "when you get older" but it was very clear she thought I was too heavy from my very earliest days. And as I have said before--I have pictures of myself throughout my childhood. I had a little tummy, like many children do, but in no way could I have been considered "overweight", "obese", or even "chunky". I was at the high end of normal. I don't recall ever hearing a doctor say anything about losing weight, when I was a child.
And yet it was a constant theme. She bought me diet books when I was nine; took me to a dietician when I was 15. Hearing over and over and over that you have a weight problem--what do you think that's going to do to a child's mind?
I have a witness to all this, see. Debbi's family had the same issue, only worse; her little sister was the cutesy little skinny thing, and Debbi was the normal-sized child. And like me, all Debbi ever heard about was "fat fat fat". I have pictures of Debbi from this era as well; if I didn't care about my anonymity, in fact, I'd post one of them, a picture of the two of us standing together, taken when I was eleven and she was ten. We look like normal little girls.
Flash forward twenty-five years. Before her gastric bypass, Debbi weighed over 300 pounds. I currently weigh 260. That doesn't JUST HAPPEN. That's not just "the American diet". That, my friends, is the product of hearing the same drumbeat, pounded into your head, over and over and over. "You're fat," "you're fat," "you're fat," becomes, after the five-millionth repetition, a perfectly good justification for that second donut, or the fettucine Alfredo, or the pint of Heath Bar Crunch after a bad day. "What does it matter? I'm already fat." And eventually--eventually, yeah, you are. (Both Debbi and I have agreed that, especially beginning in about junior high, food became a rebellion for both of us. I remember sneaking off to the 7-Eleven and buying tons of candy, then going back to my room and snorking it all down while listening to the radio. Neither of us had a weight problem then, though; there are other pictures of us, at 16 and 17, and we still look perfectly normal.)
There's more to this--lots more--but I'm stopping here for now.
You know what I came up with?
I dislike myself because I'm fat and ugly.
(Spins, stop snarling. I can hear you all the way in Chicago. I'll explain it.)
If I take a reasonably-realistic look at my inner self, I come out better than average. I'm intelligent, I'm creative, I'm funny, I care about other people, I'm not mean-spirited (much), I'm reasonably moral...Yeah, I have some flaws, but for the most part they're outweighed by the good qualities.
If I look in the mirror, though, everything goes directly to shit.
To begin with: There are large-sized women who still look good. They take the time and make an effort to look good, and many of them have a sense of style that enables them to do that. (Then there are the ones who wear super-tight t-shirts that don't all-the-way cover the belly...but I digress. Man, the things you see on the CTA--seriously. When you can see three inches of flesh between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband? You need to go a size up. Sorry....) Anyway. There are larger women who look good.
I am not one of these.
I have never, NEVER had a sense of style. When I was young, we had school uniforms, which choked out any sense of individuality (we weren't even allowed to wear striped socks.) Other than uniforms and jeans, though, my mom made many of my clothes, and bought the rest. And of course, she made, and bought, the clothes SHE wanted me to wear. They were sensible and serviceable; they were not attractive, by any means. As I got older, I would go shopping with my friends, but I always felt uncomfortable in wearing anything attention-getting. (We'll get to the "why" of that in just a moment.) On the rare occasions that I did want to buy something trendy, for the most part it was shot down by the clothing-buyer: Mom. I tried to balance what I liked with what was in style and with what my mom was willing to pay for; most of the time I came out looking like a damn train-wreck. And being an only child, with no older cousins or anyone else in my life to point me in a different direction, I had only my own likes and dislikes to follow--and again, I was always uncomfortable in clothes.
And why was that, you ask?
From the time I was three, I have fought against my weight.
Wait: no. There's more to that sentence.
From the time I was three, I have been urged by my mother to fight against my weight.
That's far more accurate. From my earliest days, I can remember being cautioned against taking second helpings, or eating anything I enjoyed. If I ignored her exhortations, I would be likely to hear the following: "Well, go ahead, but when you get older and you're fat, don't blame me!" (Would it be ridiculous to bring up the fact that SHE COOKED THE FOOD? She chose the menus; she chose how much to cook. But if I ate it, that was MY fault.)
But here's the thing, see--She talked about "when you get older" but it was very clear she thought I was too heavy from my very earliest days. And as I have said before--I have pictures of myself throughout my childhood. I had a little tummy, like many children do, but in no way could I have been considered "overweight", "obese", or even "chunky". I was at the high end of normal. I don't recall ever hearing a doctor say anything about losing weight, when I was a child.
And yet it was a constant theme. She bought me diet books when I was nine; took me to a dietician when I was 15. Hearing over and over and over that you have a weight problem--what do you think that's going to do to a child's mind?
I have a witness to all this, see. Debbi's family had the same issue, only worse; her little sister was the cutesy little skinny thing, and Debbi was the normal-sized child. And like me, all Debbi ever heard about was "fat fat fat". I have pictures of Debbi from this era as well; if I didn't care about my anonymity, in fact, I'd post one of them, a picture of the two of us standing together, taken when I was eleven and she was ten. We look like normal little girls.
Flash forward twenty-five years. Before her gastric bypass, Debbi weighed over 300 pounds. I currently weigh 260. That doesn't JUST HAPPEN. That's not just "the American diet". That, my friends, is the product of hearing the same drumbeat, pounded into your head, over and over and over. "You're fat," "you're fat," "you're fat," becomes, after the five-millionth repetition, a perfectly good justification for that second donut, or the fettucine Alfredo, or the pint of Heath Bar Crunch after a bad day. "What does it matter? I'm already fat." And eventually--eventually, yeah, you are. (Both Debbi and I have agreed that, especially beginning in about junior high, food became a rebellion for both of us. I remember sneaking off to the 7-Eleven and buying tons of candy, then going back to my room and snorking it all down while listening to the radio. Neither of us had a weight problem then, though; there are other pictures of us, at 16 and 17, and we still look perfectly normal.)
There's more to this--lots more--but I'm stopping here for now.
Untitled
I'm having a bad night.
My work schedule has been shifted for the next couple of weeks, and so I'm downtown every evening til late. The city at night is different than the city in the daytime. During the day you know people are on business, or for the most part you can at least convince yourself of that. But very few people, especially on a Friday night, come downtown for any businesslike purpose. They come to hold hands and walk down Michigan Avenue, or take their kids to see plays, or go to bars and restaurants and there is nothing in the world like walking unnoticed through all those connected, happy people to make me realize how completely, crushingly insignificant and alone I am. Even here at work, there are pictures on all the walls of people who have done something with their lives, people who have made something of themselves--won Nobel prizes or gotten books upon books published or founded entire philosophies, and here's fat little old me in a t-shirt and jeans, walking through the hallways pushing a cart filled with paper to stuff in the printers. On a Friday night, in Chicago, at 38 years old.
I found a friend online tonight. I've mentioned him here before; he's from a long time ago and he was significant in pretty much everything that went on. He's in California now; I think he's living under another name, and if his MySpace is any indication I can sorta understand why. Now, as then, he's fucking gorgeous; unlike when I knew him, though, he's got (it seems) a lot of friends. A lot, a LOT of friends. On my MySpace page, I have seven friends; he has 958. I wonder what JP would say about that.
And here's the thing: when we were in school together he and I were just alike. We were both these smart, nerdy writer kids. We both had friends, mostly the same friends: nerdy writer kids, theater kids, math kids. Of all the people I went to high school with, I would have never imagined that mine would have been the life that would turn out like this. I always thought my life would have some...you know, LIVING in it.
This is not what I wanted. This is not who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to be doing.
I really don't know where to turn anymore. All the things I tell myself to make it better, they've all stopped working. It gets harder and harder to hold back the...the what? Fear, maybe--despair, somewhat--complete fucking bewilderment at the wreckage of what started out so promising? Yeah, that too. There are people in my life who would offer me an easy answer to "how did I get here?"--people like my mom, who (and this is just a tangent) has had more to do with it than anyone else, including those who she feels are responsible for screwing up my life--but although I've made mistakes, THOSE are the things I've done that have made me feel MOST like a normal human being. It's times like this, when I'm doing all the "right" things and all it does is make me numb and make me hate myself, that I start hoping there's a new mistake around the corner. At least if there's a little drama, I know I'm alive...
I wonder who I would be if I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
My work schedule has been shifted for the next couple of weeks, and so I'm downtown every evening til late. The city at night is different than the city in the daytime. During the day you know people are on business, or for the most part you can at least convince yourself of that. But very few people, especially on a Friday night, come downtown for any businesslike purpose. They come to hold hands and walk down Michigan Avenue, or take their kids to see plays, or go to bars and restaurants and there is nothing in the world like walking unnoticed through all those connected, happy people to make me realize how completely, crushingly insignificant and alone I am. Even here at work, there are pictures on all the walls of people who have done something with their lives, people who have made something of themselves--won Nobel prizes or gotten books upon books published or founded entire philosophies, and here's fat little old me in a t-shirt and jeans, walking through the hallways pushing a cart filled with paper to stuff in the printers. On a Friday night, in Chicago, at 38 years old.
I found a friend online tonight. I've mentioned him here before; he's from a long time ago and he was significant in pretty much everything that went on. He's in California now; I think he's living under another name, and if his MySpace is any indication I can sorta understand why. Now, as then, he's fucking gorgeous; unlike when I knew him, though, he's got (it seems) a lot of friends. A lot, a LOT of friends. On my MySpace page, I have seven friends; he has 958. I wonder what JP would say about that.
And here's the thing: when we were in school together he and I were just alike. We were both these smart, nerdy writer kids. We both had friends, mostly the same friends: nerdy writer kids, theater kids, math kids. Of all the people I went to high school with, I would have never imagined that mine would have been the life that would turn out like this. I always thought my life would have some...you know, LIVING in it.
This is not what I wanted. This is not who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to be doing.
I really don't know where to turn anymore. All the things I tell myself to make it better, they've all stopped working. It gets harder and harder to hold back the...the what? Fear, maybe--despair, somewhat--complete fucking bewilderment at the wreckage of what started out so promising? Yeah, that too. There are people in my life who would offer me an easy answer to "how did I get here?"--people like my mom, who (and this is just a tangent) has had more to do with it than anyone else, including those who she feels are responsible for screwing up my life--but although I've made mistakes, THOSE are the things I've done that have made me feel MOST like a normal human being. It's times like this, when I'm doing all the "right" things and all it does is make me numb and make me hate myself, that I start hoping there's a new mistake around the corner. At least if there's a little drama, I know I'm alive...
I wonder who I would be if I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
October
This is my least-favorite month.
I hate that it is; it used to be one of my favorites, second only to May, but after thirteen years I haven't been able to shake my resentment of this month. It's beautiful, it's beautiful, it's beautiful and then it bites me in the ass, every single year. I wake up in the morning and the sun is shining and the air is crisp and the birds are singing and the leaves are glowing with their gorgeous colors in the morning light, and by nightfall I'm lost in a dream of a long-gone time, with songs in my head that only matter to me, and so I go home and drink more than I ought to, and try to forget...which never, never happens.
I miss the past so much.
It's worse, this year, than usual. Not as bad as three years ago, mind, but bad. Bad like recurring-dreams, sleep-the-day-away, no-really-I'm-fine bad; bad as in, I can remember the lyrics and the melody of every single song that was on the radio back then, but when you ask me something simple like my work extension, I have to peek. Bad as in, sitting in a fifth-floor office this afternoon and looking out the northward-facing window, I had to stop and shake myself because after all this time, still, STILL, there are moments when I question how any of this could possibly be real. How did this happen? I ask myself. There has to be some kind of mistake. He can't be dead, he just can't. There was so much left to do. You'd think that after thirteen years, at least THAT thought wouldn't sneak around behind you and yell BOO! You'd think that after thirteen years there'd be at least a modicum of peacefulness attached to all those memories; but there isn't. All there is is anger and sadness and longing, disbelief and hurt and a great big empty hole that nothing and nobody can fill.
I was watching some kids' show last weekend, and somewhere along the way I thought about growing up; about all the "lasts". I try to remember the ends of things: the last sleepover, the last time my friends and I rode our bikes to Venture together to look at makeup; the last time I spoke to Karen or Connie or any of the other people I lost touch with later on. I try to remember the last time I played--not the adult version, but with the abandon and unselfconsciousness of a child. The last time I made mud pies, or played chase at Debbi's house; the last time I roller-skated in my mother's basement, or made a silly tape-recording with a friend, or played with dolls. I don't remember ANY of these "last" times; I was a kid and then somehow, I wasn't one. I was a teenager and then suddenly I was an adult, and even then there were stages happening which I wasn't really aware of, because I remember being happy and being playful and being silly even later.
I miss those days. Mostly I miss JP. I don't know what to do about that anymore. My doc thinks maybe it's time to try some different meds; at this point, I'm certainly not against it. Sometimes, though, I think the only thing that would put me back together, make me even care again, hasn't been invented yet.
I want so badly to believe in heaven, you know? I want so badly to believe that someday, when I die, I will see him again and I will be able to tell him how horrible it was without him; about all the things he missed and all the things I wanted to share with him, all the things I wanted him to know about, for all the days of my life. But I can't bring myself to believe. I can't risk believing in something that logic tells me doesn't exist; and I can't make that leap of faith anymore, because the so-called "faithful" in my life so far have been so full of ulterior motives. None of the beliefs I can accept in any way lead to some eternal happiness; the ones that DO lead to eternal happiness are the ones I find most objectionable. Sometimes I wish I could just accept things, the way I see so many people do; just lean back into a set of beliefs and rules, like an old comfy chair, and follow along and question only little things. Instead I have to be this person, the one who reinvents every wheel and questions every dogma, and I know those are supposed to be GOOD qualities, but I'll tell you this: it gets very, very tiring. There are days I just want to believe that everything really WILL be okay in the end, despite all evidence to the contrary...but until I have some proof that there will be eternal compensation for these years of sadness, some afterlife that will make it all worthwhile, belief is not something I'm prepared to risk. It's like the celestial equivalent of being a Cubs fan; we say "wait til next year", and we WANT to believe it, but even when we put up a 97-64 season, we have this little doubt in our hearts because most of us KNOW what generally happens next. Some year it won't, and maybe some year I'll be able to believe too...but right now, my view of the afterlife is that it's an eternal Cubs post-seasom--great hopes, disappointing reality.
I miss him. I miss ME. I miss hope, maybe most of all; I miss hope.
I hate that it is; it used to be one of my favorites, second only to May, but after thirteen years I haven't been able to shake my resentment of this month. It's beautiful, it's beautiful, it's beautiful and then it bites me in the ass, every single year. I wake up in the morning and the sun is shining and the air is crisp and the birds are singing and the leaves are glowing with their gorgeous colors in the morning light, and by nightfall I'm lost in a dream of a long-gone time, with songs in my head that only matter to me, and so I go home and drink more than I ought to, and try to forget...which never, never happens.
I miss the past so much.
It's worse, this year, than usual. Not as bad as three years ago, mind, but bad. Bad like recurring-dreams, sleep-the-day-away, no-really-I'm-fine bad; bad as in, I can remember the lyrics and the melody of every single song that was on the radio back then, but when you ask me something simple like my work extension, I have to peek. Bad as in, sitting in a fifth-floor office this afternoon and looking out the northward-facing window, I had to stop and shake myself because after all this time, still, STILL, there are moments when I question how any of this could possibly be real. How did this happen? I ask myself. There has to be some kind of mistake. He can't be dead, he just can't. There was so much left to do. You'd think that after thirteen years, at least THAT thought wouldn't sneak around behind you and yell BOO! You'd think that after thirteen years there'd be at least a modicum of peacefulness attached to all those memories; but there isn't. All there is is anger and sadness and longing, disbelief and hurt and a great big empty hole that nothing and nobody can fill.
I was watching some kids' show last weekend, and somewhere along the way I thought about growing up; about all the "lasts". I try to remember the ends of things: the last sleepover, the last time my friends and I rode our bikes to Venture together to look at makeup; the last time I spoke to Karen or Connie or any of the other people I lost touch with later on. I try to remember the last time I played--not the adult version, but with the abandon and unselfconsciousness of a child. The last time I made mud pies, or played chase at Debbi's house; the last time I roller-skated in my mother's basement, or made a silly tape-recording with a friend, or played with dolls. I don't remember ANY of these "last" times; I was a kid and then somehow, I wasn't one. I was a teenager and then suddenly I was an adult, and even then there were stages happening which I wasn't really aware of, because I remember being happy and being playful and being silly even later.
I miss those days. Mostly I miss JP. I don't know what to do about that anymore. My doc thinks maybe it's time to try some different meds; at this point, I'm certainly not against it. Sometimes, though, I think the only thing that would put me back together, make me even care again, hasn't been invented yet.
I want so badly to believe in heaven, you know? I want so badly to believe that someday, when I die, I will see him again and I will be able to tell him how horrible it was without him; about all the things he missed and all the things I wanted to share with him, all the things I wanted him to know about, for all the days of my life. But I can't bring myself to believe. I can't risk believing in something that logic tells me doesn't exist; and I can't make that leap of faith anymore, because the so-called "faithful" in my life so far have been so full of ulterior motives. None of the beliefs I can accept in any way lead to some eternal happiness; the ones that DO lead to eternal happiness are the ones I find most objectionable. Sometimes I wish I could just accept things, the way I see so many people do; just lean back into a set of beliefs and rules, like an old comfy chair, and follow along and question only little things. Instead I have to be this person, the one who reinvents every wheel and questions every dogma, and I know those are supposed to be GOOD qualities, but I'll tell you this: it gets very, very tiring. There are days I just want to believe that everything really WILL be okay in the end, despite all evidence to the contrary...but until I have some proof that there will be eternal compensation for these years of sadness, some afterlife that will make it all worthwhile, belief is not something I'm prepared to risk. It's like the celestial equivalent of being a Cubs fan; we say "wait til next year", and we WANT to believe it, but even when we put up a 97-64 season, we have this little doubt in our hearts because most of us KNOW what generally happens next. Some year it won't, and maybe some year I'll be able to believe too...but right now, my view of the afterlife is that it's an eternal Cubs post-seasom--great hopes, disappointing reality.
I miss him. I miss ME. I miss hope, maybe most of all; I miss hope.
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